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«Well,» the Lord of Moon's Spawn growled, «so am I.» The Tiste And? spread his arms wide, then rose upward. Kurald Galain sorcery swirled around him, blending his clothing, his massive sword, drawing all inward to the shape he now climbed towards. The veering was smooth, eloquent, as jet-black wings unfolded from his shoulders. Flesh and bone surged in size, changed in shape.
As he flew higher, eyes fixed on the stars, Anomander Rake became a black dragon, silver-maned and dwarfing even Silanah. His eyes gleamed silver, the vertical slits of the pupils dilating. His breath gusted in heavy grunts, the snap of his wings loud amid the deep groan of muscle on bone. His chest swelled to draw in the cold, dry air, and power filled his being.
Rake climbed ever higher, slipping through a stray cloud that scudded in darkness over the city. When he finally tilted his wings forward and caressed the surface of a wayward wind, he looked down on a city that glimmered like a mottled copper coin at the bottom of a pellucid pond.
Sorcery flared occasionally, centred mostly in the Estate District, and Rake sensed death within those emanations. He considered the message delivered by Serrat, courtesy of a foul mage he'd thought a thousand leagues away. Was the sorcery the work of these unwelcome intruders?
He rumbled in frustration-he would deal with them later. Before him now was a battle. The Empress and her Empire had challenged him again and again, wilful in the desire to test his strength. Each time he'd withdrawn, unwilling to commit himself. Very well, Empress, my patience is at an end.
The membrane of his wings tautened, the joints creaking, as he grunted a straining breath. He hung almost motionless for a second studying the great city beneath him. Then, tucking in his wings, Anomander Rake, the Son of Darkness and Lord of Moon's Spawn, plummeted.
Kalam knew the pattern of detonation the saboteurs would follow. He skirted one side of the street as he ran. So what if Moon's Spawn hung over them as if ready to descend on the city and crush the life from it like a god's heel-Fiddler and Hedge wouldn't give a danm. They had a job to do.
The assassin cursed every stubborn bone in their heads. Why didn't they run away like normal, sane people? He came to a corner and crossed the intersection diagonally. Ahead, at the far end of the street, rose Majesty Hill. As he reached the corner he almost collided with the two saboteurs. Fiddler darted to one side of him, Hedge to the other, ru
Kalam reached back and with each hand grasped a cloak's hood. Then he grunted in pain as the two men jerked him backward and off his feet.
«Damn you bastards!» he yelled. «Hold it!» «It's Kal!» Hedge yelled.
Kalam twisted around to find a rusty shortsword inches from his face, with Fiddler's white face and wide eyes immediately behind it. «Put that piece of junk away,» the assassin snapped. «You want to give me an infection?»
«We're getting out of here!» Hedge hissed. «Forget the damn mines! Forget everything!»
Still gripping their cloaks, Kalam shook them both. «Calm down. What's happened?»
Fiddler moaned and pointed up the street.
Turning, Kalam stiffened.
A twelve-foot-tall creature shambled down the middle of the road, hunched shoulders wrapped in a glittering cape with a high cowl. A two-bladed axe was slung in its wide dragon-hide belt, its handle as long as Kalam was tall. The creature's wide, squat face held two slitted eyes.
«Oh, Hood's Gates and back,» the assassin muttered. «That's Tayschre
When it did, he blanched. «Soletaken.»
The Galayn was assuming a form better suited to wholesale destruction. The dun-brown dragon paused, its wingtips brushing the buildings on either side. Its rumble trembled the cobbles.
Kalam watched as the creature tensed its limbs, then rose upward on a wave of power. The darkness swallowed it. «Hood's Breath,» he said. «Now things are going to get messy.» He whirled and ran to catch up with the saboteurs.
The Coin Bearer came to a street lined with walled estates. He slowed his pace, studying each structure he passed.
The time had come, the Adjunct knew. Before the boy had a chance to get inside one of those places, where he might find protection. She adjusted her grip on the sword, padding in silence not fifteen feet behind him.
She drew a long, deep breath, then surged forward, sword's point extended.
At the sharp, ringing clang of metal immediately behind him, Crokus dived forward. He dipped a shoulder and rolled, regaining his feet. He cried out in shock. The woman who had attacked Coll in the hills was in a whirlwind exchange with a tall, round-shouldered man with two scimitars.
The thief's jaw dropped as he watched the fight. As good as the woman had shown herself against Coll, she was now being driven back as a flurry of attacks swept around her. They both moved so quickly that Crokus could not even see the parries, or the blades themselves, but as he watched, he saw the blossoming of wounds on the woman-her arms, legs, chest. Her expression held complete disbelief.
Then a voice chuckled beside him, «He's good, ain't he?»
Crokus whirled to see a tall, thin man, wearing a grey and crimson longcoat, his hands in its pockets. He swung a narrow hatchet face to the thief and gri
Crokus nodded numbly.
The man's grin widened. «I'll escort you, then. And don't worry, you're covered from the roofs, too. Cowl's up there, damn his snakeskin hide. But he's a powerful mage, anyway. Serrat was furious, I hear. Let's walk, then.»
Crokus let the man take his arm and lead him away from the duel. The thief cast a glance over his shoulder. The woman was trying to disengage now, her left arm hanging useless and glistening in the gaslight. Her opponent continued pressing, silent as a ghost.
«Don't worry,» the man beside him said, pulling him along. «That's Corporal Blues. He lives for this stuff.»
«C–Corporal?»
«We've been covering your back, Coin Bearer.» The man's other hand reached up to his collar, which he turned back to reveal a brooch. «The name's Fingers, Sixth Blade, Crimson Guard. You're being protected, boy, compliments of Prince K'azz and Caladan Brood.»
Crokus stared, then he scowled. «Coin Bearer? What's that mean? I think you've got the wrong person.»
Fingers laughed drily. «We figured you was walking blind and dumb, boy. The only explanation. You've got other people trying to protect you, too, you know. There's a coin in your pocket, probably two-headed, right?» He gri
Crokus stopped at a gate.
«This is the place, then?» Fingers asked, glancing at the estate rising behind the compound wall. «Well, there's a powerful mage living in there, ain't there? Well,» he released the thief's arm, «you should be safe enough inside. Good luck, boy, and I mean that. But listen,» Fingers» eyes hardened, «if your luck goes sour, you dump that coin, y» hear?»
Confusion flickered across Crokus's face. «Thank you, sir.»
«Our pleasure,» Fingers said, as he placed his hands in his pockets again. «Get a move on, then.»
The Adjunct broke away, taking a cut across her right shoulder blade as she did so. She ran, blood spraying with the effort, and the man did not pursue.
What a fool she'd been! Thinking that the Coin Bearer wasn't protected! But who was that man? Never before had she faced such a swordsman, and the most appalling thing was that he had fought without the aid of sorcery. For once, her Otataral blade and her skill had not been enough.