Gardens of the Moon

Lorn climbed on to her horse and stared down at the Imass. “Fare well in your search, Onos T'oolan.”



“That name is past. I am now Tool.”



She grinned, then gathered the reins and kicked her mount forward, the packhorse trailing on its lead. Once the Finnest was out of her hands, she would focus her talents on discovering this Coin Bearer. Until now she had not allowed herself to think about Oponn. She had had too many other, more immediate concerns, like Sorry.



A strong sense of regret filled her at the loss of Captain Paran. That man would have made her task much easier, possibly even enjoyable.



Though he'd been a dour man, getting grimmer by the minute, she had to admit that she had been attracted to him. There might have been something there.



“Well,” she sighed, as she urged her horse up a hillside,” dying's never in anybody's plans.”



Tool's estimation gave her two days at the most. Then the Jaghut would be fully awake, and free of the barrow. The Finnest would have to be securely in place long before then. She looked forward to her meeting with Sorry, and instinctively brushed a hand against her sword's pommel. To kill a servant of Shadow, perhaps the Rope himself. The Empress's pleasure at that would be immense.



She realized that the doubts that had plagued her, borne on those wings of knowledge, now lay quiescent. An effect of her time in the barrow? More likely this acorn in her pocket. Or perhaps she'd moved unconsciously beyond them. When the time for action comes, all doubts must be discarded. An old Claw tenet. She knew herself well, and she knew how to control all that was within her. Years of training, discipline, loyalty and duty. The virtues of a soldier.



She was ready for the mission, and with this realization the weight on her shoulders vanished. She urged her mount into a gallop.



Crokus craned his head and squinted into the darkness above. “Right to the top,” he said. “We can see the whole city from there.”



Apsalar eyed the stairs dubiously. “It's awfully dark,” she said. “Are you sure this tower is abandoned? I mean, my father told me stories about ghosts, undead monsters, and they always lived in ruined places.” She looked around with wide eyes. “Places just like this one.”



Crokus groaned. “The god K'rul's been dead for thousands of years,” he said. “Besides, no one ever comes here, so what would all those monsters do with all that spare time? What would they eat? Tell me that! Stupid stories.” He walked to the foot of the spiral staircase. “Come on, the view's worth it.”



She watched Crokus climb upward and hurried to follow before he disappeared from sight. What at first seemed to be impenetrable darkness slowly faded to grey, and Apsalar was surprised to find herself able to discern even the minutest details. The first things she noticed were the soot-stained paintings on the wall to their left. Each stone panel was as wide as a single step, rising half a dozen feet in a jagged procession that mimicked the stairs. “Crokus,” she whispered,” there's a story painted on this wall.”



Crokus snorted. “Don't be ridiculous! You can't even see your hand in front of your face in here.”



I can't?



He continued, “Wait till you get up top. Those clouds we saw should have cleared the moon by now.”



“There's something wet on these steps,” Apsalar said.



“Run off from up top,” he explained, exasperated.



“No, it isn't,” she insisted. “It's thick, and sticky.”



Crokus stopped above her. “Look, will you be quiet for a minute? We're almost there.”



They emerged on to a platform bathed in the moon's silver glow. Near one of the low walls Crokus saw a heap of cloth. “What's that?” he wondered. “Looks like somebody's been camping up here.”



Apsalar stifled a gasp. “That's a dead man!”



“What?” Crokus hissed. “Not another one!” He rushed to the huddled figure and crouched beside it. “Blessed Mowri, somebody's stabbed him in the head.”



“There's a crossbow over here.”



He grunted. “An assassin. I saw one just like this killed here last week There's an assassin war going on, just like I told Kruppe and Murillio.”



“Look at the moon,” Apsalar breathed, from the far side of the platform.



Crokus shivered. She was still a cold one, at times. “Which one?” he asked, rising.



“The shining one, of course.”



Feeling contrary, Crokus studied Moon's Spawn instead. A fair reddish glow suffused it-something he'd not seen before. A worm of fear squirmed in his stomach. Then his eyes widened. Five massive winged shapes seemed to sweep down the Moon's face, angling north east. He blinked, and they were gone.