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

“Meese,” Crokus asked, “do you know where my uncle might have gone?”

“Can't help you there, lad. No idea.”

She wasn't sure about the old woman on the steps, but the one immediately below, tucked into a shadowed niche and steadily watching the tenement building-that one would have to be taken care of. It seemed, that this Coin Bearer had protection.

Serrat was not unduly concerned. Next to her lord, Anomander Rake, she ranked the deadliest among the Tiste And? of Moon's Spawn.

Finding this boy-servant of Oponn's had not proved difficult. Once her lord had given her the necessary details, Oponn's magical signature had been easy to find. It helped that she'd encountered it before-and from this very boy-on the rooftops two weeks past. Her agents had chased the Coin Bearer that night, abandoning him once he'd entered the Phoenix Inn-but only at her command. If she'd suspected then what she now knew, Oponn's presence would have ended that very night.

Ill luck, Serrat smiled to herself, taking a more comfortable position on the rooftop. They'd move at night, she suspected. As for the woman hiding below, she'd have to be removed. Indeed, with a spell of bluffing and enough in the way of shadows, she might as easily take the woman's place.

There'd be no suspicion from the other woman, then, the one presently inside with the Coin Bearer. Serrat nodded. Yes, that would be how she'd play it.

But for now, she'd wait. Patience ever rewards.

“Well,” Murillio said, as he scanned the crowd, “they're not here. Which means they're with Mammot.”

Kruppe drew a deep breath of the sweaty, smoky air. “Ah, civilization. Kruppe believes your assessment is accurate, friend. If so, then we might as well rest here, drinking and supping for an hour or two.” With that, he strode into the Phoenix Inn.

A few old hands, seated at Kruppe's table, gathered their tankards and pitcher and left, murmuring apologies and grinning among themselves.

Kruppe gave them a gracious nod and settled with a loud sigh into his usual chair. Murillio paused at the bar and spoke with Scurve, then he joined Kruppe.

Brushing dust from his shirt, Murillio frowned distractedly at his road-weary condition. “I look forward to a bath,” he said. “Apparently Scurve saw Rallick in here earlier, talking with some stranger. Since then, nobody's seen him.”

Kruppe waved an uninterested hand. “Kind Sulty arrives,” he announced. A moment later a pitcher of ale stood on the table. Kruppe wiped his tankard with his silk handkerchief, then filled it with the foaming brew.

“Weren't we supposed to report to Baruk?” Murillio asked, his eyes on his friend.

“All in due time,” Kruppe said. “First, we must recover from our ordeals. What if Kruppe were to lose his voice in very mid-sentence of said report? What would avail Baruk of that?” He raised his tankard and drank deep.

Murillio drummed the fingers of one hand restlessly on the table, his eyes constantly scanning the crowd. Then he straightened in his seat. He filled his tankard. “So now that you know what Rallick and I are up to,” he said, “what do you plan to do about it?”

Kruppe's eyebrows lifted. “Kruppe? Why, nothing but good, of course. Timely assistance, and such. No need for blatant fretting, friend Murillio. By all means proceed as planned. Think of wise Kruppe as no more than a kindly chaperon.”

“Hood's Breath,” Murillio groaned, eyes rolling. “We were doing fine without your help. The best thing you could do for us is stay out of our way. Don't get involved.”

“And abandon my friends to the fates? Nonsense!”

Murillio finished his ale and rose. “I'm going home,” he said. “You can make the report to Baruk in a week's time for all I care. And when Rallick finds out you know all about our plans, well, Kruppe, I'd hate to be in your boots.”

Kruppe waved dismissively. “See Sulty yon? Upon her tray is Kruppe's supper. Rallick Nom's nasty daggers and nastier temper pale to insignificance before such repast as now approaches. Goodnight to you, then, Murillio. Until the morrow.”

Murillio stared down at him, then grumbled, “Goodnight, Kruppe.”

He left the bar through the kitchen door. As soon as he stepped into the back alley a figure accosted him from across the way. Murillio, frowned. “That you, Rallick?”

“No,” the shadowed figure said. “Fear me not, Murillio. I have a message to you from the Eel. Call me Circle Breaker.” The man strode closer. “The message concerns Councilman Turban Orr:”