He looked up at her blankly. “Wait!” He sprang to his feet. “Listen, Challice! Forget this Gorlas idiot. Within the year my uncle will introduce us formally. Mammot is a famous writer.”
Challice rolled her eyes. “Get your feet back on the ground. A writer? Some old man with ink-stained hands who walks into walls—has his house power? Influence? House Tholius has power, influence, everything required. Besides, Gorlas loves me.”
“But I—” He stopped, looking away. Did he? No. Did that matter, though? What did he want from her, anyway?
“What do you want from me, anyway?” Challice demanded.
He studied his feet. Then he met her eyes. “Company?” he asked diffidently. “Friendship? What am I saying? I’m a thief! I rob women like you!”
“That’s right,” she snapped. “So why pretend otherwise?” Her expression softened. “Crokus, I won’t betray you. It will be our secret.”
For the briefest of moments he felt like a child being stroked and consoled by a kindly matron, and he found himself enjoying it.
“Before you,” she added, smiling, “I’d never met a real thief from the streets.”
His enjoyment ended in a surge of anger. “Hood’s Breath, no,” he sneered.
“Real? You don’t know what’s real, Challice. You’ve never had blood on your hands. You’ve never seen a man die. But that’s the way it should be, isn’t it? Leave the dirt to us, we’re used to it.”
“I saw a man die tonight,” Challice said quietly. “I never want to again. If that’s what ‘real’ means, then I don’t want it. It’s all yours, Crokus. Good-bye.” She turned and walked away.
Crokus stared at her back, her braided hair, as her words rang in his head.
Suddenly exhausted, he turned to the garden. He hoped Apsalar had remained where he’d left her. The last thing he wanted now was to have to track her down. He slipped into the shadows.
Mallet recoiled with his first step into the glade. Paran gripped his arm. Their eyes met.
The healer shook his head. “I’ll not approach any closer, sir. Whatever lives there is anathema to my Denul Warren. And it . . . it senses me . . . with hunger.” He wiped sweat from his brow, drew a shaky breath. “Best bring the girl to me here.”
Paran released his arm and darted into the clearing. The block of wood was now the size of a table, veined in thick, twisting roots and pocked on its sides with rough squared holes. The earth around it looked soaked in blood. “Corporal,” he whispered, chilled. “Send the girl over to Mallet.”
Kalam laid a hand on her shoulder. “It’s all right, lass,” he said, in the tone of a kindly uncle, “you go on, now. We’ll join you shortly.”
“Yes,” she smiled, and moved to where the healer stood at the glade’s edge. Kalam rubbed his bristly jaw, eyes following her. “Never seen Sorry smile before,” he said, as Paran arrived. “And that’s a shame.”
They stood and watched as Mallet spoke quietly to the girl, then stepped forward and laid a hand on her forehead.
Paran cocked his head. “The storm’s stopped,” he said.
“Yeah. Hope it means what we’d like it to mean.”
“Someone’s stopped it. I share your hope, Corporal.” For the captain however, it was a small hope. Something was building. He sighed. “It’s not even the twelfth bell yet. Hard to believe.”
“Long night ahead of us,” the assassin said, making it clear that he, too, found himself sorely lacking in optimism. He grunted. Mallet had voiced an amazed cry that reached them. The healer drew back his hand and waved at Paran and Kalam. “You go,” the assassin said.
The captain frowned at the black man, confused. Then he went over to where the healer and Sorry waited. The girl’s eyes were closed, and she seemed in a trance.
Mallet was direct. “The possession’s gone,” he said.
“Guessed as much,” Paran replied, eyeing the girl.
“There’s more to it, though,” the healer continued. “She’s got someone else inside her, sir.”
Paran’s brows rose.
“Someone who was there all along. How it survived the Rope’s presence is beyond me. And now I’ve got a choice.”
“Explain.”
Mallet crouched, found a twig and began to scratch aimless patterns in the dirt. “That someone’s been protecting the girl’s mind, acting like an alchemist’s filter. In the last two years, Sorry’s done things that would drive her insane if she’d remembered any of it. That presence is fighting those memories right now, but it needs help, because it isn’t as strong as it once was. It’s dying.”
