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But Baruk heard a grunt behind him, then Vorcan gasped. The hilt of a dagger protruded from the assassin's chest. Frowning, she reached for it, then pulled it out and tossed it aside.

“All:” the alchemist heard the Tiste And? woman gasp from the floor behind him “: all I can do. My apologies, Lord.”Advertisement

Derudan appeared behind Vorcan. As she raised her hands and began an incantation, Vorcan whirled and something sped from her hand. The witch grunted, then crumpled.

Anguish flooded Baruk. With a wordless roar he launched himself at Vorcan. She laughed and ducked to one side, throwing out her glowing hand. The alchemist twisted, off-balance, narrowly avoiding the killing touch, then staggered past. He heard her laughter again, as she moved in. A dozen feet in front of Baruk was the door. The alchemist's eyes widened to find it open. A youth crouched there, holding bricks. Expecting at any moment to feel Vorcan's touch, Baruk threw himself forward. He saw the boy straighten at the same time and thrust forward first his right arm, then his left. As the alchemist fell towards the floor, two bricks flew over him. He heard them strike the woman behind him, one making a crunching sound, the other crackling. A flash of red. As he struck the floor, the breath was hammered from Baruk's lungs.

Agonized seconds passed as he struggled to draw air into his tortured chest He rolled on to his back. Vorcan, he saw, lay motionless almost against his feet. The boy's face came into view, streaked with sweat, brow e boy sighed, then grinned. “You're alive. Good. Rallick sent me to. Baruk sat up. “The witch,” he said hoarsely. He pointed. “Tend to her, He felt his strength returning as he watched the boy crouch beside her. “She's breathing,” Crokus announced. “There's some kind of knife in her looks like it's covered in paralt.” He reached down to touch it.

“Poison,” the alchemist said, climbing to his feet. “Help me to her, quickly.” A moment later he knelt beside Derudan. A quick glance at the sap-like substance coating the blade confirmed his suspicion. While Baruk laid a hand on Derudan. “Your knowledge surprises me, boy,” he said. “Fortunately, she's in the home of the one man who possesses its antidote.” He muttered something and a phial appeared in his hand “Rallick said there was no antidote to white paralt.”

“It's not something I'm likely to announce.” Baruk unstoppered the phial and poured the contents down the witch's throat, triggering coughing fit. As Derudan's breathing became even, Baruk leaned back and eyed Crokus. “You seem well acquainted with Rallick. What's your name?”

“Crokus. Mammot was my uncle, sir. I saw him die.”

Derudan's eyelids flickered, then opened. She smiled lazily. “What I see pleases me,” she said weakly. “Yes?”

Baruk returned the smile. “Yes, my friend. But I make no claim for defeating Vorcan. That falls to Crokus, nephew of Mammot.”

Derudan's gaze swung to the youth. “Ah, the one I came near to treading on earlier this evening.” The amusement left her expression. “I am sorry for Mammot, child.”

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“So am I,” he replied.

Baruk rose and turned. He hissed a vehement curse. Vorcan's body was gone. “She's fled.” He hurried over to the Tiste And? woman, he bent down and examined her. She was dead. “I will soon know your name,” he whispered, “and I will remember it.”

“I have to go!” Crokus announced.

Baruk wondered at the sudden panic in the boy's face.

“I mean,” Crokus continued, “if everything's over here, that is.”

“I believe it is,” the alchemist answered. “I thank you, Crokus, for your skill at throwing bricks.”

The boy went to the door. He paused, then tossed a coin into the air. He caught it, and grinned tightly. “Just lucky, I suppose.” Then he was gone.

Captain Paran crouched beside Coll's bed. “Still asleep,” he said, rising, and facing Whiskeyjack. “Go ahead.”

Kalam and the two saboteurs had arrived minutes earlier. So far, the sergeant mused, no losses, though the captain's armour had taken a beating and the look in his face when he'd entered the room with Lorn's body in his arms warned Whiskeyjack away from probing Paran's state of mind too deeply. The Adjunct's body now occupied a second bed, motionless and pale, a strange ironic smile curving her bloodless lips.

The sergeant studied everyone in the small room, the faces he knew so well all watching him, waiting. His gaze held on Sorry, or Apsalar as she now called herself. Whatever Mallet had done to her, she was a changed woman from the one he'd known. Less, and somehow more as well. pqdm.com