Ocelot continued, «We lost that bull of a man, Talo Krafar, and a Clan Leader.» The man snapped a glance over his shoulder as if expecting a sudden dagger to come flashing at his own back.
Despite his lack of interest Rallick's eyebrows lifted at this last bit of news. «They must be good.»
«Good? All of our eye-witnesses are dead, goes the sour joke this night. They don't make mistakes, the bastards.»
«Everyone makes mistakes,» Rallick muttered. «Has Vorcan gone out?»
Ocelot shook his head. «Not yet. She's too busy recalling all the Clans.»
Rallick frowned, curious in spite of himself. «Could this be a challenge to her Guild mastery? Perhaps an inside thing, a faction-»
«You think we're all fools, don't you, Nom? That was Vorcan's first suspicion. No, it's not internal. Whoever's killing our people is from outside the Guild, outside the city.»
To Rallick the answer seemed obvious suddenly, and he shrugged. «An Empire Claw, then.»
Though his expression bore reluctance, Ocelot nevertheless acknowledged agreement. «Likely,» he grated. «They're supposed to be the best, aren't they? But why go after the Guild? You'd think they'd be taking out the nobles.»
«Are you asking me to guess the Empire's intentions, Ocelot?»
The Clan Leader blinked, then his scowl deepened. «I came to warn you. And that's a favour, Nom. With you wrapped up in this vendetta thing, the Guild's not obliged to spread its wing over you. A favour.»
Rallick pushed himself from the wall and turned to the alley-mouth.
«A favour, Ocelot?» He laughed softly.
«We're setting a trap,» Ocelot said, moving to block Rallick's way. He jerked his scarred chin at the Phoenix Inn. «Make yourself visible, and leave no doubt as to what you do for a living.»
Rallick's gaze on Ocelot held steady, impassive. «Bait.»
«Just do it.»
Without replying, Rallick left the alley, climbed the steps and entered the Phoenix Inn.
«There is a shaping in the night,» Crone said, after Turban Orr had left.
The air around her shimmered as she assumed her true shape.
Baruk strode to his map table, hands clasped behind his back to still the trembling that had seized them. «You felt it too, then.» He paused, then sighed. «All in all, these seem the busiest hours.»
«A convergence of power ever yields thus,» Crone said, as she rose to stretch her wings. «The black winds gather, Alchemist. Beware their flaying breath.»
Baruk grunted. «While you ride them, a harbinger of our tragic ills.»
Crone laughed. She waddled to the window. «My master comes. I've other tasks before me.»
Baruk turned. «Permit me,» he said, gesturing. The window swung clear.
Crone flapped up on to the sill. She swivelled her head round and cocked an eye at Baruk. «I see twelve ships riding a deep harbour,» she said. «Eleven stand tall in flames.»
Baruk stiffened. He had not anticipated a prophecy. Now he was afraid. «And the twelfth?» he asked, his voice barely a whisper. «On the wind a hailstorm of sparks fill the night sky. I see them spinning, spinning about the last vessel.» Crone paused. «Still spinning.» Then she was gone.
Baruk's shoulders slumped. He turned back to the map on the table and studied the eleven once Free Cities that now bore the Empire flag.
Only Darujhistan remained, the twelfth and last marked by a flag that was not burgundy and grey. «The passing of freedom,» he murmured.
Suddenly the walls around him groaned, and Baruk gasped as an enormous weight seemed to press down on him. The blood pounded in his head, lancing him with pain. He gripped the edge of the map table to steady himself. The incandescent globes of light suspended from the ceiling dimmed, then flickered out. In the darkness the alchemist heard cracks sweeping down the walls, as if a giant's hand had descended on the building. All at once the pressure vanished. Baruk raised a shaking hand to his sweat-slicked brow.
A soft voice spoke behind him. «Greetings, High Alchemist. I am the Lord of Moon's Spawn.»
Still facing the table, Baruk closed his eyes and nodded. «The title isn't necessary,» he whispered. «Please call me Baruk.»
«I'm at home in darkness,» the Lord said. «Will this prove an inconvenience, Baruk?»
The alchemist muttered a spell. Before him the details of the map on the table took on distinction, emanating a cool blue glow. He faced the Lord and was startled to discover that the tall, cloaked figure reflected as little heat as the room's inanimate objects. Nevertheless, he was able to distinguish quite clearly the man's features. «You're Tiste And?» he said.
The Lord bowed slightly. His angled, multihued eyes scanned the room. «Have you any wine, Baruk?»
«Of course, Lord.» The alchemist walked over to his desk.
«My name, as best as it can be pronounced by humans, is Anomander Rake.» The Lord followed Baruk to the desk, his boots clicking on the polished marble floor.
Baruk poured wine, then turned to study Rake with some curiosity. He had heard that Tiste And? warriors were fighting the Empire up north, commanded by a savage beast of a man named Caladan Brood. They had allied with the Crimson Guard and, together, the two forces were decimating the Malazans. So, there were Tiste And? in Moon's Spawn, and the man standing before him was their lord.
This moment marked the first time Baruk had ever seen a Tiste And? face to face. He was more than a little disturbed. Such remarkable eyes, he thought. One moment a deep hue of amber, cat-like and unnerving, the next grey and banded like a snake's-a fell rainbow of colours to match any mood. He wondered if they were capable of lying.
In the alchemist's library lay copies of the surviving tomes of Gothos» Folly, Jaghut writings from millennia past. In them Tiste And? were mentioned here and there in an aura of fear, Baruk recalled. Gothos himself, a Jaghut wizard who had descended the deepest warrens of Elder Magic, had praised the gods of the time that the Tiste And? were so few in number. And if anything, the mysterious black-skinned race had dwindled since then.
Anomander Rake's skin was jet-black, befitting Gothos» descriptions, but his mane flowed silver. He stood close to seven feet tall. His features were sharp, as if cut from onyx, a slight upward tilt to the large vertical-pupilled eyes.
A two-handed sword was strapped to Rake's broad back, its silver dragonskull pommel and archaic crosshilt jutting from a wooden scabbard fully six and a half feet long. From the weapon bled power, staining the air like black ink in a pool of water. As his gaze rested on it Baruk almost reeled, seeing, for a brief moment, a vast darkness yawning before him, cold as the heart of a glacier, from which came the stench of antiquity and a faint groaning sound. Baruk wrenched his eyes from the weapon, looked up to find Rake studying him from over one shoulder.
The Tiste And? quirked a knowing smile, then handed Baruk one of the wine-filled goblets. «Was Crone her usual melodramatic self?»
Baruk blinked, then could not help but grin.
Rake sipped his wine. «She's never been modest in displaying her talents. Shall we sit?»
«Of course,» Baruk replied, relaxing in spite of his trepidation. From his years of study the alchemist knew that great power shaped different souls differently. Had Rake's been twisted Baruk would have known immediately. But the Lord's control seemed absolute. That alone engendered awe. The man shaped his power, not the other way around.
Such control was, well, inhuman. He suspected that this would not be the first insight he'd have regarding this warrior-mage that would leave him astonished and frightened.
«She threw everything she had at me,» Rake said suddenly. The Tiste And?» s eyes shone green as glacial ice.
Startled by the vehemence of that outburst, Baruk frowned. She? Oh, the Empress, of course.