Gardens of the Moon
“Any word from the Eel yet?”
“We keep the lad here for now.”
“And the girl?”
“The same.”
Meese sighed loudly. “Crokus ain't gonna like being cooped up here.”
Irilta glared over at Crokus's sleeping form. Was the lad truly asleep?
“No choice. Got word that there's a couple of guardsmen waiting at Mammot's place-too late, of course, but they've got damn close.” Irilta rubbed dust from the window and leaned forward. “Sometimes I swear I see someone, or maybe something. Then I blink and it's gone.”
“Know what you mean.” Bones creaking, Meese pushed herself to her feet. “I think even the Eel's beginning to sweat.” She chuckled. “Life's heating up, friend. Rolling times ahead.”
Irilta nodded grimly. “Roll on, roll on.”
Captain Paran refilled his tankard for the third time. Was this what that Tiste And? had meant about his luck turning? Since coming to this land he'd found three friends-something wholly unexpected and new to him, precious, in fact. But the Tattersail he knew was dead, and in her place: a child. Toc was dead. And now it looked like Coll would join that list.
He ran a finger through a pool of spilled beer on the table, creating a river leading to a crack between two planks, then watched as the beer drained down and out of sight. He felt a spreading wetness on his right shin but ignored it as his eyes focused on the crack. The wood had been bolted down, joining the thick planks to an equally robust frame of legs.
What had Rake said? Paran rose and unclipped his sword belt. He laid it on the table, then withdrew Chance.
The few regulars in the bar fell silent and turned to watch him. Behind the counter, Scurve reached for his club.
The captain noticed none of this. With the sword in his right hand, he set the point into the crack and brought the weapon vertical. Working it back and forth, he managed to drive it close to half its length between the planks. Then he sat down again and reached for his beer.
Everyone relaxed, and spoke among themselves in shared confusion.
Paran swallowed a mouthful of beer, frowning at Chance. What had Rake said? When your luck turns, break the sword. Or give it to your worst enemy. He doubted Oponn would accept it, however. And that meant breaking it. The sword had been with him for a long time. He'd used it in battle only once, and that had been against the Hound.
Faintly, he heard the words of one of his childhood tutors. The man's lined face rose into his thoughts to accompany the voice. “Those whom the gods choose, “tis said, they first separate from other mortals-by treachery, by stripping from you your spirit's lifeblood. The gods will take all your loved ones, one by one, to their death. And, as you harden, as you become what they seek, the gods smile and nod. Each company you shun brings you closer to them. “Tis the shaping of a tool, son, the prod and pull, and the final succour they offer you is to end your loneliness-the very isolation they helped you create. Never get noticed, boy.”
Had the shaping begun? Paran scowled. Was he responsible for taking Coll's life? The mere brush of friendship between them-enough to seal the man's doom? “Oponn,” he whispered, “you've a lot to answer for, and answer for it you shall.”
He set down the tankard and rose. Then he reached for the sword.
Climbing the steps of the Phoenix Inn, Kalam paused. Damn, there it was again, this feeling that unseen eyes were fixed on him. The sensation, born of his Claw training, had struck him four times in quick succession since he'd come within sight of this bar. Heeding such warnings was what kept him alive, and yet he felt no malice in that unwanted attention-rather, it had the feel of amused curiosity, as if whoever watched him knew full well who and what he was, yet seemed unconcerned.
He shook himself, then entered the bar. As soon as he took his first step into the heavy, stagnant atmosphere, Kalam knew that something was wrong. He shut the door behind him, waited for his eyes to adjust to the gloom. He heard breathing, the light scuff of furniture and clank of tankards coming to rest on tabletops. So, there were people here. Then why the silence?
As the grey confines of the bar grew defined, he saw that its denizens had turned their backs to him and were watching a man standing behind his table at the far end of the room. The lantern light reflected dully from a sword thrust through the table, and the man had closed one hand around its grip. He seemed oblivious to everyone else in the bar.
Kalam took a half-dozen steps, coming to the near end of the counter.
His dark eyes remained on the man with the sword, and a frown deepened the lines on his broad, flat forehead. The assassin stopped. Was it a trick of this damn light? he wondered. “No,” he said, startling the innkeeper behind the counter, “it isn't.” He pushed himself back from the counter, ran his eyes over the others in the chamber-all locals. He'd have to take the risk.