In the silence following Turban Orr's question, Baruk found himself preparing to step forward. Knowing well what that would reveal, he felt compelled nevertheless. Rallick Nom was here to right a dreadful wrong.
More, the man was a friend, closer to the alchemist than Kruppe or Murillio-and, in spite of his profession, a man of integrity. And Turban Orr was Lady Sinital's last link to real power. If Rallick killed the man, she'd fall.
Coll's return to the Council was something Baruk and his fellow Vorrud mages greatly desired. And Turban Orr's death would be a relief.
More was riding on this duel than Rallick imagined. The alchemist adjusted his robe and drew a deep breath.
A large hand closed on his upper arm and, before Baruk could react, Lord Anomander Rake stepped forward. «I offer my services as second,» he said loudly. He met Rallick's eyes.
The assassin betrayed nothing, not once looking at Baruk. He answered Rake's offer with a nod.
«Perhaps,» Turban Orr sneered, «the two strangers know each other.»
«We've never met,» Rake said. «However, I find myself instinctively sharing his distaste for your endless talk, Councilman. Thus I seek to avoid a Council debate on who will be this man's second. Shall we proceed?»
Turban Orr led the way out to the terrace, Estraysian D'Arle behind him. As Baruk turned to follow he felt a familiar contact of energies at his side. He swung his head and recoiled. «Good gods, Mammot! Where did you get that hideous mask?»
The old man's eyes held his briefly then shied away. «An accurate rendition of Jaghut features, I believe,» he said softly. «Though I think the tusks are a little short.»
Baruk shook himself. «Have you managed to find your nephew yet?»
«No,» Mammot replied. «I am deeply worried by that.»
«Well,» the alchemist grunted as they walked outside, «let's hope that Oponn's luck holds for the lad.»
«Of course,» Mammot murmured.
Whiskeyjack's eyes widened as a crowd of excited guests poured out from the main chamber and gathered on the terrace.
Fiddler scurried to his side. «It's a duel, Sergeant. The guy with the wine stain on his shirt is one of them, a councilman named Orr. Nobody knows who the other man is. He's over there with that big man in the» The sergeant had been leaning, arms crossed, against one of the marble pillars encircling the fountain, but at seeing the tall dragon-masked figure he came near to toppling into the fountain behind him.
«Hood's Balls!» he cursed. «Recognize that Ionia silver hair, Fid?»
The saboteur frowned.
«Moon's Spawn,» Whiskeyjack breathed. «That's the mage, the Lord who stood on that portal and battled Tayschrenn.» He reeled off an impressive list of curses, then added, «And he's not human.»
Fiddler groaned. «Tiste And?. The bastard's found us. We've had it.»
«Shut up.» Whiskeyjack was recovering from his shock. «Line everybody up the way that Captain Stillis wanted us. Backs to the woods and hands on weapons. Move!»
Fiddler scrambled. The sergeant watched the saboteur round up his men. Where the hell were Kalam and Paran anyway? He caught Quick Ben's eye and gestured the mage over.
«Fid explained it,» Quick Ben said, leaning close. «I may not be much use, Sergeant. That barrow-dweller's unleashing waves of nasty stuff. My head feels ready to explode.» He grinned wanly. «And look around. You can pick out all the mages by the sick looks on their faces. If we all accessed our Warrens, we'd be fine.»
«Then why don't you?»
The wizard grimaced. «That Jaghut would fix on us as if we were a beacon of fire. And he'd take the weaker ones-even from this distance, he'd take them. And then there'd be hell to pay.»
Whiskeyjack watched the guests create a space on the terrace, lining up on either side. «Check with Hedge and Fiddler,» he ordered, eyes lingering on the Tiste And?. «Make sure they've got something handy, in case it all comes apart. This estate's got to burn then, hot and long. We'll need the diversion to set off the intersection mines. Give me the nod telling me they're up to it.»
«Right.» Quick Ben moved off.
Whiskeyjack grunted in surprise as a young man stepped round him, dressed as a thief, complete with face mask.
«Excuse me,» the man muttered, as he walked into the crowd.
The sergeant stared after him, then glanced back at the garden. How the hell had that lad got past them in the first place? He could've sworn they'd sealed off the woods. He loosened his sword surreptitiously in its sheath.
Crokus had no idea what kind of costume Challice D'Arle would be wearing, and he was resigned to a long hunt. Held left Apsalar at the u&.iA back wall, and now felt guilty. Still, she'd seemed to take it well though in a way that made him feel even worse. Why did she have to kv&(~e about things a thought about the crowd's strange formation, looking as he was for a head somewhere at chest level to everyone else. As it turned out, that proved unnecessary, for Challice D'Arle's costume was no disguise.
Crokus found himself between two burly house guards. Across from him, twenty feet away with no one to block his view, stood Challice and an older woman Crokus took to be her mother. Their attention was held unerringly on a tall, severe-looking man standing at one end of the cleared space and speaking with another man, who was strapping on a duelling glove. It slowly dawned on the thief that a duel was but moments away.
Squeezing between the two guards, Crokus craned his neck to find the other duellist. At first he thought him the giant with the dragon mask and two-handed sword. Then his gaze found the man. Rallick Nom. His eyes snapped back to the first duellist. Familiar. He nudged the guard on his left.
