Toll the Hounds Read online

  Cutter imagined himself inside, imagined the resentment there on his face as he looked upon a score or more intruders, invaders into his own memories, each one crowding him, trying to push him out. And on, to whatever new life he had found, which was not in the Phoenix Inn. Not even in Darujhistan.

  There was no returning. He had known that all along, at least intellectually, but only now, as he stood here, did the full realization descend upon him, a burden of such emotion that he felt crushed by it. And was it not equally true that the man behind the eyes was not the same man from those years past? How could he not see it differently, with all that he had been through, with all that he had seen and felt?

  His heart thundered in his chest. Each drumming thud, he now understood, was, once done, never to return. Even the repetition was in truth nothing but an illusion, a sleight of similitude. It might be a comfort to pretend that the machinery never changed, that each pulse and swirl was identical, that a man could leap back and then forward in his mind and no matter where he ended up all that he saw would remain the same. Fixed like certainty.

  The rough stones of the dank walls. The quality of the yellow light bleeding from the pitted glass window. Even the susurration of sound, the voices, the clank of pewter and fired clay, the very laughter spilling out as the door was opened, spilling out sour as bile as far as Cutter was concerned.

  Who was left in there that he might recognize? The faces tugged a little older, shoulders a fraction more hunched, eyes framed in the wrinkled map of the weary. Would they light upon seeing him? Would they even know him? And even then, after the slapped backs and embraces, would he see something gauging come into their eyes, painting colourless their words, a certain distance widening with every drawn-out moment that followed?

  The faintest scrape of a boot two paces behind him. Spinning round, ducking low as he did so, daggers flashing in both hands. Left blade half raised, point downward, into a guard position. Right blade darting out in a stopthrust—

  —and the figure leaned back with a soft grunt of surprise, tjaluk knife snapping out from beneath a cloak to block the dagger—

  Cutter twisted his wrist to fold into that parry, flicking his blade’s edge into a deep slice across the base of the attacker’s gloved palm, even as he lunged forward – staying low – and slashed his left-hand dagger for the indent beneath his foe’s right kneecap.

  Avoiding that attack very nearly toppled the man straight into Cutter’s arms, but Cutter had already slipped past, slicing both blades for thigh, then hip, as he darted by on the man’s left.

  Amazingly, that heavy tjaluk caught every slash – and another of the oversized, hooked knives now appeared in the man’s other hand, straightening in a back-flung stop-thrust in case Cutter pivoted round to take him from behind. Cutter was forced to pitch hard to evade that damned fend, and, balanced on one leg, he threw the dagger in his left hand, side-arm, launching the weapon straight for the man’s shadowed face—

  Sparks as – impossibly – the man batted the flying weapon aside.

  A new knife already in that hand, Cutter made to launch yet another attack – then he skidded on his heels and leaned back into an all-out defence as the man came forward, his heavy knives whirling a skein before him.

  Two of those? Two?

  ‘Wait!’ Cutter cried out. ‘Wait! Rallick? Rallick?’

  The tjaluks withdrew. Blood spattered down from the one in the right hand – where the palm had been laid open.

  Dark eyes glittered from beneath the hood.

  ‘Rallick – it’s me. Cut— Crokus! Crokus Younghand!’

  ‘As I’d first thought,’ came the rumbling reply, ‘only to change my mind, in a hurry. But now, yes, it is you. Older – gods, I have indeed been away a long time.’

  ‘I cut your hand – I’m sorry—’

  ‘Not half as sorry as me, Crokus. You are in the Guild now, aren’t you? Who has trained you? Not Seba Krafar, that’s for sure. I don’t recognize the style at all—’

  ‘What? No, no Guild. Not anything like that, Rallick. I’ve been – wait, you said you’ve been gone? From Darujhistan? Where? How long? Not since that night behind Coll’s? But—’

  ‘Aye,’ Rallick cut in, ‘it’s you all right.’

  ‘Gods below,’ Cutter said, ‘but it’s so good to see you, Rallick Nom. I mean, if I’d known it was you at first – you shouldn’t come up on a man from behind like that. I could’ve killed you!’

  The assassin stood studying him.

  Suddenly trembling, Cutter sheathed his knives, then began looking around for the one he’d thrown. ‘Two of those pig-choppers – who else would use those? I should’ve realized when I saw the first one. I’m so sorry, Rallick. Instincts took over. They just . . . took over.’

  ‘You did not heed my warning, then.’

  Years ago, those dark, angry words, but Cutter did not need to ask what warning? He remembered it all too well. ‘I would have,’ he said, pausing in his search. ‘Truly, Rallick. I went with the Malazans, you see, and Apsalar. Fiddler, Kalam, the four of us, to Seven Cities. Where everything . . . changed.’

