Reaper's Gate & Toll the Hounds - By Steven Erikson Page 0,158

her mount upon seeing Arbat, and the troop behind her did the same at her command. As she trotted her horse closer, she called out, 'You, sir – is there a village ahead?'

'There is,' Arbat replied, 'though you might have to fight for room at the inn.'

'And why's that?' she asked as she rode opposite.

'Some Edur staying the night there.'

At that the officer reined in, gesturing the rest to a halt. Twisting in her saddle, she eyed him from beneath the ridge of her iron helm. 'Tiste Edur?'

'That's them all right.'

'What are they doing there?'

Before he could answer, one of her soldiers said, 'Atri-Preda, something's blazing ahead – y'can see the glow and smell it.'

'That'd be my homestead,' Arbat replied. 'Accident. It won't spread, I'm sure of that as can be. Got nothing to do,' he added, 'with them Edur. They're just passing through.'

The Atri-Preda swore under her breath. 'Tarthenal, yes?'

'Mostly.'

'Can you think of anywhere we can camp for the night, then? Close by, but well off the trail.'

Arbat squinted at her. 'Off the trail, eh? Far enough off so's your privacy ain't disturbed, you mean?'

She nodded.

Arbat rubbed at the bristly hair covering his prognathous jaw. 'Forty or so paces up there's a trail, right side of the road. Leads through a thicket, then an old orchard, and beyond that there's an abandoned homestead – barn's still got a roof, though I doubt it's weatherproof. There's a well too, which should be serviceable enough.'

'This close by, and no-one's occupied it or stripped it down?'

Arbat grinned. 'Oh, they'll get to that before long. It was downwind of my place, you see.'

'No, I don't.'

His grin broadened into a smile. 'Local colour kinda pales when told to outsiders. It's no matter, really. All you'll be smelling is woodsmoke this night, and that'll keep the bugs away.'

He watched as she thought about pressing the matter; then, as her horse tossed its head, she gathered the reins once more. 'Thank you, Tarthenal. Be safe in your journey.'

'And you, Atri-Preda.'

They rode on, and Arbat waited on the verge for the troop to pass.

Safe in my journey. Yes, safe enough, I suppose. Nothing on the road I can't handle.

No, it's the destination that's got my knees knocking together like two skulls in a sack.

Lying on his stomach, edging up to the trapdoor, peering down. A menagerie in the room below, yet comforting in its odd domesticity nonetheless. Why, he knew artists who would pay for such a scene. Ten hens wandering about, occasionally squawking from the path of a clumsily swung foot from Ublala Pung as the huge man paced back and forth. The scholar Janath sitting with her back to one wall, rolling chicken down or whatever it was called between the palms of her hands, prior to stuffing it into a burlap sack that was intended to serve as a pillow at some point – proving beyond all doubt that academics knew nothing about anything worth knowing about. Not to mention inserting a sliver of fear that Bugg's healing of her mind had not been quite up to scratch. And finally, Bugg himself, crouched by the hearth, using a clawed hen foot to stir the steaming pot of chicken soup, a detail which, Tehol admitted, had a certain macabre undercurrent. As did the toneless humming coming from his stalwart manservant.

True enough, the household was blessed with food aplenty, marking the continuation of their good run of luck. Huge capabara fish beside the canal a couple of weeks back, and now retired hens being retired one by one, as inexorable as the growl of a stomach. Or two or three. Or four, assuming Ublala Pung had but one stomach which was not in any way certain. Selush might know, having dressed enough bodies from the inside out. Tarthenal had more organs in those enormous bodies than regular folk, after all. Alas, this trait did not extend to brains.

Yet another formless, ineffable worry was afflicting Ublala Pung. Could be lovestruck again, or struck to fear by love. The half-blood lived in a world of worry, which, all things considered, was rather surprising. Then again, that undeniable virtue between his legs garnered its share of worshippers, lighting feminine eyes with the gleam of possession, avarice, malicious competition – in short, all those traits most common to priesthoods. But it was worship for all the wrong reasons, as poor Ublala's fretful state of mind made plain. His paltry brain wanted to be loved for itself.

Making him, alas, a complete