Paran squatted beside the man. “You’re thinking of offering that help, then?”
“Not sure. You see, sir, I don’t know its plans. Don’t know what it’s up to, can’t read the pattern it’s trying to make. So let’s say I help it, only what it wants is absolute control? Then the girl’s possessed all over again.”
“So you think the presence was protecting Sorry from the Rope, only so it could now jump in and take over?”
“Put it that way,” Mallet said, “and it doesn’t make sense. What gets me, though, is why else would that presence commit itself so thoroughly? Its body, its flesh is gone. If it lets go of the girl it’s got nowhere to go, sir. Now, maybe it’s a loved one, a relative or something like that. A person who was willing to sacrifice herself absolutely. That’s a possibility.”
“Herself? It’s a woman?”
“It was. Damned if I know what it is now. All I get from it is sadness.” The healer met Paran’s eyes. “It’s the saddest thing I’ve ever known, sir.”
Paran studied the man’s face briefly, then he rose. “I’m not going to give you an order on what to do, Healer.”
“But?”
“But, for what it’s worth, I say do it. Give it what it needs so it can do what it wants to do.”
Mallet puffed out his cheeks, then tossed down the twig and straightened. “My instinct, too, sir. Thanks.”
Kalam spoke loudly from the glade. “Far enough. Show yourselves.”
The two men spun around to see Kalam looking into the woods to their left. Paran grasped Mallet’s arm and pulled him into the shadows. The healer dragged Sorry with them.
Two figures entered the glade, a woman and a man.
Crokus snaked closer through the vines and mulch of the forest floor. For an off-limits garden, this was a busy tangle of wood. The voices he’d heard in his search for Apsalar now revealed themselves as two men and one silver-masked woman. All three were looking at an odd, blurry tree stump in the center of the glade. Slowly Crokus let out a breath. One of the men was Rallick Nom.
“There is ill in this,” the woman said, stepping back. “A hunger.”
The large black-skinned man at her side grunted. “Wouldn’t argue with you on that, Guild Master. Whatever it is, it ain’t Malazan.”
The thief’s eyes widened. Malazan spies? Guild Master? Vorcan! Seemingly impervious to the strangeness around her, the woman now turned to Rallick. “How does it affect you, Rallick?”
“It doesn’t,” he said.
“Approach it, then.”
The assassin shrugged and walked up to the writhing, knotted block. Its blurred movement stopped.
Vorcan relaxed. “You seem to damage its efforts, Rallick. Curious.”
The man grunted. “Otataral dust.”
“What?”
“I rubbed it into my skin.”
Vorcan stared.
The other man’s eyes narrowed on Rallick. “I remember you, Assassin. Our quarry when we first sought to make contact. The night of the ambush from above.”
Rallick nodded.
“Well,” the Malazan continued, “I’m surprised you survived.”
“He is a man of many surprises,” Vorcan said. “Very well, Corporal Kalam of the Bridgeburners, your request for an audience reached me and I have granted it. Before we begin, however, I would appreciate it if the rest of your party were to jo
in us.” She turned to the trees on her right.
Crokus’s head was already reeling—Bridgeburners!—but it felt moments away from bursting when he saw two men emerge from the shadows, with Apsalar between them. She looked drugged, and her eyes were closed.
One of the men said, “Guild Master, I am Captain Paran of the Ninth Squad.” He drew a deep breath, then continued, “In this matter, however, Kalam speaks for the Empire.”
Vorcan turned back to the black man. “Then the audience is begun.”
“We both know, Guild Master, that the City Council is not Darujhistan’s true power base. And since you’re not, either, we’ve concluded that the city’s mages operate covertly, keeping the status quo intact being their overriding interest. Whoever they are, they’re good at hiding themselves. Now, we might just decide to kill every mage in Darujhistan, but that would take too long, and it might prove messy. Instead, Guild Master, the Malazan Empire has issued a contract on Darujhistan’s true rulers. One hundred thousand gold jakatas. Each. More, the Empress offers the mantle of the city’s control, accompanied with the title High First and all the privileges that come with it.” He crossed his arms.
