Chapter Twenty-three

 

It was said

she turned the blade on herself then

to steal the magic

of life.

CALL TO SHADOW (IX. II)
FELISIN (B.1146)

 

Exhausted, Paran made his way through the undergrowth. He ducked beneath a tree into shadow—and the world shifted.

Jaws closed on his left shoulder, teeth grinding through chain, and lifted him from the ground. A surge of unseen muscle flung him through the air. He landed heavily, rolled to his knees, and looked up in time to see the Hound close once again. Paran’s left arm was numb; he reached vainly for his sword as the Hound opened its maw and closed it around his chest. Mail popped, flesh tore and blood sprayed as the Hound lifted Paran once again.

The captain hung in the giant beast’s mouth. He felt Chance slide free of its scabbard, its weight pulling it away from his twitching hand. The Hound shook him. Blood spattered the ground. Then it dropped him and stepped back, looking almost baffled. It whined, began to pace back and forth, eyes darting again and again to the captain.

Pain surged through Paran in growing waves; his limbs shook uncontrollably, he could barely draw breath.

“It seems Rood must find someone to blame,” a voice said. Paran blinked, opened his eyes to see a black-cowled man standing above him. “But he was premature, and for that I apologize. Evidently, some old scores need settling between you and the Hounds.” The man frowned at Rood. “More, something has confused him about you . . . Kinship? Now, how could that be?”

“You were the one,” Paran said, as numbness spread through him, “the one who possessed the girl—”

The man faced the captain. “Yes, I am Cotillion. Shadowthrone regrets leaving you outside Hood’s Gates—at the cost of two Hounds. Do you realize that those precious creatures had lived for thousands of years? Do you realize that no man—mortal or Ascendant—has ever before killed a Hound?”

Did I save their souls? Wouldn’t telling that story matter? No, too much like begging. Paran glanced at Rood. Kinship? “What do you want from me?” he asked Cotillion. “My death? Leave me here, then, it’s almost done.”

“You should have left us to our work, Captain, since you now hate the Empress so.”

“What you did to the girl—”

“What I did was merciful. I used her, yes, but she knew it not. Can the same be said for you? Tell me, is knowing you’re being used better than not knowing?”

Paran said nothing.

“I can release to the girl all those memories, if you like. The memories of what I did, what she did, when I possessed her . . .”

“No.”

Cotillion nodded.

Paran could feel the pain returning and it surprised him. He’d lost so much blood that he’d expected to be fading from consciousness by now. Instead, the pain was back, incessant, throbbing amid unbearable itching. He coughed. “Now what?”

“Now?” Cotillion seemed surprised. “Now I start again.”

“Another girl like her?”

“No, the plan was flawed.”

“You stole her life!”

Cotillion’s dark eyes hardened. “Now she has it back. I see you still carry Chance, so the same cannot be said for you.”

Paran turned his head, found the weapon an arm’s length away. “When my luck turns,” he muttered. And turn it did. He found he could move his left arm, and the pain in his chest seemed less insistent than it had.

Cotillion laughed dryly at Paran’s words. “It will be too late then, Captain. You gamble that the Lady continues to look kindly on you. You’ve surrendered whatever wisdom you may have once possessed. Such is the power of the Twins.”

“I am healing,” Paran said.

“So you are. As I said, Rood was premature.”

The captain slowly, cautiously, sat up. His chain armor was in shreds, but beneath he could see the red flame of newly healed flesh. “I—I don’t understand you, Cotillion, or Shadowthrone.”

“You are not alone in that. Now, as to Chance . . .”

Paran looked down at the weapon. “It’s yours, if you want it.”

“Ah.” Cotillion smiled, stepping over to pick it up. “I’d suspected a change of heart, Captain. The world is so complex, isn’t it? Tell me, do you pity the ones who used you?”

Paran closed his eyes. A terrible burden seemed to drain from him. He recalled the Finnest’s grip on his soul. He glanced up at the Hound. In Rood’s eyes he saw something almost . . . soft. “No.”

“Wisdom returns quickly,” Cotillion said, “once the bond is severed. I will return you now, Captain, with this one last warning: try not to be noticed. And when next you see a Hound, run.”

