Gardens of the Moon

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Raest had driven two of the black dragons from the battle.

ining two now circled high overhead while Silanah Redd down and out of sight beyond the hill. She was hurting, the Jaghut Tyrant knew, the power of her immense lifeforce bleeding away.

«And now,» he said, through tattered lips, «she will die.» Raest's flesh had been torn away, ravaged by the virulent power of the dragons, power that burst from their jaws like breath of fire. His brittle, yellowed bones were splintered, crushed and shattered. All that kept him upright and moving was his Omtose Phellack Warren.

Once the Finnest was in his hands, he would make his body anew, filling it with the vigour of health. And he was near his goal. One last ridge of hills and the city's walls would be visible, its fortifications all that stood between Raest and his greater powers.

The battle had laid waste to the hills, incinerating everything in the deadly clash of Warrens. And Raest had driven back the dragons. He'd listened to their cries of pain. Laughing, he'd flung dense clouds of earth and stone skyward to blind them. He ignited the air in the path of their flight. He filled clouds with fire. It was, he felt, good to be alive again.

As he walked, he continued to devastate the land around him. A single jerk of his head had shattered a stone bridge spanning a wide, shallow river. There had been a guardhouse there, and soldiers with iron weapons-odd creatures, taller than Imass, yet he sensed that they could be easily The rema Ungs spe enslaved. These particular men, however, he destroyed lest they distract him in his battle with the dragons. He'd met another man, similarly-clad and riding a horse. He killed both man and beast, irritated at their intrusion.

Wreathed in the crackling fire of his sorcery, Raest ascended the side of the hill behind which Silanah had disappeared minutes earlier.

Anticipating another ambush, the Jaghut Tyrant gathered his power, fists clenching. Yet he reached the crest unmolested. Had she fled? He craned skyward. No, the two black dragons remained, and between them a Great Raven.

Raest crossed the hill's summit and stopped when the valley beyond came into view. Silanah waited there, her red pebbled skin streaked with black, wet burns across her heaving chest. Wings folded, she watched him from her position at the base of the valley, where a stream wound a tortured cut through the earth, its lagged path choked with bramble.

The Jaghut Tyrant laughed harshly. Here she would die. The far side of the valley was a low ridge, and beyond, glowing in the darkness, was the city that held his Finnest. Raest paused at seeing it. Even the great Jaghut cities of the early times were dwarfed by comparison. And what of its strange blue and green light, fighting the darkness with such steady, unfaltering determination?

There were mysteries here. He was eager to discover them. «Silanah!» he cried. «Eleint! I give you your life! Flee now, Silanah. I show mercy but once. Hear me, eleint!» The red dragon regarded him steadily, her multi-faceted eyes glowing like beacons. She did not move, nor did she reply.

Raest strode towards her, surprised to find her Warren gone. Was this surrender, then? He laughed a second time.

As he neared, the sky above him changed, filling with a sourceless mercurial glow. The city beyond vanished, replaced by wind-whipped mudflats. The distant jagged line of mountains loomed massive, uncarved by rivers of ice, bright and savage with youth. Raest's steps slowed. This is an Elder vision, a vision before even the Jaghut. Who has lured me here?

«Oh, my, oh, my. .»

The Tyrant's gaze snapped down to find a mortal standing before him.

Raest cocked a withered brow at the man's peculiar clothing, the coat tattered and faded red with large, food-stained cuffs, the baggy shimmering pantaloons dyed an astonishing pink, and the broad black leather boots covering his small feet. The man withdrew a cloth and patted the sweat from his brow. «Dear sir,» he wheezed, «you've not aged well at all!»

«There is Imass within you,» Raest rasped. «Even the language you speak echoes their guttural throats. Have you come forth to grovel at my feet? Are you my first acolyte, then, eager for my rewards?»

«Alas,» the man replied, «you are mistaken, sir. Kruppe-this humble, weak mortal who stands before you-bows to no man, be he Jaghut or god. Such are the nuances of this new age that you are felled by indifference, made insignificant in your mighty struggles by lowly Kruppe into whose dream you have ignobly stumbled. Kruppe stands before you so that you may gaze upon his benign countenance in the last moments before your demise. Magnanimous of Kruppe, all things considered.»

Raest laughed. «I have walked in the dreams of mortals before. You believe you are the master here, but you are mistaken.» The Tyrant's hand shot out, virulent power erupting from it. The sorcery engulfed Kruppe, blazing darkly, then faded, leaving not even a remnant of the man.

A voice spoke to Raest's left: «Rude, Kruppe proclaims. Disappointing, this precipitateness.»

The Jaghut swung around, eyes narrowing. «What game is this?»

The man smiled. «Why, Kruppe's game, of course.»

A sound behind Raest alerted him, but too late. He spun-even as a massive flint sword crunched through his left shoulder, tearing a path that snapped ribs, sliced through sternum and spine. The blow dragged the Tyrant down and to one side. Raest sprawled, pieces of his body striking the ground around him. He stared up at the T'lan Imass.

Kruppe's shadow moved over Raest's face and the Tyrant met the mortal man's watery eyes.

«He is Clanless, of course. Unbound and beyond binding, yet the ancient call commands him still-to his dismay. Imagine his surprise at being found out. Onos T'oolan, Sword of the First Empire, is once more called upon by the blood that once warmed his limbs, his heart, his life of so very long ago.»

The T'lan Imass spoke. «You have strange dreams, mortal.»

«Kruppe possesses many surprises, even unto himself.»

«I sense,» Onos T'oolan continued, «a Bone Caster's hand in this summoning.»

«Indeed. Pran Chole of Kig Aven's clan of the Kron T'lan Imass, I believe he called himself.»

Raest raised himself from the ground, drawing his sorcery around his body to hold its shattered parts in place. «No T'lan Imass can withstand me,» he hissed.

«A dubious claim,» Kruppe said. «Even so, he is joined in this endeavour.»

