At week’s end, however, Bainisk was with him once more, passing him a jug of silty lakewater as he backed out of a fissure and sat down on the warm, dry stone of the tunnel floor, and in this brief shared moment the tear slowly began to heal, reknitted in the evasiveness of their eyes that would not yet lock on to the reality of their sitting side by side-far beneath the world’s surface, two beating hearts that echoed naught but each other-and this was how young boys made amends. Without words, with spare gestures that, in their rarity, acquired all the necessary significance. When Harllo was done drinking he passed back the jug.
‘Venaz is on me all the time now,’ Bainisk said. ‘I tried it, with him again, I mean. But it’s not the same. We’re both too old for what we had, once. All he ever talks about is stuff that bores me.’
‘He just likes hurting people.’
Bainisk nodded. ‘I think he wants to take over my job. He argued over every or-der I gave him.’
‘People like him always want to take over,’ Harllo said. ‘And most times when other people see it they back off and let them. That’s what I don’t get, Bainisk. It’s the scariest thing of all.’
That last admission was uncommon between boys. The notion of being fright-ened. But theirs was not a normal world, and to pretend that there was nothing to fear was not among the few privileges they entertained. Out here, people didn’t need reasons to hurt someone. They didn’t need reasons for doing anything.
‘Tell me about the city again, Mole.’
There’s a haunted tower. My uncle took me to see it once. He has big hands, so big that when he holds yours it’s like your hand disappears and there’s nothing in the world could pull you apart. Anyway, there’s a ghost in that tower. Named Hinter.’
Bainisk set on him wide eyes. ‘Did you see it? Did you see that ghost?’
‘No, it was daytime. They’re hard to see in daytime.’
‘It’s dark enough down here,’ Bainisk said, looking round. ‘But I ain’t never seen a ghost.’
Harllo thought to tell him, then. It had been his reason for bringing up the story in the first place, but he found himself holding back yet again. He wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was because the skeleton wasn’t a true ghost. ‘Sometimes,’ he said, ‘the dead don’t go away. I mean, sometimes, they die but the soul doesn’t, er, leave the body. It stays where it is, where it always was.’
‘Was this Hinter like that?’
‘No, he was a real ghost. A spirit with no body.’
‘So what makes ghosts of some people but not others?’
Harllo shrugged. ‘Don’t know, Bainisk. Maybe spirits with a reason to stay are the ones that become ghosts. Maybe the Lord of Death doesn’t want them, or lets them be so they can maybe finish doing what they need to do. Maybe they don’t realize they’re dead.’ He shrugged again. ‘That’s what my uncle said. He didn’t know either, and not knowing made him mad-I could tell by the way he held my hand tighter.’
‘He got mad at a ghost?’
‘Could be. That’s what I figure, anyway. I didn’t say nothing to make him mad, so it must have been the ghost. His not knowing what it wanted or something.’
Harllo could well recall that moment. Like Bainisk, he’d asked lots of questions, amazed that such a thing as a ghost could exist, could be hiding, watching them, thinking all its ghost thoughts. And Gruntle had tried to answer him, thought it was obviously a struggle. And when Harllo asked him if maybe his father-who was dead-might be a ghost out there somewhere far away, his uncle had said noth-ing. And when he asked if maybe his ghost father was still around because he was looking for his son, then Gruntle’s big hand squeezed tight and then tighter for a breath or two, not enough to actually hurt Harllo, but close. And then the grip soft-ened once more, and Gruntle took him off to buy sweets.
He’d probably seen Hinter, looking out through one of the gloomy windows of the tower. He’d probably wanted to tell Hinter to go away and never come back. Like bad fathers did. Because maybe Harllo’s father wasn’t dead at all, since one time his real mother had said something about ‘putting the bastard away’, and though Harllo didn’t know the precise meaning of ‘bastard’ he’d heard it often enough to guess it was a word used for people no one liked having around.
But thinking about Gruntle made him sad, so instead he reached for the jug of water again and drank deep.
Bainisk watched him, and then rose. ‘There’s a new chute that’s been cleared. I was thinking maybe you could climb it, if you was rested up enough.’
‘Sure, Bainisk. I’m ready.’
They set out in silence, But this time the silence wasn’t uncomfortable, and Harllo felt such a wave of relief when he realized this that his eyes welled up for a moment. Silly, really, and dangerous besides. When he had a moment when Bainisk wasn’t looking, he quickly wiped his grimy cheeks and then dried the backs of his hands on his tunic.
Even had he been turned towards Harllo, Bainisk probably would not have no-ticed. His mind was stepping stealthily on to the worn stones of the path leading to Hinter’s Tower, so that he could see the ghost for himself. What a thing that would be! To see with his own eyes something that he had never seen before!
There in that amazing city so far away. Where all manner of wonders jostled with the crowds on all the bright streets. Where ghosts argued with landlords over rent. Where people had so much food they got fat and had to be carried around. And people didn’t hurt other people for no good reason, and people like Venaz got exactly what they deserved.
Oh yes, he did love that city, that place where he had never been.
Don’t be absurd. The modestly pudgy man in the red waistcoat is not so crass as to fish for weeping multitudes in the rendition of this moment, nor so awkward with purple intent. Give Kruppe some credit, you who are so quick to cast asper-sions like hooks into a crowded pool (caught something, did you? No, dear friend, do not crow your prowess, ’twas only this carp desperate to get out).
The water’s reflection is not so smooth; oh, no, not so smooth.
Is Bainisk’s city quaint, possibly even cute and heartwarming, in a softly tragic way? Not the point!
Some of us, you see (or don’t), still dream of that city. Where none of us have ever been.
That, dear ones, is the point.
Second guessing is murder. Or, depending on one’s point of view, suicide. Blend had found plenty of opportunity to consider such matters while lying bleeding on the floor of K’ral’s Bar. It had been close, and without Mallet around the prospects of a thorough healing of her wounds was something she would just have to live without. The Councilman, Coll, had sent over a local cutter with passing skills in common Denul, and he had managed to half knit the ruptured flesh and stem the flow of blood, and then had taken needle and gut to suture the wounds. All of which left Blend propped up on her bed, barely able to move.
K’rul’s Bar remained closed. What had once been a temple was now a crypt. From what Picker had told her, there wasn’t a patch of raw earth in the cellars below that wasn’t soft and queasy underfoot. The Elder God never had it so good.
Bluepearl and Mallet, both dead. The very idea of that left gaping holes that opened out beneath every thought, every feeling that leaked through her grim control. The bastards had survived decades of war, battle after battle, only to get cut down in their retirement by a mob of assassins.
The shock lingered, there in the echoes of empty rooms, the silences from all the wrong places, the bitter arguments that erupted between Antsy and Picker in the office or in the corridors. If Duiker remained resident-if he hadn’t fled-he was silent, witnessing, as any historian would, every opinion strapped down into immobility. And, it seemed, thoroughly uninterested in whether she-or any of them-lived or died.