The air swirled into darkness around Paran. He blinked, saw the trees of the estate garden rising before him. I wonder, will I run from it . . . or with it?

“Captain?” It was Mallet’s voice. “Where in Hood’s Name are you?”

Paran sat up. “Not in Hood’s Name, Mallet. I’m here, in the shadows.”

The healer scrambled to his side. “We’ve got trouble everywhere. You look—”

“Deal with it,” the captain barked, climbing to his feet.

Mallet stared at Paran. “Hood’s Breath, you look chewed to pieces . . . sir.”

“I’m going after Lorn. If we all live through this we will meet at the Phoenix Inn. Understood?”

Mallet blinked. “Yes, sir.”

Paran turned to leave.

“Captain?”

“What?”

“Don’t treat her kindly, sir.”

Paran moved off.

The images remained with Crokus, brutally sharp. They returned again and again even as he tried to move away from them, his thoughts driven by panic and desperation.

Uncle Mammot was dead. In the youth’s head a distant, steady voice told him that the man who had borne Mammot’s face was not the man he’d known all his life, and that what had been . . . claimed by the roots was something else, something horrific. The voice repeated this, and he heard its clear statement rising and falling beneath the storm of what he had seen with his own eyes: the images that would not leave him.

The central chamber of Lady Simtal’s estate was abandoned, the fête’s trappings scattered about on the floor amid puddles and smears of blood. The dead and those whom Mammot had hurt had been carried away by the guards; the servants had all fled.

Crokus raced across the room to the open front doors. Beyond, torchlight cast a hissing blue glow down onto the walkway’s paved stones and the gates, which had been left ajar. The thief leaped down the steps and hurried for the gate. He slowed as he approached it, for something was wrong in the street.

Like Simtal’s main floor, the street was empty, littered with pennants, banners, and fetishes. Eddies of dry wind whipped tatters of cloth and reed paper about in dancing circles. The air felt heavy and close.

Crokus emerged onto the street. In either direction, as far as he could see, not a single reveler was visible, and a thick silence hung over all. The wind curled round him, first from one direction, then from another, as if seeking escape. A charnel smell filled the air.

Mammot’s death returned to him. He felt utterly alone, yet Rallick’s words urged him on. Days ago, the assassin had closed angry hands on the thief’s shirt, pulling him close—and he’d called Crokus a drinker of the city’s blood. He wanted to refute that, especially now. Darujhistan mattered. It was his home, and it mattered.

He turned in the direction of Baruk’s estate. At least, with the streets empty, this wouldn’t take long. He began to run.

The gusting wind beat against him, whipping his hair into his face. Darkness hung low above the street’s gas lamps. Crokus skidded to a halt on a corner. He’d heard something. Cocking his head, he held his breath and listened. There, again. Birds—hundreds of them from the sound, murmuring, talking, clucking. And amid the charnel smell he now detected the reek of birds’ nests. Crokus frowned, thinking. Then he looked directly overhead.

A shout broke from his lips and he ducked instinctively. Above him, blotting out the night sky’s stars, was a ceiling of jagged black stone, hanging so low as to seem inches from the highest buildings. He stared up at it, then pulled away his gaze as a wave of dizziness spun through him. The ceiling was revolving slowly. In its pocks, shelves, and crags he’d seen the restless motion of nesting ravens, oily blots against the grainy background.

Moon’s Spawn had arrived, to clear the streets, to silence the festival of rebirth. What could it mean? Crokus didn’t know, but Baruk would. Of course.

The thief resumed his run, his moccasins a whisper on the cobbles.

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. Rigors 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 Simtal’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 Andii 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 Simtal’s estate. Did I not also mention a Moranth incendiary? Lady Simtal’s Fête 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.

“Parald,” she whispered in fear.

“And Tholis,” 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 gray 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.

Air buffeted him and he heard the heavy flap of wings. Rake smiled. “Silanah,” he said softly, knowing she would hear him. The red dragon slipped between two towers and banked, returning to his position. “I know you sense the Demon Lord’s presence, Silanah. You would help me in this. I know, I know.” He shook his head. “Return to Moon’s Spawn, dear friend. This battle is mine. Yours is done. But know this: if I fail, you may seek to avenge my death.”

