Gardens of the Moon

Orr's eyebrows had risen at Baruk's words. “Indeed? Perhaps it might profit us both to share our information?”



“Unlikely,” Baruk said. “Throwing the threat of the Empire at me implies what? That if the proclamation is voted down, the city's sorcerers will all die at the Empire's hand. But if it wins, you're free to justify opening the gates to the Malazans in peaceful co-existence, and in such a scenario the city's magery lives on.



“Astute, Lord,” Crone said.



Baruk studied the anger now visible beneath Orr's expression.



“Neutrality? How you've managed to twist that word. Your proclamation serves the first step towards total annexation, Councilman. Fortunate for you that I cast no weight, no vote, no influence.” Baruk rose “Roald will see you out.”



Turban Orr also rose. “You've made a grave error,” he said.



“The proclamation's wording is not yet complete. It seems we would do well to remove any consideration regarding Darujhistan's magery.”



“Too bold,” Crone observed. “Prod him and see what more comes forth.”



Baruk strode towards the window. “One may only hope,” he said drily over a shoulder,” that your vote fails to win the day.”



Orr's reply was hot and rushed. “By my count we've reached a majority this very night, Alchemist. You could have provided the honey on the cream. Alas,” he sneered, “we'll win by only one vote. But that will suffice.”



Baruk turned to face Orr as Roald quietly entered the room, bearing the councilman's cloak.



Crone stretched out on the rug. “On this night of all nights,” she said, in mock dismay, “to tempt myriad fates with such words.” The Great Raven cocked her head. Faintly, as from a great distance, she thought she could hear the spinning of a coin.



There was a tremble of power coming from somewhere within the city, and Crone shivered.



Rallick Nom waited. No more indolence for the Lady Sinital. The end of such luxuries came this night. The two figures moved away from the railing and faced the glass door. Rallick's finger tightened on the trigger.



He froze. A whirring, spinning sound filled his head, whispering words that left him bathed in sudden sweat. All at once everything shifted, turned over in his mind. His plan for quick vengeance tumbled into disarray, and from the ruins arose something far more: elaborate.



All this had come between breaths. Rallick's gaze cleared. Lady Sinital and Councilman Lim stood at the door. The woman reached out to slide the panel to one side. Rallick swerved his crossbow an inch to the left, then squeezed the trigger. The blackened iron rib of the bow bucked with the release of tension. The quarrel sped outward, so fast as to be invisible until it hit home.



A figure on the balcony spun with the quarrel's impact, arms thrown out as it stumbled. The glass door shattered as the figure fell through it.



Lady Sinital screamed in horror.



Rallick waited no longer. Rolling on to his back he reached up and slid the crossbow into the narrow ledge between the cornice and the roof.



Then he slipped down the outside of the wall, hung with his hands briefly as shouts of alarm filled the estate. A moment later he dropped, spinning as he fell, and landed cat-like in the alley.



The assassin straightened, adjusted his cloak, then calmly walked into the side-street, away from the estate. No more indolence for the Lady Sinital. But no quick demise, either. A very powerful, very well-respected member of the City Council had just been assassinated on her balcony.



Lim's wife-now widow-would certainly have something to say about this. The first phase, Rallick told himself as he strode through Osserc's Gate and descended the wide ramp leading down into the Daru District, just the first phase, an opening gambit, a hint to Lady Sinital that a hunt has begun, with the eminent mistress herself as the quarry. It won't be easy: the woman's no slouch in the intrigue game.



“There'll be more blood,” he whispered aloud, as he turned a corner and approached the poorly lit entrance to the Phoenix Inn. “But in the end she'll fall, and with that fall an old friend will rise.” As he neared the inn a figure stepped from the shadows of an adjacent alleyway. Raffick stopped. The figure gestured, then stepped back into the darkness.



Rallick followed. In the alley he waited for his eyes to adjust.



The man in front of him sighed. “Your vendetta probably saved your life tonight,” he said, his tone bitter.



Rallick leaned against a wall and crossed his arms. “Oh?”



Clan Leader Ocelot stepped close, his narrow, pitted face twisted into its habitual scowl. “The night's been a shambles, Nom. You've heard nothing?”