Rallick walked down the center of the street. On either side of the wide corridor rose columns from which gas torches jutted, casting circles of blue light onto the wet cobblestones. The light rain had returned, coating everything in a slick sheen. To his right and beyond the resident houses lining that side of the street, the pale domes of the High Thalanti on the hill glistened against the deep gray sky.
The temple was among the oldest structures in the city, its founding blocks over two thousand years old. The Thalanti monks had come, like so many others, carried on the wings of the rumor. Rallick knew less about the story than did Murillio and Coll. One of the Elder Peoples was believed to have been entombed among the hills, an individual of great wealth and power, that was the extent of his knowledge.
But it had been a rumor with many consequences. If not for the thousands of shafts sunk into the earth the caverns of gas would never have been found. And while many of those shafts had collapsed or had been forgotten over the centuries, still others remained, now connected by tunnels.
In one of the many chambers that honeycombed the ground beneath the temple waited Vorcan, Master of Assassins. Rallick imagined Ocelot making his descent, burdened with the news of disaster, and it brought a smile to his lean face. He’d never met Vorcan, but Ocelot suited those catacombs—just another of the city’s rats rushing about beneath his feet.
One day, Rallick knew, he’d become a Clan Leader, he’d meet Vorcan face to face somewhere below. He wondered at how it would change him, and traveling down this path soured his thoughts with displeasure.
He had no option. Once, he thought, as he approached the block of the Phoenix Inn, long ago, there’d been choices he could have made that would have sent him on a different path. But those days were dead, and the future held only nights, a stretch of darkness that led down to the eternal dark. He would meet Vorcan, eventually, and he’d swear his life to the Guild Master, and that would be that, the closing of the final door.
And his sense of outrage at the injustices around him, the corruptions of the world, would wither in the unlit tunnels beneath Darujhistan. In the exactness of the methods of assassination, his final victim would be himself.
And this, more than anything, made his and Murillio’s scheme the last act of humanity he’d ever make. Betrayal was the greatest of all crimes in Rallick’s mind, for it took all that was human within a person and made it a thing of pain. In the face of that, murder itself was surcease: it was quick, and it ended the anguish and despair of a life without hope. If all went as planned, Lady Simtal and those men who’d conspired with her in the betrayal of her husband, Lord Coll, would die. Could that right the wrong, could it even the scales of retribution? No, but it might return to a man his life and his hope.
For himself, Rallick, such gifts had long since been lost, and he was not the kind of man to stir the ashes. No embers survived, no flame could be born anew. Life belonged to other people, and his only claim to it was his power to take it from them. Nor would he recognize hope if it came to him. Too much a stranger, too long a ghost.
As he neared the inn’s entrance, Rallick saw Crokus approaching from down the street. He increased his pace. “Crokus,” he called.
The boy flinched, then, seeing Rallick, he stopped and waited.
Rallick took his arm and steered him toward the alley without saying a word. Once in the shadows he tightened his grip, swung Crokus round and pulled him close. “Listen to me,” he hissed, his face inches from the boy’s own astonished visage, “the Guild’s best were slaughtered tonight. This isn’t a game. You stay off the rooftops, do you understand me?”
Crokus nodded.
“And tell your uncle this. There’s a Claw in the city.”
The boy’s eyes widened.
“And,” Rallick continued, “there’s someone else. Someone coming down from the sky, killing everything in sight.”
“Uncle Mammot?”
“Just tell him. And now listen carefully, Crokus. What I’m about to say is from me to you, one to one, understand?”
Crokus nodded again, his face pale.
“You stay on this path and you’ll end up dead. I don’t give a damn how exciting it all seems—what’s excitement to you is desperation to others. Stop feeding off the city’s lifeblood, lad. There’s no hero’s role in sucking others dry. Am I understood?”
“Yes,” Crokus whispered.
Rallick released the boy’s arm and stepped back. “Now, leave.” He shoved Crokus up the street, watched the boy stagger away and disappear around a corner. He drew a deep breath, surprised to find his hands trembling as he loosened his cloak’s collar.