Silanah swept overhead and loosed a thin wail.

“Go home,” Rake whispered.

The red dragon cried again, then swung westward and rose through the night air.

He sensed a presence at his side and turned to find a tall, hooded man sharing his view of the city below. “Unwise,” Rake murmured, “to appear unannounced.”

The man sighed. “The stones beneath your feet, Lord, are newly sanctified. I am reborn.”

“There is no place in the world for an Eldering god,” Rake said. “Take my word for it.”

K’rul nodded. “I know. I anticipated returning to the Realms of Chaos, with a Jaghut Tyrant for company. Alas, he evaded me.”

“And found imprisonment elsewhere.”

“I am relieved.”

The two were silent for a long minute, then K’rul sighed. “I am lost. In this world. In this time.”

Rake grunted. “You are not alone with those sentiments, Eldering One.”

“Do I follow in your steps, Lord? Do I seek out new battles, new games to play in the company of Ascendants? Are you rewarded in spirit for your efforts?”

“Sometimes,” Rake said quietly. “But mostly, no, I am not.”

The hooded face turned to the Tiste Andii. “Then why?”

“I know no other way of living.”

“I have no means of assisting you this night, Anomander Rake. I am manifest in this sanctified place, and manifest in a lone mortal’s dreams, but nowhere else.”

“I will do my best, then,” Rake said, “to avoid damaging your temple.”

K’rul bowed, then vanished.

Alone once again, Rake turned his attention to the street below. An apparition arrived. It paused to sniff the air, then began changing—veering. A Lord of the Galayn, and a Soletaken.

“Well,” the Lord of Moon’s Spawn growled, “so am I.” The Tiste Andii spread his arms wide, then rose upward. Kurald Galain sorcery swirled around him, blending his clothing, his massive sword, drawing all inward to the shape he now climbed toward. The veering was smooth, eloquent, as jet-black wings unfolded from his shoulders. Flesh and bone surged in size, changed in shape.

As he flew higher, eyes fixed on the stars, Anomander Rake became a black dragon, silver-maned and dwarfing even Silanah. His eyes gleamed silver, the vertical slits of the pupils dilating. His breath gusted in heavy grunts, the snap of his wings loud amid the deep groan of muscle on bone. His chest swelled to draw in the cold, dry air, and power filled his being.

Rake climbed ever higher, slipping through a stray cloud that scudded in darkness over the city. When he finally tilted his wings forward and caressed the surface of a wayward wind, he looked down on a city that glimmered like a mottled copper coin at the bottom of a pellucid pond.

Sorcery flared occasionally, centered mostly in the Estate District, and Rake sensed death within those emanations. He considered the message delivered by Serrat, courtesy of a foul mage he’d thought a thousand leagues away. Was the sorcery the work of these unwelcome intruders? He rumbled in frustration—he would deal with them later. Before him now was a battle. The Empress and her Empire had challenged him again and again, willful in the desire to test his strength. Each time he’d withdrawn, unwilling to commit himself. Very well, Empress, my patience is at an end.

The membrane of his wings tautened, the joints creaking, as he grunted a straining breath. He hung almost motionless for a second studying the great city beneath him. Then, tucking in his wings, Anomander Rake, the Son of Darkness and Lord of Moon’s Spawn, plummeted.

Kalam knew the pattern of detonation the saboteurs would follow. He skirted one side of the street as he ran. So what if Moon’s Spawn hung over them as if ready to descend on the city and crush the life from it like a god’s heel—Fiddler and Hedge wouldn’t give a damn. They had a job to do.

The assassin cursed every stubborn bone in their heads. Why didn’t they run away like normal, sane people? He came to a corner and crossed the intersection diagonally. Ahead, at the far end of the street, rose Majesty Hill. As he reached the corner he almost collided with the two saboteurs. Fiddler darted to one side of him, Hedge to the other, running as if not even recognizing him, terror plain on their faces.

