“Business, business.” Grian waved around him, where ten other men and women were handling the day’s supply of dead bodies. “Had to hire on more help for the summer. Putting in a new muckpit, too, ‘n’ a new ossuary. Old one’s full up.
Muckpit kept overflowing. Neighbors complained.” Grian laughed, a rough cheerful sound, though Harran noticed that his friend didn’t breathe too deeply in the process. “They piffles, they’re ruffling about trying to get the better of things again. No good. They kill somebody now and the noble-folk, the Imperials, everybody ‘n’ his brother comes down on ’em like bricks. Half the people in here are piffles this morning. Arrowshot, knifed, you name it. People in the city gettin’ tired of them. About time, I say.”
Harran agreed, passed the winepot back. Grian took a long one. “This new body,” he said, elbowing Harran genially in the ribs, “working OK? Eh? Be interesting to get inside it one day, see what makes it tick.”
Harran smiled again. Grian’s humor never strayed far from his work. “I wonder myself, sometimes.”
“Don’t hold with such things myself,” Grian said in cheerful disapproval.
“Magic, eh, who needs it? Hear it’s gone sour, and good riddance to it. So many magicians in this town, man can’t spit without hittin’ one. Unnatural. City should have done something long time ago. But now they don’t have to, eh? They got other problems.” Grian swigged at the pot again. “They puttin’ less in these than they used to. Your gray-eyed lady-hear she and Molin are getting friendly.