The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen (28 page)

His gaze on the map table, Rake replied, “I’ve committed my sorcerers and warriors to Brood’s north campaign.” He turned a humorless grin on Baruk. “Within my city are children, priests and three elderly, exceedingly bookish warlocks.”

City? There was a city within Moon’s Spawn?

A dun tone had entered Rake’s eyes. “I cannot defend an entire Moon. I cannot be everywhere at once. And as for Tayschrenn, he didn’t give a damn about the people around him. I thought to dissuade him, make the price too high . . .”
He shook his head as if perplexed, then he looked to Baruk. “To save the home of my people, I retreated.”

“Leaving Pale to fall—” Baruk shut his mouth, cursing his lack of tact.

But Rake merely shrugged. “I didn’t anticipate that I’d face a full assault. My presence alone had been keeping the Empire at bay for almost two years.”

“I’ve heard the Empress is short of patience,” murmured Baruk thoughtfully. His eyes narrowed, then he looked up. “You have asked to meet with me, Anomander Rake, and so here we are. What is it you wish from me?”

“An alliance,” the Moon’s lord answered.

“With me? Personally?”

“No games, Baruk.” Rake’s voice was suddenly cold. “I’m not fooled by that Council of idiots bickering at Majesty Hall. I know that it’s you and your fellow mages who rule Darujhistan.” He rose and glared down with eyes of gray. “I’ll tell you this. For the Empress your city is the lone pearl on this continent of mud. She wants it and what she wants she usually gets.”

Baruk reached down and plucked at the frayed edge of his robe. “I see,” he said, in a low voice. “Pale had its wizards.”

Rake frowned. “Indeed.”

“Yet,” Baruk continued, “when the battle was begun in earnest, your first thought was not for the alliance you made with the city but for the well-being of your Moon.”

“Who told you this?” Rake demanded.

Baruk looked up and raised both hands. “Some of those wizards managed to escape.”

“They’re in the city?” Rake’s eyes had gone black.

Seeing them, Baruk felt sweat break out beneath his clothes. “Why?” he asked.

“I want their heads,” Rake replied casually. He refilled his goblet and took a sip.

An icy hand had slipped around Baruk’s heart and was now tightening. His headache had increased tenfold in the last few seconds. “Why?” he asked again, the word coming out almost as a gasp.

If the Tiste Andii knew of the alchemist’s sudden discomfort he made no sign of it. “Why?” He seemed to roll the word in his mouth like wine, a light smile touching his lips. “When the Moranth army came down from the mountains, and Tayschrenn rode at the head of his wizard cadre, and when word spread that an Empire Claw had infiltrated the city,” Rake’s smile twisted into a snarl, “the wizards of Pale fled.” He paused, as if reliving memories. “I dispatched the Claw when they were but a dozen steps inside the walls.” He paused again, his face betraying a flash of regret. “Had the city’s wizards remained, the assault would have been repelled. Tayschrenn, it seemed, was preoccupied with . . .
other
imperatives. He’d saturated his position—a hilltop—with defensive wards. Then he unleashed demons not against me but against some of his companions. That baffled me, but rather than allow such conjurings to wander at will, I expended vital power destroying them.” He sighed and said, “I pulled the Moon
back mere minutes from its destruction. I left it to drift south and went after those wizards.”

“After them?”

“I tracked down all but two.” Rake gazed at Baruk. “I want those two, preferably alive, but their heads will suffice.”

“You killed those you found? How?”

“With my sword, of course.”

Baruk recoiled as if struck. “Oh,” he whispered. “Oh.”

“The alliance,” Rake said, before draining his goblet.

“I’ll speak to the Cabal on this matter,” Baruk answered, rising shakily to his feet. “Word of the decision will be sent to you soon.” He stared at the sword strapped to the Tiste Andii’s back. “Tell me, if you get those wizards alive, will you use
that
on them?”

Rake frowned. “Of course.”

Turning away, Baruk closed his eyes. “You’ll have their heads, then.”

Behind him Rake laughed harshly. “There’s too much mercy in your heart, Alchemist.”

The pale light beyond the window signified the dawn. Within the Phoenix Inn only one table remained occupied. Around it sat four men, one asleep in his chair with his head lying in a pool of stale beer. He snored loudly. The others were playing cards, two red-eyed with exhaustion while the last one studied his hand and talked. And talked.

