'That betrayal might have been instinctive, High Priest,' Apsalar said. 'Five Ascendants in the House's yard — the vast risk to Tremorlor itself, given Shadow's own penchant for treachery-'
'Lies! We played true!'
'A first time for everything,' Crokus muttered. He looked across to Fiddler. 'Glad it opened to you, Fid.'
The sapper started, searched the hallway. 'It didn't. Moby opened the door and ripped my arm to shreds in the process — where is that damned runt? It's in here somewhere-'
'You're sitting on a corpse,' Apsalar's father observed.
Fiddler glanced down to find himself on a nest of bones and rotted clothing. He clambered clear, cursing.
'I don't see him,' Crokus said. 'You sure he made it inside, Fid?'
'Aye, I'm sure.'
'He must have gone deeper into the House-'
'He seeks the gate!' Pust squealed. 'The Path of Hands!'
'Moby's a famil-'
'More lies! That disgusting bhok'aral is a Soletaken, you fool!'
'Relax. There is no gate in here that offers a shapeshifter anything,' Apsalar said, slowly rising, her eyes on the withered corpse behind Fiddler. 'That would have been the Keeper — each Azath has a guardian. I'd always assumed they were immortal …' She stepped forward, kicked at the bones. She grunted. 'Not human — those limbs are too long, and look at the joints — too many of them. This thing could bend every which way.'
Mappo lifted his head. 'Forkrul Assail.'
'The least known of the Elder Races, then. Not even hinted of in any Seven Cities legend I've heard.' She swung her attention to the hallway.
Five paces from the door the passage opened on a T-intersection, with double doors directly opposite the entrance.
'The layout's almost identical,' Apsalar whispered.
'To what?' Crokus asked.
'Deadhouse, Malaz City.'
Pattering feet approached the intersection, and a moment later Moby scampered into view. The creature flapped up and into the Daru's arms.
'He's shaking,' Crokus said, hugging the familiar.
'Oh, great,' Fiddler muttered.
'The Jhag,' Pust hissed from where he knelt a few paces from Mappo and Icarium. 'I saw you crushing him in your arms — is he dead?'
The Trell shook his head. 'Unconscious. I don't think he'll awaken for some time-'
'Then let the Azath take him! Now! We are within Tremorlor. Our need for him has ended!'
'No.'
'Fool!'
A bell clanged somewhere outside. They all looked at each other in disbelief.
'Did we hear that?' Fiddler wondered. 'A
'Why a merchant?' Pust growled, eyes darting suspiciously.
But Crokus was nodding. 'A merchant's bell. In Darujhistan, that is.'
The sapper went to the door. From within, the latch moved smoothly under his hand, and he swung the door back.
Thin sheets of tangled root now rose from the yard, towering over the House itself in a clash of angles and planes. Humped earth steamed on all sides. Waiting just outside the arched gate were three huge, ornate carriages, each drawn by nine white horses. A roundish figure stood beneath the arch, wearing silks. The figure raised a hand towards Fiddler and called out in Daru, 'Alas, I can go no farther! I assure you, all is calm out here. I seek the one named Fiddler.'
'Why?' the sapper barked.
'I deliver a gift. Gathered in great haste and at vast expense, I might add. I suggest we complete the transaction as quickly as possible, all things considered.'
Crokus now stood beside Fiddler. The Daru was frowning at the carriages. 'I know the maker of those,' he said quietly. 'Bernuk's, just back of Lakefront. But I've never seen them that big before — gods, I've been away too long.'
Fiddler sighed. 'Darujhistan.'
'I'm certain of it,' Crokus said, shaking his head.
Fiddler stepped outside and studied the surroundings. Things seemed, as the merchant had said, calm. Quiescent. Still uneasy, the sapper made his way down the path. He halted two paces from the archway and eyed the merchant warily.
'Karpolan Demesand, sir, of the Trygalle Trade Guild, and this is a run that I and my shareholders shall never regret, yet hope never to repeat.' The man's exhaustion was very evident, and his silks hung soaked in sweat. He gestured and an armoured woman with a deathly pale face stepped past him, carrying a small crate. Karpolan continued, 'Compliments of a certain mage of the Bridgeburners, who was advised — in timely fashion — of your situation in a general way, by the corporal you share.'
Fiddler accepted the box, now grinning. 'The efforts of this delivery surpass me, sir,' he said.
'Me as well, I assure you. Now we must flee — ah, a rude bluntness — I meant "depart", of course. We must depart.' He sighed, looking around. 'Forgive me, I am weary, beyond even achieving the expected courtesies of civil discourse.'
'No need for apologies,' Fiddler said. 'While I have no idea how you got here and no idea how you'll get back to Darujhistan, I wish you a safe and swift journey. One last question, however: did the mage say anything about where the contents of this crate came from?'
