The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen (68 page)

Mallet joined them and met Kalam’s stunned gaze. Clearly, even they’d had no idea that their sergeant was so well informed. Suspicion dawned in the assassin’s eyes, and Paran nodded to himself. It was happening, after all.

Dujek continued, “The Moranth Black are ready to march, but it’s only for show, and to get them out of the city. So, what are we looking at, friend? The balance of the world is with you, in Darujhistan. If Lorn and Onos T’oolan succeed in unleashing the Tyrant on the city, you can be certain that you and your squad are intended to be on the casualty list. Closer to home, here’s what you want: we’re ready to move. Tayschrenn himself will trigger events when he announces the disbanding of the Bridgeburners—the blind idiot. Now, I’m waiting.”

“High Fist,” Whiskeyjack began, “Captain Paran’s made it. He’s sitting across from me right now. His story is that Oponn’s working through his sword, not him.” He met the captain’s eyes. “I believe him.”

Dujek spoke. “Captain?”

“Yes, High Fist?”

“Was Toc any help?”

Paran winced. “He gave his life for this, High Fist. The puppet Hairlock ambushed us, tossed Toc into a—a rent or something.”

There was silence, then Dujek said, his voice hoarse, “I’m sorry to hear that, Captain. More than you know. His father . . . Well, enough of that. Go on, Whiskeyjack.”

“No success yet in contacting the local Assassins’ Guild, High Fist. We’ve mined the intersections, though. I’ll be explaining everything to my men tonight. The question remains what to do about Captain Paran.”

“Understood,” Dujek replied. “Captain Paran?”

“Sir?”

“Have you come to any conclusions?”

Paran glanced at Whiskeyjack. “Yes, sir. I think so.”

“So? What choice will you make, Captain?”

He ran a hand through his hair and leaned back in the chair. “High Fist,” he said slowly, “Tayschrenn killed Tattersail.”
And failed, but that is a secret I will keep to myself
. “The Adjunct’s plan included betraying her word to me, and probably killing me in the process. But, I admit, that’s secondary to what Tayschrenn did.” Looking up, he met Whiskeyjack’s steady gaze. “Tattersail took care of me, and I her after that Hound. It . . .” he hesitated “. . . it meant something, High Fist.” He straightened. “So, I gather you intend to defy the Empress. But what then? Do we challenge the Empire’s hundred legions with ten thousand men? Do we proclaim an independent kingdom and wait for Laseen to make an example of us? I need more details, High Fist, before I decide whether I join you. Because, sir, I want vengeance.”

Dujek responded, “The Empress loses Genabackis, Captain. We’ve got the support for that. By the time the Malazan Marines arrive to reinforce the campaign,
it’ll already be over. The Crimson Guard won’t even let them disembark. Expect Nathilog to rise up and Genabaris to follow. The Moranth alliance is about to lose its punch—though I’m afraid I can’t give you the details on that.

“My plans, Captain? They might not make sense, because I don’t have time to explain. But we’re readying ourselves to take on a new player in the game—someone completely outside all of this, and that someone is damn nasty. He is called the Pannion Seer, who even now prepares his armies for a holy war. You want vengeance? Leave Tayschrenn to enemies closer to home. As for Lorn, she’s all yours, if you can manage it. I can’t offer you anything more, Captain. You can say no. Nobody will kill you for that.”

Paran stared at his hands. “I want to know when High Mage Tayschrenn gets what he deserves.”

“Agreed.”

“Very well, High Fist. As far as this present situation is concerned, however, I’d rather Sergeant Whiskeyjack remained in command.”

Dujek asked, a grin in his voice, “Whiskeyjack?”

“Accepted,” the sergeant answered. He smiled at Paran. “Welcome aboard, Captain.”

“Enough?” Dujek asked.

“We’ll speak again after it’s all done,” Whiskeyjack said. “Until then, High Fist, success.”

“Success, Whiskeyjack.”

The threads of light faded. As soon as they were gone Kalam rounded on his sergeant. “You old bastard! Fiddler told me Dujek wouldn’t hear any talk of revolt! Not only that, the High Fist told you to walk after this mission!”

Whiskeyjack shrugged, removing the strange contraption from the table. “Things change, Corporal. When Dujek got the Adjunct’s word on next year’s reinforcements, it became obvious that someone was ensuring that the Genabackan Campaign would end in disaster. Now, even Dujek won’t tolerate that. Obviously, plans would have to be revised.” He faced Paran, his eyes hardening. “I’m sorry, Captain, but Lorn has to live.”

