Midnight Tides
The dome had proved so challenging to the royal architects that four of them had committed suicide in the course of its construction, and one had died tragically – if somewhat mysteriously – trapped inside a drainage pipe. ‘Seventeen years and counting. Looks like they’ve given up entirely on that fifth wing. What do you think, Bugg? I value your expert opinion.’
Bugg’s expertise amounted to rebuilding the hearth in the kitchen below. Twenty-two fired bricks stacked into a shape very nearly cubic, and indeed it would have been if three of the bricks had not come from a toppled mausoleum at the local cemetery. Grave masons held to peculiar notions of what a brick’s dimensions should be, pious bastards that they were.
In response to Tehol’s query, Bugg glanced up, squinting with both eyes.
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.’
‘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.’