The Wurms of Blearmouth by Steven Erikson

possible to do so, and then faced the tax collector again. “We could buy us a wagon and an ox, and stores and all, even for three of us, Spilgit, if you want to take Felittle. We could leave in the morning.”
    “Oh, and how will we pay for all that? Carter’s no fool and won’t give credit.”
    Ackle smiled. “Let’s find us a pair of shovels, shall we?”
    “Oh, not this buried treasure rubbish again!”
    “I wasn’t about to leave on my own, not with the cold and all. But now, well, here you are, Spilgit, with Feloovil planning to kill you a hundred ways. It’s only indecision that’s stayed her hand so far. As for Felittle, well, you should’ve heard her have a go at her ma. Things were said. Things there’s no going back on. If you want her, now’s the time, friend.”
    “Friend? You’re not my friend.”
    “Then partner.”
    “I don’t partner with men who think they’re dead.”
    “Why not? I imagine there’s some tax break involved.”
    Spilgit studied Ackle for a long moment, and then shook his head. “Shovels. Fine, we’ll get some shovels. We’ll dig up your treasure and then snatch Felittle away and make Carter rich and then make our getaway. What a plan. Pure genius.”
    “Genius isn’t required,” Ackle replied, “when it’s all straight forward, like I’ve been saying.”
    Spilgit rose and collected up his threadbare cloak. “You never had the look of a wealthy man, Ackle.”
    “Never got the chance, Spilgit. Now, where will we get some shovels?”
    “Gravedigger’s place,” Spilgit replied. “We’ll offer to dig him a few holes, what with all the strangers about, and we’ll offer it cheap.”
    Ackle hesitated. “I don’t like that man.”
    “You should. You should bless the drunk every damned dawn and every damned sunset.”
    “We’re not on speaking terms, is what I mean.”
    Spilgit stared. “I’ll get the shovels, then.”
    “I appreciate it, Spilgit. I really do. I’ll wait here.”
    “If you’re wasting my time, Ackle…”
    “I’m not. You’ll see.”
    When Spilgit had left, Ackle moved round the small desk and sat in the chair. He spent a moment imagining himself as a tax collector, stuffy with official whatever, feared by all and charmed on every turn by those same horrible people. He let the scenes linger in his head, and then sighed. “No, I’d rather be dead.”
     
     
    Hordilo was sick of escorting fools up to the keep. He was sick, in fact, of the whole thing. His responsibilities, the blood on his hands, the pointless repetition of it all, and the way every day ahead of him, down to the last day of his life, was probably going to be no different from all the days already behind him.
    Most men dreamed the same things: a warm body to lie against, echoing their animal grunts; company at mealtimes; decent conversation and the floor free of scraps. But few men imagined a woman might want the same things, and then find them in a dog.
    Wives were a curse, no doubt about it. So Hordilo had learned to trim down his dreams, as befitted a man made wise by years of grief and blissful ignorance horribly shattered on a fateful day when the world turned on its head and blew him a mocking kiss. It all came down to avoiding the pitfalls awaiting a decent man wanting a decent life, but that was never as easy as it should be.
    He sat glowering at the table, ignoring the moans and complaints from all the scratched-up fools who’d been too slow or too drunk to escape the claws of Red the lizard cat, and studied the three newcomers lined up at the bar.
    Now, a woman like that one would do me fine. She don’t mind her mostly nakedness, I see, and showing me that backside ain’t no accident, since I’m the only good-looking man in here and she eyed me coming in. Too knowing to be cold. Why, she could thaw a snared rabbit under hip-deep snow. And make it jump, at least once.
    But no, he’d have to arrest her. Along with her two companions, and then see them all