The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen

by Steven Erikson

  To his mind the tower challenged Majesty Hall’s bright mien, gazing over the estates and buildings crouched on the lower hills with its rheumed eyes and history-scarred face—a jaded cast to its mocking gleam.

  Crokus shared something of the tower’s imagined sardonic reserve for the pretense so rife in Majesty Hall, an emotion of his uncle’s that had seeped into the lad over the years. Adding fuel to this fire was a healthy dose of youthful resentment toward anything that smacked of authority. And though he gave it little thought, these provided the primary impulses for his thieving activities. Yet he’d never before understood the most subtle and hurtful insult his thefts delivered—the invasion and violation of privacy. Again and again, in his dreamy wanderings both day and night, the vision of the young woman asleep in her bed returned to him.

  Eventually Crokus grasped that the vision had everything to do with—everything. He’d come into her room, a place where the noble brats drooling at her heels couldn’t enter, a place where she might talk to the ragged dolls of her childhood, when innocence didn’t just mean a flower not yet plucked. Her sanctuary. And he’d despoiled it, he’d snatched from this young woman her most precious possession: her privacy.

  No matter that she was the daughter of the D’Arles, that she was born to the pure blood—untainted by the Lady of Beggars’ touch—that she would flow through life protected and shielded from the degradations of the real world. No matter any of these things. For Crokus, his crime against her was tantamount to rape. To have so boldly shattered her world . . .

  His thoughts a storm of self-recrimination, the young thief turned up the Charms of Anise Street, pushing through the crowds.

  In his mind the once-stalwart walls of righteous outrage were crumbling. The hated nobility had shown him a face that now haunted him with its beauty, and tugged him in a hundred unexpected directions. The sweet scents of the spice stores, wafting like perfume on the warming breeze, had unaccountably lodged a nameless emotion in his throat. The shouts of Daru children playing in the alleys brimmed his eyes with sentimental maundering.

  Crokus strode through Clove Gate and entered Osserc Narrow. Directly ahead rose the ramp leading into Higher Estates. As he approached he had to move quickly to one side to avoid a large carriage coming up on him from behind. He didn’t need to see the crest adorning the carriage’s side panel to recognize its house. The horses snapped and kicked, surging forward heedless of anyone or anything in their path. Crokus paused to watch the carriage clatter up the ramp, people scattering to either side. From what he’d heard of Councilman Turban Orr, it seemed the duelist’s horses matched his contempt for those he supposedly served.

  By the time he reached the Orr estate the carriage had already passed through the outer gate. Four burly private guards had resumed their station to either side. The wall at their backs rose a full fifteen feet, topped with rusty iron cuttings set in sun-baked clay. Pumice torches lined the wall at ten-foot intervals. Crokus strolled past the gate, ignoring the guards. At the base the wall looked to be about four feet in breadth, the rough-hewn bricks a standard squared foot. He continued on along the street, then turned right to check the wall fronting the alley. A single service door, tarred oak banded in bronze, was set in this wall at the nearest corner.

  And no guard. The shadows of the opposite estate draped a heavy cloak across the narrow aisle. Crokus entered the damp, musty darkness. He had traveled half the length of the alley when a hand closed around his mouth from behind and a dagger’s sharp point pressed against his side. Crokus froze, then grunted as the hand pulled his face round. He found himself looking into familiar eyes.

  Rallick Nom withdrew his dagger and stepped back, a severe frown marring his brow. Crokus gaped then licked his lips. “Rallick, Beru’s Heart, you scared me!”

  “Good,” the assassin said. He came close. “Listen carefully, Crokus. You’ll not try Orr’s estate. You’ll not go near it again.”

  The thief shrugged. “It was just a thought, Nom.”

  “Kill it,” Rallick said.

  His lips thinning into a straight line, Crokus nodded. “All right.” He turned and headed toward the strip of bright sunlight marking the next street. He felt Rallick’s eyes on him until he stepped out onto Traitor’s Track. He stopped. Off to his left climbed High Gallows Hill, its immaculate flowered slope a burst of colors surrounding the fifty-three Winding Steps. The five nooses above the platform swung slightly in the breeze, their shadows streaks of black reaching down the slope to the cobbles of the street. It had been a long time since the last High Criminal was hanged, while off in the Gadrobi District the Low Gallows’ ropes were replaced weekly due to stretching. An odd contrast to mark these tense times.

