A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

room?'
    'Uh, not now, Rucket. I need some coin. An infusion to
bolster a capital investment.'
    'How much?'
    'Fifty thousand.'
    'Will we ever see a return?'
    'No, you'll lose it all.'
    'Tehol, you certainly do take vengeance a long way.
What is the benefit to us, then?'
    'Why, none other than the return to pre-eminence of the
Rat Catchers' Guild.'
    Her rather dreamy eyes widened. 'The end of the
Patriotists? Fifty thousand? Will seventy-five be better? A
hundred?'
    'No, fifty is what I need.'
    'I do not anticipate any objections from my fellow Guild
Masters.'
    'Wonderful.' He slapped his hands together, then rose.
    She frowned up at him. 'Where are you going?'
    'Why, to your private room, of course.'
    'Oh, how nice.'
    His gaze narrowed on her. 'Aren't you joining me,
Rucket?'
    'What would be the point? The name "fat root" is a
woman's joke, you know.'
    'I haven't drunk any yellow-smelling tea!'
    'In the future, I advise you to use gloves.'
    'Where's your room, Rucket?'
    One brow lifted. 'Got something to prove?'
    'No, I just need to check on . . . things.'
    'What's the point?' she asked again. 'Now that your
imagination is awake, you'll convince yourself you've got
smaller, Tehol Beddict. Human nature. Worse that you
happen to be a man, too.' She rose. 'I, however, can be
objective, albeit devastatingly so, on occasion. So, do you
dare my scrutiny?'
    He scowled. 'Fine, let's go. Next time, however, let us dispense
entirely with the invitation to your room, all right?'
    'Misery lies in the details, Tehol Beddict. As we're about
to discover.'
    Venitt Sathad unrolled the parchment and anchored its
corners with flatstones. 'As you can see, Master, there are
six separate buildings to the holdings.' He began pointing
to the illustrations of each. 'Stables and livery. Icehouse.
Drystore, with cellar. Servants' quarters. And, of course,
the inn proper—'
    'What of that square building there?' Rautos Hivanar
asked.
    Venitt frowned. 'As I understand it, the interior is
virtually filled with an iconic object of some sort. The
building predates the inn itself. Attempts to dislodge it
failed. Now, what space remains is used for sundry storage.'
    Rautos Hivanar leaned back in his chair. 'How solvent is
this acquisition?'
    'No more nor less than any other hostel, Master. It may
be worth discussing investment on restoration with the
other shareholders, including Karos Invictad.'
    'Hmm, I will consider that.' He rose. 'In the meantime,
assemble the new artifacts on the cleaning table on the
terrace.'
    'At once, Master.'
    Fourteen leagues west of the Draconean Isles, doldrums had
settled on this stretch of ocean, levelling the seas to a
glassy, greasy patina beneath humid, motionless air.
Through the eyeglass, the lone ship, black hull low in the
water, looked lifeless. The mainmast was splintered, all
rigging swept away. Someone had worked up a foresail, but
the storm-rigged canvas hung limp. The steering oar was
tied in place. No movement anywhere to be seen.
    Skorgen Kaban, known as the Pretty, slowly lowered the
eyeglass, yet continued squinting with his one good eye at
the distant ship. He reached up to scratch one of the air holes
– all that remained of what had once been a large, hawkish
nose – then winced as a nail dug into sensitive scar tissue. The
itch was non-existent, but the gaping nostrils had a tendency
to weep, and the feigned scratch served to warn him of telltale
wetness. This was one of his many gestures he probably
imagined were subtle.
    Alas, his captain was too sharp for that. She drew away
her sidelong study of Skorgen, then glanced back at her
waiting crew. A miserable but cocky bunch. Doldrums
weighed everyone down, understandably, but the hold of
the raider was packed with loot, and this run of the Errant's
luck seemed without end.
    Now that they'd found another victim.
    Skorgen drew in a whistling breath, then said, 'It's Edur,
all right. My guess is, a stray that got tossed around a bit in
that storm we spied out west yesterday. Chances are, the
crew's either sick or dead, or they abandoned ship in one of
their Knarri lifeboats. If they did that, they'll have taken
the good stuff with them. If not,' he grinned across at her,
revealing blackened teeth, 'then we can finish what the
storm started.'
    'At the very least,' the captain said, 'we'll take a look.'
She sniffed. 'At least maybe something will come of getting
blown into the flats. Have 'em send out the sweeps,
Skorgen, but keep that lookout's head