The Jaghut Tyrant straightened to see a tall, black-shrouded figure emerge from the streambed. He cocked his head as the apparition approached. «You remind me of Hood. Is the Death Wanderer still alive?» He scowled. «But, no. I sense nothing from you. You do not exist.»

«Perhaps,» the figure replied, in a deep, soft tone that hinted of r «If so,» he continued, «then neither do you. We are both of the Jaghut.» The figure halted fifteen feet away from Raest and swung hooded head in the dragon's direction. «Her master awaits your arrival, Jaghut, but he waits in vain and for this you should thank us. He would deliver a kind of death from which there is no escape, even by such a creature as you.» The head turned, and the darkness within the hood once again regarded the Tyrant. «Here, within a mortal's dream, we bring an end to your existence.»

Raest grunted. «In this age there are none who can defeat me.»

The figure laughed, a low rumble. «You are a fool, Raest. In this age even a mortal can kill you. The tide of enslavement has reversed itself. It is now we gods who are the slaves, and the mortals our masters-though they know it not.»

«You are a god, then?» Raest's scowl deepened. «You are a child to me if so.»

«I was once a god,» the figure replied. «Worshipped as K'rul, and my aspect was the Obilisk. I am the Maker of Paths-do you find significance in that ancient title?»

Raest took a step back, raising his desiccated hands. «Impossible,» he breathed. «You passed into the Realms of Chaos-returned to the place of your birth-you are among us no more-»

«As I said, things have changed,» K'rul said quietly. «You have a choice, Raest. Onos T'oolan can destroy you. You have no understanding of what his title of Sword signifies-he is without equal in this world. You can fall ignobly beneath the blade of an Imass, or you can accompany me-for in one thing we are the same, you and I. Our time has passed, and the Gates of Chaos await us. What choice do you make?»

«I make neither, Eldering One.» With a soft, hollow laugh, Raest's battered, withered body collapsed.

K'rul cocked his head. «He's found another body.»

Kruppe pulled out his handkerchief. «Oh, my,» he said.

Kalam gestured sharply and Paran ducked down. The captain's mouth was dry. There was something very wrong with this garden. He wondered if it was simply the exhaustion he felt. The garden's air itself rubbed his senses raw. He thought he could see the darkness pulse, and the smell of decay had thickened to a stench.

Kalam reached for his knives. Paran tensed, unable to see anything beyond the assassin. Too many trees, not enough light. Somewhere ahead flickered gas-lamps, and people were gathered on the terrace. But civilization seemed a thousand leagues away. Here, the captain felt as if he was within a primordial presence, breathing slowly and heavily on all sides.

Kalam gestured that Paran remain where he was, then slipped into the shadows to their right. Crouching low, the captain edged forward to where the assassin had been standing moments earlier. There looked to be a glade, or clearing, just ahead. He couldn't be certain, however, nor could he see anything amiss. Yet his feeling of wrongness now ached in his skull. He took another step. Something occupied the glade's centre, blockish, like a dressed stone, or an altar, and before it stood a small woman, almost wraith-like in the darkness. Her back was to Paran.

One moment she stood alone, the next Kalam rose behind her, knives glimmering in his hands. He drew back his arms.

The woman moved in a blur, one elbow driving backwards into the assassin's stomach. She twisted round and drove her knee into the man's crotch. A shout burst from Kalam as he reeled back a step, then fell to the ground with a heavy thump.

Paran's sword was in his hand. He dashed into the clearing.

The woman saw him and voiced a surprised, frightened yelp. «No!» she cried. «Please!» The captain stopped at that girlish voice. Kalam sat up. He groaned, then said, «Dammit, Sorry. Wasn't expecting you. We figured you were dead, girl.»

The woman eyed Paran warily as he approached cautiously. «I should know you, shouldn't I?» she asked Kalam. Then, as Paran came closer she raised a frightened hand between them and stepped back. «I–I killed you!» With a soft moan she fell to her knees. «Your blood was on hands. I remember it!» A fire of rage flared in Paran. He raised his sword and moved to stand over her.

«Wait!» Kalam hissed. «Wait, Captain. Something's not right here.»

With great difficulty, the assassin climbed to his feet, then prepared to sit down on the stone block.

«Don't!» the girl gasped. «Can't you feel it?»

«I can,» Paran growled. He lowered his weapon. «Don't touch thing, Corporal.»

Kalam stepped away. «Thought it was just me,» he muttered.

«It's not stone at all,» the woman said, her face free of the anguish that had twisted it a moment before. «It's wood.» She rose and faced «And it's growing.»

A suspicion came to Paran. «Girl, do you remember me? Do you know who I am?»

She frowned at him, then shook her head. «He's an old friend, I think.»

The assassin choked on something, then coughed loudly, wagging his head.

«I know Kalam,» she said. The woman pointed at the wooden block. «See? It's growing again.»

Both men looked. A haze blurred the block's edges, swelling and shifting, then vanished, yet it was clear to Paran that the thing was now bigger.

«It has roots,» the woman added.

Paran shook himself. «Corporal? Remain here with the girl. I won't be long.» He sheathed his sword and left the glade. After winding through the undergrowth for a minute, he came to its edge and looked out on a terrace crowded with guests. A low-walled fountain rose from the paving stones to his left, encircled by marble pillars spaced about a yard apart.

The captain saw that Whiskeyjack and the squad had arrayed themselves in a rough line a dozen feet from the garden's edge, facing the terrace. They looked tense. Paran found a dead branch and snapped it in half.

At the sound all six men turned. The captain pointed at Whiskeyjack and Mallet, then stepped back between the trees. The sergeant whispered something to Quick Ben. Then he collected the healer and they came over.

Paran pulled Whiskeyjack close. «Kalam's found Sorry, and something else besides,» he said. «The girl's not all there, Sergeant, and I don't think it's an act. One minute she remembers killing me, the next she doesn't. And she's got it into her head right now that Kalam's an old friend.»

Mallet grunted.

After a brief glance back at the party, Whiskeyjack asked, «So what's this "something else"?»

