“Good evening, Lady Sinital,” Baruk said, bowing. “Councilman Turban Orr. Permit me to introduce,” he hesitated, but the Tiste And? had been firm on this, “Lord Anomander Rake, a visitor to Darujhistan.”
The alchemist waited to see if the councilman would recognize the name.
Turban Orr bowed formally. “On behalf of the City Council, welcome, Lord Anomander Rake.”
Baruk sighed. Anomander Rake, a name known by poets and scholars, but not, it appeared, by councilmen.
Orr continued, “As a lord, I assume you hold title to land?” He almost stepped back as the dragon's visage swung to regard him. Deep blue eyes fixed on his.
“Land? Yes, Councilman, I hold title. However, my title is honorary, presented to me by my people.” Rake looked past Orr's shoulder to the room beyond the wide doorway. “It seems, Lady, that the evening is well under way.”
“Indeed.” She laughed. “Come, join in the festivities.”
Baruk breathed another relieved sigh.
Murillio had to admit that Kruppe's choice of mask suited him perfectly.
He found himself grinning behind his feather-decked peacock mask in spite of his trepidation. He stood near the opened doorway leading out to the patio and garden, a goblet of light wine in one hand, the other hitched in his belt.
Rallick leaned against the wall beside him, arms crossed. His mask was that of a Catlin tiger, idealized to mimic the god Trake's image.
Murillio knew the assassin let the wall bear his weight out of exhaustion rather than from a lazy slouch. He wondered yet again if matters would fall to him. The assassin stiffened suddenly, eyes on the entrance across from them.
Murillio craned to see past the crowd. There, the hawk. He murmured, “That's Turban Orr all right. Who's he with?”
“Sinital,” Rallick growled. “And Baruk, and some monster of a man wearing a dragon's mask-and armed.”
“Baruk?” Murillio laughed nervously. “Let's hope he doesn't recognize us. It wouldn't take him a second to put everything together.”
“It doesn't matter,” Rallick said. “He won't stop us.”
“Maybe you're right.” Then Murillio almost dropped his glass. “Hood's Weary Feet!”
Rallick hissed between his teeth. “Dammit! Look at him! He's heading straight for them!”
Lady Sinital and Turban Orr excused themselves, leaving Baruk and Rake momentarily alone in the middle of the chamber. People moved around them, some nodding deferentially at Baruk but all keeping their distance. A crowd gathered around Sinital where she stood at the foot of the winding staircase, eager with questions regarding Anomander Rake.
A figure approached Baruk and his companion. Short, round, wearing a faded red waistcoat, both hands clutching pastries, the man wore a cherub's mask, its open red-lipped mouth smeared with cake icing and crumbs. His route to them met with one obstacle after another as he negotiated his way across the room, excusing himself at every turn and twist.
Rake noticed the newcomer, for he said, “Seems eager, doesn't he?”
Baruk chuckled. “He's worked for me,” he said. “And I've worked for him as well. Anomander Rake, behold the one they call the Eel. Darujhistan's master-spy.”
“Do you jest?”
“No.”
Kruppe arrived, his chest heaving. “Master Baruk!” he said breathlessly. “What a surprise to find you here.” The cherub face swung over and up to Rake. “The hair is an exquisite touch, sir. Exquisite. I am named Kruppe, sir. Kruppe the First.” He raised a pastry to his mouth and jammed it in.
“This is Lord Anomander Rake, Kruppe.”
Kruppe nodded vigorously, then swallowed audibly. “Of course! Why then, you must be quite used to such a lofty stance, sir. Kruppe envies those who can look down upon everyone else.”
“It is easy to fool oneself,” Rake answered, “into viewing those beneath one as small and insignificant. The risks of oversight, you might say.”
“Kruppe might well say, assuming the pun was intended. But who would disagree that the dragon's lot is ever beyond the ken of mere humankind? Kruppe can only guess at the thrill of flight, the wail of high winds, the rabbits scurrying below as one's shadow brushes their limited awareness.”
“My dear Kruppe,” Baruk sighed, “it is but a mask.”
“Such is the irony of life,” Kruppe proclaimed, raising one pastry-filled hand over his head, “that one learns to distrust the obvious, surrendering instead to insidious suspicion and confused conclusion. But, is Kruppe deceived? Can an eel swim? Hurrah, these seeming muddy waters are home to Kruppe, and his eyes are wide with wonder.” He bowed with a flourish, spattering bits of cake over Rake and Baruk, then marched off, still talking. “A survey of the kitchen is in order, Kruppe suspects:”