But Gruntle didn’t give a damn about her and the mangy losers she’d gathered to her temple. Killing those raiders had not been a task he had welcomed. No pleasure in spilling blond, no deligkt in his own savage rage, He’d lost friends that day, including the last pair who had been with him ever since Capustan. Such wounds were fur deeper than those his flesh still carried, and they would take much longer to heal.
Mood foul despite the bulging purse of councils at his belt, he was disinclined to suffer the normal jostling necessary to navigate the city’s major avenues and streets one push or snarl too many and he’d be likely to draw blades and set Shout carving a path through the crowds, and then he’d have no choice but to flee Darujhistan or risk dangling from High Gallows Hill-and so once through the Estates Gate just south of Borthen Park, and down the ramp into Lakefront Dis-t rict, Gruntle took a roundabout route, along narrow, twisting alleys and rubbish-lllled wends between buildings.
The few figures he met as he walked were quick to edge aside, as if struck meek by some instinct of self-preservation.
He turned on to one slightly wider track only to find it blocked by a tall carriage that looked as if it had been through a riot-reminding Gruntle that the fete was still on-although, as he drew closer and found himself stepping over with¬ered, dismembered limbs and streaks of slowly drying blood, and when he saw t he gaping hole in the carriage where a door should have been, with the dark interior still and grey with motionless haze, and the horses standing with hides crusted in dried sweat and froth-the entire mess unattended and seemingly im¬mune to looting-he recognized that this was one of those damned Trygalle Guild carriages, well and truly infamous for sudden, inexplicable and invariably violent arrivals.
fust as irritating, the Trygalle was a clear rival to the city’s own Caravanserai Guild, with its unprecedented shareholding system. Something the Caravanserai should have thought of long ago, although if what Gruntle had heard was anywhere near the truth, then the attrition rate among the Trygalle’s shareholders was appallingly high-higher than any sane guard would accept.
Then again, he reconsidered, here he was, the lone survivor of Sirik’s caravan, and despite the councils he now carried his financial return was virtually nothing compared to the profits Sirik would harvest from the kelyk, especially now that he didn’t have to pay his drivers. Of course, he’d need to purchase new wagons and repair the ones Gruntle had delivered, but there was insurance to offset some of that.
As he edged round the carriage in the street, he was afforded a closer look, concluding, sourly, that the Trygalle built the bastards to weather just about anything. Scorched, gouged as if by the talons of plains bears, bitten and chopped at, gaudy paint peeled away as if splashed with acid. As battered as a war wagon.
He walked past the horses. Then, five strides onward, Gruntle turned about in surprise. That close and the beasts should have panicked-they always panicked. Even ones he had broken to his scent shivered uncontrollably beneath him until sheer nervous exhaustion dulled their fright. But here… he scowled, meeting the eyes of one of the leaders and seeing naught but jaded disinterest.
Shaking his head, Gruntle resumed his journey.
Damned curious. Then again, he could do with a horse like one of those. Better yet, how about a dead one, dead as Gisp?
The thought brought him back to certain unpleasantries he didn’t much want to think about at the moment. Like my being able to command the dead. He was, he considered, too old to be discovering new talents.
The walrus-skin coracle bobbed perilously in the chop between two trader barges, at risk of being crushed between them before a frantic scull by the lone occupant squirted the craft through, to draw up moments later alongside a mud-smeared landing crowded with crayfish traps. The man who clambered up from the coracle was soaked from the hips down, and the knapsack he slung on to one shoulder sloshed, then began to drain incontinently as he worked his way up the dock to the worn stone steps that climbed to the quayside.
He was unkempt, his beard two or three days old, and the leathers he wore seemed a strange mix of those normally worn beneath armour and those a Nathii fisher might wear in a squall. The floppy sealskin hat covering his head was misshapen, sun-faded and salt-rimed. In addition to his knapsack he carried an odd-looking scimitar in a split scabbard bound together by frayed strips of leather. The serpent-head pommel revealed empty sockets where gems had once resided for eyes, fangs and collar. Tall, wiry, he moved with a vaguely furtive haste once he reached the quay, cutting through the crowds towards one of the feeder alleys on the other side of Front Street.