«I'm not sure, but it's ugly.»

«All right.» The sergeant sighed. «Go with the captain, Mallet. Take a look at Sorry. Any contact from the Assassins» Guild yet?» he asked Paran.

«No.»

«Then we move soon,» Whiskeyjack said. «We let Fiddler and Hedge loose. Bring Kalam when you come back, Mallet. We need to talk.»

Rallick found his path unobstructed as he moved across the central chamber towards the front doors. Faces turned to him and conversations fell away, rising again as he passed. A bone-deep weariness gripped the assassin, more than could be accounted for by the blood lost to a wound already healed. The malaise gripping him was emotional.

He paused at seeing Kruppe rising from a chair, mask dangling from one plump hand. The man's face was sheathed in sweat and there was fear in his eyes.

«You've a right to be terrified,» Rallick said, approaching him. «If I'd known you'd be here-»

«Silence!» Kruppe snapped. «Kruppe must think!»

The assassin scowled but said nothing. He'd never before seen Kruppe without his usual affable fa?ade, and the sight of him so perturbed made Rallick profoundly uneasy.

«Be on your way, friend,» Kruppe said then, his voice sounding strange. «Your destiny awaits you. More, it seems this new world is well prepared for one such as Raest, no matter what flesh he wears.»

Rallick's scowl deepened. The man sounds drunk. He sighed, then turned away, his mind returning once again to what had been achieved this night. He continued on his way, leaving Kruppe behind. What now? he wondered. So much had gone into reaching this moment. The sharp focus of his thoughts seemed dulled now by success. Never the crusader, Rallick's obsession to right the wrong had been, in a sense, no more than the assassin assuming the role Coll himself should have taken. He'd played the instrument of Coll's will, relying on a faith that the man's own will would return.

And if it didn't? His scowl deepening, Rallick crushed that question before it could lead his thought in search of an answer. As Baruk had said, the time had come to go home.

As he passed a silver-masked woman touched his arm. Startled by the contact, he turned to look at her. Long brown hair surrounded the featureless mask, its eyehole slits revealing nothing of what lay behind it.

The woman stepped close. «I've been curious,» she said quietly, «for some time. However, I see now I should have observed you personally, Rallick Nom. Ocelot's death could have been avoided.»

The assassin's gaze darkened. «Vorcan.»

Her head tilted in a fraction of a nod.

«Ocelot was a fool,» Rallick snapped. «If Orr's contract was sanctioned by the Guild, I await punishment.»

She did not reply.

Rallick waited calmly.

«You're a man of few words, Rallick Nom.»

His answer was silence.

Vorcan laughed softly. «You say you await punishment, as if already resigned to your own death.» Her gaze shifted from him towards the crowded terrace. «Councilman Turban Orr possessed protective magic, yet, it availed him naught. Curious.» She seemed to be considering something, then she nodded. «Your skills are required, Rallick Nom. Accompany me. He blinked, then, as she strode towards the garden at the rear of the house, he followed.

Crokus held one hand over Challice's mouth as he lay atop her. With his other he removed his thief's mask. Her eyes widened in recognition. «If you scream,» Crokus warned in a harsh voice, «you'll regret it.»

He'd managed to drag her perhaps ten yards into the undergrowth before she tripped him. They'd thrashed about, but he'd won the battle.

«I just want to talk to you,» Crokus said. «I won't hurt you, Challice, I swear it. Unless you try something, of course. Now, I'm going to remove my hand. Please don't scream.» He tried to read the expression in her eyes, but all he saw was fear. Ashamed, he raised his hand.

She didn't scream, and a moment later Crokus found himself wishing she had. «Damn you, thief! When my father catches you he'll have you skinned alive! That's if Gorlas doesn't find you first. You try anything with me and he'll have you boiled, slowly-»

Crokus jammed his hand over her mouth again. Skinned? Boiled?

«Who's Gorlas?» he demanded, glaring. «Some amateur chef? So you did betray me!»

She stared up at him.

He lifted his hand again.

«I didn't betray you,» she said. «What are you talking about?»

«That murdered house guard. I never did it, but-»

«Of course you didn't. Father hired a Seer. A woman killed that guard, a servant of the Rope's. The Seer was terrified and didn't even stay to be paid! Now get off me, thief.»

He let her go and sat back on the ground. He stared into the trees.

«You didn't betray me? What about Meese? The guards at Uncle Mammot's? The big hunt?»

Challice climbed to her feet and brushed dead leaves from her hide cloak. «What are you babbling about? I have to get back. Gorlas will be looking for me. He's the first son of House Tholius, in training to be a master duellist. If he sees you with me, there'll be real trouble.»

He looked up at her blankly. «Wait!» He sprang to his feet. «Listen, Challice! Forget this Gorlas idiot. Within the year my uncle will introduce us formally. Mammot is a famous writer.»

Challice rolled her eyes. «Get your feet back on the ground. A writer? Some old man with ink-stained hands who walks into walls-has his house power? Influence? House Tholius has power, influence, everything required. Besides, Gorlas loves me.»

«But I-» He stopped, looking away. Did he? No. Did that matter though? What did he want from her, anyway?

«What do you want from me, anyway?» Challice demanded.

He studied his feet. Then he met her eyes. «Company?» he asked, diffidently. «Friendship? What am I saying? I'm a thief! I rob women like you.»

«That's right,» she snapped. «So why pretend otherwise?» Her expression softened. «Crokus, I won't betray you. It will be our secret.» For the briefest of moments he felt like a child being stroked and consoled by a kindly matron, and he found himself enjoying it.

«Before you,» she added, smiling, «I'd never met a real thief from the His enjoyment ended in a surge of anger. «Hood's Breath, no,» he sneered. «Real? You don't know what's real, Challice. You've never had blood on your hands. You've never seen a man die. But that's the way it should be, isn't it? Leave the dirt to us, we're used to it.»

«I saw a man die tonight,» Challice said quietly. «I never want to again. If that's what «real» means, then I don't want it. It's all yours, Crokus.»

