other night-and this was Rallick's own precaution, come to defy him now. The blade in his left hand he angled upward, under Ocelot's right arm. The weapon's point cut into flesh, then continued on into the man's armpit.
Rallick saw, inches from his face, the dagger's tip emerge from the cloth covering Ocelot's right shoulder, followed by a bloom of blood. He heard a knife skitter across the flagstones.
Teeth bared, Ocelot snapped his left hand up to the back of Rallick's neck, finding his braid. He gave it a savage yank, twisting Rallick's head around. Then he tried to sink his teeth into Rallick's neck.
Ocelot gasped as Rallick jammed a knee into his crotch. He tightened his hold on the braid again, this time near its knotted end.
Rallick heard the snick of metal and attempted desperately to roll to his right. Wounded as Ocelot's right arm was, it struck his body with enough force to drive the wedged wrist-blade through the chain links and into his chest. A dull fire blossomed from the wound. Ocelot jerked the blade free and, still holding Rallick's braid, drew back for another stab.
Rallick brought up his right arm and, in a single sweeping motion, sliced through his braid. Freed, he pushed himself on to that side, withdrawing the knife in his left hand as he did so. Ocelot slashed wildly at his face, missing by inches.
With all the remaining strength in his left arm, Rallick slammed his knife into Ocelot's stomach. Links snapped and the blade sank to its hilt.
The Clan Leader's body doubled up, curling around the embedded weapon. Gasping, Rallick lurched forward and hammered the other dagger into Ocelot's forehead.
Rallick lay unmoving for a time, wondering at the absence of pain.
The plan would fall to Murillio now. Coll would be avenged. Murillio could handle it-he had no choice.
Ocelot's body seemed to grow heavier on him despite the blood ing from it. «I'd always believed I was this man's match,» he muttered. He pushed himself from the still-twitching body and rolled on to his back in the centre of the platform. He'd hoped to see sky, to look one last time on its bright, depthless blue. Instead, he found himself looking at the underside of the belfry's roof, its ancient stone arch crowded with nesting bats. This detail fixed itself in his head as he felt the blood stream from his chest. He thought he could see beady eyes glittering down at him.
After seeing no other sign of movement on the belfry, Paran's gaze swung to the avenue on his left. Vildron approached, seated on a wagon drawn by two horses. The guard waiting beside Coll's horse said, «Give me a hand here, will you? Let's get the old man down.»
Paran dismounted and hurried to help him. He glanced at Coll's face.
Though still hunched on the saddle, he was unconscious. How much longer could he last? If that was me, Paran realized, I'd be dead by now.
«After all this,» he growled as they dragged Coll from the saddle, «you'd damn well better live.»
Groaning, Serrat rolled on to her back. The sun beat down hot against her eyelids as the scattered fragments of her memory gathered. The Tiste And? had been about to make her move on the woman in the alley below. With that one dead, the Coin Bearer's protectors would number but one. And when they left the tenement block under cover of darkness, they'd walk right into the trap she'd set.
The assassin-mage opened her eyes to a mid-morning sun overhead.
Her daggers, which she'd held in her hands as she crouched at the rooftop's edge, now lay on the pebbled surface beside her, neatly placed side by side. A thick, dull ache throbbed in the back of her skull. She probed the wound, wincing, then sat up.
The world spun, then settled. Serrat was bewildered and angry. She'd been blind-sided, and whoever had done it was good, good enough to sneak up on a Tiste And? assassin-mage. And that was worrying, since they'd yet to meet such a match in Darujhistan, with the exception of those two Claw on the night of the ambush. But if it had been the Claw, she'd be dead now.
Instead, the arrangements looked to have been designed more with embarrassment in mind than anything else. Leaving her here in broad daylight, weapons beside her, hinted of a subtle and cunning sense of humour. Oponn? Possibly, though gods rarely acted so directly, preferring unwitting agents culled from among the mortal masses.
One certainty rose from the mystery, however, and that was that she'd lost her opportunity to kill the Coin Bearer-at least, for another day.
Next time, she vowed, as she climbed to her feet and accessed her Kurald Galain Warren, her secret foes would find her ready for them.
The air around her shimmered with sorcery. When it settled, Serrat was gone.
Motes of dust drifted through the dead, hot air of the Phoenix Inn's attic.
The slanting ceiling rose from five feet along the east wall to seven feet along the west wall. Sunlight streamed in from windows at each end of the long and narrow room.
Both Crokus and Apsalar slept, though at opposite ends of the room.
Sitting on, a crate beside the trap door, Meese cleaned her nails with a sliver of wood. Leaving Mallet's tenement and making their way across the rooftops to this hiding place had proved an easy task. Too easy, in fact. Irilta reported that no one on the streets had followed them. And the rooftops themselves had been empty of life. It was as if a path free of obstruction had been made for them.
More of the Eel's brilliance at work? Meese grunted softly. Maybe.
More likely Meese was putting too much weight on the instinctive unease that travelled like an elusive itch along her spine. Even now she felt hidden eyes upon them, and that, she told herself, glaring around the musty attic, was impossible.
There came a soft knock at the trap-door. The door swung up and Irilta appeared. «Meese?» she whispered loudly.
«Breathing down your neck,» Meese rumbled, tossing the wood sliver on to the oily floor. «Tell Scurve this place is a fire waiting to happen.»
Irilta grunted as she pulled herself into the room. She shut the trap door and wiped the dust from her hands. «Getting strange downstairs,» she said. «City wagon rolls up and off comes a guard and some other fellow carrying Coll between them. The old fool's near-dead from a sword cut. They put him in Kruppe's room a floor down. Sulty's run off to find a cutter, but it don't look good. Not good at all.»
