Turban Orr adjusted his hawk mask and paused just before the wide steps leading to the estate’s main doors. He heard another carriage arrive at the gates and turned. From the doorway at his back came the shuffle of footsteps.
Lady Simtal spoke behind him. “I would rather you’d permitted one of my servants to inform me of your arrival, Councilman. Allow me the privilege of escorting you into the main chamber.” She slipped her arm through his.
“A moment,” he muttered, eyes on the figure now emerging from the carriage. “It’s the alchemist’s carriage,” he said, “but that’s hardly Baruk, now, is it?”
Lady Simtal looked. “Trake unleashed!” she gasped. “Who would that be?”
“Baruk’s guest,” Orr said dryly.
Her grip bit into his arm. “I’m aware of his privilege, Councilman. Tell me, have you seen this one before?”
The man shrugged. “He’s masked. How could I tell?”
“How many men do you know, Turban, who are seven feet tall and wear two-handed swords strapped to their backs?” She squinted. “That white hair, do you think it’s part of the mask?”
The councilman did not reply. He watched as Baruk emerged behind the stranger. The alchemist’s mask was a conservative silver-inlaid half-shield that no more than covered his eyes. An obvious statement denying duplicity. Turban Orr grunted, knowing well that his suspicions about the alchemist’s influence and power were accurate. His eyes returned to the stranger. His mask was that of a black dragon, lacquered with fine silver-traced highlights; somehow the dragon’s expression seemed . . . sly.
“Well?” Lady Simtal demanded. “Are we going to linger out here all night? And where’s your dear wife, anyway?”
“Ill,” he said distractedly. He smiled at her. “Shall we introduce ourselves to the alchemist’s guest? And have I complimented you yet on your attire?”
“You haven’t,” she said.
“A black panther suits you, Lady.”
“But of course it does,” she replied testily, as Baruk and his guest strode down the paved walk toward them. She disengaged her arm and stepped forward. “Good evening, Alchemist Baruk. Welcome,” she added to the black-dragon-masked man. “An astonishing presentation. Have we met?”
“Good evening, Lady Simtal,” Baruk said, bowing. “Councilman Turban Orr. Permit me to introduce,” he hesitated, but the Tiste Andii had been firm on this, “Lord Anomander Rake, a visitor to Darujhistan.” The alchemist waited to see if the councilman would recognize the name.
Turban Orr bowed formally. “On behalf of the City Council, welcome, Lord Anomander Rake.”
Baruk sighed. Anomander Rake, a name known by poets and scholars, but not, it appeared, by councilmen.
Orr continued, “As a lord, I assume you hold title to land?” He almost stepped back as the dragon’s visage swung to regard him. Deep blue eyes fixed on his.
“Land? Yes, Councilman, I hold title. However, my title is honorary, presented to me by my people.” Rake looked past Orr’s shoulder to the room beyond the wide doorway. “It seems, Lady, that the evening is well under way.”
“Indeed.” She laughed. “Come, join in the festivities.”
Baruk breathed another relieved sigh.
Murillio had to admit that Kruppe’s choice of mask suited him perfectly. He found himself grinning behind his feather-decked peacock mask in spite of his trepidation. He stood near the opened doorway leading out to the patio and garden, a goblet of light wine in one hand, the other hitched in his belt.
Rallick leaned against the wall beside him, arms crossed. His mask was that of a Catlin tiger, idealized to mimic the god Trake’s image. Murillio knew the assassin let the wall bear his weight out of exhaustion rather than from a lazy slouch. He wondered yet again if matters would fall to him. The assassin stiffened suddenly, eyes on the entrance across from them.
Murillio craned to see past the crowd. There, the hawk. He murmured, “That’s Turban Orr all right. Who’s he with?”
“Simtal,” Rallick growled. “And Baruk, and some monster of a man wearing a dragon’s mask—and armed.”
“Baruk?” Murillio laughed nervously. “Let’s hope he doesn’t recognize us. It wouldn’t take him a second to put everything together.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Rallick said. “He won’t stop us.”
“Maybe you’re right.” Then Murillio almost dropped his glass. “Hood’s Weary Feet!”
Rallick hissed between his teeth. “Dammit! Look at him! He’s heading straight for them!”