  Abruptly, he shook his head. Avoiding the turmoil of questions was too much of an effort. Had Nom followed him? No, a lesser likelihood than the assassin having marked Orr or someone in the estate for murder. A bold contract. He wondered who had had the guts to offer it—a fellow noble, no doubt. But the courage of the contract’s offering paled when compared to Rallick’s accepting it.

  In any case, the weight of the assassin’s warning was enough to crush any idea of thieving Orr’s estate—at least for now. Crokus jammed his hands into his pockets. As he walked, his thoughts lost in a maze of dead ends, he frowned with the realization that one of his hands, probing deep in the pocket, had closed around a coin.

  He withdrew it. Yes, it was the coin he’d found on the night of the assassinations. He recalled its inexplicable appearance, clattering at his feet an instant before the assassin’s crossbow quarrel whizzed past. Beneath the bright morning light Crokus now took the time to examine it. The first side he held up before him displayed the profile of a young man, with an amused expression, wearing some kind of floppy hat. Tiny runelike lettering ran around the edge—a language the thief didn’t recognize as it was so very different from the cursive Daru script with which he was familiar.

  Crokus turned the coin. How odd! Another head, this one a woman’s facing the other way. The etched script here was of a style different from the opposite side, a kind of left-slanting hatchwork. The woman looked young, with features similar to the man’s; her expression held nothing of amusement, seeming to the thief’s eyes cold and unyielding.

  The metal was old, streaked here and there with raw copper and pitted around the faces with rough tin. The coin felt surprisingly heavy, though he concluded that its only worth lay in its uniqueness. He’d seen the coinage of Callows, Genabackis, Amat El, and, once, the ridged bars of the Seguleh, but none had looked like this one.

  Where had it fallen from? Had his clothing picked it up somewhere, or had he kicked it into motion while crossing the roof? Or had it been among the D’Arle maiden’s treasure? Crokus shrugged. In any case, its arrival had been timely.

  By this time his walk had taken him to the East Gate. Just outside the city wall and along the road called Jatem’s Worry, crouched the handful of sagging buildings named Worrytown: the thief’s destination. The gate remained open during daylight hours, and a slow-plodding line of vegetable-carts crowded the narrow passage. Among them, he saw as he pushed his way along one edge, were the first wagonloads of refugees from Pale, those who’d managed to slip through the siege lines during the battle and had crossed the south Rhivi Plain and then through the Gadrobi Hills and finally on to Jatem’s Worry. Scanning their faces he saw a fiery desperation dulled by exhaustion: they looked upon the city with a jaded eye toward its meager defenses, realizing that they’d bought only a short measure of time with their flight, yet too tired to care.

  Disturbed by what he saw, Crokus hurried through the gate and approached Worrytown’s largest structure, a rambling wooden tavern. Over the door hung a board on which had been painted, decades ago, a three-legged ram. To the thief’s mind, the painting had nothing to do with the tavern’s name, which was the Boar’s Tears. The coin still in one hand, Crokus entered and paused just inside.

  A few desultory
faces turned to regard him briefly, then swung back to their cups. At a table in a gloomy corner opposite, Crokus saw a familiar figure, its hands raised above its head and gesticulating wildly. A grin tugged the thief’s lips, and he strode forward.

  “. . . and then did Kruppe sweep with motion so swift as to be unseen by any the king’s crown and scepter from the sarcophagus lid. Too many priests in this tomb, thinks Kruppe then, one less ’twould be a relief to all lest the dead king’s musty breath shorten and so awaken his wraith. Many times afore this had Kruppe faced a wraith’s wrath in some deep pit of D’rek, droning its list of life-crimes and bemoaning its need to devour my soul—harrah! Kruppe was ever too elusive for such sundry spirits and their knock-kneed chatter—”

  Crokus laid a hand on Kruppe’s damp shoulder, and the shiny round face swung up to observe him. “Ah!” Kruppe exclaimed, waving a hand toward his lone companion at the table and explaining, “An apprentice past comes to fawn in due fashion! Crokus, be seated by all means possible. Wench! Some more of your finest wine, haste!”

  Crokus eyed the man seated opposite Kruppe. “Seems you two might be busy right now.”