«Is that Councilman Turban Orr?»
«It is, sir,» the guard replied, an odd tightness in his tone.
Crokus glanced up to see the man's face wet with sweat, trickling down from under his peaked helmet. Strange. «So, where's Lady Sinital?» he asked casually.
«Nowhere in sight,» the guard answered, with obvious relief. «Otherwise she'd stop this.»
Crokus nodded at that. «Well,» he said, «Rallick will win.»
The guard's gaze was on him, the eyes hard and piercing. «You know the man?»
«Well-»
Someone tapped his back and he turned to find a cherub's face smiling mindlessly at him. «Why, Crokus lad! What an inventive costume you're wearing!»
«Kruppe?»
«Well guessed!» Kruppe replied. The painted wooden face swung to the guard. «Oh, kind sir, I have a written message for you.» Kruppe placed a scroll into the man's hand. «Compliments of a long-time secret admirer.»
Crokus grinned. These guards had all the luck when it came to noble ladies.
Circle Breaker accepted the scroll and slid from it the silk tie in. More than once he had sensed Turban Orr's eyes on him. First in the central chamber, when it looked as if the Councilman might accost him directly, and now, while others argued over who should referee the duel.
Circle Breaker prayed Rallick would kill Turban Orr. He felt his own fear racing through his body, and it was with trembling hands that he read the Eel's message.
The time has come for Circle Breaker to retire from active duty. The circle is mended, loyal friend. Though you have never seen the Eel, you have been his most trusted hand, and you have earned your rest.
Think not that the Eel simply discards you now. Such is not the Eel's way. The sigil at the bottom of this parchment will provide you passage to the city of Dhavran, where loyal servants of the Eel have prepared your arrival by purchasing an estate and a legitimate title on your behalf. You enter a different world soon, with its own games.
Trust your new servants, friend, in this and all other concerns.
Proceed, this very night, to the Dhavran trader's pier in Lakefront.
You seek the river longboat named Enskalader. Show the sigil to any crewman aboard-all are servants of the Eel. The time has come, Circle Breaker. The circle is mended. Fare you well.
Baruk threw up his hands in exasperation. «Enough of this!» he bellowed.
«I will referee this duel, and accept all responsibility. Judgement of victory is mine. Accepted by both parties?»
Turban Orr nodded. Even better than Estraysian being his second. Baruk's proclaiming him victor in the duel would be a coup in its own right. «I accept.»
«As do I,» Rallick said, his short cloak drawn about his body.
A sudden wind thrashed the treetops in the garden, sweeping down from the east. Thunder boomed from this side of the hills. A number of onlookers seemed to flinch. Turban Orr grinned, stepping into the cleared area. Leaves skirled past, clattering like tiny bones. «Before it rains,» he said.
His allies in the crowd laughed at this. «Of course,» Orr continued, «it might prove more entertaining to draw things out. A wound here, a wound there. Shall I cut him to pieces slowly?» He feigned dismay at the chorus of eager assent. «Too eager for blood, friends! Must the ladies dance on slick flagstones once darkness falls? We must consider our host:» And where was Sinital? His imagination conjured an image in answer and he frowned. «No indeed,» he said coldly, «it shall be quick.»
The councilman unsheathed his sword and fastened his glove's leather straps to the ornate grip behind the bell guard. He scanned the faces of his audience, even now seeking some betrayal of expression-he had friends who were enemies, enemies who would be friends, the game would continue beyond this moment, but it could prove a telling moment. He would recall every face later, and study it at his leisure.
Turban Orr assumed his stance. His opponent stood ten feet away, both hands hidden beneath his cloak. He looked at ease, almost bore «What's this?» Orr demanded. «Where is your weapon?»
«I'm ready,» Rallick replied.
Baruk placed himself equidistant between the two duellists, slightly to one side. His face was pale, as if he had fallen ill. «Comments from seconds?» he asked faintly.
Rake made no reply.
Estraysian D'Arle cleared his throat. «I hereby make it known that I oppose this duel as facile and trite.» He stared at Turban Orr. «I find the councilman's life irrelevant in the best of times. Should he die,» the man looked over to Rallick, «there will be no vengeance pact from the House of D'Arle. You, sir, are freed of that.»
Rallick bowed.
Turban Orr's smile tightened. The bastard would pay for that, he vowed. He lowered himself into a crouch, ready to launch an attack soon as the duel began.
Baruk said, «You have been heard, Estraysian D'Arle.» The alchemist raised a handkerchief before him, then released it.
Turban Orr jumped forward and lunged in a single, fluid motion, fast he'd fully extended his weapon before the handkerchief struck the paving stones. He saw his opponent's left hand dart under his blade, then twist up and outward, a short, curved knife flashing in its grip. The pa was a blur, yet Orr caught it and deftly disengaged, driving his point I and towards the man's mid-section. He had no time even to notice the second knife, as Rallick turned his body sideways, the blade in his right hand guiding Turban Orr's sword past him. The assassin stepped in th his left hand moving in a high swing that buried its blade in the councilman's neck. Rallick followed this by driving his other knife into Orr's chest.
The councilman staggered to one side, his sword clanging on stones as he clutched at the gushing wound in his neck. The motion was reflex, for he was already dead from the wound in his heart.
