Is it only the young who know desperation? he wondered, as he moved to sit on the pier’s stone sea-wall. Before him rippled the bay’s sooty waters. Twenty feet below, the rock-studded shore lay sheathed in darkness, the glitter of broken glass and crockery here and there winking like stars.
The man turned slightly to face the right. His gaze traveled the slope there as it climbed to the summit, on which loomed the squat bulk of Majesty Hall. Never reach too far. A simple lesson of life he had learned long ago on the burning deck of a corsair, its belly filling with the sea as it drifted outside the pinnacle fortifications of a city named Broken Jaw. Hubris, the scholars would call the fiery end of the Freemen Privateers.
Never reach too far. The man’s eyes held on Majesty Hall. The deadlock that had come with the assassination of Councilman Lim still held within those walls. The Council raced aflurry in circles, more precious hours spent on eager speculation and gossip than on the matters of state. Turban Orr, his victory on the voting floor snatched from his hands in the last moment, now flung his hounds down every trail, seeking the spies he was convinced had infiltrated his nest. The councilman was no fool.
Overhead a flock of gray gulls swept lakeward, crying into the night-chilled air. He drew a breath, hunched his shoulders, and pulled his gaze with an effort from Majesty Hall.
Too late to concern himself about reaching too far. Since the day the Eel’s agent had come to him, the man’s future was sealed; to some it would be called treason. And perhaps, in the end, it was treason. Who could say what lay in the Eel’s mind? Even his principal agent—the man’s contact—professed ignorance of his master’s plans.
His thoughts returned to Turban Orr. He’d set himself against a cunning man, a man of power. His only defense against Orr lay in anonymity. It wouldn’t last.
He sat on the pier, awaiting the Eel’s agent. And he would deliver into that man’s hands a message for the Eel. How much would change with the delivery of that missive? Was it wrong for him to seek help, to threaten his frail anonymity—the solitude that gave him so much inner strength, that stiffened his own resolve? Yet, to match wits with Turban Orr—he did not think he could do it alone.
The man reached into his jerkin and withdrew the scroll. A crossroads marked where he now stood, he recognized that much. In answer to his ill-measured fear, he’d written the plea for help on this scroll.
It would be an easy thing to do, to surrender now. He hefted the frail parchment in his hands, feeling its slight weight, the vague oiliness of the coating, the rough weave of its tie-string. An easy, desperate thing to do.
The man lifted his head. The sky had begun to pale, the lake wind picking up the day’s momentum. There would be rain, coming from the north as it often did at this time of year. A cleansing of the city, a freshening of its spice-laden breath. He slipped the string from the scroll and unfurled the parchment.
So easy.
With slow, deliberate movements, the man tore up the scroll. He let the ragged pieces drift down, scattering into the gloom of the lake’s shadowed shore. The rising waves swept them outward to dot the turgid swells like flecks of ash.
Coming from somewhere in the back of his mind, he thought he heard a coin spinning. It seemed a sad sound.
A few minutes later he left the pier. The Eel’s agent, out on his morning stroll, would in passing note his contact’s absence and simply continue on his way.
He made his way along the Lakefront Street with the summit of Majesty Hill dwindling behind him. As he passed, the first of the silk merchants appeared, laying out their wares on the wide paved walk. Among the silks the man recognized the dyed lavender twists and bolts of Illem, the pale yellows of Setta and Lest—two cities to the southeast he knew had been annexed by the Pannion Seer in the last month—and the heavy bold twists of Sarrokalle. A dwindled sampling: all trade from the north had ended under Malazan dominion.
He turned from the lake at the entry to the Scented Wood and headed into the city. Four streets ahead his single room waited on the second floor of a decaying tenement, gray and silent with the coming dawn, its thin, warped door latched and locked. In that room he allowed no place for memories; nothing to mark him in a wizard’s eye or tell the sharp-witted spy-hunter details of his life. In that room, he remained anonymous even to himself.
