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

Gardens of the Moon (The Malazan Book of the Fallen #1) Page 146

“Perhaps,” said a voice at the doorway. Both men turned to see Sorry standing within the entrance, her half-cloak drawn about her slim body.

She was wet with rain, and only now did Kalam notice the water dripping through cracks all around them. The assassin stepped away from Quick Ben to free his hands. “What are you doing here?” he demanded.

“You dream of paradise, Wizard? I wish I'd heard the entire conversation.”

“How did you find us?” Quick Ben asked.

Sorry stepped inside and pushed back her hood. “I've found an assassin,” she said. “I've marked him. He is in a place called the Phoenix Inn, in the Daru District. Are you interested?” she asked, dully eyeing both men.

“I want answers,” Kalam said, in a low voice.

Quick Ben backed to the far wall, to give the assassin room and to prepare his spells if need be-though he was in no real shape to manage his Warren at the moment. Nor, he noticed, did Kalam look up to a scrap, not that the assassin would allow that to stop him. Right now, he was at his most dangerous-that low tone had said it all.

Sorry held her dead eyes on Kalam. “The sergeant has sent me to you-”

“A lie,” Kalain interjected softly. “Whiskeyjack doesn't know where we are.”

“Very well. I sensed your power, Wizard. It has a notable signature.”

Quick Ben was stunned. “But I established a shield around this place,” he said.

“Yes. I, too, was surprised, Wizard. Usually I cannot find you. It seems cracks appeared.”

Quick Ben thought about that. “Cracks', he decided, wasn't the right word-but Sorry didn't know that. She'd sensed his whereabouts because she was what they'd suspected, a pawn of the Rope. The Shadow Realm had been linked, however briefly and however tenuously, to his flesh and blood. Yet none but a servant of Shadow possessed the necessary sensitivity to detect that link. The wizard moved to stand beside Kalam and laid a hand on the burly man's shoulder.

Kalam threw him a startled glare.

“She's right. Cracks appeared, Kalam. She's obviously a natural Talent in the ways of sorcery. Come on, friend, the girl's found what we've been looking for. Let's move on it.”

Sorry pulled up the hood around her head. “I am not accompanying you,” she said. “You'll know the man when you see him. I suspect it is his task to make his profession obvious. Perhaps the Guild is anticipating you. In any case, find the Phoenix Inn.”

“What the hell are you up to?” Kalam demanded.

“I will be completing an assignment for the sergeant.” She turned and left the hut.

Kalam's shoulders slumped and he let out a long breath.

“She's the one we thought her to be,” Quick Ben said quietly. “So far, so good.”

“In other words,” the assassin growled, “if I'd attacked her I'd be a dead man right now.”

“Exactly. We'll take her out, when the time's right. But for now we need her.”

Kalain nodded.

“Phoenix Inn?”

“Damn right. And when we get there the first thing I'm doing is buying a drink.”

Quick Ben smiled. “Agreed.”

Rallick looked up as the heavy-set man entered the bar. His black skin marked him a southerner, which in itself was not unusual. What caught Rallick's attention, however, was the horn-handled, silver-pommelled long-knives tucked into the man's narrow belt. Those weapons were anything but southern, and stamped on the pornmels was a cross-hatched pattern, recognizable to all within the trade as the mark of an assassin.

The man swaggered into the room as if he owned it, and none of the locals he shouldered aside seemed inclined to disagree with him. He reached the bar and ordered an ale.

Rallick studied the dregs in his own tankard. Obviously the man wanted to be marked, precisely by someone like Rallick Nom, a Guild assassin. So, who was the bait, then? This didn't fit.

Ocelot, his Clan Leader, was convinced, along with everyone else in the Guild, that Empire Claws had come into the city and now waged war against them. Rallick wasn't so sure. The man standing at the bar could as easily be Seven Cities as a traveller from Callows. He had the look of Malazan Empire about him. Was he Claw? If so, why show himself? Up until now the enemy hadn't left a single clue, or a single eye-witness, as to their identity. The brazenness he now observed either didn't fit, or marked a reversal of tactics. Had Vorcan's order to go to ground triggered it?

Alarm bells rang in Rallick's head. None of this felt right.