‘How did you know?’ she asked him.
He shrugged, sitting up on the bed and reaching for his trousers. ‘It’s all there, in your pretty face.’
She opened the door behind her and stepped out into the corridor. Hearing the latch drop in her wake, she made her way to the stairs. Gods, when a woman needs a drink so soon after sex, that’s a bad sign for everyone concerned.
Reaching the top of the landing she heard a door open behind her and turned. A young woman was edging out, and there was enough about her that made it clear to Birds Mottle that this was Feloovil’s daughter. Seeing Birds, the young woman hurried over. ‘Who are they?’ she asked in a whisper.
‘Always a good question,’ Birds replied. ‘Who is who?’
‘Those huge men coming up the street. And one woman. Friends of yours?’
‘Huge?’
‘Giant!’
Birds pushed past her and hurried back up the corridor. She threw open the door to Hordilo’s room. ‘You were right! I need you. I want you. Let’s get married! Find us a shack somewhere out of the village, where we can hide away, making wild love for days on end!’
Hordilo stood, thumbs tucked into his sword belt. ‘A shack? Somewhere remote? Secluded, private, where no one will disturb us? Sounds like my farmhouse. Ain’t been there since, well, since a while now.’ He smiled at her. ‘Who’s the man with all the answers?’
‘You!’ she cried, rushing into his arms.
Tiny Chanter threw open the inn door and stepped forward, only to bang his head on the jamb. ‘Ow,’ he said, ducking and continuing on. Over his shoulder he said, ‘Lesser, Puny, fix that door, will you?’
Behind him the two brothers started hacking at the plastered beam with their axes.
‘Hey!’ Feloovil shouted from behind the bar. ‘Stop that!’
‘Needs doing,’ Tiny said, glaring round. ‘Too low for a proper man, anyway.’
‘Then you duck!’
Tiny bared his teeth. ‘Tiny Chanter don’t duck for nothing.’
‘Glad to hear it,’ Feloovil said, throwing a tankard at his head. It cracked hard just above his left eye, fell to a table and bounced and then dropped to the muddy floor.
‘For that you die!’ Tiny bellowed, one hand to his forehead.
‘Before or after I serve you?’ Feloovil asked.
‘Make it after,’ said Relish, slipping past her brother. ‘I’m thirsty and famished!’
Flea went to a table and dragged locals from their chairs and flung them into a corner, and then he turned to his siblings. ‘Found us a table, Tiny!’
As Lesser and Puny, putting away their axes, hurried to join Flea, Scant and Midge, Tiny pointed a finger at Feloovil. ‘Ale. Food. Now.’
‘Pay. First.’
‘Tiny Chanter don’t pay for nothing.’
‘Tiny Chanter gets hungry and thirsty, and so do his brothers and sister. Not only that,’ Feloovil continued, ‘they all get to sit outside, on the ground.’
‘Gods below,’ Relish said to Tiny, ‘cough up some coin, brother, so she don’t spit in our bowls.’
Snarling, Tiny pulled out a small pouch. He loosened the drawstrings and peered into it. He frowned, small eyes getting smaller.
Feloovil snorted, leaning her forearms on the counter. ‘No wonder Tiny don’t pay for nothing.’
Midge rose from the table and walked to the bar, shoving Relish to one side as he slapped down three silver coins.
Feloovil swept them up in one hand. ‘Got pretty women upstairs,’ she added.
‘Really?’ Relish asked.
Ackle led Spilgit down to a shelf of sand and crushed shells well back from the thundering surf, but spray engulfed them nonetheless, icy and fierce. Lightning flashed through the massive storm cloud roiling above the wild seas, thunder drumming through the howl of the wind, and Ackle was hunched over like an old man, prodding the ground ahead every now and then with his shovel. At last he halted and faced Spilgit. ‘Here,’ he said.
‘Then start digging,’ Spilgit replied.
‘I’m freezing.’
‘The exercise will fix that.’
‘No, I mean I’m freezing solid. My arms barely bend. I can’t straighten my legs. There’s ice in my eyes and my tongue feels like frozen leather.’
Spilgit scowled. ‘Stop pretending to be dead, damn you! You think I’m not cold? Gods below, go on, then. Freeze solid for all I care.’ Pushing Ackle back, he set to digging in the heavy, ice-laden sand. ‘If this is a waste of time,’ he said in a snarl, ‘you’re not leaving this spot, Ackle. In fact, I’m digging you a grave, right here.’
‘It’s there, Spilgit. My haul. My hoard. Enough to buy a damned estate, maybe two, if one of them is run-down and occupied by an old woman who’s half mad and eats bats for breakfast. The kind of woman you can push down the stairs and no servants to ask any questions, so the property just falls into your lap, because of debts or whatnot—’
‘What in Hood’s name are you going on about?’ Spilgit demanded, glaring up at the man. ‘What old woman? What debts?’
‘I’m just saying. I was the last one to go, you see, and maybe bats were fine with her but I was down to making tea from cobwebs, and yet I stayed on as long as I could, and did I get a word of thanks? Not on your life. That hag spat on me and clawed my face, but the candlesticks were my severance pay – she promised them to me! Instead, she rips the pack and everything falls out, and then she kicks my shin and tries to sink her teeth in my throat. But she didn’t have any teeth. She gummed my neck, Spilgit, and that wasn’t a pleasant experience.’
Spilgit laughed harshly. ‘You ran from an old woman. Gods, Ackle, you really are pathetic.’
‘She probably poisoned me. Or cursed me. Or both. I was actually looking forward to a proper death, you know. Just an end to this whole miserable existence. I’d earned it, in fact—’
Something clunked under Spilgit’s shovel. Breathing hard from the exertion, Spilgit worked the blade around the object, and moments later he could make out the curved lid of a banded chest.
‘That’s it,’ said Ackle. ‘I told you I wasn’t lying.’
Spilgit set the shovel aside and pulled at the chest, working it free. It was heavy and he grunted lifting it from the hole. ‘Hold on,’ he said, eyes finding the seal over the lock, ‘this is a Revenue Chest!’
‘That’s right,’ said Ackle. ‘I beat a tax collector senseless, on the Whitter Road just east of Elin. With a candlestick.’
‘You stole tax revenue!’
‘Just getting my own back, Spilgit. Anyway, you quit as a tax collector, so what difference does it make to you? You’re getting half, besides.’
Spilgit climbed out of the hole, brushed sand from his hands, and then leapt at Ackle. ‘Thief!’ His hands closed on the man’s twisted, scarred neck, and his weight drove Ackle down to the ground. Spilgit knelt on him, squeezing with all his strength, seeing the ugly eyes bulge, the deepening hue of the face going from blue to grey. ‘This time you die for real! Just what you wanted!’
Ackle’s struggles fell away, his kicking stilled, and all life vanished from his mottled face.
Still Spilgit gripped Ackle’s throat, gasping out the last of his rage. ‘Thief,’ he said again, but this time without much feeling. ‘Look at you. Got your wish, fool. This was punishment. Legal execution, in fact. I’m still a tax collector – it’s in my blood, in my bones, gods, in my hands!’ He pulled his grip free, crawled off the corpse.