“Into a concentration of Tellann sorcery, not to mention Jaghut Omtose Phellack. On top of all that, a woman with an Otataral sword.” Rake crossed his arms. “He’ll not come round until both the T’lan Imass and the Otataral have left the barrow. And even then, if he’s not quick, the awakening Jaghut might take him.”
A chill burgeoned in Baruk’s bones. “Take, as in possession?”
Rake nodded, his expression grim. “A High Priest, is he? The Jaghut would find him very useful. Not to mention the access Mammot provides to D’rek. Do you know, Baruk, if this Tyrant’s capable of enslaving a goddess?”
“I don’t know,” Baruk whispered, sweat trickling down his round face as he stared at Mammot’s recumbent form. “Dessembrae fend,” he added.
The old woman sitting on the tenement steps squinted at the late afternoon sky while she tamped dried Italbe leaves into her steatite pipe. On the wooden steps beside her was a small covered bronze brazier. Thin kindling sticks jutted from holes around the bowl. The old woman withdrew one and set it to her pipe, then tossed it into the street.
The man walking down the opposite side of the street caught the signal and ran a hand through his hair. Circle Breaker felt near to panic. This taking to the streets was far too risky. Turban Orr’s hunters were close to him—he could feel it with dread certainty. Sooner or later, the councilman would recall his many meetings beneath Despot’s Barbican, and the guard who’d been stationed there every time. This brazen showing of himself compromised everything.
He turned a corner, passing beyond the old woman’s sight, and continued for three blocks until he came opposite the Phoenix Inn. Two women lounged by the door, laughing at some joke between them.
Circle Breaker tucked his thumbs into his sword-belt and angled the scabbard out to the side. Its bronze-capped end scraped against the stone wall beside him. Then he withdrew his hands and continued on his way toward Lakefront. Well, it’s done. All that remained for him was one final contact, possibly redundant, but he would follow the Eel’s orders. Things were coming to a head. He did not expect to live much longer, but he’d do what he must until that time. What more could be asked of him?
At the entrance of the Phoenix Inn, Meese nudged Irilta. “That’s it,” she muttered. “You do the backup this time. Usual pattern.”
Irilta scowled, then nodded. “Head off, then.”
Meese descended the steps and turned up the street. She reversed the route taken by Circle Breaker until she reached the tenement. She saw the old woman still sitting there, lazily watching passersby. As Meese passed through her line of vision, the old woman removed the pipe from her mouth and tapped it against the heel of her shoe. Sparks rained onto the cobbles.
That was the signal. Meese came to the corner of the block, then turned right and entered the alley running the building’s length. A door opened for her a third of the way down and she strode into a dimly lit room with an open door beyond. Someone hid behind the first door but she did not acknowledge that someone’s presence. She passed through the second, inner door and found herself in a hallway. From there it was a quick jog up the stairs.
Apsalar—or Sorry, as she had been known before—hadn’t been much impressed by her first sight of Darujhistan. For some reason, despite her excitement and anticipation, it had all seemed too familiar.
Disappointed, Crokus had wasted no time in taking her to his uncle’s home once they’d stabled Coll’s horse. The journey to the city, and then through its crowded streets, had been, for Crokus, a continual storm of confusion. This woman seemed to have a knack for catching him off-guard, and all he desired now was to throw her into someone else’s lap and be done with it.
Yet, if that was truly the case, why did he feel so miserable about it?
Crokus left Mammot’s library and returned to the outer room. Moby chirped and stuck out its red tongue at him from Mammot’s desk. Ignoring the creature, Crokus stood before Apsalar, who’d seated herself in the better of the two chairs—his chair, of course. “I don’t understand. From the looks of it, he’s been gone for a couple of days at least.”
“So? Is that so unusual?” Apsalar asked casually.
“It is,” he grumbled. “Did you feed Moby as I asked?”
She nodded. “The grapes?”
“Yes.” He placed his hands on his hips. “Strange. Maybe Rallick knows something about it.”
“Who’s Rallick?”
“An assassin friend,” Crokus replied distractedly.
Apsalar shot to her feet, her eyes wide.
“What’s wrong?” Crokus asked, stepping close. The girl looked positively terrified. He glared around, half expecting to see some demon rise out of the floor or the cupboard, but the room was unchanged—a little messier than usual, though. Moby’s fault, he assumed.
