Reaper's Gate & Toll the Hounds - By Steven Erikson Page 0,323

on his ex-tutor. 'I seem to recall you going on and on about the terrors of pragmatism, all through history. Yet what do I now hear from you, Janath? "They were not pets." A declarative statement uttered in most pragmatic tones. Why, as if by words alone you could cleanse what must have been an incident of brutal avian murder.'

'Ublala Pung has more stomachs than both you and me combined. They need filling, Tehol.'

'Oh?' He placed his hands on his hips – actually to make certain that the pin was holding the blanket in place, recalling with another pang his most public display a week past. 'Oh?' he asked again, and then added, 'And what, precisely and pragmatically, was wrong with my famous Grit Soup?'

'It was gritty.'

'Hinting of most subtle flavours as can only be cultivated from diligent collection of floor scrapings, especially a floor pranced upon by hungry hens.'

She stared up at him. 'You are not serious, are you? That really was grit from the floor? This floor? '

'Hardly reason for such a shocked expression, Janath. Of course,' he threw in offhandedly as he walked over to stand next to the blood-splotched pillow, 'creative cuisine demands a certain delicacy of the palate, a culture of appreciation—' He kicked at the pillow and it squawked.

Tehol spun round and glared at Ublala Pung, who sat, back to a wall, and now hung his head.

'I was saving one for later,' the giant mumbled.

'Plucked or unplucked?'

'Well, it's in there to stay warm.'

Tehol looked over at Janath and nodded, 'See? Do you see, Janath? Finally see?'

'See what?'

'The deadly slope of pragmatism, Mistress. The very proof of your arguments all those years ago. Ublala Pung's history of insensitive rationalizations – if you could call anything going on in that skull rational – leading him – and, dare I add, innumerable unsuspecting hens – into the inevitable, egregious extreme of . . . of abject nakedness inside a pillow!'

Her brows lifted. 'Well, that scene last week really scarred you, didn't it?'

'Don't be absurd, Janath.'

Ublala had stuck out his tongue – a huge, pebbled slab of meat – and was trying to study it, his eyes crossing with the effort.

'What are you doing now?' Tehol demanded.

The tongue retreated and Ublala blinked a few times to right his eyes. 'Got cut by a beak,' he said.

'You ate their beaks?'

'Easier to start with the head. They ain't so restless with no heads.'

'Really?'

Ublala Pung nodded.

'And I suppose you consider that merciful?'

'What?'

'Of course not,' Tehol snapped. 'It's just pragmatic. "Oh, I'm being eaten. But that's all right. I have no head!" '

Ublala frowned at him. 'Nobody's eating you, Tehol. And your head's still there – I can see it.'

'I was speaking for the hens.'

'But they don't speak Letherii.'

'You are not eating my last four hens.'

'What about the one in the pillow, Tehol? Do you want it back? Its feathers might grow back, though it might catch a cold or something. I can give it back if you like.'

'Generous of you, Ublala, but no. Put it out of its misery, but mind the beak. In the meantime, however, I think you need to get yourself organized – you were supposed to leave days ago, after all, weren't you?'

'I don't want to go to the islands,' Ublala said, dragging a chipped nail through the grit on the floor. 'I sent word. That's good enough, isn't it? I sent word.'

Tehol shrugged. 'If it's good enough, it's good enough. Right, Janath? By all means, stay with us, but you have to set out now to find food. For all of us. A hunting expedition and it won't be easy, Ublala. Not at all easy. There's not been a supply ship on the river for days now, and people have started hoarding things, as if some terrible disaster were imminent. So, as I said, Ublala, it won't be easy. And I hate to admit it, but there are people out there who don't think you can succeed.'

Ublala Pung's head snapped up, fire in his eyes. 'Who? Who?'

The four hens paused in their scratchings and cocked heads in unison.

'I better not say,' Tehol said. 'Anyway, we need food.'

The Tarthenal was on his feet, head crunching on the ceiling before he assumed his normal hunched posture when indoors. Plaster dust sprinkled his hair, drifted down to settle on the floor. The hens pounced, crowding his feet.

'If you fail,' Tehol said, 'we'll have to start eating, uh, plaster.'

'Lime is poisonous,' Janath said.

'And hen guano isn't? Did I hear you