The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen

by Steven Erikson

  There came a knock at the door and both turned to see Roald enter and bow.

  “Master Baruk, Mammot has awakened and appears refreshed. More, your agent Kruppe has delivered a verbal message. He extends his regret that he cannot deliver it to you in person. Do you wish to receive it now?”

  “Yes,” Baruk said.

  Roald bowed again. “The Eel will contact you the eve of this day. At Lady Simtal’s Fête. The Eel further finds the prospect of shared information and cooperation intriguing. That is all.”

  Baruk brightened. “Excellent.”

  “Shall I bring Mammot to you, Master?”

  “If he’s able.”

  “He is. A moment, then.” Roald left.

  The alchemist smiled. “As I said,” he laughed, “everyone will be there, and in this case, everyone is an appropriate term.” His smile broadened at Rake’s blank look. “The Eel, Lord. Darujhistan’s master-spy, a figure without a face.”

  “A masked face,” the Tiste Andii reminded him.

  “If my suspicions are correct,” Baruk said, “the mask won’t help the Eel one bit.”

  The door opened again and there stood Mammot, looking fit and full of energy. He nodded to Baruk. “Withdrawal proved easier than I’d imagined,” he said, without preamble. His bright gaze fixed on Anomander Rake and he smiled, then bowed. “Greetings, Lord. I’ve looked forward to this meeting ever since Baruk brought to us the offer of alliance.”

  Rake glanced at Baruk and raised an eyebrow.

  The alchemist said, “Mammot numbers among the T’orrud Cabal.” He faced the old man again. “We were deeply worried, friend, given the Elder mageries at play around the barrow.”

  “I was snared for a time,” Mammot admitted, “but at the extreme edges of the Omtose Phellack influence. Quiescent regard proved the correct course, as the one stirring within did not sense me.”

  “How much time do we have?” Baruk asked tightly.

  “Two, perhaps three days. Even for a Jaghut Tyrant, it is an effort to make the return journey to life.” Mammot’s eyes fell upon the mantelpiece. “Ah, your carafe of wine awaits as is usual. Excellent.” He strode over to the fireplace. “Have you word of my nephew, by any chance?”

  Baruk frowned. “No, should I have? The last time I met the child was, what, five years ago?”

  “Mmm,” Mammot said, raising his freshly filled goblet and taking a mouthful. “Well, Crokus has grown somewhat since then, I assure you. I hope the lad’s all right. He was—”

  Baruk threw up a hand and staggered a step forward. “What?” he demanded in sudden fear. “What’s his name? Crokus? Crokus!” The alchemist rapped his forehead. “Oh, what a fool I’ve been!”

  Mammot’s face crinkled into a wise smile. “Oh, you mean the matter of the Coin Bearer, do you?”

  Shock registered in Baruk’s face. “You knew?”

  Standing to one side, his charcoal-gray eyes fixed intently on Mammot, Rake said, in a strangely flat tone, “Mammot, forgive me for interrupting. Will you be attending Lady Simtal’s Fête?”

  The old man nodded easily. “Of course.”

  “Very good,” Rake said, with something like anticipation. He pulled his leather gloves from his belt. “We’ll speak then.”

  Baruk had no time to think about Rake’s sudden departure. It was his first mistake of the day.

  A woman with a shaved head and long flowing robes ran shrieking from the gates, a shred of brown fur streaming from one hand. Adjunct Lorn stepped back to let the priestess pass. She watched as the woman plunged into the crowd behind her. The festival had spilled out beyond Darujhistan’s walls, and Worrytown’s main street was a streaming mob she’d spent the last half-hour pushing through on her way to the gates.

  Absently she rubbed the rapier wound in her shoulder. Her journey into the barrow seemed to have slowed the healing, and an ache had settled inside the puncture, cold as the ice in the barrow’s tunnel. Eyeing the two guards stationed at the gate, she approached warily.

  Only one seemed to pay her any attention, and this man spared her but the briefest glance before returning his attention to the Worrytown mob. Lorn entered the city unremarked, simply one more traveler come to attend the spring festival.

  Immediately within the gates the avenue split around the base of a squat hill, on which crouched a half-ruined temple and tower. Off to her right rose another hill, evidently a garden, given the wide steps ascending to the summit, covered in trees, and the many fetishes and banners tied to branches and the gas-lamps.

