Rallick threw an arm around Coll’s round shoulders and together they came to the table.
Kruppe looked up. “Ho, my dear comrades! Kruppe invites you to join our familiar gathering.” Waving his arms at the two empty chairs, he rocked back in his seat. “To bring you up to date on our dramatic doings, the lad Crokus has been staring dreamily into space while Murillio and Kruppe have discussed the latest natterings of the street rats.”
Coll remained standing, weaving unsteadily, a frown knitting his brows. Rallick sat down and reached for the pitcher of beer. “What natterings are those?” the assassin asked casually.
“The rumor that we’re now allied with Moon’s Spawn,” Murillio said.
“Nonsense, of course,” Kruppe said. “Have you seen anything to suggest such a thing?”
Murillio grinned. “The Moon hasn’t moved away, has it? Not only that, there’s that Council tent stationed directly under it.”
Crokus spoke up. “I heard from Uncle Mammot that the councilmen haven’t had any luck getting a message to whoever’s in Moon’s Spawn.”
“Typical,” Murillio commented, his eyes narrowing briefly on Rallick.
“Who lives in there?” Crokus asked.
Coll tottered and threw both hands down on the table to steady himself. He thrust his red face at Crokus and bellowed, “Five black dragons!”
Within the Warren of Chaos, Quick Ben knew of the innumerable shifting pathways that led to doors. Though he called them doors they were in fact barriers created where Warrens touched, a calcretion of energy as solid as basalt. Chaos touched on all realms with gnarled fingertips bleeding power, the doors hardened wounds in the flesh of other worlds, other avenues of magic.
The wizard had focused his talents on such doors. While within the Warren of Chaos, he had learned the ways of shaping their energy. He’d found means of altering the barriers, of sensing what lay beyond them. Each Warren of magic possessed a smell, each realm a texture, and though the pathways he took were never the same as those he’d taken before, he had mastered the means of finding those he sought.
He traveled now down one of those paths, a track of nothingness enclosed by the Warren’s own accretions, twisting and fraught with contradictions. On one trail he’d will himself forward yet find himself moving back; he’d come to a sharp right turn, followed by another, then another, then yet another—all in the same direction.
He knew it was the power of his mind that opened the pathways, but they had their own laws—or perhaps they were his, yet unknown to him. Whatever the source of the shaping, it was madness defined.
He came at last to the door he sought. The barrier showed as nothing more than a dull, slate-gray stone. Hovering before it, Quick Ben whispered a command, and his spirit took the form of his own body. He stood a moment, mastering the disconnected tremble of his ghost-body, then stepped forward and laid hands on the door.
Its edges were hard and warm. Toward the center it grew hot and soft to the touch. The surface slowly lost its opaqueness beneath the wizard’s hands, becoming glassy like obsidian. Quick Ben closed his eyes.
He’d never before sought to pass through such a door. He was not even certain that it was possible. And if he survived into the beyond, was there any way to return? Past the mechanics of the one thing loomed his final, most difficult worry: he was about to attempt entry into a realm where he wasn’t welcome.
Quick Ben opened his eyes. “I am direction,” he said quietly. He leaned against the barrier. “I am the power of will in a place that respects this, and only this.” He leaned harder. “I am the Warren’s touch. To chaos nothing is immune, nowhere is immune.” He felt the door begin to yield. He lashed out one hand behind him, fending off a growing pressure. “Only I shall pass!” he hissed. Abruptly, with a strange thumping sound, he slipped through, energy flaring around his body.
The wizard staggered over rough, parched earth. He regained his balance and looked around. He stood on a barren plain, the horizon off to his left humped with low hills. Overhead spanned a sky the color of quicksilver, a scatter of long, stringy clouds moving in unison and black as ink directly above.
Quick Ben sat down, folding his legs and clasping his hands in his lap. “Shadowthrone,” he said, “Lord of Shadows, I am come to your realm. Will you receive my presence as befits a peaceful visitor?”
From the hills came an answer: the howling of Hounds.
Chapter Twelve
Walk with me
on Thieves’ Road
hear its song
underfoot
how clear its
tone in misstep
as it sings
you in two
APSALAR’S CANT
DRISBIN (B. 1135)
Kneading his brow, Kruppe sat reading in Mammot’s study.
