Gardens of the Moon (The Malazan Book of the Fallen #1)

Gardens of the Moon (The Malazan Book of the Fallen #1) Page 137

Meese chuckled and draped an arm over his shoulders. “Scurve, serve us up a couple of them Gredfalan ales. Crokus here's earned Darujhistan's best.” Meese turned her head and bent close to Sorry again.

“Next time,” she whispered, “you don't want to show that kind of breeding. Not around here, anyway.”

Sorry frowned down at her drink. She'd been careless, ordering the city's best. Then she took a mouthful. “That's fine,” she said. “Fine indeed.”

Meese grinned, nudging Crokus. “The lady likes it just fine.”

Crokus leaned forward, offering Sorry a weary but warm smile. From outside came the klaxon of the Guard.

Scurve served up the two ales.

Sorry watched Crokus's gaze move down her body, then stop. Th youth's smile tightened, his face whitening even more than before. As the tankard was set before him, Crokus averted his eyes and reached for it.

“Pay up before you drink that, Crokus,” Scurve muttered. “You're getting to be just as bad as Kruppe.”

Crokus reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of coins. A he tried to count them some slipped between his fingers and bounced on the bar. Of the three that fell, two clattered briefly then stopped. The third coin spun, and continued spinning. Sorry's eyes swung to it, as did Scurve's and Meese's. Crokus reached for it, then hesitated. The coin was still spinning, its momentum unchanged.

Sorry stared at the coin, feeling echoes of power slam into her skull like ocean waves. From within, all at once, came an answering surge. Scurve shouted as the coin skidded across the bar, bounced once big into the air, then clattered to a stop directly in front of Crokus.

No one spoke. Beyond their small ring no one else had witnessed the event.

Crokus thrust his hand forward and collected the coin. “Not this one,” he grated.

“Fine,” Scurve answered, in a similar, hoarse voice. He reached shaking hands to gather in the other coins Crokus had laid on the bar.

Beneath the counter, Sorry brushed her hand against her dagger's hilt and scabbard. It came away wet. So, Crokus had seen the blood. She would have to kill him. Only, her frown deepened, she knew she wouldn't.

“Crokus, my boy!” came a shout from under the gallery.

Meese sneered in that direction. “The flopping fish himself,” she muttered. “Kruppe calls, lad.”

Crokus snorted, having returned the coin to his pocket. He picked up his tankard. “Later, Meese.”

So, she'd found Oponn's man-as easily as that. And he was connected to Kruppe, somehow. This was almost too simple. It made her suspicious “A likely lad,” Meese said. “Me and Irilta, we look out for him, right?”

Sorry leaned against the bar, her eyes on the tankard in her hand. She'd have to play this very carefully. That burst of Shadow sorcery, responding to the Coin's influence, had been entirely instinctive. “Right, Meese, she said. “No worries on that count. “OK,” Meese sighed. “OK. Let's try for the cheap stuff now. Scurve? Dar beer, if you please. Earthenware, if you have it.”

Crouched against the Second Tier Wall on the Lakefront side was Quip Bar, a common haunt of shipmen and fisher-hands. The bar's walls were cut sandstone, and over time the whole edifice had developed a backward lean, as if withdrawing from the front street. Quip's now sagged against the Second Tier Wall, as did the adjoining squatter shacks constructed mostly of driftwood and hull planks washed ashore from the occasional wreck out on Mole's Reef.

Dusk brought a light rain to Darujhistan, the mists crawling in from the water and on to the shore. Far out over the lake lightning flashed, but too distant for thunder to be heard.

Kalam emerged from Quip's Bar just as a local Greyface brought his burning pitch-stick to a nearby gas-light, having moments earlier opened the copper valves. The lamp ignited in a flash of blue flame that quickly evened out. Kalam paused outside the bar to watch the odd, grey-robed man continue on down the street. He squinted skyward, then moved up the street. He came to the last squatter shack, this one abutting a peculiar jag in the tier wall, and entered.

Quick Ben looked up from his cross-legged position in the centre of the dirt floor. “Any luck?”

“No,” Kalam said. “The Guild's gone to ground-why, I've no idea.” He went to the far wall and sat down on his bedroll. He leaned back against the ancient, pitted stone and eyed his comrade. “You think maybe the City Council's moved to take out the local assassins?”

Quick Ben's gaze glittered in the gloom. “You mean, anticipating we'd try to make contact?”