Gardens of the Moon

Seer.



It had felt as if a dark, compacted thing in her brain had burst open with that word, and now warred against all that surrounded it. Though it had initially come upon her with a force that seemed almost overwhelming, she could now sense, Ws way6m& WhateNet it fought was winning the battle. Yet, faintly, she thought she could hear the weeping of a child.



“I am Cotillion,” she heard herself murmur, “Patron of Assassins, known to all as the Rope of Shadow.” The weeping grew fainter. “The Seer is dead.”



A part of her mind cried out at that, while another asked, What Seer!



“I am within, yet apart. I stand at Shadowthrone's side, and he is named Ammanas and he is the Lord of Shadows. I am here as the hand of death.” Sorry smiled and nodded to herself, once again in control.



Whatever had challenged that was now gone, once more buried deep inside. The luxury of weeping, of anger, of fear did not belong to her had never belonged to her.



She drew a deep breath, and her senses narrowed to the task at hand. The fat little man was dangerous. The how and why of this remained to be answered, but every power hissed in alarm each time she caught glimpse of him amid the crowds. And all that is dangerous, she told herself, must die.



Beneath the Second Tier Wall in the Lakefront, the market along St Walk was at its usual frenzied peak. The sour heat, building all day in the cluttered avenues and alleys, was at its height. Sweating, exhausted merchants screamed curses at competitors over the heads of customers. Fights broke out every few minutes in one or another area, the turl jostle of the crowds pulling the contestants apart long before the arrival of ill-tempered guards.



Squatting on their grass mats, local Rhivi plainsmen called out in d nasal singsong endless descriptions of fine horseflesh. At intersections Gadrobi herders stood at tethering poles surrounded by braying goats and sheep, while others pushed wooden carts burdened with cheeses and clay jugs filled with fermented milk. Daru fishermen walked with sp(of smoked fish bobbing above their heads streaming with buzzing flies. Catlin weavers sat behind waist-high fortresses comprised of bolts of brightly dyed cloth. Gredfalan farmers stood in their wagons selling season's bitter fruits and sweet tubers. Woodsellers forced their drawn wagons through the crowds, their children clinging to the stacked bundles of wood like monkeys. Dark-robed men and women of Callows sang out the clashing claims of their Thousand Sects of D”, each holding aloft their sect's particular icon.



Kruppe strode down the market street with a jaunty step, his arms waving about seemingly of their own accord. Such movement, however, was no mere affectation: it disguised the gesturing required for casting spells. As a thief, it appeared that Kruppe's tastes did not demand much.



He stole food-fruit and sweets, mostly-and it was to such desires of the palate that he had honed his skills of magic.



As he walked, the chaotic dance of his arms was timed to catch apples flying from baskets, pastries leaping from trays, chocolate-covered cherries plucked from pans, all moving so swiftly as to be no more than blurs dodging bodies in their path. Inside the wide, flopping sleeves of his coat, pockets had been sewn, some large, some tiny. All that entered Kruppe's hands disappeared up his sleeves, tucked into appropriately sized pockets. He strode on, a connoisseur of edible delicacies of a hundred cultures, an expression of sated contentment on his round face.



Eventually, after a long, circuitous route, Kruppe arrived at the Phoenix Inn. He paused on the steps and chatted with a lone thug standing there, removing from a sleeve a glazed honeyball. Then, taking a bite from the sweetmeat, he pushed open the door and disappeared inside.



Half a block down the street, Sorry propped herself against the pitted wall of a tenement and crossed her arms. The fat little man was a wonder. She'd seen enough of his exquisite ballet to recognize him as an Adept. Yet she felt confused, for the mind behind the man's fa?ade hinted at capacities far greater than those he'd shown. Confirmation that here indeed was a dangerous creature.



From where she stood she studied the inn. The man on the steps seemed to be screening everyone entering, but she couldn't detect any gesture that might indicate a thieves” cant. The conversations were brief, usually of mutual recognition. Nevertheless she intended to enter the inn.



It was the kind of place Whiskeyjack had sent Kalam and Quick Ben to find-a haunt of thieves, strong-arms and assassins. Why the sergeant wanted to find such a place was a detail that hadn't been shared with her.



The wizard and Kalam had suspicions about her, and she sensed that their arguments were swaying Whiskeyjack. If they could, they'd keep her out of everything, but she didn't intend that to happen.