Steven Erikson: Gardens of the Moon

Kruppe took an expansive breath, his eyes bright as he surveyed the hastily abandoned leavings in the kitchen. «Always the way of things.» He sighed, patting his stomach. «Ever and anon, Kruppe's dreams come true.

«Granted, the pattern still finds shape, but Kruppe senses that all is well with the world, symbolized by the vision of bounty now arrayed before his renewed appetites. Rigours of the flesh demand replenishment, after all.»

He drew another satisfied breath of the steamy air. «We must needs await, at the end, the spin of a coin. In the meantime, of course, wondrous food beckons.»

In an alley facing the gates of Lady Sinital's estate, Adjunct Lorn had watched the Coin Bearer appear, and a slow, satisfied smile spread over her lips. Finding the boy had been one thing, but she'd had no desire to enter the garden where she'd buried the Finnest.

Minutes earlier she'd sensed the death of the Jaghut Tyrant. Had the Lord of Moon's Spawn been drawn into the battle? She hoped so. It had been her hope that the Jaghut would reach the city, perhaps even retrieve the Finnest, thus challenging the Son of Darkness as an equal. In retrospect, however, she realized that the Lord would never have permitted that.

Which meant that Whiskeyjack still lived. Well, there'd be another time for that, once the city was in the hands of the Empress and Tayschrenn. Perhaps then they'd find no need to disguise their efforts: they could make the arrest a public spectacle. With this coup even Dujek could not challenge them.

She'd watched the Coin Bearer race down the street, seeming not even to have noticed Moon's Spawn hanging so close overhead. A moment later, she followed. With the Coin in her hands, the Empress would bring Oponn to its knees.

Like a drowning voice, deep within her mind, came a question heavy with dismay and despair: What of your doubts? What of the woman who'd once challenged Tayschrenn, in Pale? Has so much changed? Has so much been destroyed?

The Adjunct shook her head, dispelling the plaintive cries. She was the arm of the Empress. The woman called Lorn was dead, had been dead for years, and would remain forever dead. And now the Adjunct moved through these hollow shadows, in a city cowering in fear. The Adjunct was a weapon. Its edge could bite deep, or it could snap, break. She might once have called the latter «death'. Now, it was no more than the misfortune of war, a flaw in the weapon's design.

She paused and hid against a wall as the Coin Bearer stopped on a corner and realized for the first time what hovered above him. She considered attacking now, while he was so confused, possibly terrified. But then he continued on.

The Adjunct crouched down. Time for Tayschrenn's gambit.

Hopefully the Jaghut Tyrant had managed to inflict damage upon the Moon's lord. She removed a small flask from her shirt and held the patinated glass up to the shine of gaslight. The contents swirled like trapped smoke as she gave it a shake.

She rose and threw it across the street. The flask struck a stone wall and shattered. Glowing red smoke curled upward, slowly taking shape.

The Adjunct spoke: «You know your task, Lord of the Galayn. Succeed, and freedom will be yours.»

She unsheathed her sword and closed her eyes briefly, locating the Coin Bearer in her mind. He was fast, but she was faster. The Adjunct smiled again. Now, the Coin would be hers.

When she moved, it was as a blur, quicker than any eye could follow, even that of a Galayn lord loose on the material plane.

In his study, Baruk cradled his head in his hands. Mammot's death had come like a knife to his own heart, and he still felt its stabbing pain. He was alone in the chamber, having dismissed Roald earlier.

Rake had suspected. He'd refused to speak of it, considering it too sensitive a matter. The alchemist had wearily to admit that the Tiste And? had been correct. Would he even have believed Rake?

Undoubtedly, the power possessing Mammot had shielded itself, defying detection. Rake had anticipated Baruk's anger at such a suggestion, and had, wisely and with compassion, chosen to say nothing.

And now Mammot was dead, even as was the Jaghut Tyrant. Had it been Rake who had killed his old friend? If so, he hadn't used his sword, yet another mercy granted both Mammot and Baruk-the alchemist had sensed, if anything, a kind of relief in Mammot's death cry.

A soft cough at the door alerted him. Baruk rose swiftly and turned.

His brows rose. «Witch Derudan!»

Her face was pale, her smile wan. «I thought of you, upon Mammot's end. I am here, so. Alas,» she said, as she strode to a chair by the fireplace and set her water-pipe down on the floor beside it, «my servant has taken the rest of the evening off.» She removed the ash-cup and tapped its contents into the unlit hearth. «Such mundane exertions,» she said, sighing.

At first, Baruk resented her intrusion. He preferred to mourn alone.

But as he watched her, the supple grace of her movements, his thoughts changed. Her Warren was Tennes, ancient and bound to the cycles of seasons; and among the handful of deities she could call upon was Tennerock, the Boar of Five Tusks. Derudan's greatest power-the one she shared, in any case-was the Tusk named Love. He chastised himself. Slow had the realization come that she was bringing him a gift.

Derudan replaced the ash-cup and packed it with leaves. She closed a hand around it, and the contents glowed with sudden heat. A moment later the witch sat heavily in the chair. She drew deeply on the mouthpiece.

Baruk strode to the other chair. «Rake believes it isn't yet over,» he said, sitting.

She nodded. «I was witness to Mammot's end, yes? He was opposed by myself: and a most remarkable wizard. The flesh that was Mammot was destroyed by a Moranth incendiary. The Jaghut spirit survived but was taken: by an Azath.» Her heavy-lidded eyes appraised him.

«Azath? Here, in Darujhistan?»

«Indeed, such mysterious conjurings, known for their hunger for mages, will impose upon our efforts: a certain caution, yes?»

«Where has it arisen?»

«In the garden of Sinital's estate. Did I not also mention a Moranth incendiary? Lady Sinital's F?te had some unusual guests, yes?»

«Malazans?»

«Twice my life saved-the wizard of whom I spoke, who commands within him seven Warrens-»

«Seven?» Baruk said, flinching. «Hood's Breath, is that even possible?»

«If they mean ill, it shall fall to the Son of Darkness to meet the challenge.»

Both stiffened as power surged into life somewhere nearby. The alchemist was on his feet, fists clenched. «A demon is unleashed,» he hissed.

«I feel it as well,» Derudan said, her face white. «Of great power.»

«A Demon Lord.» Baruk nodded. «This is what Rake awaited.»

Derudan's eyes widened and she pulled on her mouthpiece before asking, «Is he capable of defeating such a creature? Son of Darkness he is, but feel this creature's power, yes?»

«I don't know,» Baruk said quietly. «If not, then the city is doomed.»

At that point there came another blow, followed by another. The witch and the alchemist stared at each other in recognition. Two of their Cabal had just died violent deaths.

«Paral,» she whispered in fear.

«And Tholas,» Baruk said. «It's begun, and damn Rake for being so right.»

She looked at him blankly.

Baruk grimaced. «Vorcan.»

Standing on the stained, pitted bronze tiles of the belfry's roof, Anomander Rake's head snapped around. His eyes deepened to black.

The wind clawed at his long, silver hair and his grey cloak, its moan hollow and lost. He raised his gaze momentarily to Moon's Spawn as it moved west. He could feel its pain, as if the wounds it had received at Pale were somehow echoed in his own body. A flash of regret crossed his lean features.