Reaper's Gate & Toll the Hounds - By Steven Erikson Page 0,616

with fresh fruits and a carafe of delicate white wine, and perhaps even a pipe bowl, she would observe all the life meandering below, sparing a thought (just once and then done with) for the dogs she didn't want and the children she didn't have and probably would never have, given Gorlas's predilections. To think, for a time, in a musing way, of his parents and their dislike of her – convinced that she was barren, no doubt, but no woman ever got pregnant from that place, did she? – and of her own father, now a widower, with his sad eyes and the smile he struggled to fashion every time he looked upon her. To contemplate, yet again, the notion of pulling her father aside and warning him – about what? Well, her husband, for one, and Hanut Orr and Shardan Lim for that matter. Dreaming of a great triumvirate of tyranny and undoubtedly scheming to bring it about. But then, he would laugh, wouldn't he? And say how the young Council members were all the same, blazing with ambition and conviction, and that their ascension was but a matter of time, as unstoppable as an ocean tide, and soon they would come to realize that and cease their endless plans of usurpation. Patience, he would tell her, is the last virtue learned. Yes, but often too late to be of any value, dear Father. Look at you, a lifetime spent with a woman you never liked, and now, free at last, you find yourself grey, a fresh stoop to your shoulders, and you sleep ten bells every night—

Such thoughts and others whilst she refreshed herself and began selecting her attire for the day. And in the bedroom beyond she heard Gorlas sit on the bed, no doubt unlacing his boots, knowing well that she was here in the tiny chamber and clearly not caring.

And what then would Darujhistan offer up to her this bright day? Well, she would see, wouldn't she?

She turned from watching her students in the compound and, eyes alighting upon him, she scowled. 'Oh, it's you.'

'This is the new crop, then? Apsalar's sweet kiss, Stonny.'

Her scowl turned wry and she walked past him into the shade of the colonnade, where she sat down on the bench beside the archway, stretching out her legs. 'I won't deny it, Gruntle. But it's something I've been noticing – the noble-born children are all arriving lazy, overweight and uninterested. Sword skill is something their fathers want for them, as obnoxious to them as lyre lessons or learning numbers. Most of them can't even hold up the practice swords for longer than fifty heartbeats, and here it's expected I can work them into something worth more than snot in eight months. Apsalar's sweet kiss? Yes, I'll accept that. It is theft, all right.'

'And you're doing well by it, I see.'

She ran one gloved hand along her right thigh. 'The new leggings? Gorgeous, aren't they?'

'Stunning.'

'Black velvet doesn't work on any old legs, you know.'

'Not mine, anyway.'

'What do you want, Gruntle? I see the barbs have faded, at least. News was you were positively glowing when you came back.'

'A disaster. I need a new line of work.'

'Don't be ridiculous. It's the only thing you're remotely good at. Oafs like you need to be out there, chopping through the thick skulls of bandits and whatnot. Once you start staying put this city is doomed and it just so happens that I like living here, so the sooner you're back out on the trails the better.'

'I missed you too, Stonny.'

She snorted.

'Bedek and Myrla are well, by the way.'

'Stop right there.'

He sighed, rubbed at his face.

'I mean it, Gruntle.'

'Look, an occasional visit is all I'm asking—'

'I send money.'

'You do? That's the first I've heard of that. Not a mention from Bedek and from how they're doing, well, you can't be sending much, or very often.'

She glared at him. 'Snell meets me outside the door and the coins go right into his hands – I make sure, Gruntle. Anyway, how dare you? I made the adoption legal and so I don't owe them anything, damn you.'

'Snell. Well, that probably explains it. Next time try Myrla or Bedek, anyone but Snell.'

'You're saying the little shit is stealing it?'

'Stonny, they're barely scraping by, and, thinking on it, well, I know you well enough to know that, adoption or no, you won't see them starve – any of them, especially not your son.'

'Don't call him that.'

'Stonny—'

'The spawn of rape