“No, no,” Kruppe had murmured over his tankard. “Kruppe can't permit that.” Yet the pattern of success remained elusive. He felt certain he had covered all the potential threats regarding the lad or, rather, someone was doing a good job of protecting Crokus-that much the pattern showed,him. He experienced a nagging suspicion that the “someone” wasn't himself, or any of his agents. And he'd just have to trust in its integrity.
Circle Breaker had come through yet again, and Kruppe was still confident that Turban Orr's hunt for the man would prove fruitless. The Eel knew how to protect his own. In fact, Circle Breaker was due for retirement-for the man's own safety-and Kruppe intended to deliver the good news this very night, at Lady Sinital's f?te. Circle Breaker deserved no less after all these years.
The pattern also told him something he already knew: his cover was blown. The spell he had cast on Murillio wouldn't last much longer, nor was it required to. Kruppe had wanted his freedom unimpeded this day.
After that, well, things would fall as they would fall-and the same applied for his meeting with Baruk.
If anything gave Kruppe pause, it was the pattern's abrupt ending.
Beyond tonight, the future was blank. Clearly, a crux had been reached, and it would turn, he knew, at Lady Sinital's f?te.
Kruppe now entered the Higher Estates District, with a generous nod at the lone guard stationed near the ramp. The man scowled, but otherwise made no comment. The F?te was set to begin in thirty minutes, and Kruppe planned on being one of the first to arrive. His mouth watered at the thought of all those pastries, fresh and dripping with warm, sweet liquids. He removed his mask from inside his coat and smiled at it.
Perhaps, among all those attending, High Alchemist Baruk alone would appreciate the irony of this moulded visage. Ah, well, he sighed. One is more than enough, given who that one is. After all, is Kruppe greedy?
His stomach rumbled in answer.
Crokus strained his eyes towards the darkening east. Something like lightning flashed every now and then beyond the hills, each one closer than the last. But the thunder's rumble, which had begun early that afternoon and still continued, sounded somehow wrong, its timbre unlike the normal bass that rolled through the earth. It seemed almost brittle. The clouds that had appeared over the hill earlier had been an eerie ochre colour, sickly, and those clouds now approached the city.
“When are we leaving?” Apsalar asked, leaning on the wall beside him.
Crokus shook himself. “Now. It's dark enough.”
“Crokus? What will you do if Challice D'Arle betrays you a second time?”
He could barely see her face in the gloom. Had she meant that to cut?
It was hard to tell from her voice. “She won't,” he said, telling himself that he believed it. “Trust me,” and he turned towards the stairwell.
“I do,” she said simply.
Crokus winced. Why did she make things seem so easy for her?
Hood's Breath, he wouldn't trust him. Of course, he didn't know Challice very well. They'd only had that one, confusing conversation.
What if she called the guards? Well, he'd make sure Apsalar got away safely. He paused and grasped her arm. “Listen,” his own voice sounded unduly harsh, but he pushed on, “if something goes wrong, go to the Phoenix Inn. Right? Find Meese, Irilta, or my friends Kruppe and Murillio. Tell them what happened.”
“All right, Crokus.”
“Good.” He released her arm. “Wish we had a lantern,” he said, as he stepped into the darkness, one hand reaching before him.
“Why?” Apsalar asked, slipping past him. She took his hand and led him down. “I can see. Don't let go of my hand.”
That might be a hard thing to do even if he'd desired it, he realized.
Still, there were a lot of rough calluses on that small hand. He let them remind him of what this woman was capable of doing, though the effort embarrassed him in some vague way.
Eyes-wide, yet seeing nothing, Crokus allowed himself to be guided
captain of Sinital's House Guard viewed Whiskeyjack and his men with obvious distaste. “I thought you were all Barghast.” He stepped up to Trotts and jabbed a finger into the warrior's massive chest. “You led me to believe you were all like you, Niganga.”
A low, menacing growl emerged from Trotts, and the captain stepped back, one hand reaching for his short sword.
“Captain,” Whiskeyjack said, “if we were all Barghast-”
The man's narrow face swung to him with a scowl.
“— you'd never be able to afford us,” the sergeant finished with a tight smile. He glanced at Trotts. Niganga? Hood's Breath! “Niganga is my second-in-command, Captain. Now, how would you like us positioned.”