«There was none, Kruppe. The Rhivi woman was prepared in a manner unknown to any man.» He chuckled. «Including myself.» He raised his head. «This sorcery belongs to the Moon, Kruppe.»

They continued watching the labours of birth. To Kruppe it seemed they waited more hours in the darkness than any normal night could hold. The Moon remained overhead, as if it found its position to its liking-or, he reconsidered, as if it stood guard over them.

Then a small cry rose into the still air, and the Rhivi lifted in her arms a child furred in silver.

Even as Kruppe watched, the fur sloughed away. The Rhivi turned the child and placed her mouth against its belly. Her jaws bunched and the remaining length of umbilical cord fell away.

Pran Chole strode to stand beside Kruppe and the Elder God. The T'lan looked exhausted. «The child drew from me power beyond my control,» he said softly.

As the Rhivi squatted again in afterbirth, holding the child against her chest, Kruppe's eyes widened. The mother's belly was smooth, the white fox tattoo was gone.

«I am saddened,» Pran said, «that I may not return in twenty years to see the woman this child shall become.»

«You shall,» K'rul said in a low tone, «but not as a T'lan. As a T'lan Imass Bone Caster.»

The breath hissed between Pran's teeth. «How long?» he asked.

«Three hundred thousand years, Pran Chole of Cannig Tol's Clan.»

Kruppe laid a hand on Pran's arm. «You've something to look forward to,» he said.

The T'lan stared at Kruppe a moment, then he threw back his head and roared with laughter.

The hours before Kruppe's dream had proved eventful, beginning with his meeting with Baruk that permitted the revelation of the Coin Bearer punctuated with the clever if slightly dramatic suspension of the coin's wax impression-a cantrip that had gone strangely awry.

But soon after the meeting, droplets of now-hardened wax pebbling the breast and arms of his coat, Kruppe paused just outside the alchemist's door. Roald was nowhere to be seen. «Oh, my,» Kruppe breathed as he wiped sweat from his forehead. «Why should Master Baruk find Crokus's name familiar? Ah, stupid Kruppe! Uncle Mammot, of course. Oh dear, that was close-all could well have been lost!» He continued on down the hall to the stairs.

For a time there, Oponn's power had waxed considerably. Kruppe smiled at his pun, but it was a distracted smile. He would do well to avoid such contacts. Power had a habit of triggering his own talents; already he felt the urgings of the Deck of Dragons within his head.

He hurried down the stairs and crossed the main hall to the doors.

Roald was just entering, burdened beneath mundane supplies. Kruppe noted the dust covering the old man's clothing. «Dear Roald, you look as if you've just weathered a sandstorm! Do you require Kruppe's assistance?»

«No,» Roald grunted. «Thank you, Kruppe. I can manage. Will you be so kind as to close the doors on your way out?»

«Of course, kind Roald!» Kruppe patted the man's arm and strode out into the courtyard. The gates leading to the street had been left open, and beyond was a swirling cloud of dust. «Ah, yes, the road repairs,» Kruppe muttered.

A headache had burgeoned behind his eyes, and the bright sun overhead wasn't helping matters any. He was half-way to the gates when he stopped. «The doors! Kruppe has forgotten to close the doors!» He spun round and returned to the estate entrance, sighing as the doors closed with a satisfying click. As he turned away a second time someone shouted in the street beyond. There followed a loud crash, but this latter sound was lost on Kruppe.

With that bellowed curse a sorcerous storm roared into his head. He fell to his knees, then his head snapped up, eyes widening. «That,» he whispered, «was indeed a Malazan curse. Then why does House Shadow's image burn like fire in Kruppe's skull? Who now walks the streets of Darujhistan?» A count of knots unending: «Mysteries solved, more mysteries created.»

The pain had passed. Kruppe climbed to his feet and brushed the dust from his clothing. «Good that said affliction occurred beyond the eyes of suspicious beings, Kruppe notes with relief. All upon a promise made to friend Roald. Wise old friend Roald. Oponn's breath is this time welcome, though begrudgingly so.»

He strode to the gates and peered into the street. A cart filled with shattered cobbles had toppled. Two men argued incessantly as to whose fault it was while they righted the cart and proceeded to refill it.

Kruppe studied them. They spoke well the Daru tongue, but to one who listened carefully there was the hint of an accent-an accent that did not belong. «Oh, my,» Kruppe said, stepping back. He adjusted his coat, took a deep breath, then opened the gate and walked into the street.

The fat little man with the flopping sleeves walked from the house's gate and turned left. He seemed in a hurry.

Sergeant Whiskeyjack wiped the sweat from his brow with a scarred forearm, his eyes slits against the bright sunlight.

«That is the one, Sergeant,» Sorry said, beside him.

«Are you sure?»

«Yes, I'm sure.»

Whiskeyjack watched the man winding through the crowd. «What's so important about him?» he asked.

«I admit,» Sorry replied, «to some uncertainty as to his significance. But he is vital, Sergeant.»

Whiskeyjack chewed his lip, then turned to the wagon bed where a city map had been laid flat, its corners anchored down by chunks of rock. «Who lives in that estate?»

«A man named Baruk,» Sorry answered. «An alchemist.»

He scowled. How did she know that? «Are you saying that fat little man is this Baruk?»

«No. He works for the alchemist. Not a servant. A spy, perhaps. His skills involve thievery, and he possesses: talent.»

Whiskeyjack looked up. «A Seer?»

For some reason Sorry winced. The sergeant watched, bemused, as Sorry's face paled. Damn, he wondered, what on earth is going on with this girl?

«I believe so,» she said her voice trembling.

Whiskeyjack straightened. «All right. Follow him.

She nodded shakily, then slipped into the crowd.

The sergeant rested his back against the wagon's side-wall. His expression soured as he studied his squad. Trotts was swinging his pick as if on a battlefield. Stones flew everywhere. Passers-by ducked, and cursed when ducking failed. Hedge and Fiddler crouched behind a wheelbarrow, flinching each time the Barghast's pick struck the street. Mallet stood a short distance away, directing pedestrians to the other pavement.

He no longer bellowed at the people, having lost his voice arguing with an old man with a donkey wobbling under an enormous basket of firewood. The bundles now lay scattered across the street-the old man and the donkey nowhere to be seen-providing an effective barrier to wheeled vehicles.

All in all, WhiskeyJack concluded, everyone with him had assumed the role of heat-crazed street worker with a facility he found oddly disturbing.

Hedge and Fiddler had acquired the wagon, loaded down with cobbles, less than an hour after their midnight landing at a public dock on the Lakefront. Exactly how this had been accomplished, Whiskeyjack was afraid to ask. But it suited their plans perfectly. Something nagged at the back of Whiskeyjack's mind but he dismissed it. He was a soldier and a soldier followed orders. When the time came, there would be chaos at every major intersection of streets in the city.

«Planting mines ain't gonna be easy,» Fiddler had pointed out, «so we do it right in front of everyone's nose. Road repair.»

Whiskeyjack shook his head. True to Fiddler's prediction, no one had yet questioned them. They continued ripping up streets and replacing the old cobbles with Moranth munitions encased in fire-hardened clay. Was everything going to be so easy?