«Alas, the very same dream propels these many-toed implements beneath these wobbly knees.» He sighed. «Ever the same dream.» And so it was. He saw before him the sun riding the distant hilltop, a copper disc through woodsmoke haze. His feet carried him down the winding dirt street of Gadrobi Shantytown the shacks and huts on either side crouching in the gathering gloom. Old men wrapped in the dingy yellow rags of lepers squatted over nearby cookfires, falling silent as he passed.
Similarly clad women stood by the muddy well, pausing in their endless dunking of cats-a bemusing activity, its symbolism lost on the man as he hurried past.
He crossed Maiten River bridge, passed through the dwindling Gadrobi Herder camps, out on to the open road flanked by vineyard plantations. He lingered here, thinking of the wine these succulent grapes would produce. But dreams carried on with their own momentum, and the thought was but fleeting in its passage.
He knew his mind was in flight-fleeing the doomed city at his back, fleeing the dark, brooding smudge in the sky above it; but most of all, fleeing all that he knew and all that he was.
For some, the talent they possessed found its channel through a toss of knucklebones, the reading of heat fractures in scapulae, or the Fatid of the Deck of Dragons. For Kruppe, he had no need of any such affectations. The power of divination was in his head and he could not deny it, no matter how hard he tried. Within the walls of his skull rang the dirge of prophecy, and it echoed through his bones.
He muttered under his breath. «Of course this is a dream, the flight of sleep. Perhaps, thinks Kruppe, he will in truth escape this time. None could call Kruppe a fool, after all. Fat with sloth and neglect, yes; inclined to excesses, indeed, somewhat clumsy with a bowl of soup, most certainly. But not a fool. Such times are upon us when the wise man must choose. Is it not wisdom to conclude that other lives are of less importance than one's own? Of course, very wise. Yes, Kruppe is wise.»
He paused to catch his breath. The hills and the sun before him seemed no closer. Such were dreams like the hastening of youth into adulthood, a precipitous course one could never turn back on-but who mentioned youth? Or one youth in particular? «Surely not wise Kruppe! His mind wanders-Kruppe excuses the pun magnanimously-racked by the misery of his soles, which are tired, nay, half worn out from this reckless pace. Blisters have already appeared, no doubt. The foot cries out for a warm, soapy balm. Its companion joins in the chorus. Ah! Such a litany! Such a wail of despair! Cease complaining, dear wings of flight. How far is the sun, anyway? just beyond the hills, Kruppe is certain. No more than that, surely. Yes, as certain as an ever-spinning coin-but who spoke of coins? Kruppe proclaims his innocence!» A breeze swept into his dream, down from the north carrying with it the smell of rain. Kruppe began fastening his threadbare coat. He drew in his belly in an effort to secure the last two buttons, but succeeded in clasping only one. «Even in sleep,» he groaned, «guilt makes its point.»
He blinked against the wind. «Rain? But the year has just begun! Does it rain in the spring? Kruppe has never before concerned himself with such mundane matters. Perhaps this scent is no more than the lake's own breath. Yes, indeed. The question is settled.» He squinted at the dark ridge of clouds above Lake Azur.
«Must Kruppe run? Nay, where is his pride? His dignity? Not once have they shown their faces in Kruppe's dreams. Is there no shelter on yon road? Ah, Kruppe's feet are flailed, his soles bloodied shreds of throbbing flesh! What's this?»
Up ahead was a crossroads. A building squatted on a low rise just beyond. Candlelight bled from its shuttered windows.
Kruppe smiled. «Of course, an inn. Far has the journey been, clear the need for a place of rest and relaxation for the weary traveller. Such as Kruppe, wizened adventurer with more than a few leagues under his belt, not to mention spanning it.» He hurried forward.
A broad, bare-limbed tree marked the crossroads. From one heavy branch something long and wrapped in burlap swung creaking in the wind. Kruppe spared it but the briefest glance. He came to the path and began his ascent.
«Ill judgement, pronounces Kruppe. Inns for the dusty journeyman should not sit atop hills. The curse of climbing is discovering how great the distance yet to climb. A word to the proprietor shall be necessary.
«Once sweet ale has soothed the throat, slabs of juicy red meat and broiled yams eased the gullet, and clean, anointed bandages clothed the feet. Such repairs must take precedence over flaws in planning such as Kruppe sees here.»
His monologue fell away, replaced by gasps as he struggled up the path. When he arrived at the door Kruppe was so winded that he did not even so much as look up, merely pushed against the weathered panel until it swung inward with a squeal of rusty hinges. «Alas!» he cried, pausing to brush the sleeves of his coat. «A foamy tankard for this:»
His voice died as he surveyed the array of grimy faces turned to him.
«Methinks the business is poor,» he mumbled. The place was indeed an inn-or it had been, perhaps a century past. «'Tis rain in the night air,» he said, to the half-dozen beggars crouched around a thick tallow candle set on the earthen floor.
One of the fellows nodded. «We will grant you audience, hapless one.»
He waved at a straw mat. «Be seated and entertain our presence.»
Kruppe raised an eyebrow. «Kruppe is graced by your invitation, sire.»
He dipped his head, then strode forward. «But, please, do not think he is bereft of contributions to this honoured gathering.» He sat down crosslegged, grunting with the effort, and faced the one who had spoken. «He would break bread with you all.» From a sleeve he withdrew a small rye loaf A bread knife appeared in his other hand. «Known to friends an strangers alike is Kruppe, the man now seated before you. Inhabitant of yon glittering Darujhistan, the mystic jewel of Genabackis, the juicy grape ripe for picking.» He produced a chunk of goat cheese and smiled broadly at the faces before him. «And this is his dream.»
«So it is,» the beggars» spokesman said, his lined face crinkling with amusement. «It ever pleases us when we taste your particular flavour, Kruppe of Darujhistan. And always are we pleased at your travelling appetites.»
Kruppe laid down the rye loaf and cut slices. «Kruppe has always considered you mere aspects of himself, a half-dozen Hungers among many, as it were. Yet, for all your needs, you would urge what of your master? That he turn back from his flight, of course. That one's own skull is too worthy a chamber for deception to reign-and yet Kruppe assures you from long experience that all deceit is born in the mind and there it is nurtured while virtues starve.»
The spokesman accepted a slice of bread and smiled. «Perhaps we are your virtues, then.»
Kruppe paused to study the cheese in his hand. «A thought Kruppe has not considered before now, mingling with the silent observation of mould on this cheese. But alas, the subject is in danger of being lost within the maze of such semantics. Nor can beggars be choosers when it comes to cheese. You have returned once again, and Kruppe knows why, as he has already explained with admirable equanimity.»
«The Coin spins, Kruppe, still spins.» The spokesman's face lost its humour.
Kruppe sighed. He handed the chunk of goat cheese to the man seated on his right. «Kruppe hears it,» he conceded wearily. «He cannot help but hear it. An endless ringing that sings in the head. And for all that Kruppe has seen, for all that he suspects to be, he is just Kruppe, a man who would challenge the gods in their own game.»
«Perhaps we are your Doubts,» the spokesman said, «which you have never been afraid to face before, as you do now. Yet even we seek to turn you back, even we demand that you strive for the life of Darujhistan, for the life of your many friends, and for the life of the youth at whos feet the Coin shall fall.»