Crokus stared at her back, her braided hair, as her words rang in his. Suddenly exhausted, he turned to the garden. He hoped Apsalar had remained where he'd left her. The last thing he wanted now was to have to track her down. He slipped into the shadows.

Mallet recoiled with his first step into the glade. Paran gripped his arm.

The healer shook his head. «I'll not approach any closer, sir. Whatever lives there is anathema to my Denul Warren. And it: it senses me: with hunger.» He wiped sweat from his brow, drew a shaky breath. «Best bring the girl to me here.»

Paran released his arm and darted into the clearing. The block of wood was now the size of a table, veined in thick, twisting roots and pocked on its sides with rough squared holes. The earth around it looked soaked in blood. «Corporal,» he whispered, chilled. «Send the girl over to

Kalam laid a hand on her shoulder. «It's all right, lass,» he said, in the tone of a kindly uncle, «you go on, now. We'll join you shortly.»

«Yes,» she smiled and moved to where the healer stood at the glade's

Kalam rubbed his bristly jaw, eyes following her. «Never seen Sorry smile before,» he said, as Paran arrived. «And that's a shame.»

They stood and watched as Mallet spoke quietly to the girl, then stepped forward and laid a hand on her forehead.

Paran cocked his head. «The storm's stopped,» he said «Yeah. Hope it means what we'd like it to mean.»

«Someone's stopped it. I share your hope, Corporal.» For the captain however, it was a small hope. Something was building. He sighed. «It's not even the twelfth bell yet. Hard to believe.»

«Long night ahead of us,» the assassin said, making it clear that he, too, found himself sorely lacking in optimism. He grunted. Mallet had voiced an amazed cry that reached them. The healer drew back his hand and waved at Paran and Kalam. «You go,» the assassin said.

The captain frowned at the black man, confused. Then he went over to where the healer and Sorry waited. The girl's eyes were closed, and she seemed in a trance.

Mallet was direct. «The possession's gone,» he said.

«Guessed as much,» Paran replied, eyeing the girl.

«There's more to it, though,» the healer continued. «She's got someone else inside her, sir.»

Paran's brows rose.

«Someone who was there all along. How it survived the Rope's presence is beyond me. And now I've got a choice.»

«Explain.»

Mallet crouched, found a twig and began to scratch aimless patterns in the dirt. «That someone's been protecting the girl's mind, acting like an alchemist's filter. In the last two years, Sorry's done things that would drive her insane if she'd remembered any of it. That presence is fighting those memories right now, but it needs help, because it isn't as strong as it once was. It's dying.»

Paran squatted beside the man. «You're thinking of offering that help, then?»

«Not sure. You see, sir, I don't know its plans. Don't know what it's up to, can't read the pattern it's trying to make. So let's say I help it, only what it wants is absolute control? Then the girl's possessed all over again."

«So you think the presence was protecting Sorry from the Rope, only so it could now jump in and take over?»

«Put it that way,» Mallet said, «and it doesn't make sense. What gets me, though, is why else would that presence commit itself so thoroughly? Its body, its flesh is gone. If it lets go of the girl it's got nowhere to go, sir. Now, maybe it's a loved one, a relative or something like that. A person who was willing to sacrifice herself absolutely. That's a possibility.»

«Herself? It's a woman?»

«It was. Damned if I know what it is now. All I get from it is sadness.»

The healer met Paran's eyes. «It's the saddest thing I've ever known, sir.»

Paran studied the man's face briefly, then he rose. «I'm not going to give you an order on what to do, Healer.»

«But?»

«But, for what it's worth, I say do it. Give it what it needs so it can do what it wants to do.»

Mallet puffed out his cheeks, then tossed down the twig and straightened. «My instinct, too, sir. Thanks.»

Kalam spoke loudly from the glade. «Far enough. Show yourselves.»

The two men spun around to see Kalam looking into the woods to their left. Paran grasped Mallet's arm and pulled him into the shadows.

The healer dragged Sorry with them.

Two figures entered the glade, a woman and a man.

Crokus snaked closer through the vines and mulch of the forest floor. For an off-limits garden, this was a busy tangle of wood. The voices he'd heard in his search for Apsalar now revealed themselves as two men and one silver-masked woman. All three were looking at an odd, blurry tree stump in the centre of the glade. Slowly Crokus let out a breath. One of the men was Rallick Nom.

«There is ill in this,» the woman said, stepping back. «A hunger.»

The large black-skinned man at her side grunted. «Wouldn't argue with you on that, Guild Master. Whatever it is, it ain't Malazan.»

The thief's eyes widened. Malazan spies? Guild Master? Vorcan!

Seemingly impervious to the strangeness around her, the woman now turned to Rallick. «How does it affect you, Rallick?»

«It doesn't,» he said.

«Approach it, then.»

The assassin shrugged and walked up to the writhing, knotted block.

Its blurred movement stopped.

Vorcan relaxed. «You seem to damage its efforts, Rallick. Curious.»

The man grunted. «Otataral dust.»

«What?»

«I rubbed it into my skin.»

Vorcan stared.

The other man's eyes narrowed on Rallick. «I remember you, Assassin. Our quarry when we first sought to make contact. The night of the ambush from above.»

Rallick nodded.

«Well,» the Malazan continued, «I'm surprised you survived.»

«He is a man of many surprises,» Vorcan said. «Very well, Corporal Kalam of the Bridgeburners, your request for an audience reached me and I have granted it. Before we begin, however, I would appreciate it if the rest of your party were to join us.» She turned to the trees on her right.

Crokus's head was already reeling-Bridgeburners! — but it felt moments away from bursting when he saw two men emerge from the shadows, with Apsalar between them. She looked drugged, and her eyes were closed.

One of the men said, «Guild Master, I am Captain Paran of the Ninth Squad.» He drew a deep breath, then continued, «In this matter, however, Kalam speaks for the Empire.»

Vorcan turned back to the black man. «Then the audience is begun.»

