A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 1

Anomander Rake.
    A figure approached Baruk and his companion. Short, round, wearing a faded red waistcoat, both hands clutching pastries, the man wore a cherub's mask, its open red-lipped mouth smeared with cake icing and crumbs. His route to them met with one obstacle after another as he negotiated his way across the room, excusing himself at every turn and twist.
    Rake noticed the newcomer, for he said, 'Seems eager, doesn't he?'
    Baruk chuckled. 'He's worked for me,' he said. 'And I've worked for him as well. Anomander Rake, behold the one they call the Eel. Darujhistan's master-spy.'
    'Do you jest?'
    'No.'
    Kruppe arrived, his chest heaving. 'Master Baruk!' he said breathlessly. 'What a surprise to find you here.' The cherub face swung over and up to Rake. 'The hair is an exquisite touch, sir. Exquisite. I am named Kruppe, sir. Kruppe the First.' He raised a pastry to his mouth and jammed it in.
    'This is Lord Anomander Rake, Kruppe.'
    Kruppe nodded vigorously, then swallowed audibly. 'Of course! Why, then, you must be quite used to such a lofty stance, sir. Kruppe envies those who can look down upon everyone else.'
    'It is easy to fool oneself,' Rake answered, 'into viewing those beneath one as small and insignificant. The risks of oversight, you might say.'
    'Kruppe might well say, assuming the pun was intended. But who would disagree that the dragon's lot is ever beyond the ken of mere humankind? Kruppe can only guess at the thrill of flight, the wail of high winds, the rabbits scurrying below as one's shadow brushes their limited awareness.'
    'My dear Kruppe,' Baruk sighed, 'it is but a mask.'
    'Such is the irony of life,' Kruppe proclaimed, raising one pastry-filled hand over his head, 'that one learns to distrust the obvious, surrendering instead to insidious suspicion and confused conclusion. But, lo, is Kruppe deceived? Can an eel swim? Hurrah, these seeming muddy waters are home to Kruppe, and his eyes are wide with wonder!' He bowed with a flourish, spattering bits of cake over Rake and Baruk, then marched off, still talking. 'A survey of the kitchen is in order, Kruppe suspects ...'
    'An eel indeed,' Rake said, in an amused tone. 'He is a lesson to us all, is he not?'
    Agreed,' Baruk muttered, shoulders slumping. 'I need a drink. Let me get you one. Excuse me.'
     
    Turban Orr stood with his back to the wall and surveyed the crowded room. He was finding it difficult to relax. The last week had been exhausting. He still awaited confirmation from the Assassins' Guild that Coll was dead. It wasn't like them to take so long to complete a contract, and sticking a knife into a drunk shouldn't have been too difficult.
    His hunt for the spy in his organizations had reached a dead end, but he remained convinced that such a man – or woman – existed. Again and again, and especially since Lim's assassination, he'd found his moves in the Council blocked by countermoves, too unfocused for him to point a finger at any one person. But the proclamation was dead in the water.
    He'd come to that conclusion this morning. And he'd acted. Even now his most trusted and capable messenger rode the trader's track, probably passing through the Gadrobi Hills and that thunderstorm at this very moment, on his way to Pale. To the Empire. Turban Orr knew the Malazans were on the way. No one in Darujhistan could stop them. And the Moon's lord had been defeated once, at Pale. Why would it be any different this time around? No, the time had come to ensure that his own position would survive the Empire's occupation. Or, better yet, an even higher rank to reward his vital support.
    His eyes fell casually on a guard stationed to one side of the spiral staircase. The man looked familiar somehow – not his face, but the way he stood, the set of the shoulders. Was the man's usual station at Majesty Hall? No, the uniform was that of a regular, while Majesty Hall was the domain of the Elites. Turban Orr's frown deepened behind the hawk mask. Then the guard adjusted his helmet strap, and Turban Orr gasped. He leaned back against the wall, overcome by trembling. Despot's Barbican! All those nights, night after night – for years – that guard had witnessed his midnight meetings with his allies and agents. There stood his spy.
    He straightened, closing one hand over the pommel of his duelling sword. He'd leave no room for questions, and damn Simtal's sensibilities – and damn this party. He wanted his vengeance to be swift and immediate.