They heard someone approach from behind, and turned to see their commander.
“He’s in the inn,” the second hunter said.
“We’ll leave no witnesses to this secret war with the Guild,” the first added.
The commander glanced at the door of the Phoenix Inn. Then, to the hunters, she said, “No. The wagging tongue of a witness might be useful to our efforts.”
“The runt had help,” the first hunter said meaningfully.
The commander shook her head. “We return to the fold.”
“Very well.”
The two hunters put away their weapons. The first glanced back at the inn and asked, “Who protected him, do you think?”
The second hunter snarled. “Someone with a sense of humor.”
Chapter Six
There is a cabal breathing
deeper than the bellows
drawing up the emerald fires
beneath rain-glistened cobbles,
while you may hear the groaning
from the caverns below,
the whisper of sorcery
is less than the dying sigh
of a thief stumbling unwilling
into Darujhistan’s secret web . . .
CABAL (FRAGMENT)
PUDDLE (B.1122?)
The splayed tip of her right wing brushed the scarred black rock as Crone climbed the whistling updrafts of Moon’s Spawn. From the pocked caves and starlit ledges her restless brothers and sisters called out to her as she passed. “Do we fly?” they asked. But Crone made no reply. Her glittering black eyes were fixed on heaven’s vault. Her enormous wings beat a thundering refrain of taut, unrelenting power. She had no time for the nervous cackling of the younglings; no time for answering their simplistic needs with the wisdom her thousands of years of life had earned her.
This night, Crone flew for her lord.
As she rose above the shattered peaks of the Moon’s crest a high wind swept her wings, rasping dry and cold along her oily feathers. Around her, thin wisps of shredded smoke rode the currents of night air like lost spirits. Crone circled once, her sharp gaze catching the glimmer of the few remaining fires among the crags below, then she dipped a wing and sailed out on the wind’s tide as it rolled northward to Lake Azur.
The featureless expanse of the Dwelling Plain was beneath her, the grass sweeping in gray waves unbroken by house or hill. Directly ahead lay the glittering jeweled cloak that was Darujhistan, casting into the sky a sapphire glow. As she neared the city her unnaturally acute vision detected, here and there among the estates crowding the upper tier, the aquamarine emanation of sorcery.
Crone cackled aloud. Magic was ambrosia to Great Ravens. They were drawn to it by the scent of blood and power, and within its aura their lifespans lengthened into centuries. Its musk had other effects as well. Crone cackled again. Her gaze fixed on one particular estate, around which glowed a profusion of protective sorcery. Her lord had imparted to her a thorough description of the magical signature she must find, and now she had found it. Crooking her wings, she sank gracefully toward the estate.
Inland from Gadrobi District’s harbor the land rose in four tiers climbing eastward. Ramped cobblestone streets, worn to a polished mosaic, marked Gadrobi District’s Trade Streets, five in all, which were the only routes through Marsh District and into the next tier, Lakefront District. Beyond Lakefront’s crooked aisles twelve wooden gates opened onto Daru District, and from Daru another twelve gates—these ones manned by the City Watch and barred by iron portcullis—connected the lower and upper cities.
On the fourth and highest tier brooded the estates of Darujhistan’s nobility as well as its publicly known sorcerers. At the intersection of Old King’s Walk and View Street rose a flat-topped hill on which sat Majesty Hall, where each day the Council gathered. A narrow park encircled the hill, with sand-strewn pathways winding among centuries-old acacias. At the park’s entrance, near High Gallows Hill, stood a massive rough-hewn stone gate, the last-surviving remnant of the castle that once commanded Majesty Hill.
The days of kings had long since ended in Darujhistan. The gate, known as Despot’s Barbican, stood stark and unadorned, its lattice of cracks a fading script of past tyranny.
In the shadow of the Barbican’s single massive lintel stone stood two men. One, his shoulder against the pitted rock, wore a ringed hauberk and a boiled leather cap bearing the City Watch insignia. Scabbarded to his belt was a plain shortsword, its grip of wrapped leather worn smooth. A pike leaned against one shoulder. He was nearing the end of his midnight guard duty and patiently awaited the arrival of the man who would officially relieve him. The guard’s eyes flicked on occasion to the second man, with whom he had shared this place many another night over the past year. The glances he cast at the well-dressed gentleman were surreptitious, empty of expression.
