A wave of incandescent fire struck Raest from the right, solid as a battering fist. Howling, he was thrown through the air, landing in a bank of powdery ash. Silanah’s fire raced over him, blackening what was left of his flesh. The Tyrant clambered upright, his body jerking uncontrollably as sorcery gouted from his right hand.
The ground shook as Raest’s power hammered Silanah down, driving the dragon skidding and tumbling across the slope. The Tyrant’s exultant roar was cut short as talons the length of a forearm crunched into him from behind. A second clawed foot joined the first, snapping through the bones of Raest’s chest as if they were twigs. More talons flexed around him as a second dragon sought grip.
The Tyrant twisted helplessly as the claws lifted him into the air and started ripping his body apart. He dislocated his own shoulder in reaching round to dig his fingers into a sleek scaled shin. At the contact, Omtose Phellack surged into the dragon’s leg, shattering bone, boiling blood. Raest laughed as the claws spasmed loose and he was flung away. More bones snapped as he struck the ground, but it did not matter. His power was absolute, the vessel that carried it had little relevance. If need be, the Tyrant would find other bodies, bodies in the thousands.
He climbed once more to his feet. “Now,” he whispered, “I deliver death.”
Chapter Twenty-one
The flowering of light from darkness
brought into my sight there on the field
a host of dragons caught
like a crest of wind before the eternal flame.
I saw the ages in their eyes
a worldly map inscribed
in each whirled scale on their hides.
Their sorcery bled from them
like the breathing of stars
and I knew then
that dragons had come among us . . .
ANOMANDARIS
FISHER (B.?)
Shadows crowded the garden’s undergrowth. Adjunct Lorn rose from her crouch and brushed the dirt from her hands. “Find an acorn.” She smiled to herself. “Plant it.”
Somewhere beyond the heavily wooded garden, servants shouted at each other as they scrambled about making last-minute arrangements. She hitched her cloak’s tail into her belt and quietly slipped among the boles of vine-wrapped trees. A moment later the back wall came into view.
An alley lay beyond, narrow and choked with the leaves and fallen branches from the gardens rising above the walls on its either side. Her route in—and now out—was a thing of ease. She scaled the rough-stoned wall, grasping vines when necessary, then slid over the top.
She landed with a soft crunch of twigs and dry leaves, within shadows as deep as those in the garden. She adjusted her cloak, then walked to one end of the alley where she leaned against a corner, crossed her arms, and smiled at the crowds passing to and fro on the street before her.
Two tasks left to perform, then she would leave this city. One of those tasks, however, might prove impossible. She sensed nothing of Sorry’s presence. Perhaps the woman was indeed dead. Under the circumstances it was the only explanation.
She watched the sea of people, its tide of faces swirling past. The latent madness there made her uneasy, especially with the city’s guards maintaining an aloof distance. She wondered at the taint of terror in that multitude of faces, and how almost every face seemed familiar.
Darujhistan blurred in her mind, becoming a hundred other cities, each rising out of her past as if on parade. Joy and fear, agony and laughter—the expressions merged into one, the sounds coming to her no different from each other. She could distinguish nothing, the faces becoming expressionless, the sounds a roar of history without meaning.
Lorn passed a hand over her eyes, then staggered back a step and reeled into the alley’s shadows behind her. She slid down one wall into a sagging crouch. A celebration of insignificance. Is that all we are in the end? Listen to them! In a few hours the city’s intersections would explode. Hundreds would die instantly, thousands to follow. Amid the rubble of shattered cobbles and toppled buildings would be these faces, locked in expressions somewhere between joy and terror. And from the dying would come sounds, hopeless cries that dwindled in the passing of pain.
She’d seen them all before, those faces. She knew them all, knew the sound of their voices, sounds mired in human emotions, sounds clear and pure with thought, and sounds wavering in that chasm between the two. Is this, she wondered, my legacy? And one day I’ll be just one more of those faces, frozen in death and wonder.
Lorn shook her head, but it was a wan effort. She realized, with sudden comprehension, that she was breaking down. The Adjunct was cracking, its armor crumbling and the luster gone from its marbled grandeur. A title as meaningless as the woman bearing it. The Empress—just another face she’d seen somewhere before, a mask behind which someone hid from mortality.
