A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

anticipated?'
    'With nary a hitch.'
    'Barring the one by which he purportedly hung himself?'
    'As you say, but that was before fire tragically swept through his premises.'
    'And any word on Finadd Gerun Eberict's reaction to all this?'
    'Decidedly despondent, master.'
    'But not unduly suspicious?'
    'Who can say? His agents have made inquiries, but more directly towards a search for a hidden cache of winnings, an attempt to recoup the loss and such. No such fortune, however, has surfaced.'
    'And it had better not. Eberict needs to swallow the loss entire, not that it was in truth a loss, only a denial of increased fortune. His primary investments remain intact, after all. Now, stop blathering, Bugg. I need to do some thinking.' Tehol hitched up his trousers, wincing at Bugg's sudden frown. 'Must be losing weight,' he muttered, then began pacing.
    Four steps brought him to the roof's edge. He wheeled and faced Bugg. 'What's that you're wearing?'
    'It's the latest fashion among masons and such.'
    'The Dusty Few.'
    'Exactly.'
    'A wide leather belt with plenty of loops and pouches.'
    Bugg nodded.
    'Presumably,' Tehol continued, 'there are supposed to be tools and assorted instruments in those loops and pouches. Things a mason might use.'
    'Well, I run the company. I don't use those things.'
    'But you need the belt.'
    'If I'm to be taken seriously, master, yes.'
    'Oh yes, that is important, isn't it? Duly noted in expenses, I presume?'
    'Of course. That and the wooden hat.'
    'You mean one of those red bowl-shaped things?'
    'That's right.'
    'So why aren't you wearing it?'
    'I'm not working right now. Not as sole proprietor of Bugg's Construction, anyway.'
    'Yet you've got the belt.'
    'It's comforting, master. I suppose this must be what it's like wearing a sword-belt. There's something immensely reassuring about a solid weight on the hips.'
    'As if you were eternally duelling with your materials.'
    'Yes, master. Are you done with your thinking?'
    'I am.'
    'Good.' Bugg unstrapped his belt and tossed it to the rooftop. 'Makes my hips lopsided. I walk in circles.'
    'How about some herbal tea?'
    'I'd love some.'
    'Excellent.'
    They stared at one another for a moment longer, then Bugg nodded and made his way to the ladder. As soon as his back was turned, Tehol tugged the trousers higher once more. Glancing down at the belt, he hesitated, then shook his head. That would be a presumption.
    Bugg climbed down and out of sight. Tehol strode to his bed and settled down on the creaking frame. He stared up at the murky stars. A holiday festival was approaching, this one dedicated to the Errant, that eternally mysterious purveyor of chance, fateful circumstance and ill-chosen impulses. Or some such thing. Tehol was never certain. The Holds and their multitude of denizens were invented as dependable sources of blame for virtually anything, or so he suspected. Evading responsibility was a proclivity of the human species, it seemed.
    There would be vast senseless celebration, in any case. Of something, perhaps nothing, and certainly involving everything. Frenzied wagers at the Special Drownings, in which the most notorious criminals would try to swim like swans. People who liked to be seen would make a point of being seen. Spectacle was an investment in worthy indolence, and indolence bespoke wealth. And meanwhile, housebound guards in empty estates would mutter and doze at their posts.
    A scuffing sound from the gloom to his right. Tehol glanced over. 'You're early.'
    Shurq Elalle stepped closer. 'You said midnight.'
    'Which is at least two bells from now.'
    'Is it? Oh.'
    Tehol sat up. 'Well, you're here. No point in sending you away. Even so, we're not to visit Selush until a chime past midnight.'
    'We could go early.'
    'We could, although I'd rather not alarm her. She indicated she'd need lots of supplies, after all.'
    'What makes me worse than any other corpse?'
    'Other corpses don't fight back, for one thing.'
    The undead woman came closer. 'Why would I feel compelled to resist? Is she not simply making me pretty?'
    'Of course. I was just making conversation. And how have you been, Shurq Elalle?'
    'The same.'
    'The same. Which is?'
    'I've been better. Still, many would call consistency a virtue. Those are extraordinary trousers.'
    'I agree. Not to everyone's taste, alas—'
    'I have no taste.'
    'Ah. And is that a consequence of being dead, or a more generic self-admission?'
    The flat, lifeless eyes, which had until now been evading