Reaper's Gate & Toll the Hounds - By Steven Erikson Page 0,39

in the realm of the gods.'

'Mostly. Although,' he said, brightening, 'with the recent spate of flooding, and given my past experience in engineering dry foundations, I begin to see some possibilities.'

'Can you soak investors?'

Bugg grimaced. 'Always seeing the destructive side, aren't you, Master?'

'It's my opportunistic nature. Most people,' he added, 'would view that as a virtue. Now, are you truly telling me you can't save this poor fish?'

'Master, it's already dead.'

'Is it? Oh. Well, I guess we now have supper.'

'More like fifteen suppers.'

'In any case, I have an appointment, so I will see you and the fish at home.'

'Why, thank you, Master.'

'Didn't I tell you this morning walk would prove beneficial?'

'Not for the capabara, alas.'

'Granted. Oh, by the way, I need you to make me a list.'

'Of what?'

'Ah, I will have to tell you that later. As I said, I am late for an appointment. It just occurred to me: is this fish too big for you to carry by yourself?'

'Well,' Bugg said, eyeing the carcass, 'it's small as far as capabara go – remember the one that tried to mate with a galley?'

'The betting on that outcome overwhelmed the Drownings. I lost everything I had that day.'

'Everything?'

'Three copper docks, yes.'

'What outcome did you anticipate?'

'Why, small rowboats that could row themselves with big flippery paddles.'

'You're late for your appointment, Master.'

'Wait! Don't look! I need to do something unseemly right now.'

'Oh, Master, really.'

Spies stood on street corners. Small squads of grey rain-caped Patriotists moved through the throngs that parted to give them wide berth as they swaggered with gloved hands resting on their belted truncheons, and on their faces the bludgeon arrogance of thugs. Tehol Beddict, wearing his blanket like a sarong, walked with the benign grace of an ascetic from some obscure but harmless cult. Or at least he hoped so. To venture onto the streets of Letheras these days involved a certain measure of risk that had not existed in King Ezgara Diskanar's days of pleasant neglect. While on the one hand this lent an air of intrigue and danger to every journey – including shopping for over-ripe root crops – there were also the taut nerves that one could not quell, no matter how many mouldy turnips one happened to be carrying.

Compounding matters, in this instance, was the fact that he was indeed intent on subversion. One of the first victims in this new regime had been the Rat Catchers' Guild. Karos Invictad, the Invigilator of the Patriotists, had acted on his first day of officialdom, despatching fully a hundred agents to Scale House, the modest Guild headquarters, whereupon they effected arrests on scores of Rat Catchers, all of whom, it later turned out, were illusions – a detail unadvertised, of course, lest the dread Patriotists announce their arrival to cries of ridicule. Which would not do.

After all, tyranny has no sense of humour. Too thin-skinned, too thoroughly full of its own self-importance. Accordingly, it presents an almost overwhelming temptation – how can I not be excused the occasional mockery? Alas, the Patriotists lacked flexibility in such matters – the deadliest weapon against them was derisive laughter, and they knew it.

He crossed Quillas Canal at a lesser bridge, made his way into the less ostentatious north district, and eventually sauntered into a twisting, shadow-filled alley that had once been a dirt street, before the invention of four-wheeled wagons and side-by-side horse collars. Instead of the usual hovels and back doors that one might expect to find in such an alley, lining this one were shops that had not changed in any substantial way in the past seven hundred or so years. There, first to the right, the Half-Axe Temple of Herbs, smelling like a swamp's sinkhole, wherein one could find a prune-faced witch who lived in a mudpit, with all her precious plants crowding the banks, or growing in the insect-flecked pool itself. It was said she had been born in that slime and was only half human; and that her mother had been born there too, and her mother and so on. That such conceptions were immaculate went without saying, since Tehol could hardly imagine any reasonable or even unreasonable man taking that particular plunge.

Opposite the Half-Axe was the narrow-fronted entrance to a shop devoted to short lengths of rope and wooden poles a man and a half high. Tehol had no idea how such a specialized enterprise could survive, especially in this unravelled, truncated market, yet its door had remained open for almost six centuries, locked