He came to a tenement and, nodding at the pipe-smoking old woman sitting on the steps, went inside. The hallway was empty, the usual crowd of children no doubt outside playing in the streets, and a calming domestic murmur drifted out from behind closed doors. He climbed the creaking staircase to the first floor.

Outside Mammot's door the scholar's pet winged monkey hovered, scratching and pulling desperately at the latch. It ignored Crokus until he arrived to push it aside, then it squealed and flew in circles around his head.

«Being a pain again, eh?» Crokus said to the creature, waving a hand as it flew too close and ended up snarled in his hair. Tiny human-like hands gripped his scalp. «All right, Moby,» he said, relenting, and opened the door.

Inside, Mammot was preparing herbal tea. Without turning he asked, «Tea, Crokus? And as for that little monster who's probably riding your head, tell him I've had just about enough of him today.»

Moby sniffed indignantly and flapped over to the scholar's desk, where he landed with a belly-flop, scattering papers to the floor. He chirped.

Sighing, Mammot turned with the tray in his hands. His watery eyes fixed on Crokus. «You look tired, lad.»

Crokus slumped into the less ragged of the two chairs occupying the room. «Yes. Tired, and in a dark mood.»

«My tea will do its usual wonders,» Mammot said, smiling.

Crokus grunted, not looking up. «Maybe. Maybe not.»

Mammot stepped forward and laid the tray on a small table between the chairs. He sat down with a soft groan. «As you know, I possess few moral qualms about your chosen profession, Crokus, since I question rights of any kind, including ownership. Even privileges demand responsibility, as I've always said, and the privilege of ownership demands that the owner be responsible for protecting his or her claim. My only concern, of course, is for risks you must perforce take.»

Mammot leaned forward and poured tea. «Lad, a thief must be sure of one thing-his concentration. Distractions are dangerous.»

Crokus glanced up at his uncle. «What have you been writing all these years?» he asked suddenly, gesturing at the desk.

Surprised, Mammot picked up his cup and sat back. «Well! A genuine interest in education, then? Finally? As I've said before, Crokus, you possess the intelligence to go so far. And while I'm but a humble man of letters, my word will open to you many doors in the city. Indeed, even the City Council is not beyond your reach, if you would choose such a direction. Discipline, lad, the very same requirement you've mastered as a thief.»

A crafty expression glittered in Crokus's gaze as it held on Mammot.

«How long would it take,» he asked quietly, «to become known in such circles?»

«Well,» said Mammot, «it is the learning that matters, of course.»

«Of course.» In Crokus's mind, however, there rose the image of a sleeping maiden.

Mammot blew on his drink. «With full-time studies, and your youthful eagerness, I would hazard a year, perhaps more, perhaps less. Is there a need for haste?»

«Just youthful eagerness, I suppose. In any case, you haven't answered me yet. What are you writing, Uncle?»

«Ah.» Mammot glanced at his desk, raising an eyebrow at Moby, who had opened an inkwell and was drinking from it. «The history of Darujhistan,» he said. «I am just beginning the fifth volume, which opens with the reign of Ektalm, second to last of the Tyrant Kings.»

Crokus blinked. «Who?»

Smiling, Marnmot sipped his tea. «Usurper of Letastte and succeeded by his daughter, Sandenay, who brought on the Rising Time and with it the end of the age of tyrants.»

«Oh, right.»

«Crokus, if you're serious about all this, Darujhistan's history is where we'll begin in the lessons, but that doesn't mean starting at volume five. It means starting at the very beginning.»

Crokus nodded. «Born on a rumour,» he said.

At the desk Moby squawked, then coughed. Mammot shot him a glance, then swung his attention back to Crokus, expression veiled as he replied, «Yes, lad. Darujhistan was born on a rumour.» He hesitated.

«You've heard that saying elsewhere? Recently?»

«Someone mentioned it,» Crokus said casually. «Can't recall who, though.» He could, in fact. It had been spoken by the assassin, Rallick Nom «Do you know what it means?»

Crokus shook his head.

Mammot leaned back. «Drink your tea, my lad.» The old man paused then began, «In the Early Cycles in this Realm, three great people struggled for dominion, none of them human as we would know human. Bowing out early in the struggle were the Forkrul Assail, or the Krussa as they are now known. Not through weakness, but: well, disinterest.

The remaining two peoples warred endlessly. Eventually one fell, for they were a race of individuals, battling as much among themselves as against their racial enemies. They were called the Jaghut, though the term has degenerated these days to Jhag, or Shurl. While losers in the war, they did not disappear entirely-it's said some Jaghut survive to this day, though, thankfully, not on Genabackis.

«So,» Mammot cupped his hands around his tea-cup, «Darujhistan was born on a rumour. Among the indigenous Gadrobi hill tribes survived the legend that a Jaghut's barrow lay somewhere in the hills. Now, the Jaghut were possessors of great magic, creators of secret Warrens and items of power. Over time the Gadrobi legend made its way beyond the hills, into the Genabackan north and the Catlin south, to kingdoms since crumbled to dust in the east and west. In any case, searchers came to the hills, at first a trickle then hordes-entire tribes led by power-hungry shamans and warlocks. Every hillside was laced with trenches and boreholes. From the camps and shanty-towns, from the thousands of treasure-seekers arriving each spring, a city was born.»

«Darujhistan,» Crokus said.

«Yes. The barrow was never found, and the rumour has long since dwindled-few are even aware of it these days, and those who are know better than to resume the search.»

«Why?»

Mammot frowned. «Rarely does a Jaghut construction appear in the hands of a human, but it has happened, and the consequences have inevitably been catastrophic.» The old man's frown deepened. «The lesson is clear for those who would choose to recognize it.»

Crokus thought for a time. «So the Krussail vanished, the Jhag were defeated. What happened to the third people, then? The ones who won? Why aren't they here instead of us?»

Mammot opened his mouth to reply, then stopped, reconsidering.

Crokus's eyes narrowed. He wondered what Mammot had been about to reveal, and why he'd chosen not to reveal it.

Mammot set down his cup. «No one is certain what happened to them, Crokus, or how they became what they are today. They exist, sort of, and are known, to all who have faced the Malazan Empire, as the T'lan Imass.»

Sorry pushed through the crowd, struggling to keep the fat man within sight. It was not that he was difficult to follow, but the girl was struggling against a storm within her head, which had been triggered by a single word uttered by Sergeant Whiskeyjack.

Seer.

It had felt as if a dark, compacted thing in her brain had burst open with that word, and now warred against all that surrounded it. Though it had initially come upon her with a force that seemed almost overwhelming, she could now sense, Ws way6m& WhateNet it fought was winning the battle. Yet, faintly, she thought she could hear the weeping of a child.

«I am Cotillion,» she heard herself murmur, «Patron of Assassins, known to all as the Rope of Shadow.» The weeping grew fainter. «The Seer is dead.»

A part of her mind cried out at that, while another asked, What Seer!

«I am within, yet apart. I stand at Shadowthrone's side, and he is named Ammanas and he is the Lord of Shadows. I am here as the hand of death.» Sorry smiled and nodded to herself, once again in control.