‘I was not suggesting you were taking bribes, Councillor Coll. And I apologize if my carelessness led to such an interpretation.’
‘I see. Were you then offering me one?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Then, is our politicking done here?’
Hanut Orr managed a stiff bow, and then whirled off, trailed after a moment by Shardan Lim and then, with studied casualness, young Gorlas Vidikas.
Coll watched them depart.
Estraysian D’Arle moved to his side and, taking him by the arm, led him towards a private alcove — the ones designed precisely for extra-chamber politicking. Two servants delivered chilled white wine and then quickly departed.
‘That was close,’ Estraysian murmured.
‘He’s young. And stupid. A family trait? Possibly.’
‘There was no bribe, was there?’
Coll frowned. ‘Not as such. The official reasons given are just as Orr claimed. Flimsy.’
‘Yes. And he was not privy to the unofficial ones.’
‘No. Wrong committee.’
‘Hardly an accident. That ambitious trio’s been given places on every meaningless committee we can think of — but that’s not keeping them busy enough, it seems. They still find time to get in our way.’
‘One day,’ said Coll, ‘they will indeed be as dangerous as they think they are.’
Outside the building, standing in the bright sun, the three ambitious young counsellors formed a sort of island in a sea of milling pigeons. None took note of the cooing on all sides.
‘I’ll have that bastard’s head one day,’ said Hanut Orr. ‘On a spike outside my gate.’
‘You were careless,’ said Shardan Lim, doing little to disguise his contempt.
Stung, Orr’s gloved hand crept to the grip of his rapier. ‘I’ve had about enough of you, old friend. It’s clear you inherited every mewling weakness of your predecessor. I admit I’d hoped for something better.’
‘Listen to you two,’ said Gorlas Vidikas. ‘Bitten by a big dog so here you are snapping at each other, and why? Because the big dog’s
Hanut Orr snorted, ‘So speaks the man who can’t keep his wife on a tight enough leash.’
Was the perfect extension of the metaphor deliberate? Who can say? In any case, to the astonishment of both Orr and Lim, Gorlas Vidikas simply smiled, us if appreciative of the riposte. He made a show of brushing dust from his cuffs. ‘Well then, I will leave you to. . whatever, as I have business that will take me out of the city for the rest of the day.’
‘That Ironmonger will never get on the Council, Vidikas,’ Shardan Lim said. ‘There’s no available seat and that situation’s not likely to change any time soon. This partnership of yours will take you nowhere and earn you nothing.’
‘On the contrary, Shardan. I am getting
There was no denying Seba Krafar’s natural air of brutality. He was a large, bearish man, and though virtually none of the people he pushed past while crossing the market’s round knew him for the Master of the Assassin’s Guild, they none the less quickly retreated from any confrontation; and if any might, in their own natural belligerence, consider a bold challenge to this rude oaf, why, a second, more searching glance disavowed them of any such notions.
He passed through the press like a heated knife through pig fat, a simile most suited to his opinion of humanity and his place within it. One of the consequences of this attitude, however, was that his derisive regard led to a kind of arrogant carelessness. He took no notice whatsoever of the nondescript figure who fell into his wake.
The nearest cellar leading down into the tunnels was at the end of a narrow, straight alley that led to a dead end. The steps to the cellar ran along the back of the last building on the left. The cellar had once served as a storage repository for coal, in the days before the harnessing of gas — back when the notion of poisoning one’s own air in the name of brainless convenience seemed reasonable (at least to people displaying their lazy stupidity with smug pride). Now, the low-ceilinged chamber squatted empty and sagging beneath three levels of half-rotted tenement rooms in symbolic celebration of modernity.
From the shutterless windows babies cried to the accompaniment of clanking cookware and slurred arguments, sounds as familiar to Seba Krafar as the rank air of the alley itself. His thoughts were busy enough to justify his abstracted state. Fear warred with greed in a mutual, ongoing exchange of masks which were in fact virtually identical, but never mind that; the game was ubiquitous enough, after all. Before too long, in any case, the two combatants would end up supine with exhaustion. Greed usually won, but carried fear on its back.