“And then there was the time I saved Rallick Nom’s life, at the back of All Eve’s Street. Four, no,
five
nefarious hoodlums had backed the boy to a wall. He was barely standing, was Rallick, gushing blood from a hundred knife wounds. Clear to me was the grim fact that it couldn’t last much longer, that tussle. I come up on them six assassins from behind, old Kruppe with fire dancing on his fingertips—a magical spell of frightful violence. I uttered the cantrip in a single breath and lo! Six piles of ash at Rallick’s feet. Six piles of ash aglitter with the coin from their wallets—hah! A worthy reward!”

Murillio leaned his long, elegant frame close to Crokus Younghand. “Is this possible?” he whispered. “For a turn to last as long as Kruppe’s?”

Crokus grinned wearily at his friend. “I don’t mind, really. It’s safe in here, and that’s what counts for me.”

“Assassin’s war, bosh!” Kruppe said, leaning back to mop his brow with a wilted silk handkerchief. “Kruppe remains entirely unconvinced. Tell me, did you not see Rallick Nom in here earlier? Spoke long with Murillio here, the lad did. As calm as ever, was he not?”

Murillio grimaced. “Nom gets like that every time he’s just killed somebody. Lay down a card, dammit! I’ve early appointments to attend to.”

Crokus asked, “So what was Rallick talking to you about?”

Murillio’s answer was a mere shrug. He continued glaring at Kruppe.

The small man’s pencil-thin eyebrows rose. “Is it Kruppe’s turn?”

Closing his eyes, Crokus slumped in his chair. He groaned. “I saw three assassins on the rooftops, Kruppe. And the two that killed the third went after me, even though it’s obvious I’m no assassin.”

“Well,” said Murillio, eyeing the young thief’s tattered clothing and the cuts and scrapes on his face and hands, “I’m inclined to believe you.”

“Fools! Kruppe sits at a table of fools.” Kruppe glanced down at the snoring man. “And Coll here is the biggest of them all. But sadly gifted with self-knowledge. Hence his present state, from which many profane truths might be drawn. Appointments, Murillio? Kruppe didn’t think the city’s multitude of mistresses awoke so early in the day. After all, what might they see in their mirrors? Kruppe shivers at the thought.”

Crokus massaged the bruise hidden beneath his long, brown hair. He winced, then leaned forward. “Come on, Kruppe,” he muttered. “Play a card.”

“My turn?”

“Seems self-knowledge doesn’t extend to whose turn it is,” Murillio commented dryly.

Boots sounded on the stairs. The three turned to see Rallick Nom descending from the first floor. The tall, dark-skinned man looked rested. He wore his day cloak, a deep royal purple, clasped at the neck by a silver clamshell brooch. His black hair was freshly braided, framing his narrow, clean-shaven face. Rallick walked up to the table and reached down to grasp Coll’s thinning hair. He raised the man’s head from the pool of beer and bent forward to study Coll’s blotched face. Then he gently set down the man’s head, and pulled up a chair.

“Is this the same game as last night?”

“Of course,” Kruppe replied. “Kruppe has these two men backed to the very wall, in danger of losing their very shirts! It’s good to see you again, friend Rallick. The lad here,” Kruppe indicated Crokus with a limp hand, fingers fluttering, “speaks endlessly of murder above our heads. A veritable downpour of blood! Have you ever heard such nonsense, Rallick Kruppe’s friend?”

Rallick shrugged. “Another rumor. This city was built on rumors.”

Crokus scowled to himself. It seemed that no one was willing to answer questions this morning. He wondered yet again what the assassin and Murillio had been talking about earlier; hunched as they’d been over a dimly lit table in one corner of the room, Crokus had suspected some sort of conspiracy. Not that such a thing was unusual for them, though most times Kruppe was at its center.

Murillio swung his gaze to the bar. “Sulty!” he called out. “You awake?”

There was a mumbled response from behind the wooden counter, then Sulty, her blonde hair disheveled and plump face looking plumper, stood up. “Yah,” she mumbled. “What?”

“Breakfast for my friends here, if you please.” Murillio climbed to his feet and cast a critical, obviously disapproving eye over his clothing. The soft billowing shirt, dyed a bright green, now hung on his lanky frame, wilted and beer-stained. His fine tanned leather pantaloons were creased and patchy. Sighing, Murillio stepped away from the table. “I must bathe and change. As for the game, I surrender consumed by hopelessness. Kruppe, I now believe, will never play his
card, thus leaving us trapped in the unlikely world of his recollections and reminiscences, potentially forever. Good night, one and all.” He and Rallick locked gazes, then Murillio gave a faint nod.

