The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen (74 page)

“I do,” she said simply.

Crokus winced. Why did she make things seem so easy for her? Hood’s Breath,
he
wouldn’t trust him. Of course, he didn’t know Challice very well. They’d only had that one, confusing conversation. What if she called the guards? Well, he’d make sure Apsalar got away safely. He paused and grasped her arm. “Listen,” his own voice sounded unduly harsh, but he pushed on, “if something goes wrong, go to the Phoenix Inn. Right? Find Meese, Irilta, or my friends Kruppe and Murillio. Tell them what happened.”

“All right, Crokus.”

“Good.” He released her arm. “Wish we had a lantern,” he said, as he stepped into the darkness, one hand reaching before him.

“Why?” Apsalar asked, slipping past him. She took his hand and led him down. “I can see. Don’t let go of my hand.”

That might be a hard thing to do even if he’d desired it, he realized. Still, there were a lot of rough calluses on that small hand. He let them remind him of what this woman was capable of doing, though the effort embarrassed him in some vague way.

Eyes wide, yet seeing nothing, Crokus allowed himself to be guided down the stairs.

The captain of Simtal’s House Guard viewed Whiskeyjack and his men with obvious distaste. “I thought you were all Barghast.” He stepped up to Trotts and jabbed a finger into the warrior’s massive chest. “You led me to believe you were all like you, Niganga.”

A low, menacing growl emerged from Trotts, and the captain stepped back, one hand reaching for his short sword.

“Captain,” Whiskeyjack said, “if we were all Barghast—”

The man’s narrow face swung to him with a scowl.

“—you’d never be able to afford us,” the sergeant finished with a tight smile. He glanced at Trotts.
Niganga? Hood’s Breath!
“Niganga is my second-in-command, Captain. Now, how would you like us positioned?”

“Just beyond the fountain,” he said. “Your backs will be to the garden, which has, ah, run wild of late. We don’t want any guests getting lost in there, so you gently steer them back. Understood? And when I say gently I mean it. You’re to salute anyone who talks to you, and if there’s an argument direct them to me, Captain Stillis. I’ll be making the rounds, but any one of the house guard can find me.”

Whiskeyjack nodded. “Understood, sir.” He turned to survey his squad. Fiddler and Hedge stood behind Trotts, both looking eager. Past them Mallet and Quick Ben stood on the edge of the street, heads bent together in conversation. The sergeant frowned at them, noticing how his wizard winced with every boom of thunder to the east.

Captain Stillis marched off after giving them directions through the estate’s rooms out to the terrace and garden beyond. Whiskeyjack waited for the man to leave his line of sight, then he strode to Quick Ben and Mallet. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

Quick Ben looked frightened.

Mallet said, “That thunder and lightning, Sergeant? Well, it ain’t no storm. Paran’s story is looking real.”

“Meaning we have little time,” Whiskeyjack said. “Wonder why the Adjunct didn’t show up—you think she’s melting her boots getting away from here?”

Mallet shrugged.

“Don’t you get it?” Quick Ben said shakily. He took a couple of deep breaths, then continued, “That creature out there is in a fight. We’re talking major sorceries, only it’s getting closer, which means that it’s winning. And that means—”

“We’re in trouble,” Whiskeyjack finished. “All right, we go as planned for
now. Come on, we’ve been assigned right where we want to be. Quick Ben, you sure Kalam and Paran can find us?”

The wizard moaned. “Directions delivered, Sergeant.”

“Good. Let’s move, then. Through the house and eyes forward.”

“He looks like he’s going to sleep for days,” Kalam said, straightening beside Coll’s bed and facing the captain.

Paran rubbed his red-shot eyes. “She must have given them something,” he insisted wearily, “even if they didn’t see it.”

Kalam wagged his head. “I’ve told you, sir, she didn’t. Everyone was on the lookout for something like that. The squad’s still clean. Now, we’d better get moving.”

Paran climbed to his feet with an effort. He was exhausted, and he knew he was just an added burden. “She’ll turn up at this estate, then,” he insisted, strapping on his sword.

“Well,” Kalam said, as he walked to the door, “that’s where you and me come in, right? She shows up and we take her out—just like you’ve wanted to do all along.”

“Right now,” Paran said, joining the assassin, “the shape I’m in will make my role in the fight a short one. Consider me the surprise factor, the one thing she won’t be expecting, the one thing that’ll stop her for a second.” He looked into the man’s dark eyes. “Make that second count, Corporal.”

Kalam grinned. “I hear you, sir.”