The Lady Simtal paced. These last few days too much of her hard-won gold had been spent smoothing the waters. That damn bitch of Lim’s had not let grief get in the way of her greed. Barely two days shrouded in black and then out on the courts hanging on that fop Murillio’s arm, smug as a tart at a ball.
Simtal’s penciled brows knitted slightly. Murillio: that young man had a way of being seen. He might be worth cultivation, all things considered.
She stopped pacing and faced the man sprawled on her bed. “So, you’ve learned nothing.” A hint of contempt had slipped into her tone and she wondered if he’d caught it.
Councilman Turban Orr, his heavily scarred forearm covering his eyes, did not move as he replied, “I’ve told you all this. There’s no knowing where that poisoned quarrel came from, Simtal. Hood’s Breath, poisoned! What assassin uses poison these days? Vorcan’s got them so studded with magic everything else is obsolete.”
“You’re digressing,” she said, satisfied that he’d missed the careless unveiling of her sentiments.
“It’s like I said,” Orr continued. “Lim was involved in more than one, uh, delicate venture. The assassination’s probably unconnected with you. It could have been anyone’s balcony, it just happened to be yours.”
Lady Simtal crossed her arms. “I don’t believe in coincidence, Turban. Tell me, was it coincidence that his death broke your majority—the night before the vote?” She saw the man’s cheek twitch and knew she’d stung him. She smiled and moved to the bed. She sat and ran a hand along his bared thigh. “In any case, have you checked on him lately?”
“Him?”
Simtal scowled, withdrawing her hand and standing. “My beloved dispossessed, you idiot.”
Turban Orr’s mouth curved into a smug smile. “I always keep a check on him for you, my dear. Nothing’s changed in that area. He hasn’t sobered up since you threw him out on his arse.” The man sat up and reached to the bedpost where his clothes hung. He began dressing.
Simtal whirled to him. “What are you doing?” she demanded, her voice strident.
“What’s it look like?” Turban pulled on his breeches. “The debate rages on at Majesty Hall. My influence is required.”
“To do what? Bend yet another councilman to your will?”
He slipped on his silk shirt, still smiling. “That, and other things.”
Simtal rolled her eyes. “Oh, of course—the spy. I’d forgotten about him.”
“Personally,” Orr resumed, “I believe the proclamation of neutrality to the Malazans will go through—perhaps tomorrow or the next day.”
She laughed harshly. “Neutrality! You’re beginning to believe your own propaganda. What you want, Turban Orr, is power, the naked absolute power that comes with being a Malazan High Fist. You think this the first step to paving your road into the Empress’s arms. At the city’s expense, but you don’t give a damn about that!”
Turban sneered up at Simtal. “Stay out of politics, woman. Darujhistan’s fall to the Empire is inevitable. Better a peaceful occupation than a violent one.”
“Peaceful? Are you blind to what happened to Pale’s nobility? Oh, the ravens feasted on delicate flesh for days. This Empire devours noble blood.”
“What happened at Pale isn’t as simple as you make it,” Turban said. “There was a Moranth reckoning involved, a clause in the alliance writ. Such culling will not occur here—and what if it does? We could use it, as far as I’m concerned.” His grin returned. “So much for your heart bleeding to the city’s woes. All that interests you is you. Save the righteous citizen offal for your fawns, Simtal.” He adjusted his leggings.
Simtal stepped to th
e bedpost, reaching down to touch the silver pommel of Orr’s dueling sword. “You should kill him and be done with it,” she said.
“Back to him again?” The councilman laughed as he rose. “Your brain works with all the subtlety of a malicious child.” He collected his sword and strapped it on. “It’s a wonder you wrested anything from that idiot husband of yours—you were so evenly matched in matters of cunning.”
“The easiest thing to break is a man’s heart,” Simtal said, with a private smile. She lay down on the bed. Stretching her arms and arching her back, she said, “What about Moon’s Spawn? It’s still just hanging there.”
Gazing down at her, his eyes traveling along her body, the councilman replied distractedly, “We’ve yet to work out a way to get a message up there. We’ve set up a tent in its shadow and stationed representatives in it, but that mysterious lord just ignores us.”
