Scribe Coingood watched Warmet Humble writhe in his chains. The chamber reeked of human waste, forcing Coingood to hold a scented handkerchief to his nose. But at least it was warm, with the huge three-legged bronze brazier sizzling and crackling and hissing and throwing up sparks every time his lord decided it was time to heat up the branding iron.
Weeping, spasms clawing their way through his broken body that hung so hapless from the chains, Warmet Humble was a sorry sight. This was what came of brotherly disputes that never saw resolution. Misunderstandings escalated, positions grew entrenched; argument fell away into deadly silence across the breakfast table, and before too long one of them ended up drugged and waking up in chains in a torture chamber. Coingood was relieved that he had been an only child, and the few times he’d ended up in chains was just his father teaching him a lesson about staying out after dark or cheating on his letters and numbers. In any case, if he’d had a brother, why, he’d never use a bhederin branding iron on him, which could brand a five year old from toe to head in a single go. Surely an ear-puncher would do; the kind the shepherds used on their goats and sheep.
Poor Warmet’s face bore one end of the brand’s mark, melted straight across the nose and both cheeks. Fangatooth had then angled it to sear first one ear and then the other. The horrid, red weal more or less divided Warmet’s once-handsome face into an upper half and a lower half.
Brothers.
Humming under his breath, Fangatooth stirred the coals. ‘The effect is lost,’ he then said, lifting up the branding iron with both hands and a soft grunt and then frowning at the burning bits of flesh snagged on it, ‘when it is scar tissue being scarred anew. Scribe! Feed my imagination, damn you!’
‘Perhaps, milord, a return to something more delicate.’
Fangatooth glanced over. ‘Delicate?’
‘Exquisite, milord. Tiny and precise, but excruciatingly painful?’
‘Oh, I like that notion. Go on!’
‘Fingernails –’
‘Done that. Are you blind?’
‘They’re growing back, milord. Tender and pink.’
‘Hmm. What else?’
‘Strips of skin?’
‘He barely has any skin worthy of the name, Scribe. No, that would be pointless.’
Warmet ceased his weeping and lifted his head. ‘I beg you, brother! No more! My mind is snapped, my body ruined. My future is one of terrible pain and torment. My past is memories of the same. My present is an ending howl of agony. I cannot sleep, I cannot rest my limbs – see how my head trembles in the effort to raise it? I beg you, Simplet—’
‘That is no longer my name!’ shrieked Fangatooth. He stabbed the branding iron into the coals. ‘I will burn out your tongue for that!’
‘Milord,’ Coingood said, ‘by your own rules, he must be able to speak, and see, and indeed, hear.’
‘Oh, that! Well, I’m of a mind to change my mind! I can do that, can’t I? Am I not the lord of this keep? Do I not command life and death over thousands?’
Well, hundreds, but why quibble? ‘You do indeed, milord. The world quakes at your feet. The sky weeps, the wind screams, the seas thrash, the very ground beneath us groans.’
Fangatooth spun round to face Coingood. ‘That’s good, Scribe. That’s very good. Write that down!’
‘At once, milord.’ Coingood collected up his tablet and bone graver. But the heat had melted the wax and he watched the letters fade even as he wrote. This was not a detail, he decided, worth sharing with his master. After all, there was another set of chains in this dungeon, and the wretched figure hanging from them was if anything even closer to death than poor Warmet Humble. A quick look in that direction revealed no motion from that forlorn victim.
Some strangers had arrived and proved too obnoxious to simply hang. For a time then, his lord had taken great pleasure in rushing from one prisoner to the other, and in a foul fug of burning flesh the screams had come from both sides of the chamber, along with spraying fluids that dried brown on the stone walls. But it could not last. Whatever uncanny will to live that was burning in Warmet’s soul was evidently unmatched by that other victim in this dungeon. ‘Done, milord.’
‘Every word?’
‘Every word, milord.’
‘Very good. Now, take note of this, and in detail. Dear brother, your life is in my hands. I can kill you at any time. I can make you scream, and twist in pain. I can hurt you bad – no, wait. Scratch out that last one, Scribe. Twist in pain. Yes. In agony. Twisting agony. I can make you twist in twisting agony. No! Not that one, either. Give me some more, Scribe. What’s wrong with you?’
