Emancipor Reese sat across from Korbal Broach, watching the huge, fat man licking the icing from one of Bauchelain’s creations. His stomach rumbled and then gurgled. “How is it you’re allowed to eat them, then,” he asked.
Korbal blinked at him, said nothing.
There was a commotion from one end of the dining hall and a moment later, amidst clumping boots, gasps, whispers and moans, Bauchelain returned leading a woman and three men carrying between them a fourth, who had a massive sword thrust through one thigh, and a short sword driven up into an armpit. His bandaged form was splashed with blood.
Emancipor pointed a finger at one of the men helping this unfortunate comrade to a nearby bench. “You was on the Suncurl,” he said. “You led the charge onto the Chanters’ ship during the mating and the battle and all. Then you stole one of their lifeboats and lit out.”
The man glared. “Aye, ’Mancy. I’m Heck Urse. And this is the rest of Sater’s squad. They chased us down, all the way from Stratem.”
“Very loyal of them,” said Bauchelain, resuming his seat. “Korbal, my friend, will you do me a favour? This poor wounded man needs healing.”
At that the bandaged man suddenly sat up. “No!” he cried. “I’m bether!”
Korbal set the cookie-stripped clean of its covering of icing-down on the table, and then rose and walked over to the wounded man, who shrank back. When Korbal tugged the sword from the thigh, the man swooned, which made removing the shorter sword much simpler. Weapons clanging to the floor, Korbal Broach began peeling sodden bandages from the man.
Emancipor could see that this effort was going to take some time. He rose and reached out across the table for the cookie Korbal had left behind, only to have his hand slapped by Bauchelain.
“Now now, Mister Reese, what did I tell you?” Bauchelain then gingerly picked up the lone cookie, and slipped it into a pocket beneath his cloak, but not before Emancipor caught a glimpse of the pattern incised on the top of the flat cookie.
From somewhere below came a long, wavering scream.
The squad soldiers started.
“That would be our host,” Bauchelain said, smiling. “I believe he is torturing prisoners in the cells below. However, I am assured he will be joining us soon, to partake of my baking.”
“He’ll want a food tester,” Emancipor predicted, settling back and reaching for his goblet of wine.
“I sincerely doubt that,” Bauchelain replied. “Lord Fangatooth is doomed to bravado, as we shall soon see. In any case, I shall be his food tester.”
“But with you immune to poisons, Master-”
“I assure you, Mister Reese, no poison is involved.”
“So how come the fancy patterns beneath the icing, Master?”
“My private signature, Mister Reese, that shall remain so, yes? Now, although I am not yet the host, permit me, if you will, to be mother.” Bauchelain gestured with one thin, pale hand to the plate heaped with cookies. “Do help yourselves, will you?”
The woman snorted and said, “Wine will do for us, thank you. No, Heck, don’t be a fool. Just wine.”
Bauchelain shrugged. “As you wish. Of course, a lesser man than I would be offended, given my efforts in the kitchen and whatnot.”
“That’s too bad,” the woman replied with all the sincerity of a banker. “Heck was telling us about compensation. For injuries and all. Also, there’s the whole matter of our cut in the haul from Toll’s City, which Sater promised us.”
“Ah,” murmured Bauchelain, nodding as he sipped his wine, “of course. It would be coin, wouldn’t it, behind your impressive, if somewhat unreasonable, pursuit across an entire ocean. We are indeed driven to our baser natures in this instinctive hunger for … well, for what, precisely? Security? Stability? Material possessions? Status? All of these, surely, in varying measures. If a dog understood gold and silver, why, I am sure the beast would be no different from anyone here. Excepting me and Korbal Broach, of course, for whom wealth is but a means to an end, not to mention cogently regarded with wisdom, with respect to its ephemeral presumption of value.” He smiled at the woman and raised his goblet. “Coin and theft, then, shall we call them bed-mates? Two sides of the same wretched piece of metal? Or does greed stand alone, and find in gold and silver nothing but pretty symbols of its inherent venality? Do we hoard by nature? Do we invest against the unknown and unknowable future, and in stacks of coin seek to amend the fates? We would make of our lives a soft, cushioned bed, warm and eternal, and see a fine end-if we must-shrouded in the selfsame sheets. Oh, well.”
The woman turned to Emancipor. “Does he always go on like this?” Without awaiting an answer she faced Bauchelain again. “Anyway, cough up our share of the coin and we’ll be on our way.”
“Alas,” said Bauchelain, “we do not possess it. I imagine the bulk of the treasure will be found beneath the wreck of the Suncurl. That said, you are welcome to it all.”
Emancipor grunted. “If that comber ain’t collected it already.”
“Oh, I doubt that, Mister Reese, given the inclement weather. But the townsfolk, being wreckers, will of course contest any claim to that treasure.”
Sordid snorted. “That’s fine. Let them try.”
Bauchelain studied her for a moment, and then said, “I am afraid you do not intrigue me in the least, which is unfortunate, as you are rather attractive, but by your tone and the cast of your face, I see both inclined to dissolution in the near future. How sad.”
She glared at him, and then slouched back in her chair, drew a knife and began paring her nails. “Now it’s insults, is it?”
“Forgive me,” said Bauchelain, “if in expressing my disinterest you find yourself feeling diminished.”
“Not nearly as diminished as you’ll feel with a slit throat.”
“Oh dear, we descend to threats.”
Korbal Broach returned to the table, sat and looked round for his cookie. Frowning, he reached out for another one.
“My friend,” said Bauchelain, “I ask that you refrain for the moment.”
“But I like icing, Bauchelain. I like it. I want it.”
“The bowl awaits you in the kitchen, since I instructed Mister Reese to make twice as much as needed, knowing as I do your inclinations. Is that not so, Mister Reese?”
“Oh aye, Master, half a bowl in the kitchen. Ground powder of sugar cane, moderately bleached and with a touch of honey, too. Nice and cool by now, I should think.”
Smiling, Korbal Broach rose and left the dining hall.
Emancipor looked over at the bench to see that Heck had gone over to his companion, who was now sitting up. Divested of bandages, he was now recognizable as Gust Hubb, although one of his eyes was green while the other was grey, sporting a new pink nose that was decidedly feminine, and the ears were mismatched as well, but of scars and wounds there was no sign.
“High Denul!” hissed Heck Urse, shaking his friend by the shoulder. “You’re all healed, Gust! You look perf-as handsome as ever!”
“I’m marked,” groaned Gust. “He marked me. Might as well be dead!”
“But you’re not! You’re healed!”
Gust looked up, wiped at his eyes and sniffled. “Where’s Birds? I want Birds to see me.”
“She will, Gust. Better yet, we’re getting our cut! All we got to do is kill all the wreckers and go out to the Suncurl and collect it all up!”
“Really?”
“Really! See, it’s all worked out for the best!”
Gust slowly smiled.
A moment later Lord Fangatooth Claw strode into the room, drying his hands with a small towel, and in his wake trailed Scribe Coingood, pale and sweaty and, as usual, burdened with wood-framed wax tablets. Eyes alighting on the heap of cookies on the pewter plate in the centre of the table, the lord nodded. “My, don’t those look tasty!”