The Wurms of Blearmouth (10 page)

Seemingly mollified, Fangatooth smiled.

Emancipor leaned back, as the conversation at the other end of the table returned to its discussion of tyranny and whatnot. Against his own will, he thought back, with a shiver, to what he had seen in Feloovil’s bedroom. Those mouths had to have come from other people, other women. Cut off and sewn back on … but then, he’d seen teeth, and tongues. No, he decided, something wasn’t right there.

Pulling out his pipe, he tamped rustleaf into the bowl. Moments later, through clouds of smoke, he studied the scribe, Coingood. Scratching and scribbling, working through one wax tablet after another, the contents of which he’d then, presumably, transfer onto his lord’s vellum of virtues. A life trapped in letters seemed a frightful thing, and one at the behest of a madman probably had few high points. No, Emancipor was glad he was not in Coingood’s place.

Far better, obviously, this life of his, as manservant to a madman and his equally mad companion. Frowning, Emancipor reached for the nearest decanter of wine.
That’s what’s wrong with everything. It’s the mad who are in charge. Who decided that was a good idea? The gods, I suppose, but they’re madder than all the rest. We live under the jumpy heel of insanity, is what we do, and is it any wonder we drink, and worse?

At the far end of the table, the madmen were smiling, even Korbal Broach.

I think I want to kill someone.

“… a most fascinating principle,” his master was saying. “Are you absolutely consistent, sir, in hanging every stranger who visits your demesne?”

“For the most part,” Fangatooth replied. “I do make exceptions, of course. Hence your presence here, as my guests.”

“Now, sir,” said Bauchelain with a faint tilt of his head, “you are being disingenuous.”

“Excuse me?”

Through his smile, Korbal Broach said, “You poisoned our food.”

“Yellow paralt,” said Bauchelain, nodding. “Fortunately, both Korbal and I are long since inured to that particular poison.”

Emancipor choked on his wine. He struggled to his feet, clutching the sides of his head. “I’m poisoned?”

“Relax,” said Bauchelain, “I have been lacing your rustleaf with various poisons for some months now, Mister Reese. You are quite hale, as much as a man who daily imbibes all manner of poisons can be, of course.”

Emancipor fell back into his chair. “Oh. Well, that’s all right then.” He puffed hard on his pipe, glaring at Fangatooth.

The lord was sitting rather still. Then he slowly set his goblet down. “I assure you,” he said, “I had no idea. I will have words with my cook.”

“As you must,” said Bauchelain, rising. “But not before, I hope, I am able to visit this fine kitchen of yours. I still wish to do some baking tonight, and I do promise you, I have no interest in poisoning such efforts, and indeed will prove it to you at first opportunity, by eating any morsel you care to select from my plate of delectable offerings.” He rubbed at his hands, smiling broadly. “Why, I feel like a child again!”

“Alas,” said Fangatooth, and there was sweat on his high brow, “I regret this breach of trust between us.”

“No need, sir. It is forgotten, I assure you. Is that not correct, Korbal?”

“What?”

“The poison.”

“What about it? I want to go look at the bodies now.” He paused and sniffed, and then said, “A witch used to live here.”

Fangatooth blinked. “Indeed, some while back. Witch Hurl was her name. How extraordinary, Korbal, that you can still detect some essence of what must be the faintest of auras.”

“What?”

“That you can still smell her, I meant.”

“Who? Bauchelain, will there be icing on the cookies?”

“Of course, my friend.”

“Good. I like icing.”

Moments later, a shaky Lord Fangatooth escorted Bauchelain to the kitchens, while Korbal Broach drew on his heavy cloak and set out for the gates, still smiling.

Emancipor poured some more wine and eyed the scribe. “Coingood, is it?”

The poor man was rubbing his writing hand. The glance he shot at Emancipor was guarded. “Your masters—who in Hood’s name are they?”

“Adventurers, I suppose you could call them. There’s others names for them, of course, but that’s of no matter to me. I get paid, I stay alive, and life could be worse.”

Abruptly the scribe thumped the table. “My thoughts exactly! We got to do what we got to do, right?”

“Aye. It ain’t pretty, but then, we’d never say it was, would we?”

“Precisely, friend, precisely!”

“Join me, will you? Here, some more wine, assuming it’s not poisoned, too.”

