Gardens of the Moon

In quiet mockery Baruk said, “More than just a witness. It's well known how you and your kind feasted on the plain outside Pale's walls.”



“Yet we were not the first to feast on flesh and blood, Lord, lest you forget.”



Baruk turned away. “Far be it for me to defend my species,” he muttered, more to himself than to Crone, whose words had stung him. His eyes fell on the shards of glass littering the floor. He voiced a mending spell and watched as they reassembled. “I will speak with your lord, Crone.” He nodded as the glass pane rose from the floor and returned to the window-frame. “Tell me, will he as easily disdain my wards as you did?”



“My lord is possessed of honour and courtesy,” Crone replied ambiguously. “I shall call him, then?”



“Do so,” Baruk said, sipping his wine. “An avenue will be provided for his passage.”



There came a knock at the door.



“Yes?”



Roald stepped inside. “Someone is at the gate wishing to speak with you,” the white-haired servant said, setting down a plate heaped with roast pork.



Baruk glanced at Crone and raised an eyebrow.



The bird ruffled her feathers. “Your guest is mundane, a restless personage whose thoughts are thick with greed and treachery. A demon crouches on his shoulder, named Ambition.”



“His name, Roald?” Baruk asked.



The servant hesitated, his soft eyes flicked uneasily at the bird now ambling towards the food.



Baruk laughed. “My wise guest's counsel indicates she well knows the man's name. Speak on, Roald.”



“Councilman Turban Orr.”



“I would remain for this,” Crone said. “If you would seek my counsel.”



“Please do, and, yes, I would,” the alchemist replied.



“I am no more than a pet dog,” the Great Raven crooned slyly, anticipating his next question. “To the councilman's eyes, that is. My words a beast's whimper to his ears.” She speared a piece of meat and swallowed it quickly.



Baruk found himself beginning to like this mangy old witch of a bird.



“Bring the councilman to us, Roald.”



The servant departed.



Archaic torches lit an estate's high-walled garden with a flickering light that threw wavering shadows across the pavestones. As a nightwind swept in from the lake, rustling leaves, the shadows danced like imps. On the second floor of the building was a balcony overlooking the garden.



Behind the curtained window, two figures moved.



Rallick Nom lay prone on the garden wall in a niche of darkness beneath the estate's gabled cornice. He studied the feminine silhouette with the patience of a snake. It was the fifth night in a row that he had occupied his hidden vantage-point. The Lady Sinital's lovers numbered as many, but he had identified two in particular worthy of attention.



Both were city councilmen.



The glass door opened and a figure walked out on to the balcony.



Rallick smiled as he recognized Councilman Lim. The assassin shifted position slightly, slipping one gloved hand under the stock of his crossbow; reaching up with the other to swing back the oiled crank. His eyes on the man leaning against the balcony railing across from him, Rallick carefully inserted a quarrel. A glance down at the bolt's iron head reassured him.



The poison glittered wetly along the razor-sharp edges. Returning his attention to the balcony he saw that Lady Sinital had joined Lim.



No wonder there's no shortage of lovers for that one, Rallick thought, his eyes narrowing in study. Her black hair, now unpinned, flowed down sleek and shiny to the small of her back. She wore a gauze-thin nightdress and, with the lamps of the room behind her, her body's round curves were clearly visible.



As they spoke their voices carried to where Rallick lay hidden.



“Why the alchemist?” Lady Sinital was asking, evidently resuming a conversation begun inside. “A fat old man smelling of sulphur and brimstone. Hardly suggestive of political power. Not even a council member, is he?”



Lim laughed softly. “Your naivete is a charm, Lady, a charm.”



Sinital pulled back from the railing and crossed her arms. “Educate me, then.” Her words came sharp, tightly bridled.



Lim shrugged. “We have naught but suspicions, Lady. But it is the wise wolf that follows every spoor, no matter how slight. The alchemist would have people think as you do. A doddering old fool.” Lim paused, as if in thought, perhaps weighing how much he should reveal. “We have sources,” he continued cautiously, “among the magery. They inform us of one certain fact heavy with implications. A good many of the wizards in the city fear the alchemist, and they name him by a title-that alone suggests a secret cabal of some sort. A gathering of sorcerers, Lady, is a fell thing.”