. . . and in the Calling Down to earth the God was Crippled, and so Chained in its place. In the Calling Down many lands were sundered by the God’s Fists, and things were born and things were released. Chained and Crippled was this God
Kruppe glanced up from the ancient tome and rolled his eyes. “Brevity, Kruppe prays for brevity!” He returned to the faded handwritten script.
and it bred caution in the unveiling of its powers. The Crippled God bred caution but not well enough, for the powers of the earth came to it in the end. Chained was the Crippled God, and so Chained was it destroyed. And upon this barren plain that imprisoned the Crippled God many gathered to the deed. Hood, gray wanderer of Death, was among the gathering, as was Dessembrae, then Hood’s Warrior—though it was here and in this time that Dessembrae shattered the bonds Hood held upon him. Also among the gathering were
Kruppe groaned and flipped pages. The list seemed interminable, absurdly long. From this account he half expected to see his grandmother’s name among those listed. Finally, after three pages, he found the names he sought.
and among those that came from the vaulted heavens of silver, the Tiste Andii, dwellers of Darkness in the Place before Light, Black Dragons numbering five, and in their league sailed red-winged Silanah, said to dwell among the Tiste Andii in their Fang of Darkness descending from the vaulted heavens of silver
Kruppe nodded, muttering to himself. A descending Fang of Darkness—Moon’s Spawn? Home to five Black Dragons and one Red Dragon? He shivered. How had Coll come upon this? True, the man hadn’t always been a drunken lout, but even his past station, lofty as it was, hadn’t been the scholarly kind.
Who, then, had spoken through the old man’s wine-stained mouth?
“That,” Kruppe sighed to himself, “shall have to wait its answer. The significance, however, of Coll’s bellowed claim lies in its evident truth, and as to how it pertains to the present situation.” He closed the book and rose to his feet. Behind him he heard footsteps.
“I’ve brought you herbal tea,” the old man said, as he entered the closet-sized room. “Has Alladart’s Realm Compendium been beneficial, Kruppe?”
“Beneficial indeed,” Kruppe said, gratefully accepting the earthenware mug. “Kruppe has learned the value of modern language. Such long-lipped dribbles common to those ancient scholars are a curse Kruppe is thankful to find extinct in our time.”
“Ah, ha,” the old man said, coughing slightly and looking away. “Well, do you mind if I ask what you were seeking?”
Kruppe glanced up, the corners of his eyes crinkling slightly. “Not at all, Mammot. I thought to find mention of my grandmother’s name.”
Mammot frowned, then nodded. “I see. Well, I’ll not inquire as to your luck, then.”
“Please, do not,” Kruppe said, eyes widening. “Luck is such a dreadful companion these days, with all awry as all happens to be. But thank you for understanding Kruppe’s need for circumspection.”
“Not at all,” Mammot said, waving one hand. “I didn’t mean to—well, yes, I did. Curiosity, you understand. The intellectual kind.”
Kruppe smiled beatifically and sipped tea.
“Wel
l,” Mammot said, “shall we return to the common room, then, and find respite before the hearth?”
They strode into the other chamber. Once seated, Kruppe stretched out his legs and leaned back. “How has your writing been coming along?” he asked.
“Slow,” Mammot answered, “as one would expect, of course.”
It seemed Mammot was working up to something, and so Kruppe waited, idly wiggling his toes. A minute passed, then the old man cleared his throat and spoke. “Kruppe, have you seen much of my dear nephew lately?”
Kruppe raised his eyebrows. “Long ago,” he said, “Kruppe made a promise to a man, the man being a concerned uncle to a young boy who found the streets an exciting playground. Aye, the lad dreamed of sword-fights and dark deeds committed in alleys on behalf of princesses in disguise, or some such thing—”
Mammot was nodding, his eyes closed.
“—and to such promises Kruppe has availed of himself thoroughly, for he, too, loved the boy. And as with any endeavor, survival is measured in ability, and so did Kruppe take the lad under his silken wing, with some success, yes?”
Mammot smiled, still nodding.
“And so, to answer the uncle’s question. Indeed Kruppe has seen the lad.”
Mammot leaned forward and fixed Kruppe with an intense gaze. “Have you seen anything odd in his actions? I mean, has he asked you any strange questions, made any requests?”
