No clearer invitation did Murillio require. Rallick's plan centred on this very moment, and its consequences. Still, adultery had one drawback. Murillio, had no desire to meet this woman's husband on the duelling piste. He drove such disturbing thoughts away with another mouthful of wine. “I would love to attend the Lady's festival, on one condition.” He looked up and locked gazes with the woman. “That you will grace me with your company that night-for an hour or two, that is.” His brow assumed a troubled furrow. “I would not wish to impinge on your husband's claim on you, of course.” Which is exactly what he would be doing, and they both knew it.
“Of course,” the woman replied, suddenly coy. “That would be unseemly. How many invitations do you require?” “Two,” he said. “Best that I be seen with a companion.”
“Yes, it's best.”
Murillio glanced down at his now empty goblet with a rueful expression. Then he sighed. “Alas, I must be taking my leave.”
“I admire your self-discipline,” the woman said.
You won't on Gedderone's Eve, Murillio answered silently, as he rose from his chair. “The Lady of Chance has graced me with this meeting of ours,” he said, bowing. “Until the eve, Lady Orr.”
“Until then,” the councilman's wife answered, seeming already to lose interest in him. “Goodbye.”
Murillio, bowed again, then left the balcony. Among the crowded tables more than a few noblewomen's heavy-lidded eyes watched him leave.
Morul's Street of jewels ended at Sickle Gate. Rallick felt the wide eyes of the two guards beside the ramp following him as he passed through the passage between the massive stones of the Third Tier Wall. Ocelot had told him to make it plain, and while Murillio was of the opinion that only a blind man could ever mistake him for anything other than a killer, Rallick had taken pains to achieve the obvious.
The guards did nothing, of course. Giving the appearance of being a murderer wasn't the same as being one in truth. The city's laws were strict in such things. He knew he might find himself being followed as he strode down the opulent streets of Higher Estates, but he'd leave them to it, making no effort to lose them. Darujhistan's nobles paid good money to loose spies on to the streets day after day. Might as well make them earn their bread.
Rallick had no sympathy for them. He did not, however, share the commoner's hatred for the nobility. Their constant airs, prickly honours and endless squabbles made for good business, after all.
When the Malazan Empire came that would end, he suspected. In the Empire, assassin guilds were illegal, and those of the trade who were deemed worthy were enlisted into the secret ranks of the Claw. As for those who weren't considered worthy, they simply disappeared. The nobles didn't fare much better, if the rumours from Pale held any truth.
It would be a different world when the Empire came, and Rallick wasn't sure he wanted to be part of it.
Still, there were things left to achieve. He wondered if Murillio had succeeded in getting the invitations. Everything hinged on that. There'd been a long-drawn-out argument about it the night before. Murillio preferred widows. Adultery had never been his style. But Rallick had remained insistent, and finally Murillio had given in.
The assassin still wondered about his friend's reluctance. His first thought was that Murillio feared the possibility of a duel with Turban Orr. But Murillio was no slouch with a rapier. Rallick had practised with him in secluded places enough times to suspect that he was an Adept-and to that even Turban Orr could not make claim.
No, it wasn't fear that made Murillio shy from this part of the plan. It dawned on Rallick that there was a moral issue at stake. A whole new side of Murillio had revealed itself to Rallick then.
He was pondering the implications when his gaze found a familiar face among the street's crowd. He stopped and studied the surrounding buildings, and his eyes widened as he realized where his wanderings had taken him. His attention snapped back to the familiar figure appearing every few moments on the street's opposite side. The assassin's eyes narrowed thoughtfully.
Beneath the mid-morning's blue and silver hue, Crokus walked along Lakefront Street surrounded by the bedlam of merchants and shoppers.
A dozen streets ahead rose the city hills beyond the Third Tier Wall. On the easternmost hill stood the K'rul belfry, its green-patched bronze scales glimmering in the sun's light.
To his mind the tower challenged Majesty Hall's bright mien, gazing over the estates and buildings crouched on the lower hills with its rheumed eyes and history-scarred face-a jaded cast to its mocking gleam.
