The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen (79 page)

“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 join 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 continued, “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?”

“I just noticed something,” Quick Ben said. “My headache’s gone. I’m tempted to access my Warren, Sergeant. See what I can see.”

Whiskeyjack thought briefly. “Go ahead.”

Quick Ben stepped back into the shadow of a marble pillar.

Before them, an old man wearing a ghastly mask drifted toward Whiskeyjack’s line of men. Then a large, buxom woman with a water-pipe approached the old man. Her servant followed half a step behind. Trailing smoke as she walked, she called to the old man.

The next moment the night was shattered as a wave of energy flowed like a stream of water between Whiskeyjack and Paran, striking the old man in the chest. The sergeant’s sword was in his hand as he turned to find his wizard, magic swirling from him, pushing him to one side and racing for the woman. “No!” Quick Ben screamed. “Stay away from him!”

Paran, too, had unsheathed his sword in his hand, the blade keening as if filled with terror. He sprinted forward.

A bestial roar of rage shook the air as the old man, his mask torn away, whirled. His burning eyes found the woman and he flung a hand toward her. The surge of power that streamed from him was as gray as slate, crackling in the air.

Whiskeyjack, frozen, watched in disbelief as Quick Ben’s body hurled into the woman’s. Both collided with the servant and all three went down in a heap. The writhing stream of energy cut a swath through the stunned crowd, incinerating everyone it touched. Where men and women had stood a moment earlier there was nothing but white ash. The attack branched out, ripping through everything in sight. Trees disintegrated, stone and marble exploded in clouds of dust. People died, some with parts of their body simply gone, blood spraying in black flecks as they crumpled. A lance of energy shot wildly skyward, flashing in the night sky within a heavy cloud. Another struck the estate with a rattling boom. A third snaked toward Paran as he closed the gap between him and the old man. The power struck the sword, and it and Paran vanished.

The sergeant took a half-step forward, then something hard and massive struck a glancing blow to his shoulder. He was spun round, his right knee buckling inward as he fell.

He felt the snap of bone, then the meaty tearing of flesh and skin as his weight bore him down. His sword clanged. Agony lancing through him, he rolled to free his pinned leg, and came up against a toppled pillar.

An instant later hands grasped his cloak. “I got you!” Fiddler grunted.

Whiskeyjack bellowed in pain as the saboteur dragged him across the paving-stones. Then darkness swept in around him and he knew no more.

Quick Ben found himself buried beneath flesh, and for a second he could not breathe. Then the woman’s hands pressed down on his shoulders and she pushed herself off him. She shouted at the old man.

“Mammot!
Anikaleth araest!
”

Quick Ben’s eyes widened as he sensed the wave of power rise through her body. The air suddenly smelled of deep forest loam.

“Araest!”
she yelled, and the power burst from her in a virulent pulse.

Quick Ben heard Mammot’s scream of pain.

“Attend, Wizard!” the woman said. “He is Jaghut-possessed.”

“I know,” he growled, rolling onto his stomach then climbing to his hands and knees. A quick glance showed Mammot on the ground, waving a feeble hand. The wizard’s gaze flicked to where Whiskeyjack had been. The pillars around the fountain had toppled, and the sergeant was nowhere in sight. In fact, he realized, none of the squad was visible. On the terrace crumpled bodies lay in grotesque piles, none moving. Everyone else had fled.

“Mammot recovers,” the woman said desperately. “I have nothing left, Wizard. You must do something now, yes?”

He stared at her.

Paran stumbled, slid across greasy clay and rolled up against a bank of tufted reeds. A storm racked the sky above him. He scrambled to his feet, the sword Chance hot and moaning in his hand. A calm shallow lake stretched out on his left, ending in a distant ridge of faintly luminescent green. To his right the marshes continued out to the horizon. The air was cool, sweet with decay.