Gardens of the Moon

“A masked face,” the Tiste And? reminded him.



“If my suspicions are correct,” Baruk said, “the mask won't help the Eel one bit.”



The door opened again and there stood Mammot, looking fit and full of energy. He nodded to Baruk. “Withdrawal proved easier than I'd imagined,” he said, without preamble. His bright gaze fixed on Anomander Rake and he smiled, then bowed. “Greetings, Lord. I've looked forward to this meeting ever since Baruk brought to us the offer of alliance.”



Rake glanced at Baruk and raised an eyebrow.



The alchemist said, “Mammot numbers among the Vorrud Cabal.” He faced the old man again. “We were deeply worried, friend, given the Elder mageries at play around the barrow."



“I was snared for a time,” Mammot admitted, “but at the extreme edges of the Omtose Phellack influence. Quiescent regard proved the correct course, as the one stirring within did not sense me.”



“How much time do we have?” Baruk asked tightly.



“Two, perhaps three days. Even for a Jaghut Tyrant, it is an effort to make the return journey to life.” Mammot's eyes fell upon the mantelpiece. “Ah, your carafe of wine awaits as is usual. Excellent.” He strode over to the fireplace. “Have you word of my nephew, by any chance?”



Baruk frowned. “No, should I have? The last time I met the child was, what, five years ago?”



“Mmm,” Mammot said, raising his freshly filled goblet and taking a mouthful. “Well, Crokus has grown somewhat since then, I assure you. I hope the lad's all right. He was-”



Baruk threw up a hand and staggered-a step forward. “What?” he demanded in sudden fear. “What's his name? Crokus? Crokus!” The alchemist rapped his forehead. “Oh, what a fool I've been!”



Mammot's face crinkled into a wise smile. “Oh, you mean the matter of the Coin Bearer, do you?”



Shock registered in Baruk's face. “You knew?”



Standing to one side, his charcoal-grey eyes fixed intently on Mammot, Rake said, in a strangely flat tone, “Mammot, forgive me for interrupting. Will you be attending Lady Sinital's F?te?”



The old man nodded easily. “Of course.”



“Very good,” Rake said, with something like anticipation. He pulled his leather gloves from his belt. “We'll speak then.”



Baruk had no time to think about Rake's sudden departure. It was his first mistake of the day.



A woman with a shaved head and long flowing robes ran shrieking from the gates, a shred of brown fur streaming from one hand. Adjunct Lorn stepped back to let the priestess pass. She watched as the woman plunged into the crowd behind her. The festival had spilled out beyond Darujhistan's walls, and Worrytown's main street was a streaming mob she'd spent the last half-hour pushing through on her way to the gates.



Absently she rubbed the rapier wound in her shoulder. Her journey into the barrow seemed to have slowed the healing, and an ache had settled inside the puncture, cold as the ice in the barrow's tunnel. Eyeing the two guards stationed at the gate, she approached warily.



Only one seemed to pay her any attention, and this man spared her but the briefest glance before returning his attention to the Worrytown mob.



Lorn entered the city unremarked, simply one more traveller come to attend the spring festival.



Immediately within the gates the avenue split around the base of a squat hill, on which crouched a half-ruined temple and tower. Off to her right rose another hill, evidently a garden, given the wide steps ascending to the summit, covered in trees, and the many fetishes and banners tied to branches and the gas-lamps.



Lorn's sense of those she sought was strong, unerring. Once past the hills, she could see an inner wall. Sergeant Whiskeyjack and his squad were somewhere beyond it, in the lower city. Lorn strode through the surging crowds, one hand hitched in her sword belt, the other massaging the puffed red flesh around her wound.



The guard at Worry Gate pushed himself from the wall he had been leaning against and paced a slow circle on the cobblestones. He paused to adjust his peaked helmet, loosening the strap a notch.



The other guard, an older man, bandy-legged and short, approached.



“Those fools out there making you uneasy?” he asked with a grin more gaps than teeth.



The first man glanced through the gateway. “Had a near-riot here a couple of years back,” he said.



“I was there,” the old man said, hawking on to the stones. “We had to pull the hoods off our polearms, draw some blood. That sent them packing, and I don't think the lesson's gone on them. I wouldn't worry much. This ain't your regular duty, is it?”