Midnight Tides & The Bonehunters - By Steven Erikson Page 0,25

trousers to make – have you enough wool for that?'

'Well, I can make one leg down all the way, or I can make both short.'

'How short?'

'Pretty short.'

'Go with the one leg.'

'Aye, master. And then I have to find us something to eat. And drink.'

Tehol turned, hands on his hips. 'Haven't we sold virtually everything, sparing one bed and a lone stool? So, just how much tidying up is required?'

Bugg squinted. 'Not much,' he conceded. 'What do you want we should eat tonight?'

'Something that needs cooking.'

'Would that be something better when cooked, or something that has to be cooked?'

'Either way's fine.'

'How about wood?'

'I'm not eating—'

'For the hearth.'

'Oh, right. Well, find some. Look at that stool you're sitting on – it doesn't really need all three legs, does it? When scrounging doesn't pay, it's time to improvise. I'm off to meet my three destinies, Bugg. Pray the Errant's looking the other way, will you?'

'Of course.'

Tehol made his way down the ladder, discovering, in a moment of panic, that only one rung in three remained.

The ground-level room was bare except for a thin mattress rolled up against one wall. A single battered pot rested on the hearth's flatstone, which sat beneath the front-facing window, a pair of wooden spoons and bowls on the floor nearby. All in all, Tehol reflected, elegant in its severity.

He swung aside the ratty curtain that served as a door, reminding himself to tell Bugg to retrieve the door latch from the hearth-bed. A bit of polishing and it might earn a dock or two from Cusp the Tinkerer. Tehol stepped outside.

He was in a narrow aisle, so narrow he was forced to sidle sideways out to the street, kicking rubbish aside with each step. Meaty women ... wish I'd seen them squeezing their way to my door. An invitation to dinner now seemed essential. And, mindful host that he was, he could position himself with a clear view, and whatever pleasure they saw on his face they could take for welcome.

The street beyond was empty save for three Nerek, a mother and two half-blood children, who'd found in the recessed niche in the wall opposite a new home and seemed to do nothing but sleep. He strode past their huddled forms, kicking at a rat that had been edging closer, and threaded his way between the high-stacked wooden crates that virtually blocked this end of the street. Biri's warehouse was perpetually overstocked, and Biri viewed the last reach of Cul Street this side of Quillas Canal as his own personal compound.

Chalas, the watchman of the yard, was sprawled on a bench on the other side, where Cul opened out onto Burl Square, his leather-wrapped clout resting on his thighs. Red-shot eyes found Tehol. 'Nice skirt,' the guard said.

'You've lightened my step, Chalas.'

'Happy to oblige, Tehol.'

Tehol paused, hands on hips, and surveyed the crowded square. 'The city thrives.'

'No change there ... exceptin' the last time.'

'Oh, that was a minor sideways tug, as far as currents go.'

'Not to hear Biri talk of it. He still wants your head salted and in a barrel rolling out to sea.'

'Biri always did run in place.'

Chalas grunted. 'It's been weeks since you last came down. Special occasion?'

'I have a date with three women.'

'Want my clout?'

Tehol glanced down and studied the battered weapon. 'I wouldn't want to leave you defenceless.'

'It's my face scares 'em away. Exceptin' those Nerek. Got past me, those ones did.'

'Giving you trouble?'

'No. The rat count's way down, in fact. But you know Bin.'

'Better than he knows himself. Remind him of that, Chalas, if he starts thinking of giving them trouble.'

'I will.'

Tehol set out, winding through the seething press in the square. The Down Markets opened out onto it from three sides; a more decrepit collection of useless items for sale Tehol had yet to see. And the people bought in a frenzy, day after blessed day. Our civilization thrives on stupidity. And it only took a sliver of cleverness to tap that idiot vein and drink deep of the riches. Comforting, if slightly depressing. The way of most grim truths.

He reached the other side, entered Red Lane. Thirty strides on and he came opposite the arched entrance to Huldo's. Down the shadowed walkway and back into the courtyard's sunlight. A half-dozen tables, all occupied. Repose for the blissfully ignorant or those without the coin to sample the pits in Huldo's inner sanctum, where various sordid activities were conducted day and night, said activities occasionally approaching the artistic expression of the absurd.