«Leave me be,» Lorn gasped.
«Can't do it,» Meese said. «We been on you since Circle Breaker picked you up at the gate. The Eel says you've got some things t» pay for, lady. And we're here to collect.»
As soon as the woman said that, the Adjunct sensed another presence, immediately on her left. She cried out as she tried to spin into a defensive crouch, and in the cry was an overwhelming sense of frustration and despair. What a waste! she cursed. No, not like this!
Even as that thought thundered through her head, both women attacked. She parried the blade coming at her from the left, but could only watch in horror as the woman who'd spoken revealed two blades, both driving for her chest.
The Adjunct screamed in rage as the weapons punched into her. Her sword clanged and bounded as it struck the cobbles. Hands groping, Lorn slid down the wall. «Who?» she managed, a blind need behind the word. «Who?»
One of the women bent low over her. «What's that?»
Anguish filled Lorn's face, the corners of her mouth drooping as her eyes closed. «Who?» she asked again. «Who is this Eel?»
«Let's go, Meese,» the woman said, ignoring the body at her feet.
Paran found her sprawled on the grimy cobbles of an alley-mouth.
Something had drawn him to her unerringly, a final closing of the mysterious link between them. Her sword was beside her, the grip slick with blood, its edges gouged and nicked. The captain crouched beside her.
«You made it a hard fight,» he whispered, «for what that is worth.»
He watched her eyes flicker open. She stared up at him as recognition arrived. «Captain. Ganoes.»
«Adjunct.»
«They have killed me.»
«Who?»
She managed a stained smile. «I don't know. Two women. Looked like: thieves. Thugs. Do you see: the irony, Ganoes Paran?»
Thin-lipped, he nodded.
«No: glorious end: for the Adjunct. If you'd come: a few minutes sooner. .»
The captain said nothing. He watched the life leave Lorn, feeling nothing. Ill luck, knowing me, Adjunct. I'm sorry for that. Then he collected the Otataral sword and slipped it into his scabbard.
Above him two voices spoke in unison. «You gave him our sword.»
He straightened to find himself facing Oponn. «The Rope took it from me, to be more precise.»
The Twins could not conceal their fear. They looked upon Paran with something akin to pleading. «Cotillion spared you,» the sister said, «the Hounds spared you. Why?»
Paran shrugged. «Do you blame the knife, or the hand wielding it?»
«Shadowthrone never plays fair,» the brother whined, hugging himself.
«You and Cotillion both used mortals,» the captain said, baring his teeth, «and paid for it. What do you want from me? Sympathy? Help?»
«That Otataral blade-» the sister said.
«Will not be used to do your dirty work,» Paran finished. «You'd best flee, Oponn. I imagine even now Cotillion has given Shadowthrone the sword Chance, and the two are putting their heads together to plan how best to use it.»
The Twin jesters flinched.
Paran laid a hand over the sword's sticky grip. «Now. Else I return Cotillion's favour.»
The gods vanished.
The captain drew a deep breath. He turned once again to Lorn.
Her armour removed, she proved light in his arms.
The air roared around Anomander Rake as he plummeted, but he made no other sound, his Warren drawn in tight around him. Below, now sweeping lazy circles over Darujhistan, was the dun dragon-Rake's equal in size, with the power to match.
But it was a fool, hunting for him in the streets below.
Rake carefully spread his wings, angling towards the Galayn lord. His hind limbs reached down, talons spreading. He drew in the air around him, preparing for a burst of power. He was Kurald Galain, Tiste And? and darkness was his home.
The Galayn lord was immediately beneath him now, growing larger with incredible speed. Rake opened his mouth, head snapping back as he bit into a wall of air. This sound brought the dun dragon's gaze upward, but it was already too late.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
I am the House imprisoning in my birth demonic hearts, so locked in each chamber some trembling enraged antiquity.
And these roots of stone spread the deepest cracks in parched ground holding for ever the dream of fruit, ah, pilgrims come to my door and starve:
I Azath (?.?i)
Adaephon (b.?)
The compound beyond the gate was empty. Crokus ran across it, wondering if he was too late. He bounded up the steps and reached "Cowfoor the door latch. A burst of energy flung him backwards.
Dazed, the thief found himself sitting on the paving stones before the steps, his flesh tingling. At the door a deep crimson glow slowly faded.
A ward. «Hood!» he hissed, climbing to his feet. He'd run into barriers like these before, in the Higher Estates. There was no way to get through them.
Cursing again, Crokus whirled and raced to the gate. He emerged on to the street and looked around, seeing no one. If those Crimson Guard still protected him, they weren't showing themselves.
There was a slight chance that the garden entrance to Baruk's estate was unguarded by magic-a very slight chance. He ran down the street and turned into the first alley to his right. There'd be a wall to scale, but he did not consider that much of an obstacle.
He came to the alley's end and skidded to a halt on the street beyond.
The wall was high, he saw. He'd need a running start. Crokus trotted across the street, trying to catch his breath. What was the point of all this? Couldn't Baruk take care of himself, after all? Wasn't he a High Mage, and hadn't even Fingers commented on the alchemist's sorcerous defences?
He hesitated, scowling at the wall opposite him.
At that moment a piercing, earth-shaking scream was loosed directly above the street. Crokus threw himself against the wall behind him as an enormous shape descended into the gaslight. Filling the street, it struck the ground less than twenty yards to the thief's left. He was thrown from his feet by the impact. Stones shattered.
He ducked beneath the hail of bricks and cobbles, then, as the scatter of rubble diminished, he jumped to his feet.
A dragon, its wings tattered and streaked with blood, slowly regained its feet in the street, wagging its massive wedge-shaped head from side to side. Along its brown flanks, scales had been torn away, revealing deep puncture wounds. Its neck and shoulders glistened with blood.
Crokus saw that the wall beyond it-Baruk's-had been obliterated, opening the garden to his view. Snapped tree trunks rose amid steaming earth. A raised patio marked the approach of the estate's back entrance.
Two toppled statues lay in pieces before the doors.
The dragon looked stunned. Crokus tensed. Now was the time to move. Almost disbelieving his own temerity, the thief darted into the street behind the creature, hoping to reach the cover of the garden. His gaze remained on the dragon as he ran, his thoughts on the coin of luck in his pocket.
Then, before his eyes, the creature's shape changed, drawing into itself in a shimmering haze. Crokus slowed, then stopped, unable to pull away his attention. His heart hammered against his ribs, as if seeking escape.
Each drawn breath was a painful gasp. His luck, he told himself in terror, had just ended.
The shimmering faded, and a giant man-shaped apparition now stood on the street cloaked and cowled.
Crokus tried to will himself to move, but his body refused to obey. He stared, eyes widening, as the demon turned to him. It snarled and removed an enormous axe from its belt. Hefting the weapon, it spoke in a deep, soft voice. «What reason to continue this?» it asked reasonably.
«The Empress permits your escape, Lord. Once again she grants you