Vorcan was silent, then she said, “Empress Laseen is willing to pay nine hundred thousand jakatas to me?”
“If that’s the number. Yes,” Kalam agreed.
“The T’orrud Cabal is a powerful force, Corporal. But before I answer, I would know of the creature who approaches from the east.” Her face tightened fractionally. “Five dragons opposed it for a time, presumably hailing from Moon’s Spawn. I assume that Master Baruk and his Cabal have sealed an agreement with the Son of Darkness.”
Kalam looked stunned, then recovered quickly. “Guild Master, the approaching force was not of our making. We’d welcome its destruction at the hands of the Son of Darkness. As for your hidden question, I would assume that the alliance between the Tiste Andii and the Cabal will become void with the death of the cabal’s members. We’re not asking you to try to kill the Lord of Moon’s Spawn.”
Paran cleared his throat. “Guild Master, Moon’s Spawn and the Malazan Empire have clashed before. The pattern indicates that the Son of Darkness is likely to retreat rather than stand against us alone.”
“Accurate,” Vorcan agreed. “Corporal Kalam, I have no wish to waste the lives of my assassins on such an effort. Only an assassin who is a High Mage could hope to succeed. Therefore, I accept the contract. I will conduct the assassinations. Now, as to the matter of payment . . .”
“Delivered by Warren upon completion of the contract,” Kalam said. “You may know this already, Guild Master, but the Empress was once an assassin. She abides by the rules of conduct. The gold shall be paid. The title and rule of Darujhistan given without hesitation.”
“Accepted, Corporal Kalam.” Vorcan turned to Rallick. “I begin immediately. Rallick Nom, the task I now give you is vital. I have considered your strange ability to negate the growth of this . . . ill thing. My instincts are such: it must not be permitted to continue growing. You will remain here, thus holding it in stasis.”
“For how long?” he growled.
“Until my return. At that time I will test its defenses. Oh, and one more thing: Ocelot’s actions were not sanctioned by the Guild. Executing him fulfilled the Guild’s judgment as to fit punishment. Thank you, Rallick Nom. The Guild is pleased.”
Rallick walked over to the strange stump and sat down on it.
“Until later,” Vorcan said, and strode from the glade.
Crokus watched as the three Malazan spies gathered for a whispered discussion. Then one of the men grasped Apsalar’s arm and gently guided her into the woods, making for the rear wall. The remaining two, Captain Paran and Corporal Kalam, glanced over at Rallick.
The assassin’s head was in his hands, his elbows on his thighs, staring gloomily at the ground.
Kalam hissed a sigh through his teeth and shook his head. A moment later both men left, in the direction of the terrace.
Crokus hesitated, a part of him wanting to rush into the glade and confront Rallick. Assassinate the mages! Hand Darujhistan to the Malazans? How could the man allow such a thing to happen? He did not move, however, a fear growing inside him that he, in truth, knew nothing of this man. Would the assassin listen to him? Or would he answer Crokus with a knife in the throat? Crokus didn’t feel like taking the chance.
In the last minute Rallick had not moved. Then he rose, turned directly to where Crokus lay hidden.
The thief groaned.
Rallick beckoned.
Slowly, Crokus approached.
“You hide well,” Rallick said. “And you were lucky Vorcan kept her mask on—she couldn’t see much out of it. You heard, then?”
Crokus nodded, his eyes drawn to what he’d called a tree stump in spite of himself. It looked more like a small wooden house. The pocks on its sides could well have been windows. Unlike Vorcan, he sensed not hunger but a kind of urgency, almost frustration.
“Before you condemn me, listen carefully, Crokus.”
The thief dragged his attention from the wooden block. “I’m listening.”
“Baruk may yet be at the party. You must find him, tell him exactly what’s happened. Tell him Vorcan is a High Mage—and she’ll kill them all unless they gather to defend each other.” The assassin reached out a hand to Crokus’s shoulder. The boy flinched, his eyes wary. “And if Baruk has gone home, find Mammot. I saw him here not long ago. He wears the mask of a tusked beast.”
“Uncle Mammot? But he’s—”
“He’s a High Priest of D’riss, Crokus, and a member of the T’orrud Cabal. Now, hurry. There’s no time to waste.”