As with every other time Councilman Turban Orr came to the gate at this dead hour of night, the nobleman had scarcely deemed the guard worthy of notice; nor had he ever given an indication that he recognized the guard as being the same man each time.
Turban Orr seemed a man short on patience, forever pacing and fretting, pausing every now and then to adjust his jeweled burgundy cloak. The councilman’s polished boots clicked as he paced, throwing a soft echo under the Barbican. From the shadow the guard’s gaze caught Orr’s gloved hand where it rested on the silver pommel of a duelling sword, noting the index finger tapping in time with the boot clicks.
At the early part of his watch, long before the arrival of the councilman, the guard would walk slowly around the Barbican, reaching out on occasion to touch the ancient, grim stonework. Six years’ worth of night watch at this gate had bred a close relationship between the man and the rough-cut basalt: he knew every crack, every chisel scar; he knew where the fittings had weakened, where time and the elements had squeezed mortar from between the stones then gnawed it to dust. And he also knew that its apparent weaknesses were but a deception. The Barbican, and all it stood for, patiently waited still, a specter of the past, hungry to be born yet again.
And that, the guard had long ago vowed, he would never let it do—if such things were within his power. Despot’s Barbican provided the man with every reason he needed to be what he was: Circle Breaker, a spy.
Both he and the councilman awaited the arrival of the other; the one who never failed to appear. Turban Orr would growl his usual complaint, disgusted with tardiness; then he would grasp the other’s arm and they would walk side by side beneath the Barbican’s brooding lintel stone. And, with eyes long accustomed to darkness, the guard would mark the other’s face, burning it indelibly in the superb memory hidden behind expressionless, unmemorable features.
By the time the two Council members returned from their walk, the guard would have been relieved and well on his way to delivering a message according to his master’s instructions. If Circle Breaker’s luck held, he might survive the civil war into which Darujhistan, he felt, was about to plunge—and never mind the Malazan nemesis. One nightmare at a time, he often told himself, particularly on nights like these, when Despot’s Barbican seemed to breathe its promise of resurrection with mocking certainty.
“As this may be in your interest,” High Alchemist Baruk read aloud from the parchment note in his plump hands. Always the same opening line, hinting of disquieting knowledge. An hour earlier his servant Roald had delivered the note, which, like all the others that had come to him over the past year, had been found tucked into one of the ornamental murder holes in the estate’s rear postern gate.
Recognizing the pattern, Baruk had immediately read the missive then dispatched his messengers out into the city. Such news demanded action, and he was one of the few secret powers within Darujhistan capable of dealing with it.
Now he sat in a plush chair in his study, musing. His deceptively sleepy gaze flicked down again to the words on the parchment. “Councilman Turban Orr walks in the garden with Councilman Feder. I remain known only
as Circle Breaker, a servant of the Eel, whose interests continue to coincide with your own.” Once again Baruk felt temptation. With his talents it would be a small thing to discover the writer’s identity—though not the Eel’s, of course: that was an identity sought by many, all to no avail—but, as always, something held him back.
He shifted his bulk on the chair and sighed. “Very well, Circle Breaker, I’ll continue to honor you, though clearly you know more of me than I of you, and fortunate it is indeed that your master’s interests coincide with my own. Still.” He frowned, thinking about the Eel, about the man’s—or woman’s—undisclosed interests. He knew enough to recognize that too many forces had come into play—a gathering of Ascendant powers was a fell thing. To continue to step unseen in defense of the city was becoming increasingly difficult. So, the question came yet again: Was this Eel using him as well?
Oddly enough, he did not feel too concerned about this possibility. So much vital information had been passed into his hands already.
He folded the parchment carefully and muttered a simple cantrip. The note vanished with a small plop of displaced air, joining the others in a safe place.