  Hope flared in the man’s expression and he rose quickly. “Oh, no,” he exclaimed. “By all means interrupt.” His eyes darted to Kruppe then back to Crokus. “I must be leaving in any event, I assure you! Good day to you, Kruppe. Until some other time, then.” The man bobbed his head then departed.

  “Precipitous creature,” Kruppe muttered, reaching for the mug of wine the man had left behind. “Ah, look at this,” he said, frowning up at Crokus, “nigh two-thirds full. A potential waste!” Kruppe drank it down in one swift gulp, then sighed. “Said potential averted, Dessembrae be praised.”

  Crokus sat. “Was that man your trader contact?” he asked.

  “Heavens, no.” Kruppe waved a hand. “A poor refugee from Pale, wandering lost. Fortunate for him was Kruppe, whose brilliant insights have sent him—”

  “Straight out the door,” Crokus finished, laughing.

  Kruppe scowled.

  The serving woman arrived with an earthen carafe of sour-smelling wine. Kruppe refilled the mugs. “And now, wonders Kruppe, what would this expertly trained lad seek from this one-time master of all arts nefarious? Or have you triumphed yet again and come with booty atucked, seeking proper dispensation and the like?”

  “Well, yes—I mean, no, not quite.” Crokus glanced around, then leaned forward. “It’s about last time,” he whispered. “I knew you’d be out here to sell the stuff I brought you.”

  Kruppe leaned forward to meet the lad, their faces inches apart. “The D’Arle acquisition?” he whispered back, waggling his eyebrows.

  “Exactly! Have you sold it off yet?”

  Kruppe pulled a handkerchief from a sleeve and mopped his brow. “What with all this talk of war, the traders’ routes are all amiss. So, to answer your question, uhm, not quite yet, admits Kruppe—”

  “Great!”

  Kruppe started at the lad’s shout, his eyes squeezing shut. When they opened again they were thin slits. “Ah, Kruppe understands. The lad wishes their return to his possession so that he might seek higher recompense elsewhere?”

  Crokus blinked. “No, of course not. I mean, yes, I want it back. But I’m not planning on fencing it anywhere. That is, I’m still dealing with you on everything else. Only this one’s special.” As he spoke Crokus felt heat rise to his face, and was thankful for the gloom. “A special case, Kruppe.”

  A broad smile broke on Kruppe’s round face. “Why, most certainly, then, lad. Shall I deliver said items to you this eve? Excellent, consider the matter closed. Pray, tell, what do you have in yon hand there?”

  Crokus stared in confusion, then he glanced down at his hand. “Oh, just a coin,” he explained, showing it to Kruppe. “I picked it up the same night I thieved D’Arle’s. Two-headed, see?”

  “Indeed? May Kruppe examine the peculiar item more closely?”

  Crokus obliged, then reached for the mug of wine. He leaned back. “I was thinking of Orr’s estate next,” he said casually, his eyes fixed on Kruppe.

  “Mmm.” Kruppe turned the coin in his hand again and again. “Poorest quality cast,” he muttered. “Crooked stamping, too. Orr’s estate, you say? Kruppe advises caution. The house is well protected. The metallurgist who foundried this should have been hanged, indeed, probably was, thinks Kruppe. Black copper, no less. Cheap tin, temperatures all too cool. Favor me, Crokus? Peruse the scene in the street from yon door. If you spy a red and green merchant’s wagon wobbling into town, Kruppe would be much obliged for such information.”

  Crokus rose and crossed the room to the door. Opening it he stepped outside and glanced around. Seeing no wagon in sight, the youth shrugged again and went back inside. He returned to the table. “No merchant wagon.”

  “Ah, well,” Kruppe said. He set down the coin on the table. “Altogether worthless, judges wise Kruppe. You may part with it at your leisure.”

  Crokus collected the coin and slipped it into his pocket. “No, I’m keeping it. For good luck.”

  Kruppe looked up, his eyes bright, but Crokus had his attention on the mug in his hands. The fat man glanced away, sighing. “Kruppe must needs depart immediately, if this eve’s rendezvous is to be propitious for all involved.”

  Crokus drained his wine. “We can head back together.”

  “Excellent.” Kruppe rose, pausing to brush crumbs from his chest. “Shall we be off, then?” He looked up to see Crokus frowning down at his hand. “Has something smitten the lad?” he asked quickly.

