The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen (76 page)

“Nowhere in sight,” the guard answered, with obvious relief. “Otherwise she’d stop this.”

Crokus nodded at that. “Well,” he said, “Rallick will win.”

The guard’s gaze was on him, the eyes hard and piercing. “You know the man?”

“Well—”

Someone tapped his back and he turned to find a cherub’s face smiling mindlessly at him. “Why, Crokus lad! What an inventive costume you’re wearing!”

“Kruppe?”

“Well guessed!” Kruppe replied. The painted wooden face swung to the guard. “Oh, kind sir, I have a written message for you.” Kruppe placed a scroll into the man’s hand. “Compliments of a longtime secret admirer.”

Crokus grinned. These guards had all the luck when it came to noble ladies.

Circle Breaker accepted the scroll and slid from it the silk tie.

More than once he had sensed Turban Orr’s eyes on him. First in the central chamber, when it looked as if the councilman might accost him directly, and now, while others argued over who should referee the duel.

Circle Breaker prayed Rallick would kill Turban Orr. He felt his own fear racing through his body, and it was with trembling hands that he read the Eel’s message.

The time has come for Circle Breaker to retire from active duty. The circle is mended, loyal friend. Though you have never seen the Eel, you have been his most trusted hand, and you have earned your rest. Think not that the Eel simply discards you now. Such is not the Eel’s way. The sigil at the bottom of this parchment will provide you passage to the city of Dhavran, where loyal servants of the Eel have prepared your arrival by purchasing an estate and a legitimate title on your behalf. You enter a different world soon, with its own games.

Trust your new servants, friend, in this and all other concerns.

Proceed, this very night, to the Dhavran trader’s pier in Lakefront. You seek the river longboat named Enskalader. Show the sigil to any crewman aboard—all are servants of the Eel. The time has come, Circle Breaker. The circle is mended. Fare you well.

Baruk threw up his hands in exasperation. “Enough of this!” he bellowed. “I will referee this duel, and accept all responsibility. Judgment of victory is mine. Accepted by both parties?”

Turban Orr nodded. Even better than Estraysian being his second. Baruk’s proclaiming him victor in the duel would be a coup in its own right. “I accept.”

“As do I,” Rallick said, his short cloak drawn about his body.

A sudden wind thrashed the treetops in the garden, sweeping down from the east. Thunder boomed from this side of the hills. A number of onlookers seemed to flinch. Turban Orr grinned, stepping into the cleared area. Leaves skirled past, clattering like tiny bones. “Before it rains,” he said.

His allies in the crowd laughed at this. “Of course,” Orr continued, “it might prove more entertaining to draw things out. A wound here, a wound there. Shall I cut him to pieces slowly?” He feigned dismay at the chorus of eager assent. “Too eager for blood, friends! Must the ladies dance on slick flagstones once darkness falls? We must consider our host . . .” And where
was
Simtal? His imagination conjured an image in answer and he frowned. “No indeed,” he said coldly, “it shall be quick.”

The councilman unsheathed his sword and fastened his glove’s leather straps to the ornate grip behind the bell guard. He scanned the faces of his audience, even now seeking some betrayal of expression—he had friends who were enemies, enemies who would be friends, the game would continue beyond this moment, but it could prove a telling moment. He would recall every face later, and study it at his leisure.

Turban Orr assumed his stance. His opponent stood ten feet away, both hands hidden beneath his cloak. He looked at ease, almost bored. “What’s this?” Orr demanded. “Where is your weapon?”

“I’m ready,” Rallick replied.

Baruk placed himself equidistant between the two duelists, slightly off to one side. His face was pale, as if he had fallen ill. “Comments from the seconds?” he asked faintly.

Rake made no reply.

Estraysian D’Arle cleared his throat. “I hereby make it known that I oppose this duel as facile and trite.” He stared at Turban Orr. “I find the councilman’s life irrelevant in the best of times. Should he die,” the tall man looked over to Rallick, “there will be no vengeance pact from the House of D’Arle. You, sir, are freed of that.”

Rallick bowed.

Turban Orr’s smile tightened. The bastard would pay for that, he vowed. He lowered himself into a crouch, ready to launch an attack as soon as the duel began.

Baruk said, “You have been heard, Estraysian D’Arle.” The alchemist raised a handkerchief before him, then released it.

