‘It’s a foolish war,’ Rallick Nom said without looking up.
‘I’m sure Seba Krafar agrees with you this morning. They struck, in what they must have imagined was overwhelming force, only to get mauled. If this keeps up Seba will be Master in a Guild of one.’
‘You sound foul of mood, Krute. Why does it matter to you that Seba is mak shy;ing mistakes?’
‘Because I gave my life to the Guild, Rallick.’ Krute stood with a turnip in one hand. After a moment he flung it into the basket beside the cask of fresh water. ‘He’s single-handedly destroying it. True, he’ll be gone soon enough, but what will be left by then?’
Rallick rubbed at his face. ‘Everyone’s mood is sour these days, it seems.’
‘What are we waiting for?’
Krute could not long hold Rallick’s gaze when the assassin finally looked at him. There was something so. . remorseless in those cold eyes, in that hard face that seemed carved to refute for ever the notion of a smile. A face that could not soften, could not relax into anything human. No wonder he’d been Vorcan’s favourite.
Krute fidgeted with the food he’d purchased. ‘You hungry?’ he asked.
‘What did you have in mind?’
‘Fish stew.’
‘In a few bells it’ll be hot enough outside to melt lead.’
‘That’s what I’m cooking, Rallick.’
Sighing, the assassin rose and stretched. ‘Think I’ll take a walk instead.’
‘As you like.’
At the door Rallick paused and glanced over, his expression suddenly wry. ‘It wears off, doesn’t it?’
Krute frowned. ‘What does?’
Rallick did not reply, and moments later he was gone, the door closing behind him.
‘
On her hands and knees, Thordy rubbed the ashes into the spaces between the set stones, into every crack and fissure, every groove scoring the vaguely flat sur shy;faces. Tiny bits of bone rolled under her fingertips. No ash was perfect unless it came from nothing but wood, and this ash was made of more things than just wood. The dry season had, she hoped, finally arrived. Otherwise she might have to do this all over again, to keep the glyphs hidden, the pleasant, beautiful glyphs with all the promises they whispered to her.
She heard the back door swing open on its leather hinges and knew Gaz was standing on the threshold, eyes hooded, watching her. His fingerless hands twitch shy;ing at the ends of his arms, the ridge of knuckles marred and bright red, teeth-cut and bone-gouged.
He killed people every night, she knew, to keep from killing her. She was, she knew, the cause of their deaths. Every one of them a substitute for what Gaz re shy;ally wanted to do.
She heard him step outside.
Straightening, wiping the ash from her hands on her apron, she turned.
‘Breakfast leavings,’ he muttered.
‘What?’
‘The house is full of flies,’ he said, standing there as if struck rooted by the sunlight. Red-shot eyes wandered about the yard as if wanting to crawl out from his head and find shelter. Beneath that rock, or the bleached plank of grey wood, or under the pile of kitchen scraps.
‘You need a shave,’ she said. ‘Want me to heat the water?’
The haunted eyes flicked towards her — but there was nowhere to hide in that direction, so he looked away once more. ‘No, don’t touch me.’
She thought of holding the razor in her hand, settling its edge against his throat. Seeing the runnels winding down through the lathered soap, the throb of his pulse. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘the beard hides how thin you’ve become. In the face, anyway.’
His smile was a threat. ‘And you prefer that, wife?’
‘It’s just different, Gaz.’
‘You can’t prefer anything when you don’t care, right?’
‘I didn’t say that.’
‘You didn’t have to. Why’d you make that stone thing — right there on the best dirt?’
‘I just felt like it,’ she replied. ‘A place to sit and rest. Where I can keep an eye on all the vegetables.’
‘In case they run away?’
‘No. I just like looking at them, that’s all.’
‘Have supper ready for dusk,’ Gaz said, lurching into motion.
