‘Yet of noble blood, I presume?’
‘Most noble, sir, most noble. But we have travelled far—’
‘In the company of misfortune, it seems,’ cut in Fangatooth, finally showing his teeth in the smile he offered his guests.
Bauchelain waved one pale, long-fingered hand. ‘If the past pursues, it is leagues in our wake. While the future holds only promise, and should that promise be nothing more than one foot following the other, pray it continues without end.’
Fangatooth frowned, and then he said, ‘Yes, just so. Please, my dear guests, shall we retire to the sitting room? A fire burns in the hearth and mulled wine awaits us, in keeping with the season. Scribe? I trust you have recorded this momentous … moment?’
‘I have indeed, milord.’
‘Excellent!’
‘I wonder, good sir,’ ventured Bauchelain, ‘if this keep has a spacious kitchen?’
‘It has. Why do you ask?’
‘As I said earlier. Nostalgia. It was in the kitchen where I skulked the most as a child, and where, indeed, I learned the art of baking.’
‘Baking? How curious.’
‘I would be delighted with a tour later.’
‘I don’t see why not.’
Bauchelain smiled.
‘What wuz I drinking?’ Emancipor asked, as the room tilted back and forth, as if he still stood on a deck, amidst rolling swells. The walls bowed in sickly rhythm, the floor lifting and falling beneath him.
‘Rum,’ said Feloovil. ‘You’re celebrating.’
‘I am? What’s happened, then, for to be celerbating. Brating. Celeb … rating.’
‘The death of Lord Fangatooth Claw, of course.’
‘He’s dead?’
‘About to be.’
‘Is he sick, then?’
She scowled. ‘Listen, sober up, will you? You got half a pot of stew in you, damn me, and that wasn’t for free neither.’
‘I’m sober enough. It’s you who ain’t making any sense.’
‘They’re up there, right? In the keep. All together, the three of them. Blood will spill, and who will be left standing when it’s all done? You told me—’
‘Oh, that.’ Emancipor spread his legs wider to keep his balance. Feloovil swayed before him.
‘They’ll kill him, won’t they?’
‘Probbly.’
She smiled. ‘That’s what I like to hear, friend. Oh yes, and for that, why, it’s time for your reward.’
‘It’s my birthday,’ said Emancipor.
‘It is?’
‘Must be. Celerbating, rewards, but then, how do you know it’s my birthday? I don’t even know what day this is, or month for that matter.’ He shook his head. ‘You probbly got it wrong, which is typical, since everyone does. Or they forget. Like me. Is there any more rum? I’m not warmed up yet.’
‘Let me warm you up,’ Feloovil said, stepping closer. ‘Here, grab these. No, one for each hand. No, you keep missing. How can you miss these?’
‘They won’t sit still, that’s why.’
‘I named them, you know.’
‘You did? Why?’
‘Now that’s my secret, only you’re about to find out. Just you. Only you. It was a gift, you see. From Witch Hurl, who ruled here years back—’
‘What happened to her?’
‘No one knows. She just vanished one night. But that don’t matter, Mancy. It’s what she gave me. She had this statue, right? Very old. Some earth goddess or someone. She took all her power from it, for her magicks. In any case, whoever carved that statue could’ve been using me as a model, if you know what I mean.’
‘I thought you said it was old. How old are you, then?’
She scowled. ‘No, it wasn’t me. But it could’ve been. Especially my friends here – no, don’t look around, you idiot. The tits you’re holding. This one here, her name’s Stout, on account of her staying firm the way she does. And the other one’s Sidelopp, on account of … well.’
‘You’ve named your tits?’
‘Why not? They’re my friends.’
‘As in … bosom companions?’
Her eyes thinned. ‘Oh,’ she said, ‘I never thought of that one before. Thanks. Now, let go of them so I can get this tunic off, so you can see what she did to them. To make them just like the statue’s tits.’
‘I thought you said they already were.’
‘Almost, but now, aye, they are, Mancy.’
He watched while she turned her back, as if suddenly succumbing to modesty, and shrugged and tugged her way out of the heavy, stained tunic. Then she turned around.
Her breasts had no nipples. Instead, in place of them, were mouths, with soft, feminine lips painted bright red. As he stared, both tits blew him a kiss.
‘They got teeth, too,’ Feloovil said. ‘And tongues. But they can’t talk, which is probably a good thing. I think it’s a good thing, at least. Watch while I make them lick their lips.’
Emancipor spun round, staggered to the nearest corner of the room and threw up.
‘Hey!’ Feloovil shouted behind him. ‘That was half a pot of my best stew, damn you!’
Spilgit leaned away from the wall. ‘She yelled something,’ he whispered. ‘And then started berating him. Something about thinking he was a man of the world, only he isn’t. And then there were footsteps and someone trying to get out of the room.’
‘Only Ma’s locked it,’ Felittle said. ‘He can’t get out.’
Spilgit frowned across at her. ‘She’s done this before? What’s she doing to him? She locks men in her room? Why do they want to get out? Well, I mean, I would, but then I’d never go into her room in the first place. But he did, so he knew what was coming, more or less, didn’t he? But I swear I heard him gag, or something. It sounded like a gag – wait, is she strangling him or something? Does she kill them, Felittle? Is your mother a mass murderer?’
‘How should I know?’ she demanded from where she sat on the bed, her lizard cat sprawled across her thighs, the creature watching Spilgit with unblinking, yellow eyes. ‘Maybe I’ve seen her bury a body or two, out back. But that happens. It’s an inn, after all, with people in beds and old men trying to die smiling, and all that.’
‘She’s buried people out back?’
‘Well, dead ones, of course. Not like Ackle.’
‘Ackle wasn’t dead.’
‘Yes he was.’
‘Not a chance. The noose strangled him bad, that’s true, and probably killed bits of his brain, which was why he looked dead to everyone. But he wasn’t, and that’s why he came back. Gods below, I can’t believe the superstitions you have here in this wretched backwater. No, you’ve not treated him well since then, have you? It’s a disgrace.’
Felittle blinked at him. ‘Backwater? Are you calling Spendrugle, where I was born, a backwater? So what am I, then? A backwaterian? Is that what I am to you, Mister Big Smelly City?’
Spilgit hurried over, recoiling at the last moment from Red’s savage hiss and raised hackles. ‘Darling, of course not. Every dung heap has a hidden gem, and you’re it. I mean, if I didn’t find you lovely and all, would I offer to help you escape? And,’ he went on, still trying to get closer but Red was now on its feet, dorsal spines arching and ears flattened and mouth opened wide, ‘if you didn’t think this was a backwater you wouldn’t want to get away, would you?’
‘Who says I want to get away?’
‘You do! Don’t you remember, my sweet?’
‘It was you who wanted to steal me away, and I listened and all, and so you convinced me. But maybe I like it here, and once Ma lets me start working with the other girls, I’ll—’
‘But she won’t, Felittle,’ Spilgit said, looking for something he could use as a weapon on the cat. ‘That’s just it. She’ll never let you do that. She’ll see you stay a virgin, a spinster, all your life. You know it, too.’ He found a brass candlestick on the dresser and collected it up.