Gardens of the Moon

“A gutted city for Dujek and his army to occupy, with the Empress paying for it. She'll choke on that, Kalam.”



He grinned. “That's her problem, not mine.”



In the street, the Greyfaces moved through the noisy crowd like silent spectres, lighting the gas-lamps with long-poled sparkers. Some people, brazen with drink, hugged the figures and blessed them. The Greyfaces, hooded and anonymous, simply bowed in reply and continued on their way once freed.



Kalam stared at them, his brows knitting.



“Something the matter, Corporal?” Paran asked.



“Just something nagging me. Can't pin it down. Only, it's got to do with those Greyfaces.”



The captain shrugged. “They keep the lanterns lit. Shall we make our way, then?”



Kalam sighed. “Might as well, sir.”



The black lacquered carriage, drawn by two dun stallions, moved slowly through the press. A dozen feet ahead marched a brace of Baruk's own house guards, driving a wedge down the street's centre, using their wrapped weapons when shouts and curses failed.



In the plush confines of the carriage the outside roar surged and ebbed like a distant tide, muted by the alchemist's sound-deadening spells. He sat with his chin lowered on his chest, his eyes-hidden in the shadow of his brow and half-shut-studying the Tiste And? seated across from him. Rake had said nothing since his return to the estate just minutes before their planned departure.



Baruk's head throbbed. Sorcery shook the hills to the east, sending waves of concussion that struck every mage within range like mailed fists. He well knew its source. The barrow dweller approached, its every step contested by Anomander Rake's Tiste And?. It seemed that Mammot's prediction had been too generous. They didn't have days, they had hours.



Yet, despite the warring Warrens, despite the fact that the Jaghut Tyrant's power was superior to Rake's mages'-that the barron dweller came on, relentless, unstoppable, a growing storm of Omtose Phellack sorcery-the Lord of Moon's Spawn sat at ease on the padded couch, his legs stretched out before him and gloved hands folded in his lap. The mask lying on the velvet at his side was exquisite, if ghastly. In better times Baruk might have been amused, appreciative of its workmanship, but right now when he regarded it his lone response was suspicion. A secret was locked in that mask, something that bespoke the man who would wear it. But the secret eluded Baruk.



Turban Orr adjusted his hawk mask and paused just before the wide steps leading to the estate's main doors. He heard another carriage arrive at the gates and turned. From the doorway at his back came the shuffle of footsteps.



Lady Sinital spoke behind him. “I would rather you'd permitted one of my servants to inform me of your arrival, Councilman. Allow me the privilege of escorting you into the main chamber.” She slipped her arm through his.



“A moment,” he muttered, eyes on the figure now emerging from the carriage. “It's the alchemist's carriage,” he said, “but that's hardly Baruk, now, is it?”



Lady Sinital looked. “Trake unleashed!” she gasped. “Who would that be?”



“Baruk's guest,” Orr said drily.



Her grip bit into his arm. “I'm aware of his privilege, Councilman. Tell me, have you seen this one before?”



The man shrugged. “He's masked. How could I tell?”



“How many men do you know, Turban, who are seven feet tall and wear two-handed swords strapped to their backs?” She squinted. “That white hair; do you think it's part of the mask?”



The councilman did not reply. He watched as Baruk emerged behind the stranger. The alchemist's mask was a conservative silver-inlaid halfshield that no more than covered his eyes. An obvious statement denying duplicity. Turban Orr grunted, knowing well that his suspicions about the alchemist's influence and power were accurate. His eyes returned to the stranger. His mask was that of a black dragon, lacquered with fine silver-traced highlights; somehow the dragon's expression seemed: sly.



“Well?” Lady Sinital demanded. “Are we going to linger out here all night? And where's your dear wife, anyway?”



“Ill,” he said distractedly. He smiled at her. “Shall we introduce ourselves to the alchemist's guest? And have I complimented you yet on your attire?”



“You haven't,” she said.



“A black panther suits you, Lady.”



“But of course it does,” she replied testily, as Baruk and his guest str down the paved walk towards them. She disengaged her arm and stepped forward. “Good evening, Alchemist Baruk. Welcome,” she added to the black-dragon-masked man. “An astonishing presentation. Have we met?”