Free The Wurms of Blearmouth by Steven Erikson

do they want to get out? Well, I mean, I would, but then I’d never go into her room in the first place. But he did, so he knew what was coming, more or less, didn’t he? But I swear I heard him gag, or something. It sounded like a gag—wait, is she strangling him or something? Does she kill them, Felittle? Is your mother a mass murderer?”
    “How should I know?” she demanded from where she sat on the bed, her lizard cat sprawled across her thighs, the creature watching Spilgit with unblinking, yellow eyes. “Maybe I’ve seen her bury a body or two, out back. But that happens. It’s an inn, after all, with people in beds and old men trying to die smiling, and all that.”
    “She’s buried people out back?”
    “Well, dead ones, of course. Not like Ackle.”
    “Ackle wasn’t dead.”
    “Yes he was.”
    “Not a chance. The noose strangled him bad, that’s true, and probably killed bits of his brain, which was why he looked dead to everyone. But he wasn’t, and that’s why he came back. Gods below, I can’t believe the superstitions you have here in this wretched backwater. No, you’ve not treated him well since then, have you? It’s a disgrace.”
    Felittle blinked at him. “Backwater? Are you calling Spendrugle, where I was born, a backwater? So what am I, then? A backwaterian? Is that what I am to you, Mister Big Smelly City?”
    Spilgit hurried over, recoiling at the last moment to Red’s savage hiss and raised hackles. “Darling, of course not. Every dung heap has a hidden gem, and you’re it. I mean, if I didn’t find you lovely and all, would I offer to help you escape? And,” he went on, still trying to get closer but Red was now on its feet, dorsal spines arching and ears flattened and mouth opened wide, “if you didn’t think this was a backwater you wouldn’t want to get away, would you?”
    “Who says I want to get away?”
    “You do! Don’t you remember, my sweet?”
    “It was you who wanted to steal me away, and I listened and all, and so you convinced me. But maybe I like it here, and once Ma lets me start working with the other girls, I’ll—”
    “But she won’t, Felittle,” Spilgit said, looking for something he could use as a weapon on the cat. “That’s just it. She’ll never let you do that. She’ll see you stay a virgin, a spinster, all your life. You know it, too.” He found a brass candlestick on the dresser and collected it up.
    “But then you said you weren’t going to let me have lots of men in the city, so what’s the point of me going with you anywhere? You’ll end up just like Ma, chaining me in some cellar! What are you doing with that?”
    He advanced on her, hefting the candlestick. “Is that how you really want it? You want me to hire you out for the night, to whoever’s got the coin?”
    “Oh, will you? Yes, please! What are you doing with that candlestick?” she backed up on the bed. “How many bodies have you buried behind the tax office, that’s what I’m wondering now!”
    “Don’t be silly. Tax collectors want people to live forever, of course. Getting older and older, so we can strip from them every single hard-won coin.”
    “Put that thing down!”
    “Oh, I’ll put something down all right. Count on it.” He raised the candlestick.
    Red leapt at his face.
    He swung with all his strength.
     
     
    Emancipor Reese clawed fruitlessly at the lock on the door. Behind him, Feloovil laughed a deep, throaty laugh. “It’s no use, Mancy, we’ve got you for the night, and when I say we’re going to cover your body in kisses, I do mean it, don’t I? Kisses and bites and nips and—”
    “Open this damned door!” Emancipor snarled, spinning round and reaching for his sword.
    But Feloovil had raised one hand. “Shh! Listen! I hear voices in my daughter’s room! Voices! Gods below, it’s Spilgit!” She collected up her tunic from the floor and began pulling it on. “That’s it, he’s a dead man for this. And I’m calling in