“I’m not sure,” she said, relaxing with an effort. “It was as if I was about to remember something. But it never came.”
“Oh,” Crokus said. “Well, we could—”
A knock sounded on the door.
Crokus brightened, walking over to it. “Oh, he probably lost his keys or something,” he said.
“It was unlocked,” Apsalar pointed out.
Crokus opened the door. “Meese! What’re you—?”
“Quiet!” the big woman hissed, pushing past him and shutting the door. Her gaze fell on Apsalar and her eyes widened. Then she turned back to Crokus. “Good I found you, lad! You’ve seen no one since getting back?”
“Why, no. That’s just it—”
“A stabler,” Apsalar said, frowning up at Meese. “Have we met?”
“She’s lost her memory,” Crokus explained. “But, yes, we stabled Coll’s horse.”
“Why?” Meese demanded, then as Crokus was about to elaborate she went on, “Never mind. The stabler shouldn’t prove a problem. Well, we’re in luck!”
“Dammit, Meese,” Crokus said. “What’s going on?”
She met his eyes. “That D’Arle guard you killed the other night. The one in the garden. They’ve got your name and description, lad. Don’t ask me how. But the D’Arles are talking high gallows when you’re caught.”
The blood left Crokus’s face. Then his head jerked to Apsalar. He opened his mouth, then shut it again. No, she truly didn’t remember. But it must have been her. He collapsed into Mammot’s chair.
“We’ve got to hide you, lad,” Meese said. “Both of you, I guess. But don’t you worry, Crokus, me and Irilta, we’ll take care of you till something can be worked out.”
“I don’t believe this,” he whispered, staring at the wall opposite him. “She betrayed me, damn her!”
Meese looked questioningly at Apsalar, who said, “It’s a guess, but I’d say a girl named Challice.”
Meese closed her eyes briefly. “Challice D’Arle, the court’s honey these days.” Compassion softened her face as she looked down on Crokus. “Oh, lad. That’s the way of it, then.”
He jerked in the seat and glared up at her. “It isn’t anymore.”
Meese grinned. “Right. For now,” she said, arms folded over her chest, “we just sit tight till night, then it’s the rooftops for us. Don’t worry, we’ll handle things, lad.”
Apsalar rose. “My name’s Apsalar,” she said. “Pleased to meet you, Meese. And thank you for helping Crokus.”
“Apsalar, huh? Well,” her grin broadened, “guess the rooftops will be no problem for you, then.”
“None,” she replied, knowing somehow that she was right in this.
“Good enough,” Meese said. “Now, how about we find something to drink?”
“Meese,” Crokus asked, “do you know where my uncle might have gone?”
“Can’t help you there, lad. No idea.”
She wasn’t sure about the old woman on the steps, but the one immediately below, tucked into a shadowed niche and steadily watching the tenement building—that one would have to be taken care of. It seemed that this Coin Bearer had protection.
/> Serrat was not unduly concerned. Next to her lord, Anomander Rake, she ranked the deadliest among the Tiste Andii of Moon’s Spawn. Finding this boy-servant of Oponn’s had not proved difficult. Once her lord had given her the necessary details, Oponn’s magical signature had been easy to find. It helped that she’d encountered it before—and from this very boy—on the rooftops two weeks past. Her agents had chased the Coin Bearer that night, abandoning him once he’d entered the Phoenix Inn—but only at her command. If she’d suspected then what she now knew, Oponn’s presence would have ended that very night.
Ill luck, Serrat smiled to herself, taking a more comfortable position on the rooftop. They’d move at night, she suspected. As for the woman hiding below, she’d have to be removed. Indeed, with a spell of blurring and enough in the way of shadows, she might as easily take the woman’s place.
There’d be no suspicion from the other woman, then, the one presently inside with the Coin Bearer. Serrat nodded. Yes, that would be how she’d play it.
But for now, she’d wait. Patience ever rewards.
“Well,” Murillio said, as he scanned the crowd, “they’re not here. Which means they’re with Mammot.”
Kruppe drew a deep breath of the sweaty, smoky air. “Ah, civilization. Kruppe believes your assessment is accurate, friend. If so, then we might as well rest here, drinking and supping for an hour or two.” With that, he strode into the Phoenix Inn.
