The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen (53 page)

Then, before his eyes, the darkness was shattered. Two shapes appeared hovering over the rooftop. The assassin had found Quick Ben, attacking with a bolt of fire that seemed to stun the wizard, then swiftly closing the distance between himself and the dazed man.

Kalam surged forward to intercept. Quick Ben vanished then reappeared immediately behind the assassin. The blue flash of power bursting from the wizard’s hands struck the magic-wielding assassin full in the back. Clothes aflame, the man tumbled through the air.

Quick Ben whirled to Kalam. “Come on! Get moving!”

Kalam ran, his friend flying beside him. As they reached the roof’s edge he turned for a last look. The assassin mage had somehow snuffed the fire from his clothes and was regaining his balance. At the far edge two of his comrades appeared.

“Jump,” Quick Ben said. “I’ll stall them.”

“With what?” Kalam demanded, tottering on the edge.

In answer Quick Ben produced a small vial. He spun in the air and hurled it.

Kalam cursed, then jumped.

The vial struck the rooftop and shattered with a thin tinkle. Beyond, the three assassins paused. Quick Ben remained, his eyes on the white smoke rising from the glass shards. A figure took form within the smoke, growing in size. Its
shape was almost insubstantial, the smoke stretching like threads in places, curling like wool in others. All that was visible within it was its eyes, two black slits, which it swung to Quick Ben.

“You,” it said, its voice that of a child, “are not Master Tayschrenn.”

“That’s right,” Quick Ben said, “but I’m in his legion. Your service remains with the Empire.” He pointed across the roof. “There are three who are the Empire’s enemies, Demon. Tiste Andii, here to oppose the Malazan Empire.”

“My name is Pearl,” the Korvalah demon said softly, then turned to the three assassins, who had spread out along the far edge. “They are not fleeing,” Pearl said, with a note of surprise.

Quick Ben wiped sweat from his forehead. He glanced down. Kalam was a vague shape waiting in the alley below. “I know,” he said to Pearl. That observation had unnerved him as well. One of Tayschrenn’s Korvalahrai could level a city if it so chose.

“They accept my challenge,” Pearl said, facing Quick Ben again. “Should I pity them?”

“No,” he answered. “Just kill them and be done with it.”

“Then I return to Master Tayschrenn.”

“Yes.”

“What is your name, Wizard?”

He hesitated, then said, “Ben Adaephon Delat.”

“You are supposed to be dead,” Pearl said. “Your name is so marked on the scrolls of those High Mages who fell to the Empire in Seven Cities.”

Quick Ben glanced up. “Others are coming, Pearl. You are in for a fight.”

The demon lifted its gaze. Above them glowing figures descended, five in the first wave, one in the second. This last one radiated such power that Quick Ben shrank back, his blood chilled. The figure had something long and narrow strapped to its back.

“Ben Adaephon Delat,” Pearl said plaintively, “see the last who comes. You send me to my death.”

“I know,” Quick Ben whispered.

“Flee, then. I will hold them enough to ensure your escape, no more.”

Quick Ben sank down past the roof.

Before he passed from sight Pearl spoke again. “Ben Adaephon Delat, do you pity me?”

“Yes,” he replied softly, then pivoted and dropped down into darkness.

Rallick walked down the center of the street. On either side of the wide corridor rose columns from which gas torches jutted, casting circles of blue light onto the wet cobblestones. The light rain had returned, coating everything in a slick sheen. To his right and beyond the resident houses lining that side of the street, the pale domes of the High Thalanti on the hill glistened against the deep gray sky.

The temple was among the oldest structures in the city, its founding blocks
over two thousand years old. The Thalanti monks had come, like so many others, carried on the wings of the rumor. Rallick knew less about the story than did Murillio and Coll. One of the Elder Peoples was believed to have been entombed among the hills, an individual of great wealth and power, that was the extent of his knowledge.

But it had been a rumor with many consequences. If not for the thousands of shafts sunk into the earth the caverns of gas would never have been found. And while many of those shafts had collapsed or had been forgotten over the centuries, still others remained, now connected by tunnels.

In one of the many chambers that honeycombed the ground beneath the temple waited Vorcan, Master of Assassins. Rallick imagined Ocelot making his descent, burdened with the news of disaster, and it brought a smile to his lean face. He’d never met Vorcan, but Ocelot suited those catacombs—just another of the city’s rats rushing about beneath his feet.