Baruk closed his eyes. Behind him the broad window shutters rattled in a gust of wind, then settled again. A moment later there came a sharp rap against the smoky glass. Baruk sat upright, his eyes startled open. A second rap, louder than the first, brought him round with a swift alacrity surprising for one of his girth. On his feet, he faced the window. Something crouched on the ledge, visible through the shutters only as a bulky black shape.
Baruk frowned. Impossible. Nothing could penetrate his magic barriers undetected. The alchemist gestured with one hand, and the shutters sprang open.
Behind the glass waited a Great Raven. Its head snapped to view Baruk with one eye, then the other. It pushed boldly against the thin glass with its massive, ridged chest. The pane bulged, then shattered.
His Warren fully open, Baruk raised both hands, a savage spell on his lips.
“Don’t waste your breath!” the Raven rasped, swelling its chest and ruffling its mangy feathers to rid itself of glass shards. It cocked its head. “You’ve called your guards,” it observed. “No need, Wizard.” A single hop brought the enormous bird onto the floor. “I bring words you will value. Have you anything to eat?”
Baruk studied the creature. “I’m not in the habit of inviting Great Ravens into my home,” he said. “You are no disguised demon, either.”
“Of course not. I’m named Crone.” Her head bobbed mockingly. “At your pleasure, Lord.”
Baruk hesitated, considering. After a moment he sighed and said, “Very well. I’ve returned my guards to their posts. My servant Roald comes with the leavings of supper, if that’s agreeable to you.”
“Excellent!” Crone waddled across the floor to settle on the rug before the fireplace. “There, Lord. Now, a calming crystal of wine, don’t you think?”
“Who has sent you, Crone?” Baruk asked, walking over to the decanter on his desk. Normally he did not drink after sunset, for night was when he worked, but he had to acknowledge Crone’s perceptiveness. A calming balm was exactly what he needed.
The Great Raven hesitated slightly before answering, “The Lord of Moon’s Spawn.”
Baruk paused in the filling of his glass. “I see,” he said quietly, struggling to control his surging heart. He set the decanter down slowly and, with great concentration, raised the goblet to his lips. The liquid was cool on his tongue, and its passage down his throat indeed calmed him. “Well, then,” he said, turning, “what would your lord have of a peaceful alchemist?”
Crone’s chipped beak opened in what Baruk realized was silent laughter. The bird fixed a single glittering eye on him. “Your answer rode the very breath of your words, Lord. Peace. My lord wishes to speak with you. He wishes to come here, this very night. Within the hour.”
“And you’re to await my answer.”
“Only if you decide quickly, Lord. I have things to do, after all. I’m more than a simple message-bearer. Those who know wisdom when they hear it hold me dear. I am Crone, eldest of the Moon’s Great Ravens, whose eyes have looked upon a hundred thousand years of human folly. Hence my tattered coat and broken beak as evidence of your indiscriminate destruction. I am but a winged witness to your eternal madness.”
In quiet mockery Baruk said, “More than just a witness. It’s well known how you and your kind feasted on the plain outside Pale’s walls.”
“Yet we were not the first to feast on flesh and blood, Lord, lest you forget.”
Baruk turned away. “Far be it for me to defend my species,” he muttered, more to himself than to Crone, whose words had stung him. His eyes fell on the shards of glass littering the floor. He voiced a mending spell and watched as they reassembled. “I will speak with your lord, Crone.” He nodded as the glass pane rose from the floor and returned to the window-frame. “Tell me, will he as easily disdain my wards as you did?”
“My lord is possessed of honor and courtesy,” Crone replied ambiguously. “I shall call him, then?”
“Do so,” Baruk said, sipping his wine. “An avenue will be provided for his passage.”
There came a knock at the door.
“Yes?”
Roald stepped inside. “Someone is at the gate wishing to speak with you,” the white-haired servant said, setting down a plate heaped with roast pork.
Baruk glanced at Crone and raised an eyebrow.
The bird ruffled her feathers. “Your guest is mundane, a restless personage whose thoughts are thick with greed and treachery. A demon crouches on his shoulder, named Ambition.”
