“You’re just saying that,” said Whuffine, “because you’re sore. What’s it like, eh? Being made useless and all?”
“That’s a usurper up there in Wurms.”
“So what? His brother was, too. And that witch before him, and then that bastard son of Lord Wurms himself—who strangled the man in his own bed. And what was he even doing in that bed with his stepfather anyway?” Whuffine shrugged. “It’s how them fools do things, and us, why, we just got to keep our heads down and get on with living and all. You, Spilgit, you’re just a Hood-damned tax collector anyway. And we ain’t paying and that’s that.”
“I don’t care,” Spilgit said, taking Felittle’s arm and pulling her along as he trudged past Whuffine. “I quit. And when the Black Fleet shows up and an army lands to bring down in flames Wurms Keep and that mad sorceror with it, well, I don’t expect there’ll be much left of Spendrugle of Blearmouth either, and the gods of mercy will be smiling on that day!”
During this tirade, voiced as Spilgit marched on, Whuffine fell in behind the two villagers. He thought about pushing past them both, but with living people on the beach, maybe it paid to be cautious. “Anyway,” he said, “why are you two going down there, now that you know there’s survivors? You ain’t going to warn them off or anything, are you? If you did that, why, Hordilo and Lord Fangatooth himself wouldn’t take kindly to that. In fact, they’d have to find somebody else to hang.”
Ahead, Spilgit paused and swung round. “I’m surviving one more winter here, Whuffine. You think I’d do or say anything to jeopardize that?”
“I like the hangings,” said Felittle, offering Whuffine a bright, cock-stirring smile. “But aren’t you curious? How did anyone survive that storm? They might come from mysterious places! They might have funny hair and funny clothes and talk in gibberish! It’s so exciting, isn’t it?”
Whuffine flicked a glance at Spilgit, but couldn’t read much from the man’s expression, other than the fact that he was shivering. To Felittle, Whuffine smiled back and said, “Aye, exciting.”
“Aren’t you cold?” she asked him. “You don’t look cold. How come you’re not cold?”
“It’s my big kindly heart, lass.”
“Gods below,” Spilgit said, swinging round and pulling Felittle with him.
They rounded the last bend in the trail and came within sight of the beach. And there on the pale strand stood two men, one tall and dressed in fine clothing—black silks and black leathers, and a heavy burgundy woolen cloak that reached down almost to his ankles—and beside him a more bedraggled figure, a man Whuffine guessed was a sailor, by the rough clothes he wore and the way he stood on those bowed legs. Beyond these two, the surf was crowded with corpses and detritus. Out on the reef the wreck had already been battered to pieces, with barely a third of the hull remaining, and only the foredeck, over which was wrapped the tangled remnants of a sail that looked partly scorched.
Spilgit and Felittle had both paused upon seeing the strangers, proving once again the pith behind the bluff when it came to that tax collector. Whuffine edged past them and continued down to the strand. “Welcome, friends! Mael and all his hoary whores have looked kindly upon you, I see. To think, you seem to have escaped unscathed from the furies, while your poor companions behind you lie cold and nothing but meat for the crabs. Do you give thanks for such mercy? I’m sure you do!”
The taller man, fork-bearded and with his hair slicked back from his bared head, frowned slightly at Whuffine and then turned to his companion and said something in a language the Comber didn’t understand, to which the man grunted and said, “Low Elin, Master. Seatrader tongue. Eastern pirates. Sailor’s Cant. It’s just the accent that’s thrown you. And by that accent, Master, I’d say we’ve hit the Headland of Howling Winds. Probably the Forgotten Holding, meaning it’s claimed by the Enclave.” This man then turned to Whuffine. “There’s a river other side of the keep, right?”
Whuffine nodded. “The Blear, aye. You know well this shore, then, sir. I’m impressed.”
The man grunted a second time and spoke to his companion. “Master, we’re on a Wreckers’ Coast here. That heap of sheepskin and furs with all his happy words and big smile, he’s eager to start stripping corpses and picking through the wrack. See those boots he’s wearing? Malazan cavalry officer, and he ain’t no Malazan cavalry officer. If we was badly hurt he’d probably have slit our throats by now.”
Slipgit laughed, earning a glare from Whuffine, who was struggling to hold onto his smile.
