A pause, nose twitching, then a scurry of small steps. Close now, close enough to flinch back at the reeking breath.
‘Two councils it falls over dead.’
‘Be more precise — it’s gonna fall over dead some day, ain’t it?’
‘Gods below!’
The rat held its ground, edged a mite closer. Then gathered itself, stretched out its neck, and began drinking from the pool of slime with tiny, flickering laps of its slivery tongue.
‘That’s what I was thinking it was gonna do,’ said Sweetest Sufferance.
‘Liar.’
‘So now he ain’t never going to wake up,’ said Reccanto, ‘and I’m going to die here of thirst.’
The closet door creaked open and out staggered Master Quell, not looking at all refreshed. He hobbled over. ‘That papaya’s stuck — I need a healer-’
‘Or a fruit seller,’ Faint said. ‘Listen, could be we got us a new contract.’
Quell’s eyes bugged slightly, then he spun round and staggered back into the closet.
‘Now see what you did!’ snapped Reccanto.
‘It’s not
So early in the morning, the streets of Darujhistan, barring those of markets, were ghostly, strewn with rubbish and yet somehow magical. The sun’s golden light stroked every surface with a gentle artist’s hand. The faint mists that had drifted in from the lake during the night now retreated once more, leaving the air crisp. In the poorer quarters, shutters opened on upper storeys and moments later the contents of chamber pots sailed out, splashing the alleys and any hapless denizen still lying drunk to the world, and moments later rats and such crept out to sample the fresh offerings.
The dolorous High Priest led Mappo Runt away from the temple quarter and down into the Lakefront District, skirting Second Tier Wall before cutting across towards the Gadrohi District — in essence taking the Trell back the way he had come the night before. As they walked, the city awoke around them, rubbed sleep from its eyes, then gawked at the shambling priest and his enormous, barbaric companion.
They eventually arrived upon a narrow, sloped street in which sat a massive, ornate carriage of a sort that Mappo had seen before, though he could not for the moment recall where. Six horses stood in their traces, looking bored. Someone had dumped feed all round them, and there was enough fresh dung scattered about to suggest that the animals had been left there a while.
The priest directed Mappo towards a nearby tavern. ‘In there,’ he said. ‘The Trygalle Trade Guild has made a specialty of journeys such as the one you require. Of course, they are expensive, but that is hardly surprising, is it?’
‘And one simply seeks out one such caravan, wherever one might find them? That sounds to be an ineffective business plan.’
‘No, they have offices. Somewhere — not a detail I possess, I’m afraid. I only knew of this carriage because its arrival destroyed the front of my cousin’s shop.’ And, pointing to a nearby ruin, he smiled like a man who had forgotten what real smiling signified. Then he shrugged. ‘All these twists of fate. Blessed by serendip shy;ity and all that. If you fail here, Mappo Runt, you will have a long, tedious walk ahead of you. So do not fail.’ He then bowed, turned and walked away.
Mappo eyed the front of the tavern. And recalled when he had last seen that sort of carriage.
Shareholder Faint had just stood, stretching out all the alarming kinks in her back, when the tavern door opened and a monstrous figure pushed its way in, shoulders squeezing through the frame, head ducking. A misshapen sack slung over one shoulder, a wicked knife tucked in its belt. A damned Trell.
‘Glanno,’ she said, ‘better get Master Quell.’
Scowling, the last driver left alive in their troupe rose and limped away.
She watched as the huge barbarian stepped over the drunk and made his way to the bar. The rat looked up and hastily retreated down the length of the counter. The Trell nudged Quip Younger’s head. The barkeep coughed and slowly straightened, wiping at his mouth, blinking myopically as he lifted his gaze to take in the figure looming over him.
With a bleat he reeled back a step.
‘Never mind him,’ Faint called out. ‘You want us, over here.’
‘What I want,’ the Trell replied in passable Daru, ‘is breakfast.’
Head bobbing, Quip bolted for the kitchen, where he was met by a screeching woman, the piercing tirade dimming as soon as the door closed behind him.
Faint dragged a bench from the nearby wall no chair in this dump would survive — and waved to it with a glance over to the barbarian. ‘Come over, then. Sit, but just so you know, we’re avoiding Seven Cities. There was a terrible plague there; no telling if it’s run its course.’
‘No,’ the Trell rumbled as he approached, ‘I have no desire to return to Seven Cities, or Nemil.’
The bench groaned as he settled on to it.
Sweetest Sufferance was eyeing the newcomer with a strangely avid intensity. Reccanto Ilk simply stared, mouth open, odd twitches of his scalp shifting his hairline up and down.