Turban Orr jumped forward and lunged in a single, fluid motion, so fast he’d fully extended his weapon before the handkerchief struck the paving stones. He saw his opponent’s left hand dart under his blade, then twist up and outward, a short, curved knife flashing in its grip. The parry was a blur, yet Orr caught it and deftly disengaged, driving his point low and toward the man’s midsection. He had no time even to notice the second knife, as Rallick turned his body sideways,
the blade in his right hand guiding Turban Orr’s sword past him. The assassin stepped in then, his left hand moving in a high swing that buried its blade in the councilman’s neck. Rallick followed this by driving his other knife into Orr’s chest.

The councilman staggered to one side, his sword clanging on the stones as he clutched at the gushing wound in his neck. The motion was reflex, for he was already dead from the wound in his heart. He toppled.

Rallick stepped back, weapons once again hidden beneath his cloak. “A thousand other deaths,” he whispered, so low that only Baruk and Rake heard him, “would not have satisfied me. But I’ll settle for this one.”

Baruk stepped close and made to speak, but then, at a gesture from Rake, he turned to see Estraysian D’Arle approaching.

The councilman’s heavy eyes held Rallick. “I might suspect,” he said, “given your style, that we have witnessed an assassination. Of course, not even the Guild of Assassins is brash enough to commit public murder. Therefore I’ve no choice but to keep such suspicions to myself. And leave it at that. Good evening, gentlemen.” He whirled and strode away.

“I think,” Rake said, his masked face swinging to the assassin, “that that was a rather uneven match.”

A rush of people closed in around Turban Orr’s body. Voices shouted in dismay.

Baruk studied the cool satisfaction on Rallick’s face. “It’s done, Rallick. Go home.”

A large, rounded woman in a bright green, gold-trimmed robe joined them. Unmasked, she smiled broadly at Baruk. “Greetings,” she said. “Interesting times, yes?” A personal servant stood at her side, bearing a padded tray on which squatted a water-pipe.

Rallick stepped back with a slight bow, then left.

Baruk sighed. “Greetings, Derudan. Permit me to introduce Lord Anomander Rake. Lord, the witch Derudan.”

“Forgive the mask,” Rake said to her. “It is best that it remain on, however.” Smoke streamed down from Derudan’s nose. “My compatriots share my growing unease, yes? We feel the approaching storm, and while Baruk continues to reassure us, still the misgivings, yes?”

“Should it prove necessary,” Rake said, “I will attend to the matter personally. I do not believe, however, that our greatest threat is the one beyond the city’s walls. A suspicion, Witch, no more.”

“I think,” Baruk said tentatively, “that we would like to hear these suspicions of yours, Rake.”

The Tiste Andii hesitated, then shook his head. “Unwise. The matter is presently too sensitive to be broached. I shall remain here for now, however.”

Derudan waved dismissively at Baruk’s angry growl. “True, the T’orrud Cabal is unused to feeling helpless, yes? True also, dangers abound, and any might prove a feint, a diversion, yes? Cunning is the Empress. For myself, I affirm the trust between us, Lord.” She smiled at Baruk. “We must speak, you and I, Alchemist,” she said, linking arms with him.

Rake bowed to the woman. “A pleasure meeting you, Witch.” He watched the witch and the alchemist walk away, the servant scurrying at Derudan’s heel.

Kruppe intercepted a servant burdened with delicious-looking savories. Taking two handfuls at random, he turned back to resume his conversation with Crokus. He stopped. The lad was nowhere in sight.

The crowd milled about on the terrace, some upset although the majority appeared simply confused. Where was Lady Simtal? they asked. Some, grinning, changed the question to: Who’s she with? Already a new wave of anticipation rose among the nobles. They circled like vultures, waiting for their faltering hostess.

Smiling beatifically behind the cherub mask, Kruppe raised his eyes slowly to the balcony overlooking the patio, in time to see a figure appear as a dark, feminine silhouette behind the shutters. He licked sticky sugar from his fingers, smacking his lips. “There are times, Kruppe murmurs, when celibacy born of sad deprivation becomes a boon, nay, a source of great relief. Dear Murillio, prepare for a storm.”

Simtal pushed apart two slats of the shutters and looked down. “You were right,” she said. “They have indeed retired to the terrace. Odd, with that storm coming. I should get dressed.” She returned to the bed and began to collect her clothing, which lay scattered all around it. “And what about you, Murillio?” she asked. “Don’t you think your companion below is wondering where you are, dear lover?”

