A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 2

Quick Ben, damn you!'
     
    The vision of busy soldiers vanished before the captain's eyes, and from a blurred veil that swiftly parted Paran found himself facing Anomander Rake and Kallor – both with weapons drawn – and behind them the Mhybe and Korlat, with a ring of alert Tiste Andii just beyond.
    Countless eyes fixed on him, then darted up over his right shoulder, then back down. No-one moved, and Paran realized he was not alone in his shock.
    'Help!'
    The captain spun at that plaintive cry, then looked up. An enormous wooden table twisted silently in the air, Kruppe's round, silk-flowing form hanging beneath it. On the underside of the table, painted in bright, now glowing colours, was the image of a man. Slowly blinking in and out of Paran's view, it was a few moments before he recognized the figure's face. That's me ...
    Pain ripped into him, a black surge that swallowed him whole.
     
    The Mhybe saw the young captain buckle, drop to his knees, as if drawing tight around an overwhelming agony.
    Her attention darted to her daughter, in time to see those bound coils of power snake outward from Silverfox, slipping round and past the motionless forms of Brood and Whiskeyjack, then upward to touch the table.
    The four legs snapped. With a shriek Kruppe plunged earthward, to land in a flailing of limbs and silk among a crowd of Tiste Andii. Cries and grunts of pain and surprise followed. The table now steadied, the underside facing Rake and Kallor, the image of Paran coruscating with sorcery. Wisps of it reached down to clothe the hunched, kneeling captain in glittering, silver chains.
    'Well,' a slightly breathless voice said beside her, 'that's the largest card of the Deck I've ever seen.'
    She pulled her gaze away, stared wide-eyed at the lithe, dark-skinned mage standing beside her. 'Quick Ben ...'
    The Bridgeburner stepped forward then, raising his hands. 'Please excuse my interruption, everyone! Whilst it seems that a confrontation is desired by many of you here, might I suggest the absence of ... uh, wisdom ... in inviting violence here and now, when it is clear that the significance of all that seems to be occurring is as yet undetermined. The risks of precipitate action right now . . . Well, I trust you see what I mean.'
    Anomander Rake stared at the mage a moment, then, with a faint smile, he sheathed his sword. 'Cautious words, but wise ones. Who might you be, sir?'
    'Just a soldier, Son of Darkness, come to retrieve my captain.'
    At that moment Kruppe emerged from the muttering, no doubt bruised crowd that had cushioned his fall. Brushing dust from his silks, he strode seemingly unaware to halt directly between the kneeling Paran and Anomander Rake. He looked up then, blinking owlishly. 'What an unseemly conclusion to Kruppe's post-breakfast repast! Has the meeting adjourned?'
     
    Captain Paran was insensate to the power bleeding into him. In his mind he was falling, falling. Then striking hard, rough flagstones, the clash of his armour echoing. The pain was gone. Gasping, shivering uncontrollably, he raised his head.
    In the dim light of reflected lanterns, he saw that he was sprawled in a narrow, low-ceilinged hallway. Heavy twin doors divided the strangely uneven wall on his right; on his left, opposite the doors, was a wide entrance, with niches set in its flanking walls. On all sides, the stone appeared rough, undressed, resembling the bark of trees. A heavier door of sheeted bronze – black and pitted – was at the far end, eight or so paces distant. Two shapeless humps lay at the inner threshold.
    Where? What?
    Paran pushed himself upright, using one wall for support. His gaze was drawn once again to the shapes at the foot of the bronze door. He staggered closer.
    A man, swathed in the tightly bound clothes of an assassin, his narrow, smooth-shaven face set in a peaceful expression, his long black braids still glistening with oil. An old-fashioned crossbow lay beside him.
    Lying at his side, a woman, her cloak stretched and twisted as if the man had dragged her across the threshold. A nasty head wound glittered wetly on her brow, and, from the blood-smears on the flagstones, she was the bearer of other wounds as well.
    They're both Daru . . . wait, I have seen the man before. At Simtal's Fete . . . and the woman! She's the Guild Master . . .
    Rallick Nom and Vorcan, both of whom vanished that night of the ill-fated fete. I am in Darujhistan, then. I must be.
    Silverfox's words returned to