A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

a chance. Use the mule.'
    'Stand up or I'll have my way with you right here.'
    'In the holy vestry? Are you insane?'
    'Rutting blasphemy. Will Shadowthrone be pleased?'
    'Fine! Shopping, then. Only no leash this time.'
    'Then don't get lost.'
    'I wasn't lost, you water buffalo, I was escaping.'
    'I'd better get the leash again.'
    'And I'll get my knife!'
    Oh, how marriage got in the way of love! The bonds of
mutual contempt drawn tight until the victims squeal, but
is it in pain or pleasure? Is there a difference? But that is a
question not to be asked of married folk, oh no.
    And in the stables the mule winks at the horse and the
horse feels breakfast twisting in her gut and the flies, well,
they fly from one lump of dung to another, convinced that
each is different from the last, fickle creatures that they
are, and there is no wisdom among the fickle, only longing
and frustration, and the buzz invites the next dubious conquest
smelling so fragrant in the damp straw.
    Buzz buzz.
    Amidst masses of granite and feverish folds of bedrock
veined with glittering streaks, the mining operation
owned by Humble Measure was an enormous pit facing a
cliff gouged with caves and tunnels. Situated equidistant
between Darujhistan and Gredfallan Annexe and
linked by solid raised roads, the mine and its town-sized
settlement had a population of eight hundred. Indentured
workers, slaves, prisoners, work chiefs, security guards,
cooks, carpenters, potters, rope makers, clothes makers
and menders, charcoal makers, cutters and nurses, butchers
and bakers – the enterprise seethed with activity. Smoke
filled the air. Old women with bleeding hands clambered
through the heaps of tailings collecting shreds of slag and
low-quality chunks of coal. Gulls and crows danced round
these rag-clad, hunched figures.
    Not a single tree was left standing anywhere within half
a league of the mine. Down on a slope on the lakeside was
a humped cemetery in which sat a few hundred shallow
graves. The water just offshore was lifeless and stained red,
with a muddy bottom bright orange in colour.
    Scented cloth held to his face, Gorlas Vidikas observed
the operation which he now managed, although perhaps
'managed' was the wrong word. The day to day necessities
were the responsibility of the camp workmaster, a scarred
and pock-faced man in his fifties with decades-old scraps
of raw metal still embedded in his hands. He hacked out
a cough after every ten words or so, and spat thick yellow
mucus down between his bronze-capped boots.
    'The young 'uns go the fastest, of course.' Cough, spit. 'Our moles or so we call 'em, since they can squeeze inta
cracks no grown-up can get through,' cough, spit, 'and this
way if there's bad air it's none of our stronger workers get
killed.' Cough . . . 'We was havin' trouble gettin' enough
young 'uns for a time there, until we started buyin' 'em from
the poorer fam'lies both in and outa the city – they got too
many runts t'feed, ye see? An' we got special rules for the
young 'uns – nobody gets their hands on 'em, if you know
what I mean.
    'From them it goes on up. A miner lasts maybe five years,
barring falls and the like. When they get too sick we move
'em outa the tunnels, make 'em shift captains. A few might
get old enough for foreman – I was one of them, ye see.
Got my hands dirty as a lad and 'ere I am and if that's not
freedom I don't know what is, hey?'
    This workmaster, Gorlas Vidikas silently predicted,
would be dead inside three years. 'Any trouble with the
prisoners?' he asked.
    'Nah, most don't live long enough to cause trouble. We
make 'em work the deadlier veins. It's the arsenic what kills
'em, mostly – we're pullin' gold out too, you know. Profit's
gone up three thousand per cent in the past year. E'en my
share I'm looking at maybe buying a small estate.'
    Gorlas glanced across at this odious creature. 'You
married?'
    Cough, spit. 'Not yet,' and he grinned, 'but you know
what a rich man can buy, hey?'
    'As part of what I am sure will be an exceptional relationship,'
Gorlas said, where I profit from your work , 'I am
prepared to finance you on such an estate. A modest down
payment on your part, at low interest . . .'
    'Really? Why, noble sir, that would be fine. Yessy, very
fine. We can do that all right.'
    And when you kick off with no heirs I acquire yet another
property in the Estate District. 'It is my pleasure,' he said with
a smile. 'Those of us who have done well in our lives need
to help each other