‘Lady Envy, I arrived on a ship.’
‘What of it?’
‘A ship owned by a most delicious woman-’
‘Oh, not another one!’ moaned Sordiko Qualm.
‘The poor thing,’ said Lady Envy.
‘Hardly.’ Iskaral Pust leaned back in his chair, tilting it up on its legs so that his view could encompass both women. ‘How I dream of such moments as this! See how they hang on my every word! I have them, I have them!’
‘What is wrong with this man, High Priestess?’
‘I could not begin to tell you.’
Iskaral Pust examined has hands, his fingernails-but that made him slightly nauseous, since the bhokarala were in the habit of sucking on his fingertips when he slept at night, leaving them permanently wrinkled, mangled and decidedly un-pleasant, so he looked away, casually, and found himself staring at Therule, which wasn’t a good idea either, so, over there, at that flower-safe enough, he supposed-until it was time at last to meet Lady Envy’s extraordinary eyes. ‘Yes,’ he drawled, ‘I see the similarity at last, although you were the victor in the war of perfection. Not by much, but triumphant none the less and for that I can only ap-plaud and admire and all that. In any case, resident even at this very moment, on the ship, in the harbour, is none other than your beloved sister, Spite!’
‘I thought so!’ Lady Envy was suddenly on her feet, trembling in her… excitement?
Iskaral Pust sniggered. ‘Yes, I play at this until they play no more, and all truths are revealed, as sensibilities are rocked back and forth, as shock thunders through the cosmos, as the shadows themselves explode into all existence! For am I not the Magus of Shadow? Oh, but I am, I am!’ He then leaned forward with an expression of gravid dismay. ‘Are you not delighted, Lady Envy? Shall I hasten to her to forward your invitation to visit this wondrous garden? Instruct me as your servant, please! Whatever you wish, I will do! Of course I won’t! I’ll do what-ever I want to. Let her think otherwise-maybe it’ll bring some colour back to her face, maybe it’ll calm the storm in her eyes, maybe it’ll stop the water in this trough from boiling-impressive detail, by the way, now, what should I say next?’
Sordiko Qualm and Lady Envy never did get to their conversation that day.
Grainy-eyed and exhausted, Cutter went in search of somewhere to eat breakfast. Once his belly was full, he’d head back to the Phoenix Inn and collapse on his bed upstairs. This was the extent of his tactical prowess and even achieving that had been a struggle. He would be the last man to downplay the extraordinary variety of paths a life could take, and there were few blessings he could derive from hav-ing come full circle-from his journey and the changes wrought in himself be-tween the Darujhistan of old and this new place-and yet the contrast with the fate that had taken Challice Vidikas had left him numbed, disorientated and feel-ing lost.
He found an empty table on the half-courtyard restaurant facing Borthen Park, an expensive establishment that reminded him he was fast running out of coin, and sat waiting for one of the servers to take note of him. The staff were Rhivi one and all, three young women dressed in some now obscure fashion characterized by long swishing skirts of linen streaked in indigo dye, and tight black leather vests with nothing underneath. Their hair was bound up in knotted braids, revealing his sected clam-shells stitched over their ears. While this latter affectation was quaint the most obvious undesirable effect was that twice one of the servers sauntered past him and did not hear his attempts to accost her. He resolved to stick out a leg the next time, then was shocked at such an ungracious impulse.
At last he caught the attention of one of them and she approached. ‘A pot of tea, please, and whatever you’re serving for breakfast.’
Seeing his modest attire, she glanced away as she asked, in a bored tone, ‘Fruit breakfast or meat breakfast? Eggs? Bread? Honey? What kind of tea-we have twenty-three varieties.’
He frowned up at her. ‘Er, you decide.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘What did you have this morning?’
‘Flatcakes, of course. What I always have.’
‘Do you serve those here?’
‘Of course not.’
‘What kind of tea did you drink?’
‘I didn’t. I drank beer.’
‘Rhivi custom?’
‘No,’ she replied, still looking away, ‘it’s my way of dealing with the excitement of my day.’
‘Gods below, just bring me something. Meat, bread, honey. No fancy rubbish with the tea, either.’