Lady Simtal and Turban Orr excused themselves, leaving Baruk and Rake momentarily alone in the middle of the chamber. People moved around them, some nodding deferentially at Baruk but all keeping their distance. A crowd gathered around Simtal where she stood at the foot of the winding staircase, eager with questions regarding Anomander Rake.
A figure approached Baruk and his companion. Short, round, wearing a faded red waistcoat, both hands clutching pastries, the man wore a cherub’s mask, its open red-lipped mouth smeared with cake icing and crumbs. His route to them met with one obstacle after another as he negotiated his way across the room, excusing himself at every turn and twist.
Rake noticed the newcomer, for he said, “Seems eager, doesn’t he?”
Baruk chuckled. “He’s worked for me,” he said. “And I’ve worked for him as well. Anomander Rake, behold the one they call the Eel. Darujhistan’s master-spy.”
“Do you jest?”
“No.”
Kruppe arrived, his chest heaving. “Master Baruk!” he said breathlessly. “What a surprise to find you here.” The cherub face swung over and up to Rake. “The hair is an exquisite touch, sir. Exquisite. I am named Kruppe, sir. Kruppe the First.” He raised a pastry to his mouth and jammed it in.
“This is Lord Anomander Rake, Kruppe.”
Kruppe nodded vigorously, then swallowed audibly. “Of course! Why, then, you must be quite used to such a lofty stance, sir. Kruppe envies those who can look down upon everyone else.”
“It is easy to fool oneself,” Rake answered, “into viewing those beneath one as small and insignificant. The risks of oversight, you might say.”
“Kruppe might well say, assuming the pun was intended. But who would disagree that the dragon’s lot is ever beyond the ken of mere humankind? Kruppe can only guess at the thrill of flight, the wail of high winds, the rabbits scurrying below as one’s shadow brushes their limited awareness.”
“My dear Kruppe,” Baruk sighed, “it is but a mask.”
“Such is the irony of life,” Kruppe proclaimed, raising one pastry-filled hand over his head, “that one learns to distrust the obvious, surrendering instead to insidious suspicion and confused conclusion. But, lo, is Kruppe deceived? Can an eel swim? Hurrah, these seeming muddy waters are home to Kruppe, and his eyes are wide with wonder!” He bowed with a flourish, spattering bits of cake over Rake and Baruk, then marched off, still talking. “A survey of the kitchen is in order, Kruppe suspects . . .”
“An eel indeed,” Rake said, in an amused tone. “He is a lesson to us all, is he not?”
“Agreed,” Baruk muttered, shoulders slumping. “I need a drink. Let me get you one. Excuse me.”
Turban Orr stood with his back to the wall and surveyed the crowded room. He was finding it difficult to relax. The last week had been exhausting. He still awaited confirmation from the Assassins’ Guild that Coll was dead. It wasn’t like them to take so long to complete a contract, and sticking a knife into a drunk shouldn’t have been too difficult.
His hunt for the spy in his organizations had reached a dead end, but he remained convinced that such a man—or woman—existed. Again and again, and especially since Lim’s assassination, he’d found his moves in the Council blocked by countermoves, too unfocused for him to point a finger at any one person. But the proclamation was dead in the water.
He’d come to that conclusion this morning. And he’d acted. Even now his most trusted and ca
pable messenger rode the trader’s track, probably passing through the Gadrobi Hills and that thunderstorm at this very moment, on his way to Pale. To the Empire. Turban Orr knew the Malazans were on the way. No one in Darujhistan could stop them. And the Moon’s lord had been defeated once, at Pale. Why would it be any different this time around? No, the time had come to ensure that his own position would survive the Empire’s occupation. Or, better yet, an even higher rank to reward his vital support.
His eyes fell casually on a guard stationed to one side of the spiral staircase. The man looked familiar somehow—not his face, but the way he stood, the set of the shoulders. Was the man’s usual station at Majesty Hall? No, the uniform was that of a regular, while Majesty Hall was the domain of the élites. Turban Orr’s frown deepened behind the hawk mask. Then the guard adjusted his helmet strap, and Turban Orr gasped. He leaned back against the wall, overcome by trembling. Despot’s Barbican! All those nights, night after night—for years—that guard had witnessed his midnight meetings with his allies and agents. There stood his spy.