A few old hands, seated at Kruppe’s table, gathered their tankards and pitcher and left, murmuring apologies and grinning among themselves. Kruppe gave them a gracious nod and settled with a loud sigh into his usual chair. Murillio paused at the bar and spoke with Scurve, then he joined Kruppe.
Brushing dust from his shirt, Murillio frowned distractedly at his road-weary condition. “I look forward to a bath,” he said. “Apparently Scurve saw Rallick in here earlier, talking with some stranger. Since then, nobody’s seen him.”
Kruppe waved an uninterested hand. “Kind Sulty arrives,” he announced. A moment later a pitcher of ale stood on the table. Kruppe wiped his tankard with his silk handkerchief, then filled it with the foaming brew.
“Weren’t we supposed to report to Baruk?” Murillio asked, his eyes on his friend.
“All in due time,” Kruppe said. “First, we must recover from our ordeals. What if Kruppe were to lose his voice in very mid-sentence of said report? What would avail Baruk of that?” He raised his tankard and drank deep.
Murillio drummed the fingers of one hand restlessly on the table, his eyes constantly scanning the crowd. Then he straightened in his seat. He filled his tankard. “So now that you know what Rallick and I are up to,” he said, “what do you plan to do about it?”
Kruppe’s eyebrows lifted. “Kruppe? Why, nothing but good, of course. Timely assistance, and such. No need for blatant fretting, friend Murillio. By all means proceed as planned. Think of wise Kruppe as no more than a kindly chaperon.”
“Hood’s Breath,” Murillio groaned, eyes rolling. “We were doing fine without your help. The best thing you could do for us is stay out of our way. Don’t get involved.”
“And abandon my friends to the fates? Nonsense!”
Murillio finished his ale and rose. “I’m going home,” he said. “You can make the report to Baruk in a week’s time for all I care. And when Rallick finds out you know all about our plans, well, Kruppe, I’d hate to be in your boots.”
Kruppe waved dismissively. “See Sulty yon? Upon her tray is Kruppe’s supper. Rallick Nom’s nasty daggers and nastier temper pale to insignificance before such repast as now approaches. Good night to you, then, Murillio. Until the morrow.”
Murillio stared down at him, then grumbled, “Good night, Kruppe.”
He left the bar through the kitchen door. As soon as he stepped into the back alley a figure accosted him from across the way. Murillio frowned. “That you, Rallick?”
“No,” the shadowed figure said. “Fear me not, Murillio. I have a message to you from the Eel. Call me Circle Breaker.” The man strode closer. “The message concerns Councilman Turban Orr . . .”
Rallick moved from rooftop to rooftop in the darkness. The need for absolute silence slowed his hunt considerably. There’d be no conversation with Ocelot. Rallick expected he’d have but one shot at the man. If he missed his chance, his Clan Leader’s sorcery would prove the deciding factor. Unless . . .
Rallick paused and checked his pouch. Years back, the alchemist Baruk had rewarded him for work well done with a small bag of reddish dust. Baruk had explained its magic-deadening properties, but Rallick resisted placing his trust in the powder. Had its potency survived the years? Was it a match for Ocelot’s powers? There was no telling.
He crossed a high rooftop, skirting the edge of a dome. Off to his right and below was the city’s eastern wall. The faint glow of Worrytown rose beyond it. The assassin suspected that Ocelot would await Coll’s arrival at Worry Gate, hiding within crossbow range. Better to kill the man before he entered the city.
This limited the possibilities considerably. Lines of sight were few, and K’rul’s Hill was the best of them. Still, Ocelot might well have used sorcery already, and lie hidden from mundane eyes. Rallick might stumble right over him.
He reached the north side of the dome’s skirt. Before him rose the K’rul Temple. From the belfry, there’d be a clean shot just as Coll entered the gate. Rallick removed the pouch from his bag. Whatever the dust covered, Baruk had said, would be impervious to magic. More, it had an area effect. The assassin scowled. How much of an area? And did it wear off? Most importantly, Baruk had said—and Rallick remembered this clearly—do not let it touch your skin. Poison? he’d asked. “No,” the alchemist had replied. “The powder changes some people. There is no predicting such changes, however. Best not to take the chance, Rallick.”
