‘Eighteen silver?’
‘Slivers?’
‘Yah.’
‘All right.’
Snell thrashed about as he was carried off into a back room, then down steps and into an unlit cellar that smelled of piss-soaked mud. He was gagged and bound and thrown into a low iron cage. Goruss then went back up the stairs, leaving Snell alone.
In the front room, Goruss sat down across from Bellam. ‘Ale, nephew?’
‘Too early for me, Uncle.’
‘How long you want me to hold him?’
‘Long enough to shit everything out of him. I want him so scared he breaks inside.’
‘Give him a night, then. Enough to run through all his terrors, but not so much he gets numb. Shit, nephew, I don’t deal in anybody under, oh, fifteen years old, and we do careful interviewing and observing, and only the completely hopeless ones get shipped to the rowing benches. And even then, they get paid and fed and signed out after five years-and most of them do good after that.’
‘I doubt Snell knows any of that, Uncle. Just that children are dragged into this shop and they don’t come back out.’’Must look that way.’
Bellam smiled. ‘Oh, it does, Uncle, it does.’
‘Not seen him in days.’
Barathol just nodded, then walked over to the cask of water to wash the grime off his forearms and hands. Chaur sat on a crate nearby, eating some local fruit with a yellow skin and pink, fleshy insides. Juice dribbled down his stubbled chin.
Scillara gave him a bright smile as she wandered into the front room. The air smelled brittle and acrid, the way it does in smithies, and she thought now that, from this moment on, the scent would accompany her every recollection of Barathol, this large man with the gentle eyes. ‘Had any more trouble with the Guilds?’ she asked.
He dried himself off and flung the cloth to one side. ‘They’re making it hard, but I expected that. We’re surviving.’
‘So I see.’ She kicked at a heap of iron rods. ‘New order?’
‘Swords. The arrival of the Malazan embassy’s garrison has triggered a new fad among the nobles. Imperial longswords. Gave trouble to most of the local sword-smiths.’ He shrugged. ‘Not me, of course.’
Scillara settled down in the lone chair and began scraping out her pipe. ‘What’s so special about Malazan longswords?’
‘The very opposite, actually. The local makers haven’t quite worked out that they have to reverse engineer to get them right.’
‘Reverse engineer?’
‘The Malazan longsword’s basic design and manufacture is originally Untan, from the imperial mainland. Three centuries old, at least, maybe older. The empire still uses the Untan foundries and they’re a conservative bunch.’
‘Well, if the damned things do what they’re supposed to do, why make changes?’
‘That seems to be the thinking, yes. The locals have gone mad folding and refolding, trying to capture that rough solidity, but the Untan smiths are in the habit of working iron not hot enough. It’s also red iron that they’re using-the Untan Hills are rotten with it even though it’s rare everywhere else.’ He paused, watching as she lit her pipe. ‘This can’t be of any real interest to you, Scillara.’
‘Not really, but I do like the sound of your voice.’ And she looked up at him through the smoke, her eyes half veiled.
‘Anyway, I can make decent copies and the word’s gone out. Eventually, some swordsmith will work things out, but by then I’ll have plenty of satisfied customers and even undercutting me won’t be too damaging.’
‘Good,’ she said.
He studied her for a moment, and then said, ‘So, Cutter’s gone missing, has he?’
‘I don’t know about that. Only that I’ve not seen him in a few days.’
‘Are you worried?’She thought about it, and then thought some more, ‘ Barathol, that wasn’t my reason for visiting you. I wasn’t looking for someone to charge in as if Cut-ter’s been kidnapped or something. I’m here because I wanted to see you. I’m lonely-oh, I don’t mean anybody’ll do, either, when I say that. I just wanted to see you, that’s all.’
After a moment, he shrugged and held out his hands. ‘Here I am.’
‘You won’t make it easy, will you?’
‘Scillara, look at me. Please, look. Carefully. You’re too fast for me. Cutter, that historian, even that Bridgeburner, you leave them all spinning in your wake. Given my choice, I’d rather go through the rest of my life beneath the notice of everyone. I’m not interested in drama, or even excitement.’
She stretched out her legs. ‘And you think I am?’
‘It’s life that you’re full of.’ Barathol frowned and then shook his head. ‘I’m not very good at saying what I mean, am I?’
‘Keep trying.’
‘You can be… overwhelming.’
‘Typical, put on a little fat and suddenly I’m too much for him.’
‘You’re not.fat and you know it. You have,’ he hesitated, ‘shape.’
She thought to laugh, decided that it might come out too obviously hurt, Which would make him feel even worse. Besides, her comment had been little more than desperate misdirection-she’d lost most of the weight she’d put on during her pregnancy. ‘Barathol, has it not occurred to you that maybe I am as I am because behind it all there’s not much else?’
His frown deepened.
Chaur dropped down from the crate and came over. He patted her on the head with a sticky hand and then hurried off into the yard.
‘But you’ve lived through so much.’
‘And you haven’t? Gods below, you were an officer in the Red Blades. What you did in Aren-’
‘Was just me avoiding a mess, Scillara. As usual.’
‘What are we talking about here?’
His eyes shied away. ‘I’m not sure. I suppose, now that Cutter’s left you…’
‘And Duiker’s too old and Picker’s a woman and that’s fun but not serious-for me, at least-I’ve found myself in need of another man. Chaur’s a child, in his head, that is. Leaving… you.’
The harsh sarcasm of her voice stung him and he almost stepped back. ‘From where I’m standing,’ he said.
‘Well,’ she said, sighing, ‘it’s probably what I deserve, actually. I have been a bit… loose. Wayward. Looking, trying, not finding, trying again. And again. From where you’re standing, yes, I can see that.’
‘None of that would matter to me,’ Barathol then said. ‘Except, well, I don’t want to be just another man left in your wake.’
‘No wonder you’ve devoted your life to making weapons and armour. Problem is, you’re doing that for everyone else.’
He said nothing. He simply watched her, as, she realized, he had been doing for some time now. All at once, Scillara felt uncomfortable. She drew hard on her pipe. ‘Barathol, you need some armour of your own.’
And he nodded. ‘I see.’
‘I’m not going to make promises I can’t keep. Still, it may be that my waywardness is coming to an end. People like us, who spend all our time looking, well, even when we find it we usually don’t realize it-until it’s too late.’
‘Cutter.’
She squinted up at him. ‘He had no room left in his heart, Barathol. Not for me, not for anyone.’
‘So he’s just hiding right now?’
‘In more ways than one, I suspect.’
‘But he’s broken your heart, Scillara.’
