The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen (83 page)

The Twin Jesters flinched.

Paran laid a hand over the sword’s sticky grip. “Now. Else I return Cotillion’s favor.”

The gods vanished.

The captain drew a deep breath. He turned once again to Lorn.

Her armor removed, she proved light in his arms.

The air roared around Anomander Rake as he plummeted, but he made no other sound, his Warren drawn in tight around him. Below, now sweeping lazy circles over Darujhistan, was the dun dragon—Rake’s equal in size, with the power to match.

But it was a fool, hunting for him in the streets below.

Rake carefully spread his wings, angling toward the Galayn lord. His hind limbs reached down, talons spreading. He drew in the air around him, preparing for a burst of power. He was Kurald Galain, Tiste Andii, and darkness was his home.

The Galayn lord was immediately beneath him now, growing larger with incredible speed. Rake opened his mouth, head snapping back as he bit into a wall of air. This sound brought the dun dragon’s gaze upward, but it was already too late.

I am the House

imprisoning in my birth

demonic hearts,

so locked in each chamber

some trembling enraged

antiquity.

And these roots of stone

spread the deepest cracks

in parched ground

holding forever the dream

of fruit, ah, pilgrims

come to my door

and starve . . .

A
ZATH
(
II.III
)
A
DAEPHON
(
B
.?)

The compound beyond the gate was empty. Crokus ran across it, wondering if he was too late. He bounded up the steps and reached for the door latch. A burst of energy flung him backward.

Dazed, the thief found himself sitting on the paving stones before the steps, his flesh tingling. At the door a deep crimson glow slowly faded. A ward. “Hood!” he hissed, climbing to his feet. He’d run into barriers like these before, in the Higher Estates. There was no way to get through them.

Cursing again, Crokus whirled and raced to the gate. He emerged onto the street and looked around, seeing no one. If those Crimson Guard still protected him, they weren’t showing themselves.

There was a slight chance that the garden entrance to Baruk’s estate was unguarded by magic—a very slight chance. He ran down the street and turned into the first alley to his right. There’d be a wall to scale, but he did not consider that much of an obstacle.

He came to the alley’s end and skidded to a halt on the street beyond. The wall was high, he saw. He’d need a running start. Crokus trotted across the street, trying to catch his breath. What was the point of all this? Couldn’t Baruk take care of himself, after all? Wasn’t he a High Mage, and hadn’t even Fingers commented on the alchemist’s sorcerous defenses?

He hesitated, scowling at the wall opposite him.

At that moment a piercing, earth-shaking scream was loosed directly above the street. Crokus threw himself against the wall behind him as an enormous shape descended into the gaslight. Filling the street, it struck the ground less than twenty yards to the thief’s left. He was thrown from his feet by the impact. Stones shattered.

He ducked beneath the hail of bricks and cobbles, then, as the scatter of rubble diminished, he jumped to his feet.

A dragon, its wings tattered and streaked with blood, slowly regained its feet in the street, wagging its massive wedge-shaped head from side to side. Along its brown flanks, scales had been torn away, revealing deep puncture wounds. Its neck and shoulders glistened with blood.

Crokus saw that the wall beyond it—Baruk’s—had been obliterated, opening the garden to his view. Snapped tree trunks rose amid steaming earth. A raised patio marked the approach of the estate’s back entrance. Two toppled statues lay in pieces before the doors.

The dragon looked stunned. Crokus tensed. Now was the time to move. Almost disbelieving his own temerity, the thief darted into the street behind the creature, hoping to reach the cover of the garden. His gaze remained on the dragon as he ran, his thoughts on the coin of luck in his pocket.

Then, before his eyes, the creature’s shape changed, drawing into itself in a shimmering haze. Crokus slowed, then stopped, unable to pull away his attention. His heart hammered against his ribs, as if seeking escape. Each drawn breath was a painful gasp. His luck, he told himself in terror, had just ended.

The shimmering faded, and a giant man-shaped apparition now stood on the street, cloaked and cowled.

Crokus tried to will himself to move, but his body refused to obey. He stared, eyes widening, as the demon turned to him. It snarled and removed an enormous ax from its belt. Hefting the weapon, it spoke in a deep, soft voice. “What reason to continue this?” it asked reasonably. “The Empress permits your escape, Lord. Once again she grants you mercy. Accept it, and leave.”