  Lorn’s sense of those she sought was strong, unerring. Once past the hills, she could see an inner wall. Sergeant Whiskeyjack and his squad were somewhere beyond it, in the lower city. Lorn strode through the surging crowds, one hand hitched in her sword belt, the other massaging the puffed red flesh around her wound.

  The guard at Worry Gate pushed himself from the wall he had been leaning against and paced a slow circle on the cobblestones. He paused to adjust his peaked helmet, loosening the strap a notch.

  The other guard, an older man, bandy-legged and short, approached. “Those fools out there making you uneasy?” he asked with a grin more gaps than teeth.

  The first man glanced through the gateway. “Had a near-riot here a couple of years back,” he said.

  “I was there,” the old man said, hawking onto the stones. “We had to pull the hoods off our polearms, draw some blood. That sent them packing, and I don’t think the lesson’s gone on them. I wouldn’t worry much. This ain’t your regular duty, is it?”

  “No, just filling in time for a friend.”

  “That’s the way of it, isn’t it? What’s your usual round?”

  “Midnight till the third bell, Despot’s Barbican,” Circle Breaker replied. He adjusted his helmet again, hoping the unseen friendly eyes had marked his signal. That woman who had passed through a few minutes ago had matched the Eel’s description perfectly. Circle Breaker knew he wasn’t mistaken.

  She’d looked the warrior, dressed as a mercenary and trying to hide the bloodstains of a wound on her shoulder. His searching glance had been but momentary. Years of practice, however, made it sufficient. He’d caught everything the Eel’s messenger had told him to look for.

  “That’s a grisly watch,” the old man said beside him, turning to squint up at Despot’s Park. “And you were here t’ meet the dawn.” He wagged his head. “The bastards got us working too hard these days, what with the city infiltrated with Empire spies and the like.”

  “It doesn’t get any better,” Circle Breaker agreed.

  “I’m here for another three hours, and you think they give me some time to join my wife and kids in the festival?” The old man spat again. “No way. Old Berrute’s off to stand around watching other people having fun in some bloody estate.”

  Circle Breaker held his breath, then sighed. “Lady Simtal’s Fête, I suppose.”

  “Damn right. Bloody Councilmen chuffing around with all their stinking airs. And me with sore feet and all, standing like a statue.”

  This was a bit of luck, Circle Breaker smiled to himself. His companion’s next station was precisely what the Eel had wanted for Circle Breaker. Better yet, the old man was complaining about it. “They need those statues,” he said. “Keeps them secure.” He stepped close to Berrute. “Didn’t you tell the sergeant about your bad feet?”

  “What’s the point?” Berrute complained. “He just delivered them orders, he didn’t come up with them.”

  Circle Breaker looked up the street, as if considering something, then he laid a hand on the other’s shoulder and met his gaze. “Look, I don’t have any family. For me, today’s just another day. I’ll stand in for you, Berrute. Next time I want some time off, though, I’ll come calling.”

  Genuine relief lit the old man’s eyes. “Nerruse bless you,” he said, grinning again. “It’s a deal, friend. Hey, I don’t even know your name!”

  Circle Breaker smiled, then told him.


  With most of the revelry out in the streets, the interior of Quip’s Bar was all but deserted. Adjunct Lorn paused inside the doorway and waited for her eyes to adjust to the gloom. A few desultory voices drifted out to her, mingling with the clatter of wooden cards.

  She entered the low-ceilinged chamber. A disheveled old woman watched her dully from behind the counter. Against the far wall was a table at which sat three men. Copper coins glittered in the lamplight, amid pools of spilled beer on the tabletop. The men held cards in their hands.

  The man with his back against the wall, wearing a scorched leather cap, looked up to meet Lorn’s eyes. He gestured to an empty chair. “Have a seat, Adjunct,” he said. “Join in the game.”

  Lorn blinked, then hid her shock with a shrug. “I don’t gamble,” she said, lowering herself into the rickety chair.

  The man examined his cards. “Not what I meant,” he said.

  The one seated on her left muttered, “Meant a different game, did Hedge.”

