carved another way down to the sea-right through the barrow under us! The whole damned thing slumped, taking the house down with it! And if that wasn’t bad enough, there was my wife, in bed, but not alone! Oh no! Not my beloved, treacherous Mully! Four-count ’em, four — damned ghosts was in there wi’er. Minor ones, of course-that’s all y’ever get from those barrows-but powerful enough to tickle and poke and nudge and stroke and my, wasn’t they having fun with moaning Mully! And she whimperin’ and beggin’ f’more! ‘More!’ she cries. ‘More!’-”
“Enough,” Guld growled.
The local looked up and nodded. “That’s what I said! I said-”
“Be quiet!” the sergeant snapped. “Find another table. Now.”
The foreigner had glanced up at Guld’s interruption, then had resumed his meal.
“Uh,” the local stammered, pushing his chair back. “Okay. Right away. I hear you, Sergeant Guld-oh yes, I know you. Seen you. Hundreds of times-no, I wasn’t doing nothing illegal, nothing y’could prove anyway-”
“Get out right now,” Guld said, “or I will dispense with the need to prove anything, and throw you in the stocks for a week or three.”
“I’m getting out. Here, see, here I go-”
Guld watched the man slip into the crowd, then sighed and slowly settled down in the vacated chair beside the foreigner. “I have a few questions for you,” he said in a low voice.
The foreigner belched, then grunted and continued eating.
“Where are you from? And why are you so damned interested in murder scenes?”
The foreigner snorted and shook his head, still not meeting Guld’s eyes. “Just seeing the sights, Sergeant,” he said, his accent harsh.
“Moll’s not much, but it’s got more to offer than alleys with dismembered corpses.”
The man paused. “Does it now?”
“Unless, of course,” Guld resumed, “killing is what you do.”
The foreigner collected the last of his bread and began soaking up the broth in his bowl. “If it’s what I do, Sergeant, I don’t do it that way.”
“If that’s what you do,” Guld retorted, “then what are you doing here?”
“Passing through.”
“So you’ll be leaving tomorrow.”
The foreigner shrugged. “Could be.”
“Where are you staying?”
The man finally turned a broad smile on Guld. “That guard you’ve got following me should know.”
The sergeant narrowed his gaze. “He reports to me regularly. If I don’t hear from him at the appointed time, I am personally coming looking for you.”
“As you like.”
Guld rose. “You’ve left a piece of bread,” he observed.
“For the gods.”
“What if they’re not hungry?”
“They’re always hungry, Sergeant.”
Steven Erikson
Bauchelain and Korbal Broach
“Y’look horrible, Mancy,” Kreege said with a grin as Emancipor slumped down at the table. “Subly keepin’ you awake at night, old man?” Kreege winked broadly at Dully who sat opposite him. “Y’ask me, she looks to be a woman of, uh, considerable appetites…”
“I wasn’t asking you,” Emancipor growled, glaring down at his mug of dark ale, “and why should I? It’s not like I don’t know, is it?”
“ ’Course not!” Dully loudly agreed.
“Hey,” Kreege said, leaning back, “you ain’t picked up none of that mange your squeakers come down with, have you?”
“No.”
“Glad to hear,” Kreege sighed. “Had that once. Horrible. Gods forbid, the stuff behind your ears-”
“No more a that,” Dully growled.
Emancipor drank deep, then leaned forward on the table. “I need a ship. Sailing out tonight or tomorrow morning.”
Dully’s brows rose. He met Kreege’s eyes, then both men edged closer. “Well,” Dully muttered, “that ain’t too hard.”
“He’s right,” Kreege nodded. “Easy pickings. Though, it all depends on what exactly you’re looking for. Like, if you want circumspect, you don’t want the Barnsider, since that’s Captain Pummel and he’s an upright-by-the-ledger sort.”
“And if you’re looking for fast and seaworthy,” Dully said, “you don’t want Troughbucket, since she’s been shipping bad and Cap’n Turb’s owing half the lenders in Moll, including Obler, so’s he can’t get the repairs done.”
“ Swarmfly might be a good bet but I heard the rats chased the whole damn crew off and there’s no telling when or if they’ll try storming her.” Kreege frowned, then shook his head. “Maybe not so easy after all, come to think of it.”
Dully raised a stubby finger. “Hold on. There’s one. The Suncurl.”
Kreege choked on a mouthful of beer and the next few moments passed as Emancipor and Dully watched the man hack and gag and choke, his face turning purple before he finally managed to draw a clean breath.
Emancipor turned to Dully. “The Suncurl, you said? Don’t know that one-”
“Come in from Stratem,” Dully explained with a casual shrug. “Needed some refitting here. Me and Kreege did some off-loading, then swung them a good price on iron nails.”
Kreege, now recovered enough to speak, cleared his throat and said, “Yeah, Dully’s got a good notion there. A good-looking ship, a trough-runner for sure. Captain’s very quiet-Hood, the whole crew’s a quiet, private bunch. The Suncurl. Perfect for your needs, Mancy, whatever your needs might be. She’s at the Trader’s Dock, just back down off the rollers and sitting pretty.”
Emancipor finished his ale, then rose. He was exhausted, his thoughts seeming to swim behind a thick fog. “Thanks. I’ll head straight there. See you.”
“See you Mancy, and don’t mention it. Hey, did Subly have any luck at the alchemist’s?”
Funny, I don’t recall telling ’em about all that. Must have, though. Kreege dotes on our youngest lad-guess it’s a natural concern. Guess he’s just a nice, caring man, is Kreege. “She did well enough,” Emancipor replied as he stepped away from the table and turned toward the door. “Thanks for asking.”
“No problem, Mancy. Glad to hear it.”
“Me too,” Dully added. “See you, Mancy.”
Sergeant Guld made his way down doll street, seventy-seven winding paces through a tortured alley draped in shadow. Brushing his shoulders on either side, with restless clattering, were hundreds of wooden, bone, rag and feathered dolls, each hanging by the neck from shop overhangs on hairy strands of seaweed twine. Shell, studded or painted eyes seemed to follow his passage, as if every ghastly puppet and marionette was demon-possessed. At the very least, Guld well knew, some of them were. Doll Street did not rank among his favourite haunts in Lamentable Moll. If human eyes tracked him, they were hidden in the chill gloom of the shop interiors.
As luck would have it, Mercy Blackpug’s closet of a shop was at the far dead end, leaning against a warehouse wall and facing onto the heaved-cobble alley. A row of leather-bound, bestial and bristly dolls depended from the jutting overhang. Misshapen faces grinned beneath strands of oily hair, onyx eyes glittering. Drawing closer, Guld’s gaze narrowed on the dolls. Not leather, after all, rather, something more like pigskin, poorly tanned and wrinkled around the stitches.
Hood knows who buys these things.
A deep melodic voice sang out from beneath the overhang, “Buy a doll for your young tikes? Every child should know terror, and are not my little ones terrible?”
Guld pushed his way through the miniature gallows row. “Where’s the old woman?” he demanded.
