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

Gardens of the Moon (The Malazan Book of the Fallen #1) Page 164

“A sponge,” Kruppe said, “squeezed beneath the burden of armour. See the man down our precious water, see it immediately reappear salty and grimy on his weathered skin. What yon poisons have leaked forth? Kruppe shudders at the thought.”

Coll ignored him, handing the jug to Crokus. “Buck up, lad,” he said. “You're getting paid, and damn well. With luck there'll be no trouble. Believe me, in this kind of work, excitement is the last thing we're looking for. Still,” he glared at Murillio, “I'd feel a whole lot better if Rallick were with us.”

Crokus bristled. “And I'm an unworthy stand-in, right? You think I don't know that, Coll? You think — ”

“Don't tell me what I think,” Coll rumbled. “I never said you were a stand-in, Crokus. You're a thief, and those kinds of skill come in a lot handier than anything I could manage. The same for Murillio.

“And as for Kruppe, well, his talents extend no further than his stomach and whatever he wants jammed in it. You and Rallick share a lot more than you think, and that's why you're the most qualified man here.”

“Barring the necessary brains, of course,” Kruppe said, “which is my true skill-though one such as Coll would never understand such abilities, alien as they are to him.”

Coll leaned towards Crokus. “You're wondering why I'm wearing all this armour,” he whispered loudly. “It's because Kruppe's in charge. When Kruppe's in charge I don't feel safe unless I'm prepared for war. If it comes to that, lad, I'll get us out alive.” He leaned back and stared straight ahead. “I've done it before. Right, Kruppe?”

“Absurd accusations.” Kruppe sniffed.

“So,” Crokus said, “what are we supposed to be on the look-out for?”

“We'll know it when we see it,” Murillio said. He nodded towards the hills rising to the east. “Up there.”

Crokus was silent for a time, then his eyes narrowed. “The Gadrobi Hills. Are we looking for a rumour, Murillio?”

Murillio stiffened, but it was Kruppe who replied, “Indeed, lad. Rumours upon rumours. I applaud your cunning conclusion. Now, where is that water jug? Kruppe's thirst has become intense.”

Sorry's departure through Jammit's Gate was casual, unhurried. Tracking the Coin Bearer was simple, and did not require that the boy remain within her range of vision. She sensed Crokus and Kruppe, in the company of two others, on the road a league beyond Worrytown. They did not seem to be in any kind of rush.

Whatever mission they were on, that it concerned the welfare of Darujhistan was plain. Thinking on it, Sorry was sure that the men within that group were spies and, in all likelihood, able ones. The dandy, Murillio, could move through noble-born circles with an ease coupled with a desirable coyness-the perfect combination for a spy. Rallick, though he did not accompany them on this mission, was the eyes and ears within the Assassins” Guild, thus covering another power base.

Kruppe's world was that of the thieves and lower classes, whence rumours sprang to life like weeds in muddy soil. The third man was clearly a military man, no doubt serving as the group's sword arm.

On a mundane level, then, an adequate group to protect the Coin Bearer, though insufficient to prevent her killing him-especially with the assassin left behind.

Yet something nagged within Sorry's mind, a vague suspicion that the group was heading into danger-a danger that threatened her as well.

Once beyond Worrytown she picked up her pace. As soon as she found herself alone on the road, she opened her Warren of Shadow and slipped into its swift tracks.

The Adjunct could find nothing to set apart the hill they approached. Its grass-cloaked summit was dwarfed by those around it. A half dozen scraggly, wind-twisted scrub oaks climbed one side amid a scree of broken boulders. The summit flattened out into a rough circle, rock pushing through here and there.

Overhead wheeled ravens, so high as to be no more than specks against the muggy grey sky. Lorn watched Tool striding ahead of her, the Imass choosing an unwavering path towards the hill's base. She slumped in her saddle, feeling defeated by the world around her. The midday heat sapped her strength, and the sluggishness reached through to her thoughts-not Oponn's doing, she knew. This was the pervasive dread clinging to the air, the sense that what they were doing was wrong, terribly wrong.

To fling this Jaghut Tyrant into the hands of the Empire's enemy, to trust this Tiste And? Anomander Rake to destroy it, yet at great cost to himself-thus opening the way for Malazan sorceries in turn to kill the Son of Darkness-now seemed precipitous, absurd in its ambitions.