The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen (713 page)

Bugg scratched his mostly hairless pate, then sighed. ‘It's the unusually cold water,' he said. ‘These like their mud warm.'

‘Cold water? Can't you do something about that?'

‘Bugg's Hydrogation.'

‘You're branching out?'

‘No, I was just trying on the title.'

‘How do you hydrogate?'

‘I have no idea. Well, I have, but it's not quite a legitimate craft.'

‘Meaning it belongs in the realm of the gods.'

‘Mostly. Although,' he said, brightening, ‘with the recent spate of flooding, and given my past experience in engineering dry foundations, I begin to see some possibilities.'

‘Can you soak investors?'

Bugg grimaced. ‘Always seeing the destructive side, aren't you, Master?'

‘It's my opportunistic nature. Most people,' he added, ‘would view that as a virtue. Now, are you truly telling me you can't save this poor fish?'

‘Master, it's already dead.'

‘Is it? Oh. Well, I guess we now have supper.'

‘More like fifteen suppers.'

‘In any case, I have an appointment, so I will see you and the fish at home.'

‘Why, thank you, Master.'

‘Didn't I tell you this morning walk would prove beneficial?'

‘Not for the capabara, alas.'

‘Granted. Oh, by the way, I need you to make me a list.'

‘Of what?'

‘Ah, I will have to tell you that later. As I said, I am late for an appointment. It just occurred to me: is this fish too big for you to carry by yourself?'

‘Well,' Bugg said, eyeing the carcass, ‘it's small as far as capabara go – remember the one that tried to mate with a galley?'

‘The betting on that outcome overwhelmed the Drownings. I lost everything I had that day.'

‘Everything?'

‘Three copper docks, yes.'

‘What outcome did you anticipate?'

‘Why, small rowboats that could row themselves with big flippery paddles.'

‘You're late for your appointment, Master.'

‘Wait! Don't look! I need to do something unseemly right now.'

‘Oh, Master, really.'

 

Spies stood on street corners. Small squads of grey rain-caped Patriotists moved through the throngs that parted to give them wide berth as they swaggered with gloved hands resting on their belted truncheons, and on their faces the bludgeon arrogance of thugs. Tehol Beddict, wearing his blanket like a sarong, walked with the benign grace of an ascetic from some obscure but harmless cult. Or at least he hoped so. To venture onto the streets of Letheras these days involved a certain measure of risk that had not existed in King Ezgara Diskanar's days of pleasant neglect. While on the one hand this lent an air of intrigue and danger to every journey – including shopping for over-ripe root crops – there were also the taut nerves that one could not quell, no matter how many mouldy turnips one happened to be carrying.

Compounding matters, in this instance, was the fact that he was indeed intent on subversion. One of the first victims in this new regime had been the Rat Catchers' Guild. Karos Invictad, the Invigilator of the Patriotists, had acted on his first day of officialdom, despatching fully a hundred agents to Scale House, the modest Guild headquarters, whereupon they effected arrests on scores of Rat Catchers, all of whom, it later turned out, were illusions – a detail unadvertised, of course, lest the dread Patriotists announce their arrival to cries of ridicule. Which would not do.

After all, tyranny has no sense of humour. Too thin-skinned, too thoroughly full of its own self-importance. Accordingly, it presents an almost overwhelming temptation – how can I not be excused the occasional mockery?
Alas, the Patriotists lacked flexibility in such matters – the deadliest weapon against them was derisive laughter, and they knew it.

He crossed Quillas Canal at a lesser bridge, made his way into the less ostentatious north district, and eventually sauntered into a twisting, shadow-filled alley that had once been a dirt street, before the invention of four-wheeled wagons and side-by-side horse collars. Instead of the usual hovels and back doors that one might expect to find in such an alley, lining this one were shops that had not changed in any substantial way in the past seven hundred or so years. There, first to the right, the Half-Axe Temple of Herbs, smelling like a swamp's sinkhole, wherein one could find a prune-faced witch who lived in a mudpit, with all her precious plants crowding the banks, or growing in the insect-flecked pool itself. It was said she had been born in that slime and was only half human; and that her mother had been born there too, and her mother and so on. That such conceptions were immaculate went without saying, since Tehol could hardly imagine any reasonable or even unreasonable man taking that particular plunge.

