Midnight Tides & The Bonehunters - By Steven Erikson Page 0,756

limp. And you kept the promise. Well?'

Tak smiled, then reached under the table, released two latches and Fiddler heard the clunk of a hidden drawer dropping down onto its rails. Pushing the throne back, the old man slid open the large drawer, then carefully removed a cloth-wrapped object. He set it down on the table and pulled the cloth away. 'A few improvements,' he purred. 'Better range for one.'

His eyes on the extraordinary crossbow between them, Fiddler asked, 'How much better?'

'Add fifty paces, I figure. Never tested that, though. But look at the ribs. That's ten strips of iron folded together. Inside band has the most spring, grading less and less as you go out. The cable's four hundred strands into twenty, then wound in bhederin-gut and soaked in dhenrabi oil. Your old one was two hundred strands into ten. Now, look at the cradle – I only had clay mock-ups of cussers and sharpers and burners, weighted as close as I could figure—'

'Sharpers and burners?'

An eager nod. 'Why just cussers, I asked? Well, because that's what was wanted and that's how we did the cradle, right? But the mock-ups gave me an idea.' He reached back into the drawer and lifted free a clay cusser-sized grenado. 'So, I made cradles inside this, to fit five sharpers or three burners – the weight's close on all three configurations, by the way – the Moranth were always precise on these sort of things, you know.' As he was speaking, he took the clay object, one hand on top, the other beneath, and pushed in opposite directions until there was a grating click, then he was holding two halves of the hollow mock-up. 'Like I said, improvements. You can load up how you like, without ever having to change the bow's cradle. I got ten of these made. Empty, they're nice and light and you won't fly through Hood's Gate if one of 'em breaks by accident in your satchel.'

'You are a genius, Tak.'

'Tell me something I don't know.'

'How much do you want for all of this?'

A frown. 'Don't be an idiot, Fiddler. You saved my life, you and Dujek got me out of the Mouse with only a crushed hip. You gave me money—'

'Tak, we wanted you to make crossbows, like that old jeweller did before you. But he was dead and you weren't.'

'That don't matter. Call it a replacement guarantee, for life.'

Fiddler shook his head, then he reached into his pack and withdrew a real cusser. 'Let's see how it fits, shall we?'

Tak's eyes glittered. 'Oh yes, do that! Then heft the weapon, check the balance – see that over-shoulder clamp there? It's a brace for steadying aim and evening out the weight. Your arms won't get tired holding and aiming.' He rose. 'I will be right back.'

Distracted, Fiddler nodded. He set the cusser down into the weapon's cradle and clamped in place the open-ended, padded basket. That motion in turn raised from the forward base of the cradle a denticulate bar to prevent the cusser slipping out when the weapon was held point-down. That bar was in turn linked to the release trigger, dropping it flush with the cradle in time for the projectile to fly clear.

'Oh,' the sapper murmured, 'very clever, Tak.' With this weapon, there was no need for a shaft. The cradle was the launcher.

The old man was rummaging in a chest at the back of the shop.

'So tell me,' Fiddler said, 'how many more of these have you made?'

'That's it. The only one.'

'Right. So where are the others?'

'In a crate above your head.'

Fiddler glanced up to see a long box balanced across two blackened beams. 'How many in there?'

'Four.'

'Identical to this one?'

'More or less.'

'Any more?'

'Lots. For when you lose these ones.'

'I want those four above me, Tak, and I'll pay for them—'

'Take 'em, I don't want your coin. Take 'em and go blow up people you don't like.' The old man straightened and made his way back to the table.

In his hands was something that made Fiddler's eyes widen. 'Gods below, Tak ...'

'Found it a year ago. Thought to myself, oh yes, there's always the chance. Cost me four copper crescents.'

Tak reached out to set the fiddle in the sergeant's hands.

'You were robbed,' Fiddler said. 'This is the ugliest piece of junk I've ever seen.'

'What's the difference? You never play the damned things anyway!'

'Good point. I'll take it.'

'Two thousand gold.'

'Got twelve diamonds with me.'

'Worth?'

'Maybe four thousand.'

'All right, six then for the fiddle. You want to