  ‘When did you return, Crokus?’

  ‘Today. Tonight.’ He glanced ruefully at the entrance to the Phoenix Inn. ‘I’ve not even gone inside yet. It’s . . . changed – aye, that word is already starting to haunt me.’ He resumed his hunt. ‘I suppose I should have expected it – where in Hood’s name did that knife go, dammit?’

  Rallick leaned back against a wall. ‘The one you aimed at my throat?’

  ‘Yes – I’m so—’

  ‘Yes, you’re sorry. Well, you won’t find it down there. Try my left shoulder.’

  ‘Oh, the thickness of blood! Darujhistan and her hundred thousand hearts and each and every one beats for none other than this hale, most generous resident of the Phoenix Inn! Seated here at this most grand of tables – although surely Meese should attend to this wobbly leg – nay, not mine, though that would be delicious indeed and well beyond common service in said establishment – with – where was Kruppe? Oh yes, with nary fell company to jiggle awake the night! Tell prescient Kruppe, yon friends, why the glowing faces belied by fretful eyes? Did Kruppe not promise boons galore? Pressures eased? Panics prevented? Purses packed with precious baubles all aglitter? Drink up – oh, humble apologies, we shall order more anon, ‘tis a promise most pertinent should one elect to toast this, that and, perchance, t’other!’

  ‘We got news,’ Scorch said, looking surprised by his own words, ‘and if you’d just shut your trap, you’d hear about it too.’

  ‘News! Why, Kruppe is news personified. Details, analysis, reactions from common folk in the street, all in the blink of an eye and the puff of a single breath, who needs more? This new madness we must witness now weekly and all the bolts of burlap wasted on which some purple fool blathers all manner of foul gossip, why, ‘tis nothing but rags for the ragman, or wipes for the arsewipes or indeed blots for the blotters bless their feminine wiles – Kruppe rails at this elevation of circumstance and incidence! A profession, the fops now claim, as if baying hounds need certification to justify their slavering barks and snarls! Whatever happened to common decency? To decent commonry? What’s decent is rarely common – that is true enough, while the obverse is perverse in all prickly irony, would you not agree? Kruppe would, being such an agreeable sort—’

  ‘We found Torvald Nom!’

  Kruppe blinked at Leff, then at Scorch, then – seeing perhaps the disbelief mirrored in the face of the latter – back to Leff. ‘Extraordinary! And did you horribly hand him over to hirsute Gareb the Lender?’

  Scorch growled under his breath.

  ‘We worked out a better deal,’ said Leff, licking his lips. ‘Torvald will pay Gareb back, in full, and, you see, to do so he had to pay us for the privilege, right? So, Torvald pays us, Gareb pays us. We get paid twice!’ Kruppe lifted one pudgy finger – on which, he saw with momentary dismay, there was a smear of something unrecogniz
able – ‘A moment, please. Torvald has both returned and, bought you off? Then why is it Kruppe buying the drinks this night? Ah, allow Kruppe to answer his own question! Why, because Torvald is yet to pay off trusting Leff and Scorch, yes? He begged, yes, for one night. One night! And all would be well and such!’

  ‘How’d you guess?’

  Kruppe smiled. ‘Dear foolish friends, should Gareb hear of this any time soon – should he, yes, learn that you had the notorious Torvald Nom in your very grasp, why, you will find your names on the very list you hold, thus forcing you to turn in yourselves to great reward, which will avail you nothing when Gareb hides and quarters poor Scorch and Leff. Ah, calamities await!’

  ‘Torvald Nom was once our partner,’ said Leff, though now sweating in earnest. ‘He gave us his word, he did. And if he goes back on it, well, doing wrong to Scorch and Leff is never a good idea, for anybody. So you keep that in mind, too, Kruppe, if you go blabbing to Gareb or some such thing.’

  ‘Beru forbid. Kruppe would do no such thing, dearest temperamental friends! Nay, Kruppe’s fear relates back to those new rags abounding in the grubby hands of urchins at every street corner these days, such a plague upon Darujhistan! Said rags are nefariously quick and diabolical with their gossip, and who can know the multitude of dubious sources? Kruppe worries what the morrow’s rag will proclaim!’

  ‘Damned well better proclaim nothing,’ snarled Scorch, looking terrified and belligerent all at once.

