Midnight Tides
Pulling down his loincloth. And urinating in an arcing stream.
Somewhere, a woman screamed.
‘They’ll collect that body,’ one merchant said, awed, ‘down at the Eddies. I’ve heard there’re surgeons who can-’
‘And wouldn’t you pay a peak for that, Inchers!’ his companion cut in.
‘I’m not lacking, Hulbat – watch yourself! I was just saying -’
‘And ten thousand women are dreaming !’
A sudden hush, as Ublala Pung turned to face the canal.
Then strode forward. Hips. Chest. Shoulders.
A moment later his head disappeared beneath the thick, foul water.
Not a flounder, not a flail. Those who had bet on Vanishing crowed. Crowds pulled apart, figures closing on bookmakers.
‘Brys Beddict, what’s the distance across?’
‘A hundred paces.’
‘Aye.’
They remained leaning on the railing. After a moment, Brys shot the Finadd a quizzical look. Gerun nodded towards the launch below. ‘Look at the line, lad.’
There was some commotion around the retrieval line, and Brys saw – at about the same time as, by the rising voices, did others – that the rope was still playing out. ‘He’s walking the bottom!’
Brys found he could not pull his eyes from that uncoiling rope. A dozen heartbeats. Two dozen. A half-hundred. And still that rope snaked its way into the water.
The cries and shouts had risen to deafening pitch. Pigeons burst into the air from nearby rooftops, scattering in panic. Bettors were fighting with bookmakers for payment tiles. Someone fell from the Third Tier and, haplessly, missed the canal by a scant two paces. He struck flagstones and did not move, a circle of witnesses closing round his body.
‘That’s it,’ Gerun Eberict sighed.
A figure was emerging on the far-side launch. Streaming mud.
‘Four lungs, lad.’
Eight hundred docks. At seventy to one. ‘You’re a rich man who’s just got richer, Finadd.’
‘And Ublala Pung’s a free one. Hey, I saw your brother earlier. Tehol. Other side of the canal. He was wearing a skirt.’
‘Don’t stand so close – no, closer, so you can hear me, Shand, but not too close. Not like we know each other.’
‘You’ve lost your mind,’ she replied.
‘Maybe. Anyway, see that man?’
‘Who?’
‘That criminal, of course. The half-blood who tore apart Urum’s – the extortionist deserved it by the way-’
‘Tarthenal have four lungs.’
‘And so does he. I take it you didn’t wager?’
‘I despise gambling.’
‘Very droll, lass.’
‘What about him?’
‘Hire him.’
‘With pleasure.’
‘Then buy him some clothes.’
‘Do I have to?’
‘He’s not being employed because of his physical attributes – well, not those ones, anyway. You three need a bodyguard.’
‘He can guard my body any time.’
‘That’s it, Shand. I’m done talking with you today.’
‘No you’re not, Tehol. Tonight. The workshop. And bring Bugg.’
‘Everything is going as planned. There’s no need-’
‘Be there.’
Four years ago, Finadd Gerun Eberict single-handedly foiled an assassination attempt on King Diskanar. Returning to the palace late one night, he came upon the bodies of two guards outside the door to the king’s private chambers. A sorcerous attack had filled their lungs with sand, resulting in asphyxiation. Their flesh was still warm. The door was ajar.
The palace Finadd had drawn his sword. He burst into the king’s bedchamber to find three figures leaning over Ezgara Diskanar’s sleeping form. A mage and two assassins. Gerun killed the sorceror first, with a chop to the back of the man’s neck, severing his spinal cord. He had then stop-thrust the nearest assassin’s attack, the point of his sword burying itself in the man’s chest, just beneath the left collarbone. It would prove to be a mortal wound. The second assassin thrust his dagger at the Finadd’s face. Probably he had been aiming for one of Gerun’s eyes, but the Finadd threw his head back and the point entered his mouth, slicing through both lips, then driving hard between his front teeth. Pushing them apart, upon which the blade jammed.
The sword in Gerun’s hand chopped down, shattering the outstretched arm. Three more wild hacks killed the assassin.
This last engagement was witnessed by a wide-eyed king.