'There is Imass within you,' Raest rasped. 'Even the language you speak echoes their guttural throats. Have you come forth to grovel at my feet? Are you my first acolyte, then, eager for my rewards?'
'Alas,' the man replied, 'you are mistaken, sir. Kruppe – this humble, weak mortal who stands before you – bows to no man, be he Jaghut or god. Such are the nuances of this new age that you are felled by indifference, made insignificant in your mighty struggles by lowly Kruppe into whose dream you have ignobly stumbled. Kruppe stands before you so that you may gaze upon his benign countenance in the last moments before your demise. Magnanimous of Kruppe, all things considered.'
Raest laughed. 'I have walked in the dreams of mortals before. You believe you are the master here, but you are mistaken.' The Tyrant's hand shot out, virulent power erupting from it. The sorcery engulfed Kruppe, blazing darkly, then faded, leaving not even a remnant of the man.
A voice spoke to Raest's left: 'Rude, Kruppe proclaims. Disappointing, this precipitateness.'
The Jaghut swung around, eyes narrowing. 'What game is this?'
The man smiled. 'Why, Kruppe's game, of course.'
A sound behind Raest alerted him, but too late. He spun – even as a massive flint sword crunched through his left shoulder, tearing a path that snapped ribs, sliced through sternum and spine. The blow dragged the Tyrant down and to one side. Raest sprawled, pieces of his body striking the ground around him. He stared up at the T'lan Imass.
Kruppe's shadow moved over Raest's face and the Tyrant met the mortal man's watery eyes.
'He is Clanless, of course. Unbound and beyond binding, yet the ancient call commands him still – to his dismay. Imagine his surprise at being found out. Onos T'oolan, Sword of the First Empire, is once more called upon by the blood that once warmed his limbs, his heart, his life of so very long ago.'
The T'lan Imass spoke. 'You have strange dreams, mortal.'
'Kruppe possesses many surprises, even unto himself.'
'I sense,' Onos T'oolan continued, 'a Bone Caster's hand in this summoning.'
'Indeed. Pran Chole of Kig Aven's clan of the Kron T'lan Imass, I believe he called himself.'
Raest raised himself from the ground, drawing his sorcery around his body to hold its shattered parts in place. 'No T'lan Imass can withstand me,' he hissed.
'A dubious claim,' Kruppe said. 'Even so, he is joined in this endeavour.'
The Jaghut Tyrant straightened to see a tall, black-shrouded figure emerge from the streambed. He cocked his head as the apparition approached. 'You remind me of Hood. Is the Death Wanderer still alive?' He scowled. 'But, no. I sense nothing from you. You do not exist.'
'Perhaps,' the figure replied, in a deep, soft tone that hinted of regret. 'If so,' he continued, 'then neither do you. We are both of the past, Jaghut.' The figure halted fifteen feet away from Raest and swung his hooded head in the dragon's direction. 'Her master awaits your arrival, Jaghut, but he waits in vain and for this you should thank us. He would deliver a kind of death from which there is no escape, even by such a creature as you.' The head turned, and the darkness within the hood once again regarded the Tyrant. 'Here, within a mortal's dream, we bring an end to your existence.'
Raest grunted. 'In this age there are none who can defeat me.'
The figure laughed, a low rumble. 'You are a fool, Raest. In this age even a mortal can kill you. The tide of enslavement has reversed itself. It is now we gods who are the slaves, and the mortals our masters – though they know it not.'
'You are a god, then?' Raest's scowl deepened. 'You are a child to me if so.'
'I was once a god,' the figure replied. 'Worshipped as K'rul, and my aspect was the Obilisk. I am the Maker of Paths – do you find significance in that ancient title?'
Raest took a step back, raising his desiccated hands. 'Impossible,' he breathed. 'You passed into the Realms of Chaos – returned to the place of your birth – you are among us no more—'
'As I said, things have changed,' K'rul said quietly. 'You have a choice, Raest. Onos T'oolan can destroy you. You have no understanding of what his title of Sword signifies – he is without equal in this world. You can fall ignobly beneath the blade of an Imass, or you can accompany me – for in one thing we are the same, you and I. Our time has passed, and the Gates of Chaos await us. What choice do you make?'
'I make neither, Eldering One.' With a soft, hollow laugh, Raest's battered, withered body collapsed.