Coingood thought frantically. ‘You’ve covered it well, milord—’
‘No! There must be more! Burn, pull, cut, impale, kick, slap. Slap? Yes, slap slap slap!’ And Fangatooth walked up to his brother and began slapping him back and forth across the face. The man’s head rocked to either side, sweat spraying from the few remaining clumps of hair on his pate. Fangatooth then kicked his brother’s left shin, and then his right. Suddenly out of breath, he stepped back and swung round to Coingood. ‘Did you see that?’
‘I did, milord.’
‘Write it down then! In detail!’
Coingood began scribbling again.
‘And note my exultant pose, will you? This stance here, see how it exudes power? Somewhat wide-legged, as if I might jump in any direction. Arms held out but the hands hanging like … like the weapons of death that they are. Weapons of death, Scribe, you got that? Excellent. Now, look at me, I’m covered in blood. I need a change of clothes – wait, are you writing all that down? You damned fool. It was an aside, of course. That bit about my clothes. Tell me you’ve washed and dried my other black robe?’
‘Of course, milord. Along with your other black vest, and your other black shirt and other black leggings.’
‘Excellent. Now, clean up around here. I will meet you in the Grand Chamber.’
Coingood bowed. ‘Very well, milord.’
After Fangatooth marched from the room, Coingood set down the tablet and studied it ruefully for a moment, noting how flecks of ash had marred the golden sheen of melted wax. ‘No wonder my eyes are going,’ he muttered.
‘For the blessed gods of mercy, Coingood, release me!’
The scribe looked over at the wretched figure. ‘Them slaps weren’t so bad, were they? The kicks to the shins, well, that must’ve smarted. But you have to agree, sir, today’s session was a mild one.’
‘You’re as evil as my brother!’
‘Please, milord! I am in his service, and take my pay the same as the maids, cooks and all the rest! Does this make us all evil? Nonsense. What is evil, sir, is you inviting me to hardship and discomfort. I need to eat, don’t I? Food on my table, a roof overhead and all that. Would you deny me such rights? In any case, how long would I survive defying your brother? Oh no, he wouldn’t just fire me, would he? No, he’d set me on fire! Why, I’d be up in those chains, screaming myself hoarse. Do you really wish that on me, sir? All for a few moments of blessed freedom?’
Warmet’s bleak eyes remained fixed on Coingood throughout the scribe’s reasoned defence. Then he said, ‘My flesh is in ruin. My soul cries out in unending torment. The joints of my arms rage with fever. The muscles of my neck tremble with this effort to hold up my head. I was once a hale man, but look at me now, and wait to see me tomorrow, when I will be even worse. So, you will not lift a hand. Then I curse you, Coingood, as only a dying man can.’
‘That was cruel! Spiteful! I am not to blame! It is your brother who commands me!’
Warmet bared bloodstained teeth. ‘And there we are indeed different – you and me, Coingood. Look at me and know this: despite these chains, my soul remains free. But you … you have sold yours, and it came cheap.’
There was a moan from the direction of the other man hanging in chains, and both Warmet and Coingood looked over that way, to see the prisoner stirring, drawing his legs under him and then slo
wly, agonizingly, standing to relieve the weight of his chains. His terribly scarred face swung to them, and the man said, ‘It’s green and comes in all sizes, but that’s all I’m giving you, Warmet.’
Warmet’s sweat-beaded brow wrinkled above the red weal of burnt flesh. ‘All right, give me a moment. Coingood’s still here.’
‘Green—’
‘I’m having a conversation, damn you!’
‘You’re down to four questions, Warmet!’ the man sang.
‘Shut up! I’m not ready to start again!’
‘Four questions!’
‘Bah! Solid or liquid?’
‘Both! Hee hee!’
Coingood collected up his tablet and hurried from the chamber.
‘Wait, Scribe! Where are you going?’
‘I can’t!’ Coingood cried out. ‘Don’t make me stay, milord!’
‘You have gore, shit and piss to clean up – your master commanded it!’
Coingood halted almost within reach of the door’s latch. ‘Unfair!’ he whispered, pushing the scented cloth against his nose. But Warmet spoke the truth, damn him. He swung round. ‘Hot or cold?’
‘You can’t ask questions!’ the other prisoner shrieked.