  She turned to regard him. Skinny, short, with massive wrists. “And what’s your name, soldier?” she asked quietly.

  “Fiddler. The guy losing his coins is Mallet. We’ve been expecting you.”

  “So I gather,” Lorn said dryly, leaning back. “Your intelligence impresses me, gentlemen. Is the sergeant nearby?”

  “Making the rounds,” Fiddler said. “Should be by in ten minutes or so. We’ve got the back room in this rat trap. Right up against the Tier wall.”

  Hedge added, “Me and Fid dug through that damn wall, seven bloody feet thick at its base. An abandoned house on the Daru side.” He grinned. “It’s our back door.”

  “So you’re the saboteurs. And Mallet? A healer, correct?”

  Mallet nodded, still contemplating his cards. “C’mon, Fiddler,” he said, “it’s your game. Let’s hear the next rule.”

  Fiddler sat forward. “Knight of House Dark is the wild card,” he said. “That’s the opening suit, too. Unless you’re holding the Virgin of Death. If you get her you can open with half ante and double up if you win the round.”

  Mallet slapped down the Virgin of Death. He tossed a single copper coin into the center of the table. “Let’s run it through, then.”

  Fiddler dealt the man another card. “We ante up now, Hedge, two coppers apiece and High Hood come the Herald of Death.”

  Lorn watched the bizarre game proceed. These men were using a Deck of Dragons. Astonishing. The man Fiddler was inventing the rules as they went along, and yet she watched the cards merge into a pattern on the tabletop. Her brows knitted thoughtfully.

  “You got the Hound on the run,” Fiddler said, pointing at the latest card placed on the table by Mallet. “Knight of Dark’s close, I can feel it.”

  “But what about this damned Virgin of Death?” groused the healer.

  “She’s had her teeth pulled. Take a look, the Rope’s right outa the picture, ain’t he?” Fiddler laid another card. “And there’s the Dragon bastard himself, sword all smoking and black as a moonless night. That’s what’s got the Hound scampering.”

  “Wait a minute,” Hedge cried, ramming down a card atop the Knight of Dark. “You said the Captain of Light’s rising, right?”

  Fiddler concentrated on the pattern. “He’s right, Mallet. We pay over two coppers each automatically. That Captain’s already dancing on the Knight’s shadow—”

  “Excuse me,” Lorn said loudly. The three men looked at her. “Are you a Talent, Fiddler? Should you be using this deck?”

  Fiddler scowled. “It ain’t your business, Adjunct. We been playing for years, nobody’s tossed a dagger our way. You want in, just say so. Here, I’ll give you your first card.”

  Before she could protest he placed a card before her, face up. She stared down at it.

  “Now, ain’t that odd?” Fiddler remarked. “Throne, inverted. You owe us all ten gold each—a year’s pay for all of us, quite a coincidence.”

  Hedge snorted loudly. “Also happens to be the Empire Guilt Coin paid to our kin once we’re confirmed dead. Thanks a lot, Fid.”

  “Take the coin and shut up,” Fiddler snapped. “We ain’t dead yet.”

  “I’m still holding a card,” Mallet said.

  Fiddler rolled his eyes. “So let’s see the damn thing, then.”

  The healer set the card down.

  “Orb.” Fiddler laughed. “True sight and judgment closes this game, wouldn’t you know it?”

  Lorn sensed a presence at her back. She turned slowly to find a bearded man behind her. His flat gray eyes held hers. “I’m Whiskeyjack,” he said softly. “Good morning, Adjunct, and welcome to Darujhistan.” He found a nearby chair and pulled it to the table, sitting down beside Hedge. “You’ll want a report, right? Well, we’re still trying to contact the Assassin’s Guild. All the mining’s done, ready for the order. One squad member lost thus far. In other words, we’ve been damn lucky. There are Tiste Andii in the city, hunting us.”

  “Who have you lost, Sergeant?” Lorn asked.

  “The recruit. Sorry was her name.”

  “Dead?”

  “Been missing for a few days now.”

  Lorn clenched her teeth to bite back a curse. “So you don’t know if she’s dead?”

