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

“It will be a fine day for a walk, pronounces Kruppe, who is wise in all things.”

White Gold's Round encircled an abandoned tower with a panoply of brightly dyed awnings. The goldsmith merchant shops, each with their own security guards loitering outside, faced out on the round street, the aisles between them narrow cracks leading to the tower's ruined compound.

The many tales of death and madness surrounding Hinter's Tower and its environs kept it empty and, uppermost in the minds of the goldsmiths, an unlikely approach to their precious stores.

As the afternoon waned towards dusk, the Round's crowds thinned and the private guards grew more wary. Iron grilles rattled into place over storefronts here and there, and among the few that remained open, torches were ignited.

Murillio entered the Round from the Third Tier Road, pausing every now and then to examine a shopkeeper's wares. Wrapped in a shimmering blue cloak from the Malle Waste, Murillio knew his ostentatious display of wealth would do much to allay suspicion.

He came to one shop in particular, framed on either side by unlit stores.

The goldsmith, narrow-faced and pebble-nosed, leaned hawkishly on his counter, his weathered hands before him bearing tiny grey scars that looked like raven tracks on mud. One finger tapped a restless beat. Murillio approached, meeting the man's beetle eyes.

“Is this the shop of Krute of Talient?”

“I'm Krute,” the goldsmith grated sourly, as if disgruntled with his lot in life. “Talient pearls, set in Bloodgold from the mines of Moap and Belt, none other to be found in all Darujhistan.” He leaned forward and spat past Murillio, who involuntarily stepped to one side.

“No customers this day?” he asked, pulling a handkerchief from his sleeve and touching his lips.

Krute's gaze tightened. “Only one,” he said. “Perused a cache of Goaliss gems, rare as dragon's milk and suckled from rock as grim. A hundred slaves lost to each stone prised from the angry veins.” Krute's shoulders jerked and his eyes darted. “Out the back I keep them, lest temptation spatter the street with blood, and like.”

Murillio nodded. “Sound practice. Did he purchase any?”

Krute grinned, revealing blackened stumps for teeth. “One, but not the best. Come, I'll show you.” He went to the side door and opened it.

“Through here, then.”

Murillio entered the shop. Black curtains covered the walls, and the air was musty with old sweat. Krute led him into the back room, which if anything was more rank and stifling than the first. The goldsmith dropped the curtain between the two rooms and faced Murillio.

“Move quickly! I've laid out a horde of fool's gold and worthless stones on the counter out front. If any sharp-eyed customer marks them this hole will be finished.” He kicked at the back wall and a panel swung from its hinges. “Crawl through, dammit, and tell Rallick that the Guild is not pleased with his generosity regarding our secrets. Go!”

Murillio fell to his knees and pushed his way through the portal, the earthen floor damp beneath his hands and staining his knees. He groaned his distaste as the door swung down behind him, then climbed to his feet.

Before him rose Hinter's Tower, its mould-ridden stone walls glistening in the dying light. An overgrown cobbled pathway led up to the arched entrance bereft of a door and heavy with shadows. Of the chamber within Murillio saw only darkness.

Roots from the scraggy scrub oaks lining the path had pushed most of the cobbles up from the earth, making the way treacherous. After a cautious minute Murillio arrived at the doorway. He narrowed his gaze and tried to pierce the darkness. “Rallick?” he hissed. "Where the hell are you?” A voice spoke behind him. “You're late.”

Murillio spun, a long, thin duelling rapier in his left hand rasping from its sheath and sweeping low into guard position, a main-gauche appearing in his right hand as he dropped into a defensive crouch, then relaxed.

“Dammit, Rallick!”

The assassin grunted in amusement, eyeing the rapier's razor-sharp tip, which had but a moment earlier hovered inches from his solar plexis.

“Good to see your reflexes have not dulled, friend. All that wine and those pastries seem not to have girdled you: much.”

Murillio resheathed his weapons. “I expected to find you in the tower.”

Eyes widening, Rallick said, “Are you mad? The place is haunted.”

“You mean that's not just a story you assassins made up to keep people away?”

Rallick turned and made his way to a lower terrace that had once overlooked the garden. White stone benches squatted in the wiry yellow grass like the stained bones of some gargantuan beast. Below the terrace, Murillio saw as he joined the assassin, sprawled a muddy, algae-filled pond. Frogs croaked and mosquitoes buzzed in the tepid air. “Some nights,” Rallick said as he brushed dead leaves from one of the benches, “wraiths crowd the entrance-you can walk right up to them, listen to their pleas and threats. They all want out.” He sat down.