«The tale is arduous and confused, alas,» he said, striding to join Baruk at the window. His handkerchief had disappeared. «Kruppe can only surmise as best a man of innumerable talents may. In moments of leisure, during games of chance and the like. In the aura of the Twins an Adept may hear, see, smell, and touch things as insubstantial as the wind. A taste of Lady Luck, the bitter warning of the Lord's Laughter.» Kruppe's gaze snapped to the alchemist. «Do you follow, Master?»
His eyes riveted on the man's round face, Baruk said quietly, «You speak of Oponn.»
Kruppe looked back down at the street. «Perhaps. Perhaps a grim feint meant to mislead such as foolish Kruppe-»
Foolish? Baruk smiled inwardly. Not this man.
«Who who can say?» Kruppe raised a hand, showing in his palm a flat disc of wax. «An item,» he said softly, his eyes on the disc, «that passes without provenance, pursued by many who thirst for its cold kiss, on which life and all that lay within life is often gambled. Alone, a beggar's crown. In great numbers, a king's folly. Weighted with ruin, yet blood washes from it beneath the lightest rain, and to the next no hint of its cost. It is as it is, says Kruppe, worthless but for those who insist otherwise.»
Baruk was holding his breath. His lungs burned, yet it was an effort to release them. Kruppe's words had drawn him into something-a place, hinting of vast stores of knowledge and the sure, unfailing, epreci_e hand that had gathered it, marked it on parchment. A library, shelves of black wood in sharp relief, tomes bound to shiny leather, yellowed scrolls, a pitted, stained desk-Baruk felt he had but stolen a single glance into this chamber. Kruppe's mind, the secret place with its door locked to all but one. «You speak,» Baruk said slowly, fighting to pull back into reality by focusing on the wax disc in Kruppe's hand, «of a coin.»
Kruppe's hand snapped shut. He turned and set the disc down on the window-sill. «Examine this semblance, Master Baruk. It marks both sides of a single coin.» The handkerchief reappeared and Kruppe stepped back, dabbing his brow. «My, but it is hot, says Kruppe!»
«Help yourself to some wine,» Baruk murmured. As the man left his side the alchemist opened his Warren. He gestured and the wax disc rose into the air, slowly moving to hover before him at eye-level. He studied the imprint facing him. «The Lady,» he muttered, nodding. The disc turned, revealing to him the Lord. The disc turned again, and Baruk's eyes widened as it began spinning. A whirring sound filled the back of his head. He felt his Warren resisting a pressure that grew with the sound, then his source collapsed.
Faintly, as if from a great distance, he heard Kruppe speak. «Even in this semblance, Master Baruk, blows the Twins» breath. No mage's Warren can withstand that wind.»
The disc still spun in the air in front of Baruk, a silver blur. A fine mist expanded around it. Hot droplets spattered his face and he stepped back.
Blue fire flickered from the melting wax, the disc dwindling rapidly. A moment later it vanished, and the spinning sound and its accompanying pressure stopped abruptly.
The sudden silence filled Baruk's head with pain. He laid a trembling hand on the window-sill for support, then closed his eyes. «Who carries the Coin, Kruppe?» His voice rasped from his constricted throat. «Who?»
Kruppe once again stood at his side. «A lad,» he answered casually. «Known to Kruppe, assuredly so, as well as to your other agents, Murillio, Rallick and Coll.»
Baruk's eyes reopened. «That can't be a coincidence,» he hissed, a desperate hope rising to struggle against the terror he felt. Oponn had entered the gambit, and in such reaches of power the life of a city and those within it meant nothing. He glared at Kruppe. «Gather the group, then. All you've named. They've served my interests for a long time, and they must do so now, above all other concerns. Do you understand me?»
«Kruppe will convey your insistence. Rallick perchance is bound to Guild duties, while Coll, given purpose in life once again, might well steady his gaze and tread and take this mission to heart. Master Baruk? What is the mission, by the way?»
«Protect the Coinbearer. Watch him, mark whose face rests on him benign or foul. I must know if the Lady has him, or the Lord. And, Kruppe, for this, find Rallick. If the Lord claims the Coinbearer, the assassin's talents will be required.»
Kruppe blinked. «Understood. Alas, may mercy smile upon young Crokus.»
«Crokus?» Baruk frowned. «That's a name I know.»
Kruppe's face remained blank.
«Never mind. Very well, Kruppe.» He turned back to the window once again. «Keep me informed.»
«As always, Baruk, Kruppe's friend.» The man bowed. «And thank you for the wine, it was most delicious.»
Baruk heard the door open then close. He gazed down the street. He'd managed to clamp a hold on his fear. Oponn had a way of making ruins of the most finely wrought plans. Baruk despised that prospect of chance operating in his affairs. He could no longer rely on his ability to predict, to prepare contingencies, to work out every possibility and seek out the one best suited to his desires. As the Coin spun, thus the city.
Added to this the mysterious ways of the Empress. Baruk rubbed his brow. He'd have to instruct Roald to bring him some healing tea. His headache was reaching debilitating proportions. As he brought his hand down past his face his eyes caught a flash of red. He raised both palms into view. Red ink stained them. He leaned forward on the window-sill.
