But Whuffine was studying the sands of the trail. “See anybody on your way down?” he asked.
“No,” said the woman. “Why?”
Whuffine glanced at her. “You’re Feloovil’s daughter, ain’t you? Does she know you’re here? With him?”
“Look,” said Spilgit, “we’re going down for a look. You coming or not?”
“That’s my beach down there, Factor.”
“The whole village takes its share,” Spilgit countered.
“Because I let them, because I’ve been through everything first.” He then shook his head, making the fox-heads flap and the sharp canines run eerily along his neck-he shouldn’t have left in the upper jaws, probably. “Anyway, look at the ground here, you two. Someone’s come up the trail-Hood knows how I didn’t hear that, or even see it, since I was at the window. And if that’s not enough, there’s more.”
“More what?” Spilgit asked.
“Whoever it was passing me and my shack, it was dragging bodies. Two of ’em, one to each hand. Makes for a strong person, don’t you think? This trail’s steep and dragging things up all this way ain’t easy.”
“We didn’t see anyone,” Spilgit said.
Whuffine then pointed down towards the beach. “I just heard voices below.”
Felittle gasped. “We should go and get Hordilo!”
“No need,” said Whuffine. “I was going to send them up, anyway. It’s what I do.”
Spilgit spat but the wind shifted and the spittle whipped up and plastered his brow. Cursing, he wiped it away and said, “You all have blood on your hands, don’t you? That tyrant up in the keep found himself the right people to rule over, all right.”
“You’re just saying that,” said Whuffine, “because you’re sore. What’s it like, eh? Being made useless and all?”
“That’s a usurper up there in Wurms.”
“So what? His brother was, too. And that witch before him, and then that bastard son of Lord Wurms himself-who strangled the man in his own bed. And what was he even doing in that bed with his stepfather anyway?” Whuffine shrugged. “It’s how them fools do things, and us, why, we just got to keep our heads down and get on with living and all. You, Spilgit, you’re just a Hood-damned tax collector anyway. And we ain’t paying and that’s that.”
“I don’t care,” Spilgit said, taking Felittle’s arm and pulling her along as he trudged past Whuffine. “I quit. And when the Black Fleet shows up and an army lands to bring down in flames Wurms Keep and that mad sorceror with it, well, I don’t expect there’ll be much left of Spendrugle of Blearmouth either, and the gods of mercy will be smiling on that day!”
During this tirade, voiced as Spilgit marched on, Whuffine fell in behind the two villagers. He thought about pushing past them both, but with living people on the beach, maybe it paid to be cautious. “Anyway,” he said, “why are you two going down there, now that you know there’s survivors? You ain’t going to warn them off or anything, are you? If you did that, why, Hordilo and Lord Fangatooth himself wouldn’t take kindly to that. In fact, they’d have to find somebody else to hang.”
Ahead, Spilgit paused and swung round. “I’m surviving one more winter here, Whuffine. You think I’d do or say anything to jeopardize that?”
“I like the hangings,” said Felittle, offering Whuffine a bright, cock-stirring smile. “But aren’t you curious? How did anyone survive that storm? They might come from mysterious places! They might have funny hair and funny clothes and talk in gibberish! It’s so exciting, isn’t it?”
Whuffine flicked a glance at Spilgit, but couldn’t read much from the man’s expression, other than the fact that he was shivering. To Felittle, Whuffine smiled back and said, “Aye, exciting.”
“Aren’t you cold?” she asked him. “You don’t look cold. How come you’re not cold?”
“It’s my big kindly heart, lass.”
“Gods below,” Spilgit said, swinging round and pulling Felittle with him.
They rounded the last bend in the trail and came within sight of the beach. And there on the pale strand stood two men, one tall and dressed in fine clothing-black silks and black leathers, and a heavy burgundy woolen cloak that reached down almost to his ankles-and beside him a more bedraggled figure, a man Whuffine guessed was a sailor, by the rough clothes he wore and the way he stood on those bowed legs. Beyond these two, the surf was crowded with corpses and detritus. Out on the reef the wreck had already been battered to pieces, with barely a third of the hull remaining, and only the foredeck, over which was wrapped the tangled remnants of a sail that looked partly scorched.
Spilgit and Felittle had both paused upon seeing the strangers, proving once again the pith behind the bluff when it came to that tax collector. Whuffine edged past them and continued down to the strand. “Welcome, friends! Mael and all his hoary whores have looked kindly upon you, I see. To think, you seem to have escaped unscathed from the furies, while your poor companions behind you lie cold and nothing but meat for the crabs. Do you give thanks for such mercy? I’m sure you do!”
The taller man, fork-bearded and with his hair slicked back from his bared head, frowned slightly at Whuffine and then turned to his companion and said something in a language the Comber didn’t understand, to which the man grunted and said, “Low Elin, Master. Seatrader tongue. Eastern pirates. Sailor’s Cant. It’s just the accent that’s thrown you. And by that accent, Master, I’d say we’ve hit the Headland of Howling Winds. Probably the Forgotten Holding, meaning it’s claimed by the Enclave.” This man then turned to Whuffine. “There’s a river other side of the keep, right?”
Whuffine nodded. “The Blear, aye. You know well this shore, then, sir. I’m impressed.”
The man grunted a second time and spoke to his companion. “Master, we’re on a Wreckers’ Coast here. That heap of sheepskin and furs with all his happy words and big smile, he’s eager to start stripping corpses and picking through the wrack. See those boots he’s wearing? Malazan cavalry officer, and he ain’t no Malazan cavalry officer. If we was badly hurt he’d probably have slit our throats by now.”
Slipgit laughed, earning a glare from Whuffine, who was struggling to hold onto his smile.
The tall man cleared his throat, and then spoke in passable High Elin. “Well then, let us leave the man to his task, since I doubt our dead comrades will mind. Alas, as we are hale, there will be no throat-slitting just yet.”
“The villagers won’t be any better,” the other man then said, eyeing Spilgit and Felittle.
“Do not be so quick to judge us,” Spilgit said, stepping forward. “Until recently, I was the appointed Factor of the Forgotten Holding, and as such the official representative of the Enclave.”
The sailor raised his brows at that, and then grinned. “A damned tax collector? Surprised they ain’t hanged you yet.”
Whuffine saw Spilgit blanch, but before he could say anything, the Comber cleared his throat and said, “The lord is resident in his keep, good sirs.” Then, shifting his attention to the taller man, he added, “And he will be delighted to make your acquaintance, seeing as you’re highborn and all.”
“Is there an inn?” the sailor asked, and Whuffine noted how the man shivered in his sodden clothes.
“Allow us to escort you there,” Spilgit said. “This young woman with me is the daughter of the innkeeper.”
“Most civilized of you, Factor,” said the highborn man. “As you can see, my manservant is suffering in this weather.”
“A warm fire and a hearty meal will do him wonders, I’m sure,” said Spilgit. “Yet you, sir, appear to be both dry and, well, proof against this bitter wind.”
“Very perceptive of you,” the man murmured in reply, glancing about as if distracted. A moment later he shrugged and gestured towards the trail. “Lead on, Factor.” Then he paused and looked to his manservant. “Mister Reese, if you would, draw your sword and ware our backs, lest this Malazan cavalry officer falter in his wisdom, and do note the knife he hides in his right hand, will you?”