«We both know, Guild Master, that the City Council is not Darujhistan's true power base. And since you're not, either, we've concluded that the city's mages operate covertly, keeping the status quo intact being their overriding interest. Whoever they are, they're good at hiding themselves. Now, we might just decide to kill every mage in Darujhistan, but that would take too long, and it might prove messy.

«Instead, Guild Master, the Malazan Empire has issued a contract on Darujhistan's true rulers. One hundred thousand gold jakatas. Each.

«More, the Empress offers the mantle of the city's control, accompanied with the title High First and all the privileges that come with it.» He crossed his arms.

Vorcan was silent, then she said, «Empress Laseen is willing to pay nine hundred thousand jakatas to me?»

«If that's the number. Yes,» Kalam agreed.

«The T'orrud Cabal is a powerful force, Corporal. But before I answer, I would know of the creature who approaches from the east.» Her face tightened fractionally. «Five dragons opposed it for a time, presumably hailing from Moon's Spawn. I assume that Master Baruk and his Cabal have sealed an agreement with the Son of Darkness.»

Kalam looked stunned, then recovered quickly. «Guild Master, the approaching force was not of our making. We'd welcome its destruction at the hands of the Son of Darkness. As for your hidden question, I would assume that the alliance between the Tiste And? and the Cabal will become void with the death of the cabal's members. We're not asking you to try to kill the Lord of Moon's Spawn.»

Paran cleared his throat. «Guild Master, Moon's Spawn and the Malazan Empire have clashed before. The pattern indicates that the Son of Darkness is likely to retreat rather than stand against us alone.»

«Accurate,» Vorcan agreed. «Corporal Kalam, I have no wish to waste the lives of my assassins on such an effort. Only an assassin who is a High Mage could hope to succeed. Therefore, I accept the contract. I will conduct the assassinations. Now, as to the matter of payment:»

«Delivered by Warren upon completion of the contract,» Kalam said. «You may know this already, Guild Master, but the Empress was once an assassin. She abides by the rules of conduct. The gold shall be paid. The title and rule of Darujhistan given without hesitation.»

«Accepted, Corporal Kalam.» Vorcan turned to Rallick. «I begin immediately. Rallick Nom, the task I now give you is vital. I have considered your strange ability to negate the growth of this: ill thing. My instincts are such: it must not be permitted to continue growing. You will remain here, thus holding it in stasis.»

«For how long?» he growled.

«Until my return. At that time I will test its defences. Oh, and one more thing: Ocelot's actions were not sanctioned by the Guild. Executing him fulfilled the Guild's judgement as to fit punishment. Thank you, Rallick Nom. The Guild is pleased.»

Rallick walked over to the strange stump and sat down on it.

«Until later,» Vorcan said, and strode from the glade.

Crokus watched as the three Malazan spies gathered for a whispered discussion. Then one of the men grasped Apsalar's arm and gently guided her into the woods, making for the rear wall. The remaining two, Captain Paran and Corporal Kalam, glanced over at Rallick.

The assassin's head was in his hands, his elbows on his thighs, staring gloomily at the ground.

Kalam hissed a sigh through his teeth and shook his head. A moment later both men left, in the direction of the terrace.

Crokus hesitated, a part of him wanting to rush into the glade and confront Rallick. Assassinate the mages! Hand Darujhistan to the Malazans? How could the man allow such a thing to happen? He did not move, however, a fear growing inside him that he, in truth, knew nothing of this man. Would the assassin listen to him? Or would he answer Crokus with a knife in the throat? Crokus didn't feel like taking chance.

In the last minute Rallick had not moved. Then he rose, turned directly to where Crokus lay hidden.

The thief groaned.

Rallick beckoned.

Slowly, Crokus approached.

«You hide well,» Rallick said. «And you were lucky Vorcan kept her mask on-she couldn't see much out of it. You heard, then?»

Crokus nodded, his eyes drawn to what he'd called a tree stump in spite of himself. It looked more like a small wooden house. The pocks on its sides could well have been windows. Unlike Vorcan, he sensed not hunger but a kind of urgency, almost frustration.

«Before you condemn me, listen carefully, Crokus.»

The thief dragged his attentioh from the wooden block. «I'm listening.»

«Baruk may yet be at the party. You must find him, tell him exactly what's happened. Tell him Vorcan is a High Mage-and she'll kill them all unless they gather to defend each other.» The assassin reached out a hand to Crokus's shoulder. The boy flinched, his eyes wary. «And if Baruk has gone home, find Mammot. I saw him here not long ago. He wears the mask of a tusked beast.»

«Uncle Mammot? But he's-»

«He's a High Priest of D'riss, Crokus, and a member of the T'orrud Cabal. Now, hurry. There's no time to waste.»

«You mean you're going to stay here, Rallick? just sit there on that: that stump?»

The assassin's grip tightened. «Vorcan spoke true, lad. Whatever this thing is, it seems I can hold it in check. Baruk needs to know of this conjuring. I trust his senses more than I do Vorcan's, but for now I will obey her in this.»

For a moment Crokus resisted, his thoughts on Apsalar. They'd done something to her, he was certain-and if they'd harmed her, he'd make them pay. But: Uncle Mammot? Vorcan was planning to kill his uncle? The thief's eyes hardened as he looked up at Rallick. «Consider it done,» he said.

At that instant, a roar of rage and agony, coming from the terrace, shook the trees. The block of wood behind them responded with a burst of bright yellow fire, its roots writhing and swelling like groping fingers.

Rallick pushed Crokus hard then whirled and dived on to the block.

The yellow fire winked out and cracks opened in the earth, spreading in all directions. «Go!» yelled Rallick.

The thief, his heart hammering, turned and sprinted for Lady Sinital's estate.

angrily Baruk's hand snapped out and yanked savagely on the bell cord. Above him, he heard the wagoner cry out. The carriage skidded to a halt.

«Something's happened,» he hissed to Rake. «We left too early, dammit!»

He moved on the seat to the window and opened its shutters.