Through a sparkling cloud of dust, Darujhistan's rooftops sprawled, and the harbour beyond. «And you, Empress,» he whispered. «I know you're here, somewhere. Your pawns move unseen as yet, but I will find them.
Be sure of that, with or without Oponn's damned luck.»
BOOK THREE-THE MISSION
Marionettes dance afield beneath masterly hands-
I stumble among them crossed by the strings in tangled two-step and curse all these fools in their mad pirouette-
I shall not live as they do oh, no, leave me in my circled dance-
these unbidden twitchings you see I swear on Hood's Grave is artistry in motion
Sayings of the Fool Theny Bule (b?)
CHAPTER EIGHT
He stepped down then among women and men, the sigil stripped in her foul cleansing of Emperor and First Sword so tragic this treachery. .
He was of the Old Guard commanding the honed edge of Empire's fury, and so in stepping down but not away he remained the remembrance before her eyes, the curse of conscience she would not stand.
A price was placed before him that he glanced over in first passing unknowing and so unprepared in stepping down among women and men, he found what he'd surrendered and damned -
A quarter-hour before dawn the sky held the colour of iron, shot through with streaks of rust. Sergeant Whiskeyjack squatted upon a dome of bedrock up from the pebble beach gazing out over the misty calm surface of Lake Azur. Far to the south on the lake's opposite shore, rose the faint glow of Darujhistan.
The mountain crossing of the night just past had been hell, the Quorl tossed about in the midst of three warring thunderheads. It was a miracle no one had been lost. The rain had since stopped, leaving the air cool and clammy.
He heard the sound of boots accompanied by a clicking noise behind him. Whiskeyjack turned and straightened. Kalam and a Black Moranth approached, picking their way through the mossy tumble of rocks at the base of the slope. Behind them rose the shadowed redwood forest, the patched trunks standing like bearded sentinels against the mountainside.
The sergeant drew a deep breath of the chill morning air.
«Everything's fine,» Kalam said. «The Green Moranth delivered as ordered, and more. Fiddler and Hedge are two happy sappers.»
Whiskeyjack raised an eyebrow. He turned to the Black Moranth. «I thought your munitions were getting scarce.»
The creature's face remained in shadow beneath the hinged helmet.
The words that came from it seemed born from a cavern, hollow and faintly echoing. «Selectively, Bird That Steals. You are well known to us, Bridgeburner. You tread the enemy's shadow. From the Moranth, assistance will never be scarce.»
Surprised, Whiskeyjack looked away, the skin tightening around his eyes.
The Moranth continued. «You asked of the fate of one of our kind. A warrior with but one arm, who fought at your side in the streets of Nathilog many years ago. He lives still.»
The sergeant took a deep breath of the sweet forest air. «Thank you,» he said.
«We wish that the blood you next find on your hands is your enemy's, Bird That Steals.»
He frowned, then gave a brusque nod and turned his attention back to Kalam. «What else?»
The assassin's face became expressionless. «Quick Ben's ready,» he said.
«Good. Gather the others. I'll be laying out my plan.»
«Your plan, Sergeant?»
«Mine,» Whiskeyjack said firmly. «The one devised by the Empress and her tacticians is being rejected, as of now. We're doing it my way. Get going, Corporal.»
Kalam saluted then left.
Whiskeyjack stepped down from the rock, his boots sinking into the moss. «Tell me, Moranth, might a squadron of your Black be patrolling this area two weeks from now?»
The Moranth's head swivelled audibly towards the lake. «Such unscheduled patrols are common. I expect to command one myself in two weeks» time.»
Whiskeyjack gazed steadily at the black-armoured warrior standing beside him. «I'm not quite sure how to take that,» he said eventually.
The warrior faced him. «We are not so unalike,» he said. «In our eyes deeds have measure. We judge. We act upon our judgements. As in Pale, we match spirit with spirit.»
The sergeant frowned. «What do you mean?»
«Eighteen thousand seven hundred and thirty-nine souls departed in the purge of Pale. One for each Moranth confirmed as a victim of Pale's history of enmity towards us. Spirit with spirit, Bird That Steals.»
Whiskeyjack found he had no response. The Moranth's next words shook him deeply.
«There are worms within your empire's flesh. But such degradation is natural in all bodies. Your people's infection is not yet fatal. it can be scoured clean. The Moranth are skilled at such efforts.»
«How exactly,» Whiskeyjack paused, choosing his words carefully, «do you intend this scouring?» He recalled the wagons piled with corpses winding out of Pale, and struggled against the ice tingling along his spine.
«Spirit with spirit,» the Moranth answered, returning his attention to the city on the south shore. «We depart for now. You will find us here in two weeks» time, Bird That Steals.»
Whiskeyjack watched the Black Moranth walk away, pushing through the thicket surrounding the clearing where his riders waited. A moment later he heard the rapid thud of wings, then the Quorl rose above the trees. The Moranth circled once overhead, then turned north, slipping between the bearded boles and heading upslope.