Kalam reached back and with each hand grasped a cloak’s hood. Then he grunted in pain as the two men jerked him backward and off his feet. “Damn you bastards!” he yelled. “Hold it!”

“It’s Kal!” Hedge yelled.

Kalam twisted around to find a rusty shortsword inches from his face, with Fiddler’s white face and wide eyes immediately behind it. “Put that piece of junk away,” the assassin snapped. “You want to give me an infection?”

“We’re getting out of here!” Hedge hissed. “Forget the damn mines! Forget everything!”

Still gripping their cloaks, Kalam shook them both. “Calm down. What’s happened?”

Fiddler moaned and pointed up the street.

Turning, Kalam stiffened.

A twelve-foot-tall creature shambled down the middle of the road, hunched shoulders wrapped in a glittering cape with a high cowl. A two-bladed ax was slung in its wide dragon-hide belt, its handle as long as Kalam was tall. The creature’s wide, squat face held two slitted eyes.

“Oh, Hood’s Gates and back,” the assassin muttered. “That’s Tayschrenn’s precious lord.” He pushed the two saboteurs around the corner. “Get moving. Back to Simtal’s estate.” Neither objected, and moments later were running as fast as they could down the street. Kalam crouched at the corner and waited for the Galayn lord to come into view. When it did, he blanched. “Soletaken.”

The Galayn was assuming a form better suited to wholesale destruction. The dun-brown dragon paused, its wingtips brushing the buildings on either side. Its rumble trembled the cobbles.

Kalam watched as the creature tensed its limbs, then rose upward on a wave of power. The darkness swallowed it. “Hood’s Breath,” he said. “Now things are going to get messy.” He whirled and ran to catch up with the saboteurs.

The Coin Bearer came to a street lined with walled estates. He slowed his pace, studying each structure he passed.

The time had come, the Adjunct knew. Before the boy had a chance to get inside one of those places, where he might find protection. She adjusted her grip on the sword, padding in silence not fifteen feet behind him.

She drew a long, deep breath, then surged forward, sword’s point extended.

At the sharp, ringing clang of metal immediately behind him, Crokus dived forward. He dipped a shoulder and rolled, regaining his feet. He cried out in shock. The woman who had attacked Coll in the hills was in a whirlwind exchange with a tall, round-shouldered man with two scimitars.

The thief’s jaw dropped as he watched the fight. As good as the woman had shown herself against Coll, she was now being driven back as a flurry of attacks swept around her. They both moved so quickly that Crokus could not even see the parries, or the blades themselves, but as he watched, he saw the blossoming of wounds on the woman—her arms, legs, chest. Her expression held complete disbelief.

Then a voice chuckled beside him, “He’s good, ain’t he?”

Crokus whirled to see a tall, thin man, wearing a gray and crimson longcoat, his hands in its pockets. He swung a narrow hatchet face to the thief and grinned. “You headin’ somewhere, boy? Somewhere safe?”

Crokus nodded numbly.

The man’s grin widened. “I’ll escort you, then. And don’t worry, you’re covered from the roofs, too. Cowl’s up there, damn his snakeskin hide. But he’s a powerful mage, anyway. Serrat was furious, I hear. Let’s walk, then.”

Crokus let the man take his arm and lead him away from the duel. The thief cast a glance over his shoulder. The woman was trying to disengage now, her left arm hanging useless and glistening in the gaslight. Her opponent continued pressing, silent as a ghost.

“Don’t worry,” the man beside him said, pulling him along. “That’s Corporal Blues. He lives for this stuff.”

“C-Corporal?”

“We’ve been covering your back, Coin Bearer.” The man’s other hand reached up to his collar, which he turned back to reveal a brooch. “The name’s Fingers, Sixth Blade, Crimson Guard. You’re being protected, boy, compliments of Prince K’azz and Caladan Brood.”

Crokus stared, then he scowled. “Coin Bearer? What’s that mean? I think you’ve got the wrong person.”

Fingers laughed dryly. “We figured you was walking blind and dumb, boy. The only explanation. You’ve got other people trying to protect you, too, you know. There’s a coin in your pocket, probably two-headed, right?” He grinned at the thief’s stunned expression. “It’s Oponn’s own. You’ve been serving a god and you didn’t even know it! How’s your luck been, lately?” He laughed again.

