Throughout this, Fangatooth was making rolling gestures with his hand, almost in the scribe’s face, and Coingood scratched away as fast as he could.
‘The corpse, my friend,’ continued Bauchelain, ‘is the truth of power laid bare. Undisguised, stripped away of all obfuscation. Why, the corpse exists in all forms of governance. May it rest beneath soft velvet, or perch gilded in gold, or hold aloft gem-studded swords. It remains a most poignant, if silent, rebuke to all those absurd notions of equality so common among troublemakers.’ Bauchelain paused and sipped at his wine. ‘The corpse can only be the friend of the one in power. Like a bedmate, a cold lover, a bony standard, a throne of clammy flesh.’ He lifted his goblet. ‘Shall we toast the corpse, my friends?’
From the far end of the table, Emancipor belched and said, ‘Aye, Master, that’s one to drink to, all right.’
Fangatooth paused with his goblet almost touching his lips, and turned to eye Emancipor. ‘Good Bauchelain, you permit your manservant such crass interruptions?’
‘I do indulge him, it is true,’ Bauchelain replied. ‘With respect to the subject at hand, however, Mister Reese is something of an expert. Among the sailing community, he is known as Mancy the Luckless, for the misfortune that plagues his maritime ventures. Is that not so, Mister Reese?’
‘Aye, Master. Me and the sea, we’re uneasy bedmates all right. I’ll have some more of that wine there, if you please.’
‘Yet,’ Bauchelain resumed, ‘you do seem out of sorts, Mister Reese. Have you caught a chill, perhaps?’
‘Chill? Aye, Master, down to the white roots of my hoary soul, but it ain’t nothing a little drink won’t fix. Lord Fangatooth, thank you for the escort you provided me up here. I doubt I would have survived otherwise.’
‘Trouble in the village?’ Bauchelain inquired.
‘Some, Master, but I got away and that’s all that counts.’
‘Dear Mister Reese,’ said Fangatooth, ‘I do apologize if you have been in some manner inconvenienced in Spendrugle.’
‘Milord, some things no man should ever see, and when he does, why, decades of his life are swept away from his future. This is the shiver that takes the bones, the shadow of Hood himself, and it leaves a man stumbling, for a time. So, for the warm fire and the full belly, and all this wine here, I do thank you.’
‘Well said,’ Bauchelain added, nodding.
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.’