«A moment, Alchemist,» Rake said levelly, his brows knitted and his head cocked as if listening for something. «The Tyrant,» he pronounced. «But he is weakened, and enough mages remain to deal with him.» He opened his mouth to add something, then shut it again. His eyes deepened to azure as he studied the alchemist. «Baruk,» he said quietly,» return to your estate. Prepare for the Empire's next move-we'll not have long to wait.»

Baruk stared at the Tiste And?. «Tell me what's happening?» he said y. «Will you challenge the Tyrant or not?»

Rake tossed his mask on to the floor between them and clasped the collar of his cloak. «If it proves necessary, I shall.»

Fists pounded on the carriage and voices shouted good-naturedly. The crowds around them pushed in on all sides, rocking the carriage. The festival approached the Twelfth Bell, the Hour of Ascension as the Lady of Spring took to the sky in the coming of the moon.

Rake continued, «In the meantime the city's streets must be cleared,» he said. «I imagine it's your desire to minimize the loss of life.»

«And this is all you give me, Rake?» Baruk gestured sharply. «Clear the streets? How in Hood's name do we manage that? There are three hundred thousand people in Darujhistan, and they're all in the streets!»

The Tiste And? opened the door beside him. «Then leave that to me. I need to find a high vantage-point, Alchemist. Suggestions?»

Baruk's frustration was so great that he had to fight the desire to defy Anomander Rake. «K'rul's Belfry,» he said. «A square tower near Worry Gate.»

Rake stepped out of the carriage. «We'll speak again at your estate, Alchemist,» he said, leaning back inside. «You and your fellow mages must prepare yourselves.» He faced the crowds, pausing for a moment as if smelling the air. «How far to this belfry?»

«Three hundred paces-surely you don't mean to go on foot?»

«I do. I am not yet ready to unveil my Warren.»

«But how-?» Baruk fell silent, as Anomander Rake provided the answer to his question.

Standing head and shoulders above the jostling crowds, he unsheathed his sword. «If you value your souls,» the Son of Darkness bellowed, «make way!» Raised high, the sword groaned awake, chains of smoke writhing from the blade. A terrible sound as of wheels creaking filled the air and behind it arose a chorus of moaning filled with hopelessness. Before Lord Anomander Rake the crowd in the street shrank back, all thoughts of festivity swept away.

«Gods forfend!» Baruk whispered.

It had begun innocently enough. Quick Ben and Whiskeyjack stood together near the fountain. Servants scurried as, despite the night's bloodshed and the hostess's absence, the party's energy burgeoned anew as the twelfth bell approached. They were joined by Captain Paran.

«We have met with the Guild Master,» he said. «She has accepted the contract.»

Whiskeyjack grunted. «Where would we all be without greed?»

«I just noticed something,» Quick Ben said. «My headache's gone. I'm tempted to access my Warren, Sergeant. See what I can see.»

Whiskeyjack thought briefly. «Go ahead.»

Quick Ben stepped back into the shadow of a marble pillar.

Before them, an old man wearing a ghastly mask drifted towards Whiskeyjack's line of men. Then a large, buxom woman with a waterpipe approached the old man. Her servant followed half a step behind.

Trailing smoke as she walked, she called to the old man.

The next moment the night was shattered as a wave of energy flowed like a stream of water between Whiskeyjack and Paran, striking the old man in the chest. The sergeant's sword was in his hand as he turned to find his wizard, magic swirling from him, pushing him to one side and racing for the woman. «No!» Quick Ben screamed. «Stay away from him!» Paran, too, had unsheathed his sword in his hand, the blade keening as if filled with terror. He sprinted forward.

A bestial roar of rage shook the air as the old man, his mask torn away, whirled. His burning eyes found the woman and he flung a hand towards her. The surge of power that streamed from him was as grey as slate, crackling in the air.

Whiskeyjack, frozen, watched in disbelief as Quick Ben's body hurled into the woman's. Both collided with the servant and all three went down in a heap. The writhing stream of energy cut a swath through the stunned crowd, incinerating everyone it touched. Where men and women had stood a moment earlier there was nothing but white ash. The attack branched out, ripping through everything in sight. Trees disintegrated, stone and marble exploded in clouds of dust. People died, some with parts of their body simply gone, blood spraying in black flecks as they crumpled.

A lance of energy shot wildly skyward, flashing in the night sky within a heavy cloud. Another struck the estate with a rattling boom. A third snaked towards Paran as he closed the gap between him and the old man.

The power struck the sword, and it and Paran vanished.

The sergeant took a half-step forward, then something hard and massive struck a glancing blow to his shoulder. He was spun round, his right knee buckling inward as he fell.

He felt the snap of bone, then the meaty tearing of flesh and skin as his weight bore him down. His sword clanged. Agony lancing through him, he rolled to free his pinned leg, and came up against a toppled pillar.

An instant later hands grasped his cloak. «I got you!» Fiddler grunted.

Whiskeyjack bellowed in pain as the saboteur dragged him across the paving-stones. Then darkness swept in around him and he knew no more.

Quick Ben found himself buried beneath flesh, and for a second he could not breathe. Then the woman's hands pressed down on his shoulders and she pushed herself off him. She shouted at the old man.

«Mammot! Anikaleth araest!»

Quick Ben's eyes widened as he sensed the wave of power rise through her body. The air suddenly smelled of deep forest loam.

«Araest!» she yelled, and the power burst from her in a virulent pulse.

Quick Ben heard Mammot's scream of pain.

«Attend, Wizard!» the woman said. «He is Jaghut-possessed.»

«I know,» he growled, rolling on to his stomach then climbing to his hands and knees. A quick glance showed Mammot on the ground, waving a feeble hand. The wizard's gaze flicked to where Whiskeyjack had been. The pillars around the fountain had toppled, and the sergeant was nowhere in sight. In fact, he realized, none of the squad was visible.

On the terrace crumpled bodies lay in grotesque piles, none moving.

Everyone else had fled.