One day, Rallick knew, he’d become a Clan Leader, he’d meet Vorcan face to face somewhere below. He wondered at how it would change him, and traveling down this path soured his thoughts with displeasure.

He had no option. Once, he thought, as he approached the block of the Phoenix Inn, long ago, there’d been choices he could have made that would have sent him on a different path. But those days were dead, and the future held only nights, a stretch of darkness that led down to the eternal dark. He would meet Vorcan, eventually, and he’d swear his life to the Guild Master, and that would be that, the closing of the final door.

And his sense of outrage at the injustices around him, the corruptions of the world, would wither in the unlit tunnels beneath Darujhistan. In the exactness of the methods of assassination, his final victim would be himself.

And this, more than anything, made his and Murillio’s scheme the last act of humanity he’d ever make. Betrayal was the greatest of all crimes in Rallick’s mind, for it took all that was human within a person and made it a thing of pain. In the face of that, murder itself was surcease: it was quick, and it ended the anguish and despair of a life without hope. If all went as planned, Lady Simtal and those men who’d conspired with her in the betrayal of her husband, Lord Coll, would die. Could that right the wrong, could it even the scales of retribution? No, but it might return to a man his life and his hope.

For himself, Rallick, such gifts had long since been lost, and he was not the kind of man to stir the ashes. No embers survived, no flame could be born anew. Life belonged to other people, and his only claim to it was his power to take it from them. Nor would he recognize hope if it came to him. Too much a stranger, too long a ghost.

As he neared the inn’s entrance, Rallick saw Crokus approaching from down the street. He increased his pace. “Crokus,” he called.

The boy flinched, then, seeing Rallick, he stopped and waited.

Rallick took his arm and steered him toward the alley without saying a word. Once in the shadows he tightened his grip, swung Crokus round and pulled him close. “Listen to me,” he hissed, his face inches from the boy’s own astonished
visage, “the Guild’s best were slaughtered tonight. This isn’t a game. You stay off the rooftops, do you understand me?”

Crokus nodded.

“And tell your uncle this. There’s a Claw in the city.”

The boy’s eyes widened.

“And,” Rallick continued, “there’s someone else. Someone coming down from the sky, killing everything in sight.”

“Uncle Mammot?”

“Just tell him. And now listen carefully, Crokus. What I’m about to say is from me to you, one to one, understand?”

Crokus nodded again, his face pale.

“You stay on this path and you’ll end up dead. I don’t give a damn how exciting it all seems—what’s excitement to you is desperation to others. Stop feeding off the city’s lifeblood, lad. There’s no hero’s role in sucking others dry. Am I understood?”

“Yes,” Crokus whispered.

Rallick released the boy’s arm and stepped back. “Now, leave.” He shoved Crokus up the street, watched the boy stagger away and disappear around a corner. He drew a deep breath, surprised to find his hands trembling as he loosened his cloak’s collar.

Murillio stepped from the shadows. “I’m not sure it’ll work, friend, but it was a good try.” He laid a hand on the assassin’s shoulder. “Master Baruk has a job for us. Kruppe insists we bring Crokus along.”

Rallick frowned. “Along? Are we leaving Darujhistan, then?”

“Afraid so.”

“Go without me,” Rallick said. “Tell Baruk I can’t be found. Everything’s at a critical juncture—our planning included.”

“Something else happening, Nom?”

“You heard the message I gave Crokus for his uncle?”

Murillio shook his head. “I came late to your scene. Saw you dragging the lad into the alley.”

“Well,” Rallick said, “let’s go inside. It’s been a night to make Hood smile, friend.”

Together, the two men strode from the alley. In the street outside the Phoenix Inn, dawn’s light crept through the mists of the lingering rain.

In the center of the rooftop lay a large patch of ash and bone that crackled faintly and cast out the occasional hissing spark. Anomander Rake slammed his sword into its sheath. “I sent twelve of you,” he said, to the black-caped figure standing beside him, “and I see but eight. What happened, Serrat?”

The Tiste Andii woman was clearly exhausted. “We’ve been working hard, Lord.”

“Details,” Rake said abruptly.

Serrat sighed. “Jekaral has a broken neck and three cracked ribs. Boruld’s face is a mess, broken nose, broken cheekbone, broken jaw—”

“Who were they fighting?” Rake asked, turning to his lieutenant in exasperation. “Has the Guild Master come out of hiding?”