“Good idea,” the thief whispered. Then he frowned, for the demon’s attention, he now saw, was directed past him.

A man spoke behind him. “We run no further, Galayn.”

A hand fell on the thief’s shoulder, breaking the spell of immobility. Crokus ducked and spun to one side, then looked up into shifting, indigo eyes set in a black, narrow face.

“Flee, mortal,” the silver-haired man said, drawing a two-handed sword from the scabbard slung between his shoulder-blades. The black weapon seemed almost invisible, as if it swallowed all light that found it.

“You were at the fête!” Crokus blurted.

The man’s eyes flickered, as if seeing him for the first time. “Coin Bearer,” he said, with a wry smile, “fear not. Brood has convinced me to spare you, at least for the moment. Begone, child.” His gaze returned to the Galayn lord. “This will be a close thing.”

“I know that weapon,” the demon snarled. “Dragnipurake. And I smell the reek of Tiama in you, Lord. There is more of her in you than Tiste Andii blood.”

Crokus backed against what remained of Baruk’s wall.

The Galayn lord grinned, revealing long, curved canines. “The Empress would reward your services, Lord. You’ve only to say yes, and this battle can be avoided.”

Anomander Rake stepped forward. “Attend, Galayn.”

With a roar the demon attacked, ax whistling through the air and streaming blue flames.

Rake whirled his sword in a circle, catching the ax and adding to its momentum. As the double-blades swept past, the Tiste Andii stepped in close, sword drawn back, pommel against his left hip. In a blur of motion he extended the blade. The demon ducked and, releasing one hand from the ax haft, reached for Rake’s throat. The Tiste Andii twisted his right shoulder and caught the blow.

Thrown backward, Rake landed heavily on the cobbles.

The demon pounced, flaming weapon above its head.

Rake regained his feet in time to catch the ax with his sword. The clash of weapons sent a jolt through the air and ground. The demon’s ax flared bright white, cascading light like liquid. Rake’s sword was swallowed in darkness, devouring the lashing waves of light that struck it.

The flagstones beneath Crokus’s feet tilted sickeningly, as if the stones themselves had turned to soft clay. Overhead the stars swam wildly. Gripped by nausea, Crokus fell to his knees.

Rake began to launch attacks, savage swings of his black weapon. At first the demon held its ground, delivering fierce ripostes, then staggered back a step, then another. Relentless, Rake pressed his attack.
“To the Mother’s regret,”
he grated between blows,
“was Light granted birth. To her dismay . . . she saw too late . . . its corruption. Galayn . . . you are the unintended victim . . . to punishment . . . long overdue.”

The demon reeled beneath the blows, desperately parrying every attack, no longer counterattacking. The light bleeding from the axe flickered, dimmed, flared fitfully as darkness closed in around the blade. Shrieking, the demon launched itself at Rake. As it descended over the Tiste Andii, Crokus saw a streak of black burst from the demon’s back, slicing through the cloak. The ax flew from the creature’s hands, its fire dying as it clattered on the ground.

Squealing in horror, the demon clawed at the sword impaling it. Black smoke spread in swift tendrils from the weapon, engulfing the demon. The smoke twisted, became chains, drawing taut. The Galayn screamed in earnest.

Rake regained his feet and pushed the sword through the demon’s chest until the hilt jammed against bone. The demon sank to its knees, its black eyes locking with Rake’s own.

The swimming stars settled, the flagstones beneath the thief became solid once again, though warped and twisted. Crokus swallowed bile, his eyes fixed on the demon. It seemed to collapse in on itself, the chains of black smoke ever tightening, pulling the creature into the sword. It toppled backward and Rake drove the weapon’s point into the cobbled street, pinning the demon. Then the Tiste Andii leaned heavily on the hilt, and Crokus now noticed the blood-soaked cloth surrounding Rake’s shoulder, where the demon’s hand had struck. Wearily, the Tiste Andii swung his gaze to the thief.

“Move quickly,” he rasped. “The alchemist is in danger. I cannot protect him now. Hurry, Coin Bearer.”

Crokus whirled and ran.

The death of Travale, third in the Cabal, still echoed in their thoughts. The witch Derudan had inscribed an ash circle on the floor in the center of the chamber. With Baruk’s help, she placed the two plush chairs within it, and now sat, smoking steadily, her dark eyes following the alchemist as he paced.