“But the High Fist—”

Whiskeyjack shook his head. “She’s on her way into the city, assuming that she and the Imass succeed in freeing the Jaghut. The Tyrant will need a reason to come to Darujhistan, and we can only assume that, somehow, Lorn will be that reason. She will find us, Captain. Once that happens, we’ll decide what’s to be done with her, depending on what she tells us. If you challenge her openly, she will kill you. If necessary, she
will
have to die, but her demise will be subtle. Do you have problems with any of this?”

Paran released a long breath. “Can you at least explain why you went ahead and mined the city?”

“In a moment,” Whiskeyjack said, rising. “First,” he said, “who’s the wounded man?”

“Not wounded anymore,” Mallet said, grinning at Paran. “Just sleeping.”

Paran also rose. “In that case, I’ll also explain everything. Just let me go downstairs and retrieve my sword.” At the door he paused and turned to Whiskeyjack. “One more thing. Where’s your recruit, Sorry?”

Kalam answered, “Missing. We know what she is, Captain. Do you?”

“Yes.”
But she may not be what she once was, assuming Shadowthrone didn’t lie
. He thought to relate that part of his story, then dismissed the notion. He couldn’t be sure, after all. Better to wait and see.

The burial chamber proved to be a small, nondescript beehive tomb, the low dome constructed of roughly dressed stones. The passageway leading to it was narrow and less than four feet high, sloping slightly downward. The chamber’s floor was of packed earth and in its center rose a circular wall of stones, capped by a single, massive lintel stone. Frost-crusted objects lay on this flat surface.

Tool swung to the Adjunct. “The object you seek is called a Finnest. Within it is stored the Jaghut Tyrant’s powers. It is perhaps best described as a self-contained Omtose Phellack Warren. He will discover it is missing once fully awakened, and will unerringly hunt it down.”

Lorn blew on her numb hands, then slowly approached the lintel stone. “And while it’s in my possession?” she asked.

“Your Otataral sword will deaden its aura. Not completely. The Finnest should not remain in your hands for long, Adjunct.”

She scanned the objects scattered on the stone surface. The Imass joined her. Lorn picked up a scabbarded knife, then discarded it. In this Tool could not help her. She had to rely upon her own senses, honed by the strange, unpredictable effects of the Otataral. A mirror set in an antler caught her eye. The mica surface was latticed in a web of frost, yet it seemed to glimmer with a light of its own. She reached for it, then hesitated. Beside it, almost lost among the crystalline frost, was a small, round object. It lay upon a flap of hide. Lorn frowned, then picked it up.

As its ice coating melted, she saw that it was not perfectly round. She polished the blackened surface and studied it closely.

“I believe it is an acorn,” Tool said.

Lorn nodded. “And it’s the Finnest.” Her gaze fell to the capped mound of rocks. “What an odd choice.”

The Imass shrugged in a clatter of bones. “The Jaghut are odd people.”

“Tool, they weren’t very warlike, were they? I mean, before your kind sought to destroy them.”

The Imass was slow to reply. “Even then,” he said at last. “The key lay in making them angry, for then they destroyed indiscriminately, including their own.”

Lorn shut her eyes briefly. She pocketed the Finnest. “Let’s get out of here.”

“Yes, Adjunct. Even now the Jaghut Tyrant stirs.”

But someone died here

alas. Who drinks

of this now and then

and stirs the ashes

of thine own pyre?

Maker of Paths, you

were never so thirsty

in youth . . .

O
LD
T
EMPLE
S
IVYN
S
TOR
(
B
.1022)

“This isn’t right, Meese,” Crokus said, as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes. “We can’t just hide in here forever.”

Apsalar said, from the window, “It’s almost dark.”

Meese crouched once again to check the trapdoor’s lock. “We’re moving you again, after the twelfth bell. Irilta’s down below, getting details.”

“Who’s giving these orders?” Crokus demanded. “Have you found Uncle Mammot yet?”

“Relax, lad.” Meese straightened. “No, we ain’t found your uncle. And the orders come from your protectors. I won’t answer any questions about who they are, Crokus, so save your breath.”

Apsalar shifted position by the window to take in Meese. “Your friend’s been a long time,” she said. “Do you think something’s happened?”

Meese looked away. This girl was sharp. Of course, Meese had known that the first time they’d met, and old Chert had found out the hard way. “Not sure,” she admitted. She bent to unlock the trapdoor. “You both stay put,” she ordered, glaring at Crokus. “I ain’t going to be happy if you do something stupid. Understand?”

