rubbed at his face. 'Everyone's mood is sour these days, it seems.'
'What are we waiting for?'
Krute could not long hold Rallick's gaze when the assassin finally looked at him. There was something so . . . remorseless in those cold eyes, in that hard face that seemed carved to refute for ever the notion of a smile. A face that could not soften, could not relax into anything human. No wonder he'd been Vorcan's favourite.
Krute fidgeted with the food he'd purchased. 'You hungry?' he asked.
'What did you have in mind?'
'Fish stew.'
'In a few bells it'll be hot enough outside to melt lead.'
'That's what I'm cooking, Rallick.'
Sighing, the assassin rose and stretched. 'Think I'll take a walk instead.'
'As you like.'
At the door Rallick paused and glanced over, his expression suddenly wry. 'It wears off, doesn't it?'
Krute frowned. 'What does?'
Rallick did not reply, and moments later he was gone, the door closing behind him.
'What does?' Did I have any reason there to be so obtuse? Must have, though I can't think of one right now. Maybe just . . . instinctive. Yes, Rallick Nom, it wears off. Fast.
Things were easier before – should have recognized that back then. Should have liked things just fine. Should have stopped gnawing.
On her hands and knees, Thordy rubbed the ashes into the spaces between the set stones, into every crack and fissure, every groove scoring the vaguely flat surfaces. Tiny bits of bone rolled under her fingertips. No ash was perfect unless it came from nothing but wood, and this ash was made of more things than just wood. The dry season had, she hoped, finally arrived. Otherwise she might have to do this all over again, to keep the glyphs hidden, the pleasant, beautiful glyphs with all the promises they whispered to her.
She heard the back door swing open on its leather hinges and knew Gaz was standing on the threshold, eyes hooded, watching her. His fingerless hands twitching at the ends of his arms, the ridge of knuckles marred and bright red, teeth-cut and bone-gouged.
He killed people every night, she knew, to keep from killing her. She was, she knew, the cause of their deaths. Every one of them a substitute for what Gaz really wanted to do.
She heard him step outside.
Straightening, wiping the ash from her hands on her apron, she turned.
'Breakfast leavings,' he muttered.
'What?'
'The house is full of flies,' he said, standing there as if struck rooted by the sunlight. Red-shot eyes wandered about the yard as if wanting to crawl out from his head and find shelter. Beneath that rock, or the bleached plank of grey wood, or under the pile of kitchen scraps.
'You need a shave,' she said. 'Want me to heat the water?'
The haunted eyes flicked towards her – but there was nowhere to hide in that direction, so he looked away once more. 'No, don't touch me.'
She thought of holding the razor in her hand, settling its edge against his throat. Seeing the runnels winding down through the lathered soap, the throb of his pulse. 'Well,' she said, 'the beard hides how thin you've become. In the face, anyway.'
His smile was a threat. 'And you prefer that, wife?'
'It's just different, Gaz.'
'You can't prefer anything when you don't care, right?'
'I didn't say that.'
'You didn't have to. Why'd you make that stone thing – right there on the best dirt?'
'I just felt like it,' she replied. 'A place to sit and rest. Where I can keep an eye on all the vegetables.'
'In case they run away?'
'No. I just like looking at them, that's all.' They don't ask questions. They don't ask for much of anything at all. A few dribbles of water, maybe. A clear path to the sun, free of any weeds.
They don't get suspicious. They don't think about murdering me.
'Have supper ready for dusk,' Gaz said, lurching into motion.
She watched him leave. Gritty ash made black crescents of her fingernails, as if she had been rooting through the remnants of a pyre. Which was appropriate, because she had, but Gaz didn't need to know things like that. He didn't need to know anything at all.
Be a plant, Gaz. Worry about nothing. Until the harvest.
*
The ox was too stupid to worry. If not for a lifetime of back-breaking labour and casual abuse, the beast would be content, existence a smooth cycle to match the ease of day into night and night into day and on and on for ever. Feed and cud aplenty, water to drink and salt to