Gardens of the Moon (The Malazan Book of the Fallen #1) 54

“Precipitous creature,” Kruppe muttered, reaching for the mug of wine the man had left behind. “Ah, look at this,” he said, frowning up at Crokus, “nigh two-thirds full. A potential waste!” Kruppe drank it down in one swift gulp, then sighed. “Said potential averted, Dessembrae be praised.”

Crokus sat. “Was that man your trader contact?” he asked.

“Heavens, no.” Kruppe waved a hand. “A poor refugee from Pale, wandering lost. Fortunate for him was Kruppe, whose brilliant insights have sent him-”

“Straight out the door,” Crokus finished, laughing.

Kruppe scowled.

The serving woman arrived with an earthen carafe of sour-smelling wine. Kruppe refilled the mugs. “And now, wonders Kruppe, what would this expertly trained lad seek from this one-time master of all arts nefarious? Or have you triumphed yet again and come with booty atucked, seeking proper dispensation and the like?”

“Well, yes-I mean, no, not quite.” Crokus glanced around, then leaned forward. “It's about last time,” he whispered. “I knew you'd be out here to sell the stuff I brought you.”

Kruppe leaned forward to meet the lad, their faces inches apart. “The D'Arle acquisition?” he whispered back, waggling his eyebrows.

“Exactly! Have you sold it off yet?”

Kruppe pulled a handkerchief from a sleeve and mopped his brow.

“What with all this talk of war, the traders” routes are all amiss. So, to answer your question, uhm, not quite yet, admits Kruppe-”

“Great!”

Kruppe started at the lad's shout, his eyes squeezing shut. When they opened again they were thin slits. “Ah, Kruppe understands. The lad wishes their return to his possession so that he might seek higher recompense elsewhere?”

Crokus blinked. “No, of course not. I mean, yes, I want it back. But I'm not planning on fencing it anywhere. That is, I'm still dealing with you on everything else. Only this one's special.” As he spoke Crokus felt heat rise to his face, and was thankful for the gloom. “A special case, Kruppe.”

A broad smile broke on Kruppe's round face. “Why, most certainly, then, lad. Shall I deliver said items to you this eve? Excellent, consider the matter closed. Pray, tell, what do you have in yon hand there?”

Crokus stared in confusion, then he glanced down at his hand. “Oh, just a coin,” he explained, showing it to Kruppe. “I picked it up the same night I thieved D'Arle's. Two-headed, see?”

“Indeed? May Kruppe examine the peculiar item more closely?”

Crokus obliged, then reached for the mug of wine. He leaned back. “I was thinking of Orr's estate next,” he said casually, his eyes fixed on Kruppe.

“Mmm.” Kruppe turned the coin in his hand again and again. “Poorest quality cast,” he muttered. “Crooked stamping, too. Orr's estate, you say? Kruppe advises caution. The house is well protected. The metallurgist who foundried this should have been hanged, indeed, probably was, thinks Kruppe. Black copper, no less. Cheap tin, temperatures all too cool. Favour me, Crokus? Peruse the scene in the street from yon door. If you spy a red and green merchant's wagon wobbling into town, Kruppe would be much obliged for such information.”

Crokus rose and crossed the room to the door. Opening it he stepped outside and glanced around. Seeing no wagon in sight, the youth shrugged again and went back inside. He returned to the table. “No merchant wagon.”

“Ah, well,” Kruppe said. He set down the coin on the table. “Altogether worthless, judges wise Kruppe. You may part with it at your leisure.”

Crokus collected the coin and slipped it into his pocket. “No, I'm keeping it. For good luck.”

Kruppe looked up, his eyes bright, but Crokus had his attention on the mug in his hands. The fat man glanced away, sighing. “Kruppe must needs depart immediately, if this eve's rendezvous is to be propitious for all involved.”

Crokus drained his wine. “We can head back together.”

“Excellent.” Kruppe rose, pausing to brush crumbs from his chest.

“Shall we be off, then?” He looked up to see Crokus frowning down at his hand. “Has something smitten the lad?” he asked quickly.

Crokus started. He looked away guiltily, the colour rising in his face.

“No,” he mumbled. He glanced again at his hand. “I must've picked up some wax somewhere,” he explained. He rubbed his hand on his leg and grinned sheepishly. “Let's go.”