Five wings to the palace, the dome rising from the centre. Four tiers to those wings, except for the shoreside one, where only two tiers had been built. Work had been suspended when it was discovered that the clay beneath the foundations tended to squeeze out to the sides, like closing a fist on a block of butter. The fifth wing was sinking.
‘Gravel,’ Bugg said, returning to his knitting.
‘What?’
‘Gravel,’ the old man repeated. ‘Drill deep wells down into the clay, every few paces or so, and fill ’em with gravel, packed down with drivers. Cap ‘em and build your foundation pillars on top. No weight on the clay means it’s got no reason to squirm.’
Tehol stared down at his servant. ‘All right. Where in the Errant’s name did you come by that? And don’t tell me you stumbled onto it trying to keep our hearth from wandering.’
Bugg shook his head. ‘No, it’s not that heavy. But if it was, that’s what I would’ve done.’
‘Bore a hole? How far down?’
‘Bedrock, of course. Won’t work otherwise.’
‘And fill it with gravel.’
‘Pounded down tight, aye.’
Tehol plucked another fig from the plate, brushed dust from it – Bugg had been harvesting from the market leavings again. Outwitting the rats and dogs. ‘That’d make for an impressive cook hearth.’
‘It would at that.’
‘You could cook secure and content in the knowledge that the flatstone will never move, barring an earthquake-’
‘Oh no, it’ll handle an earthquake too. Gravel, right? Flexible, you see.’
‘Extraordinary.’ He spat out a seed. ‘What do you think? Should I get out of bed today, Bugg?’
‘Got no reason to-’ The servant stopped short, then cocked his head, thinking. ‘Mind you, maybe you have.’
‘Oh? And you’d better not be wasting my time with this.’
‘Three women visited this morning.’
‘Three women.’ Tehol glanced up at the nearest Third Height bridge, watched people and carts moving across it. ‘I don’t know three women, Bugg. And if I did, all of them arriving simultaneously would be cause for terror, rather than an incidental “oh by the way”.’
‘Aye, but you don’t know them. Not even one of them. I don’t think. New faces to me, anyway.’
‘New? You’ve never seen them before? Not even in the market? The riverfront?’
‘No. Might be from one of the other cities, or maybe a village. Odd accents.’
‘And they asked for me by name?’
‘Well, not precisely. They wanted to know if this was the house of the man who sleeps on his roof.’
‘If they needed to ask that, they are from some toad-squelching village. What else did they want to know? The colour of your hair? What you were wearing while standing there in front of them? Did they want to know their own names as well? Tell me, are they sisters? Do they share a single eyebrow?’
‘Not that I noticed. Handsome women, as I recall. Young and meaty. Sounds as though you’re not interested, though.’
‘Servants shouldn’t presume. Handsome. Young and meaty. Are you sure they were women?’
‘Oh yes, quite certain. Even eunuchs don’t have breasts so large, or perfect, or, indeed, lifted so high the lasses could rest their chins-’
Tehol found himself standing beside the bed. He wasn’t sure how he got there, but it felt right. ‘You finished that shirt, Bugg?’
The servant held it out once more. ‘Just roll up the sleeve, I think.’
‘Finally, I can go out in public once more. Tie those ends off or whatever it is you do to them and give it here.’
‘But I haven’t started yet on the trousers-’
‘Never mind that,’ Tehol cut in, wrapping the bed sheet about his waist, once, twice, thrice, then tucking it in at one hip. He then paused, a strange look stealing across his features. ‘Bugg, for Errant’s sake, no more figs for a while, all right? Where are these mountainously endowed sisters, then?’
‘Red Lane. Huldo’s.’
‘The pits or on the courtyard?’
‘Courtyard.’
‘That’s something, at least. Do you think Huldo might have forgotten?’
‘No. But he’s been spending a lot of time down at the Drownings.’
Tehol smiled, then began rubbing a finger along his teeth. ‘Winnin’ or roosin’?’
‘Loosing.’
‘Hah!’ He ran a hand through his hair and struck a casual pose. ‘How do I look?’
Bugg handed him the shirt. ‘How you manage to keep those muscles when you do nothing baffles me,’ he said.
‘A Beddict trait, dear sad minion of mine. You should see Brys, under all that armour. But even he looks scrawny when compared to Hull. As the middle son, I of course represent the perfect balance. Wit, physical prowess and a multitude of talents to match my natural grace. When combined with my extraordinary ability to waste it all, you see, standing before you, the exquisite culmination.’
‘A fine and pathetic speech,’ Bugg said with a nod.
‘It was, wasn’t it? I shall be on my way now.’ Tehol gestured as he walked to the ladder. ‘Clean up the place. We might have guests this evening.’
‘I will, if I find the time.’
Tehol paused at the ragged edge of the section of roof that had collapsed. ‘Ah yes, you have trousers to make – have you enough wool for that?’
‘Well, I can make one leg down all the way, or I can make both short.’
‘How short?’
‘Pretty short.’
‘Go with the one leg.’
‘Aye, master. And then I have to find us something to eat. And drink.’
Tehol turned, hands on his hips. ‘Haven’t we sold virtually everything, sparing one bed and a lone stool? So, just how much tidying up is required?’
Bugg squinted. ‘Not much,’ he conceded. ‘What do you want we should eat tonight?’
‘Something that needs cooking.’
‘Would that be something better when cooked, or something that has to be cooked?’
‘Either way’s fine.’
‘How about wood?’
‘I’m not eating-’
‘For the hearth.’
‘Oh, right. Well, find some. Look at that stool you’re sitting on – it doesn’t really need all three legs, does it? When scrounging doesn’t pay, it’s time to improvise. I’m off to meet my three destinies, Bugg. Pray the Errant’s looking the other way, will you?’
‘Of course.’
Tehol made his way down the ladder, discovering, in a moment of panic, that only one rung in three remained.
The ground-level room was bare except for a thin mattress rolled up against one wall. A single battered pot rested on the hearth’s flatstone, which sat beneath the front-facing window, a pair of wooden spoons and bowls on the floor nearby. All in all, Tehol reflected, elegant in its severity.
He swung aside the ratty curtain that served as a door, reminding himself to tell Bugg to retrieve the door latch from the hearth-bed. A bit of polishing and it might earn a dock or two from Cusp the Tinkerer. Tehol stepped outside.
He was in a narrow aisle, so narrow he was forced to sidle sideways out to the street, kicking rubbish aside with each step. Meaty women… wish I’d seen them squeezing their way to my door. An invitation to dinner now seemed essential. And, mindful host that he was, he could position himself with a clear view, and whatever pleasure they saw on his face they could take for welcome.
The street beyond was empty save for three Nerek, a mother and two half-blood children, who’d found in the recessed niche in the wall opposite a new home and seemed to do nothing but sleep. He strode past their huddled forms, kicking at a rat that had been edging closer, and threaded his way between the high-stacked wooden crates that virtually blocked this end of the street. Biri’s warehouse was perpetually overstocked, and Biri viewed the last reach of Cul Street this side of Quillas Canal as his own personal compound.
Chalas, the watchman of the yard, was sprawled on a bench on the other side, where Cul opened out onto Burl Square, his leather-wrapped clout resting on his thighs. Red-shot eyes found Tehol. ‘Nice skirt,’ the guard said.