A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 1

joining the assassin, 'the shape I'm in will make my role in the fight a short one. Consider me the surprise factor, the one thing she won't be expecting, the one thing that'll stop her for a second.' He looked into the man's dark eyes. 'Make that second count, Corporal.'
    Kalam grinned. 'I hear you, sir.'
    They left Coll still snoring contentedly and went down to the bar's main floor. As they passed along the counter, Scurve looked at them warily.
    Kalam released an exasperated curse and, in a surge of motion, reached out and grasped him by the shirt. He pulled the squealing innkeeper half-way across the counter until their faces were inches apart. 'I'm sick of waiting,' the assassin growled. 'You get this message to this city's Master of the Assassins. I don't care how. Just do it, and do it fast. Here's the message: the biggest contract offer of the Master's life will be waiting at the back wall of Lady Simtal's estate. Tonight. If the Guild Master's worthy of that name then maybe – just maybe – it's not too big for the Guild to handle. Deliver that message, even if you have to shout it from the rooftops, or I'm coming back here with killing in mind.'
    Paran stared at his corporal, too tired to be amazed. 'We're wasting time,' he drawled.
    Kalam tightened his grip and glared into Scurve's eyes. 'We'd better not be,' he growled. He released the man by gently lowering him on to the counter-top. Then he tossed a handful of silver coins beside Scurve. 'For your troubles,' he said.
    Paran gestured and the assassin nodded. They left the Phoenix Inn.
    'Still following orders, Corporal?'
    Kalam grunted. 'We were instructed to make the offer in the name of the Empress, Captain. If the contract's accepted and the assassinations are done, then Laseen will have to pay up, whether we've been outlawed or not.'
    'A gutted city for Dujek and his army to occupy, with the Empress paying for it. She'll choke on that, Kalam.'
    He grinned. 'That's her problem, not mine.'
    In the street, the Greyfaces moved through the noisy crowd like silent spectres, lighting the gas-lamps with long-poled sparkers. Some people, brazen with drink, hugged the figures and blessed them. The Greyfaces, hooded and anonymous, simply bowed in reply and continued on their way once freed.
    Kalam stared at them, his brows knitting.
    'Something the matter, Corporal?' Paran asked.
    'Just something nagging me. Can't pin it down. Only, it's got to do with those Greyfaces.'
    The captain shrugged. 'They keep the lanterns lit. Shall we make our way, then?'
    Kalam sighed. 'Might as well, sir.'
     
    The black lacquered carriage, drawn by two dun stallions, moved slowly through the press. A dozen feet ahead marched a brace of Baruk's own house guards, driving a wedge down the street's centre, using their wrapped weapons when shouts and curses failed.
    In the plush confines of the carriage the outside roar surged and ebbed like a distant tide, muted by the alchemist's sound-deadening spells. He sat with his chin lowered on his chest, his eyes – hidden in the shadow of his brow and half-shut – studying the Tiste Andii seated across from him. Rake had said nothing since his return to the estate just minutes before their planned departure.
    Baruk's head throbbed. Sorcery shook the hills to the east, sending waves of concussion that struck every mage within range like mailed fists. He well knew its source. The barrow dweller approached, its every step contested by Anomander Rake's Tiste Andii. It seemed that Mammot's prediction had been too generous. They didn't have days, they had hours.
    Yet, despite the warring Warrens, despite the fact that the Jaghut Tyrant's power was superior to Rake's mages' – that the barrow dweller came on, relentless, unstoppable, a growing storm of Omtose Phellack sorcery – the Lord of Moon's Spawn sat at ease on the padded couch, legs stretched out before him and gloved hands folded in his lap. The mask lying on the velvet at his side was exquisite, if ghastly. In better times Baruk might have been amused, appreciative of its workmanship, but right now when he regarded it his lone response was suspicion. A secret was locked in that mask, something that bespoke the man who would wear it. But the secret eluded Baruk.
     
    Turban Orr adjusted his hawk mask and paused just before the wide steps leading to the estate's main doors. He heard another carriage arrive at the gates and turned. From the doorway at his back came the shuffle of