Presumably, that description was intended to emphasize unmatched quality or something similar, since the pots themselves were sold as clocks, and for alchemical experiments and the like, and such functions were dependent on accurate rates of flow.
He stepped inside the cramped, damp shop.
‘You’re always frowning when you come in here, Tehol Beddict.’
‘Good morning, Laudable Grool.’
‘The grey one, yes, that one there.’
‘A fine-looking pot-’
‘It’s a beaker, not a pot.’
‘Of course.’
‘Usual price.’
‘Why do you always hide behind all those pots, Laudable Grool? All I ever see of you is your hands.’
‘My hands are the only important part of me.’
‘All right.’ Tehol drew out a recently removed dorsal fin. ‘A succession of spines, these ones from a capabara. Gradating diameters-’
‘How do you know that?’
‘Well, you can see it-they get smaller as they go back.’
‘Yes, but how precise?’
‘That’s for you to decide. You demand objects with which to make holes. Here you have… what… twelve. How can you not be pleased by that?’
‘Who said I wasn’t pleased? Put them on the counter, Take the beaker. And get that damned fat root out of here.’
From there it was across to the small animals shop and Beastmonger Shill, an oversized woman endlessly bustling up and down the rows of tiny stacked cages, on her flattened heels a piping, scurrying swarm of little creatures. She squealed her usual delight at the gifts of beaker and fat root, the latter of which, it turned out, was most commonly used by malicious wives to effect the shrinkage of their husbands’ testicles; whilst Shill had, with some delicate modifications, applied the root’s diminutive properties to her broods, feeding the yellow-smelling tea out in precise Increments using the holed beaker.
The meeting soured when Tehol slapped at a mosquito on his neck, only to be informed he had just killed a pygmy blood-sucking bat. His reply that the distinction was lost on him was not well received. But Shill opened the trapdoor on the floor at the back of the shop nevertheless, and Tehol descended the twenty-six narrow, steep stone steps to the crooked corridor-twenty-one paces long-that led to the ancient, empty beehive tomb, the walls of which had Been dismantled in three places to fashion rough doorways into snaking, low-cellinged tunnels, two of which ended in fatal traps. The third passageway eventually opened out int a long chamber occupied by a dozen or so dishevelled refugees, most of whom seemed to be asleep.
Fortunately, Chief Investigator Rucket was not among the somnolent. Her brows rose when she saw him, her admirable face filling with an expression of unfeigned relief as she gestured him to her table. The surface was covered in parchment sheets depicting various floor plans and structural diagrams.
‘Sir, Tehol Beddict! Here, some wine! Drink. By the Brrant, a new face! You have no idea how sick I am of my Interminable companions in this hovel.’
‘Clearly,’ he replied, sitting, ‘you need to get out more.’
‘Alas, most of my investigations these days are archival in nature.’
‘Ah, the Grand Mystery you’ve uncovered. Any closer to a solution?’
‘Grand Mystery? More like Damned Mystery, and no, I remain baffled, even as my map grows with every day that passes. But let’s not talk any more about that. My agents report that the cracks in the foundation are inexorably spreading-well done, Tehol. I always figured you were smarter than you looked.’
‘Why thank you, Rucket. Have you got those lacquered tiles I asked for?’
‘Onyx finished the last one this morning. Sixteen in all, correct?’
‘Perfect. Bevelled edges?’
‘Of course. All of your instructions were adhered to with diligence.’
‘Great. Now, about that inexorable spreading-’
‘You wish us to retire to my private room?’
‘Uh, not now, Rucket. I need some coin. An infusion to bolster a capital investment.’
‘How much?’
‘Fifty thousand.’
‘Will we ever see a return?’
‘No, you’ll lose it all.’
‘Tehol, you certainly do take vengeance a long way,] What is the benefit to us, then?’
‘Why, none other than the return to pre-eminence of the Rat Catchers’ Guild.’
Her rather dreamy eyes widened. ‘The end of the Patriotists? Fifty thousand? Will seventy-five be better? A hundred?’
‘No, fifty is what I need.’
‘I do not anticipate any objections from my fellow Guild Masters.’
‘Wonderful.’ He slapped his hands together, then rose.
She frowned up at him. ‘Where are you going?’
‘Why, to your private room, of course.’
‘Oh, how nice.’
His gaze narrowed on her. ‘Aren’t you joining me, Rucket?’
‘What would be the point? The name “fat root” is a. woman’s joke, you know.’
‘I haven’t drunk any yellow-smelling tea!’
‘In the future, I advise you to use gloves.’
‘Where’s your room, Rucket?’
One brow lifted. ‘Got something to prove?’
‘No, I just need to check on… things.’
‘What’s the point?’ she asked again. ‘Now that your imagination is awake, you’ll convince yourself you’ve got smaller, Tehol Beddict. Human nature. Worse that you happen to be a man, too.’ She rose. ‘I, however, can be objective, albeit devastatingly so, on occasion. So, do you dare my scrutiny?’
He scowled. ‘Fine, let’s go. Next time, however, let us dispense entirely with the invitation to your room, all right?’
‘Misery lies in the details, Tehol Beddict. As we’re about to discover.’
Venitt Sathad unrolled the parchment and anchored its corners with flatstones. ‘As you can see, Master, there are six separate buildings to the holdings.’ He began pointing to the illustrations of each. ‘Stables and livery. Icehouse. I ‘rystore, with cellar. Servants’ quarters. And, of course, the inn proper-’
‘What of that square building there?’ Rautos Hivanar asked.
Venitt frowned. ‘As I understand it, the interior is Virtually filled with an iconic object of some sort. The building predates the inn itself. Attempts to dislodge it failed. Now, what space remains is used for sundry storage.’
Rautos Hivanar leaned back in his chair. ‘How solvent is this acquisition?’
‘No more nor less than any other hostel, Master. It may be worth discussing investment on restoration with the other shareholders, including Karos Invictad.’
‘Hmm, I will consider that.’ He rose. ‘In the meantime, assemble the new artifacts on the cleaning table on the terrace.’
‘At once, Master.’
Fourteen leagues west of the Draconean Isles, doldrums had settled on this stretch of ocean, levelling the seas to a glassy, greasy patina beneath humid, motionless air. Through the eyeglass, the lone ship, black hull low in the water, looked lifeless. The mainmast was splintered, all rigging swept away. Someone had worked up a foresail, but the storm-rigged canvas hung limp. The steering oar was tied in place. No movement anywhere to be seen.
Skorgen Kaban, known as the Pretty, slowly lowered the eyeglass, yet continued squinting with his one good eye at the distant ship. He reached up to scratch one of the air holes-all that remained of what had once been a large, hawkish nose-then winced as a nail dug into sensitive scar tissue. The itch was non-existent, but the gaping