“His name, Roald?” Baruk asked.
The servant hesitated, his soft eyes flicked uneasily at the bird now ambling toward the food.
Baruk laughed. “My wise guest’s counsel indicates she well knows the man’s name. Speak on, Roald.”
“Councilman Turban Orr.”
“I would remain for this,” Crone said. “If you would seek my counsel.”
“Please do, and, yes, I would,” the alchemist replied.
“I am no more than a pet dog,” the Great Raven crooned slyly, anticipating his next question. “To the councilman’s eyes, that is. My words a beast’s whimper to his ears.” She speared a piece of meat and swallowed it quickly.
Baruk found himself beginning to like this mangy old witch of a bird. “Bring the councilman to us, Roald.”
The servant departed.
Archaic torches lit an estate’s high-walled garden with a flickering light that threw wavering shadows across the pavestones. As a nightwind swept in from the lake, rustling leaves, the shadows danced like imps. On the second floor of the building was a balcony overlooking the garden. Behind the curtained window, two figures moved.
Rallick Nom lay prone on the garden wall in a niche of darkness beneath the estate’s gabled cornice. He studied the feminine silhouette with the patience of a snake. It was the fifth night in a row that he had occupied his hidden vantage-point. The Lady Simtal’s lovers numbered as many, but he had identified two in particular worthy of attention. Both were city councilmen.
The glass door opened and a figure walked out on to the balcony. Rallick smiled as he recognized Councilman Lim. The assassin shifted position slightly, slipping one gloved hand under the stock of his crossbow, reaching up with the other to swing back the oiled crank. His eyes on the man leaning against the balcony railing across from him, Rallick carefully inserted a quarrel. A glance down at the bolt’s iron head reassured him. The poison glittered wetly along the razor-sharp edges. Returning his attention to the balcony he saw that Lady Simtal had joined Lim.
No wonder there’s no shortage of lovers for that one, Rallick thought, his eyes narrowing in study. Her black hair, now unpinned, flowed down sleek and shiny to the small of her back. She wore a gauze-thin nightdress, and with the lamps of the room behind her, her body’s round curves were clearly visible.
; As they spoke their voices carried to where Rallick lay hidden.
“Why the alchemist?” Lady Simtal was asking, evidently resuming a conversation begun inside. “A fat old man smelling of sulfur and brimstone. Hardly suggestive of political power. Not even a council member, is he?”
Lim laughed softly. “Your naïveté is a charm, Lady, a charm.”
Simtal pulled back from the railing and crossed her arms. “Educate me, then.” Her words came sharp, tightly bridled.
Lim shrugged. “We have naught but suspicions, Lady. But it is the wise wolf that follows every spoor, no matter how slight. The alchemist would have people think as you do. A doddering old fool.” Lim paused, as if in thought, perhaps weighing how much he should reveal. “We have sources,” he continued cautiously, “among the magery. They inform us of one certain fact heavy with implications. A good many of the wizards in the city fear the alchemist, and they name him by a title—that alone suggests a secret cabal of some sort. A gathering of sorcerers, Lady, is a fell thing.”
Lady Simtal had returned to the councilman’s side. Both now leaned on the railing studying the dark garden below. The woman was silent for a time, then she said, “He has Council ties?”
“If he has, the evidence is buried deep.” Lim flashed a grin. “And if he hasn’t, then that might change—this very night.”
Politics, Rallick snarled silently. And power. The bitch spreads her legs to the Council, offering a vice few can ignore. Rallick’s hands twitched. He would kill this night. Not a contract: the Guild had no part in this. The vendetta was personal. She was gathering power around her, insulating herself, and Rallick thought he understood why. The ghosts of betrayal would not leave her alone.
Patience, he reminded himself, as he took aim. For the last two years the life of Lady Simtal had been one of indolence, the riches she had stolen had served to whet her every greed, and the prestige as sole owner of the estate had done much to grease the hinges of her bedroom door. The crime she’d committed had not been against Rallick but, unlike her victim, Rallick had no pride to halt vengeance.
The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen Page 20