Opposite the Half-Axe was the narrow-fronted entrance to a shop devoted to short lengths of rope and wooden poles a man and a half high. Tehol had no idea how such a specialized enterprise could survive, especially in this unravelled, truncated market, yet its door had remained open for almost six centuries, locked up each night by a short length of rope and a wooden pole.

The assortment proceeding down the alley was similar only in its peculiarity. Wooden stakes and pegs in one, sandal thongs in another – not the sandals, just the thongs. A shop selling leaky pottery – not an indication of incompetence: rather, the pots were deliberately made to leak at various, precise rates of loss; a place selling unopenable boxes, another toxic dyes. Ceramic teeth, bottles filled with the urine of pregnant women, enormous amphorae containing dead pregnant women; the excreta of obese hogs; and miniature pets – dogs, cats, birds and rodents of all sorts, each one reduced in size through generation after generation of selective breeding – Tehol had seen guard dogs standing no higher than his ankle, and while cute and appropriately yappy, he had doubts as to their efficacy, although they were probably a terror for the thumbnail-sized mice and the cats that could ride an old woman's big toe, secured there by an ingenious loop in the sandal's thong.

Since the outlawing of the Rat Catchers' Guild, Adventure Alley had acquired a new function, to which Tehol now set about applying himself with the insouciance of the initiated. First, into the Half-Axe, clawing his way through the vines immediately beyond the entrance, then drawing up one step short of pitching head-first into the muddy pool.

Splashing, thick slopping sounds, then a dark-skinned wrinkled face appeared amidst the high grasses fringing the pit. ‘It's you,' the witch said, grimacing then slithering out her overlong tongue to display all the leeches attached to it.

‘And it's you,' Tehol replied.

The red protuberance with all its friends went back inside. ‘Come in for a swim, you odious man.'

‘Come out and let your skin recover, Munuga. I happen to know you're barely three decades old.'

‘I am a map of wisdom.'

‘As a warning against the perils of overbathing, perhaps. Where's the fat root this time?'

‘What have you got for me first?'

‘What I always have. The only thing you ever want from me, Munuga.'

‘The only thing you'll never give, you mean!'

Sighing, Tehol drew out from under his makeshift sarong a small vial. He held it up for her to see.

She licked her lips, which proved alarmingly complicated. ‘What kind?'

‘Capabara roe.'

‘But I want yours.'

‘I don't produce roe.'

‘You know what I mean, Tehol Beddict.'

‘Alas, poverty is more than skin deep. Also, I have lost all incentive to be productive, in any sense of the word. After all, what kind of a world is this that I'd even contemplate delivering a child into?'

‘Tehol Beddict, you cannot deliver a child. You're a man. Leave the delivering to me.'

‘Tell you what, climb out of that soup, dry out and let me see what you're supposed to look like, and who knows? Extraordinary things might happen.'

Scowling, she held out an object. ‘Here's your fat root. Give me that vial, then go away.'

‘I so look forward to next time—'

‘Tehol Beddict, do you know what fat root is used for?'

Her eyes had sharpened with suspicion, and Tehol realized that, were she indeed to dry out, she might be rather handsome after all, in a vaguely amphibian way. ‘No, why?'

‘Are you required to partake of it in some bizarre fashion?'

He shook his head.

‘Are you certain? No unusual tea smelling yellow?'

‘Smelling yellow? What does that mean?'

‘If you smelled it, you'd know. Clearly, you haven't. Good. Get out, I'm puckering.'

 

A hasty departure, then, from the Half-Axe. Onward, to the entrance to Grool's Immeasurable Pots. Presumably, that description was intended to emphasize unmatched quality or something similar, since the pots themselves were sold as clocks, and for alchemical experiments and the like, and such functions were dependent on accurate rates of flow.

He stepped inside the cramped, damp shop.

‘You're always frowning when you come in here, Tehol Beddict.'

‘Good morning, Laudable Grool.'

‘The grey one, yes, that one there.'