Kruppe’s eyes narrowed. He paused to drink. “Bluntly, yes. For one, he sought the return of a fine cache of jewelry he acquired recently, for personal reasons—as he said. Personal reasons. Kruppe wondered then and wonders now, but the lad’s seeming sincerity, nay, focused intensity, struck Kruppe as laudable.”
“Agreed! Would you believe Crokus has now expressed an interest in formal education? I can’t understand it. The boy’s positively obsessed about something.”
“Perhaps, then, Kruppe should piece this together.”
“Thank you,” Mammot said, relieved. “I would know where all this is coming from. So much ambition all at once, I fear it may soon burn itself out. If we can nourish it, however . . .”
“By all means,” Kruppe said. “There is more to life than petty thievery, after all.”
Mammot grinned. “Why, Kruppe, I’m surprised to hear that coming from you.”
“Such comments are better left between you and Kruppe. In any case, I believe Murillio knows something of all this. He intimated as much this evening while we dined at the Phoenix Inn.”
Mammot asked, “Is Murillio well?”
Kruppe smiled. “The net about the lad remains intact,” he said. “For one, Rallick Nom has taken the responsibility seriously indeed. Mayhap he sees something of his own lost youth in Crokus. In truth, Rallick is a man whose true nature escapes Kruppe. Fiercely loyal for certain, and one who, as you well know, honors his debts with such vigor as to humble those around him. Excepting Kruppe, naturally. Yet is it blood that travels his veins? One must wonder, at times.”
A distant look had entered Mammot’s face.
Kruppe tensed. The air smelled of magic. He leaned forward and studied the old man seated across from him. Someone was communicating with Mammot, and the Warren that now pulsed in the room was familiar to Kruppe.
He sat back and waited.
Eventually, Mammot got swiftly to his feet. “I have some research to do,” he said distractedly. “As for you, Kruppe, Master Baruk wishes to speak with you immediately.”
“I thought I sensed the alchemist’s presence,” Kruppe said, rising with a soft grunt. “Ah, the rigors of these fated nights ever urge us on. Until later, then, Mammot.”
“Good-bye,” the scholar said, a frown on his face as he crossed the room. He entered the small chamber where Kruppe had spent the past hour.
Kruppe adjusted the sleeves of his cloak. Whatever had happened, it had been enough to jar Mammot’s etiquette, and that alone hinted at dire events. “Well,” he murmured, “best not keep Baruk waiting, then. At least,” he amended, as he headed for the door, “not for too long. Decorum demands that Kruppe retain his sense of dignity. He shall walk fast, yes. But walk he shall, for Kruppe needs time to think, to plan, to scheme, to anticipate, to backtrack with some thoughts, to leap ahead with others, to do all the things necessary. First and foremost, Kruppe must discern the nature of the woman who followed him, and who killed Chert, and who noted that Crokus saw the blood on her weapon, and who marked Rallick Nom as an assassin with his very arrival. She might well provide the key to everything, and more, for the Coin did indeed turn its face upon her, if only for a moment. And that, thinks Kruppe, shall return to us all, for good or ill.” He stopped and looked around, blinking rapidly. “At the very least,” he muttered, “Kruppe should leave Mammot’s room.” He glanced back at the chamber Mammot had entered. From within came the sounds of brittle pages being rapidly turned. Kruppe sighed in relief, then left.
_______
Crone ruffled her singed feathers and hopped about in agitation. Where was that alchemist? She had a thousand things to attend to before the night was done, though in truth she couldn’t think of any of them. Nevertheless, she disliked being kept waiting.
The door to the study opened and Baruk strode through, gathering a robe about his considerable bulk. “My apologies, Crone, I was otherwise indisposed.”
Crone grunted. Sorcery trailed from the man in thick, pungent streams. “My master, Lord Anomander Rake,” she said, without preamble, “has commanded that I tell you what I told him of my adventures on the Rhivi Plain.”
Baruk came up to where the Great Raven paced on the map table. The alchemist frowned. “You’ve been injured.”
“Pride, no more. Hearken then to my story.”
Baruk raised an eyebrow. The old witch’s mood was dark. He fell silent and she began.