  “No. Is there a problem, Adjunct? She was just a recruit. Even if she’d been nabbed by the guard, there’s scant little she could tell them. Besides, we’ve heard no such news. More likely some thugs scrubbed her in some back alley—we’ve been scurrying down a lot of rat-holes trying to find these local assassins.” He shrugged. “It’s a risk you live with, that’s all.”

  “Sorry was a spy,” Lorn explained. “A very good one, Sergeant. You can be certain that no thug killed her. No, she’s not dead. She’s hiding, because she knew I’d come looking for her. I’ve been on her trail for three years. I want her.”

  “If we’d had a hint of all this,” Whiskeyjack said tightly, “it could’ve been arranged, Adjunct. But you kept it to yourself, and that makes you on your own now.” His eyes hardened on her. “Whether we contact the Guild or not, we detonate the mines before tomorrow’s dawn, and then we’re out of here.”

  Lorn drew herself up. “I am Adjunct to the Empress, Sergeant. As of now this mission is under my direction. You will take orders from me. All this independent crap is over, understand?” For a moment she almost thought she saw a flash of triumph in the man’s eyes. A second look revealed it to be no more than the expected anger.

  “Understood, Adjunct,” Whiskeyjack replied curtly. “What are your orders?”

  “I am serious in this, Sergeant,” she warned. “And I don’t care how angry this makes you. Now, I suggest we retire to more private surroundings.” She rose. “Your men can remain here.”

  Whiskeyjack stood. “Of course, Adjunct. We have the back room. If you will follow me.”

  Lorn reached down to the bed’s top blanket. “There is blood here, Sergeant.” She turned to regard the man as he closed the door.

  He faced her. “One of my men had a brush with a Tiste Andii assassin-mage. He’ll recover.”

  “Highly unlikely, Sergeant. The Tiste Andii are all with Caladan Brood in the north.” Her eyes widened in disbelief. “You don’t mean to suggest that the Lord of Moon’s Spawn himself has left his fortress? To do what? Hunt down Malazan spies? Don’t be absurd.”

  Whiskeyjack scowled. “Corporal Kalam and my squad mage had a rooftop engagement with at least half a dozen Tiste Andii. That my men survived makes it highly unlikely that the Moon’s lord was anywhere in the vicinity, doesn’t it, Adjunct? Put it together. The Moon stations itself just south of the city. Its lord strikes an alliance with Darujhistan’s rulers, and their first task is to wipe out the local Assassins’ Guild. Why? To prevent people like us from contacting them and offering a contract. And, so far, it’s worked.”

  Lorn thought for a time, then she said, “So if the Guild cannot be contacted, why not do the assassinations yourselves? Your Corporal Kalam ranke
d among the best in the Claw before his . . . his falling out. Why not take out the city’s rulers?”

  The man folded his arms across his chest and leaned against the wall beside the door. “We’ve been considering that, Adjunct. And we’re a step ahead of you. Right now, one of my men is negotiating for us to work as private strong-arms for a highbrow Fête this evening. Everybody who’s anybody is supposed to attend—Council members, High Mages, the works. My saboteurs have enough leftover munitions to make it a party this city will have a hard time forgetting.”

  Lorn struggled against a growing sense of frustration. As much as she’d intended to take command of things, it seemed that this Whiskeyjack had been doing just fine up until now, given the circumstances. She suspected she could not have done things any better, though she still doubted the story about the Tiste Andii. “Why on earth,” she asked finally, “would an estate hire a bunch of strangers as guards?”

  “Oh, there’ll be city soldiers there as well. But none of them is a Barghast.” Whiskeyjack smiled cynically. “Titillation factor, Adjunct. It’s what makes the nobility drool. Look there, a big tattooed barbarian glowering down at them. Exciting, yes?” He shrugged. “It’s a risk, but one worth taking. Unless, of course, you have a better idea, Adjunct?”

  She heard the challenge in his tone. Had she thought about it, she would have realized long before now that her title and power would not intimidate this man. He’d stood at Dassem Ultor’s side, arguing tactics with the Sword of the Empire in the midst of battle. And it seemed that demotion to sergeant had failed to break this man—that much she’d gathered from the Bridgeburners’ reputation at Pale. He would not hesitate to challenge her every command if he found reason to do so. “Your plan is sound,” she said. “Tell me the name of this estate.”