‘Just so!’ cried Scorch. ‘Your clothes, yes, a clash of cultures all right-good way of describing it. You a puppetmaster, maybe? I like puppet shows, the way they look so lifelike, even the ones with wrinkled apples for heads-’
‘Not a puppeteer, alas,’ cut in Madrun with a heavy sigh.
The gate creaked open behind Scorch and he turned to see Leff and Studlock step through. The castellan floated past and hovered directly in front of the two strangers.
‘Well, you two took your time!’
Madrun snorted. ‘You try digging your way out of a collapsed mountain, Studious. Damned earthquake came from nowhere-’
‘Not quite,’ said Studlock. ‘A certain hammer was involved. I admit, in the immediate aftermath I concluded that never again would I see your miser-your memorable faces. Imagine my surprise when I heard from a caravan merchant that-’
‘Such rumours,’ interjected the one Scorch rightly assumed was named Lazan Door, ‘whilst no doubt egregiously exaggerated and so potentially entertaining, can wait, yes? Dear Studious, who dreamed of never again seeing our pretty faces, you have a new Mistress, and she is in need of compound guards. And, as we are presently under-employed, why, destinies can prove seamless on occasion, can’t they?’
‘So they can, Lazan. Yes, compound guards. You see, we have gate guards already. And a captain as well, who is presently elsewhere. Now, if you two will follow me, we can meet the Mistress.’
‘Excellent,’ said Madrun,
Scorch and Leff moved well aside as the trio filed in through the gate. Leff then locked it and turned to Scorch.
‘We never got no audience with the Mistress!’
‘We been snubbed!’
Leff collected his crossbow again. ‘It’s because we’re on the lowest rung, that’s why. The lowest… again! And here we thought we were climbing! Sure, Tor didsome climbing, captain and all. But look at us-not even compound guards and we got here first!’
‘Well,’ said Scorch, ‘if we’d a known there was a difference-gate and compound we would’ve pushed for that, right? We was ill-informed-look at you, after all.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘You got orange eyes, Leff!’
‘That was a different kind of ill-informed.’
‘That’s what you think.’
‘If you’re so smart, Scorch, you coulda asked about being compound guards!’
‘If it was just me, I would have!’
‘If it was just you, Studlock never would’ve hired you at all, except maybe to clean out the latrines!’
‘At least then I’d be inside the gate!’
Well, he had a point there. Leff sighed, stared out on the street. ‘Look, there’s the lantern crew.’
‘Let’s shoot ’em!’
‘Sure, if you want us to get fired, Scorch, is that what you want?’, ‘I was only joking, Leff.’
There were looks that killed, and then there were looks that conducted torture. Excoriating skin with incremental, exquisite slices that left blood welling to the surface. That plucked eyeballs and pulled until all the tendons stretched, upon which those long wet ligaments were knotted together so that both eyes sat on the bridge of the nose. Torture, yes, delivered in cold pleasure, in clinical regard.
It was hardly surprising, then, that Torvald Nom devoured his supper in haste, forgetting to chew, and so was now afflicted with terrible indigestion, struggling to keep from groaning as he helped Tiserra clean the plates and whatnot; and the ominous silence stretched on, even as she cast sidelong looks of blood-curdling excision all unconvincingly dressed up as companionable, loving glances.
It was time to return to the estate for the evening. These precious deadly moments of domestic tranquillity-fraught as all such moments were with all that was left unspoken, the topics unbidden yet ever lurking, the hidden pitfalls and explosive nuances or even more explosive lack thereof-why, they had to come, alas, to an end, as considerations of career and professional responsibility returned once more to the fore.
‘My sweet, I must leave you now.’
‘Oh, must you?’
‘Yes. Until midnight, but don’t feel the need to wait up.’ Tve had a busy day. Two new orders. I doubt I’ll be awake when you return, darling.’
‘I’ll try to be quiet.’
‘Of course you will.’
Perfunctory kiss,
Just so, the pleasant exchanges to conclude the repast just past, but of course such words were the flourishes of feint and cunning sleight of hand. Beneath the innocence, Torvald well understood, there was this: ‘My sweet, I will run not walk back to the estate now.’