‘A fine-looking pot—'

‘It's a beaker, not a pot.'

‘Of course.'

‘Usual price.'

‘Why do you always hide behind all those pots, Laudable Grool? All I ever see of you is your hands.'

‘My hands are the only important part of me.'

‘All right.' Tehol drew out a recently removed dorsal fin. ‘A succession of spines, these ones from a capabara. Gradating diameters—'

‘How do you know that?'

‘Well, you can see it – they get smaller as they go back.'

‘Yes, but how precise?'

‘That's for you to decide. You demand objects with which to make holes. Here you have…what…twelve. How can you not be pleased by that?'

‘Who said I wasn't pleased? Put them on the counter. Take the beaker. And get that damned fat root out of here.'

From there it was across to the small animals shop and Beastmonger Shill, an oversized woman endlessly bustling up and down the rows of tiny stacked cages, on her flattened heels a piping, scurrying swarm of little creatures. She squealed her usual delight at the gifts of beaker and fat root, the latter of which, it turned out, was most commonly used by malicious wives to effect the shrinkage of their husbands' testicles; whilst Shill had, with some delicate modifications, applied the root's diminutive properties to her broods, feeding the yellow-smelling tea out in precise increments using the holed beaker.

The meeting soured when Tehol slapped at a mosquito on his neck, only to be informed he had just killed a pygmy blood-sucking bat. His reply that the distinction was lost on him was not well received. But Shill opened the trapdoor on the floor at the back of the shop nevertheless, and Tehol descended the twenty-six narrow, steep stone steps to the crooked corridor – twenty-one paces long – that led to the ancient, empty beehive tomb, the walls of which had been dismantled in three places to fashion rough doorways into snaking, low-ceilinged tunnels, two of which ended in fatal traps. The third passageway eventually opened out into a long chamber occupied by a dozen or so dishevelled refugees, most of whom seemed to be asleep.

Fortunately, Chief Investigator Rucket was not among the somnolent. Her brows rose when she saw him, her admirable face filling with an expression of unfeigned relief as she gestured him to her table. The surface was covered in parchment sheets depicting various floor plans and structural diagrams.

‘Sit, Tehol Beddict! Here, some wine! Drink. By the Errant, a new face! You have no idea how sick I am of my interminable companions in this hovel.'

‘Clearly,' he replied, sitting, ‘you need to get out more.'

‘Alas, most of my investigations these days are archival in nature.'

‘Ah, the Grand Mystery you've uncovered. Any closer to a solution?'

‘Grand Mystery? More like Damned Mystery, and no, I remain baffled, even as my map grows with every day that passes. But let's not talk any more about that. My agents report that the cracks in the foundation are inexorably spreading – well done, Tehol. I always figured you were smarter than you looked.'

‘Why thank you, Rucket. Have you got those lacquered tiles I asked for?'

‘Onyx finished the last one this morning. Sixteen in all, correct?'

‘Perfect. Bevelled edges?'

‘Of course. All of your instructions were adhered to with diligence.'

‘Great. Now, about that inexorable spreading—'

‘You wish us to retire to my private room?'

‘Uh, not now, Rucket. I need some coin. An infusion to bolster a capital investment.'

‘How much?'

‘Fifty thousand.'

‘Will we ever see a return?'

‘No, you'll lose it all.'

‘Tehol, you certainly do take vengeance a long way. What is the benefit to us, then?'

‘Why, none other than the return to pre-eminence of the Rat Catchers' Guild.'

Her rather dreamy eyes widened. ‘The end of the Patriotists? Fifty thousand? Will seventy-five be better? A hundred?'

‘No, fifty is what I need.'

‘I do not anticipate any objections from my fellow Guild Masters.'

‘Wonderful.' He slapped his hands together, then rose.

She frowned up at him. ‘Where are you going?'

‘Why, to your private room, of course.'

‘Oh, how nice.'

His gaze narrowed on her. ‘Aren't you joining me, Rucket?'

‘What would be the point? The name “fat root” is a woman's joke, you know.'

‘I haven't drunk any yellow-smelling tea!'

‘In the future, I advise you to use gloves.'