Murillio stepped from the shadows. “I’m not sure it’ll work, friend, but it was a good try.” He laid a hand on the assassin’s shoulder. “Master Baruk has a job for us. Kruppe insists we bring Crokus along.”
Rallick frowned. “Along? Are we leaving Darujhistan, then?”
“Afraid so.”
“Go without me,” Rallick said. “Tell Baruk I can’t be found. Everything’s at a critical juncture—our planning included.”
“Something else happening, Nom?”
“You heard the message I gave Crokus for his uncle?”
Murillio shook his head. “I came late to your scene. Saw you dragging the lad into the alley.”
“Well,” Rallick said, “let’s go inside. It’s been a night to make Hood smile, friend.”
Together, the two men strode from the alley. In the street outside the Phoenix Inn, dawn’s light crept through the mists of the lingering rain.
In the center of the rooftop lay a large patch of ash and bone that crackled faintly and cast out the occasional hissing spark. Anomander Rake slammed his sword into its sheath. “I sent twelve of you,” he said, to the black-caped figure standing beside him, “and I see but eight. What happened, Serrat?”
The Tiste Andii woman was clearly exhausted. “We’ve been working hard, Lord.”
“Details,” Rake said abruptly.
Serrat sighed. “Jekaral has a broken neck and three cracked ribs. Boruld’s face is a mess, broken nose, broken cheekbone, broken jaw—”
“Who were they fighting?” Rake asked, turning to his lieutenant in exasperation. “Has the Guild Master come out of hiding?”
“No, Lord. Both Jekaral and Boruld fell to a single man, not of the city’s Guild.”
Rake’s eyes flashed dangerously. “Claw?”
“Possibly. He was accompanied by a High Mage. The one who gave us this Korvalah to play with.”
“It had the smell of Empire about it,” Rake muttered, his gaze on the smoldering patch that had begun to eat its way into the roof. “One of Tayschrenn’s conjurings, I should think.” A savage grin flashed. “Pity to have disturbed his sleep this night.”
“Dashtal was struck by a poisoned quarrel,” Serrat said. “One of the Guild’s assassins managed that.” She hesitated. “Lord. We were hard-pressed in Brood’s campaign. We’re in need of rest. Mistakes were made this night. Some of the Guild slipped through our fingers, and had you not answered my request, we would have suffered more casualties destroying this demon.”
Rake placed his hands on his hips and surveyed the morning sky. After a moment he sighed. “Ah, Serrat. Don’t think me insensitive. But the Guild Master must be flushed. This Guild must be shut down.” He eyed his lieutenant. “This Claw you encountered, do you think a meet was being established?”
“Not a meet,” Serrat answered. “A trap.”
Rake nodded. “Good.” He paused, his eyes matching Serrat’s with a shade of violet. “Return to Moon’s Spawn, then. Have the High Priestess herself attend to Jekaral.”
Serrat bowed. “Thank you, Lord.” She turned and gestured to the others.
“Oh,” Rake said, raising his voice to address his cadre of assassin-mages, “one last thing. You’ve done well, exceptionally well. You’ve earned a rest. Three days and nights are yours to do with as you please.”
“Mourn?”
“The poisoned quarrel killed Dashtal. The poison was the product of an alchemist, Lord. One of some ability. It contained paralt.”
“I see.”
“Will you return with us?”
“No.”
The lieutenant bowed a third time. As one, the eight Tiste Andii raised their hands, then vanished.
Rake glanced down at the sizzling patch just as it ate through the roof and fell into darkness. There came a faint crash from below. Lord Anomander Rake swung his gaze back to the sky, then sighed.
_______
Sergeant Whiskeyjack rocked his chair onto its back two legs and anchored it against the crumbling wall. The small, dingy room reeked of urine and damp. Two single beds, wood-framed with burlap mattresses stuffed with straw, ran along the wall to his left. The three other rickety chairs had been pulled up around the lone table in the room’s center. Above the table hung an oil lantern, which shone down on Fiddler, Hedge, and Mallet as they sat playing cards.
