The Malazan Empire Page 25

  Murillio remained standing, his gaze on the tower. “What of Hinter himself? Does his wraith number among them?”

  “No. The madman sleeps within, or so it’s said. The wraiths are trapped in the sorcerer’s nightmares—he holds onto them, and even Hood cannot draw them to his cold bosom. Do you wish to know where those wraiths have come from, Murillio?” Rallick grinned. “Enter the tower, and you’ll discover it first hand.”

  Murillio had been about to go into the tower when Rallick had surprised him. “Thanks for the warning,” he snapped sarcastically, gathering his cloak and sitting down.

  Rallick waved the mosquitoes from his face. “Well?”

  “I have them,” Murillio said. “Lady Orr’s most trusted hand-servant delivered them this afternoon.” He removed from inside his cloak a bamboo tube tied in blue ribbon. “Two invitations to Lady Simtal’s Fête, as promised.”

  “Good.” The assassin looked quickly at his friend. “You’ve not seen Kruppe’s nose twitch?”

  “Not yet. Ran into him this afternoon. Seems Crokus is making some bizarre demands. Of course,” Murillio added, scowling, “who can tell when Kruppe’s caught wind of something? In any case, I’ve seen nothing to suggest the slippery little gnome suspects we’re up to anything.”

  “What was that you said about Crokus making bizarre demands?”

  “A peculiar thing, that,” Murillio mused. “When I dropped by the Phoenix Inn this afternoon Kruppe was delivering to the lad the pickings from his last job. Now, surely Crokus hasn’t abandoned Kruppe as his fence—we all would’ve caught wind of that.”

  “That was from an estate, wasn’t it? Whose?” Rallick asked.

  “D’Arle’s,” Murillio answered, then his eyebrows rose. “Kiss of Gedderone! The D’Arle maiden! The ripe one with the cheeks—she’s being shown at damn near every gathering, all the frilly lads leaving a trail for the mop-boys. Oh, my! Our young thief is perchance smitten, and now keeps her baubles for himself. Of all the hopeless dreams a boy could have, he’s reached for the worst.”

  “Maybe,” Rallick said quietly. “Maybe not. A word to his uncle . . .”

  Murillio’s pained expression lifted. “A nudge in the right direction? Yes, finally! Mammot will be pleased—”

  “Patience,” Rallick interjected. “Turning a thieving child into a man of standing and learning will require more work than a swooning heart will manage.”

  Murillio frowned. “Well, forgive me for being so excited at the prospect of saving the lad’s life.”

  Rallick’s smile was soft. “Never regret such pleasure,” he said.

  Catching the assassin’s tone, Murillio sighed, the sharp edges of his sarcasm sinking away. “It’s been many years since we had so many things of hope to strive for,” he said quietly.

  “The path to one will be bloody,” Rallick said. “Don’t forget that. But, yes, it’s been a long time. I wonder if Kruppe even remembers such days.”

  Murillio snorted. “Kruppe’s memory is revised hourly. All that holds him together is fear of being discovered.”

  Rallick’s eyes darkened. “Discovered?”

  His friend seemed far away but then he collected himself and smiled. “Oh, worn suspicions, no more. He’s a slippery one, is Kruppe.”

  Rallick chuckled at Murillio’s mocking syntax. He studied the pond before them. “Yes,” he agreed, after a time, “he’s the slippery one, all right.” He stood. “Krute will be wanting to close up. The Round’s asleep by now.”

  “Right.”

  The two men left the terrace, methane mists swirling around their legs. As they reached the path Murillio turned for a look at the tower’s doorway, wondering if he could see the gibbering wraiths, but all he saw beneath the sagging arch was a wall of darkness. In some strange way he found that more disturbing than any horde of lost souls he might imagine.

  Bright morning sunlight flowed in from the broad windows of Baruk’s study, and a warm wind slipped into the room carrying the smells and noises from the street below. The alchemist, still dressed in his nightclothes, sat on a high stool at the map table. He held a brush in one hand, dipping it now and again into an ornate silver inkwell.

