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

Gardens of the Moon (The Malazan Book of the Fallen #1) Page 157

Whiskeyjack's gaze lost its focus. His mind had stepped into the grey, muddy tracks of his youth, where he walked the familiar path, lost and blinded by an unidentifiable sorrow.

The door flew open, carrying into the room a gust of steamy air and then Trotts. The Barghast's coal-dark eyes met the sergeant's.

Whiskeyjack stood quickly. He went to the bed and retrieved his sword. At the table the others remained intent on their card game, their only betrayal of anxiety a subtle shifting of chairs. Whiskeyjack pushed past Trotts and closed the door to a crack, through which he looked.

Across the street, at the mouth of an alley, two figures crouched, the larger leaning heavily against the other. Whiskeyjack's breath hissed through his teeth. “Mallet,” he said over his shoulder.

At the table the healer frowned at the two saboteurs, then carefully set down his cards.

The two figures in the alley crossed the street. Whiskeyjack's hand crept to grip his sword.

“Which?” Mallet asked, as he rearranged the blankets on one of the beds.

“Kalam,” the sergeant replied. The two men reached the door and he swung it wide to let them through, then shut it again. He beckoned at Trotts, who walked over to the curtained window, pulling back a corner to watch the street.

Kalam was pale, sagging against Quick Ben. The assassin's dark grey M IR shirt was soaked with blood. Mallet moved to help the wizard and together they carried Kalam to the bed. As soon as the heater had him laid out, he waved Quick Ben away and began removing Kalam's shirt.

Quick Ben shook his head at Whiskeyjack and sat down in the chair Mallet had occupied. “What's the game?” he asked, picking up Mallet's cards and frowning as he studied them.

Neither Hedge nor Fiddler replied.

“No idea,” Whiskeyjack said, as he walked over to stand behind Mallet. “They just sit and stare.”

Quick Ben grinned. “Ah, a waiting game, right, Fid?” He leaned back comfortably and stretched out his legs.

Mallet glanced up at the sergeant. “He'll be down for a while,” the healer said. “The wound is clean, but he's lost a lot of blood.”

Crouching, Whiskeyjack studied the assassin's pallid face. Kalam's gaze remained sharp, focused on the sergeant. “Well?” Whiskeyjack demanded. “What happened?”

Quick Ben answered behind him. “Had a bit of a mage duel out there.”

Kalam nodded in confirmation.

“And?” Whiskeyjack asked, straightening to glare at the wizard.

Quick Ben wilted slightly in his chair. “It went sour. I had to release an Empire demon to get us out alive.”

Everyone in the room went still. At the window Trotts turned and made a tribal warding gesture, tracing the woad lines on his face.

Whiskeyjack's voice was soft. “It's loose in the city?”

“No,” the wizard answered. “It's dead.”

“Who did you run into?” Whiskeyjack bellowed, throwing up his hands.

“Not sure exactly,” Quick Ben said quietly. “Whatever it was, it took care of the demon in less than a minute. I heard the death cry when were only a block away. Assassin mages, Sergeant, coming down out the sky. Seemed intent on wiping out the city's Guild.”

Whiskeyjack returned to his chair and dropped into it, the wood col plaining beneath him. “From the sky. Tiste And?.”

“Yes,” Quick Ben muttered. “We thought that. The sorcery had a flavour. Old, dark and icy cold. Kurald Galain.”

“From what we saw,” Kalam added, “they did a damn good job. I contact established, Sergeant. It was messy up there.”

“So the Moon's active here.” Whiskeyjack paused, then pounded his on the chair's arm. “Worse, the Moon's lord is a move ahead of us. We reckoned we'd try to contact the Guild, so what does he do?”

“Takes out the Guild,” Kalam said. “How's that for arrogance?”

“Whatever arrogance that lord has,” Whiskeyjack said, grimacing, “he earned it. I'll give him that. I wonder how good this city's Guild Master is-good enough to take on Tiste And?? Unlikely.”

“And about the other thing,” Quick Ben said. “It worked.”

The sergeant stared at the wizard for half a dozen seconds, then nodded.

“We also ran into Sorry,” Kalam said, wincing as Mallet pressed a hand on his wound. The healer muttered under his breath.

“Oh? I sent her after some fat man she thought was important. How come she ran into you two?”