'In'ured? Tho. Tooth. B'oke ith. Olib pith.'
Itkovian frowned, glanced at Gruntle.
The Mortal Sword shrugged. 'Olive pit, maybe?'
'Aye!' Reese nodded vigorously, then winced at the motion. 'Wha you wanth?'
Gruntle drew a deep breath, then said, 'The truth, Reese. Where's Buke?'
The servant shrugged. 'Gone.'
'Did they-'
'Tho! Gone! Thlown!' He jerked his arms up and down. 'Thlap thlap! Unnerthan? Yeth?'
Gruntle sighed, glanced away, then slowly nodded. 'Well enough,' he said a moment later.
The carriage door opened and Bauchelain leaned out. 'Why have we stop-ah, the caravan captain … and the Grey Sword, I believe, but where, sir, is your uniform?'
'I see no need-'
'Never mind,' Bauchelain interrupted, climbing out, 'I wasn't really interested in your answer. Well, gentlemen, you have business to discuss, perhaps? Indulge my rudeness, if you will, I am weary and short of temper of late, alas. Indeed, before you utter another word, I advise you not to irritate me. The next unpleasant interruption is likely to see my temper snap entirely, and that would be a truly fell thing, I assure you. Now, what would you with us?'
'Nothing,' Gruntle said.
The necromancer's thin, black brows rose fractionally. 'Nothing?'
'I came to enquire of Buke.'
'Buke? Who — oh yes, him. Well, the next time you see him, tell him he is fired.'
'I'll do that.'
No-one spoke for a moment, then Itkovian cleared his throat. 'Sir,' he said to Bauchelain, 'your servant has broken a tooth and appears to be in considerable discomfort. Surely, with your arts …'
Bauchelain turned and looked up at Reese. 'Ah, that explains the head garb. I admit I'd been wondering … a newly acquired local fashion, perhaps? But no, as it turns out. Well, Reese, it seems I must once more ask Korbal Broach to make ready for surgery — this is the third such tooth to break, yes? More olives, no doubt. If you still persist in the belief that olive pits are deadly poison, why are you so careless when eating said fruit? Ah, never mind.'
'Tho thurgery, pleath! Tho! Pleath!'
'What are you babbling about, man? Be quiet! Wipe that drool away — it's unsightly. Do you think I cannot see your pain, servant? Tears have sprung from your eyes, and you are white — deathly white. And look at you shake so — not another moment must be wasted! Korbal Broach! Come out, if you will, with your black bag! Korbal!'
The wagon rocked slightly in answer.
Gruntle swung his horse round. Itkovian followed suit.
'Until later, then, gentlemen!' Bauchelain called out behind them. 'Rest assured I am grateful for your advising me of my servant's condition. As he is equally grateful, no doubt, and were he able to speak coherently I am sure he would tell you so.'
Gruntle lifted a hand in a brusque wave.
They set off to rejoin Trake's Legion.
Neither spoke for a time, until a soft rumbling from Gruntle drew Itkovian's attention. The Mortal Sword, he saw, was laughing.
'What amuses you so, sir?'
'You, Itkovian. I expect Reese will curse your concern for the rest of his days.'
'An odd expression of gratitude that would be. Will he not be healed?'
'Oh, yes, I am sure he will, Itkovian. But here's something for you to ponder on, if you will. Sometimes the cure is worse than the disease.'
'Can you explain that?'
'Ask Emancipor Reese, the next time you see him.'
'Very well, I will do just that, sir.'
The stench of smoke clung to the walls, and sufficient old stains blotting the rugs attested to the slaughter of acolytes down hallways and in anterooms and annexes throughout the temple.
Coll wondered if Hood had been pleased to have his own children delivered unto him, within the god's own sanctified structure.
It appeared to be no easy thing to desecrate a place made sacred to death. The Daru could feel the breath of unabated power, cool and indifferent, as he sat on the stone bench outside the chamber of the sepulchre.
Murillio paced up and down the wide main hallway to his right, stepping into his line of sight then out again, over and over.
In the holy chamber beyond, the Knight of Death was preparing a place for the Mhybe. Three bells had passed since Hood's chosen servant had walked into the chamber of the sepulchre, the doors closing of their own accord behind him.
Coll waited until Murillio reappeared once more. 'He can't let go of those swords.'