«Mammot recovers,» the woman said desperately. «I have nothing left, Wizard. You must do something now, yes?»

He stared at her.

Paran stumbled, slid across greasy clay and rolled up against a bank of tufted reeds. A storm racked the sky above him. He scrambled to his feet, the sword Chance hot and moaning in his hand. A calm shallow lake stretched out on his left, ending in a distant ridge of faintly luminescent green. To his right the marshes continued out to the horizon. The air was cool, sweet with decay.

Paran sighed shakily. He studied the storm overhead. jagged arcs of lightning warred with each other, the clouds dark and twisting as if in agony. A concussion sounded to his right and he spun. A thousand paces away, something had appeared. The captain squinted. It rose above the marsh grasses like an animated tree, gnarled and black, pulling at the roots that gripped it and flinging them aside. Another figure appeared, danced lithely around it, a brown-bladed jagged sword in its hands. This figure was clearly in retreat, as the gnarled man-shape lashed at it with miasmic waves of power. They were approaching Paran's position.

He heard bubbling, sucking sounds behind him and turned. «Hood's Breath!»

A house was rising out of the lake. Swamp grass and mud slid from its battered stone walls. A huge stone doorway gaped black, hissing with steam. The second level of the structure looked misshapen, scarred, the cut stones melted away here and there, revealing a skeletal wooden Another explosion drew his attention back to the fighters. They were much closer now, and Paran could see the figure with the two-handed sword clearly. A T'lan Imass. Despite its awesome skill with the chalcedony weapon in its hands, it was being driven back. Its attacker was a tall, lean creature with flesh like oak. Two gleaming tusks rose from its lower jaw, and it was shrieking with rage. It struck the T'lan Imass again, flinging the warrior fifteen paces, to roll through the muck and come to rest almost at Paran's feet.

The captain found himself staring down into depthless eyes.

«The Azath is not yet ready, mortal,» the T'lan Imass said. «Too young, not yet of strength to imprison that which called it into being-the Finnest. When the Tyrant fled, I sought out its power.» It tried to rise, failed. «Defend the Azath, the Finnest seeks to destroy it.»

Paran looked up to see the apparition stalking towards him. Defend? Against that? The choice was taken from him. The Finnest roared and a sizzling wave of power rolled towards him. He swung Chance into its path.

The blade slid through the energy. Unaffected, the power swept over, then into Paran. Blinded, he screamed as bitter cold lanced through him, shattering his thoughts, his sense of self. An invisible hand closed around his soul. Mine! The word rang in his head, triumphant and filled with savage glee. You are mine!

Paran dropped Chance, fell to his knees. The grip on his soul was absolute. He could only obey. Fragments of awareness reached through.

A tool, nothing more. All I have done, all I have survived, to reach but this.

Deep within him he heard a sound, repeating again and again, growing louder. A howl. The chill of his blood that had seamlessly filled every part of his body began to break apart. Flashes of heat, bestial and defiant, ripped through the cold. He threw back his head, the howling reaching his throat. As it broke loose, the Finnest staggered back.

Blood of a Hound! Blood no one can enslave-Paran launched himself at the Finnest. His muscles filled with pain as overwhelming strength flowed into them. You dare! He struck the creature, driving it to the ground, battering its oak flesh with his fists, sinking his teeth into the bark of its face. The Finnest tried to push him away, and failed. It screamed, flailing its limbs. Paran began ripping it methodically to pieces.

A hand closed on the collar of his cloak, pulled him from the tattered body. Frenzied, Paran tried to twist round, to rend the creature holding him. The T'lan Imass shook him. «Cease!»

The captain blinked.

«Cease! You cannot destroy the Finnest. But you have held it. Long enough. The Azath will take it now. Do you understand?»

Paran sagged, the fires within him ebbing. Glancing down at the Finnest, he saw roots and fibrous tendrils rising from the wet earth to wrap themselves around the battered apparition and begin to pull their captive down into the cloying mud. In a moment, the Finnest was gone.

The T'lan Imass released Paran and stepped back. It regarded him steadily for a long moment.

Paran spat blood and splinters from his mouth, wiped his lips with the back of a hand. He bent down and retrieved Chance. «Damned luck turned,» he mumbled, sheathing the weapon. «Do you have something to say, Imass?»

«You are a long way from home, mortal.»

Paran reappeared a moment later, staggering half-blind across the terrace, then collapsing in a heap. Quick Ben scowled. What in Hood's Breath happened to him?

A Jaghut curse escaped Mammot, fierce as if ripped from the soul. The old man regained his feet, trembling with rage. Then his hooded eyes were on the wizard.

«Awaken the Seven within me!» Quick Ben roared, then shrieked as seven Warrens opened within him. His agonized scream rode the cascading waves of power as they swept across the terrace.

The Jaghut Possessed threw up his arms before his face as the waves struck. Mammot's body withered beneath the clambering, frenzied attack. Flesh was ripped away, fires lancing, boring holes through him.

He was driven to his knees, a vortex swirling like madness around him. Mammot howled, raising a fist that was nothing but charred bone.

The fist spasmed and one of Quick Ben's Warrens slammed shut. The fist jerked again.

Quick Ben sagged. «I'm done.»

Derudan grabbed a handful of the wizard's cloak. «Wizard! Listen to me!»

Another Warren was driven away. Quick Ben shook his head. «done.»

«Listen! That man-the one over there-what's he doing?»

Quick Ben looked up. «Hood's Breath!» he yelled, in sudden terror. A dozen paces away crouched Hedge, only his head and shoulders showing behind a bench. The saboteur's eyes shone with a manic glaze that the wizard recognized, and a large, bulky arbalest was in his hands, point directly at Mammot.

A wordless, wailing scream came from Hedge.

The wizard shouted and dived for the woman a second time. As he flew through the air, he heard the thock of the saboteur's crossbow. Quick Ben closed his eyes before colliding once again with the woman.

Crone flew tight circles over the plain where the Jaghut Tyrant had been.