“Of course not! That would be a terrible waste. Why, I will join you, friend. Why not? Let them bake, or whatever.”

“Aye, bake. My master does indeed love to bake.”

Shuffling over, Coingood shook his head. “Seems an odd thing to me, I admit.”

Oh friend, that makes two of us, believe me.
“He is full of surprises, is Bauchelain.”

“Fangatooth will draw and quarter the cook, you know.”

“For poisoning us, or failing at it?”

Coingood grinned, but said nothing.

Emancipor found a spare goblet and poured the man a glass. Then he lifted his own. “Here’s to minions.”

“Good! Yes! To minions!”

“The hapless and the helpless.”

They drank.

Vague motion through the iced-over window caught Spilgit’s eye and he leaned closer.

“More guests?” Ackle the Risen asked, leaning from one foot to the other. The front of his body was warm to the touch, but the back of his body, so close to the misaligned door, was frigid. When Spilgit made no reply, Ackle continued, “We’re in the same boat, my friend. Simply, we need to get out of Spendrugle. Now, winter’s a hard season in these here parts, I’ll grant you. But one of the Carter’s better wagons, a solid ox or two, and plenty of food, rum and furs, and we could make it to a city on the coast inside a week, or we head north, though the roads will be bad, and the winds—”

“For a supposed dead man, Ackle, you talk way too much.”

“What so fascinates you out there, then?”

“Three strangers.”

“They’re back? From the keep? Why—”

“Not them, you fool. Three other strangers. One of them’s all bandaged about the head, and limping. Another one’s a woman, half naked and that’s the half I can’t take my eyes off.

Ackle swung round and tugged open the door. He peered out. “A gull got one of her tits,” he said.

“That’s a birthmark, idiot.”

“Too white for that.”

“Ain’t no gulls, Ackle. Too cold for gulls. No, it’s a lack of pigment. Seen the like before, only not there, on the tit, I mean.”

The three strangers continued on to stop in front of the King’s Heel. They argued there for a moment, in some foreign language, and then went inside.

“Wonder if Hordilo’s going to arrest them?”

Spilgit sat back in his chair and sighed, rubbing at his eyes. “Might need a golem to do that. They were all armed.”

Ackle pushed the door shut as much as it was possible to do so, and then faced the tax collector again. “We could buy us a wagon and an ox, and stores and all, even for three of us, Spilgit, if you want to take Felittle. We could leave in the morning.”

“Oh, and how will we pay for all that? Carter’s no fool and won’t give credit.”

Ackle smiled. “Let’s find us a pair of shovels, shall we?”

“Oh, not this buried treasure rubbish again!”

“I wasn’t about to leave on my own, not with the cold and all. But now, well, here you are, Spilgit, with Feloovil planning to kill you a hundred ways. It’s only indecision that’s stayed her hand so far. As for Felittle, well, you should’ve heard her have a go at her ma. Things were said. Things there’s no going back on. If you want her, now’s the time, friend.”

“Friend? You’re not my friend.”

“Then partner.”

“I don’t partner with men who think they’re dead.”

“Why not? I imagine there’s some tax break involved.”

Spilgit studied Ackle for a long moment, and then shook his head. “Shovels. Fine, we’ll get some shovels. We’ll dig up your treasure and then snatch Felittle away and make Carter rich and then make our getaway. What a plan. Pure genius.”

“Genius isn’t required,” Ackle replied, “when it’s all straight forward, like I’ve been saying.”

Spilgit rose and collected up his threadbare cloak. “You never had the look of a wealthy man, Ackle.”

“Never got the chance, Spilgit. Now, where will we get some shovels?”

“Gravedigger’s place,” Spilgit replied. “We’ll offer to dig him a few holes, what with all the strangers about, and we’ll offer it cheap.”

Ackle hesitated. “I don’t like that man.”

“You should. You should bless the drunk every damned dawn and every damned sunset.”

“We’re not on speaking terms, is what I mean.”

Spilgit stared. “I’ll get the shovels, then.”

“I appreciate it, Spilgit. I really do. I’ll wait here.”

“If you’re wasting my time, Ackle…”

“I’m not. You’ll see.”

When Spilgit had left, Ackle moved round the small desk and sat in the chair. He spent a moment imagining himself as a tax collector, stuffy with official whatever, feared by all and charmed on every turn by those same horrible people. He let the scenes linger in his head, and then sighed. “No, I’d rather be dead.”

