Gruntle managed to avoid gaping. 'Uh, that should solve the problem, sir.'
'Excellent. Inform Harllo thus, then, and send him on his way.'
'Yes, sir.'
The door swung shut.
As it turned out, Harllo was already returning to the carriage, fishing pole in one massive hand, a sad sandal-sole of a fish clutched in the other. The man's bright blue eyes danced with excitement.
'Look, you sour excuse for a man — I've caught supper!'
'Supper for a monastic rat, you mean. I could inhale that damned thing up one nostril.'
Harllo scowled. 'Fish soup. Flavour-'
'That's just great. I love mud-flavoured soup. Look, the thing's not even breathing — it was probably dead when you caught it.'
'I banged a rock between its eyes, Gruntle-'
'Must have been a small rock.'
'For that you don't get any-'
'For that I bless you. Now listen. Stonny's getting drunk-'
'Funny, I don't hear no brawl-'
'Bonuses from Keruli if there isn't one. Understood?'
Harllo glanced at the carriage door, then nodded. 'I'll let her know.'
'Better hurry.'
'Right.'
Gruntle watched him scurry off, still carrying his pole and prize. The man's arms were enormous, too long and too muscled for the rest of his scrawny frame. His weapon of choice was a two-handed sword, purchased from a weapon-smith in Deadman's Story. As far as those apish arms were concerned, it might be made of bamboo. Harllo's shock of pale blond hair rode his pate like a tangled bundle of fishing thread. Strangers laughed upon seeing him for the first time, but Harllo used the flat of a blade to stifle that response. Succinctly.
Sighing, Gruntle returned to where Emancipor Reese stood waiting. 'Lead on,' he said.
Reese's head bobbed. 'Excellent.'
The carriage was massive, a house perched on high, spoked wheels. Ornate carvings crowded the strangely arched frame, tiny painted figures capering and climbing with leering expressions. The driver's perch was canopied in sun-faded canvas. Four oxen lumbered freely in a makeshift corral ten paces downwind from the camp.
Privacy obviously mattered to the manservant's masters, since they'd parked well away from both the road and the other merchants, affording them a clear view of the hummocks rising on the south side of the road, and, beyond it, the broad sweep of the plain.
A mangy cat lying on the buckboard watched Reese and Gruntle approach.
'That your cat?' the captain asked.
Reese squinted at it, then sighed. 'Aye, sir. Her name's Squirrel.'
'Any alchemist or wax-witch could treat that mange.'
The manservant seemed uncomfortable. 'I'll be sure to look into it when we get to Saltoan,' he muttered. 'Ah,' he nodded towards the hills beyond the road, 'here comes Master Bauchelain.'
Gruntle turned and studied the tall, angular man who'd reached the road and now strode casually towards them. Expensive, ankle-length cloak of black leather, high riding boots of the same over grey leggings, and, beneath a loose silk shirt — also black — the glint of fine blackened chain armour.
'Black,' the captain said to Reese, 'was last year's shade in Darujhistan.'
'Black is Bauchelain's eternal shade, sir.'
The master's face was pale, shaped much like a triangle, an impression further accented by a neatly trimmed beard. His hair, slick with oil, was swept back from his high brow. His eyes were flat grey — as colourless as the rest of him — and upon meeting them Gruntle felt a surge of visceral alarm.
'Captain Gruntle,' Bauchelain spoke in a soft, cultured voice, 'your employer's prying is none too subtle. But while we are not ones to generally reward such curiosity regarding our activities, this time we shall make an exception. You shall accompany me.' He glanced at Reese. 'Your cat seems to be suffering palpitations. I suggest you comfort the creature.'
'At once, master.'
Gruntle rested his hands on the pommels of his cutlasses, eyes narrowed on Bauchelain. The carriage springs squeaked as the manservant clambered up to the buckboard.
'Well, Captain?'
Gruntle made no move.
Bauchelain raised one thin eyebrow. 'I assure you, your employer is eager that you comply with my request. If, however, you are afraid to do so, you might be able to convince him to hold your hand for the duration of this enterprise. Though I warn you, levering him into the open may prove something of a challenge, even for a man of your bulk.'
