The man strode to the bed and tossed down his leather gloves. «I'm confident,» he said,» that those thirty minutes will be satisfying indeed, each more than the last.»
Lady Sinital joined him beside the bed. «I suppose,» she whispered, as she slipped her arms around the man's neck and drew his face down to her lips, «that you've no choice now but to tell the Widow Lini the sad news.» She touched her lips to his, then ran her tongue along the line of his jaw.
«Mmm? What sad news is that?»
«Oh, that you've found yourself a more worthy lover, of course.» Her tongue reached into his ear. Abruptly she pulled back and met his eyes searchingly. «Do you hear that?» she asked.
He brought his arms around her and drew her closer. «Hear what?»
«That's just it,» she said. «It's suddenly quiet downstairs. I'd better-»
«They're in the garden, no doubt,» the man said reassuringly. «The minutes are passing, Lady.»
She hesitated, then made the mistake of letting him press his body against hers. Lady Simtal's eyes widened in near-alarm. Her breathing changed. «So,» she gasped, «what are we doing still dressed?»
«Good question,» Murillio growled, pulling both of them on to the bed.
In the silence following Turban Orr's question, Baruk found himself preparing to step forward. Knowing well what that would reveal, he felt compelled nevertheless. Rallick Nom was here to right a dreadful wrong.
More, the man was a friend, closer to the alchemist than Kruppe or Murillio-and, in spite of his profession, a man of integrity. And Turban Orr was Lady Sinital's last link to real power. If Rallick killed the man, she'd fall.
Coll's return to the Council was something Baruk and his fellow Vorrud mages greatly desired. And Turban Orr's death would be a relief.
More was riding on this duel than Rallick imagined. The alchemist adjusted his robe and drew a deep breath.
A large hand closed on his upper arm and, before Baruk could react, Lord Anomander Rake stepped forward. «I offer my services as second,» he said loudly. He met Rallick's eyes.
The assassin betrayed nothing, not once looking at Baruk. He answered Rake's offer with a nod.
«Perhaps,» Turban Orr sneered, «the two strangers know each other.»
«We've never met,» Rake said. «However, I find myself instinctively sharing his distaste for your endless talk, Councilman. Thus I seek to avoid a Council debate on who will be this man's second. Shall we proceed?»
Turban Orr led the way out to the terrace, Estraysian D'Arle behind him. As Baruk turned to follow he felt a familiar contact of energies at his side. He swung his head and recoiled. «Good gods, Mammot! Where did you get that hideous mask?»
The old man's eyes held his briefly then shied away. «An accurate rendition of Jaghut features, I believe,» he said softly. «Though I think the tusks are a little short.»
Baruk shook himself. «Have you managed to find your nephew yet?»
«No,» Mammot replied. «I am deeply worried by that.»
«Well,» the alchemist grunted as they walked outside, «let's hope that Oponn's luck holds for the lad.»
«Of course,» Mammot murmured.
Whiskeyjack's eyes widened as a crowd of excited guests poured out from the main chamber and gathered on the terrace.
Fiddler scurried to his side. «It's a duel, Sergeant. The guy with the wine stain on his shirt is one of them, a councilman named Orr. Nobody knows who the other man is. He's over there with that big man in the» The sergeant had been leaning, arms crossed, against one of the marble pillars encircling the fountain, but at seeing the tall dragon-masked figure he came near to toppling into the fountain behind him.
«Hood's Balls!» he cursed. «Recognize that Ionia silver hair, Fid?»
The saboteur frowned.
«Moon's Spawn,» Whiskeyjack breathed. «That's the mage, the Lord who stood on that portal and battled Tayschrenn.» He reeled off an impressive list of curses, then added, «And he's not human.»
Fiddler groaned. «Tiste And?. The bastard's found us. We've had it.»
«Shut up.» Whiskeyjack was recovering from his shock. «Line everybody up the way that Captain Stillis wanted us. Backs to the woods and hands on weapons. Move!»
Fiddler scrambled. The sergeant watched the saboteur round up his men. Where the hell were Kalam and Paran anyway? He caught Quick Ben's eye and gestured the mage over.
«Fid explained it,» Quick Ben said, leaning close. «I may not be much use, Sergeant. That barrow-dweller's unleashing waves of nasty stuff. My head feels ready to explode.» He grinned wanly. «And look around. You can pick out all the mages by the sick looks on their faces. If we all accessed our Warrens, we'd be fine.»
«Then why don't you?»
The wizard grimaced. «That Jaghut would fix on us as if we were a beacon of fire. And he'd take the weaker ones-even from this distance, he'd take them. And then there'd be hell to pay.»
Whiskeyjack watched the guests create a space on the terrace, lining up on either side. «Check with Hedge and Fiddler,» he ordered, eyes lingering on the Tiste And?. «Make sure they've got something handy, in case it all comes apart. This estate's got to burn then, hot and long. We'll need the diversion to set off the intersection mines. Give me the nod telling me they're up to it.»
«Right.» Quick Ben moved off.
Whiskeyjack grunted in surprise as a young man stepped round him, dressed as a thief, complete with face mask.
«Excuse me,» the man muttered, as he walked into the crowd.
The sergeant stared after him, then glanced back at the garden. How the hell had that lad got past them in the first place? He could've sworn they'd sealed off the woods. He loosened his sword surreptitiously in its sheath.
Crokus had no idea what kind of costume Challice D'Arle would be wearing, and he was resigned to a long hunt. Held left Apsalar at the u&.iA back wall, and now felt guilty. Still, she'd seemed to take it well though in a way that made him feel even worse. Why did she have to kv&(~e about things a thought about the crowd's strange formation, looking as he was for a head somewhere at chest level to everyone else. As it turned out, that proved unnecessary, for Challice D'Arle's costume was no disguise.
Crokus found himself between two burly house guards. Across from him, twenty feet away with no one to block his view, stood Challice and an older woman Crokus took to be her mother. Their attention was held unerringly on a tall, severe-looking man standing at one end of the cleared space and speaking with another man, who was strapping on a duelling glove. It slowly dawned on the thief that a duel was but moments away.
Squeezing between the two guards, Crokus craned his neck to find the other duellist. At first he thought him the giant with the dragon mask and two-handed sword. Then his gaze found the man. Rallick Nom. His eyes snapped back to the first duellist. Familiar. He nudged the guard on his left.
«Is that Councilman Turban Orr?»
«It is, sir,» the guard replied, an odd tightness in his tone.
Crokus glanced up to see the man's face wet with sweat, trickling down from under his peaked helmet. Strange. «So, where's Lady Sinital?» he asked casually.
«Nowhere in sight,» the guard answered, with obvious relief. «Otherwise she'd stop this.»
Crokus nodded at that. «Well,» he said, «Rallick will win.»
The guard's gaze was on him, the eyes hard and piercing. «You know the man?»
«Well-»
Someone tapped his back and he turned to find a cherub's face smiling mindlessly at him. «Why, Crokus lad! What an inventive costume you're wearing!»
«Kruppe?»
«Well guessed!» Kruppe replied. The painted wooden face swung to the guard. «Oh, kind sir, I have a written message for you.» Kruppe placed a scroll into the man's hand. «Compliments of a long-time secret admirer.»