  The red ink had been watered down. He painted wash on the map, covering the areas now held by the Malazan Empire. Fully one half of the map—the north half—was red. A small clear strip just south of Blackdog Forest marked Caladan Brood’s forces, flanked on either side by two smaller patches indicating the Crimson Guard. The red wash surrounded these clear spots and extended down to engulf Pale, ending on the north edge of the Tahlyn Mountains.

  The street noises had become quite loud, Baruk noted, as he leaned close to the map to paint the red tide’s southern border. Construction work, he concluded, hearing the squeal of winches and a voice bellowing at passers-by. The sounds died away, then there came a loud crack! Baruk jumped, his right forearm jerking out and knocking over the inkwell. The red ink poured across his map.

  Cursing, Baruk sat back. His eyes widened as he watched the spreading stain cover Darujhistan and continue south to Catlin. He stepped down from the stool, reaching for a cloth to wipe his hands, more than a little shaken by what could easily be taken as an omen. He walked across the chamber to the window, bent forward and looked down.

  A crew of workers was busy tearing up the street directly below. Two burly men swung picks while three others formed a line passing the shattered cobblestones to a growing pile on the pavement. The foreman stood nearby, his back to a wagon, studying a parchment scroll.

  Baruk frowned. “Who’s in charge of road maintenance?” he wondered aloud.

  A soft knock diverted his attention. “Yes?”

  His servant, Roald, took a single step into the room. “One of your agents has arrived, Lord.”

  Baruk flicked a glance at the map table. “Have him wait a moment, Roald.”

  “Yes, Lord.” The servant stepped back and closed the door.

  The alchemist walked over to the table and rolled up the ruined map. From the hallway came a loud voice followed by a murmur. Baruk slid the map on to a shelf and turned in time to see the agent enter, on his trail a scowling Roald.

  Waving at Roald to leave, Baruk gazed down at the gaudily dressed man. “Good day, Kruppe.”

  Roald stepped out and softly shut the door.

  “More than good, Baruk, dear friend of Kruppe. Truly wonderful! Have you partaken of the morn’s fresh air?”

  Baruk glanced at the window. “Unfortunately,” he said, “the air outside my window has become rather dusty.”

  Kruppe paused. His arms returned to his sides, then he reached into a sleeve and withdrew his handkerchief. He patted his brow. “Ah, yes, the road workers. Kruppe passed them on his way in. A rather belligerent lot, thinks Kruppe. Indeed, rude, but hardly exceptional for such menial laborers.”

  Baruk gestured to a chair.

  With a beatific smile Kruppe sat. “Such a hot day,” he said, eyeing the carafe of wine on the mantelpiece.

  Ignoring this, Baruk strode to the window, then turned his back to it. He studied the man, wondering if he would ever catch a glimpse of what lay beyond Kruppe’s cherubic demeanor. “What have you heard?” he asked softly.

  “What has Kruppe heard? What hasn’t Kruppe heard!”

  Baruk raised an eyebrow. “How about brevity?”

  The man shifted in the chair and mopped his forehead. “Such heat!” Seeing Baruk’s expression harden, he continued, “Now, as for news.” He leaned forward, his voice falling to a whisper. “’Tis muttered in corners in the bars, in dark doorways of dank streets, in the nefarious shadows of nocturnal night, in—”

  “Get on with it!”

  “Yes, of course. Well, Kruppe has caught wind of a rumor. An assassin’s war, no less. The Guild is taking losses, ’tis said.”

  Baruk turned back to the window, his eyes on the street below. “And where do the thieves stand?”

  “The rooftops are getting crowde
d. Throats are being slit. Profits have plummeted.”

  “Where’s Rallick?”

  Kruppe blinked. “He’s disappeared,” he said. “Kruppe has not seen him in days.”

  “This assassin’s war, it isn’t internal?”

  “No.”

  “Has this new force been identified, then?”

  “No.”

  Baruk’s gaze intensified. Below, the street workers seemed to spend more time arguing than working. An assassin’s war could be trouble. Vorcan’s Guild was strong, but the Empire was stronger, if indeed these newcomers were Claws. But something felt decidedly odd about the whole thing. In the past the Empress used such local guilds, often recruited from them. The alchemist could discern no purpose behind such a war, and that was even more disturbing to him than the war itself. Hearing a shuffling behind him, he remembered his agent. He turned and smiled. “You can go now.”

