Challice. «Of course,» he said, rolling his eyes. «You would be named something like that.» He glared at her. «My name? None of your business. Thieves don't introduce themselves to their victims.»
Her eyebrows rose. «Victim? But I'm no longer a victim, am I? You've settled that by returning. I'd think,» she said slyly, «you're more or less obliged to tell me your name, considering what you're doing. And you must be the type who treats obligations seriously, no matter how strange they seem.»
Crokus frowned at that. What was she talking about? What did she know about how he looked at obligations? And why was she right? «My name,» he sighed, defeated, «is Crokus Younghand. And you're the daughter of the high born D'Arle who all those suitors are lining up to be introduced to. But one day you'll see me in that line, Challice, and only you will know where you last saw me. It'll be a formal introduction, and I'll bring a gift as is correct.» He stared at her, horrified by his own words.
Her wide eyes held his, emotion bright in them-emotion he'd no hope of understanding-then she burst out laughing. She immediately clapped a hand over her mouth, then jolted forward on the bed. «You'd better go, Crokus. Someone will have heard me. Quickly, and beware the trip-wire!»
Crokus moved woodenly to the balcony's sliding doors. Her laughter had been the final punctuation to all his dreams. He felt dead inside, except for a cynic's chuckle that might have been his own, given the odd look she threw him. Her blankets had fallen down around her, and once again she was naked. It astonished him in a distant way that she hadn't even seemed to notice.
A voice came from beyond the door leading to the hallway, indistinct.
The girl hissed, «Hurry, you fool!» Alarm bells jangled in his head, awakening him. He had to move, and fast. Crokus stepped over the trip-wire and opened the door. He paused to glance back at her, and smiled as she clutched the blankets to her neck.
Well, at least he'd won that much.
A knock sounded on the opposite door.
Crokus emerged on to the balcony and hitched himself up on to the railing. He looked down into the garden and almost fell. The guard was gone. In his place stood a woman-and, though she was cloaked, something about her triggered instant recognition. The woman from the bar, and she was looking right at him with dark eyes that burned him deep inside.
The door in the room opened and Crokus shook himself. Damn that woman, anyway! Damn both of them! He grasped the eaves above his head and swung lithely up and out of sight.
Kalam crouched motionless in the middle of the rooftop, a knife in each hand. Around him was silence, the night air tense and heavy. Long minutes passed. At times he convinced himself he was alone, that Quick Ben and the other wizard had left the roof; that they hunted each other in the sky overhead, or in the alleys and streets below, or on another roof. But then he'd hear something, a drawn breath, a scuff of cloth against leather, or a wisp of wind would brush his cheek on this windless night.
Then, before his eyes, the darkness was shattered. Two shapes appeared hovering over the rooftop. The assassin had found Quick Ben, attacking with a bolt of fire that seemed to stun the wizard, then swiftly closing the distance between himself and the dazed man.
Kalam surged forward to intercept. Quick Ben vanished then re-appeared immediately behind the assassin. The blue flash of power bursting from the wizard's hands struck the magic-wielding assassin full in the back. Clothes aflame, the man tumbled through the air.
Quick Ben whirled to Kalam. «Come on! Get moving!»
Kalam ran, his friend flying beside him. As they reached the roof's edge he turned for a last look. The assassin mage had somehow snuffed the fire from his clothes and was regaining his balance. At the far edge two of his comrades appeared.
«Jump,» Quick Ben said. «I'll stall them.»
«With what?» Kalam demanded, tottering on the edge.
In answer Quick Ben produced a small vial. He spun in the air and hurled it.
Kalam cursed, then jumped.
The vial struck the rooftop and shattered with a thin tinkle. Beyond, the three assassins paused. Quick Ben remained, his eyes on the white smoke rising from the glass shards. A figure took form within the smoke, growing in size. Its shape was almost insubstantial, the smoke stretching like threads in places, curling like wool in others. All that was visible within it was its eyes, two black slits, which it swung to Quick Ben.
«You,» it said, its voice that of a child, «are not Master Tayschrenn.»
«That's right,» Quick Ben said, «but I'm in his legion. Your service remains with the Empire.» He pointed across the roof. «There are three who are the Empire's enemies, Demon. Tiste And? here to oppose the Malazan Empire.»
«My name is Pearl,» the Korvalah demon said softly, then turned to the three assassins, who had spread out along the far edge. «They are not fleeing,» Pearl said, with a note of surprise.
Quick Ben wiped sweat from his forehead. He glanced down. Kalam was a vague shape waiting in the alley below. «I know,» he said to Pearl.
That observation had unnerved him as well. One of Tayschrenn's Korvalahrai could level a city if it so chose.
«They accept my challenge,» Pearl said, facing Quick Ben again. «Should I pity them?»
«No,» he answered. «Just kill them and be done with it.»
«Then I return to Master Tayschrenn.»
«Yes.»
«What is your name, Wizard?»
He hesitated, then said, «Ben Adaephon Delat.»
«You are supposed to be dead,» Pearl said. «Your name is so marked on the scrolls of those High Mages who fell to the Empire in Seven Cities.»
Quick Ben glanced up. «Others are coming, Pearl. You are in for a fight.»
The demon lifted its gaze. Above them glowing figures descended, five in the first wave, one in the second. This last one radiated such power that Quick Ben shrank back, his blood chilled. The figure had something long and narrow strapped to its back.
«Ben Adaephon Delat,» Pearl said plaintively, «see the last who comes. You send me to my death.»
«I know,» Quick Ben whispered.
«Flee, then. I will hold them enough to ensure your escape, no more.»
Quick Ben sank down past the roof.
Before he passed from sight Pearl spoke again. «Ben Adaephon Delat, do you pity me?»
«Yes,» he replied softly, then pivoted and dropped down into darkness.
Raffick walked down the centre of the street. On either side of the wide corridor rose columns from which gas torches jutted, casting circles of blue light on to the wet cobblestones. The light rain had returned, coating I everything in a slick sheen. To his right and beyond the resident houses lining that side of the street, the pale domes of the High Thalanti on the hill glistened against the deep grey sky.
The temple was among the oldest structures in the city, its founding blocks over two thousand years old. The Thalanti monks had come, like so many others, carried on the wings of the rumour. Rallick knew less about the story than did Murillio and Coll. One of the Elder Peoples was believed to have been entombed among the hills, an individual of great wealth and power, that was the extent of his knowledge.
But it had been a rumour with many consequences. If not for the thousands of shafts sunk into the earth the caverns of gas would never have been found. And while many of those shafts had collapsed or had been forgotten over the centuries, still others remained, now connected by tunnels.
In one of the many chambers that honeycombed the ground beneath the temple waited Vorcan, Master of Assassins. Rallick imagined Ocelot making his descent, burdened with the news of disaster, and it brought a smile to his lean face. He'd never met Vorcan, but Ocelot suited those catacombs-just another of the city's rats rushing about beneath his feet.