The boy looked glum, his arms crossed. He watched as Meese opened the trapdoor and climbed down the ladder.

“Close this up after me,” she said, from below, “and lock it. Wait to hear from either me or Irilta, got it?”

“Yes.” Crokus strode to the square hole in the floor and stared down at Meese. “We got it,” he said, grasping the door and swinging it shut. Then he locked it.

“Crokus,” Apsalar asked, “why did you kill a guard?”

This was their first time alone since entering the city. Crokus glanced away. “It was an accident. I don’t want to talk about it.” He crossed the room to the back window. “All these people trying to protect me,” he said. “Makes me uneasy. There’s more going on than just an order for my arrest. Hood’s Breath, the Thieves’ Guild takes care of such things, that’s why they get ten percent of every job I do. No, none of it makes sense, Apsalar. And,” he said, as he unlatched the window, “I’m sick of everybody telling me what to do.”

She came to his side. “Are we leaving, then?”

“Damn right. It’s already dusk so we’ll take the rooftops.” He pulled and the window swung inward.

“Where?”

Crokus grinned. “I’ve got a great hiding-place in mind. Nobody will find us, not even my protectors. Once there, I can do what I want.”

Apsalar’s brown eyes searched his face. “What do you want to do?” she asked softly.

He looked away, concentrating on propping up the window. “I want to talk to Challice D’Arle,” he said. “Face to face.”

“She betrayed you, didn’t she?”

“Never mind that. Are you staying here?”

“No,” she said, surprised. “I’m coming with you, Crokus.”

The power of her Warren bristled on her body. Serrat scanned the area one more time, still seeing and sensing nothing. She was certain she was alone. The Tiste Andii tensed as the window in the attic beneath her creaked inward on rusty hinges. Knowing herself to be invisible, she leaned forward.

The lad’s head popped out. He glanced at the alley below, the opposite rooftops and those to either side, then he looked up. His gaze passed right through Serrat, and she smiled.

It hadn’t taken long to find him again. His only company, she could sense, was a young woman whose aura was harmless, astonishingly innocent. The other two women no longer occupied the attic. Excellent. It would be that much easier. She stepped back as the Coin Bearer climbed through the window.

A moment later he scrambled onto the sloping rooftop.

Serrat decided that she would waste no time. Even as the Coin Bearer pushed himself to his feet, she sprang forward.

Her charge met an invisible hand, driving into her chest with bone-jarring force. It pushed her back through the air, giving a final shove that sent her cartwheeling beyond the roof’s edge. Her spells of invisibility and flight remained with her, even when she rebounded off a brick chimney, dazed and drifting.

Apsalar appeared on the roof’s edge. Crokus crouched before her, daggers in hand and glaring all around him. “What’s wrong?” she whispered, frightened.

Slowly, Crokus relaxed and turned a rueful grin her way. “Just nerves,” he said. “Thought I saw something, felt a wind. Looked like . . . Well, never mind.” He looked around again. “There’s nothing here. Come on, then.”

“Where’s this new hiding-place of yours?” Aspalar asked, as she gained the rooftop.

He faced east and pointed to the shadowed hills rising on the other side of the wall. “Up there,” he said. “Right under their very noses.”

Murillio clasped on his sword-belt. The longer he waited for Rallick to arrive the more certain he was that Ocelot had killed his friend. The only question that remained was whether Coll still lived. Maybe Rallick had done enough, wounded Ocelot sufficiently to prevent the Clan Master from completing the contract.
I can hope, anyway
.

They’d know at the Phoenix Inn, and each minute that passed made his Spartan room seem smaller, more cramped. If Coll lived, Murillio vowed to attempt
Rallick’s role in the plan. He checked his rapier. It’d been years since his last duel, and Turban Orr was said to be the city’s best. His chances looked poor.

He collected his cape and fastened the collar around his neck. And who was this Circle Breaker with all the devastating news? How did this Eel justify involving himself or herself in their schemes? Murillio’s eyes narrowed. Was it possible? That little round runt of a man?

He pulled on his doeskin gloves, muttering under his breath.

A scrape at the door caught his attention. A heavy sigh of relief escaped him. “Rallick, you old bastard,” he said, as he opened the door. For an instant he thought the hallway empty, then his gaze fell to the floor. The assassin lay there, his clothing soaked through with blood, looking up at him with a weak grin.