They left Coll still snoring contentedly and went down to the bar’s main floor. As they passed along the counter, Scurve looked at them warily.

Kalam released an exasperated curse and, in a surge of motion, reached out and grasped him by the shirt. He pulled the squealing innkeeper halfway across the counter until their faces were inches apart. “I’m sick of waiting,” the assassin growled. “You get this message to this city’s Master of the Assassins. I don’t care how. Just do it, and do it fast. Here’s the message: the biggest contract offer of the Master’s life will be waiting at the back wall of Lady Simtal’s estate. Tonight. If the Guild Master’s worthy of that name then maybe—just maybe—it’s not too big for the Guild to handle. Deliver that message, even if you have to shout it from the rooftops, or I’m coming back here with killing in mind.”

Paran stared at his corporal, too tired to be amazed. “We’re wasting time,” he drawled.

Kalam tightened his grip and glared into Scurve’s eyes. “We’d better not be,” he growled. He released the man by gently lowering him onto the countertop. Then he tossed a handful of silver coins beside Scurve. “For your troubles,” he said.

Paran gestured and the assassin nodded. They left the Phoenix Inn.

“Still following orders, Corporal?”

Kalam grunted. “We were instructed to make the offer in the name of the Empress, Captain. If the contract’s accepted and the assassinations are done, then Laseen will have to pay up, whether we’ve been outlawed or not.”

“A gutted city for Dujek and his army to occupy, with the Empress paying for it. She’ll choke on that, Kalam.”

He grinned. “That’s her problem, not mine.”

In the street, the Grayfaces moved through the noisy crowd like silent specters, lighting the gas-lamps with long-poled sparkers. Some people, brazen with drink, hugged the figures and blessed them. The Grayfaces, hooded and anonymous, simply bowed in reply and continued on their way once freed.

Kalam stared at them, his brows knitting.

“Something the matter, Corporal?” Paran asked.

“Just something nagging me. Can’t pin it down. Only, it’s got to do with those Grayfaces.”

The captain shrugged. “They keep the lanterns lit. Shall we make our way, then?”

Kalam sighed. “Might as well, sir.”

The black lacquered carriage, drawn by two dun stallions, moved slowly through the press. A dozen feet ahead marched a brace of Baruk’s own house guards, driving a wedge down the street’s center, using their wrapped weapons when shouts and curses failed.

In the plush confines of the carriage the outside roar surged and ebbed like a distant tide, muted by the alchemist’s sound-deadening spells. He sat with his chin lowered on his chest, his eyes—hidden in the shadow of his brow and half-shut—studying the Tiste Andii seated across from him. Rake had said nothing since his return to the estate just minutes before their planned departure.

Baruk’s head throbbed. Sorcery shook the hills to the east, sending waves of concussion that struck every mage within range like mailed fists. He well knew its source. The barrow dweller approached, its every step contested by Anomander Rake’s Tiste Andii. It seemed that Mammot’s prediction had been too generous. They didn’t have days, they had hours.

Yet, despite the warring Warrens, despite the fact that the Jaghut Tyrant’s power was superior to Rake’s mages’—that the barrow dweller came on, relentless, unstoppable, a growing storm of Omtose Phellack sorcery—the Lord of Moon’s Spawn sat at ease on the padded couch, legs stretched out before him and gloved hands folded in his lap. The mask lying on the velvet at his side was exquisite, if ghastly. In better times Baruk might have been amused, appreciative of its workmanship, but right now when he regarded it his lone response was suspicion. A secret was locked in that mask, something that bespoke the man who would wear it. But the secret eluded Baruk.

Turban Orr adjusted his hawk mask and paused just before the wide steps leading to the estate’s main doors. He heard another carriage arrive at the gates and turned. From the doorway at his back came the shuffle of footsteps.

Lady Simtal spoke behind him. “I would rather you’d permitted one of my
servants to inform me of your arrival, Councilman. Allow me the privilege of escorting you into the main chamber.” She slipped her arm through his.

“A moment,” he muttered, eyes on the figure now emerging from the carriage. “It’s the alchemist’s carriage,” he said, “but that’s hardly Baruk, now, is it?”

Lady Simtal looked. “Trake unleashed!” she gasped. “Who would that be?”

“Baruk’s guest,” Orr said dryly.

Her grip bit into his arm. “I’m aware of his privilege, Councilman. Tell me, have you seen this one before?”

The man shrugged. “He’s masked. How could I tell?”

