And Chaur stood now facing Barathol, with such pleased, excited eyes that the blacksmith could only stare back, speechless, aghast.
Gorlas Vidikas stepped out from the carriage and paused to adjust his leggings, noting with faint displeasure the discordant creases sitting in that sweaty carriage had left him with, and then glanced up as the sickly foreman wheezed his way over.
‘Noble sir,’ he gasped, ‘about the interest payments-I’ve been ill, as you know-’
‘You’re dying, you fool,’ Gorlas snapped. ‘I am not here to discuss your problems. We both know what will happen should you default on the loan, and we both know-I should trust-that you are not long for this world, which makes the whole issue irrelevant. The only question is whether you will die in your bed or end up getting tossed out on your backside.’ After a moment, he stepped closer and slapped the man on his back, triggering a cloud of dust. ‘You’ve always got your shack here at camp, yes? Come now, it’s time to discuss other matters.’
The foreman blinked up at him, with all that pathetic piteousness perfected by every loser the world over. Better, of course, than the dark gleam of malice-the stupid ones were quick to hate, once they’d got a sense of how they’d been duped-no, best keep this one making all those mewling help-me faces.
Gorlas smiled. ‘You can stay in your lovely new home, friend. I will withhold the interest payments so you can leave this world in peace and comfort.’ And oh, wasn’t this such extraordinary favour? This concession, this grave sacrifice, why, it would not be remiss if this idiot fell to his knees in abject gratitude, but never mind that. A second thump on the back, this one triggering a coughing fit from the old man.
Gorlas walked to the edge of the vast pit and surveyed the bustling hive of activity below. ‘All is well?’
The foreman, after hacking out a palmful of yellow phlegm, hobbled up to stand hunched beside him, wiping a hand on a caked trouser leg. ‘ Well enough, sir, yes, well enough indeed.’
See how his mood has improved? No doubt eaten up with worry all morning, the poor useless bastard. Well, the world needed such creatures, didn’t it? To do all the dirty, hard work, and then thank people like Gorlas for the privilege. You’re so very welcome, you stupid fool, and see this? It’s my smile of indulgence. Bask and bask well-it’s the only thing I give away that’s truly free.
‘How many losses this week?’
‘Three. Average, sir, that’s average as can be. One mole in a cave-in, the others died of the greyface sickness. We got the new vein producing now. Would you believe, it’s red iron!’
Gorlas’s brows lifted, ‘Red iron?’
A quick, eager nod. ’Twice the price at half-weight, that stuff. Seems there’s growing demand-’
‘Yes, the Malazan longswords everyone’s lusting after. Well, this will make it easier to order one, since up to now only one smith had the skill to make the damned weapons.’ He shook his head. ‘Ugly things, if you ask me. Curious thing is, we don’t get red iron round here-not till now, that is-so how was the fool making such perfect copies?’
‘Well, noble sir, there’s an old legend ‘bout how one can actually turn regular iron into the red stuff, and do it cheap besides. Maybe it ain’t just a legend.’
Gorlas grunted. Interesting. Imagine finding out that secret, being able to take regular iron, toss in something virtually worthless, and out comes red iron, worth four times the price. ‘You’ve just given me an idea,’ he murmured. ‘Though I doubt the smith would give up the secret-no, I’d have to pay. A lot.’
‘Maybe a partnership,’ the foreman ventured.
Gorlas scowled. He wasn’t asking for advice. Still, yes, a partnership might work. Something he’d heard about that smith… some Guild trouble. Well, could be Gorlas could smooth all that over, for a consideration. ‘Never mind,’ he said, a tad overloud, ’it was just a notion-I’ve already discarded it as too compli-cated, too messy. Let’s forget we ever discussed it.’
‘Yes, sir.’
But was the foreman looking oddly thoughtful? Might be necessary, Gorlas reflected, to hasten this fool’s demise.
From up the road behind them, a trader’s cart was approaching.
Stupid, really. He’d elected his riding boots, but the things were ancient, worn, and it seemed his feet had flattened out some since he’d last used them, and now he had enormous blisters, damned painful ones. And so, for all his plans of a stentorian, impressive arrival at the camp, full of dour intent and an edge of bluster, to then be ameliorated by a handful of silver councils, a relieved foreman sending a runner off to retrieve the wayward child, Murillio found himself on the back of a rickety cart, covered in dust and sweating in the midst of a cloud of flies.