Murillio swung his legs over the bedside and pulled on his tights. “I think not,” he said.

Simtal shot him a curious look. “Who did you come with?”

“Just a friend,” he answered, buttoning his shirt. “I doubt you’d recognize the name.”

At that moment the door’s lock snapped and the door itself slammed inward.

Dressed only in her underclothes, Simtal loosed a startled cry. Her eyes flashed at the tall, cloaked man standing in the doorway. “How dare you enter my bedroom? Leave at once, or I’ll call—”

“Both guards patrolling this hallway have departed, Lady,” Rallick Nom said, stepping into the room and closing the door behind him. The assassin glanced at Murillio. “Get dressed,” he snapped.

“Departed?” Simtal moved to place the bed between herself and Rallick.

“Their loyalty has been purchased,” the assassin said. “The lesson shouldn’t be lost on you.”

“I need only scream and others will come.”

“But you haven’t,” Rallick grinned, “because you’re curious.”

“You don’t dare harm me,” Simtal said, straightening. “Turban Orr will hunt you down.”

The assassin took another step forward. “I’m here only to talk, Lady Simtal,” he said. “You won’t be harmed, no matter what you deserve.”

“Deserve? I’ve done nothing—I don’t even know you.”

“Neither did Councilman Lim,” Rallick said quietly. “And tonight the same could be said for Turban Orr. Both men paid for their ignorance, alas. Fortunate that you missed the duel, Lady. It was unpleasant, but necessary.” His eyes hardened on the pale woman. “Allow me to explain. Turban Orr’s offer of contract to the Assassins’ Guild is now officially canceled. Coll lives, and now his return to this house is assured. You’re done with, Lady Simtal. Turban Orr is dead.”

He turned and walked from the room, closing the door behind him.

Murillio rose slowly. He looked into Simtal’s eyes, seeing there a growing terror. Undermined by the stripping away of her links to power, her once secure defenses collapsed. He watched as she seemed physically to contract, her shoulders drawing inward, her hands clasped at her stomach, knees bending. Then he could look no longer. The Lady Simtal was gone, and he dared not study too closely the creature in her place.

He unsheathed his ornamental dagger and tossed it on the bed. Without another word or gesture, he left the room, knowing with certainty that he would have been the last man to see her alive.

Out in the hallway he paused. “Mowri,” he said softly. “I’m not cut out for this.” Planning to reach this point was one thing; having now reached it was another. He hadn’t considered how he’d feel. Justice got in the way of that, a white fire he’d had no reason to look behind, or push aside. Justice had seduced him and he wondered what he had just lost, he wondered at the death he felt spreading within him. The regret following in that death’s wake, so unanswerable it was, threatened to overwhelm him. “Mowri,” he whispered a second time, as close to praying as he’d ever been, “I think I’m now lost. Am I lost?”

Crokus edged round a marble pillar, his eyes on the rather short Barghast war-maiden sitting on the fountain’s rim. Damn those guards at the wood’s edge, anyway. He was a thief, wasn’t he? Besides, they all looked pretty distracted.

He waited for his opportunity, and when it came he darted for the shadows between the first line of trees. No shout of alarm or call to halt sounded behind him. Slipping into the darkness, Crokus turned and crouched. Yes, she still sat there, facing in his direction.

He drew a deep breath, then stood straight, a pebble in one hand. Eyeing the guards, he waited. Half a minute later he found his chance. He stepped forward and flung the pebble into the fountain.

Challice D’Arle jumped, then looked round as she wiped droplets of water from her painted face.

His heart sank as her gaze passed over him, then her head whipped back.

Crokus gestured desperately. This was it, this was when he’d find out where she stood as far as he was concerned. He held his breath and gestured again.

With a backward glance toward the patio, Challice rose and ran to him.

As she came close she squinted at him. “Gorlas? Is that you? I’ve been waiting all night!”

Crokus froze. Then, without thinking, he lunged forward and clasped a hand over her mouth, his other arm encircling her waist. Challice squealed, trying to bite his palm, and struggled against him, but he dragged her into the darkness of the garden. Now what? he wondered.

Circle Breaker leaned against the marble pillar just inside the estate’s main chamber. Behind him guests milled around Turban Orr’s body, arguing loudly and voicing empty threats. The air hung heavy over the garden, smelling of blood.