“How many men do you know, Turban, who are seven feet tall and wear two-handed swords strapped to their backs?” She squinted. “That white hair, do you think it’s part of the mask?”

The councilman did not reply. He watched as Baruk emerged behind the stranger. The alchemist’s mask was a conservative silver-inlaid half-shield that no more than covered his eyes. An obvious statement denying duplicity. Turban Orr grunted, knowing well that his suspicions about the alchemist’s influence and power were accurate. His eyes returned to the stranger. His mask was that of a black dragon, lacquered with fine silver-traced highlights; somehow the dragon’s expression seemed . . . sly.

“Well?” Lady Simtal demanded. “Are we going to linger out here all night? And where’s your dear wife, anyway?”

“Ill,” he said distractedly. He smiled at her. “Shall we introduce ourselves to the alchemist’s guest? And have I complimented you yet on your attire?”

“You haven’t,” she said.

“A black panther suits you, Lady.”

“But of course it does,” she replied testily, as Baruk and his guest strode down the paved walk toward them. She disengaged her arm and stepped forward. “Good evening, Alchemist Baruk. Welcome,” she added to the black-dragon-masked man. “An astonishing presentation. Have we met?”

“Good evening, Lady Simtal,” Baruk said, bowing. “Councilman Turban Orr. Permit me to introduce,” he hesitated, but the Tiste Andii had been firm on this, “Lord Anomander Rake, a visitor to Darujhistan.” The alchemist waited to see if the councilman would recognize the name.

Turban Orr bowed formally. “On behalf of the City Council, welcome, Lord Anomander Rake.”

Baruk sighed. Anomander Rake, a name known by poets and scholars, but not, it appeared, by councilmen.

Orr continued, “As a lord, I assume you hold title to land?” He almost stepped back as the dragon’s visage swung to regard him. Deep blue eyes fixed on his.

“Land? Yes, Councilman, I hold title. However, my title is honorary, presented to me by my people.” Rake looked past Orr’s shoulder to the room beyond the wide doorway. “It seems, Lady, that the evening is well under way.”

“Indeed.” She laughed. “Come, join in the festivities.”

Baruk breathed another relieved sigh.

Murillio had to admit that Kruppe’s choice of mask suited him perfectly. He found himself grinning behind his feather-decked peacock mask in spite of his trepidation. He stood near the opened doorway leading out to the patio and garden, a goblet of light wine in one hand, the other hitched in his belt.

Rallick leaned against the wall beside him, arms crossed. His mask was that of a Catlin tiger, idealized to mimic the god Trake’s image. Murillio knew the assassin let the wall bear his weight out of exhaustion rather than from a lazy slouch. He wondered yet again if matters would fall to him. The assassin stiffened suddenly, eyes on the entrance across from them.

Murillio craned to see past the crowd. There, the hawk. He murmured, “That’s Turban Orr all right. Who’s he with?”

“Simtal,” Rallick growled. “And Baruk, and some monster of a man wearing a dragon’s mask—and armed.”

“Baruk?” Murillio laughed nervously. “Let’s hope he doesn’t recognize us. It wouldn’t take him a second to put everything together.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Rallick said. “He won’t stop us.”

“Maybe you’re right.” Then Murillio almost dropped his glass. “Hood’s Weary Feet!”

Rallick hissed between his teeth. “Dammit! Look at him! He’s heading straight for them!”

Lady Simtal and Turban Orr excused themselves, leaving Baruk and Rake momentarily alone in the middle of the chamber. People moved around them, some nodding deferentially at Baruk but all keeping their distance. A crowd gathered around Simtal where she stood at the foot of the winding staircase, eager with questions regarding Anomander Rake.

A figure approached Baruk and his companion. Short, round, wearing a faded red waistcoat, both hands clutching pastries, the man wore a cherub’s mask, its open red-lipped mouth smeared with cake icing and crumbs. His route to them met with one obstacle after another as he negotiated his way across the room, excusing himself at every turn and twist.

Rake noticed the newcomer, for he said, “Seems eager, doesn’t he?”

Baruk chuckled. “He’s worked for me,” he said. “And I’ve worked for him as well. Anomander Rake, behold the one they call the Eel. Darujhistan’s master-spy.”

“Do you jest?”

“No.”

Kruppe arrived, his chest heaving. “Master Baruk!” he said breathlessly. “What a surprise to find you here.” The cherub face swung over and up to Rake. “The hair is an exquisite touch, sir. Exquisite. I am named Kruppe, sir. Kruppe the First.” He raised a pastry to his mouth and jammed it in.