“No, Lord. Both Jekaral and Boruld fell to a single man, not of the city’s Guild.”

Rake’s eyes flashed dangerously. “Claw?”

“Possibly. He was accompanied by a High Mage. The one who gave us this Korvalah to play with.”

“It had the smell of Empire about it,” Rake muttered, his gaze on the smoldering patch that had begun to eat its way into the roof. “One of Tayschrenn’s conjurings, I should think.” A savage grin flashed. “Pity to have disturbed his sleep this night.”

“Dashtal was struck by a poisoned quarrel,” Serrat said. “One of the Guild’s assassins managed that.” She hesitated. “Lord. We were hard-pressed in Brood’s campaign. We’re in need of rest. Mistakes were made this night. Some of the Guild slipped through our fingers, and had you not answered my request, we would have suffered more casualties destroying this demon.”

Rake placed his hands on his hips and surveyed the morning sky. After a moment he sighed. “Ah, Serrat. Don’t think me insensitive. But the Guild Master must be flushed. This Guild must be shut down.” He eyed his lieutenant. “This Claw you encountered, do you think a meet was being established?”

“Not a meet,” Serrat answered. “A trap.”

Rake nodded. “Good.” He paused, his eyes matching Serrat’s with a shade of violet. “Return to Moon’s Spawn, then. Have the High Priestess herself attend to Jekaral.”

Serrat bowed. “Thank you, Lord.” She turned and gestured to the others.

“Oh,” Rake said, raising his voice to address his cadre of assassin-mages, “one last thing. You’ve done well, exceptionally well. You’ve earned a rest. Three days and nights are yours to do with as you please.”

Serrat bowed again. “We will mourn, Lord.”

“Mourn?”

“The poisoned quarrel killed Dashtal. The poison was the product of an alchemist, Lord. One of some ability. It contained paralt.”

“I see.”

“Will you return with us?”

“No.”

The lieutenant bowed a third time. As one, the eight Tiste Andii raised their hands, then vanished.

Rake glanced down at the sizzling patch just as it ate through the roof and fell into darkness. There came a faint crash from below. Lord Anomander Rake swung his gaze back to the sky, then sighed.

_______

Sergeant Whiskeyjack rocked his chair onto its back two legs and anchored it against the crumbling wall. The small, dingy room reeked of urine and damp. Two single beds, wood-framed with burlap mattresses stuffed with straw, ran along the wall to his left. The three other rickety chairs had been pulled up around the lone table in the room’s center. Above the table hung an oil lantern, which shone down on Fiddler, Hedge, and Mallet as they sat playing cards.

They’d done their work, finishing with the coming of dusk just outside Majesty Hall. Until the alliance with the Moranth, the Malazan saboteur had been nothing more than a glorified sapper, a digger of tunnels and breaker of city gates. Moranth alchemy had introduced to the Empire a variety of chemical and powder explosives, most of which detonated when exposed to air. Applying a slow-working acid worm-holed the unfired clay shells. Sabotage had become an art, the precise equation of clay thickness and acid strength was tricky, and few survived to learn from their mistakes.

To Whiskeyjack’s mind, Hedge and Fiddler were terrible soldiers. He had trouble recalling the last time they’d unsheathed their shortswords. Whatever discipline that had been part of their basic training had disintegrated through years in the field. Still, when it came to sabotage they had no equals.

Through hooded eyes Whiskeyjack studied the three men sitting at the table. It had been some minutes since any of them had made a move or said a word. One of Fiddler’s new games, he decided, the man was forever inventing new ones, improvising the rules whenever they gave him an edge. Despite the endless arguments Fiddler was never short of players.

“And that’s what boredom can do,” he said to himself. But, no, it was more than just boredom. Waiting gnawed, especially when it had to do with friends. Quick Ben and Kalam might be facedown in some alley for all they knew. And that made it hard.

Whiskeyjack’s gaze strayed to one of the beds, on which lay his armor and longsword. Rust stained the hauberk’s tattered chain like old blood. The links were missing in some places, torn in others. In his bones and muscles the memory of that damage remained: every cut, every blow now haunted him with aches, greeting him each morning like old comrades. The sword, with its plain leather-wrapped grip and stub hilt, lay in its hide-over-wood scabbard, the belt and straps draped over the bedside.