Chapters (43)
- Acknowledgements
- Preface to Gardens of the Moon redux
- DRAMATIS PERSONAE
- Gardens of the Moon
- Prologue
- BOOK ONE – PALE
- CHAPTER ONE
- CHAPTER TWO
- CHAPTER THREE
- CHAPTER FOUR
- BOOK TWO - DARUJHISTAN
- CHAPTER FIVE
- CHAPTER SIX
- CHAPTER SEVEN
- BOOK THREE - THE MISSION
- CHAPTER EIGHT
- CHAPTER NINE
- CHAPTER TEN
- BOOK FOUR- ASSASSINS
- CHAPTER ELEVEN
- CHAPTER TWELVE
- CHAPTER THIRTEEN
- BOOK FIVE - THE GADROBI HILLS
- CHAPTER FOURTEEN
- CHAPTER FIFTEEN
- CHAPTER SIXTEEN
- BOOK SIX - THE CITY OF BLUE FIRE
- CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
- CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
- CHAPTER NINETEEN
- BOOK SEVEN - THE FÊTE
- CHAPTER TWENTY
- CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
- CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
- CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
- CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
- EPILOGUE
- GLOSSARY
- TITLES AND GROUPS
- ASCENDANTS
- THE WORLD OF SORCERY
- PLACE NAMES
- DARUJISTAN AND ENVIRONS
'Alas, the very same dream propels these many-toed implements beneath these wobbly knees.' He sighed. 'Ever the same dream.' And so it was. He saw before him the sun riding the distant hilltop, a copper disc through woodsmoke haze. His feet carried him down the winding dirt street of Gadrobi Shantytown, the shacks and huts on either side crouching in the gathering gloom. Old men wrapped in the dingy yellow rags of lepers squatted over nearby cookfires, falling silent as he passed. Similarly clad women stood by the muddy well, pausing in their endless dunking of cats – a bemusing activity, its symbolism lost on the man as he hurried past.
He crossed Maiten River bridge, passed through the dwindling Gadrobi Herder camps, out on to the open road flanked by vineyard plantations. He lingered here, thinking of the wine these succulent grapes would produce. But dreams carried on with their own momentum, and the thought was but fleeting in its passage.
He knew his mind was in flight – fleeing the doomed city at his back, fleeing the dark, brooding smudge in the sky above it; but most of all, fleeing all that he knew and all that he was.
For some, the talent they possessed found its channel through a toss of knucklebones, the reading of heat fractures in scapulae, or the Fatid of the Deck of Dragons. For Kruppe, he had no need of any such affectations. The power of divination was in his head and he could not deny it, no matter how hard he tried. Within the walls of his skull rang the dirge of prophecy, and it echoed through his bones.
He muttered under his breath. 'Of course this is a dream, the flight of sleep. Perhaps, thinks Kruppe, he will in truth escape this time. None could call Kruppe a fool, after all. Fat with sloth and neglect, yes; inclined to excesses, indeed, somewhat clumsy with a bowl of soup, most certainly. But not a fool. Such times are upon us when the wise man must choose. Is it not wisdom to conclude that other lives are of less importance than one's own? Of course, very wise. Yes, Kruppe is wise.'