Hordilo was sick of escorting fools up to the keep. He was sick, in fact, of the whole thing. His responsibilities, the blood on his hands, the pointless repetition of it all, and the way every day ahead of him, down to the last day of his life, was probably going to be no different from all the days already behind him.

Most men dreamed the same things: a warm body to lie against, echoing their animal grunts; company at mealtimes; decent conversation and the floor free of scraps. But few men imagined a woman might want the same things, and then find them in a dog.

Wives were a curse, no doubt about it. So Hordilo had learned to trim down his dreams, as befitted a man made wise by years of grief and blissful ignorance horribly shattered on a fateful day when the world turned on its head and blew him a mocking kiss. It all came down to avoiding the pitfalls awaiting a decent man wanting a decent life, but that was never as easy as it should be.

He sat glowering at the table, ignoring the moans and complaints from all the scratched-up fools who’d been too slow or too drunk to escape the claws of Red the lizard cat, and studied the three newcomers lined up at the bar.

Now, a woman like that one would do me fine. She don’t mind her mostly nakedness, I see, and showing me that backside ain’t no accident, since I’m the only good-looking man in here and she eyed me coming in. Too knowing to be cold. Why, she could thaw a snared rabbit under hip-deep snow. And make it jump, at least once.

But no, he’d have to arrest her. Along with her two companions, and then see them all hanged until dead. What lord made a law that said being a stranger was against the law? The death sentence for having an unfamiliar face seemed a little harsh, as far as punishments went.

The three were speaking with Feloovil, but she was only half-listening, dabbing a damp cloth against the rake of claw-marks running down her right cheek. Finally, with an irritated gesture she indicated Hordilo and the three strangers swung round.

The bandaged one limped over. “You! You thook them up there? The keep? And they wath made guethth?”

Hordilo glared at the other two. “You elected this one your spokesman?”

The woman scowled. “Bauchelain and Korbal Broach, and Mancy the Luckless. They’re all up at the keep, are they?”

“They are, and you’re welcome to join them.”

“Thath awfully nithe of you,” the bandaged man said, nodding and smiling.

“Just take the track up to the gate and knock,” said Hordilo, waving one hand. Then he pointed at the woman. “But not you.”

“Why not me?”

“Got to question you.”

“About what?”

“I’m the one asking the questions, not you. Now, get over here and sit. You two, go on, up to the keep. There’ll be a fine meal awaiting you, I’m sure.”

“And her?” the third man asked, nodding at the woman.

“I’ll send her up anon.”

“Go on,” said the woman to her companions. “He’s the law around here.”

“I uphold the law,” Hordilo corrected her. “It’s Lord Fangatooth’s law.”

“Lord what?”

“Fangatooth. You all think that’s funny? Go and tell him so, then.”

When the two men had finished their drinks and left, the woman carried her tankard over and sat down opposite Hordilo. She studied him with level eyes and that was a look Hordilo knew all too well.

“Is that what you think?” he asked in a growl.

“Why shouldn’t I?’ she retorted, slouching and setting her tankard down on the thigh of the lone leg she stretched out—the one bare and pale and with a delicious curved line where the meat of it slung down from the chair’s edge, and the sight of that made Hordilo want to fall to his hands and knees and crawl up under that thigh, if only to feel its weight on the back of his neck. He shifted about, felt sweat everywhere under his clothing.

“I don’t like it when women think that,” he said.

One brow arched. “If you weren’t that way then no woman would think it, would she?”

“I wasn’t until some woman did me in, not that I was ever married, of course, but if I had been, why, she would’ve done me in, all because she was thinking what she was thinking.”

“You’re blaming the water for the hole it fills.”

“I’ve just seen that too many times,” Hordilo said, feeling surly. “Women thinking.”

“If that’s what you think, why talk to me? You could’ve questioned Gust Hubb, or Heck, even. But you didn’t. You picked me, on account of me being a woman. So let’s face it, you keep making the same mistakes in your life and I ain’t to blame for that, am I?”

“If we’re talking blame here,” Hordilo retorted, “then it was you that sat down thinking what you were thinking. I ain’t blind and I ain’t dumb and I don’t take kindly to being thought of that way, when we only just met.”