He had reached to within fifty paces of Silanah, then vanished. Not a flight through a Warren, but a vanishing more complete, more absolute and all the more fascinating for that.

It had been a glorious night, a battle worthy of remembrance, and its end proved no end at all. «Delicious mystery,» she cackled. Crone knew her presence was demanded elsewhere, but she was reluctant to leave.

«Such terrible energies I have witnessed.» She laughed. «I mock the waste, the sheer foolishness! Ah, and now all that remains is questions, questions!»

She craned her head upward. Her lord's two Tiste And? Soletaken remained overhead. No one wanted to leave before the truth of the Jaghut Tyrant's fate was revealed. They'd earned the right to witness it, though Crone was beginning to suspect such answers would never come.

Silanah loosed a keening cry, then rose from the ground, the Warren that birthed her flight a strong, pungent exhalation. The red dragon's head swung westward, and she voiced a second cry.

With a mad flap of wings, Crone brought her descent under control, then skirted the tattered ground. She climbed skyward again, and saw what Silanah had seen. Crone shrieked in joy and anticipation-and surprise. «And now it comes! It comes!»

As he shut his eyes, Quick Ben collapsed the last of his Warrens. The woman's arms closed around him as he struck her. She grunted loudly and collapsed beneath his momentum.

The detonation snatched the air from his lungs. The stones under them jumped and a flash of fire and flying masonry filled their world to the exclusion of all else. Then everything was still.

Quick Ben sat up. He looked to where Mammot had been standing.

The paving stones were gone, and a wide, deep, steaming hole now yawned near the shattered fountain. The old man was nowhere in sight.

«Dear wizard,» the woman murmured beneath him. «We live?»

Quick Ben glanced down at her. «You'd closed your Warren. Very clever.»

«Closed, yes, but not by choice. Why clever?»

«Moranth munitions are mundane weapons, Witch. Opened Warrens draw their explosive force. That Tyrant is dead. Obliterated.»

And then Hedge was beside them, his leather cap half blown away and flash-burns covering one side of his face. «You all right?» he gasped.

The wizard reached out and cuffed the man. «You idiot! How many times have I-» «He's dead, ain't he?» Hedge retorted, hurt. «Just a smouldering hole in the ground-best way to deal with mages, right?»

They saw Captain Paran rise shakily from the rubble-strewn terrace.

He scanned the scene, his gaze finding the wizard. «Where is Whiskeyjack?» he demanded.

«In the woods,» Hedge answered.

Paran stumbled in that direction.

«Big help he was,» Hedge muttered.

«Quick!» The wizard turned to see Kalam approach. The assassin paused as he skirted the edge of the crater, then he said. «Something's moving down there.»

Paling, Quick Ben rose, then helped the witch to her feet.

They approached the crater. «Impossible,» the wizard breathed. A manshaped form had coalesced at the base of the pit. «We're dead. Or worse.»

Thrashing from the garden drew their attention. The three froze as strangely blurred roots broke free of the undergrowth and snaked hungrily towards the crater.

The Jaghut Possessed straightened, spreading grey, swirling arms.

The roots closed around the creature. It shrieked in sudden terror.

«Azath edieirmarn! No! You've taken my Finnest-but leave me! Please!»

Tendrils clambered in a frenzy, entwining its limbs. The Omtose Phellack power writhed in a panicked effort to escape, to no avail. The roots pulled the apparition down, then dragged it screaming into the garden.

«Azath?» Quick Ben whispered. «Here?»

«None, I would swear,» Derudan said, her face white. «It's said they arise-»

«Where unchained power threatens life,» the wizard finished.

«I know where it is,» Kalam said. «Quick Ben, will that Jaghut escape?»

«No.»

«So we're done with it. What of the Azath?»

Quick Ben hugged himself. «Leave it, Kalam.»

«I must leave,» Derudan said hastily. «Again, my gratitude for twice saving my life.»

They watched her rush away.

Fiddler joined them, looking distracted. «Mallet's tending to the sergeant,» he said, closing the straps on a bulky bag he carried. «We're off, then.» He nudged Hedge. «Got a city to blow.»

«Whiskeyjack's hurt?» Quick Ben asked.

«Broken leg,» Fiddler answered. «Pretty bad.»

At a surprised cry from Derudan, who had gone to the opposite side of the fountain, they all turned. She'd walked on to a black-clad youth, who must have been crouching behind the fountain's stone wall. Darting like a rabbit, the boy leaped the fountain and raced towards the estate.

«What do you think he heard?» Fiddler wondered.

«Nothing that would mean much to him,» said Quick Ben, recalling their conversation. «You and Hedge going to do the deed?»

«Sky high.» Fiddler grinned.

The two saboteurs checked their equipment one last time, then turned to the patio.

Meanwhile, Kalam stood glowering into the pit. Ancient copper water-pipes streamed water down its ragged sides. For some reason a memory of the Greyfaces flashed into his head. The assassin crouched, seeing one pipe that leaked no water. He sniffed the air, then lay flat on the ground and reached down to lay his hand over the pipe's broken end.

«Osserc,» he breathed.

He rolled and gained his feet, then asked Quick Ben, «Where are they?»

The wizard's expression was blank. «Who?»

Kalam roared, «The saboteurs, dammit!»

«Just left,» Quick Ben replied, bemused. «Through the estate.»

«To the back wall, soldier,» the assassin snapped. «Find the others-Paran's taken command. Tell him to pull out. Find a place I know. I'll meet you there.»

«Where are you going?»

«After the saboteurs.» Kalam wiped sweat from his face. «Pull out the city map when you can, Quick Ben.» The assassin's eyes were tight with fear. «Check the legend on it. We've planted mines at every major intersection. It's the main valves-don't you see?» He waved an arm. «The Greyfaces! The gas, Quick Ben!»

Kalam whirled and crossed the patio. A moment later he disappeared into the estate house.

Quick Ben stared after him. The gas? His eyes widened. «We'll all go sky high,» he whispered. «The whole damn city!»