“No use hiding,” she whispered, frowning down at the dead leaves and branches around her. “No use.”
A few minutes later she pushed herself upright once again. She brushed the dirt meticulously from her cloak. One task remained within her abilities. Find the Coin Bearer. Kill him, and take Oponn’s Coin. Make the god pay for its intrusion in Empire affairs—the Empress and Tayschrenn would see to that.
The task demanded concentration, fixing her senses upon one particular signature. It would be her last act, she knew. But she would succeed. Death at the hands of failure was unthinkable. Lorn turned to the street. Dusk crept from the ground and engulfed the crowds. Far off to the east thunder sounded, yet the air was dry, with no hint of rain. She checked her weapons. “The Adjunct’s mission,” she said quietly, “is almost done.”
She entered the street and disappeared into the mob.
Kruppe rose from his table at the Phoenix Inn and attempted to fasten the last button on his waistcoat. Failing, he let his stomach relax once again and let loose a weary sigh. Well, at least the coat had been cleaned. He adjusted the cuffs of his new shirt, then walked out of the mostly empty bar.
He’d spent the last hour seated at his table, to all outward appearances musing on nothing of great importance, though in his head a pattern formed, born of his Talent, and it disturbed him greatly. Meese and Irilta losing Crokus and the girl brought everything into focus—as with most unwitting servants of the gods, once the game was done so was the servant’s life. The Coin might be gambled in a single contest, but to have it floating around indefinitely was far too dangerous. No, Crokus would find his luck abandoning him when he needed it most, and it would cost the lad his life.
“No, no,” Kruppe had murmured over his tankard. “Kruppe can’t permit that.” Yet the pattern of success remained elusive. He felt certain he had covered all the potential threats regarding the lad or, rather, someone was doing a good job of protecting Crokus—that much the pattern showed him. He experienced a nagging suspicion that the “someone” wasn’t himself, or any of his agents. And he’d just have to trust in its integrity.
Circle Breaker had come through yet again, and Kruppe was still confident that Turban Orr’s hunt for the man would prove fruitless. The Eel knew how to protect his own. In fact, Circle Breaker was due for retirement—for the man’s own safety—and Kruppe intended to deliver the good news this very night, at Lady Simtal’s Fête. Circle Breaker deserved no less after all these years.
The pattern also told him something he already knew: his cover was blown. The spell he had cast on Murillio wouldn’t last much longer, nor was it required to. Kruppe had wanted his freedom unimpeded this day. After that, well, things would fall as they would fall—and the same applied for his meeting with Baruk.
If anything gave Kruppe pause, it was the pattern’s abrupt ending. Beyond tonight, the future was blank. Clearly, a crux had been reached, and it would turn, he knew, at Lady Simtal’s Fête.
Kruppe now entered the Higher Estates District, with a generous nod at the lone guard stationed near the ramp. The man scowled, but otherwise made no comment. The Fête was se
t to begin in thirty minutes, and Kruppe planned on being one of the first to arrive. His mouth watered at the thought of all those pastries, fresh and dripping with warm, sweet liquids. He removed his mask from inside his coat and smiled at it. Perhaps, among all those attending, High Alchemist Baruk alone would appreciate the irony of this molded visage. Ah, well, he sighed. One is more than enough, given who that one is. After all, is Kruppe greedy?
His stomach rumbled in answer.
Crokus strained his eyes toward the darkening east. Something like lightning flashed every now and then beyond the hills, each one closer than the last. But the thunder’s rumble, which had begun early that afternoon and still continued, sounded somehow wrong, its timbre unlike the normal bass that rolled through the earth. It seemed almost brittle. The clouds that had appeared over the hill earlier had been an eerie ocher color, sickly, and those clouds now approached the city.
“When are we leaving?” Apsalar asked, leaning on the wall beside him.
Crokus shook himself. “Now. It’s dark enough.”
“Crokus? What will you do if Challice D’Arle betrays you a second time?”
