“An eel indeed,” Rake said, in an amused tone. “He is a lesson to us all, is he not?”
“Agreed,” Baruk muttered, shoulders slumping. “I need a drink. Let me get you one. Excuse me.”
Turban Orr stood with his back to the wall and surveyed the crowded room. He was finding it difficult to relax. The last week had been exhausting. He still awaited confirmation from the Assassins” Guild that Coll was dead. It wasn't like them to take so long to complete a contract, and sticking a knife into a drunk shouldn't have been too difficult.
His hunt for the spy in his organizations had reached a dead end, but he remained convinced that such a man-or woman-existed. Again and again, and especially since Lini's assassination, he'd found his moves in the Council blocked by countermoves, too unfocused for him to point a finger at any one person. But the proclamation was dead in the water.
He'd come to that conclusion this morning. And he'd acted. Even now his most trusted and capable messenger rode the trader's track, probably passing through the Gadrobi Hills and that thunderstorm at this very moment, on his way to Pale. To the Empire. Turban Orr knew the Malazans were on the way. No one in Darujhistan could stop them. And the Moon's lord had been defeated once, at Pale. Why would it be any different this time around? No, the time had come to ensure that his own position would survive the Empire's occupation. Or, better yet, an even higher rank to reward his vital support.
His eyes fell casually on a guard stationed to one side of the spiral staircase. The man looked familiar somehow-not his face, but the way he stood, the set of the shoulders. Was the man's usual station at Majesty Hall? No, the uniform was that of a regular, while Majesty Hall was the domain of the elites. Turban Orr's frown deepened behind the hawk mask. Then the guard adjusted his helmet strap, and Turban Orr gasped.
He leaned back against the wall, overcome by trembling. Despot's Barbican! All those nights, night after night-for years-that guard had witnessed his midnight meetings with his allies and agents. There stood his spy.
He straightened, closing one hand over the pommel of his duelling sword. He'd leave no room for questions, and damn Sinital's sensibilities-and damn this party. He wanted his vengeance to be swift and immediate. He'd let no one stop him. His eyes fixing on the unsuspecting guard, Turban Orr stepped forward.
He collided with a hard shoulder and staggered back. A large man in a tiger mask turned to him. Orr waited for an apology, but received only silence. He moved to step past the man.
The stranger's arm intercepted him. Turban Orr cursed as a gloved hand poured wine down his chest. “Idiot!” he snapped. “I am Councilman Turban Orr! Out of my way.”
“I know who you are,” the man said quietly.
Orr jabbed a finger into the man's chest. “Keep that mask on, so I'll know who to look for later.”
“I didn't even notice your mask,” the man said, his voice cold and flat. “Fooled by the nose, I suppose.”
The councilman's eyes narrowed. “Eager to die, are you?” he grated. “I will oblige you.” His hand twitched on his sword's pommel. “In a few minutes. Right now I have-”
“I wait on no man,” Rallick Nom said. “And certainly not for some thinlipped prancer pretending to manhood. If you've the belly for a duel, make it now or stop wasting time with all this talk.”
Shaking, Turban Orr took a step back and faced the man directly.
“What's your name?” he demanded hoarsely.
“You are not fit to hear it, Councilman.”
Turban Orr raised his hands and whirled to the crowd. “Hear me, guests! Unexpected entertainment for you all!” Conversation died and everyone faced the councilman. He continued, “A fool has challenged my honour, friends. And since when has Turban Orr permitted such an insult?”
“A duel!” someone cried excitedly. Voices rose.
Orr pointed at Rallick Nom. “This man, so bold as to wear Trake's face, will be dead shortly. Look upon him now, friends, as he looks upon you-and know that he is all but dead already.”
“Stop babbling,” Rallick drawled.
The councilman pulled the mask from his face, revealing a tight grin.
“If I could kill you a thousand times,” he said, “it would not be enough to satisfy me. I must settle with you but once.”
Rallick removed his mask and tossed it on to the carpeted stairs. He looked upon Turban Orr with flat, dark eyes. “Done breaking wind, Councilman?”
“Unmasked and still a stranger,” Orr said, scowling. “So be it. Find yourself a second.” A thought struck him, and he turned back to the crowd, searching it. Towards the back he saw the mask he sought, that of a wolf. His choosing of a second could well have political benefits, assuming the man accepted. And, in this crowd, he'd be a fool to deny him.
