ointment that helped considerably when applied, but it seemed the bastard had taken it with him – most likely out of spite.
A fine way to reward years of gainful employment. In his experience, if a man extended a hand to you, it was probably intended as a distraction while he cudgelled you around the back of the head with the other. The most sensible solution was, therefore, to ignore the hand altogether.
Or else simply to steal the cudgel and scramble the bastard’s brains before he did the same to you.
He stared around at the wreckage of the depository one more time. He needed some air. Pushing open the sodden door of his ruined archive, the Halfmage inhaled deep the smells of his beloved city.
Saltwater. Rot. Shit? The city’s ageing sewer system had been hit by the deluge and had leaked its contents onto the streets above. The late-afternoon sun had barely begun to dry out the abused lanes of the harbourside sprawl, and the incessant sound of trickling water formed an almost pleasant background to the sight of turds floating down the flooded avenues.
Ah. Dorminia in all its glory.
Squelching footsteps suddenly caught his attention. He wheeled his chair around, startling the boy who had been approaching behind him. With his threadbare clothes and grime-covered face, Eremul judged him to be one of the homeless urchins who operated in the city’s markets and ran errands for those too savvy or dangerous to pickpocket. Most of them failed to make it to their adult years, desperation driving them to reckless deeds that earned a public execution. Some, the comely ones, were sold in clandestine auctions to powerful men in government. Their fates were the most tragic of all.
This particular orphan gawked at him in amazement, the sealed scroll in his grubby hands forgotten as he stared at the man with no legs.
‘What is it?’ Eremul asked irritably. He wasn’t in the mood for this.
‘Got a message for you, sir,’ the boy responded, his eyes still glued to the spot where most men sprouted additional limbs. Eremul snapped his fingers and the urchin suddenly seemed to remember where he was. He proffered the scroll. ‘A lady asked me to find you and hand you this. Gave me six copper crowns. Said you’d give me the same when I delivered it,’ he added hopefully.
Eremul narrowed his eyes. ‘What did this lady look like?’ he asked.
The boy’s brow creased in confusion. ‘I can’t rightly remember,’ he admitted. ‘She was mighty strange. Made me nervous. Olly wanted nothing to do with her, but he’s a pussy.’
‘Indeed. Six crowns is more than generous for a brief jaunt across the city. As you can see’ – he pointed to the interior of his ruined depository, then at his ruined body – ‘I’m hardly Gilanthus the fucking Golden himself. Hand me that and run along.’
‘Who’s Gilanthus the Golden?’
Eremul sighed. ‘The Merchant Lord. God of wealth and commerce. Not one of the Primes, and besides, he’s been dead these last five hundred years.’ He reached across and took the scroll from the lad’s unresisting fingers. ‘Well, what are you waiting for?’ he added. ‘Piss off.’
The urchin blinked and suddenly began to cough. He raised his hands to his mouth and hacked into them. Eremul rolled his eyes.
‘Ah, that old chestnut,’ he said. ‘Let me just reach into my robes and withdraw a nice big bag of fuck-all to hand to this poor afflicted youth, whose sad lifeless corpse I will surely encounter at some point in the near future…’ He trailed off as the boy continued coughing. He was bent over now, his body convulsing in wild spasms. When the urchin finally recovered enough to stand up straight, Eremul saw that blood flecked his chin and stained his small hands.
The boy would, in fact, be dead within the year.
The Halfmage slipped a hand inside one of his pockets and withdrew a silver coin. ‘Buy yourself something to eat,’ he mumbled. ‘And drink plenty of honeyed tea. It will help with the cough.’ He tossed the coin at the lad, who didn’t react quickly enough. It struck him on the side of the head and rolled into a puddle. The urchin picked it up off the muddy ground, his eyes wide with disbelief.
‘Thank – thank you,’ the boy stammered, but Eremul had already turned his chair around and wheeled himself back inside the depository, slamming the door shut behind him.
The scroll was blank. He had known it would be. Only a