And I will be a tax collector. With iron for eyes, a mouth thinned to a dagger’s edge, straight and disinclined to warp into anything resembling a genuine smile. No, this upturn of this here mouth, it signals the delightful pleasure of evil.
Eviclass="underline" the way it flows out from the deed, the way it spreads its stain of injustice. Eviclass="underline" smelling of sweet lies and bitter truths. We own the tax laws. We know every way around them, meaning we never pay up a single sliver of tin, but you do, oh yes, you do.
He struggled to wrap a cloth around his wounded calf, cursing his numbed fingers. At least, he consoled himself, he had killed the cat. There was no way it could have survived, despite its twitching body, or the way it sank its claws into the wall, spread-eagled as it tried to pull its head free, tail curling like a wood shaving to the flicker of flame. Oh, who was he kidding? The damned thing still lived.
And if the roads fall into ruin, and the city guards starve without their bribes; and people live on the streets and need to sell their children to make ends meet. And if the judges are all bought off and the jailers sport gold rings, and everything that was once free now costs, why, that’s just how it is, and which side of the wall do I want to be standing on?
He understood things now. He saw with utter clarity. The world was falling into ruin, but then it was always falling into ruin. Once that was comprehended, why, the evil of every moment – this entire endless realm of now – made perfect sense. He would join the others, all those bloated greed merchants, and ride the venal present, and to Hood with the future, and to Hood with the past. The Lord of Death awaited them all in the end anyway.
The door scraped open and Spilgit bleated, reaching for his knife.
‘It’s just me,’ said Ackle, peering in.
‘Gods below!’
‘Can I join you? I brought some wood.’
Spilgit waved him in. ‘Try and close that behind you. Funny you should drop by, Ackle. It occurs to me that we have something in common.’
‘Aye, we’re both dead men.’
Spilgit sighed, and then rubbed at his face. ‘If we stay in Spendrugle all winter, we are.’
‘Well, I could stay around. Unless I freeze solid. Then Hordilo will burn me in a pyre and I saw the look in his eyes when he said that. It’s all down to Feloovil being nice to me, and that’s why I’m here, in fact.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean, all is forgiven. And if that’s not enough, why, Feloovil has decided to wipe clean your tab. And you still have your room.’
Spilgit studied the man levelly. ‘You should be ashamed of yourself, Ackle.’
‘The dead are beyond shame, Spilgit. That said, I admit to some qualms, but like I said, I need somewhere warm for the winter.’
‘She actually expects me to go back to the Heel with you? Arm in arm?’
‘Well, it’s hard to say, honestly. She is a bit beside herself at the moment. Poor Felittle is distraught, with what you did to her.’
‘I didn’t do anything to her! The cat attacked me and I defended myself.’
‘Then it went and attacked Feloovil, too, once it got its head out of the wall. And then the damned thing attacked just about everybody else – all the customers and half the girls, and down in the bar, well, it was chaos. The place is a shambles. Two dead dogs, too, their throats ripped out. I take that bit hard, by the way.’
Spilgit licked his lips, and then pointed a finger at Ackle. ‘Didn’t I warn them? Didn’t I? Lizard cats can’t be domesticated! They’re vicious, treacherous, foul-tempered and they smell like moulted snakeskin.’
‘I wasn’t aware of any smell,’ Ackle said.
‘Did they kill it?’
‘No, it got away, but Feloovil swore she’d skewer it if it ever tried to come back, which made Felittle burst into tears again, and that got all the girls going, especially when the customers started demanding their money back, or at least compensation for wounded members and such.’
‘What was Hordilo doing during all of this?’
‘Gone, escorting that manservant up to the keep. He said he’d never seen such a scene since his wife left. Not that he was ever married.’
‘Before my time,’ Spilgit muttered, shrugging and looking out the small window, peering through patches in the ice. ‘Anyway, if I go back with you, she’ll kill me.’
‘At least it’ll improve her mood.’
‘And this is proof of how people just look out for themselves! Which is precisely why they all hate tax collectors. It’s the one time when someone is asking something of you, from you, and you get that murderous look in your eye and start blathering on about theft and extortion and corruption and all the rest. Take any man or woman and squeeze them and they start making the same sounds, the same whimpers and whines, the same wheedling and moaning. They’d rather bleed themselves than give up a coin!’
‘I’m sorry, Spilgit, but what’s your point? In any case, it’s not like you can tax me, is it? I’m dead.’
‘You’re not dead!’
‘Just what a tax collector would say, isn’t it?’
‘You think we don’t know that scam? Faking your death to avoid paying? You think we’re all idiots?’
‘I’m not faking anything. I was hanged. You saw it yourself. Hanged until dead. Now I’m back, maybe to haunt you.’
‘Me?’
‘How many curses do you imagine are hanging over you, Spilgit? How many demons are waiting for you once you die? How many fiery realms and vats of acid? The torment you deliver in this mortal life will be returned upon you a thousandfold, the day you step through Hood’s gate.’
‘Rubbish. We sell you that shit so we can get away with whatever we damn well please. “Oh, I’ll get mine in the end!” Utter cat-turd, Ackle. Who do you think invented religion? Tax collectors!’
‘I thought religion was invented by the arbitrary hierarchy obsessed with control and power to justify their elite eminence over their enslaved subjects.’
‘Same people, Ackle.’
‘I don’t see you lording it over any of us here, Spilgit.’
‘Because you refuse to accept my authority! And for that I blame Lord Fangatooth Claw!’
‘Feloovil says that the manservant’s masters are going to kill him.’
Spilgit leaned forward. ‘Really? Give me that wood, damn you. Let’s get some heat in here. Tell me more!’
With Sordid and Bisk Fatter working the oars, Wormlick was up at the prow, studying the beach ahead with narrowed eyes. ‘He’s a comber, I’d say,’ he said in a hoarse growl. ‘No trouble to us, and that’s their boat, pulled up on the strand.’
There’d be words. There’d be answers, even if Wormlick had to slice open their bellies and pull out their intestines. Most of all, there’d be payback. He scratched vigorously through his heavy beard, probed with light fingertips the small red rings marking his cheeks. He’d have to cut them out again, never a pleasant task, and he never got them all out. The damned worms knew when they were under assault, and spat eggs out in panic, and before too long he’d have more rings on his face, and neck. It was all part of his life, like cutting his hair, or washing out his underclothes. Once a month, every month, for as long as he could remember.
But getting back the loot stolen from them, why, he could find a proper healer. A Denul healer, who would take his coin and rid him of the worms that had given him his name. Coin could pay for anything, even a return to beauty, and one day, he’d be beautiful again.