Gardens of the Moon

Murillio leaned his long, elegant frame close to Crokus Younghand. “Is this possible?” he whispered. “For a turn to last as long as Kruppe's?”



Crokus grinned wearily at his friend. “I don't mind, really. It's safe in here, and that's what counts for me.”



“Assassin's war, bosh!” Kruppe said, leaning back to mop his brow with a wilted silk handkerchief. “Kruppe remains entirely unconvinced. Tell me, did you not see Rallick Nom in here earlier? Spoke long with Murillio here, the lad did. As calm as ever, was he not?”



Murillio grimaced. “Nom gets like that every time he's just killed somebody. Lay down a card, dammit! I've early appointments to attend to.”



Crokus asked, “So what was Rallick talking to you about?”



Murillio's answer was a mere shrug. He continued glaring at Kruppe.



The small man's pencil-thin eyebrows rose. “Is it Kruppe's turn?”



Closing his eyes, Crokus slumped in his chair. He groaned. “I saw three assassins on the rooftops, Kruppe. And the two that killed the third went after me, even though it's obvious I'm no assassin.”



“Well,” said Murillio, eyeing the young thief's tattered clothing and the cuts and scrapes on his face and hands, “I'm inclined to believe you.”



“Fools! Kruppe sits at a table of fools.” Kruppe glanced down at the snoring man. “And Coll here is the biggest of them all. But sadly gifted with self-knowledge. Hence his present state, from which many profane truths might be drawn. Appointments, Murillio? Kruppe didn't think the city's multitude of mistresses awoke so early in the day. After all, what might they see in their mirrors? Kruppe shivers at the thought.”



Crokus massaged the bruise hidden beneath his long, brown hair. He winced, then leaned forward. “Come on, Kruppe,” he muttered. “Play a card.”



“My turn?”



“Seems self-knowledge doesn't extend to whose turn it is,” Murillio commented drily.



Boots sounded on the stairs. The three turned to see Rallick Nom descending from the first floor. The tall, dark-skinned man looked rested.



He wore his day cloak, a deep royal purple, clasped at the neck by a silver clamshell brooch. His black hair was freshly braided, framing his narrow, clean-shaven face. Raffick. walked up to the table and reached down to grasp Coll's thinning hair. He raised the man's head from the pool of beer and bent forward to study Coll's blotched face. Then he gently set down the man's head, and pulled up a chair.



“Is this the same game as last night?”



“Of course,” Kruppe replied. “Kruppe has these two men backed to the very wall, in danger of losing their very shirts! It's good to see you again friend Rallick. The lad here,” Kruppe indicated Crokus with a limp hand fingers fluttering, “speaks endlessly of murder above our heads. A veritable downpour of blood! Have you ever heard such nonsense Rallick, Kruppe's friend?”



Rallick shrugged. “Another rumour. This city was built on rumours.”



Crokus scowled to himself. It seemed that no one was willing to answer questions this morning. He wondered yet again what the assassin and Murillio had been talking about earlier; hunched as they'd been over a dimly lit table in one corner of the room, Crokus had suspected some sort of conspiracy. Not that such a thing was unusual for them, though most times Kruppe was at its centre.



Murillio swung his gaze to the bar. “Sulty!” he called out. “You awake?



There was a mumbled response from behind the wooden counter, the Sulty, her blonde hair dishevelled and plump face looking plumper, stood up. “Yah,” she mumbled. “What?”



“Breakfast for my friends here, if you please.” Murillio climbed to his feet and cast a critical, obviously disapproving eye over his clothing. The soft billowing shirt, dyed a bright green, now hung on his lanky frame wilted and beer-stained. His fine tanned leather pantaloons were crease and patchy. Sighing, Murillio stepped away from the table. “I must bath and change. As for the game, I surrender consumed by hopelessness Kruppe, I now believe, will never play his card, thus leaving us trapped in the unlikely world of his recollections and reminiscences, potentially for ever. Goodnight, one and all.” He and Rallick locked gazes, the Murillio gave a faint nod.



Crokus witnessed the exchange and his scowl deepened. He watched Murillio leave, then glanced at Rallick. The assassin sat staring down a Coll, his expression as unreadable as ever.



Sulty wandered into the kitchen, and a moment later the clanking of pots echoed into the room.