The Tiste And? opened the door beside him. “Then leave that to me. I need to find a high vantage-point, Alchemist. Suggestions?”
Baruk's frustration was so great that he had to fight the desire to defy Anomander Rake. “K'rul's Belfry,” he said. “A square tower near Worry Gate.”
Rake stepped out of the carriage. “We'll speak again at your estate, Alchemist,” he said, leaning back inside. “You and your fellow mages must prepare yourselves.” He faced the crowds, pausing for a moment as if smelling the air. “How far to this belfry?”
“Three hundred paces-surely you don't mean to go on foot?”
“I do. I am not yet ready to unveil my Warren.”
“But how-?” Baruk fell silent, as Anomander Rake provided the answer to his question.
Standing head and shoulders above the jostling crowds, he unsheathed his sword. “If you value your souls,” the Son of Darkness bellowed, “make way!” Raised high, the sword groaned awake, chains of smoke writhing from the blade. A terrible sound as of wheels creaking filled the air and behind it arose a chorus of moaning filled with hopelessness. Before Lord Anomander Rake the crowd in the street shrank back, all thoughts of festivity swept away.
“Gods forfend!” Baruk whispered.
It had begun innocently enough. Quick Ben and Whiskeyjack stood together near the fountain. Servants scurried as, despite the night's bloodshed and the hostess's absence, the party's energy burgeoned anew as the twelfth bell approached. They were joined by Captain Paran.
“We have met with the Guild Master,” he said. “She has accepted the contract.”
Whiskeyjack grunted. “Where would we all be without greed?”
“I just noticed something,” Quick Ben said. “My headache's gone. I'm tempted to access my Warren, Sergeant. See what I can see.”
Whiskeyjack thought briefly. “Go ahead.”
Quick Ben stepped back into the shadow of a marble pillar.
Before them, an old man wearing a ghastly mask drifted towards Whiskeyjack's line of men. Then a large, buxom woman with a waterpipe approached the old man. Her servant followed half a step behind.
Trailing smoke as she walked, she called to the old man.
The next moment the night was shattered as a wave of energy flowed like a stream of water between Whiskeyjack and Paran, striking the old man in the chest. The sergeant's sword was in his hand as he turned to find his wizard, magic swirling from him, pushing him to one side and racing for the woman. “No!” Quick Ben screamed. “Stay away from him!” Paran, too, had unsheathed his sword in his hand, the blade keening as if filled with terror. He sprinted forward.
A bestial roar of rage shook the air as the old man, his mask torn away, whirled. His burning eyes found the woman and he flung a hand towards her. The surge of power that streamed from him was as grey as slate, crackling in the air.
Whiskeyjack, frozen, watched in disbelief as Quick Ben's body hurled into the woman's. Both collided with the servant and all three went down in a heap. The writhing stream of energy cut a swath through the stunned crowd, incinerating everyone it touched. Where men and women had stood a moment earlier there was nothing but white ash. The attack branched out, ripping through everything in sight. Trees disintegrated, stone and marble exploded in clouds of dust. People died, some with parts of their body simply gone, blood spraying in black flecks as they crumpled.
A lance of energy shot wildly skyward, flashing in the night sky within a heavy cloud. Another struck the estate with a rattling boom. A third snaked towards Paran as he closed the gap between him and the old man.
The power struck the sword, and it and Paran vanished.
The sergeant took a half-step forward, then something hard and massive struck a glancing blow to his shoulder. He was spun round, his right knee buckling inward as he fell.
He felt the snap of bone, then the meaty tearing of flesh and skin as his weight bore him down. His sword clanged. Agony lancing through him, he rolled to free his pinned leg, and came up against a toppled pillar.
An instant later hands grasped his cloak. “I got you!” Fiddler grunted.
Whiskeyjack bellowed in pain as the saboteur dragged him across the paving-stones. Then darkness swept in around him and he knew no more.
Quick Ben found himself buried beneath flesh, and for a second he could not breathe. Then the woman's hands pressed down on his shoulders and she pushed herself off him. She shouted at the old man.
“Mammot! Anikaleth araest!”
Quick Ben's eyes widened as he sensed the wave of power rise through her body. The air suddenly smelled of deep forest loam.