Sweat trickled down his face. Finding Ocelot was already a slim chance. Coll’s death would ruin everything and, more, it would strip from Rallick his last claim . . . to what? To humanity. The price of failure had become very high. “Justice,” he hissed angrily. “It has to mean something. It has to!”
Rallick untied the pouch. He dipped into it and scraped out a handful of the powder. He rubbed it between his fingers. It felt like rust. “That’s it?” he wondered. Maybe it had deteriorated. Shrugging, he began to massage it into his skin, starting with his face. “What changes?” he muttered. “I don’t feel any changes.”
Reaching under his clothing as much as was possible, Rallick used up the last of the powder. The pouch itself was stained on the inside. He turned it inside out, then stuffed it into his belt. Now, he grimaced, the hunt continues. Somewhere out there an assassin waited, eyes fixed on Jammit’s Worry Road. “I’ll find you, Ocelot,” he whispered, his eyes fixed on K’rul’s belfry tower. “And magic or no magic, you won’t hear me, you won’t even feel my breath on your neck until it’s too late. I swear it.”
He began his ascent.
Chapter Eighteen
This blue city
hides under its cloak
a hidden hand
that holds like stone
a blade envenomed
by the eight-limbed Paralt—
the sting brings death
in the span of grief
that marks a final breath—
so this hand defies
sorcery’s web
and trembles the gossamer strand
of a spider’s deadly threat.
This hand beneath
the blue city’s cloak
drives home Power’s
gentle balance.
THE CONSPIRACY
BLIND GALLAN (B.1078)
Sergeant Whiskeyjack strode to the bedside. “You sure you’re up to it?” he asked Kalam. The assassin, sitting with his back against the wall, glanced up from honing his long knives. “Not much choice, is there?” He returned to his sharpening.
Whiskeyjack’s expression was drawn and haggard fro
m lack of sleep. He looked across the small room to where Quick Ben crouched in a corner. A fragment of bedroll was clutched in the wizard’s hands, and his eyes were closed.
At the table, Fiddler and Hedge had dismantled their massive arbalest. They now sat cleaning and examining each piece. They were looking at a fight ahead of them.
Whiskeyjack shared their conviction. Each hour that passed brought their many hunters that much closer. Of those it was the Tiste Andii he feared the most. His squad was good, but not that good.
By the window was Trotts, leaning against the wall with his burly arms crossed. And against one wall slept Mallet, his snores loud in the room.
The sergeant returned his attention to Kalam. “It’s a long shot, isn’t it?”
The assassin nodded. “No reason for the man to keep showing himself. They got burned the last time.” He shrugged. “I’ll try the inn again. If anything, someone will mark me and the Guild will come. If I can get a word in before they kill me, there’s a chance. It’s not much . . .”
“. . . but it’ll have to do,” Whiskeyjack finished. “You’ve got tomorrow. If we draw a blank,” he looked over to Fiddler and Hedge and found their eyes on him, “we detonate the intersections. Do damage, hurt them.”
The two saboteurs grinned their anticipation.
Quick Ben’s loud hiss of frustration brought everyone round. The wizard’s eyes had opened. He tossed the torn cloth contemptuously on to the floor. “No good, Sergeant,” he said. “Can’t find Sorry anywhere.”
Kalam rumbled a curse and thrust his weapons into their scabbards.
“So, what does that mean?” Whiskeyjack asked the wizard.
“Most likely,” Quick Ben said, “she’s dead.” He gestured at the cloth. “With that, there’s no way the Rope could hide from me. Not while still possessing Sorry.”
“Maybe once you told him you’d figured him out,” Fiddler said, “he tossed in his coins and quit the game.”
Quick Ben made a face. “The Rope isn’t scared of us, Fiddler. Come back to earth. If anything, he’d be coming down on us. Shadowthrone must’ve told him by now who I am or, rather, who I once was. It’s not the Rope’s business, but Shadowthrone might insist. Gods don’t like being cheated. Especially being cheated twice.” He climbed to his feet and stretched the kinks from his back. He met Whiskeyjack’s gaze. “I don’t understand this, Sergeant. I’m stumped.”
The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen Page 51