‘Hot or cold?’ Warmet shouted. ‘That’s my next question!’
‘In between!’
Sighing, Coingood said, ‘Snot.’
‘Cheaters!’
‘Snot?’ Warmet asked. ‘Is it snot? It’s snot! Snot! I win!’
Feloovil Generous adjusted her breasts beneath the stained blouse and then sat down opposite the sailor with a heavy sigh. ‘We don’t get many strangers visiting,’ she said, ‘for long.’
The man shrugged, hands wrapped tight around the tankard of hot rum – a rather excessive amount of rum, but then he’d dropped a clean silver coin onto the tabletop before she’d even finished pouring it, so she wasn’t of a mind to advise him on medicinal portions – the man was chilled down to the marrow in his bones. She could see that. ‘Wreckers’ lot,’ he said in a low, unsympathetic rumble.
‘Well now,’ she replied, leaning back. ‘No reason to be unkind and all. Let’s start anew. I’m Feloovil Generous, and I own the King’s Heel.’
‘Happy for you,’ the sailor replied. ‘My name’s Emancipor Reese. Not that you’ll need to remember it, since we won’t be here long. I hope.’
‘As long as you got the coin,’ she said, ‘you’ll be welcome in here, is what I’m saying.’ She glanced over at Spilgit, who shared the table with the sailor, and scowled. ‘Take heed of that, Factor, since you got rent owing and the winter ahead’s long and cold.’
Spilgit leaned closer to Emancipor. ‘That’s why she calls herself Generous, you see.’
‘Oh I’m generous enough,’ she retorted, ‘when it’s appreciated. One thing I ain’t generous about is some fool showing up calling himself a damned tax collector. We built this place up ourselves and we don’t owe nobody nothing! Tell that to your prissy bosses, Spilgit!’
‘I will, Feloovil, I will, and that’s a promise!’
‘You do just that!’
‘I will do just that!’
‘Go ahead, then!’
‘I will!’
Ackle spoke from the window. ‘What’s he doing with those bodies?’
Only Emancipor did not turn at that, still hunched over his steaming tankard and breathing deep the heady fumes.
Feloovil grunted her way upright and walked over to the inn’s door. She pushed it open a crack. Then quickly drew her head back and swung to Spilgit. ‘That the one who killed the golem?’
‘He was tearing out its insides when we come up,’ Spilgit said.
‘How did he kill it?’
‘No idea, Feloovil, but he did it and without getting a scratch!’
She realized she was having a conversation with the tax collector and quickly looked away, edging the door open a little further to watch Hordilo leading his two prisoners up the street towards Wurm Road. Spilgit showing up with her sweet daughter had been enough to make Feloovil want to slit the man’s throat right then and there. But that kind of public murdering was bad for business, and more than a few of her girls would be pretty upset with her and that was never good. Instead, she’d sent Felittle up to her room to await a proper hiding. For the moment, that little slut-in-waiting could stew for a while longer.
Ackle edged up beside her and she recoiled slightly at his smell. ‘He’s a bit too possessive for my liking,’ he then said, squinting up the street. ‘About those corpses, I mean.’
She pulled him back inside and shut the door against the cold. ‘I told you, Risen, y’can sit at that one table since it’s the smallest one here and out of the way of the others, and y’can keep my dogs happy, too, but you ain’t a proper customer. So stop wandering around, will you? I swear I’ll lock you out, Ackle, and leave you to freeze solid.’
‘Sorry, Generous.’ The man stumped back to his seat.
Thinking, Feloovil returned to Emancipor’s table and sat down again across from him. ‘Spilgit, go away,’ she said. ‘Find another table, or go upstairs and say hi to the girls.’
‘You can’t order— well, I suppose you can. All right, then, upstairs I go.’
She waited until she heard his steps on the creaking stairs, and then leaned forward. ‘Listen, Emancipor Reese.’
He’d drunk half the rum and when he looked up his eyes were bleary. ‘What?’
‘Golems. They’re sorcery, right? Powerful sorcery.’
‘I suppose.’
‘And Lord Fangatooth Claw’s got three of ’em.’
The man snorted. ‘Sorry, can’t help it. Three, you said. Right. Two now, though.’
‘Exactly,’ she replied. ‘That’s my point, right there.’