He straightened, closing one hand over the pommel of his dueling sword. He’d leave no room for questions, and damn Simtal’s sensibilities—and damn this party. He wanted his vengeance to be swift and immediate. He’d let no one stop him. His eyes fixing on the unsuspecting guard, Turban Orr stepped forward.
He collided with a hard shoulder and staggered back. A large man in a tiger mask turned to him. Orr waited for an apology, but received only silence. He moved to step past the man.
The stranger’s arm intercepted him. Turban Orr cursed as a gloved hand poured wine down his chest. “Idiot!” he snapped. “I am Councilman Turban Orr! Out of my way.”
“I know who you are,” the man said quietly.
Orr jabbed a finger into the man’s chest. “Keep that mask on, so I’ll know who to look for later.”
“I didn’t even notice your mask,” the man said, his voice cold and flat. “Fooled by the nose, I suppose.”
The councilman’s eyes narrowed. “Eager to die, are you?” he grated. “I will oblige you.” His hand twitched on his sword’s pommel. “In a few minutes. Right now I have—”
“I wait on no man,” Rallick Nom said. “And certainly not for some thin-lipped prancer pretending to manhood. If you’ve the belly for a duel, make it now or stop wasting time with all this talk.”
Shaking, Turban Orr took a step back and faced the man directly. “What’s your name?” he demanded hoarsely.
“You are not fit to hear it, Councilman.”
Turban Orr raised his hands and whirled to the crowd. “Hear me, guests! Unexpected entertainment for you all!” Conversation died and everyone faced the councilman. He continued, “A fool has challenged my honor, friends. And since when has Turban Orr permitted such an insult?”
“A duel!” someone cried excitedly. Voices rose.
Orr pointed at Rallick Nom. “This man, so bold as to wear Trake’s face, will be dead shortly. Look upon him now, friends, as he looks upon you—and know that he is all but dead already.”
“Stop babbling,” Rallick drawled.
The councilman pulled the mask from his face, revealing a tight grin. “If I could kill you a thousand times,” he said, “it would not be enough to satisfy me. I must settle with you but once.”
Rallick removed his mask and tossed it on to the carpeted stairs. He looked upon Turban Orr with flat, dark eyes. “Done breaking wind, Councilman?”
“Unmasked and still a stranger,” Orr said, scowling. “So be it. Find yourself a second.” A thought struck him, and he turned back to the crowd, searching it. Toward the back he saw the mask he sought, that of a wolf. His choosing of a second could well have political benefits, assuming the man accepted. And, in this crowd, he’d be a fool to deny Orr. “For myself,” he said loudly, “I would be honored if Councilman Estraysian D’Arle act as my second.”
The wolf started. Beside him stood two women, one no more than a girl. D’Arle’s wife was dressed as a veiled woman of Callows, while the girl had selected—outrageously—the minimal garb of a Barghast warmaiden. Both wife and daughter spoke to Estraysian. He stepped forward. “The honor is mine,” he rumbled, completing the ritual acceptance.
Turban Orr felt a surge of triumph. To have his most powerful enemy in the Council at his side for this duel would send a message mixed enough to panic half the Council members present. Pleased at his coup, he faced his nameless opponent again. “And your second?”
Silence fell over the room.
“I haven’t much time,” Lady Simtal said in a low voice. “After all, as the hostess for this fête . . .”
“It’s your duty,” murmured the man before her, “to satisfy your guests.” He reached forth and brushed the hair from her forehead. “Which is something I’m certain you can do, and do well.”
She smiled and walked to the door. She locked its latch, then spun to face the man again. “Perhaps half an hour,” she said.
The man strode to the bed and tossed down his leather gloves. “I’m confident,” he said, “that those thirty minutes will be satisfying indeed, each more than the last.”
Lady Simtal joined him beside the bed. “I suppose,” she whispered, as she slipped her arms around the man’s neck and drew his face down to her lips, “that you’ve no choice now but to tell the Widow Lim the sad news.” She touched her lips to his, then ran her tongue along the line of his jaw.
“Mmm? What sad news is that?”
“Oh, that you’ve found yourself a more worthy lover, of course.” Her tongue reached into his ear. Abruptly she pulled back and met his eyes searchingly. “Do you hear that?” she asked.
