Gardens of the Moon

The air swirled into darkness around Paran. He blinked, saw the trees of the estate garden rising before him. I wonder, will I run from it: or with it?



“Captain?” It was Mallet's voice. “Where in Hood's Name are you?”



Paran sat up. “Not in Hood's Name, Mallet. I'm here, in the shadows.”



The healer scrambled to his side. “We've got trouble everywhere. You look-”



“Deal with it,” the captain barked, climbing to his feet.



Mallet stared at Paran. “Hood's Breath, you look chewed to pieces: Sir.”



“I'm going after Lorn. If we all live through this we will meet at the Phoenix Inn. Understood?”



Mallet blinked. “Yes, Sir.”



Paran turned to leave.



“Captain?”



“What?” “Don't treat her kindly, Sir.”



Paran moved off.



The images remained with Crokus, brutally sharp. They returned again and again even as he tried to move away from them, his thoughts driven by panic and desperation.



Uncle Mammot was dead. In the youth's head a distant, steady voice told him that the man who had borne Mammot's face was not the man he'd known all his life, and that what had been: claimed by the roots, was something else, something horrific. The voice repeated this, and he heard its clear statement rising and falling beneath the storm of what he had seen with his own eyes: the images that would not leave him.



The central chamber of Lady Sinital's estate was abandoned, the f?te's trappings scattered about on the floor amid puddles and smears of blood. The dead and those whom Mammot had hurt had been carried away by the guards; the servants had all fled.



Crokus raced across the room to the open front doors. Beyond, torchlight cast a hissing blue glow down on to the walkway's paved stones and the gates, which had been left ajar. The thief leaped down the steps and hurried for the gate. He slowed as he approached it, for something was wrong in the street.



Like Sinital's main floor, the street was empty, littered with pennants, banners and fetishes. Eddies of dry wind whipped tatters of cloth and reed paper about in dancing circles. The air felt heavy and close.



Crokus emerged on to the street. In either direction, as far as he could see, not a single reveller was visible, and a thick silence hung over all.



The wind curled round him, first from one direction, then from another, as if seeking escape. A charnel smell filled the air.



Mammot's death returned to him. He felt utterly alone, yet Rallick's words urged him on. Days ago, the assassin had closed angry hands on the thief's shirt, pulling him close-and he'd called Crokus a drinker of the city's blood. He wanted to refute that, especially now. Darujhistan mattered. It was his home, and it mattered.



He turned in the direction of Baruk's estate. At least, with the streets empty, this wouldn't take long. He began to run.



The gusting wind beat against him, whipping his hair into his face.



Darkness hung low above the street's gas lamps. Crokus skidded to a halt on a corner. He'd heard something. Cocking his head, he held his breath and listened. There, again. Birds-hundreds of them from the sound, murmuring, talking, clucking. And amid the charnel smell he now detected the reek of birds” nests. Crokus frowned, thinking. Then he looked directly overhead.



A shout broke from his lips and he ducked instinctively. Above him, blotting out the night sky's stars, was a ceiling of jagged black stone, hanging so low as to seem inches from the highest buildings. He stared up at it, then pulled away his gaze as a wave of dizziness spun through him. The ceiling was revolving slowly. In its pocks, shelves and crags he'd seen the restless motion of nesting ravens, oily blots against the grainy background.



Moon's Spawn had arrived, to clear the streets, to silence the festival of rebirth. What could it mean? Crokus didn't know, but Baruk would.



Of course.



The thief resumed his run, his moccasins a whisper on the cobbles.



Kruppe took an expansive breath, his eyes bright as he surveyed the hastily abandoned leavings in the kitchen. “Always the way of things.” He sighed, patting his stomach. “Ever and anon, Kruppe's dreams come true.



“Granted, the pattern still finds shape, but Kruppe senses that all is well with the world, symbolized by the vision of bounty now arrayed before his renewed appetites. Rigours of the flesh demand replenishment, after all.”



He drew another satisfied breath of the steamy air. “We must needs await, at the end, the spin of a coin. In the meantime, of course, wondrous food beckons.”



In an alley facing the gates of Lady Sinital's estate, Adjunct Lorn had watched the Coin Bearer appear, and a slow, satisfied smile spread over her lips. Finding the boy had been one thing, but she'd had no desire to enter the garden where she'd buried the Finnest.