  Something flashed in Kruppe’s eyes that startled Baruk. The fat man rose in a single fluid motion. “Kruppe has more to tell, Master Baruk.”

  Bemused, the alchemist nodded for Kruppe to continue.

  “The tale is arduous and confused, alas,” he said, striding to join Baruk at the window. His handkerchief had disappeared. “Kruppe can only surmise as best a man of innumerable talents may. In moments of leisure, during games of chance and the like. In the aura of the Twins an Adept may hear, see, smell, and touch things as insubstantial as the wind. A taste of Lady Luck, the bitter warning of the Lord’s Laughter.” Kruppe’s gaze snapped to the alchemist. “Do you follow, Master?”

  His eyes riveted on the man’s round face, Baruk said quietly, “You speak of Oponn.”

  Kruppe looked back down at the street. “Perhaps. Perhaps a grim feint meant to mislead such as foolish Kruppe—”

  Foolish? Baruk smiled inwardly. Not this man.

  “—who can say?” Kruppe raised a hand, showing in his palm a flat disc of wax. “An item,” he said softly, his eyes on the disc, “that passes without provenance, pursued by many who thirst for its cold kiss, on which life and all that lay within life is often gambled. Alone, a beggar’s crown. In great numbers, a king’s folly. Weighted with ruin, yet blood washes from it beneath the lightest rain, and to the next no hint of its cost. It is as it is, says Kruppe, worthless but for those who insist otherwise.”

  Baruk was holding his breath. His lungs burned, yet it was an effort to release them. Kruppe’s words had drawn him into something—a place, hinting of vast stores of knowledge and the sure, unfailing, precise hand that had gathered it, marked it on parchment. A library, shelves of black wood in sharp relief, tomes bound to shiny leather, yellowed scrolls, a pitted, stained desk—Baruk felt he had but stolen a single glance into this chamber. Kruppe’s mind, the secret place with its door locked to all but one. “You speak,” Baruk said slowly, fighting to pull back into reality by focusing on the wax disc in Kruppe’s hand, “of a coin.”

  Kruppe’s hand snapped shut. He turned and set the disc down on the windowsill. “Examine this semblance, Master Baruk. It marks both sides of a single coin.” The handkerchief reappeared and Kruppe stepped back, dabbing his brow. “My, but it is hot, says Kruppe!”

  “Help yourself to some wine,” Baruk murmured. As the man left his side the alchemist opened his Warren. He gestured and the wax disc rose into the air, slowly moving to hover before him at eye-level. He studied the imprint facing him. “The Lady,” he muttered, nodding. The disc turned, revealing to him the Lord. The disc turned again, and Baruk’s eyes widened as it began spinning. A whirring sound filled the back of his head. He felt his Warren resisting a pressure that grew with the sound, then his source collapsed.

  Faintly, as if from a great distance, he heard Kruppe speak. “Even in this semblance, Master Baruk, blows the Twins’ breath. No mage’s Warren can withstand that wind.”

  The disc still spun in the air in front of Baruk, a silver blur. A fine mist expanded around it. Hot droplets spattered his face and he stepped back. Blue fire flickered from the melting wax, the disc dwindling rapidly. A moment later it vanished, and the spinning sound and its accompanying pressure stopped abruptly.

  The sudden silence filled Baruk’s head with pain. He laid a trembling hand on the windowsill for support, then closed his eyes. “Who carries the Coin, Kruppe?” His voice rasped from his constricted throat. “Who?”

  Kruppe once again stood at his side. “A lad,” he answered casually. “Known to Kruppe, assuredly so, as well as to your other agents, Murillio, Rallick, and Coll.”

  Baruk’s eyes reopened. “That can’t be a coincidence,” he hissed, a desperate hope rising to struggle against the terror he felt. Oponn had entered the gambit, and in such reaches of power the life of a city and those within it meant nothing. He glared at Kruppe. “Gather the group, then. All you’ve named. They’ve served my interests for a long time, and they must do so now, above all other concerns. Do you understand me?”