He brought his arms around her and drew her closer. “Hear what?”
“That’s just it,” she said. “It’s suddenly quiet downstairs. I’d better—”
“They’re in the garden, no doubt,” the man said reassuringly. “The minutes are passing, Lady.”
She hesitated, then made the mistake of letting him press his body against hers. Lady Simtal’s eyes widened in near-alarm. Her breathing changed. “So,” she gasped, “what are we doing still dressed?”
“Good question,” Murillio growled, pulling both of them onto the bed.
_____
In the silence following Turban Orr’s question, Baruk found himself preparing to step forward. Knowing well what that would reveal, he felt compelled nevertheless. Rallick Nom was here to right a dreadful wrong. More, the man was a friend, closer to the alchemist than Kruppe or Murillio—and, in spite of his profession, a man of integrity. And Turban Orr was Lady Simtal’s last link to real power. If Rallick killed the man, she’d fall.
Coll’s return to the Council was something Baruk and his fellow T’orrud mages greatly desired. And Turban Orr’s death would be a relief. More was riding on this duel than Rallick imagined. The alchemist adjusted his robe and drew a deep breath.
A large hand closed on his upper arm, and before Baruk could react, Lord Anomander Rake stepped forward. “I offer my services as second,” he said loudly. He met Rallick’s eyes.
The assassin betrayed nothing, not once looking at Baruk. He answered Rake’s offer with a nod.
“Perhaps,” Turban Orr sneered, “the two strangers know each other.”
“We’ve never met,” Rake said. “However, I find myself instinctively sharing his distaste for your endless talk, Councilman. Thus I seek to avoid a Council debate on who will be this man’s second. Shall we proceed?”
Turban Orr led the way out to the terrace, Estraysian D’Arle behind him. As Baruk turned to follow he felt a familiar contact of energies at his side. He swung his head and recoiled. “Good gods, Mammot! Where did you get that hideous mask?”
The old man’s eyes held his briefly then shied away. “An accurate rendition of Jaghut features, I believe,” he said softly. “Though I think the tusks are a little short.”
Baruk shook himself. “Have you managed to find your nephew ye
t?”
“No,” Mammot replied. “I am deeply worried by that.”
“Well,” the alchemist grunted as they walked outside, “let’s hope that Oponn’s luck holds for the lad.”
“Of course,” Mammot murmured.
Whiskeyjack’s eyes widened as a crowd of excited guests poured out from the main chamber and gathered on the terrace.
Fiddler scurried to his side. “It’s a duel, Sergeant. The guy with the wine stain on his shirt is one of them, a councilman named Orr. Nobody knows who the other man is. He’s over there with that big man in the dragon mask.”
The sergeant had been leaning, arms crossed, against one of the marble pillars encircling the fountain, but at seeing the tall dragon-masked figure he came near to toppling into the fountain behind him. “Hood’s Balls!” he cursed. “Recognize that long silver hair, Fid?”
The saboteur frowned.
“Moon’s Spawn,” Whiskeyjack breathed. “That’s the mage, the Lord who stood on that portal and battled Tayschrenn.” He reeled off an impressive list of curses, then added, “And he’s not human.”
Fiddler groaned. “Tiste Andii. The bastard’s found us. We’ve had it.”
“Shut up.” Whiskeyjack was recovering from his shock. “Line everybody up the way that Captain Stillis wanted us. Backs to the woods and hands on weapons. Move!”
Fiddler scrambled. The sergeant watched the saboteur round up his men. Where in Hood’s name were Kalam and Paran anyway? He caught Quick Ben’s eye and gestured the mage over.
“Fid explained it,” Quick Ben said, leaning close. “I may not be much use, Sergeant. That barrow-dweller’s unleashing waves of nasty stuff. My head feels ready to explode.” He grinned wanly. “And look around. You can pick out all the mages by the sick looks on their faces. If we all accessed our Warrens, we’d be fine.”
“Then why don’t you?”
The wizard grimaced. “That Jaghut would fix on us as if we were a beacon of fire. And he’d take the weaker ones—even from this distance, he’d take them. And then there’d be Hood to pay.”
The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen Page 59