Meese squinted in the dusty air, her gaze fixing on Crokus where he still slept. «What's the other one look like?» she asked.
Irilta grinned. «Good enough for a roll on the mat, I'd say. Said he found Coll on Jammit's Worry, bleeding all over the place. Coll woke up long enough to tell him to ride here. The guy's downstairs in the bar right now, eating enough for three men.»
Meese grunted. «Foreigner?»
Irilta strode to the window facing the street. «Speaks Daru like he was born to it. But he said he'd come down from the north. Pale, Genabaris before that. He's got the soldier about him, I'd say.»
«Any word from the Eel yet?»
«We keep the lad here for now.»
«And the girl?»
«The same.»
Meese sighed loudly. «Crokus ain't gonna like being cooped up here.»
Irilta glared over at Crokus's sleeping form. Was the lad truly asleep?
«No choice. Got word that there's a couple of guardsmen waiting at Mammot's place-too late, of course, but they've got damn close.» Irilta rubbed dust from the window and leaned forward. «Sometimes I swear I see someone, or maybe something. Then I blink and it's gone.»
«Know what you mean.» Bones creaking, Meese pushed herself to her feet. «I think even the Eel's beginning to sweat.» She chuckled. «Life's heating up, friend. Rolling times ahead.»
Irilta nodded grimly. «Roll on, roll on.»
Captain Paran refilled his tankard for the third time. Was this what that Tiste And? had meant about his luck turning? Since coming to this land he'd found three friends-something wholly unexpected and new to him, precious, in fact. But the Tattersail he knew was dead, and in her place: a child. Toc was dead. And now it looked like Coll would join that list.
He ran a finger through a pool of spilled beer on the table, creating a river leading to a crack between two planks, then watched as the beer drained down and out of sight. He felt a spreading wetness on his right shin but ignored it as his eyes focused on the crack. The wood had been bolted down, joining the thick planks to an equally robust frame of legs.
What had Rake said? Paran rose and unclipped his sword belt. He laid it on the table, then withdrew Chance.
The few regulars in the bar fell silent and turned to watch him. Behind the counter, Scurve reached for his club.
The captain noticed none of this. With the sword in his right hand, he set the point into the crack and brought the weapon vertical. Working it back and forth, he managed to drive it close to half its length between the planks. Then he sat down again and reached for his beer.
Everyone relaxed, and spoke among themselves in shared confusion.
Paran swallowed a mouthful of beer, frowning at Chance. What had Rake said? When your luck turns, break the sword. Or give it to your worst enemy. He doubted Oponn would accept it, however. And that meant breaking it. The sword had been with him for a long time. He'd used it in battle only once, and that had been against the Hound.
Faintly, he heard the words of one of his childhood tutors. The man's lined face rose into his thoughts to accompany the voice. «Those whom the gods choose, «tis said, they first separate from other mortals-by treachery, by stripping from you your spirit's lifeblood. The gods will take all your loved ones, one by one, to their death. And, as you harden, as you become what they seek, the gods smile and nod. Each company you shun brings you closer to them. «Tis the shaping of a tool, son, the prod and pull, and the final succour they offer you is to end your loneliness-the very isolation they helped you create. Never get noticed, boy.»
Had the shaping begun? Paran scowled. Was he responsible for taking Coll's life? The mere brush of friendship between them-enough to seal the man's doom? «Oponn,» he whispered, «you've a lot to answer for, and answer for it you shall.»
He set down the tankard and rose. Then he reached for the sword.
Climbing the steps of the Phoenix Inn, Kalam paused. Damn, there it was again, this feeling that unseen eyes were fixed on him. The sensation, born of his Claw training, had struck him four times in quick succession since he'd come within sight of this bar. Heeding such warnings was what kept him alive, and yet he felt no malice in that unwanted attention-rather, it had the feel of amused curiosity, as if whoever watched him knew full well who and what he was, yet seemed unconcerned.
He shook himself, then entered the bar. As soon as he took his first step into the heavy, stagnant atmosphere, Kalam knew that something was wrong. He shut the door behind him, waited for his eyes to adjust to the gloom. He heard breathing, the light scuff of furniture and clank of tankards coming to rest on tabletops. So, there were people here. Then why the silence?
As the grey confines of the bar grew defined, he saw that its denizens had turned their backs to him and were watching a man standing behind his table at the far end of the room. The lantern light reflected dully from a sword thrust through the table, and the man had closed one hand around its grip. He seemed oblivious to everyone else in the bar.
Kalam took a half-dozen steps, coming to the near end of the counter.
His dark eyes remained on the man with the sword, and a frown deepened the lines on his broad, flat forehead. The assassin stopped. Was it a trick of this damn light? he wondered. «No,» he said, startling the innkeeper behind the counter, «it isn't.» He pushed himself back from the counter, ran his eyes over the others in the chamber-all locals. He'd have to take the risk.
A band of tension tightened around Kalam's neck and shoulders as he strode directly for the man, who looked to be but moments away from snapping his sword's blade. The assassin plucked an empty chair from a table in his path and slammed it down one-handed opposite the man.
Startled eyes fixed on Kalam.
«Your god-given luck's holding, Captain,» the assassin rumbled, in low, close tones. «Sit down.»
His expression confused and frightened, Paran released his grip on the weapon and sank back into his seat.
Kalam followed suit and leaned forward over the table. «What's all this drama anyway?» he asked, in a whisper.
