A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

was too long.'
    'Do you recall it in its entirety?'
    'I do. Puryst Rott Ale, I liked that one.'
    'Thank you.'
    'But they weren't all fake, were they?'
    'No, that would give it away too quickly. All the local ones were real. In any case, it'll keep them busy for a while. I hope. What else?'
    'Another meeting with the guilds. I may need bribe money for that.'
    'Nonsense. Stand fast – they're about to be hit from another quarter.'
    'Strike? I hadn't heard—'
    'Of course not. The incident that triggers it hasn't happened yet. You know the Royal Engineer's obliged to hire guild members only. We have to see that conflict eliminated before it gives us trouble.'
    'All right. I also need to check on that safe-house for Shurq and her newfound friend.'
    'Harlest Eberict. That was quite a surprise. Just how many undead people are prowling around in this city anyway?'
    'Obviously more than we're aware of, master.'
    'For all we know, half the population might be undead – those people on the bridge there, there, those ones with all those shopping baskets in tow, maybe they're undead.'
    'Possibly, master,' Bugg conceded. 'Do you mean undead literally or figuratively?'
    'Oh, yes, there is a difference, isn't there? Sorry, I got carried away. Speaking of which, how are Shurq and Ublala getting along?'
    'Swimmingly.'
    'Impressively droll, Bugg. So, you want to check on their hidden abode. Is that all you're up to today?'
    'That's just the morning. In the afternoon—'
    'Can you manage a short visit?'
    'Where?'
    'Rat Catchers' Guild.'
    'Scale House?'
    Tehol nodded. 'I have a contract for them. I want a meeting – clandestine – with the Guild Master. Tomorrow night, if possible.'
    Bugg looked troubled. 'That guild—'
    'I know.'
    'I can drop by on my way to the gravel quarry.'
    'Excellent. Why are you going to the gravel quarry?'
    'Curiosity. They opened up a new hill to fill my last order, and found something.'
    'What?'
    'Not sure. Only that they hired a necromancer to deal with it. And the poor fool disappeared, apart from some hair and toe nails.'
    'Hmm, that is interesting. Keep me informed.'
    'As always, master. And what have you planned for today?'
    'I thought I'd go back to bed.'
    Brys lifted his gaze from the meticulous scroll and studied the scribe seated across from him. 'There must be some mistake,' he said.
    'No, sir. Never, sir.'
    'Well, if these are just the reported disappearances, what about those that haven't been reported?'
    'Between thirty and fifty per cent, I would say, sir. Added on to what we have. But those would be the blue-edged scrolls. They're stored on the Projected Shelf.'
    'The what?'
    'Projected. That one, the one sticking out from the wall over there.'
    'And what is the significance of the blue edges?'
    'Posited realities, sir, that which exists beyond the statistics. We use the statistics for formal, public statements and pronouncements, but we operate on the posited realities or, if possible, the measurable realities.'
    'Different sets of data?'
    'Yes, sir. It's the only way to operate an effective government. The alternative would lead to anarchy. Riots, that sort of thing. We have posited realities for those projections, of course, and they're not pretty.'
    'But' – Brys looked back down at the scroll – 'seven thousand disappearances in Letheras last year?'
    'Six thousand nine hundred and twenty-one, sir.'
    'With a possible additional thirty-five hundred?'
    'Three thousand four hundred and sixty and a half, sir.'
    'And is anyone assigned to conduct investigations on these?'
    'That has been contracted out, sir.'
    'Clearly a waste of coin, then—'
    'Oh no, the coin is well spent.'
    'How so?'
    'A respectable amount, sir, which we can use in our formal and public pronouncements.'
    'Well, who holds this contract?'
    'Wrong office, sir. That information is housed in the Chamber of Contracts and Royal Charters.'
    'I've never heard of it. Where is it?'
    The scribe rose and walked to a small door squeezed between scroll-cases. 'In here. Follow me, sir.'
    The room beyond was not much larger than a walk-in closet. Blue-edged scrolls filled cubby-holes from floor to ceiling on all sides. Rummaging in one cubby-hole at the far wall, the scribe removed a scroll and unfurled it. 'Here we are. It's a relatively new contract. Three years so far. Ongoing investigations, biannual reports delivered precisely on the due dates, yielding no queries, each one approved without prejudice.'
    'With whom?'
    'The Rat