Quick Ben's brows had risen. “So she told the truth, then. We don't know how she found us, but she'd found the man we were looking for-and gave him to us.”
Mallet raised his hand. Where the wound had been there was now a pink scar. Kalam grunted his thanks and sat up.
Whiskeyjack tapped his fingers against the chair's arm. “If we only knew who was running this damn city, we could try it ourselves.”
The assassin sniffed. “If we start taking out Council members, maybe we'll flush out the real rulers.”
The sergeant frowned. “Not bad,” he said, rising to his feet. “Work on that. The Moon's lord knows we're here, now, with that demon popping up. We'll have to move fast.”
Fiddler spoke up. “We could blow up Majesty Hall,” he said, smirking at Hedge.
“You've got enough munitions to manage that?” Whiskeyjack asked.
Fiddler's face fell. “Well, uh, we've got enough to take out an estate, maybe. But if we pull up some of the mines we planted:”
Whiskeyjack sighed. “This is getting absurd. No, we leave things as they are.” He watched the non-existent card game. It seemed to involve complete immobility. A stand-off. The sergeant's eyes narrowed. Were they trying to tell him something?
Orange and yellow hues lit the eastern horizon, casting a coppery sheen upon the city's bricks and cobbles. Apart from the dripping of water the streets were quiet, though the first emergings of citizenry were minutes away. Soon those farmers who had depleted their supplies of grains, fruits and root crops would take to their carts and wagons and depart the city. Merchant shops and stalls would open to catch the morning wave of shoppers.
Throughout Darujhistan the Greyfaces prepared to shut the valves feeding gas to the torches lining the major avenues. These figures moved in small groups, gathering at intersections then dispersing with the day's first bell.
Sorry watched Crokus wearily ascend a tenement's front steps. She stood half a block down the street, within shadows that seemed reluctant to disappear despite the growing light.
A short while earlier, she'd felt the Empire demon's death strike her almost physically, deep in her chest. Normally demons fled back to their realm once enough damage had been inflicted on them, enough to sever the links of summoning. But the Korvalah had not been simply cut down, or forcibly dismissed. There'd been a finality to its end that had left her shaken. A death in truth. She still recalled its silent, despairing scream ringing in her head.
All the ambivalence surrounding the Coin Bearer was gone, driven away. She knew now she would kill him. It had to be done, and soon. All that remained before she could do so was the mystery of his actions. To what extent was Oponn using the boy?
She knew he'd seen her in the D'Arles” garden, just before he'd escaped to the estate's roof. Seeing the light come on behind the balcony's sliding doors had clinched her decision to continue following Crokus. The D'Arle family was powerful in Darujhistan. That the boy seemed to be involved in a clandestine love affair with the daughter was an outrageous proposition, yet what else could she conclude? So, the question remained: was Opornn working through the boy directly, insinuating a peculiar influence with the City Council? What powers of influence did this young maiden possess?
Only a matter of position, of possible scandal. Yet what was the political position of Councilman Estraysian D'Arle? Sorry realized that even though she'd learned much of Darujhistan's political arena she still did not know enough to second-guess Oponn's moves. Councilman D'Arle was Turban Orr's principal opposition on this proclamation-of-neutrality business-but what did that matter? The Malazan Empire could not care less. Unless the proclamation was no more than a feint.
Was this Turban Orr seeking to lay the groundwork for an Empire-backed coup?
The answers to such questions would be slow in coming. She knew she'd have to exercise patience. Of course, patience was her finest quality. She'd hoped that showing herself to Crokus a second time, there in the garden, might trigger panic in the lad-or, at the very least, annoy Oponn if indeed the god's control was as direct as that.
Sorry had watched on, from the shadows she drew around her, as the assassin named Rallick took the lad to task. She'd also lingered to catch the conversation between Rallick and Murillio. It seemed the boy had protectors, and an odd lot they were, assuming that the fat little man, Kruppe, was some kind of group leader. Hearing that they were to take Crokus out of the city on behalf of their “master” made the whole situation even more intriguing.