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have seen and heard.
"Hopflea, rub my knees," says Angelsin. This is one of those nights when
boneache occupies her head until she finds herself losing track of the strings
she must pull to keep her puppets dancing.
The small Funor boy brings over a footstool; with practiced ease he slides his
hands under her instep (slimfinger curled to protect it) and lifts her foot
onto the stool. He waits, kneeling, looking elsewhere until she slides her
heavy skirt up to bare the massive knee. For some minutes he kneads the flesh
around the misshapen bone, then he jumps to his feet with the celerity of his
namesake and goes into the nearest of the cells cut into the wail of the
cavern. He reappears a moment later, rolling a gum-wheeled trolley with a deep
bowl on it crouched amid coals, sending up clouds of steam. He positions it
beside Angelsin, kicks a brake in place. He uses a wooden forceps to lift a
folded cloth from the hot water, teases it open, holds it out so Angelsin can
judge the temperature with a quick touch of her slimfinger. She nods, takes a
hard grip on the chair arms and endures the pain when he spreads the cloth
over her knee. After a minute he takes it away, replaces it with another.
Angelsin's eyes go feral at this new pain. She half enjoys conquering it, half
curses fate for cursing her.
Her deep voice gravelly, she says, "Has anyone managed a clear look yet at the
one who never goes out?"
Hopflea looks quickly up, a flicker of apprehension on his soft face, then
prods with delicate precision at the soggy cloth; when he speaks, the words
come slowly, without much feeling in them. He gives the impression of shrewd
but wholly amoral judgment. "No. I set the maids at her, but she keeps the
door locked and has ears like a woffit's, so there's no surprising her. She
sits with hood up and her back to the door." He goes silent while he changes
cloths. "You want I should buy a couple of hardboys and have her stripped
sometime the others are out?" They are speaking Funorish and he has dropped
the mangled speech he uses to bolster his stupid act.
Angelsin's eyes are half closed, but she doesn't miss that flash of fear. It
pleases her. Hopflea is her most valued agent and he knows it, but he knows
too that if he slacks off or cheats her in any way, he's dead. And if he quits
her, he's dead. He has made too many enemies in the long years he has worked
for her. Given that the fly on the stone is reasonably perceptive, he must
have seen by now that the Funor Boy is no boy at all. Though his face has a
dewy youth that neither his years nor the things he has done seem able to
touch, the flickering light from the richly decorated oil lamps brings out a
patina of age and hard usage that is more apparent to the mind than the eye.
"Not yet," Angelsin says finally. "I want to know more about that clutch of
misfits before I show my hand. The Pass-Through seems to be as much leader as
anyone. You found out anything more about what she's up to?"
"She has not gone to the taverns in a while." He changes the cloth again, sits
back on his heels. "Something about the others the Min and one of the Aggitj,
they've been looking at boats. Noserat wiggled close enough to listen. He
knows some Aggitchan. They were talking about how seaworthy several fishboats
were."
"Buying?"
"Not them."
"Settled on one?"
"Didn't show it if they did. They're not so green as that."
"That's enough heat on that knee. Use the oil. The Pass-Through. If she's
stopped the drinking, she had a reason for starting it. What?"
"At first I think she a lush." He bends over the knee, rubbing and rubbing,
kneading the hot distorted flesh, his hands slippery with scented oil; he
speaks in short grunted packets of sound with hissing gasps between them. "She
drink she talk make jokes 'n stories. After while hits me. All them stories
all them 'bout bad things happenin' to slavers, money lenders, assassins, drug
dealers, those types." He sits back on his heels and looks away as she pushes
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her skirt down. "And what she got out of that was stories about folk here in
Fennakin or sometimes just names, when someone says something like that should
happen to Eller that filth." He gets to his feet, frees the wheels and pushes
the trolley to Angelsin's other side while she slowly, painfully, trades feet
on the stool.
"What names?" she says.
"Esmerkop Eller, the moneylender on the Ditta Skak," he says, "the one who's
always late with his tithe."He kneels and begins kneading and manipulating the
second knee. "Plossung Mil who runs the baby shop on Jatter Way." He stands
and uses the forceps to bring up a new cloth; he holds it out for Angelsin to
touch, then lays it on her knee. "Nochsyon Tod. Hummerfig Tig who runs the
front for Doodamsitirsabo, that Chalarosh tightfist who won't pay any tithe,
you know, the one who cut up Tülk and his mob. Kar hes Kituk, he's a drug
dealer, works the North Cusp, stays out of our holding." He changes the
cloths. Angelsin closes her eyes. Her lips press into a thin line. Breath
snorts from her nose. "A couple more," Hopflea says, "but those're the
important ones."
"And tell me, Hopflea, why was she going for those names?" Her voice is
harsher than before, ugly with the effort she is making to control it.
"Thieving," he says. Again he changes the cloth, using the forceps to make
sure the hot cloth is covering the whole area.
She cannot speak for several minutes, then forces out two words. "What more?"
He looks slyly at her; he is going to dance a dangerous game around her,
counting on his knowledge of her to help him stop in time. "What more? What
more?" He taps his head. "This, that's it, this clever knob, old lady." Thick
white eyelashes flutter. "Guess, huh. Guess which one she picked. Guess how I
know. I give you a clue about who. The craziest choice of all."
"Don't play stupid games." She sounds angry, but an instant later, she gazes
thoughtfully into the darkness, smiling a little, amused, as she thinks over
what she knows about those named. "Tod," she says finally.
He giggles. "Worm, he happens to see this big old owl come flying out a those
women's window. He figures it is the Min going to do something she don't want
no one knowing about, so he goes twisting after.
Moon's high, owl's big, flying low. Worm, he pick up Chickfat and the Tump and
they go slip slip after and what do they see but owl flying round and round
over Tod's House, and it goes slip slip down, it sits on a house tower, [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]