K'rul cocked his head. 'He's found another body.' Kruppe pulled out his handkerchief. 'Oh, my,' he said.
Kalam gestured sharply and Paran ducked down. The captain's mouth was dry. There was something very wrong with this garden. He wondered if it was simply the exhaustion he felt. The garden's air itself rubbed his senses raw. He thought he could see the darkness pulse, and the smell of decay had thickened to a stench.
Kalam reached for his knives. Paran tensed, unable to see anything beyond the assassin. Too many trees, not enough light. Somewhere ahead flickered gas-lamps, and people were gathered on the terrace. But civilization seemed a thousand leagues away. Here, the captain felt as if he was within a primordial presence, breathing slowly and heavily on all sides.
Kalam gestured that Paran remain where he was, then slipped into the shadows to their right. Crouching low, the captain edged forward to where the assassin had been standing moments earlier. There looked to be a glade, or clearing, just ahead. He couldn't be certain, however, nor could he see anything amiss. Yet his feeling of wrongness now ached in his skull. He took another step. Something occupied the glade's centre, blockish, like a dressed stone, or an altar, and before it stood a small woman, almost wraith-like in the darkness. Her back was to Paran.
One moment she stood alone, the next Kalam rose behind her, knives glimmering in his hands. He drew back his arms.
The woman moved in a blur, one elbow driving backwards into the assassin's stomach. She twisted round and drove her knee into the man's crotch. A shout burst from Kalam as he reeled back a step, then fell to the ground with a heavy thump.
Paran's sword was in his hand. He dashed into the clearing.
The woman saw him and voiced a surprised, frightened yelp. 'No!' she cried. 'Please!'
The captain stopped at that girlish voice. Kalam sat up. He groaned, then said, 'Dammit, Sorry. Wasn't expecting you. We figured you were dead, girl.'
The woman eyed Paran warily as he approached cautiously. 'I should know you, shouldn't I?' she asked Kalam. Then, as Paran came closer, she raised a frightened hand between them and stepped back. 'I – I killed you!' With a soft moan she fell to her knees. 'Your blood was on my hands. I remember it!'
A fire of rage flared in Paran. He raised his sword and moved to stand over her.
'Wait!' Kalam hissed. 'Wait, Captain. Something's not right here.'
With great difficulty, the assassin climbed to his feet, then prepared to sit down on the stone block.
'Don't!' the girl gasped. 'Can't you feel it?'
'I can,' Paran growled. He lowered his weapon. 'Don't touch that thing, Corporal.'
Kalam stepped away. 'Thought it was just me,' he muttered.
'It's not stone at all,' the woman said, her face free of the anguish that had twisted it a moment before. 'It's wood.' She rose and faced Kalam. 'And it's growing.'
A suspicion came to Paran. 'Girl, do you remember me? Do you know who I am?'
She frowned at him, then shook her head. 'I know Kalam,' she said. 'He's an old friend, I think.'
The assassin choked on something, then coughed loudly, wagging his head.
The woman pointed at the wooden block. 'See? It's growing again.'
Both men looked. A haze blurred the block's edges, swelling and shifting, then vanished, yet it was clear to Paran that the thing was now bigger.
'It has roots,' the woman added.
Paran shook himself. 'Corporal? Remain here with the girl. I won't be long.' He sheathed his sword and left the glade. After winding th
rough the undergrowth for a minute, he came to its edge and looked out on a terrace crowded with guests. A low-walled fountain rose from the paving stones to his left, encircled by marble pillars spaced about a yard apart.
The captain saw that Whiskeyjack and the squad had arrayed themselves in a rough line a dozen feet from the garden's edge, facing the terrace. They looked tense. Paran found a dead branch and snapped it in half.
At the sound all six men turned. The captain pointed at Whiskeyjack and Mallet, then stepped back between the trees. The sergeant whispered something to Quick Ben. Then he collected the healer and they came over.
Paran pulled Whiskeyjack close. 'Kalam's found Sorry, and something else besides,' he said. 'The girl's not all there, Sergeant, and I don't think it's an act. One minute she remembers killing me, the next she doesn't. And she's got it into her head right now that Kalam's an old friend.'
Mallet grunted.