The tall man cleared his throat, and then spoke in passable High Elin. “Well then, let us leave the man to his task, since I doubt our dead comrades will mind. Alas, as we are hale, there will be no throat-slitting just yet.”
“The villagers won’t be any better,” the other man then said, eyeing Spilgit and Felittle.
“Do not be so quick to judge us,” Spilgit said, stepping forward. “Until recently, I was the appointed Factor of the Forgotten Holding, and as such the official representative of the Enclave.”
The sailor raised his brows at that, and then grinned. “A damned tax collector? Surprised they ain’t hanged you yet.”
Whuffine saw Spilgit blanch, but before he could say anything, the Comber cleared his throat and said, “The lord is resident in his keep, good sirs.” Then, shifting his attention to the taller man, he added, “And he will be delighted to make your acquaintance, seeing as you’re highborn and all.”
“Is there an inn?” the sailor asked, and Whuffine noted how the man shivered in his sodden clothes.
“Allow us to escort you there,” Spilgit said. “This young woman with me is the daughter of the innkeeper.”
“Most civilized of you, Factor,” said the highborn man. “As you can see, my manservant is suffering in this weather.”
“A warm fire and a hearty meal will do him wonders, I’m sure,” said Spilgit. “Yet you, sir, appear to be both dry and, well, proof against this bitter wind.”
“Very perceptive of you,” the man murmured in reply, glancing about as if distracted. A moment later he shrugged and gestured towards the trail. “Lead on, Factor.” Then he paused and looked to his manservant. “Mister Reese, if you would, draw your sword and ware our backs, lest this Malazan cavalry officer falter in his wisdom, and do note the knife he hides in his right hand, will you?”
Scowling, Whuffine stepped back, sheathing his knife. “The blade’s for swollen fingers, that’s all. In fact, I’ll be on my way then, and leave you in the hands of Spilgit and Felittle.” And he hurried down the beach. He didn’t like the look of that highborn or the way the manservant was now handling that shortsword with unpleasant ease, and all things told, Whuffine was glad to be rid of them.
Coming down to the wrack, eyes scanning the corpses, he paused upon seeing the ragged bites taken out of most of them. He’d seen the work of sharks, but that was nothing like what he looked upon now. Despite his sheepskin and fox-furs, Whuffine shivered. Glancing back, he saw Spilgit and Felittle leading the strangers up the trail. Could be a bit of trouble washed up here today, eh? Well, I doubt Fangatooth and his golems will have anything to worry about. Still … He eyed the nearest, chewed-up corpse. Some of those bites looked human.
The crabs were marching up from the sea in scuttling rows, and through the moaning wind he could hear their happy, eager clicking.
I’ll set out the traps once they’ve fattened up some.
Hordilo Stinq felt Ackle the Risen’s dead eyes tracking him as, bucket of whale grease in one hand, he walked up the street opposite the King’s Heel. Most strangers did the proper thing and died after being hung, but not Ackle. If Hordilo was a superstitious man, why, he might think there was something odd about that man.
But he had more practical concerns to deal with right now. Adjusting his sword belt with one hand while tightening his grip on the iron handle of the wooden bucket, and doing his best to ignore how the icy wind stole all feeling from his fingers, he set ou
t up the street. The ground was frozen hard, the edges of the wheel ruts slippery and treacherous, the puddles filling those ruts frozen solid. For all of that, Grimled’s progress was mapped out before him in cracked impressions, the golem’s iron boots leaving dents already leaking turgid water that pretty much froze as soon as it bled out. His gaze tracked them up to the front street’s end, where the footprints turned right and disappeared behind Blecker’s Livery.
Hordilo continued on. Those damned golems unnerved him. Ackle was right in that one thing, Hood take him. Offering up a nod and maybe a muttered greeting as one trudged past wasn’t what anyone in their right mind could call a friendship. But they were Lord Fangatooth’s creations, stamp-stamp-stamping his authority on Spendrugle and everyone calling it home, and if any acts of kindness on Hordilo’s part, no matter how modest, could alight the glint of sympathy in such abominations, well, he had to try, didn’t he? Besides, the few times there’d been trouble with some stranger, one of them would show up to sort things out right quick, and that had saved Hordilo’s skin more than once.
