‘In words alone, Grizzin Farl, you could fill casks.’
‘Ah, but mine own fill never tastes as sweet. Join me, old friend. I would wring from you a thousand confessions this night, till I nod drunk on wisdom. If not yours, then mine.’
His guest was nearly of matching bulk and girth. A cloak of silver fur rode his broad shoulders, shimmering in the starlight. ‘I have come from a place of tribulation and dire portent.’
‘In leaving did you, by chance, raid a wine cupboard?’
‘The Tiste do well by wine, it’s true. So much, then, for gifts carried a great distance.’ With that he drew out from a satchel a fired jug.
Grizzin Farl smiled. ‘Caladan Brood, I would kiss you if I were blind and only a smidgen more desperate than I am.’
‘Hold the sentiment until you are well and truly drunk, but think not of me.’
‘Who, then?’
‘Why, your wife, of course. This wine was meant for her.’
‘Thief of her heart! I should have known not to trust you! Her sloven’d gratitude, which I easily envision here in my skull, has the rank stench of a distillery. Truly you know the secret path to her bed!’
‘Not so secret, Grizzin, but I shall say no more and thus protect your innocence.’
‘By title I was named Protector and in said cause I now stopper my ears and shut my eyes. Come then, pass me this bottle and let’s know the sting of portent.’
‘My freedom,’ Brood said, ‘has been wrested away from me.’
Grizzin swallowed down three quick mouthfuls, and then gasped. ‘You fool — how much did you pay for this? Your firstborn? Never have I tasted better! Upon my wife’s tongue the shock of quality — she’ll know not what to make of it.’
‘So confesses her husband of centuries. Besides, I wager none of the three jugs I carry will last this night, so quality evades her yet again. My sympathy is unbounded, especially as I sit here looking upon you.’
‘Well said, since it is a night for sordid confession. Freedom is nothing more than life stripped of responsibility. Oh, we yearn for it with reckless lust, but the shudders are short-lived, and besides, in sotted state she’s a poor game in bed, and this I well know, since it’s the only way by which she relents to my bluff pawing.’
‘I grieve for your memories, Grizzin Farl. But more, I grieve in the hearing of them.’
‘Let us not weep just yet. Here, numb thy throat and so steal pain from every word we utter.’
Caladan drank, handed the jug back. ‘The First Son of Darkness has bound me to an oath, as I did to him in the making of a marriage stone for his brother.’
‘It will never last.’
‘What, the marriage?’
‘The oath.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Well, I thought the lie would relieve you. Otherwise, could I even claim to be your friend? I think not. This bottle is done. Find us another, will you?’
‘You’ve run far for this hare, Grizzin.’
‘It was that or plucking weeds from around the house. Under critical eye, baleful and jaded. But now curiosity has me and I would see this dark woman’s dark garden, weeds or no.’
‘Think you not Draconus will stand in your way?’
‘Ah, but he is well behind me, and well ahead of you, even as we speak.’
‘He travels among the Azathanai? This surprises me, given the tensions in Kharkanas.’
‘He goes to hide a bastard son, I think.’
‘And for other reasons.’
Grizzin Farl raised his thick brows. ‘You surmise from hidden knowledge. Here, drink more.’
‘The Tiste put much in gestures,’ Caladan said, taking back the jug. ‘They would make of every deed a symbol, until the world carries benighted weight. By this means many walls are raised, many doors barred, and in meaning the realm becomes a maze to all who dwell in it.’
‘No maze frightens me. I have run with hares.’
‘You would weed her garden, then? Has she no decision to make on the offer?’
‘Hah! Look upon me, friend, in the manner that would a true-blooded woman! See this golden hair? These bright dancing eyes? The grave assurance in my comportment? I am a mystery, a lure of well-hidden depths. To touch me is to brush jewels and gems; to stand too close is to swoon in heady spice — into my very arms. These gifts I have, friend, are not made of breadth or height; neither of weight nor robust presence. I could be a squirrel of a man and still women would fall in like bugs on a cup rim!’