The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen (52 page)

Gasping, he pulled himself back onto the roof. At the far end he saw the second assassin whirl around. Growling, Kalam surged to his feet and sprinted at the figure.

The unknown assassin stepped back as if startled, then brought a hand down and promptly vanished.

Kalam slid to a stop and stood crouched, both hands hanging at his sides.

“I see her,” Quick Ben whispered.

With a hiss Kalam spun in a full circle, then danced to one side, putting his back to the roof’s edge. “I don’t.”

“She’s putting energy into it,” Quick Ben said. “I keep losing her. Wait, Kal.” The wizard fell silent.

Kalam’s head snapped with every muted sound. His breath gusted in and out from his nostrils, his hands twitched. Wait. A low rumble came from his chest. Wait for what? A knife in his throat?

All at once the night exploded with sound and fire. The attacker burst into view immediately in front of Kalam, dagger flashing at his chest. Smoke and sparks rained from her but she moved as if unaffected. Kalam twisted to one side, trying to avoid the blade. The dagger tore through his shirt below his ribs, sinking deep into his flesh then ripping sideways. He felt a hot gush of blood as he drove a fist into the woman’s solar plexus. She gasped, reeling back, threads of blood whipping from the dagger in her right hand. Kalam charged forward
with a snarl. He closed and, ignoring the assassin’s dagger, punched into her chest again. Ribs cracked. His other hand flat-palmed her forehead. The assassin sprawled backward, landing with a thump on the roof. Her body stilled.

Kalam sank to one knee, drawing in gulps of air. “Wait, you said, dammit! What the hell’s wrong with you, Quick?” He pushed a knot of cloth into the wound below his ribcage. “Quick?”

There was no reply. He tensed, then turned and scanned the lower rooftops. Bodies lay scattered here and there. The warehouse roof, where he’d seen two figures land behind their mark, was empty. Groaning softly, he sank down onto his knees.

With the woman’s attack he’d heard something amid the flashing fires. A boom, no, two booms, very close together. An exchange of magic. His breath caught. Was there a third assassin? A wizard? Quick Ben had damaged this one, but someone else had damaged Quick Ben. “Oh, Hood,” he whispered, glaring about.

Rallick’s first intimation of trouble was a sharp blow between his shoulder blades. The breath burst from his lungs, carrying with it the ability to move. His back throbbed, and he knew he’d been hit by a quarrel, but the Jazeraint armor under his shirt had withstood the impact—the quarrel’s spiked head had pierced the iron but had been too spent to push farther. Through the thumping pulse in his ears he caught a pair of footsteps approaching him from behind.

From the shadows below came Ocelot’s voice, “Nom? What’s happening?”

Behind Rallick the footsteps stopped, and there came the soft clacking of a crossbow being cocked. Rallick’s wind returned, the numbness receding from his body. His own weapon lay beside him, ready. He waited.

“Nom?”

A soft footfall sounded behind him and to the left. In one motion Rallick rolled onto his back, grasped his crossbow, sat up and fired. The assassin, less than fifteen feet away, was thrown back by the quarrel’s impact, its weapon flying.

Rallick heaved himself to one side, only now seeing the second attacker well behind the first. The figure crouched and fired its crossbow. The quarrel caught Rallick’s upper chest on the right, then ricocheted up past his head to disappear into the darkness. The blow left his right arm numb. He struggled to his feet, unsheathing his knife, the hooked blade a blue flicker in the night.

The assassin opposite him took a careful step forward, then backed away to the far edge and dropped over the side.

“Hood’s Breath,” came Ocelot’s voice beside Rallick. He turned but saw no one.

“He saw my magic,” Ocelot said. “Good work on the first one, Nom. Maybe we can finally determine who these people are.”

“I don’t think so,” Rallick said, his eyes on the motionless body. An incandescent shimmer now wreathed it.

As the body disappeared Ocelot cursed. “Some kind of recall spell,” he said.
Suddenly the Clan Master appeared in front of Rallick. His face twisted into a snarl as he glared about. “We set the trap, we end up dead.”

