Taya fanned the dusty stale air. ‘Yes, yes. There is a point? Or has your head finally cracked under all this pressure?’
He raised one gnarled and bent finger. ‘Ah, but I’ve been planning too.’ He crossed to where the huge statue glimmered in the shadows, dominating the room like a gigantic squat pillar. He peered up at it admiringly, perhaps the way one might admire a tall son. ‘What can beat down all obstacles before it, never resting, never relenting? An automaton, yes?’
Taya eyed it doubtfully. ‘I thought you said they weren’t automatons.’
Irritation twisted half Aman’s mismatched face. ‘Normally, yes. However, I’ve been making certain … ah … innovations.’ He patted the statue’s chest where the mosaic of inset precious stones flashed. ‘This one is my own project. And now it is time to set it into motion.’ He hobbled to the rear of the shop.
Taya heard pots thumping, then a rhythmic grinding of mortar and pestle. She blew out a breath and looked to the cobwebbed ceiling.
‘I do not understand why Father tolerates this feud of yours,’ she called.
‘Hmmm?’
‘Just ignore them!’ she shouted. ‘Leave them barricaded in that heap of stones.’
‘The Warrens are a standing threat to us, my dear. Surely that must be obvious, even to you.’
She scowled, not liking the sound of that. He emerged carrying shallow ceramic bowls containing powders, which he lined up on the counter. She watched while he upended a tall earthenware jug over the statue, straining to reach its shoulders. Some sort of thick milk-like substance dribbled down its arms and front. Taya almost asked what it was, only to reconsider at the last instant. She decided she didn’t want to know.
‘How long is this going to take?’
‘Long?’ he murmured, distracted, as he rubbed the sticky liquid into the statue’s torso and arms. ‘Oh, quite some time. Quite some time.’
‘Well … I’m going.’
He turned, blinking at her. ‘Really? I thought you’d be interested.’
‘Well, I’m not.’
He picked up one of the shallow ceramic bowls and dipped a finger into the powder, sighed. ‘Let it not be said I did not try … I apologize, then, for attempting to further your education. There is no need for you to remain.’
‘Thank you. I will be at court.’
‘Of course you will,’ he murmured as she yanked open the door.
Barathol had been napping in the afternoon heat when he awoke to see Scillara standing over him. ‘That greasy fat fellow is here to see you.’
‘Fat fellow?’
‘That shabby one who warms a chair at the Phoenix Inn. Count your fingers when you’re done talking with that one, I say.’
He rose, stretching. Joints popped. He slipped an arm round her waist. ‘A breastfeeding mother is the most sensual sight to a father.’
She rolled her eyes. ‘So you keep sayin’.’
‘It’s true.’
‘Sure it is.’ She pushed him to the rear door of the row-house. ‘Try to get some more work. We’re not living off the fat of the hog here.’
He found the man sitting at their small table, the chair pushed far back to make room for his round stomach. ‘Make yourself at home,’ Barathol said.
‘Why, thank you! I shall and did. I could not help but also notice that your pantry possesses remarkable potential for filling … When might this be accomplished? Soon, I hope?’
Barathol pulled out their one other chair and sat heavily. He considered for a moment and then said, ‘I do the cooking here.’
‘Excellent! Then I certainly am speaking to the most important person here. I would like eggs. Poached. And a roasted bird, preferably plucked beforehand. Or a roasted bird still containing its eggs. Whichever is quicker, speed being the operational consideration here. Efficiency.’ He rested his pudgy hands on his stomach, grimacing.
Barathol crossed his arms, stretched out his legs and crossed them at the ankles. They reached halfway across the narrow main floor. ‘I cook over the forge I built in the yard.’
The eager moon-round face fell. ‘Oh dear. How unappetizing.’ A hand flew to his mouth. ‘I can’t believe that word passed my lips. You say you actually cook over the fire? How primal. No wonder you are favoured by Burn.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Nothing. You wouldn’t have something, though, would you?’ He pinched his thumb and forefinger together. ‘Just a smidgen of a biscuit or a cut of lamb? Roasted, on a stick? A kebab? Yes, a kebab would be nice. Forge- roasted, perhaps?’
‘No. Nothing.’
‘Aiya! You are merciless! Is Kruppe to perish? Very well! You win, O ruthless bargainer. You may have the villa.’
Barathol frowned. ‘The what?’
‘Why, the villa outside the city. Cliff-top, with a view over Lake Azur, of course.’
‘A villa? What for?’
‘Dear Soliel! Isn’t that enough?’ The man pressed his hands to his straining waistcoat. ‘I swear I have diminished. In the name of all that is civilized, relent!’
Barathol studied the sweaty, rotund figure. His black hair was so lacquered it looked like no more than a layer of pitch paint slathered across his head. Delicate curls descended on to his forehead but these too were pasted down as if glued. The man’s arsenic-white pallor was almost shocking in its contrast. While he watched, the fellow wiped his heavy jowls with a handkerchief so grey and grimed it seemed to do nothing more than reapply the shine of oil.
‘Is there anyone at all like you, Kruppe?’ he murmured wonderingly.
‘What?’ The fellow sat up straighter. The curve of his stomach pressed against the table. ‘Another Kruppe? Why, such excess of excellence would contravene fundamental laws of creation. Or would that rather be a case of excellent excess? Nay, sir! Think of the poor ladies alone. Imagine what it would do to their respiration. They would not know which way to turn.’
‘Quite,’ Barathol agreed sotto voce.
‘No, such dreams will have to wait. Yet what comportment such a one would possess. What elan. It would be a rare privilege to meet such a one, yes? Although …’ He tapped a short pudgy finger to his lips, his gaze distant. ‘How infuriating this paragon would be in his habit of always being right. His insufferable good looks. His intellect and generosity! No! I would hate him immediately and scheme for his downfall, of course.’
Blinking, the little man regarded Barathol anew. ‘Is that squash? I swear I smell yellow squash. Sliced thinly and roasted over a high open heat. Such as that which may be possessed by a forge. For example.’
Barathol shook his head. ‘No. No squash.’
‘May the gods forgive such ruthlessness. The very thought. No squash indeed. Very well.’ He pushed up his loose frilled sleeves and set his hands flat on the table. ‘The villa, a nursemaid, housekeeper, groom and valet. And that is my final offer.’ The handkerchief dabbed at mouth and brows and the fellow deflated, limp, in his chair as if utterly spent, eyes shut, arms dangling loose.
Barathol cleared his throat. He didn’t know whether to laugh or throw the man out. He took a long breath. ‘For what, Kruppe?’
One eye cracked open. ‘Why, for forging something, of course. Really, if I wanted shoes I would have gone next door.’
Barathol cocked his head. ‘I do shoes, Kruppe. That’s mostly what I do these days. Used to do swords but fashions change. Had to move to smaller premises. You want a dent beaten out of a pot? I’m your man. You want fine expert work? Try the guild.’