“Maybe he’s dead,” Simtal said, relaxing with a sigh. “Maybe the Moon’s just sitting there because there’s nobody left alive inside. Have you thought of that, dear Councilman?”
Turban Orr turned to the door. “We have. I’ll see you tonight?”
“I want him killed,” Simtal said.
The councilman reached for the latch. “Maybe. I’ll see you tonight?” he asked again.
“Maybe.”
Turban Orr’s hand rested on the latch, then he opened the door and left the room.
Lying on her bed, Lady Simtal sighed. Her thoughts shifted to a certain dandy, whose loss to a certain widow would be a most delicious coup.
Murillio sipped spiced wine. “The details are sketchy,” he said, making a face as the fiery alcohol stung his lips.
In the street below a brilliantly painted carriage clattered past, drawn by three white horses in black bridles. The man gripping the reins was robed in black and hooded. The horses tossed their heads, ears pinned back and eyes rolling, but the driver’s broad, veined hands held them in check. On either side of the carriage walked middle-aged women. Bronze cups sat on their shaved heads from which unfurled wavering streams of scented smoke.
Murillio leaned against the railing and looked down upon the troupe. “The bitch Fander’s being carted out,” he said. “Bloody grim rituals, if you ask me.” He sat back in the plush chair and smiled at his companion, raising the goblet. “The Wolf Goddess of Winter dies her seasonal death, on a carpet of white, no less. And in a week’s time the Gedderone Fête fills the streets with flowers, soon to clog gutters and block drains throughout the city.”
The young woman across from him smiled, her eyes on her own goblet of wine, which she held in both hands like an offering. “Which details were you referring to?” she asked, glancing up at him briefly.
“Details?”
She smiled faintly. “The sketchy ones.”
“Oh.” Murillio waved one gloved hand dismissively. “Lady Simtal’s version held that Councilman Lim had come in person to acknowledge her formal invitation.”
“Invitation? Do you mean to the festive she’s throwing on Gedderone’s Eve?”
Murillio blinked. “Of course. Surely your house has been invited?”
“Oh, yes. And you?”
“Alas, no,” Murillio said, smiling.
The woman fell silent, her eyelids lowering in thought.
Murillio glanced back to the street below. He waited. Such things, after all, moved of their own accord, and even he could not guess the pace or track of a woman’s thoughts, especially when it had to do with sex. And this was most assuredly a play for favors—Murillio’s best game, and he always played it through. Never disappoint them, that was the key. The closest-held secret is the one that never sours with age.
Few of the other tables on the balcony were occupied, the establishment’s noble patrons preferring the scented airs of the dining room within. Murillio found comfort in the buzzing life of the streets, and he knew his guest did too—at least in this instance. With all the noise rising from below, their chances of being overheard were slight.
As his gaze wandered aimlessly along Morul’s Street of Jewels, he stiffened slightly, eyes widening as they focused on a figure standing in a doorway opposite him. He shifted in his seat, dropping his left hand past the stone railing, out of the woman’s sight. Then he jerked it repeatedly, glaring down at the figure.
Rallick Nom’s smile broadened. He stepped away from the doorway and strolled up the street, pausing to inspect an array of pearls laid out on an ebony table in front of a store. The proprietor took a nervous step forward then relaxed as Rallick moved on.
Murillio sighed, leaning back and taking a mouthful of liquor. Idiot! The man’s face, his hands, his walk, his eyes, all said one thing: killer. Hell, even his wardrobe had all the warmth and vitality of an executioner’s uniform.
When it came to subtlety Rallick Nom was sorely lacking. Which made this whole thing rather odd, that such a complex scheme could have been born from the assassin’s rigidly geometric brain. Still, whatever its origins, it was pure genius.
“Do you dearly wish to attend, Murillio?” the woman asked.
Murillio smiled his warmest smile. He looked away. “It’s a large estate, isn’t it?”
“Lady Simtal’s? Indeed, fraught with rooms.” The woman dipped one dainty finger into the pungent, fiery liquid, then raised it to her lips, inserting it into her mouth as if in afterthought. She continued studying the goblet in her other hand. “I would expect a good many of the servants’ quarters, though lacking in the simplest needs of luxury, will remain empty for much of the night.”