“You mean you’re going to stay here, Rallick? Just sit there on that. . . that stump?”
The assassin’s grip tightened. “Vorcan spoke true, lad. Whatever this thing is, it seems I can hold it in check. Baruk needs to know of this conjuring. I trust his senses more than I do Vorcan’s, but for now I will obey her in this.”
For a moment Crokus resisted, his thoughts on Apsalar. They’d done something to her, he was certain—and if they’d harmed her, he’d make them pay. But . . . Uncle Mammot? Vorcan was planning to kill his uncle? The thief’s eyes hardened as he looked up at Rallick. “Consider it done,” he said.
At that instant, a roar of rage and agony, coming from the terrace, shook the trees. The block of wood behind them responded with a burst of bright yellow fire, its roots writhing and swelling like groping fingers.
Rallick pushed Crokus hard then whirled and dived onto the block. The yellow fire winked out and cracks opened in the earth, spreading in all directions. “Go!” yelled Rallick.
The thief, his heart hammering, turned and sprinted for Lady Simtal’s estate.
Baruk’s hand snapped out and yanked savagely on the bell cord. Above him, he heard the wagoner cry out. The carriage skidded to a halt. “Something’s happened,” he hissed to Rake. “We left too early, dammit!” He moved on the seat to the window and opened its shutters.
“A moment, Alchemist,” Rake said levelly, his brows knitted and his head cocked as if listening for something. “The Tyrant,” he pronounced. “But he is weakened, and enough mages remain to deal with him.” He opened his mouth to add something, then shut it again. His eyes deepened to azure as he studied the alchemist. “Baruk,” he said quietly, “return to your estate. Prepare for the Empire’s next move—we’ll not have long to wait.”
Baruk stared at the Tiste Andii. “Tell me what’s happening,” he said angrily. “Will you challenge the Tyrant or not?”
Rake tossed his mask onto the floor between them and clasped the collar of his cloak. “If it proves necessary, I shall.”
Fists pounded on the carriage and voices shouted good-naturedly. The crowds around them pushed in on all sides, rocking the carriage. The festival approached the Twelfth Bell, the Hour of Ascension as the Lady of Spring took to the sky in the coming of the moon.
Rake c
ontinued, “In the meantime the city’s streets must be cleared,” he said. “I imagine it’s your desire to minimize the loss of life.”
“And this is all you give me, Rake?” Baruk gestured sharply. “Clear the streets? How in Hood’s name do we manage that? There are three hundred thousand people in Darujhistan, and they’re all in the streets!”
The Tiste Andii opened the door beside him. “Then leave that to me. I need to find a high vantage-point, Alchemist. Suggestions?”
Baruk’s frustration was so great that he had to fight the desire to defy Anomander Rake. “K’rul’s Belfry,” he said. “A square tower near Worry Gate.”
Rake stepped out of the carriage. “We’ll speak again at your estate, Alchemist,” he said, leaning back inside. “You and your fellow mages must prepare yourselves.” He faced the crowds, pausing for a moment as if smelling the air. “How far to this belfry?”
“Three hundred paces—surely you don’t mean to go on foot?”
“I do. I am not yet ready to unveil my Warren.”
“But how—?” Baruk fell silent, as Anomander Rake provided the answer to his question.
Standing head and shoulders above the jostling crowds, he unsheathed his sword. “If you value your souls,” the Son of Darkness bellowed, “make way!” Raised high, the sword groaned awake, chains of smoke writhing from the blade. A terrible sound as of wheels creaking filled the air and behind it arose a chorus of moaning filled with hopelessness. Before Lord Anomander Rake the crowd in the street shrank back, all thoughts of festivity swept away.
“Gods forfend!” Baruk whispered.
It had begun innocently enough. Quick Ben and Whiskeyjack stood together near the fountain. Servants scurried as, despite the night’s bloodshed and the hostess’s absence, the party’s energy burgeoned anew as the twelfth bell approached. They were joined by Captain Paran.
“We have met with the Guild Master,” he said. “She has accepted the contract.”
Whiskeyjack grunted. “Where would we all be without greed?”
The Malazan Empire Page 62