Reaper's Gale (The Malazan Book of the Fallen #7)

Reaper's Gale (The Malazan Book of the Fallen #7) Page 126

She squinted at him. ‘Oh, my curiosity remains. It’s my belief in my own efficacy that has taken a beating.’

‘We spin and swirl on the currents of fate, do we?’

‘If you like.’ She sighed. ‘Very well, I’ve seen enough. Besides, it will be curfew soon, and I gather guards kill lawbreakers on sight.’

‘You have seen-but you explain nothing!’

‘Sorry, Taxilian. All of this requires… some thought. If I reach any spectacular conclusions any time soon.I will be sure to let you know.’

‘Do I deserve such irony?’

‘No, you don’t. Alas.’

Bugg finally made his way round the corner, emerging from the alley’s gloom then pausing in the sunlit street. He glanced over at Tehol, who stood leaning against a wall, arms crossed beneath his blanket, which he had wrapped about him like a robe. ‘Master,’ he said, ‘why do you hesitate now?’

‘Me? Why, this only appears to be hesitation. You know, you could have let me help you carry that.’

Bugg set the heavy sack down. ‘You never offered.’

‘Well, that would be unseemly. You should have insisted.’ Are you sure you have that right, Master?’

‘Not in the least, but some graciousness on your part would have helped us move past this awkward moment.’ From the bag came soft clucking sounds. Tehol blinked down at it. ‘Bugg, you said retired hens, Correct?’

‘I did. In exchange for some modest repairs to a water trough.’

‘But… they’re not dead.’

‘No, Master.’

‘But… that means one of us has to kill them. Wring their necks. See the light of life dim in their beady eyes. You are a hard man, Bugg.’

‘Me?’

‘Retired-their egg-laying days over. Isn’t there some kind of pasture awaiting them? Some well-strewn pecking ground?’

‘Only the one in the sky, Master. But I see your point. About killing them, I mean.’

‘Blood on your hands, Bugg-I’m glad I’m not you.’

‘This is ridiculous. We’ll figure something out when we get back home.’

‘We could build us a coop on the roof, as mad folk do for pigeons. That way the birds could fly in and out, back and forth, and see something of this fine city.’

‘Chickens can’t fly, Master.’

‘Beats wringing their necks, though, don’t you think?’

‘Seeing the city?’

‘Well, momentarily.’

Clearly satisfied with his solution, Tehol adjusted his blanket then walked out onto the street. Sighing, Bugg collected the sack with its dozen hens and followed at a somewhat slower pace.

‘Well,’ he said as he joined Tehol in front of the ruin, ‘at least that foreign witch is gone.’

‘She was a foreign witch? Rather pretty, in a stolid, earthy way. All right, handsome, then, although I assure you I would never say that to her face, knowing how women are so easily offended.’

‘By a compliment?’

‘Absolutely. If it is the wrong compliment. You have been… inactive far too long, dear Bugg.’

‘Possibly. I am also reticent when it comes to compliments. They have a way of coming after you.’

Tehol glanced over at him, brows lifted. ‘Sounds like you’ve been married once or twice.’

‘Once or twice,’ Bugg replied, grimacing. Glancing up at the ruined Scale House, he went very still. ‘Ah, I see now what she no doubt saw.’

‘If what you are seeing is the source for making the hairs of my neck stand on end every time I come here, then I would be pleased if you explained.’

‘For someone to step inside,’ Bugg said, ‘of necessity there must be a door. And if one does not exist, one must be made.’

‘How can a collapsed building be a door, Bugg?’

‘I begin to comprehend what is coming.’

‘Sufficient to suggest a course of action?’

‘In this matter, Master, the best course is to do nothing.’

‘Hold on, Bugg, that particular conclusion seems to crop up rather often with you.’

‘We’d best get home before curfew, Master. Care to take a turn with this sack?’

‘Errant’s blessing, have you lost your mind?’

‘I thought as much.’

There was little in Sirryn Kanar’s thoughts that reached down to the depths of his soul-he had a sense of that, sufficient to make him recognize that he was blessed with a virtually untroubled life. He possessed a wife frightened enough to do whatever he told her to do. His three children held him in the proper mixture of respect and terror, and he had seen in his eldest son the development of similar traits of dominance and certainty. His position as a lieutenant in the Palace Cell of the Patriotists did not, as far as he was concerned, conflict with his official title of Sergeant of the Guard-protection of the powerful demanded both overt and covert diligence, after all.