Gardens of the Moon (The Malazan Book of the Fallen #1) 54

He led Rake from the room and down the central stairs to the lower chambers. The first of these subterranean rooms held a narrow cot, and on the cot lay an old man. Baruk indicated him. “As you see, he appears to be sleeping. He is named Mammot.”

Rake raised an eyebrow. “The historian?”

“Also a High Priest of Urek.”

“That explains the cynicism in his writings,” Rake said, grinning. “The Worm of Autumn breeds an unhappy lot.”

Baruk was surprised that this Tiste And? had read Mammot's Histories but, then, why not? A life spanning twenty thousand years necessitated hobbies, he supposed.

“So,” Rake said, striding to the bed, “this Mammot sleeps a deep sleep. What triggered it?” He crouched before the old man.

Baruk Joined him. “That is the odd part. I admit to knowing little of earth magic. Uriss is a Warren I've never explored. I called on Mammot, as I indicated to you, and upon his arrival I asked him to tell me all he knew of the Jaghut Tyrant and the barrow. He promptly sat down and closed his eyes. They've yet to open, and he's not uttered a single word since.”

Rake straightened. “He took your request seriously, I see.”

“What do you mean?”

“As you guessed, he opened his Uriss Warren. He sought to answer your question by rather, shall we say, direct means. And now something's trapped him.”

“He travelled by Warren to the Jaghut Tyrant's barrow? The old foo!”

“Into a concentration of Tellarm sorcery, not to mention Jaghut Omtose Phellack. On top of all that, a woman with an Otataral sword.”

Rake crossed his arms. “He'll not come round until both the T'lan Imass and the Otataral have left the barrow. And even then, if he's not quick, the awakening Jaghut might take him.”

A chill burgeoned in Baruk's bones. “Take, as in possession?”

Rake nodded, his expression grim. “A High Priest, is he? The Jaghut would find him very useful. Not to mention the access Mammot provides to Urek. Do you know, Baruk, if this Tyrant's capable of enslaving a goddess?”

“I don't know,” Baruk whispered, sweat trickling down his round face as he stared at Mammot's recumbent form. “Dessembrae fend,” he added.

The old woman sitting on the tenement steps squinted at the late afternoon sky while she tamped dried Italbe leaves into her steatite pipe. On the wooden steps beside her was a small covered bronze brazier. Thin kindling sticks jutted from holes around the bowl. The old woman withdrew one and set it to her pipe, then tossed it into the street.

The man walking down the opposite side of the street caught the signal and ran a hand through his hair. Circle Breaker felt near to panic.

This taking to the streets was far too risky. Turban Orr's hunters were close to him-he could feel it with dread certainty. Sooner or later, the councilman would recall his many meetings beneath Despot's Barbican, and the guard who'd been stationed there every time. This brazen showing of himself compromised everything.

He turned a corner, passing beyond the old woman's sight, and continued for three blocks until he came opposite the Phoenix Inn. Two women lounged by the door, laughing at some joke between them.

Circle Breaker tucked his thumbs into his sword-belt and angled the scabbard out to the side. Its bronze-capped end scraped against the stone wall beside him. Then he withdrew his hands and continued on his way towards Lakefront. Well, it's done. All that remained for him was one final contact, possibly redundant, but he would follow the Eel's orders.

Things were coming to a head. He did not expect to live much longer, but he'd do what he must until that time. What more could be asked of him?

At the entrance of the Phoenix Inn, Meese nudged Irilta. “That's it,” she muttered. “You do the back-up this time. Usual pattern.”

Irilta scowled, then nodded. “Head off, then.”

Meese descended the steps and turned up the street. She reversed the route taken by Circle Breaker until she reached the tenement. She saw the old woman still sitting there, lazily watching passers-by. As Meese passed through her line of vision, the old woman removed the pipe from her mouth and tapped it against the heel of her shoe. Sparks rained on to the cobbles.

That was the signal. Meese came to the corner of the block, then turned right and entered the alley running the building's length. A door opened for her a third of the way down and she strode into a dimly lit room with an open door beyond. Someone hid behind the first door but she did not acknowledge that someone's presence. She passed through the second, inner door and found herself in a hallway. From there it was a quick jog up the stairs.