He could barely see her face in the gloom. Had she meant that to cut? It was hard to tell from her voice. “She won’t,” he said, telling himself that he believed it. “Trust me,” and he turned toward the stairwell.
“I do,” she said simply.
Crokus winced. Why did she make things seem so easy for her? Hood’s Breath, he wouldn’t trust him. Of course, he didn’t know Challice very well. They’d only had that one, confusing conversation. What if she called the guards? Well, he’d make sure Apsalar got away safely. He paused and grasped her arm. “Listen,” his own voice sounded unduly harsh, but he pushed on, “if something goes wrong, go to the Phoenix Inn. Right? Find Meese, Irilta, or my friends Kruppe and Murillio. Tell them what happened.”
“All right, Crokus.”
“Good.” He released her arm. “Wish we had a lantern,” he said, as he stepped into the darkness, one hand reaching before him.
“Why?” Apsalar asked, slipping past him. She took his hand and led him down. “I can see. Don’t let go of my hand.”
That might be a hard thing to do even if he’d desired it, he realized. Still, there were a lot of rough calluses on that small hand. He let them remind him of what this woman was capable of doing, though the effort embarrassed him in some vague way.
Eyes wide, yet seeing nothing, Crokus allowed himself to be guided down the stairs.
The captain of Simtal’s House Guard viewed Whiskeyjack and his men with obvious distaste. “I thought you were all Barghast.” He stepped up to Trotts and jabbed a finger into the warrior’s massive chest. “You led me to believe you were all like you, Niganga.”
A low, menacing growl emerged from Trotts, and the captain stepped back, one hand reaching for his short sword.
“Captain,” Whiskeyjack said, “if we were all Barghast—”
The man’s narrow face swung to him with a scowl.
“—you’d never be able to afford us,” the sergeant finished with a tight smile. He glanced at Trotts. Niganga? Hood’s Breath! “Niganga is my second-in-command, Captain. Now, how would you like us positioned?”
“Just beyond the fountain,” he said. “Your backs will be to the garden, which has, ah, run wild of late. We don’t want any guests getting lost in there, so you gently steer them back. Understood? And when I say gently I mean it. You’re to salute anyone who talks to you, and if there’s an argument direct them to me, Captain Stillis. I’ll be making the rounds, but any one of the house guard can find me.”
Whiskeyjack nodded. “Understood, sir.” He turned to survey his squad. Fiddler and Hedge stood behind Trotts, both looking eager. Past them Mallet and Quick Ben stood on the edge of the street, heads bent together in conversation. The sergeant frowned at them, noticing how his wizard winced with every boom of thunder to the east.
Captain Stillis marched off after giving them directions through the estate’s rooms out to the terrace and garden beyond. Whiskeyjack waited for the man to leave his line of sight, then he strode to Quick Ben and Mallet. “What’s wrong?” he asked.
Quick Ben looked frightened.
Mallet said, “That thunder and lightning, Sergeant? Well, it ain’t no storm. Paran’s story is looking real.”
“Meaning we have little time,” Whiskeyjack said. “Wonder why the Adjunct didn’t show up—you think she’s melting her boots getting away from here?”
Mallet shrugged.
“Don’t you get it?” Quick Ben said shakily. He took a couple of deep breaths, then continued, “That creature out there is in a fight. We’re talking major sorceries, only it’s getting closer, which means that it’s winning. And that means—”
“We’re in trouble,” Whiskeyjack finished. “All right, we go as planned for now. Come on, we’ve been assigned right where we want to be. Quick Ben, you sure Kalam and Paran can find us?”
The wizard moaned. “Directions delivered, Sergeant.”
“Good. Let’s move, then. Through the house and eyes forward.”
“He looks like he’s going to sleep for days,” Kalam said, straightening beside Coll’s bed and facing the captain.
Paran rubbed his red-shot eyes. “She must have given them something,” he insisted wearily, “even if they didn’t see it.”
Kalam wagged his head. “I’ve told you, sir, she didn’t. Everyone was on the lookout for something like that. The squad’s still clean. Now, we’d better get moving.”
Paran climbed to his feet with an effort. He was exhausted, and he knew he was just an added burden. “She’ll turn up at this estate, then,” he insisted, strapping on his sword.