Rallick did not reply. He reached over his shoulder, pulled out the quarrel and tossed it to one side. The trappers had become the trapped, that was true, but he felt certain that the man who’d followed him had nothing to do with these newcomers. He turned and gazed up at the roof where his follower had been stationed. Even as he watched there was a flash of red and yellow light and a double thunderclap, and in that instant Rallick saw a silhouetted figure at the roof’s edge, defending itself from a frontal attack. The flash winked out leaving only darkness.

“Magery,” Ocelot whispered. “High-power stuff, too. Come on, we’re getting out of here.”

They left quickly, climbing down into the warehouse court.

Once she had marked them, Sorry could find the fat little man and the Coin Bearer effortlessly. Though she’d intended to trail this Kruppe after leaving Kalam and Quick Ben in the hut, something had drawn her instead to the boy. A suspicion, a sense that his actions were—at least for now—more important than Kruppe’s meanderings.

The Coin Bearer was the last of Oponn’s influence, and the god’s most vital player in the game. Thus far, she’d done well in eliminating the other potential players—men like Captain Paran, who had been the Adjunct’s aide and, by extension, a servant to the Empress. And there had been that Claw Leader in Pale, the one she had garotted. On her path to the Bridgeburners, others had been removed as well, but only as necessary.

She knew that the boy would have to die, yet something within her seemed to be fighting that conclusion, and it was a part of her she could not recognize. She’d been taken, born a killer two years ago on a coastal road. The body she dwelt within was convenient, suitably unmarred by the events of a dramatic life—a young girl’s body, a young girl whose mind was no match for the power that overwhelmed it, obliterated it.

But was it obliterated? What had the coin touched inside her? And whose voice was this that spoke with such power and determination in her head? It had come upon her before, when Whiskeyjack had uttered the word Seer.

She tried hard to remember any dealings she might have had with a seer in the last two years, but none came to mind.

She pulled her cloak tighter about her shoulders. Finding the boy had been easy, but as to what he was up to, that was another matter. On the surface it looked no more complicated than a simple theft. Crokus had stood in an alley studying a lighted window on the third floor of an estate, waiting until the light went out. Wrapped in unnatural shadows as she was, he had not seen her as he scaled the slick wall she leaned against. He climbed with impressive grace and skill.

After he’d gone she found another vantage-point, which allowed her full view
of the room’s balcony and sliding doors. This had meant entering the estate’s garden. But there had been only one guard, patrolling the grounds. She’d killed him effortlessly and now stood beneath a tree with her eyes on the balcony.

Crokus had already reached it, had picked the lock and entered the room beyond. He was quite good, she had to admit. But what thief would then spend close to half an hour in the chamber he was robbing? Half an hour and still counting. She’d heard no alarms, seen no lights spring to life behind any of the estate’s other windows, nothing to indicate that anything had gone wrong. So what was Crokus doing in there?

Sorry stiffened. Sorcery had burgeoned in another part of Darujhistan, and its flavor was known to her. She hesitated, unable to decide. Leave the lad and investigate this new, deadly emanation? Or remain here until Crokus reemerged or was discovered?

Then she saw something behind the balcony’s sliding doors that ended her indecision.

Sweat ran down Crokus’s face and he found he had repeatedly to wipe it from his eyes. He’d beaten the new triggers to get inside—the one on the balcony, the trip-wire at the latch—and now padded to the makeup table. Once there he froze, unable to move.
Idiot! What am I doing here?

He listened to her soft, regular breathing behind him—
like the breath of a dragon
—he was certain he could feel it gusting against the back of his neck. Crokus looked up and scowled at his own reflection in the mirror. What was happening to him? If he didn’t leave soon . . . He began to remove his bag’s contents. When he’d finished he glanced again at his own face—to see another behind it, a round, white face watching him from the bed.

The girl spoke. “Since you’re putting it all back, I’d prefer the proper arrangement. My makeup jar goes to the left of the mirror,” she said, in a whisper. “The hairbrush goes to the right. Have you my earrings as well? Just leave them on the dresser.”

Crokus groaned. He’d even forgotten to cover his face. “Don’t try anything,” he growled. “I’ve returned everything, and now I’ll leave. Understand?”

The girl pulled her blankets about her and moved to the bed’s end. “Threats won’t work, thief,” she said. “All I need do is scream and my father’s Master Guardsman will be here in seconds. Would you cross your dagger with his shortsword?”

“No,” said Crokus. “I’d put it to your throat instead. With you as a hostage, with you between me and the guard, will he swing his blade at me? Unlikely.”