No clearer invitation did Murillio require. Rallick’s plan centered on this very moment, and its consequences. Still, adultery had one drawback. Murillio had no desire to meet this woman’s husband on the duelling piste. He drove such disturbing thoughts away with another mouthful of wine. “I would love to attend the Lady’s festival, on one condition.” He looked up and locked gazes with the woman. “That you will grace me with your company that night—for an hour or two, that is.” His brow assumed a troubled furrow. “I would not wish to impinge on your husband’s claim on you, of course.” Which is exactly what he would be doing, and they both knew it.
“Of course,” the woman replied, suddenly coy. “That would be unseemly. How many invitations do you require?”
“Two,” he said. “Best that I be seen with a companion.”
“Yes, it’s best.”
Murillio glanced down at his now empty goblet with a rueful expression. Then he sighed. “Alas, I must be taking my leave.”
“I admire your self-discipline,” the woman said.
You won’t on Gedderone’s Eve, Murillio answered silently, as he rose from his chair. “The Lady of Chance has graced me with this meeting of ours,” he said, bowing. “Until the eve, Lady Orr.”
“Until then,” the councilman’s wife answered, seeming already to lose interest in him. “Good-bye.”
Murillio bowed again, then left the balcony. Among the crowded tables more than a few noblewomen’s heavy-lidded eyes watched him leave.
Morul’s Street of Jewels ended at Sickle Gate. Rallick felt the wide eyes of the two guards beside the ramp following him as he passed through the passage between the massive stones of the Third Tier Wall. Ocelot had told him to make it plain, and while Murillio was of the opinion that only a blind man could ever mistake him for anything other than a killer, Rallick had taken pains to achieve the obvious.
The guards did nothing, of course. Giving the appearance of being a murderer wasn’t the same as being one in truth. The city’s laws were strict in such things. He knew he might find himself being followed as he strode down the opulent streets of Higher Estates, but he’d leave them to it, making no effort to lose them. Darujhistan’s nobles paid good money to loose spies on to the streets day after day. Might as well make them earn their bread.
Rallick had no sympathy for them. He did not, however, share the commoner’s hatred for the nobility. Their constant air
s, prickly honors, and endless squabbles made for good business, after all.
When the Malazan Empire came that would end, he suspected. In the Empire, assassin guilds were illegal, and those of the trade who were deemed worthy were enlisted into the secret ranks of the Claw. As for those who weren’t considered worthy, they simply disappeared. The nobles didn’t fare much better, if the rumors from Pale held any truth. It would be a different world when the Empire came, and Rallick wasn’t sure he wanted to be part of it.
Still, there were things left to achieve. He wondered if Murillio had succeeded in getting the invitations. Everything hinged on that. There’d been a long-drawn-out argument about it the night before. Murillio preferred widows. Adultery had never been his style. But Rallick had remained insistent, and finally Murillio had given in.
The assassin still wondered about his friend’s reluctance. His first thought was that Murillio feared the possibility of a duel with Turban Orr. But Murillio was no slouch with a rapier. Rallick had practiced with him in secluded places enough times to suspect that he was an Adept—and to that even Turban Orr could not make claim.
No, it wasn’t fear that made Murillio shy from this part of the plan. It dawned on Rallick that there was a moral issue at stake. A whole new side of Murillio had revealed itself to Rallick then.
He was pondering the implications when his gaze found a familiar face among the street’s crowd. He stopped and studied the surrounding buildings, and his eyes widened as he realized where his wanderings had taken him. His attention snapped back to the familiar figure appearing every few moments on the street’s opposite side. The assassin’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully.
Beneath the mid-morning’s blue and silver hue, Crokus walked along Lakefront Street surrounded by the bedlam of merchants and shoppers. A dozen streets ahead rose the city hills beyond the Third Tier Wall. On the easternmost hill stood the K’rul belfry, its green-patched bronze scales glimmering in the sun’s light.
The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen Page 23