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

“Maybe he's dead,” Sinital said, relaxing with a sigh. “Maybe the Moon's just sitting there because there's nobody left alive inside. Have you thought of that, dear Councilman?”

Turban Orr turned to the door. “We have. I'll see you tonight?”

“I want him killed,” Sinital said.

The councilman reached for the latch. “Maybe. I'll see you tonight?” he asked again.

“Maybe.”

Turban Orr's hand rested on the latch, then he opened the door an left the room.

Lying on her bed, Lady Sinital sighed. Her thoughts shifted to a certain dandy, whose loss to a certain widow would be a most delicious coup.

Murillio sipped spiced wine. “The details are sketchy,” he said, making a face as the fiery alcohol stung his lips.

In the street below a brilliantly painted carriage clattered past, draw by three white horses in black bridles. The man gripping the reins was robed in black and hooded. The horses tossed their heads, ears pinned back and eyes rolling, but the driver's broad, veined hands held them in check. On either side of the carriage walked middle-aged women. Bronz cups sat on their shaved heads from which unfurled wavering streams of scented smoke.

Murillio leaned against the railing and looked down upon the troupe.

“The bitch Fander's being carted out,” he said. “Bloody grim rituals, if you ask me.” He sat back in the plush chair and smiled at his companion, raising the goblet. “The Wolf Goddess of Winter dies her seasonal death, on a carpet of white, no less. And in a week's time the Gedderone F?te fills the streets with flowers, soon to clog gutters and block drains throughout the city.”

The young woman across from him smiled, her eyes on her own goblet of wine, which she held in both hands like an offering. “Which details were you referring to?” she asked, glancing up at him briefly.

“Details?”

She smiled faintly. “The sketchy ones.”

“Oh.” Murillio waved one gloved hand dismissively. “Lady Sinital's version held that Councilman Lim had come in person to acknowledge her formal invitation.”

“Invitation? Do you mean to the festive she's throwing on Gedderone's Eve?”

Murillio blinked. “Of course. Surely your house has been invited?”

“Oh, yes. And you?”

“Alas, no,” Murillio said, smiling.

Tfw- xxTnmnn 11 silent her eyelids lowering in thought. Murillio glanced back to the street below. He waited. Such things, after all, moved of their own accord, and even he could not guess the pace or track of a woman's thoughts, especially when it had to do with sex. And this was most assuredly a play for favours-Murillio's best game, and he always played it through. Never disappoint them, that was the key. The closest-held secret is the one that never sours with age.

Few of the other tables on the balcony were occupied, the establishment's noble patrons preferring the scented airs of the dining room within. Murillio found comfort in the buzzing life of the streets, and he knew his guest did too-at least in this instance. With all the noise rising from below, their chances of being overheard were slight.

As his gaze wandered aimlessly along Morul's Street of jewels, he stiffened slightly, eyes widening as they focused on a figure standing in a doorway opposite him. He shifted in his seat, dropping his left hand past the stone railing, out of the woman's sight. Then he jerked it repeatedly, glaring down at the figure.

Rallick Nom's smile broadened. He stepped away from the doorway and strolled up the street, pausing to inspect an array of pearls laid out on an ebony table in front of a store. The proprietor took a nervous step forward then relaxed as Rallick moved on.

Murillio sighed, leaning back and taking a mouthful of liquor. Idiot!

The man's face, his hands, his walk, his eyes, all said one thing: killer.

Hell, even his wardrobe had all the warmth and vitality of an executioner's uniform.

When it came to subtlety Rallick Nom was sorely lacking. Which made this whole thing rather odd, that such a complex scheme could have been born from the assassin's rigidly geometric brain. Still, whatever its origins, it was pure genius.

“Do you dearly wish to attend, Murillio?” the woman asked.

Murillio smiled his warmest smile. He looked away. “It's a large estate, isn't it?”

“Lady Sinital's? Indeed, fraught with rooms.” The woman dipped one dainty finger into the pungent, fiery liquid, then raised it to her lips, inserting it into her mouth as if in afterthought. She continued studying the goblet in her other hand. “I would expect a good many of the servants” quarters, though lacking in the simplest needs of luxury, will remain empty for much of the night.”