Rallick moved from rooftop to rooftop in the darkness. The need for absolute silence slowed his hunt considerably. There'd be no conversation with Ocelot. Rallick expected he'd have but one shot at the man.
If he missed his chance, his Clan Leader's sorcery would prove the deciding factor. Unless:
Rallick paused and checked his pouch. Years back, the alchemist Baruk had rewarded him for work well done with a small bag of reddish dust. Baruk had explained its magic-deadening properties, but Rallick resisted placing his trust in the powder. Had its potency survived the years? Was it a match for Ocelot's powers? There was no telling.
He crossed a high rooftop, skirting the edge of a dome. Off to his right and below was the city's eastern wall. The faint glow of Worrytown rose beyond it. The assassin suspected that Ocelot would await Coll's arrival at Worry Gate, hiding within crossbow range. Better to kill the man before he entered the city.
This limited the possibilities considerably. Lines of sight were few, and K'rul Hill was the best of them. Still, Ocelot might well have used sorcery already, and lie hidden from mundane eyes. Rallick might stumble right over him.
He reached the north side of the dome's skirt. Before him rose the K'rul Temple. From the belfry, there'd be a clean shot just as Coll entered the gate. Rallick removed the pouch from his bag. Whatever the dust covered, Baruk had said, would be impervious to magic. More, it had an area effect. The assassin scowled. How much of an area? And did it wear off? Most importantly, Baruk had said-and Rallick remembered this clearly-do not let it touch your skin. Poison? he'd asked. “No,” the alchemist had replied. “The powder changes some people. There is no predicting such changes, however. Best not to take the chance, Rallick.”
Sweat trickled down his face. Finding Ocelot was already a slim chance. Coll's death would ruin everything and, more, it would strip from Rallick his last claim: to what? To humanity. The price of failure had become very high. “Justice,” he hissed angrily. “It has to mean something. It has to!”
Rallick untied the pouch. He dipped into it and scraped out a handful of the powder. He rubbed it between his fingers. It felt like rust. “That's it?” he wondered. Maybe it had deteriorated. Shrugging, he began to massage it into his skin, starting with his face. “What changes?” he muttered. “I don't feel any changes.”
Reaching under his clothing as much as was possible, Rallick used up the last of the powder. The pouch itself was stained on the inside. He turned it inside out, then stuffed it into his belt. Now, he grimaced, the hunt continues. Somewhere out there an assassin waited, eyes fixed on Jammit's Worry Road. “I'll find you, Ocelot,” he whispered, his eyes fixed on K'rul's belfry tower. “And magic or no magic, you won't hear me, you won't even feel my breath on your neck until it's too late. I swear it.”
He began his ascent.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
This blue city hides under its cloak a hidden hand that holds like stone a blade envenomed by the eight limbed Paralt-
the sting brings death in the span of grief that marks a final breath-
so this hand defies sorcery's web and trembles the gossamer strand of a spider's deadly threat.
This hand beneath the blue city's cloak drives home Power's gentle balance.
The Conspiracy Blind Gallan (b.1078)
Sergeant whiskeyjack strode to the bedside. “You sure you're up to it?” he asked Kalam.
The assassin, sitting with his back against the wall, glanced up from honing his long knives. “Not much choice, is there?” He returned to his sharpening.
Whiskeyjack's expression was drawn and haggard from lack of gleep, He looked across the small room to where Quick Ben crouched in the corner. A fragment of bedroll was clutched in the wizard's hands, and his eyes were closed.
At the table, Fiddler and Hedge had dismantled their massive arbalest.
They now sat cleaning and examining each piece. They were looking at a fight ahead of them.
Whiskeyjack shared their conviction. Each hour that passed brought their many hunters that much closer. Of those it was the Tiste And? he feared the most. His squad was good, but not that good.
By the window was Trotts, leaning against the wall with his burly arms crossed. And against one wall slept Mallet, his snores loud in the room.
The sergeant returned his attention to Kalam. “It's a long shot, isn't it?” The assassin nodded. “No reason for the man to keep showing himself. They got burned the last time.” He shrugged. “I'll try the inn again. If anything, someone will mark me and the Guild will come. If I can get a word in before they kill me, there's a chance. It's not much:”