After a brief glance back at the party, Whiskeyjack asked, 'So what's this "something else"?'
'I'm not sure, but it's ugly.'
'All right.' The sergeant sighed. 'Go with the captain, Mallet. Take a look at Sorry. Any contact from the Assassins' Guild yet?' he asked Paran.
'No.'
'Then we move soon,' Whiskeyjack said. 'We let Fiddler and Hedge loose. Bring Kalam when you come back, Mallet. We need to talk.'
Rallick found his path unobstructed as he moved across the central chamber towards the front doors. Faces turned to him and conversations fell away, rising again as he passed. A bone-deep weariness gripped the assassin, more than could be accounted for by the blood lost to a wound already healed. The malaise gripping him was emotional.
He paused at seeing Kruppe rising from a chair, mask dangling from one plump hand. The man's face was sheathed in sweat and there was fear in his eyes.
'You've a right to be terrified,' Rallick said, approaching him. 'If I'd known you'd be here—'
'Silence!' Kruppe snapped. 'Kruppe must think!'
The assassin scowled but said nothing. He'd never before seen Kruppe without his usual affable façade, and the sight of him so perturbed made Rallick profoundly uneasy.
'Be on your way, friend,' Kruppe said then, his voice sounding strange. 'Your destiny awaits you. More, it seems this new world is well prepared for one such as Raest, no matter what flesh he wears.'
Rallick's scowl deepened. The man sounds drunk. He sighed, then turned away, his mind returning once again to what had been achieved this night. He continued on his way, leaving Kruppe behind. What now? he wondered. So much had gone into reaching this moment. The sharp focus of his thoughts seemed dulled now by success. Never the crusader, Rallick's obsession to right the wrong had been, in a sense, no more than the assassin assuming the role Coll himself should have taken. He'd played the instrument of Coil's will, relying on a faith that the man's own will would return.
And if it didn't? His scowl deepening, Rallick crushed that question before it could lead his thought in search of an answer. As Baruk had said, the time had come to go home.
As he passed a silver-masked woman touched his arm. Startled by the contact, he turned to look at her. Long brown hair surrounded the featureless mask, its eyehole slits revealing nothing of what lay behind it. The woman stepped close. 'I've been curious,' she said quietly, 'for some time. However, I see now I should have observed you personally, Rallick Nom. Ocelot's death could have been avoided.'
The assassin's gaze darkened. 'Vorcan.'
Her head tilted in a fraction of a nod.
'Ocelot was a fool,' Rallick snapped. 'If Orr's contract was sanctioned by the Guild, I await punishment.'
She did not reply.
Rallick waited calmly.
'You're a man of few words, Rallick Nom.'
His answer was silence.
Vorcan laughed softly. 'You say you await punishment, as if already resigned to your own death.' Her gaze shifted from him towards the crowded terrace. 'Councilman Turban Orr possessed protective magic, yet it availed him naught. Curious.' She seemed to be considering something, then she nodded. 'Your skills are required, Rallick Nom. Accompany me.'
He blinked, then, as she strode towards the garden at the rear of the house, he followed.
Crokus held one hand over Challice's mouth as he lay atop her. With his other he removed his thief's mask. Her eyes widened in recognition. 'If you scream,' Crokus warned in a harsh voice, 'you'll regret it.'
He'd managed to drag her perhaps ten yards into the undergrowth before she tripped him. They'd thrashed about, but he'd won the battle.
'I just want to talk to you,' Crokus said. 'I won't hurt you, Challice, I swear it. Unless you try something, of course. Now, I'm going to remove my hand. Please don't scream.' He tried to read the expression in her eyes, but all he saw was fear. Ashamed, he raised his hand.
She didn't scream, and a moment later Crokus found himself wishing she had. 'Damn you, thief! When my father catches you he'll have you skinned alive! That's if Gorlas doesn't find you first. You try anything with me and he'll have you boiled, slowly—'
Crokus jammed his hand over her mouth again. Skinned? Boiled? 'Who's Gorlas?' he demanded, glaring. 'Some amateur chef? So you did betray me!'
She stared up at him.
He lifted his hand again.
'I didn't betray you,' she said. 'What are you talking about?'
'That murdered house guard. I never did it, but—'
'Of course you didn't. Father hired a Seer. A woman killed that guard, a servant of the Rope's. The Seer was terrified and didn't even stay to be paid! Now get off me, thief.'