So in a way he owed them, didn’t he? And if it wasn’t in a walking lump of iron to feel anything about anyone, Hordilo was flesh and blood, with genuine feelings and even a heart that could break if, say, some hag of a wife he’d once loved went and did the nasty on him, and not just one animal, either, but all kinds of animals, and then told him about it with shining eyes and that soul-cutting half-smile that said she liked what her words were doing to him and besides, Ribble had been his dog, dammit! If something like that had ever happened to him, which of course it hadn’t, why, his heart might break, or at least start leaking. Because a man without feelings was no better than a … well, a golem.
Reaching Blecker’s Livery, he paused for a moment to utter a soft prayer to the memory of old Blecker, since remorse always came afterwards and never went away, when the fury of knowing that Blecker knew everything with his nickering stallion and all, well, that faded after a time, and that ex-wife he didn’t have was a seductive woman when she wanted to be, not that Ribble cared much either way, with his endless panting and witless but knowing eyes, but Blecker himself had seen plenty, hadn’t he, with his damned menagerie and all. But whisper a prayer anyway, because Hordilo knew that that was what a decent man did, but not much of a prayer, since Blecker had never known a thing about decency and nobody had complained much when he swung from the gibbet, except when they saw Hurta riding off on that stallion with Ribble chasing after them, none of them ever to be seen again—oh, there was plenty of disappointment about that, wasn’t there? That said, Feloovil had cleared his tab at the Heel and spotted him free drinks for a whole week afterwards, which was peculiarly generous of her. This was the kind of mess having a wife would have given him, and was it any wonder he was having none of that?
Rounding the livery, Hordilo halted in his tracks. Twenty paces away, Grimled was lying motionless on its back. A large black-cloaked man was kneeling beside it, his hands deep in the golem’s chest. Strange fluids were spraying out past the man’s forearms. A few paces beyond them lay two bloated corpses.
“Hey!” Hordilo shouted.
But the man ripping pieces out from Grimled’s chest didn’t look up.
Hordilo set down the bucket and then drew his sword. “Hey!” he yelled again, advancing. “What have you done to Grimled? You can’t do that! Step away from him! By the lord’s command, step away!”
At last, the stranger looked up, blinking owlishly at Hordilo.
Something in the man’s piggy eyes made Hordilo slow down and then stagger to a halt. He lifted the sword threateningly, but the blade wavered in his numbed grip. “The lord of Wurms Keep will see you hang for this! You’re under arrest!”
The stranger withdrew his hands from Grimled’s chest. They were black and dripping. “I was trying to fix it,” he said in a high, piping voice.
“You broke it!”
“I didn’t mean to.”
“Explain that to Lord Fangatooth! Get up now. You’re coming with me.”
The stranger’s uncanny eyes slipped past Hordilo and fixed on the distant keep. “There?”
“There.”
“All right,” the man replied, climbing slowly to his feet. He looked over at the two corpses. “But I want to bring my friends with me.”
“Your friends? They’re dead!”
“No, not those ones.”
The man pointed and Hordilo turned to see a group appearing from the beach trail. That’s where Spilgit was going, and Felittle with him! She must have seen a ship on the reef and snuck out to the Factor, so they could get a first look. Gods below, will the treachery never end?
“But I want these ones, too,” added the stranger. “I’m saving them.”
Licking his lips, his mind in a fog, Hordilo said, “They’re past saving, you fool.”
The stranger frowned. “I don’t like being called a fool.”
The tone was flat, unaccountably chilling. “Sorry to tell you, those two are dead. Maybe you’re in shock or something. That happens. Shipwreck, was it? Bad enough you arriving uninvited, and if that wasn’t enough look what you did to Grimled. Lord Fangatooth won’t be happy about that, but that’s between you and him. Me, well, the law says I got to arrest you, and that’s that. The law says you got to give account of yourselves.”
“My selves? There is only one of me.”
“You think you’re being funny? You’re not.” Stepping back, trying to avoid a peek into the inner workings of poor Grimled—not that they worked anymore—Hordilo shifted his attention to the newcomers as they arrived.
The tall one with the pointed beard spoke, “Ah, Korbal, there you are. What have you found?”
“A golem, Bauchelain,” the first man replied. “It swung its axe at me. I didn’t like that, but I didn’t mean to break it.”