Crokus stopped at a gate.

“This is the place, then?” Fingers asked, glancing at the estate rising behind the compound wall. “Well, there’s a powerful mage living in there, ain’t there? Well,” he released the thief’s arm, “you should be safe enough inside. Good luck, boy, and I mean that. But listen,” Fingers’ eyes hardened, “if your luck goes sour, you dump that coin, y’ hear?”

Confusion flickered across Crokus’s face. “Thank you, sir.”

“Our pleasure,” Fingers said, as he placed his hands in his pockets again. “Get a move on, then.”

The Adjunct broke away, taking a cut across her right shoulder blade as she did so. She ran, blood spraying with the effort, and the man did not pursue.

What a fool she’d been! Thinking that the Coin Bearer wasn’t protected! But who was that man? Never before had she faced such a swordsman, and the most appalling thing was that he had fought without the aid of sorcery. For once, her Otataral blade and her skill had not been enough.

She staggered, half blind, down the street, then wheeled round a corner. Out of the corner of her eye she saw a flash of movement. The Adjunct threw her back to a wall and raised her sword again.

A large woman stood before her, regarding her quizzically. “Looks to me,” she drawled, “like you’re already done.”

“Leave me be,” Lorn gasped.

“Can’t do it,” Meese said. “We been on you since Circle Breaker picked you up at the gate. The Eel says you’ve got some things t’ pay for, lady. And we’re here to collect.”

As soon as the woman said that, the Adjunct sensed another presence, immediately on her left. She cried out as she tried to spin into a defensive crouch, and in the cry was an overwhelming sense of frustration and despair. What a waste! she cursed. No, not like this!

Even as that thought thundered through her head, both women attacked. She parried the blade coming at her from the left, but could only watch in horror as the woman who’d spoken revealed two blades, both driving for her chest.

The Adjunct screamed in rage as the weapons punched into her. Her sword clanged and bounded as it struck the cobbles. Hands groping, Lorn slid down the wall. “Who?” she managed, a blind need behind the word. “Who?”

One of the women bent low over her. “What’s that?”

Anguish filled Lorn’s face, the corners of her mouth drooping as her eyes closed. “Who?” she asked again. “Who is this Eel?”

“Let’s go, Meese,” the woman said, ignoring the body at her feet.

Paran found her sprawled on the grimy cobbles of an alley-mouth. Something had drawn him to her unerringly, a final closing of the mysterious link between them. Her sword was beside her, the grip slick with blood, its edges gouged and nicked. The captain crouched beside her.

“You made it a hard fight,” he whispered, “for what that is worth.”

He watched her eyes flicker open. She stared up at him as recognition arrived. “Captain. Ganoes.”

“Adjunct.”

“They have killed me.”

“Who?”

She managed a stained smile. “I don’t know. Two women. Looked like . . . thieves. Thugs. Do you see . . . the irony, Ganoes Paran?”

Thin-lipped, he nodded.

“No . . . glorious end . . . for the Adjunct. If you’d come . . . a few minutes sooner . . .”

The captain said nothing. He watched the life leave Lorn, feeling nothing. Ill luck, knowing me, Adjunct. I’m sorry for that. Then he collected the Otataral sword and slipped it into his scabbard.

Above him two voices spoke in unison. “You gave him our sword.”

He straightened to find himself facing Oponn. “The Rope took it from me, to be more precise.”

The Twins could not conceal their fear. They looked upon Paran with something akin to pleading. “Cotillion spared you,” the sister said, “the Hounds spared you. Why?”

Paran shrugged. “Do you blame the knife, or the hand wielding it?”

“Shadowthrone never plays fair,” the brother whined, hugging himself.

“You and Cotillion both used mortals,” the captain said, baring his teeth, “and paid for it. What do you want from me? Sympathy? Help?”

“That Otataral blade—” the sister said.

“Will not be used to do your dirty work,” Paran finished. “You’d best flee, Oponn. I imagine even now Cotillion has given Shadowthrone the sword Chance, and the two are putting their heads together to plan how best to use it.”

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.