He let her go and sat back on the ground. He stared into the trees. 'You didn't betray me? What about Meese? The guards at Uncle Mammot's? The big hunt?'
Challice climbed to her feet and brushed dead leaves from her hide cloak. 'What are you babbling about? I have to get back. Gorlas will be looking for me. He's the first son of House Tholius, in training to be a master duellist. If he sees you with me, there'll be real trouble.'
He looked up at her blankly. 'Wait!' He sprang to his feet. 'Listen, Challice! Forget this Gorlas idiot. Within the year my uncle will introduce us formally. Mammot is a famous writer.'
Challice rolled her eyes. 'Get your feet back on the ground. A writer? Some old man with ink-stained hands who walks into walls – has his house power? Influence? House Tholius has power, influence, everything required. Besides, Gorlas loves me.'
'But I—' He stopped, looking away. Did he? No. Did that matter, though? What did he want from her, anyway?
'What do you want from me, anyway?' Challice demanded.
He studied his feet. Then he met her eyes. 'Company?' he asked diffidently. 'Friendship? What am I saying? I'm a thief! I rob women like you!'
'That's right,' she snapped. 'So why pretend otherwise?' Her expression softened. 'Crokus, I won't betray you. It will be our secret.'
For the briefest of moments he felt like a child being stroked and consoled by a kindly matron, and he found himself enjoying it.
'Before you,' she added, smiling, 'I'd never met a real thief from the streets.'
His enjoyment ended in a surge of anger. 'Hood's Breath, no,' he sneered. 'Real? You don't know what's real, Challice. You've never had blood on your hands. You've never seen a man die. But that's the way it should be, isn't it? Leave the dirt to us, we're used to it.'
'I saw a man die tonight,' Challice said quietly. 'I never want to again. If that's what "real" means, then I don't want it. It's all yours, Crokus. Goodbye.' She turned and walked away.
Crokus stared at her back, her braided hair, as her words rang in his head.
Suddenly exhausted, he turned to the garden. He hoped Apsalar had remained where he'd left her. The last thing he wanted now was to have to track her down. He slipped into the shadows.
Mallet recoiled with his first step into the glade. Paran gripped his arm. Their eyes met.
The healer shook his head. 'I'll not approach
any closer, sir. Whatever lives there is anathema to my Denul Warren. And it ... it senses me ... with hunger.' He wiped sweat from his brow, drew a shaky breath. 'Best bring the girl to me here.'
Paran released his arm and darted into the clearing. The block of wood was now the size of a table, veined in thick, twisting roots and pocked on its sides with rough squared holes. The earth around it looked soaked in blood. 'Corporal,' he whispered, chilled. 'Send the girl over to Mallet.'
Kalam laid a hand on her shoulder. 'It's all right, lass,' he said, in the tone of a kindly uncle, 'you go on, now. We'll join you shortly.'
'Yes,' she smiled, and moved to where the healer stood at the glade's edge.
Kalam rubbed his bristly jaw, eyes following her. 'Never seen Sorry smile before,' he said, as Paran arrived. 'And that's a shame.'
They stood and watched as Mallet spoke quietly to the girl, then stepped forward and laid a hand on her forehead.
Paran cocked his head. 'The storm's stopped,' he said.
'Yeah. Hope it means what we'd like it to mean.'
'Someone's stopped it. I share your hope, Corporal.' For the captain however, it was a small hope. Something was building. He sighed. 'It's not even the twelfth bell yet. Hard to believe.'
'Long night ahead of us,' the assassin said, making it clear that he, too, found himself sorely lacking in optimism. He grunted. Mallet had voiced an amazed cry that reached them. The healer drew back his hand and waved at Paran and Kalam. 'You go,' the assassin said.
The captain frowned at the black man, confused. Then he went over to where the healer and Sorry waited. The girl's eyes were closed, and she seemed in a trance.
Mallet was direct. 'The possession's gone,' he said.
'Guessed as much,' Paran replied, eyeing the girl.
'There's more to it, though,' the healer continued. 'She's got someone else inside her, sir.'
Paran's brows rose.
'Someone who was there all along. How it survived the Rope's presence is beyond me. And now I've got a choice.'