They’d done their work, finishing with the coming of dusk just outside Majesty Hall. Until the alliance with the Moranth, the Malazan saboteur had been nothing more than a glorified sapper, a digger of tunnels and breaker of city gates. Moranth alchemy had introduced to the Empire a variety of chemical and powder explosives, most of which detonated when exposed to air. Applying a slow-working acid worm-holed the unfired clay shells. Sabotage had become an art, the precise equation of clay thickness and acid strength was tricky, and few survived to learn from their mistakes.
To Whiskeyjack’s mind, Hedge and Fiddler were terrible soldiers. He had trouble recalling the last time they’d unsheathed their shortswords. Whatever discipline that had been part of their basic training had disintegrated through years in the field. Still, when it came to sabotage they had no equals.
Through hooded eyes Whiskeyjack studied the three men sitting at the table. It had been some minutes since any of them had made a move or said a word. One of Fiddler’s new games, he decided, the man was forever inventing new ones, improvising the rules whenever they gave him an edge. Despite the endless arguments Fiddler was never short of players.
“And that’s what boredom can do,” he said to himself. But, no, it was more than just boredom. Waiting gnawed, especially when it had to do with friends. Quick Ben and Kalam might be facedown in some alley for all they knew. And that made it hard.
Whiskeyjack’s gaze strayed to one of the beds, on which lay his armor and longsword. Rust stained the hauberk’s tattered chain like old blood. The links were missing in some places, torn in others. In his bones and muscles the memory of that damage remained: every cut, every blow now haunted him with aches, greeting him each morning like old comrades. The sword, with its plain leather-wrapped grip and stub hilt, lay in its hide-over-wood scabbard, the belt and straps draped over the bedside.
That weapon had come to him after his first battle, found amid a field of dead. He’d still had the chalk of his father’s quarry on his boots then, and a world’s promise stretched out before him on the banners of Empire. The sword had come to him shiny, without even so much as a nick in its honed blade, and he had taken it as his own personal standard.
Whiskeyjack’s gaze lost its focus. His mind had stepped into the gray, muddy tracks of his youth, where he walked the familiar path, lost and blinded by an unidentifiable sorrow.
The door flew open, carrying into the room a gust of steamy air and then Trotts. The Barghast’s coal-dark eyes met the sergeant’s.
Whiskeyjack stood quickly. He went to the bed and retrieved his sword. At the table the others remained intent on their card game, their only betrayal of anxiety a subtle shifting of chairs. Whiskeyjack pushed past Trotts and closed the door to a crack, through which he looked. Across the street, at the mouth of an alley, two figures crouched, the larger leaning heavily against the other. Whiskeyjack’s breath hissed through his teeth. “Mallet,” he said over his shoulder.
At the table the healer frowned at the two saboteurs, then carefully set down his cards.
The two figures in the alley crossed the street. Whiskeyjack’s hand crept to grip his sword.
“Which?” Mallet asked, as he rearranged the blankets on one of the beds.
“Kalam,” the sergeant replied. The two men reached the door and he swung it wide to let them through, then shut it again. He beckoned at Trotts, who walked over to the curtained window, pulling back a corner to watch the street.
Kalam was pale, sagging against Quick Ben. The assassin’s dark gray shirt was soaked with blood. Mallet moved to help the wizard and together they carried Kalam to the bed. As soon as the healer had him laid out, he waved Quick Ben away and began removing Kalam’s shirt.
Quick Ben shook his head at Whiskeyjack and sat down in the chair Mallet had occupied. “What’s the game?” he asked, picking up Mallet’s cards and frowning as he studied them.
Neither Hedge nor Fiddler replied.
“No idea,” Whiskeyjack said, as he walked over to stand behind Mallet. “They just sit and stare.”
Quick Ben grinned. “Ah, a waiting game, right, Fid?” He leaned back comfortably and stretched out his legs.
Mallet glanced up at the sergeant. “He’ll be down for a while,” the healer said. “The wound is clean, but he’s lost a lot of blood.”
Crouching, Whiskeyjack studied the assassin’s pallid face. Kalam’s gaze remained sharp, focused on the sergeant. “Well?” Whiskeyjack demanded. “What happened?”
Quick Ben answered behind him. “Had a bit of a mage duel out there.”
Kalam nodded in confirmation.
“And?” Whiskeyjack asked, straightening to glare at the wizard.