Crokus witnessed the exchange and his scowl deepened. He watched Murillio leave, then glanced at Rallick. The assassin sat staring down at Coll, his expression as unreadable as ever.

Sulty wandered into the kitchen, and a moment later the clanking of pots echoed into the room.

Crokus tossed his cards into the table’s center and leaned back, closing his eyes.

“Does the lad surrender as well?” Kruppe asked.

Crokus nodded.

“Hah, Kruppe remains undefeated.” He set down his cards and tucked in a napkin at his thick, jiggling neck.

In the thief’s mind suspicions of intrigue ran wild. First the assassin’s war, now Rallick and Murillio had something cooking. He sighed mentally and opened his eyes. His whole body ached from the night’s adventures, but he knew he’d been lucky. He stared down at Coll without seeing him. The vision of those tall, black assassins returned to him and he shivered. Yet, for all the dangers hounding his back up on the rooftops this past night, he had to admit how exciting it’d all been. After slamming that door behind him and quaffing the beer Sulty had thrust into his hand, his whole body had trembled for an hour afterward.

His gaze focused on Coll. Coll, Kruppe, Murillio, and Rallick. What a strange group—a drunkard, an obese mage of dubious abilities, a dandified fop, and a killer.

Still, they were his best friends. His parents had succumbed to the Winged Plague when he’d been four years old. Since then his uncle Mammot had raised him. The old scholar had done the best he could, but it hadn’t been enough. Crokus found the street’s shadows and moonless nights on rooftops far more exciting than his uncle’s moldy books.

Now, however, he felt very much alone. Kruppe’s mask of blissful idiocy never dropped, not even for an instant—all through the years when Crokus had been apprenticed to the fat man in the art of thievery, he’d never seen Kruppe act otherwise. Coll’s life seemed to involve the relentless avoidance of sobriety, for reasons unknown to Crokus—though he suspected that, once, Coll had been something more. And now Rallick and Murillio had counted him out of some new intrigue.

Into his thoughts came an image—the moonlit limbs of a sleeping maiden—and he angrily shook his head.

Sulty arrived with breakfast, husks of bread fried in butter, a chunk of goat cheese, a stem of local grapes, and a pot of Callows bitter coffee. She served Crokus first and he muttered his thanks.

Kruppe’s impatience grew while Sulty served Rallick. “Such impertinence,” the man said, adjusting his coat’s wide, stained sleeves. “Kruppe is of a mind to cast a thousand horrible spells on rude Sulty.”

“Kruppe had better not,” Rallick said.

“Oh, no, of course not,” Kruppe amended, wiping his brow with his handkerchief. “A wizard of my skills would never belittle himself on a mere scullion, after all.”

Sulty turned to him. “Scullion?” She snatched a bread husk from the plate and slapped it down on Kruppe’s head. “Don’t worry,” she said, as she walked back to the bar. “With hair like yours nobody’d notice.”

Kruppe pulled the husk from his head. He was about to toss it down on the floor, then changed his mind. He licked his lips. “Kruppe is magnanimous this morning,” he said, breaking into a wide smile and setting the bread down on his plate. He leaned forward and laced together his pudgy fingers. “Kruppe wishes to begin his meal with some grapes, please.”

I see a man

crouched in a fire

who leaves me cold

and wondering what

he is doing here so boldly

crouched in my pyre . . .

G
ADROBI
E
PITAPH
A
NONYMOUS

This time, Kruppe’s dream took him out through Marsh Gate, along South Road, then left onto Cutter Lake Road. Overhead the sky swirled a most unpleasant pattern of silver and pale green. “All is in flux,” Kruppe gasped, his feet hurrying him along the dusty, barren road. “The Coin has entered a child’s possession, though he knows it not. Is it for Kruppe to walk this Monkey Road? Fortunate that Kruppe’s perfectly round body is an example of perfect symmetry. One is not only born skilled at said balance, one must learn it through arduous practice. Of course, Kruppe is unique in never requiring practice—at anything.”

Off in the fields to his left, within a circle of young trees, a small fire cast a hazy red glow up among the budding branches. Kruppe’s sharp eyes could make out a single figure seated there, seemingly holding its hands in the flames. “Too many stones to turn underfoot,” he gasped, “on this rocky, rutted road. Kruppe would try the ribbed earth, which is yet to green with the season’s growth. Indeed, yon fire beckons.” He left the road and approached the circle of trees.