Barathol was slow to answer the loud persistent knocking at his door. It had a suspiciously arrogant and officious sound to it. Finally opening up, he found that he’d been right. A clerk faced him, a great sheaf of scrolls tucked under one arm and another in his hand. Behind him stood three Wardens of the city watch, and behind them stood a wrinkled pinch-faced woman he recognized as a representative of the city blacksmiths’ guild.
He crossed his thick arms, peered down at the clerk. ‘Yes?’
‘Are you …’ the young man consulted the scroll he was holding, ‘the smith known as Barathol Mekhar, a registered foreigner?’
‘I’m not foreign where I was born.’
The clerk blinked up at him. His brows wrinkled as he considered the point. Then he shrugged. ‘Well, Barathol, as a tradesman and a resident you are hereby conscripted to the city’s construction efforts.’
‘I’m not a mason.’
‘Metalworking is also required,’ the woman observed from the rear.
Barathol jerked a thumb to her. ‘Then why isn’t she conscripted?’
‘Members of the blacksmiths’ guild in good standing are exempt,’ the woman replied, prim and flushed with triumph.
Barathol nodded. ‘I see.’
‘I’ll give you a good exempting,’ Scillara spat from behind Barathol and tried to push past him. He threw an arm across the doorway.
‘Is it paid service?’ he asked.
The clerk allowed the thick paper of the scroll to snap back into a cylinder. ‘It will count as taxation.’
Barathol had yet to pay any tax whatsoever on any of his income but decided that perhaps it would be best not to raise the point at this time. ‘Starting when?’
‘The morrow. Report to the site foreman in the morning.’ The man hurried off, clearly relieved to be done. The woman threw Barathol a haughty glare then hastened in his wake. The three Wardens ambled off, hands tucked into belts. Barathol closed the door.
‘How can you go along with that?’ Scillara demanded.
Barathol peered around the small apartment, which was barely furnished at all. The only domestic touches were those he’d added: a cloth at the table, utensils he’d made. ‘Have to,’ he murmured. ‘No choice.’
‘No choice,’ she echoed, disappointed. ‘No choice. I thought I’d picked one with a spine.’
He flinched, but eased his shoulders. ‘They would arrest me. You’d be on the street.’
She sniffed, dismissing that. ‘I’ve been there before. I’ll do it again.’
‘Not with the little ’un. Not with him. I’ll not see that happen.’
Scillara gave a great rolling of her eyes. ‘Gods! Back to that. Martyr for the children.’ She waved him off and headed up the stairs. Barathol watched her go.
Only thing worth martyring for, I’d say.
‘You a friend o’ that rat?’
Rallick looked up from his usual seat in the Phoenix Inn. He blinked, widening his gaze at the astounding apparitions before him. Two men, twins it seemed, embalmed in dust. Clothes ragged and torn. Dirt-pasted faces cadaver hollow. Hair all standing wind-tossed and hardened in grime. ‘What rat might that be?’ he asked, though he sat at the man’s table.
Each pulled out a chair and sat, stiffly. One coughed into a fist and managed, croaking, ‘While we hash that out how ’bout standing two thirsty men a drink?’
Rallick signed to Scurve for a round.
The two let out long exhalations as if cool cloths had just been pressed to their brows.
‘And who are you?’ Rallick asked.
‘Leff.’
‘Scorch.’
Ah. In the flesh. He leaned back, nodding. ‘I see. What can I do for you?’
‘We’re at the rat’s table but we don’t see no hide nor tail,’ said the one who gave his name as Leff.
‘And for the immediate future let’s keep it to rat — shall we?’
‘Oh?’ said the other, Scorch, his expression puzzled. Or at least so it looked beneath all the pancaking of dust and grit and untrimmed beard. ‘Why’zat?’
Subtlety, Rallick decided, would be lost upon these two and so he allowed himself an exaggerated frown and lift of his shoulders. ‘Well … let’s just say that everyone’s name is on a list somewhere …’
The two stiffened, their gazes flying to one another. One touched a dirty finger to his nose; the other touched a finger just beneath his left eye. Both gave Rallick broad winks.
‘From your lips to the gods’ ears, friend,’ said Leff.
The drinks arrived care of Jess: two tall stoneware tankards of weak beer. The two men stared at them as if they were miraculous visitations from the gods. Each reached out shaking dusty hands to wrap them round a tankard. Each lowered his mouth as if unequal to the task of raising the vessel. Each sniffed in a great lungful then sighed, dreamily. They took first sips by sucking in the top film then coughed, convulsing and gagging. When the fits had subsided they returned to the tankards to rest their noses just above them once more.
All this Rallick watched wordlessly, his face a mask. And so it is for men. What we lust after almost kills us yet we always return for more … we never learn.
Rallick waited while the two addressed the tankards. It took some time. The surrounding tables changed over during the wait. Rallick overheard talk of Lim, this new Legate, and of vague building plans. Right now operations were beginning at the mole to recover stone blocks dumped into the harbour. Finally, after much sighing and swallowing, the two wiped their mouths, leaving great smears of wet dirt across their faces.
Leff pointed to Scorch’s face and laughed. Scorch pointed to his and he scowled. Left cleared his throat and spat on to the straw and sawdust scattered across the floor. ‘We’re lookin’ for a man,’ he told Rallick.
‘I’m happy for you.’
Both frowned and canted their heads as if thinking they’d misheard him.
Rallick sighed and waved his comment aside. ‘What’s that got to do with the rat?’
‘We’ve done work together. Him ’n’ us. Might be a percentage in it all for him. If you know what I mean.’ And he touched a finger under his eye once more.
‘I’m listening.’
‘This feller owes us a lot o’ money-’
‘And countin’!’ Scorch interjected. ‘And countin’!’
Leff nodded his profound, rather drunken agreement. ‘And counting too. A scholar. Ain’t been seen for a long time — so his landlady says. Overdue on rent too.’
‘Maybe he’s skipped.’
Scorch shook his head, unsteadily. ‘Naw. All his books ’n’ old broken pieces ’n’ such is still there. He’d never leave them behind.’
‘All right. So, when did you last see him?’
‘Ah. Well …’ The two blinked at one another, their heads sinking lower and lower. ‘We’d rather not say at this juncture of time … kinda confuse the issue … if you know what I mean.’
‘Fair enough.’ Rallick eyed the two slumping in their chairs. Full tankards on empty stomachs. They’ll be under the table in moments. ‘There’re rooms upstairs, you know. You can maybe use a rest.’
Leff gave a vague wave as he tottered to his feet. ‘Naw. You tell that rat. We’re lookin’ for the scholar.’
Scorch banged into the neighbouring table, righted himself. ‘Look out for that dancing girl, though! That minx. Got a temper like a she-devil. Wouldn’t even give us a kiss.’
Rallick watched them go. I’ll no doubt see them in the gutter later tonight. And dancing girls? Where’d that come from?
Kenth, out of Saltoan, had graduated quickly to full Claw membership. He’d always heard the old-timers grumble that the winnowing of the ranks that had been going on for a while now had also thinned their quality. He was determined to prove them wrong. He was of Golana’s clan and they had been given the biggest contract of recent times, one guaranteed to restore the reputation of the guild in Darujhistan.