Quick Ben wilted slightly in his chair. “It went sour. I had to release an Empire demon to get us out alive.”
Everyone in the room went still. At the window Trotts turned and made a tribal warding gesture, tracing the woad lines on his face.
Whiskeyjack’s voice was soft. “It’s loose in the city?”
“No,” the wizard answered. “It’s dead.”
“Who did you run into?” Whiskeyjack bellowed, throwing up his hands.
“Not sure exactly,” Quick Ben said quietly. “Whatever it was, it took care of the demon in less than a minute. I heard the death cry when we were only a block away. Assassin mages, Sergeant, coming down out of the sky. Seemed intent on wiping out the city’s Guild.”
Whiskeyjack returned to his chair and dropped into it, the wood complaining beneath him. “From the sky. Tiste Andii.”
“Yes,” Quick Ben muttered. “We thought that. The sorcery had that flavor. Old, dark, and icy cold. Kurald Galain.”
“From what we saw,” Kalam added, “they did a damn good job. No contact established, Sergeant. It was messy up there.”
“So the Moon’s active here.” Whiskeyjack paused, then pounded his fist on the chair’s arm. “Worse, the Moon’s lord is a move ahead of us. He reckoned we’d try to contact the Guild, so what does he do?”
“Takes out the Guild,” Kalam said. “How’s that for arrogance?”
“Whatever arrogance that lord has,” Whiskeyjack said, grimacing, “he’s earned it. I’ll give him that. I wonder how good this city’s Guild Master is—good enough to take on Tiste Andii? Unlikely.”
“And about the other thing,” Quick Ben said. “It worked.”
The sergeant stared at the wizard for half a dozen seconds, then nodded.
“We also ran into Sorry,” Kalam said, wincing as Mallet pressed a hand on his wound. The healer muttered under his breath.
“Oh? I sent her after some fat man she thought was important. How come she ran into you two?”
Quick Ben’s brows had risen. “So she told the truth, then. We don’t know how she found us, but she’d found the man we were looking for—and gave him to us.”
Mallet raised his hand. Where the wound had been there was
now a pink scar. Kalam grunted his thanks and sat up.
Whiskeyjack tapped his fingers against the chair’s arm. “If we only knew who was running this damn city, we could try it ourselves.”
The assassin sniffed. “If we start taking out Council members, maybe we’ll flush out the real rulers.”
The sergeant frowned. “Not bad,” he said, rising to his feet. “Work on that. The Moon’s lord knows we’re here, now, with that demon popping up. We’ll have to move fast.”
Fiddler spoke up. “We could blow up Majesty Hall,” he said, smirking at Hedge.
“You’ve got enough munitions to manage that?” Whiskeyjack asked.
Fiddler’s face fell. “Well, uh, we’ve got enough to take out an estate, maybe. But if we pull up some of the mines we planted . . .”
Whiskeyjack sighed. “This is getting absurd. No, we leave things as they are.” He watched the nonexistent card game. It seemed to involve complete immobility. A stand-off. The sergeant’s eyes narrowed. Were they trying to tell him something?
Orange and yellow hues lit the eastern horizon, casting a coppery sheen upon the city’s bricks and cobbles. Apart from the dripping of water the streets were quiet, though the first emergings of citizenry were minutes away. Soon those farmers who had depleted their supplies of grains, fruits, and root crops would take to their carts and wagons and depart the city. Merchant shops and stalls would open to catch the morning wave of shoppers.
Throughout Darujhistan the Grayfaces prepared to shut the valves feeding gas to the torches lining the major avenues. These figures moved in small groups, gathering at intersections then dispersing with the day’s first bell.
Sorry watched Crokus wearily ascend a tenement’s front steps. She stood half a block down the street, within shadows that seemed reluctant to disappear despite the growing light.
A short while earlier, she’d felt the Empire demon’s death strike her almost physically, deep in her chest. Normally demons fled back to their realm once enough damage had been inflicted on them, enough to sever the links of summoning. But the Korvalah had not been simply cut down, or forcibly dismissed. There’d been a finality to its end that had left her shaken. A death in truth. She still recalled its silent, despairing scream ringing in her head.
The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen Page 42