The girl paled. “As a thief, you’d lose a hand. But kidnapping a high-born, it’d be the high gallows for you.”

Crokus tried to shrug casually. He glanced at the balcony, gauging how fast he could be outside and then up on the roof. That new trip-wire was a nuisance.

“Stay where you are,” the girl commanded. “I’m lighting a lantern.”

“Why?” Crokus demanded, fidgeting.

“To see you better,” she replied, and light bloomed in the room from the lantern in her lap.

He scowled. He hadn’t noticed it there, so close at hand. She was ruining his plans even as he made them. “What’s the point in seeing me better?” he snarled. “Just call your damn guards and have me arrested. Be done with it.” He pulled the silk turban from his shirt and dropped it on the tabletop. “That’s all of it,” he said.

The girl glanced at the turban and shrugged easily. “That was to be part of my costume for the Fête,” she said. “I’ve since found a nicer one.”

“What,” he hissed, “do you want with me?”

Fear showed momentarily on her face at his desperate outburst, then she smiled. “I wish to know why a thief who succeeded in stealing all my jewels should now be returning them. That isn’t something thieves usually do.”

“With good reason,” he muttered, more to himself than to her. He stepped forward then stopped as she jerked back onto her bed, her eyes widening. Crokus raised a hand. “Sorry, didn’t mean to frighten you. Only . . . I want to see you better. That’s all.”

“Why?”

He was at a loss for an answer to that. After all, he couldn’t very well tell her he’d fallen madly in love with her. “What’s your name?” he blurted.

“Challice D’Arle. What’s yours?”

Challice. “Of course,” he said, rolling his eyes. “You would be named something like that.” He glared at her. “My name? None of your business. Thieves don’t introduce themselves to their victims.”

Her eyebrows rose. “Victim? But I’m no longer a victim, am I? You’ve settled that by returning. I’d think,” she said slyly, “you’re more or less obliged to tell me your name, considering what you’re doing. And you must be the type who treats obligations seriously, no matter how strange they seem.”

Crokus frowned at that. What was she talking about? What did she know about how he looked at obligations? And why was she right? “My name,” he sighed, defeated, “is Crokus Younghand. And you’re the daughter of the high born D’Arle who all those suitors are lining up to be introduced to. But one day you’ll see me in that line, Challice, and only you will know where you last saw me. It’ll be a formal introduction, and I’ll bring a gift as is correct.” He stared at her, horrified by his own words.

Her wide eyes held his, emotion bright in them—emotion he’d no hope of understanding—then she burst out laughing. She immediately clapped a hand over her mouth, then jolted forward on the bed. “You’d better go, Crokus. Someone will have heard me. Quickly, and beware the trip-wire!”

Crokus moved woodenly to the balcony’s sliding doors. Her laughter had been the final punctuation to all his dreams. He felt dead inside, except for a cynic’s chuckle that might have been his own, given the odd look she threw him. Her blankets had fallen down around her, and once again she was naked. It astonished him in a distant way that she hadn’t even seemed to notice.

A voice came from beyond the door leading to the hallway, indistinct.

The girl hissed, “Hurry, you fool!”

Alarm bells jangled in his head, awakening him. He had to move, and fast. Crokus stepped over the trip-wire and opened the door. He paused to glance back at her, and smiled as she clutched the blankets to her neck. Well, at least he’d won that much.

A knock sounded on the opposite door.

Crokus emerged onto the balcony and hitched himself up onto the railing. He looked down into the garden and almost fell. The guard was gone. In his place stood a woman—and, though she was cloaked, something about her triggered instant recognition. The woman from the bar, and she was looking right at him with dark eyes that burned him deep inside.

The door in the room opened and Crokus shook himself.
Damn that woman, anyway! Damn both of them!
He grasped the eaves above his head and swung lithely up and out of sight.

Kalam crouched motionless in the middle of the rooftop, a knife in each hand. Around him was silence, the night air tense and heavy. Long minutes passed. At times he convinced himself he was alone, that Quick Ben and the other wizard had left the roof; that they hunted each other in the sky overhead, or in the alleys and streets below, or on another roof. But then he’d hear something, a drawn breath, a scuff of cloth against leather, or a wisp of wind would brush his cheek on this windless night.