  Crokus started. He looked away guiltily, the color rising in his face. “No,” he mumbled. He glanced again at his hand. “I must’ve picked up some wax somewhere,” he explained. He rubbed his hand on his leg and grinned sheepishly. “Let’s go.”

  “It will be a fine day for a walk, pronounces Kruppe, who is wise in all things.”

  White Gold’s Round encircled an abandoned tower with a panoply of brightly dyed awnings. The goldsmith merchant shops, each with their own security guards loitering outside, faced out on the round street, the aisles between them narrow cracks leading to the tower’s ruined compound.

  The many tales of death and madness surrounding Hinter’s Tower and its environs kept it empty and, uppermost in the minds of the goldsmiths, an unlikely approach to their precious stores.

  As the afternoon waned toward dusk, the Round’s crowds thinned and the private guards grew more wary. Iron grilles rattled into place over storefronts here and there, and among the few that remained open, torches were ignited.

  Murillio entered the Round from the Third Tier Road, pausing every now and then to examine a shopkeeper’s wares. Wrapped in a shimmering blue cloak from the Malle Waste, Murillio knew his ostentatious display of wealth would do much to allay suspicion.

  He came to one shop in particular, framed on either side by unlit stores. The goldsmith, narrow-faced and pebble-nosed, leaned hawkishly on his counter, his weathered hands before him bearing tiny gray scars that looked like raven tracks on mud. One finger tapped a restless beat. Murillio approached, meeting the man’s beetle eyes.

  “Is this the shop of Krute of Talient?”

  “I’m Krute,” the goldsmith grated sourly, as if disgruntled with his lot in life. “Talient pearls, set in Bloodgold from the mines of Moap and Belt, none other to be found in all Darujhistan.” He leaned forward and spat past Murillio, who involuntarily stepped to one side.

  “No customers this day?” he asked, pulling a handkerchief from his sleeve and touching his lips.

  Krute’s gaze tightened. “Only one,” he said. “Perused a cache of Goaliss gems, rare as dragon’s milk and suckled from rock as grim. A hundred slaves lost to each stone prised from the angry veins.” Krute’s shoulders jerked and his eyes darted. “Out the back I keep them, lest temptation spatter the street with blood, and like.”

  Murillio nodded. “Sound practice. Did he purchase any?”

/>   Krute grinned, revealing blackened stumps for teeth. “One, but not the best. Come, I’ll show you.” He went to the side door and opened it. “Through here, then.”

  Murillio entered the shop. Black curtains covered the walls, and the air was musty with old sweat. Krute led him into the back room, which if anything was more rank and stifling than the first. The goldsmith dropped the curtain between the two rooms and faced Murillio.

  “Move quickly! I’ve laid out a horde of fool’s gold and worthless stones on the counter out front. If any sharp-eyed customer marks them this hole will be finished.” He kicked at the back wall and a panel swung from its hinges. “Crawl through, dammit, and tell Rallick that the Guild is not pleased with his generosity regarding our secrets. Go!”

  Murillio fell to his knees and pushed his way through the portal, the earthen floor damp beneath his hands and staining his knees. He groaned his distaste as the door swung down behind him, then climbed to his feet. Before him rose Hinter’s Tower, its mold-ridden stone walls glistening in the dying light. An overgrown cobbled pathway led up to the arched entrance bereft of a door and heavy with shadows. Of the chamber within Murillio saw only darkness.

  Roots from the scraggy scrub oaks lining the path had pushed most of the cobbles up from the earth, making the way treacherous. After a cautious minute Murillio arrived at the doorway. He narrowed his gaze and tried to pierce the darkness. “Rallick?” he hissed. “Where in Hood’s name are you?”

  A voice spoke behind him. “You’re late.”

  Murillio spun, a long, thin dueling rapier in his left hand rasping from its sheath and sweeping low into guard position, a main-gauche appearing in his right hand as he dropped into a defensive crouch, then relaxed. “Dammit, Rallick!”

  The assassin grunted in amusement, eyeing the rapier’s razor-sharp tip, which had but a moment earlier hovered inches from his solar plexis. “Good to see your reflexes have not dulled, friend. All that wine and those pastries seem not to have girdled you . . . much.”