He blinked at her. ‘Sorry? What was your point? I somehow missed it.’
‘Your masters – one of them went and killed one of those golems. That can’t be easy, killing a heap of iron and whatnot.’
‘I wouldn’t know,’ Emancipor said. ‘But take it from me, Korbal Broach has killed worse.’
‘Has he, now? That’s interesting to hear. Very.’
‘But mostly it’s Bauchelain you should be worried about,’ Emancipor went on, taking another deep mouthful of the rum.
‘That the other one?’
‘Aye. The other one.’
‘Sorcerers?’
The man nodded. And then laughed again. ‘Fangatooth!’
She shifted her considerable weight on the chair and tried leaning even closer, but her breasts got in the way. Cursing, she lifted one and thumped it down onto the tabletop. Then did the same with the other. Glancing up, she caught the look in Emancipor’s eyes. ‘Aye, lovely, ain’t they? I’ll introduce them to you later. Your masters, Emancipor Reese—’
‘Mancy will do. Call me Mancy.’
‘Better, less of a Hood-damned mouthful anyway. Mancy. They sorcerers?’
He nodded again.
‘They’re heading up to the keep, all on their own. Are they stupid?’
Emancipor lifted one wavering finger. ‘Ah, now that’s an interesting question. I mean, there’s all kinds of stupid, izzn’t there? Ever seen a ram butt its head against a rock? Why a rock? Why, ’cause there’s no other ram around, thaz why. Your Fungletooth up there, been standing on that rock all this time, right? All on his lonesome.’
She studied him, and then slowly nodded. ‘Ever since he imprisoned his brother, aye.’
Emancipor waved carelessly. ‘Up there, then, maybe they’ll all butt heads—’
‘And if they do? Who comes out on top?’
‘—and maybe they don’t.’
‘You’re not getting it, Mancy. Butting heads sounds good. Butting heads sounds perfect. I like butting heads. You think it’s fun living in fear?’
The man stared across at her, and then grinned. ‘Beats dying laughing, Floovle.’
She rose. ‘Let’s get some hearty food in you. So y
ou can sober up. We got more talking to do, you and me.’
‘Do we?’
‘Aye. Talking, and from talking we’ll get to bargaining, and from bargaining we’ll get to something else, something that’ll make everyone happy. Sober up, Mancy. I got girls for you aplenty, and they’re on the house.’
‘Kind of you,’ he replied, squinting up at her. ‘But girls just make me feel old.’
‘Better, ’cause then you got us.’
‘Us?’
She hefted her tits. ‘Us.’
From a few paces away, Ackle flinched back when Feloovil proffered the sailor her breasts. ‘But then,’ he whispered, ‘if there’s any good way to go …’ He glanced across at the other patrons, regulars one and all, of course, and he supposed he was a regular now, too. Sort of. Funny how all the things he longed for in life just up and tumbled right into his lap now that he was dead.
But that was, in some ways, typical, wasn’t it? Greatness was happiest with an ashen face, cloudy eyes and a demeanor unlikely to make any sudden unexpected moves. Even a mediocre man could climb into greatness by the simple act of dying. If he thought about history, these days, he saw in his mind’s eye a whole row of great men and women, heroes and all that, and not one of them alive. No, instead they stood guard over great moments now long gone, and through it all stayed blind to whatever legacy their deeds left behind. It was selfish, in a way, but in a good way, too. Dying was a way to tell the world to just … fuck off. Go fuck yourselves, you fucking fucks! Fuck off and fuck off forever and if you don’t know what fucking forever is, take a look at us, you fuckers, we’re fucking forever and we don’t give a fuck about any of you, so just fuck … fuck … fuck off!
He contemplated the possibility, in the wake of these thoughts, that he had some anger issues, which seemed pointless, all things considered. It should hurt swallowing, shouldn’t it? That rope didn’t break my neck, well, maybe it did, who knows. Anyway, it was the choking that killed me. Suffocation, turning blue in the face, tongue poking out, eyes bulging. That kind of suffocation. So swallowing should hurt.
Fuck, do I want to kill them all? Hmm, difficult question. Let’s mull on it some …
The Second Collected Tales of Bauchelain & Korbal Broach: Three Short Novels of the Malazan Empire Page 4