“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.”
“For poisoning us, or failing at it?”
Coingood grinned, but said nothing.
Emancipor found a spare goblet and poured the man a glass. Then he lifted his own. “Here’s to minions.”
“Good! Yes! To minions!”
“The hapless and the helpless.”
They drank.
Vague motion through the iced-over window caught Spilgit’s eye and he leaned closer.
“More guests?” Ackle the Risen asked, leaning from one foot to the other. The front of his body was warm to the touch, but the back of his body, so close to the misaligned door, was frigid. When Spilgit made no reply, Ackle continued, “We’re in the same boat, my friend. Simply, we need to get out of Spendrugle. Now, winter’s a hard season in these here parts, I’ll grant you. But one of the Carter’s better wagons, a solid ox or two, and plenty of food, rum and furs, and we could make it to a city on the coast inside a week, or we head north, though the roads will be bad, and the winds-”
“For a supposed dead man, Ackle, you talk way too much.”
“What so fascinates you out there, then?”
“Three strangers.”
“They’re back? From the keep? Why-”
“Not them, you fool. Three other strangers. One of them’s all bandaged about the head, and limping. Another one’s a woman, half naked and that’s the half I can’t take my eyes off.
Ackle swung round and tugged open the door. He peered out. “A gull got one of her tits,” he said.
“That’s a birthmark, idiot.”
“Too white for that.”
“Ain’t no gulls, Ackle. Too cold for gulls. No, it’s a lack of pigment. Seen the like before, only not there, on the tit, I mean.”
The three strangers continued on to stop in front of the King’s Heel. They argued there for a moment, in some foreign language, and then went inside.
“Wonder if Hordilo’s going to arrest them?”
Spilgit sat back in his chair and sighed, rubbing at his eyes. “Might need a golem to do that. They were all armed.”
Ackle pushed the door shut as much as it was possible to do so, and then faced the tax collector again. “We could buy us a wagon and an ox, and stores and all, even for three of us, Spilgit, if you want to take Felittle. We could leave in the morning.”
“Oh, and how will we pay for all that? Carter’s no fool and won’t give credit.”
Ackle smiled. “Let’s find us a pair of shovels, shall we?”
“Oh, not this buried treasure rubbish again!”
“I wasn’t about to leave on my own, not with the cold and all. But now, well, here you are, Spilgit, with Feloovil planning to kill you a hundred ways. It’s only indecision that’s stayed her hand so far. As for Felittle, well, you should’ve heard her have a go at her ma. Things were said. Things there’s no going back on. If you want her, now’s the time, friend.”
“Friend? You’re not my friend.”
“Then partner.”
“I don’t partner with men who think they’re dead.”
“Why not? I imagine there’s some tax break involved.”
Spilgit studied Ackle for a long moment, and then shook his head. “Shovels. Fine, we’ll get some shovels. We’ll dig up your treasure and then snatch Felittle away and make Carter rich and then make our getaway. What a plan. Pure genius.”
“Genius isn’t required,” Ackle replied, “when it’s all straight forward, like I’ve been saying.”
Spilgit rose and collected up his threadbare cloak. “You never had the look of a wealthy man, Ackle.”
“Never got the chance, Spilgit. Now, where will we get some shovels?”
“Gravedigger’s place,” Spilgit replied. “We’ll offer to dig him a few holes, what with all the strangers about, and we’ll offer it cheap.”
Ackle hesitated. “I don’t like that man.”
“You should. You should bless the drunk every damned dawn and every damned sunset.”
“We’re not on speaking terms, is what I mean.”
Spilgit stared. “I’ll get the shovels, then.”
“I appreciate it, Spilgit. I really do. I’ll wait here.”
“If you’re wasting my time, Ackle…”
“I’m not. You’ll see.”
When Spilgit had left, Ackle moved round the small desk and sat in the chair. He spent a moment imagining himself as a tax collector, stuffy with official whatever, feared by all and charmed on every turn by those same horrible people. He let the scenes linger in his head, and then sighed. “No, I’d rather be dead.”
Hordilo was sick of escorting fools up to the keep. He was sick, in fact, of the whole thing. His responsibilities, the blood on his hands, the pointless repetition of it all, and the way every day ahead of him, down to the last day of his life, was probably going to be no different from all the days already behind him.
Most men dreamed the same things: a warm body to lie against, echoing their animal grunts; company at mealtimes; decent conversation and the floor free of scraps. But few men imagined a woman might want the same things, and then find them in a dog.