Steven Erikson - Blood follows

Guld cut in, “You have a pair of guests. Foreigners.”

“O-Oh, yes, them. Odd pair.”

“What’s odd about them?”

The doorman frowned and scratched his head. “Well,” he said. “You know. Odd. One of ’em never leaves the room, eh?”

“And the other one?”

“Not so often neither, and hardly at all now that they got their manservant. Oh, they don’t visit nobody and nobody visits them, and they eat in their room, too.”

Guld nodded. “So, are they both in right now?”

“Yes, sir.”

The sergeant left the corporal with the doorman and entered Sorrowman’s. He was immediately confronted by the hostelier, who approached with an offerings bowl and a cloth in his hands. He quickly set the bowl on a ledge and tucked the cloth into his belt. “Guardsman, can I help you?”

Guld watched the man’s long, blackened fingers begin weaving a nervous pattern as they clasped and unclasped at the hostelier’s lap. “Obler, isn’t it? Keeping honest these days?”

The man blanched. “Oh yes indeed, Guardsman. For years! Run this establishment, y’see, and do scribing on the side. I’m respectable now, sir. Upstanding and all, sir.” Obler’s eyes darted.

“I want to speak to your two foreign guests, Obler.”

“Oh! Well, I’d best get them, then.”

“I’ll go with you.”

“Oh! Very well, follow me, sir, if you will.”

They headed up the narrow, heavily carpeted stairs, strode down the hallway. Obler knocked on the door. They waited a moment, then an old man’s voice spoke from the other side.

“What is it, Obler?”

The scriber leaned close to Guld. “That’s Reese,” he hissed. “The manservant.” He then called, “A guardsman to speak with your masters, Reese. Open, if you please.”

Guld glared at Obler. “Next time,” he rasped, “just get them to open the damned door.” He could hear the murmurs of conversation from within, and he reached up a hand to more forcefully pound on the door when it suddenly opened and the manservant quickly slipped out into the hallway, then shut the door once again behind him.

Emancipor’s eyes widened as he looked up and recognised the sergeant.

“Emancipor Reese,” Guld drawled. “I questioned you not two days ago, and now here you are again. How strange.”

“A man needs work,” Reese grumbled. “Nothing more to it.”

“Did I say there was?”

“You said ‘strange,’ but it’s nothing strange about it, ’cepting you coming here.”

Huh, the old bastard’s got a point. “I wish to speak with your masters. You may announce me now, or whatever it is they want you to do.”

“Ah, well, Sergeant. My master regrets to inform you he’s not receiving guests this evening, as he is at a crucial juncture in his research-”

“I’m not here as a guest, old man. Either announce me or step aside. I will speak to the men within.”

“There’s but one within,” Reese said. “Master Bauchelain is a scholar, Sergeant. He wishes no distractions-”

Guld growled and tried to push Reese aside, but the old man planted his feet and stood his ground. The sergeant was surprised at Reese’s deceptive strength, until he saw the old sword-scars on his right forearm. Damned veteran. I hate dealing with veterans-they don’t buckle. Guld stepped back, placing a hand on his sword. “You’ve done more than should be expected, Reese, protecting your master’s wish for privacy. But I’m a sergeant of the City Watch, and this is an official visit. If you impede me further, you’ll end up in the stock, Reese.” Guld felt his body tense as Reese’s lined face darkened dangerously. Damned veteran. “Don’t make this messy. Don’t.”

“If I let you in, Sergeant-” Reese’s voice was like gravel shifting in the surf, “I’ll likely get fired. A man needs to work. I need this job, sir. I ain’t had the best of luck, as you know. I need this job, and I mean to keep it. If you’ve questions, maybe I can answer ’em, maybe I can’t, but I won’t let you pass.”

“Hood’s breath,” Guld sighed, taking another step back. He turned to Obler, who had begun whimpering and throwing futile gestures at the two men. “Get my corporal, Obler. He’s out front. Tell him: double-time, weapon out. Understood?”

“Oh! I implore you-”

“Now!” The scriber scurried down the hall. Guld swung back to Reese, who looked resigned. The sergeant spoke quietly, “My corporal, Reese, will make a lot of noise coming up here. You’ll be disarmed and restrained. Loudly. You’ll have done all you could. No master worth his salt will find cause to fire you. Do it my way, Reese, and you’ll not get arrested. Or killed. Otherwise, we’ll work through you-we’ll take our time, until your breath is short and you’re done, then we’ll cut you down. Well, which way is it to be?”

Reese sagged. “All right, you bastard.”

They heard the corporal’s heavy boots on the stairs, the clatter of his scabbard as it struck the railing spokes, then his gasps as he appeared at the landing, his blade held out in front of him, his face flushed. The lad’s eyes widened upon seeing his sergeant and the manservant standing calmly watching him, then he ran forward as Guld waved him on.

Guld turned back to Reese. “All right,” he whispered, “make it sound convincing.” He reached out and grasped Reese by the coat’s brocaded collar. The old man bellowed, throwing a boot back to hammer the door, rattling it in its frame. Guld pulled Reese to one side and pushed him up against the wall. The corporal arrived.

“Your sword to the bastard’s neck!” Guld ordered, and the corporal complied with undue zeal, nearly slitting Reese’s throat until Guld pulled the lad’s arm back in alarm.

At that moment the door opened. The man in the threshold took in the scene in the hallway with one lazy, cool glance, then met Guld’s stare. “Release my servant, sir,” he said softly.

Guld felt a chill race along his veins. This one’s for real. The sergeant gestured at his corporal. “Step back, lad.” The guard, confused, did as he was told. “Sheathe,” Guld commanded. The sword slid into its scabbard with a rasp and click.

“That’s more agreeable,” the foreigner said. “Please come in, Sergeant, since you seem so eager to meet me. Emancipor, join us, please.”

Guld nodded to his corporal. “Wait out here, lad.”

“Yes sir.”

The three men entered the room, Reese closing the door and dropping the latch.

Guld looked around. A desk cluttered with… slabs of slate; the remains of a breakfast on a chair, recently finished. Odd, it’s near sunset. Two slept-in beds, travel trunks, only one open and revealing a city-dweller’s clothes, a coat of mail-a weapon box beneath it-and a false backing. The other three trunks were securely locked. Guld took a step closer to the desk, eyeing the slate. “I don’t recognise those runes,” he said, turning to the austere man. “Where are you from?”

“A distant land, Sergeant. Its name would, alas, mean nothing to you.”

“You have a facility for languages,” Guld noted.

The man raised an eyebrow. “Passing only. I understand my accent is, in fact, pronounced.”

“How long since you learned Theftian?”

“That is this language’s name? I thought it was Mollian.”

“Theft is the island. Moll is a city on it. I asked you a question, sir.”

“It’s an important one, then? Very well, about three weeks. During our passage from Korel, I hired one of the crewmen to instruct me-a native of this island. In any case, the language is clearly related to Korelri.”

“You are a sorceror, sir.”

The man assented with a slight nod. “I am named Bauchelain.”