A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

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 complicated, 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 to wear 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.
    Well, he would just have to make the best of it, wouldn't
he? As the ox halted at the top of the ridgeline, the old man
walking slow as a snail over to where stood the eponymous
foreman beside some fancy noble – now both looking their
way – Murillio eased himself down, wincing at the lancing
pain shooting up his legs, thinking with dread of the long
walk back to the city, his hand holding Harllo's tiny one,
with darkness crawling up from the ditches to either side
– a long, long walk indeed, and how he'd manage it was,
truth be told, beyond him.
    Soldiers knew about blisters, didn't they? And men and
women who worked hard for a living. To others, the affliction
seemed trivial, a minor irritation – and when there
were years between this time and the last time one had
suffered from them, it was easy to forget, to casually dismiss
just how debilitating they truly were.
    Raw leather rubbed at each one like ground glass as
he settled his weight back down. Still, it would not do to
hobble over, and so, mustering all his will, Murillio walked,
one careful step at a time, to where the foreman and the
nobleman stood discussing things with the carter. As he
drew closer, his gaze narrowed on the highborn one, a hint
of recognition . . . but where? When?
    The carter had been told by the foreman where to
take the supplies, and off he went, with a passing nod at
Murillio.
    The foreman was squinting curiously, and as Murillio
drew up before them he spat to one side and said, 'You
look lost, sir. If you've the coin you can buy a place at the
workers' table – it's plain fare but fillin' enough, though we
don't serve nothing but weak ale.' He barked a laugh. 'We
ain't no roadside inn, are we?'
    Murillio had thought long on how he would approach
this. But he had not expected a damned nobleman in this
particular scene, and something whispered to him that
what should have been a simple negotiation, concluded by
paying twice the going rate for a five-year-old boy, might
now turn perilously complicated.