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

Gardens of the Moon (The Malazan Book of the Fallen #1) Page 141

“And so, to answer the uncle's question. Indeed Kruppe has seen the lad.” Mammot leaned forward and fixed Kruppe with an intense gaze. “Have you seen anything odd in his actions? I mean, has he asked you any strange questions, made any requests?”

Kruppe's eyes narrowed. He paused to drink. “Bluntly, yes. For one, he sought the return of a fine cache of jewellery he acquired recently, personal reasons-as he said. Personal reasons. Kruppe wondered then and wonders now, but the lad's seeming sincerity, nay, focused intensity struck Kruppe as laudable.”

“Agreed! Would you believe Crokus has now expressed an interest in formal education? I can't understand it. The boy's positively obsessed about something.”

“Perhaps, then, Kruppe should piece this together.”

“Thank you,” Mammot said, relieved. “I would know where all this coming from. So much ambition all at once, I fear it may soon burn it out. If we can nourish it, however:”

“By all means,” Kruppe said. “There is more to life than petty thievery after all.”

Mammot grinned. “Why, Kruppe, I'm surprised to hear that coming from you.”

“Such comments are better left between you and Kruppe. In any case, I believe Murillio, knows something of all this. He intimated as much this evening while we dined at the Phoenix Inn.”

Mammot asked, “Is Murillio well?”

Kruppe smiled. “The net about the lad remains intact,” he said. “For one, Rallick Nom has taken the responsibility seriously indeed. Mayhap he sees something of his own lost youth in Crokus. In truth, Rallick is a man whose true nature escapes Kruppe. Fiercely loyal for certain, and one who, as you well know, honours his debts with such vigour as to humble those around him. Excepting Kruppe, naturally. Yet is it blood that travels his veins? One must wonder, at times.”

A distant look had entered Mammot's face.

Kruppe tensed. The air smelled of magic. He leaned forward and studied the old man seated across from him. Someone was communicating with Mammot, and the Warren that now pulsed in the room was familiar to Kruppe.

He sat back and waited.

Eventually, Mammot got swiftly to his feet. “I have some research to do,” he said distractedly. “As for you, Kruppe, Master Baruk wishes to speak with you immediately.”

“I thought I sensed the alchemist's presence,” Kruppe said, rising with a soft grunt. “Ah, the rigours of these fated nights ever urge us on. Until later, then, Mammot.”

“Goodbye,” the scholar said, a frown on his face as he crossed the room. He entered the small chamber where Kruppe had spent the past hour.

Kruppe adjusted the sleeves of his cloak. Whatever had happened, it had been enough to jar Mammot's etiquette, and that alone hinted at dire events. “Well,” he murmured, “best not keep Baruk waiting, then. “At least,” he amended, as he headed for the door, “not for too long. Decorum demands that Kruppe retain his sense of dignity. He shall walk fast, yes.

But walk he shall, for Kruppe needs time to think, to plan, to scheme, to anticipate, to backtrack with some thoughts, to leap ahead with others, to do all the things necessary. First and foremost, Kruppe must discern the nature of the woman who followed him, and who killed Chert, and who noted that Crokus saw the blood on her weapon, and who marked Rallick Nom as an assassin with his very arrival. She might well provide the key to everything, and more, for the Coin did indeed turn its face upon her, if only for a moment. And that, thinks Kruppe, shall return to us all, for good or ill.” He stopped and looked around, blinking rapidly.

“At the very least,” he muttered, “Kruppe should leave Mammot's room.”

He glanced back at the chamber Mammot had entered. From within came the sounds of brittle pages being rapidly turned. Kruppe sighed in relief, then left.

Crone ruffled her singed feathers and hopped about in agitation. Where was that alchemist? She had a thousand things to attend to before the night was done, though in truth she couldn't think of any of them.

Nevertheless, she disliked being kept waiting.

The door to the study opened and Baruk strode through, gathering a robe about his considerable bulk. “My apologies, Crone, I was otherwise indisposed.”

Crone grunted. Sorcery trailed from the man in thick, pungent streams. “My master, Lord Anomander Rake,” she said, without preamble, “has commanded that I tell you what I told him of my adventures on the Rhivi Plain.”

Baruk came up to where the Great Raven paced on the map table. The alchemist frowned. “You've been injured.”