The man named Bauchelain walked over to study Grimled. “A distinct lack of imagination, wouldn’t you say, Korbal? A proper face would have been much more effective, in terms of inspiring terror and whatnot. Instead, what fear is inspired by an up-ended slop bucket? Unless it is to invite someone to laugh unto death.”
“Don’t say that, Master,” said the third stranger, pausing to tamp more rustleaf into his pipe, though his teeth chattered with the cold. “What with the way I go and all.”
“I am sure,” said Bauchelain, “that your sense of humour is far too refined to succumb to this clumsy effort, Mister Reese.”
“Oh, it’s funny enough, I suppose, but you’re right, I won’t bust a side about it.”
Spilgit was almost hopping from one foot to the other behind the newcomers. “Hordilo, best escort these two gentlemen up to an audience with Lord Fangatooth, don’t you think? We’ll take their manservant to the Heel, so he can warm up and get a hot meal in him. Spendrugle hospitality, and all that.”
Hordilo cleared his throat.
But Korbal was the first to speak. “Bauchelain, this man called me a fool.”
“Oh dear,” said Bauchelain. “And has he not yet retracted his misjudged assessment?”
“No.”
“It was all a misunderstanding,” Hordilo said, feeling sudden sweat beneath his clothes. “Of course he’s not a fool. I do apologise.”
“There,” said Bauchelain, sighing.
“I mean,” Hordilo went on, “he killed one of the lord’s golems. Oh, and he wants to bring those two bodies with him up to the keep, because they’re his friends. So, I don’t know what he is, to be honest, but I’ll allow that he ain’t a fool. Lord Fangatooth, of course, might think otherwise, but it’s not for me to speak for him on that account. Now, shall we go?”
“Hordilo—” began Spilgit.
“Yes,” Hordilo replied, “you can take the manservant, before he freezes solid.”
Bauchelain turned to his manservant. “Off with you, then, Mister Reese. We’ll summon you later this evening.”
Hordilo grunted a laugh.
&nbs
p; “All right, Master.” Mister Reese then glanced down at Grimled and looked over at Hordilo. “So, how many of these things has your lord got, anyway?”
“Two more,” Hordilo replied. “This one was Grimled. The others are Gorebelly and Grinbone.”
Mister Reese choked, coughed out smoke. “Gods below, did the lord name them himself?”
“Lord Fangatooth Claw the Render is a great sorcerer,” said Hordilo.
“I’m sorry, Lord what?”
“Go on, Mister Reese,” ordered Bauchelain. “We can discuss naming conventions at a later time, yes?”
“Conventions, Master? Oh. Of course, why not? All right, Slipgit—”
“That’s Spilgit.”
“Sorry. Spilgit, lead me to this blessed inn, then.”
Hordilo watched them hurry off, his gaze fixing with genuine admiration on Felittle’s swaying backside, and then he returned his attention to the two strangers, and raised his sword. “Am I going to need this out, gentlemen? Or will you come along peacefully?”
“We are great believers in peace,” said Bauchelain. “By all means, sheathe your sword, sir. We are looking forward to meeting your sorceror lord, I assure you.”
Hordilo hesitated, and then, since he could no longer feel his fingers, he slid his sword back into its scabbard. “Right. Follow me, and smartly now.”
Scribe Coingood watched Warmet Humble writhe in his chains. The chamber reeked of human waste, forcing Coingood to hold a scented handkerchief to his nose. But at least it was warm, with the huge three-legged bronze brazier sizzling and crackling and hissing and throwing up sparks every time his lord decided it was time to heat up the branding iron.
Weeping, spasms clawing their way through his broken body that hung so hapless from the chains, Warmet Humble was a sorry sight. This was what came of brotherly disputes that never saw resolution. Misunderstandings escalated, positions grew entrenched; argument fell away into deadly silence across the breakfast table, and before too long one of them ended up drugged and waking up in chains in a torture chamber. Coingood was relieved that he had been an only child, and the few times he’d ended up in chains was just his father teaching him a lesson about staying out after dark or cheating on his letters and numbers. In any case, if he’d had a brother, why, he’d never use a bhederin branding iron on him, which could brand a five year old from toe to head in a single go. Surely an ear-puncher would do; the kind the shepherds used on their goats and sheep?