  “Kruppe will convey your insistence. Rallick perchance is bound to Guild duties, while Coll, given purpose in life once again, might well steady his gaze and tread and take this mission to heart. Master Baruk? What is the mission, by the way?”

  “Protect the Coinbearer. Watch him, mark whose face rests on him benign or foul. I must know if the Lady has him, or the Lord. And, Kruppe, for this, find Rallick. If the Lord claims the Coinbearer, the assassin’s talents will be required.”

  Kruppe blinked. “Understood. Alas, may mercy smile upon young Crokus.”

  “Crokus?” Baruk frowned. “That’s a name I know.”

  Kruppe’s face remained blank.

  “Never mind. Very well, Kruppe.” He turned back to the window once again. “Keep me informed.”

  “As always, Baruk, Kruppe’s friend.” The man bowed. “And thank you for the wine, it was most delicious.”

  Baruk heard the door open then close. He gazed down the street. He’d managed to clamp a hold on his fear. Oponn had a way of making ruins of the most finely wrought plans. Baruk despised that prospect of chance operating in his affairs. He could no longer rely on his ability to predict, to prepare contingencies, to work out every possibility and seek out the one best suited to his desires. As the Coin spun, thus the city.

  Added to this the mysterious ways of the Empress. Baruk rubbed his brow. He’d have to instruct Roald to bring him some healing tea. His headache was reaching debilitating proportions. As he brought his hand down past his face his eyes caught a flash of red. He raised both palms into view. Red ink stained them. He leaned forward on the windowsill. Through a sparkling cloud of dust, Darujhistan’s rooftops sprawled, and the harbor beyond. “And you, Empress,” he whispered. “I know you’re here, somewhere. Your pawns move unseen as yet, but I will find them. Be sure of that, with or without Oponn’s damned luck.”

  Book Three

  The Mission

  Marionettes dance afield

  beneath masterly hands—

  I stumble among them

  crossed by the strings

  in tangled two-step

  and curse all these fools

  in their mad pirouette—

  I shall not live as they do

  oh, no, leave me in my

  circled dance—

  these unbidden

  twitchings you see

  I swear on Hood’s Grave

  is artistry in motion

  SAYINGS OF THE FOOL

  THENY BULE (B?)

  Chapter Eight

  He stepped down then

  among women and men,

  the sigil stripped

  in her foul cleansing

  there on the blood-soaked sand

  spilled the lives

  of Emperor and First Sword—

  so tragic this treachery . . .

  He was of the Old Guard,

  commanding the honed edge

  of Empire’s fury,

  and so in stepping down

  but not away

  he remai
ned the remembrance

  before her eyes, the curse

  of conscience she would not stand.

  A price was placed before him

  that he glanced over in first passing

  unknowing and so unprepared

  in stepping down among women

  and men, he found what

  he’d surrendered and damned

  its reawakening . . .

  THE BRIDGEBURNERS

  TOC THE YOUNGER

  A quarter-hour before dawn the sky held the color of iron shot through with streaks of rust. Sergeant Whiskeyjack squatted on a dome of bedrock up from the pebble beach, gazing out over the misty calm surface of Lake Azur. Far to the south, on the lake’s opposite shore, rose the faint glow of Darujhistan.

  The mountain crossing of the night just past had been unpleasant, the Quorl tossed about in the midst of three warring thunderheads. It was a miracle no one had been lost. The rain had since stopped, leaving the air cool and clammy.

  He heard the sound of boots accompanied by a clicking noise behind him. Whiskeyjack turned and straightened. Kalam and a Black Moranth approached, picking their way through the mossy tumble of rocks at the base of the slope. Behind them rose the shadowed redwood forest, the patched trunks standing like bearded sentinels against the mountainside. The sergeant drew a deep breath of the chill morning air.

  “Everything’s fine,” Kalam said. “The Green Moranth delivered as ordered, and more. Fiddler and Hedge are two happy sappers.”

  Whiskeyjack raised an eyebrow. He turned to the Black Moranth. “I thought your munitions were getting scarce.”