“Well,” Kalam said, as he walked to the door, “that’s where you and me come in, right? She shows up and we take her out—just like you’ve wanted to do all along.”
“Right now,” Paran said, joining the assassin, “the shape I’m in will make my role in the fight a short one. Consider me the surprise factor, the one thing she won’t be expecting, the one thing that’ll stop her for a second.” He looked into the man’s dark eyes. “Make that second count, Corporal.”
Kalam grinned. “I hear you, sir.”
They left Coll still snoring contentedly and went down to the bar’s main floor. As they passed along the counter, Scurve looked at them warily.
Kalam released an exasperated curse and, in a surge of motion, reached out and grasped him by the shirt. He pulled the squealing innkeeper halfway across the counter until their faces were inches apart. “I’m sick of waiting,” the assassin growled. “You get this message to this city’s Master of the Assassins. I don’t care how. Just do it, and do it fast. Here’s the message: the biggest contract offer of the Master’s life will be waiting at the back wall of Lady Simtal’s estate. Tonight. If the Guild Master’s worthy of that name then maybe—just maybe—it’s not too big for the Guild to handle. Deliver that message, even if you have to shout it from the rooftops, or I’m coming back here with killing in mind.”
Paran stared at his corporal, too tired to be amazed. “We’re wasting time,” he drawled.
Kalam tightened his grip and glared into Scurve’s eyes. “We’d better not be,” he growled. He released the man by gently lowering him onto the countertop. Then he tossed a handful of silver coins beside Scurve. “For your troubles,” he said.
Paran gestured and the assassin nodded. They left the Phoenix Inn.
“Still following orders, Corporal?”
Kalam grunted. “We were instructed to make the offer in the name of the Empress, Captain. If the contract’s accepted and the assassinations are done, then Laseen will have to pay up, whether we’ve been outlawed or not.”
“A gutted city for Dujek and his army to occupy, with the Empress paying for it. She’ll choke on that, Kalam.”
He grinned. “That’s her problem, not mine.”
In the street, the Grayfaces move
d through the noisy crowd like silent specters, lighting the gas-lamps with long-poled sparkers. Some people, brazen with drink, hugged the figures and blessed them. The Grayfaces, hooded and anonymous, simply bowed in reply and continued on their way once freed.
Kalam stared at them, his brows knitting.
“Something the matter, Corporal?” Paran asked.
“Just something nagging me. Can’t pin it down. Only, it’s got to do with those Grayfaces.”
The captain shrugged. “They keep the lanterns lit. Shall we make our way, then?”
Kalam sighed. “Might as well, sir.”
The black lacquered carriage, drawn by two dun stallions, moved slowly through the press. A dozen feet ahead marched a brace of Baruk’s own house guards, driving a wedge down the street’s center, using their wrapped weapons when shouts and curses failed.
In the plush confines of the carriage the outside roar surged and ebbed like a distant tide, muted by the alchemist’s sound-deadening spells. He sat with his chin lowered on his chest, his eyes—hidden in the shadow of his brow and half-shut—studying the Tiste Andii seated across from him. Rake had said nothing since his return to the estate just minutes before their planned departure.
Baruk’s head throbbed. Sorcery shook the hills to the east, sending waves of concussion that struck every mage within range like mailed fists. He well knew its source. The barrow dweller approached, its every step contested by Anomander Rake’s Tiste Andii. It seemed that Mammot’s prediction had been too generous. They didn’t have days, they had hours.
Yet, despite the warring Warrens, despite the fact that the Jaghut Tyrant’s power was superior to Rake’s mages’—that the barrow dweller came on, relentless, unstoppable, a growing storm of Omtose Phellack sorcery—the Lord of Moon’s Spawn sat at ease on the padded couch, legs stretched out before him and gloved hands folded in his lap. The mask lying on the velvet at his side was exquisite, if ghastly. In better times Baruk might have been amused, appreciative of its workmanship, but right now when he regarded it his lone response was suspicion. A secret was locked in that mask, something that bespoke the man who would wear it. But the secret eluded Baruk.
The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen Page 58