“A small wooden puppet approaches from the north, a creation of soulshifting and sourced from a Warren of Chaos. Its power is immense, twisted, malign even to Great Ravens. It killed many of my kin as it slipped in and out of its Warren. It evidently took pleasure in such acts.” Crone snapped her beak in anger, then continued, “It pursues a power I could not approach, and whatever this power, it strikes directly for the Gadrobi Hills—my lord and I are agreed in this. The power seeks something within those hills, yet we are not native to this land. Hence we bring this news to you, Alchemist. Two forces are converging on the Gadrobi Hills. My lord asks you why.”
Baruk’s face had lost all its color. He turned slowly and walked to a chair. Sitting down, he steepled his hands before his face and closed his eyes. “The Malazan Empire seeks something it cannot hope to control, something buried within the Gadrobi Hills. Whether or not either force is capable of freeing that thing is another matter. Seeking is not the same as finding, and finding is not the same as succeeding.”
Crone hissed impatiently. “Who is buried there, Alchemist?”
“A Jaghut Tyrant, imprisoned by the Jaghut themselves. Generations of scholars and sorcerers have sought to find this barrow. None managed to discover even so much as a clue.” Baruk looked up, his expression lined with worry. “I know of one man, here in Darujhistan, who has gathered all the available knowledge concerning this burial place. I must confer with him. I can give your lord this, however. There lies a standing stone in the Gadrobi Hills—I know its location precisely. It is almost invisible, only its weathered top breaks the ground, perhaps a hand’s span in height. The remaining twenty feet are beneath the earth. You will see the remnants of many pits and trenches that have been excavated around it—all fruitless. For while the stone marks the beginning point, it is not the entrance to the barrow.”
“Where, then, is this entrance?”
“That I will not tell you. Once I speak with my colleague, perhaps I can give you more details. Perhaps not. But the means by which the barrow is entered must remain a secret.”
“This avails us nothing! My lord—”
“Is extremely powerful,�
�� Baruk cut in. “His intentions are anything but clear, Crone, no matter that we are allied. What lies within that barrow can destroy a city—this city. That I will not allow to enter Rake’s hands. You shall have the location of the standing stone, for it is there that the hunters must first go. I have one question to ask, Crone. This puppet, are you certain it pursues this other power?”
Crone bobbed her head. “It tracks. It hides when necessary. You assume both powers are Malazan. Why?”
Baruk grunted. “First, they want Darujhistan. They’ll do anything to win it. They’ve had access to vast libraries among the lands they’ve conquered. The Jaghut barrow is no secret in and of itself. Second, you said both powers came down from the north. They can only be Malazan. Why one hides from the other is beyond me, though I wouldn’t doubt that there are competing factions within the Empire—any political entity as large as that one is bound to be rife with discord. In any case, they pose a direct threat to Darujhistan and, by extension, to your lord’s desires to prevent the Malazan Empire from conquering us. Assuming that the powers are Malazan seems warranted.”
Crone’s displeasure was obvious. “You will be kept informed of the activities on the Rhivi Plain. My lord must decide whether to intercept these powers before they reach the Gadrobi Hills.” She turned an angry eye on Baruk. “He has received little assistance from his allies. I trust when we next speak that situation will be remedied.”
The alchemist shrugged. “My first meeting with Anomander Rake has proved my only meeting with him. Assistance demands communication.” His tone hardened. “Inform your lord that the present dissatisfaction exists with us as much as it does with him.”
“My lord has been busy with his side of things,” Crone muttered, flapping to the windowsill.
Baruk stared at the bird as she prepared to leave. “Busy?” he asked darkly. “In what way?”
“In due time, Alchemist,” Crone purred. A moment later she was gone.
Baruk cursed, and with an angry gesture returned the window to its place and slammed the shutters. Doing this through magic and from a distance was not as satisfying as it would have been had he done it physically. Grumbling, he rose and walked to the mantelpiece. As he poured himself some wine, he paused. Less than half an hour ago he’d conjured a demon. It was not an ambitious conjuring: he’d needed a spy, not a killer. Something told him he’d be calling upon far deadlier creatures in the near future. He scowled, then took a mouthful of wine. “Mammot,” he whispered, as he opened his Warren, “I need you.”
The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen Page 38