Baruk found himself reluctant to enter the protective circle. While they would be safe there, surrounded by High Tennes sorcery, they would not be able to counterattack, should Vorcan arrive. More, some things could penetrate the defenses of magic. Otataral, that strange rustlike ore from the Tanno Hills of Seven Cities, immediately came to mind. It was unlikely that Vorcan would possess such material, given that she was a High Mage, yet still Baruk felt reluctant
to place himself in a position where he could not use his Warren against the assassin.

“Those of the Cabal,” Derudan said slowly, “who are now dead, yes? Stubborn, convinced of their own invincibility. No doubt they paced restless steps, awaiting the assassin’s imminent arrival.”

Baruk paused to reply, but was interrupted by a loud, inhuman scream from outside. This was followed immediately by a concussion that rattled the walls. The alchemist made a move toward the door.

“Wait!” Derudan called from the circle. “Appease not this curiosity, Baruk, for Vorcan will surely take advantage, yes?”

“A ward was shattered,” Baruk said. “My defenses are breached.”

“More the reason for caution,” Derudan admonished. “Friend, I plead with you, join me here.”

“Very well,” Baruk sighed, moving toward her. A gust of air brushed the left side of his face. Derudan cried out a warning even as the alchemist turned.

Vorcan, her gloved hands glowing red, surged toward Baruk. He raised his arms, knowing full well that he would be too late. At that moment, however, another figure appeared, emerging from darkness to intercept the Master Assassin with a flurry of blows. Vorcan reeled back, then lashed out with a hand, catching her attacker a glancing blow.

An agonized shriek rang through the chamber. Baruk stared, only now realizing that his protector was a Tiste Andii woman. He stepped aside lithely as she flew past him to strike the floor then the wall, where she lay unmoving. The alchemist pulled his gaze back to Vorcan, seeing that one of her hands no longer glowed.

He gestured, and virulent sorcery erupted from his arm, arcing yellow lightning. Vorcan hissed a counter-spell and the lightning was swallowed by a red haze before her that dimmed quickly, then disappeared. She advanced.

Vaguely, Baruk heard the witch Derudan shouting at him. Yet it was the Mistress of the Assassins’ death-filled eyes that held him. The ease with which she’d dispelled his power made it clear that she was his master in sorcery. All he could do now, he understood with clarity, was await his death.

But Baruk heard a grunt behind him, then Vorcan gasped. The hilt of a dagger protruded from the assassin’s chest. Frowning, she reached for it, then pulled it out and tossed it aside.

“All . . .” the alchemist heard the Tiste Andii woman gasp from the floor behind him “. . . all I can do. My apologies, Lord.”

Derudan appeared behind Vorcan. As she raised her hands and began an incantation, Vorcan whirled and something sped from her hand. The witch grunted, then crumpled.

Anguish flooded Baruk. With a wordless roar he launched himself at Vorcan. She laughed and ducked to one side, throwing out her glowing hand. The alchemist twisted, off-balance, narrowly avoiding the killing touch, then staggered past. He heard her laughter again, as she moved in behind him.

A dozen feet in front of Baruk was the door. The alchemist’s eyes widened to find it open. A youth crouched there, holding blockish objects in each hand.

Expecting at any moment to feel Vorcan’s touch, Baruk threw himself forward. He saw the boy straighten at the same time and thrust forward first his right arm, then his left. As the alchemist fell toward the floor, two bricks flew over him. He heard them strike the woman behind him, one making a crunching sound, the other crackling. A flash of red accompanied the crackle.

As he struck the floor, the breath was hammered from Baruk’s lungs. Agonized seconds passed as he struggled to draw air into his tortured chest. He rolled onto his back. Vorcan, he saw, lay motionless almost against his feet. The boy’s face came into view, streaked with sweat, brow furrowed with concern.

“Alchemist Baruk?” he asked.

The man nodded.

The boy sighed, then grinned. “You’re alive. Good. Rallick sent me to warn you.”

Baruk sat up. “The witch,” he said hoarsely. He pointed. “Tend to her, please.”

He felt his strength returning as he watched the boy crouch beside Derudan.

“She’s breathing,” Crokus announced. “There’s some kind of knife in her, looks like it’s covered in sap.” He reached down to touch it.