Oh yes, he did love that city, that place where he had never been.
Don’t be absurd. The modestly pudgy man in the red waistcoat is not so crass as to fish for weeping multitudes in the rendition of this moment, nor so awkward with purple intent. Give Kruppe some credit, you who are so quick to cast asper-sions like hooks into a crowded pool (caught something, did you? No, dear friend, do not crow your prowess, ’twas only this carp desperate to get out).
The water’s reflection is not so smooth; oh, no, not so smooth.
Is Bainisk’s city quaint, possibly even cute and heartwarming, in a softly tragic way? Not the point!
Some of us, you see (or don’t), still dream of that city. Where none of us have ever been.
That, dear ones, is the point.
Second guessing is murder. Or, depending on one’s point of view, suicide. Blend had found plenty of opportunity to consider such matters while lying bleeding on the floor of K’ral’s Bar. It had been close, and without Mallet around the prospects of a thorough healing of her wounds was something she would just have to live without. The Councilman, Coll, had sent over a local cutter with passing skills in common Denul, and he had managed to half knit the ruptured flesh and stem the flow of blood, and then had taken needle and gut to suture the wounds. All of which left Blend propped up on her bed, barely able to move.
K’rul’s Bar remained closed. What had once been a temple was now a crypt. From what Picker had told her, there wasn’t a patch of raw earth in the cellars below that wasn’t soft and queasy underfoot. The Elder God never had it so good.
Bluepearl and Mallet, both dead. The very idea of that left gaping holes that opened out beneath every thought, every feeling that leaked through her grim control. The bastards had survived decades of war, battle after battle, only to get cut down in their retirement by a mob of assassins.
The shock lingered, there in the echoes of empty rooms, the silences from all the wrong places, the bitter arguments that erupted between Antsy and Picker in the office or in the corridors. If Duiker remained resident-if he hadn’t fled-he was silent, witnessing, as any historian would, every opinion strapped down into immobility. And, it seemed, thoroughly uninterested in whether she-or any of them-lived or died.
The sunlight creeping through the shutters told her it was day, possibly late af-ternoon, and she was hungry and maybe, just maybe, they’d all forgotten her. She’d heard the occasional thump from the main floor below, a few murmured conversations, and was contemplating finding something to pound on the floor when she heard steps approaching along the corridor. A moment later her door opened and in strode Scillara, bearing a tray.
Something sweet and avid curled up deep in Blend’s gut, then squirmed at a succession of delicious thoughts. ‘Gods, you’re a sight. I was moments from slip-ping away, straight into Hood’s hoary arms, but now, all at once-’
‘You have reason to live, yes, all that. It’s tapu-I hope you don’t mind, but the only cuisine I know at all is Seven Cities, and little enough of that.’
‘They’ve got you cooking now?’
‘Pays my room and board. At least,’ she added as she set the tray down on Blend’s lap, ‘no one’s demanded I clear my tab.’
Blend looked down at the skewers of meat and vegetables and fruit. The pun-gent aroma of greenspice made her eyes water. ‘Money can go piss itself,’ she said.
Scillara’s eyes widened.
Blend shrugged, reaching for the first skewer. ‘We were never in this to get rich, love. It was just… something to do, a place to be. Besides, we’re not going to hold our hands out when it comes to you and Barathol, and Chaur. Gods below, you dragging Duiker off on a date kept the old fool alive. And Barathol and Chaur arrived like a mailed fist-from what I hear, just in time, too. We may be idiots, Scillara, but we’re loyal idiots.’
‘I imagine,’ Scillara said, pulling a chair close, ‘the Assassins’ Guild is not thinking of you as idiots at the moment. More like a hornet’s nest they regret kicking. Regret?’ She snorted. ‘That’s too mild a word. If you think you’re reeling, consider the Guild Master right now.’
‘He’ll recover,’ Blend said. ‘Us? I’m not so sure. Not this time.’
Scillara’s heavy-lidded eyes settled on Blend for a long moment, and then she said, ‘Picker was badly shaken. Still is, in fact. Time and again I see the colour drain from her face, I see her knees go weak, and she reaches out to grab hold of something. Middle of the night, she’s up and pacing the hallways-she acts like Hood’s at her shoulder these days-’