  ‘Now, blessed friends,’ Kruppe said with a perfunctory but flourished wave of his hands, ‘we must end this debacle for tonight! Dread circumstance hovers. Kruppe senses stupendous events imminently . . . imminent. A taste upon the air, a flutter in the wind, a flicker in the lantern light, a waver in watery pools of ale, a thump upon the stairs . . . a rattling exposure of front doors – ho! Noms and flowers! Knives and bleeders! Faces most ashen and dismayed! Begone from Kruppe’s table, recent wumplings of desultory concourse! Reunion most precious awaits!’

  Rallick was leaning heavily against Cutter by the time they reached the entrance to the Phoenix Inn. Gods, if I’ve killed him – my friend – gods, no—

  Pushing open the door he half dragged Rallick inside.

  And saw, behind the counter, Meese. Beyond her, Irilta. And there, to his left, frozen in mid-step and staring with wide eyes—

  ‘Sulty! Rallick’s hurt – we need a room – and help—’

  All at once Meese was pulling the assassin from Cutter’s arms. ‘Hood’s breath, he’s cut to pieces!’

  ‘I’m sorry—’ Cutter began.

  But Irilta was now there, taking his face between hands that smelled of ale and chopped garlic. Lips suddenly looming large as she planted a full kiss on his mouth, tongue briefly writhing in like a worm down a hole.

  Cutter reeled back, then found Sulty in his arms, grasping him tight – tight with arms astonishingly strong after a dozen or so years of trays and pitchers – so tight all the air was pushed from his lungs.

  ‘He’ll live,’ pronounced Meese from where she crouched over Rallick, who was lying on the floor behind the counter. ‘Once we stop the bleeding. He musta been jumped by three or four, by the looks.’ Straightening, she dropped the bloody dagger on the counter. A crowd was gathering, and heads now tilted in for a closer look at that foreign-made weapon.

  ‘Malazan!’ hissed someone.

  Pulling himself from Sulty’s arms, Cutter pushed through. ‘Give me room! Don’t touch that knife! It’s mine.’

  ‘Yours?’ demanded Irilta. ‘What’s that supposed t’mean, Crokus?’

  ‘He came up on me from behind – all quiet – like a killer. I thought I was defending myself – it was all a mistake – you sure he’s going to be all right, Meese?’

  ‘You was that scrawny thief years back!’ said a man with a vaguely familiar face, his expression flitting between disbelief and accusation.

  ‘Crokus, Irilta said,’ added the man beside him. ‘Did something the night the Moon came down, I heard. Knocked over a pillar or something. You remember, Scorch, don’t you?’

  ‘I make a point of remembering only what I need to, Leff. Though sometimes other stuff sticks, too. Anyway, he was a pickpocket, one of Kruppe’s lads.’

  ‘Well he ain’t any more, is he?’ Leff said in a half-snarl. ‘Now he’s a Guild assassin!’

  ‘No I’m not!’ shouted Cutter – all at once feeling like the ungainly youth he had been years ago. Furious at his own burning face he swung to Meese. ‘Where’s everybody else? I mean—’

  Meese held up a hand – on which there was some of Rallick’s blood – and said, ‘He’s waiting, Crokus. At his usual table – go on. Hey,’ she shouted to the crowd, ‘give him a way through! Go back t’your tables!’

  Just like that, Cutter reflected, he had made things a shambles. His grand return. Everything. Reaching out as he passed, he retrieved his knife – not meeting Meese’s eyes as he did so. Then, as bodies pulled back, he saw—

  There, at his usual table, the small round man with greasy hair and beaming, cherubic smile. Filthy frilly cuffs, a faded and stained red waistcoat. A glistening pitcher on the puddled tabletop, two tankards.

  Just a thief. A pickpocket. A raider of girls’ bedrooms. Wasn’t I the breathless one? A wide-eyed fool. Oh, Kruppe, look at you. If anybody wasn’t going to change, it’s you.

  Cutter found himself at the table, collapsing into the waiting chair, reaching for the tankard. ‘I gave up on my old name, Kruppe. It’s now Cutter. Better suited, don’t you think?’ Then why do I feel like weeping? ‘Especially after what I did to Rallick just now.’

  Kruppe’s brows lifted. ‘Kruppe sympathizes, oh yes he does. Life stumbles on – although the exception is none other than Kruppe himself, for whom life dances. Extraordinary, how such truth rubs so many so wrongly; why, can one’s very existence prove sufficient for such inimical outrage? Seems it can, oh yes, most certainly. There are always those, dear friend, for whom a wink is an insult, a smile a taunt. For whom humour alone is cause for suspicion, as if laughter was sly contempt. Tell Kruppe, dear Cutter, do you believe that we are all equal?’

  ‘Equal? Well—’

  ‘A laudable notion, we can both agree, yes? Yet’ – and he raised one rather unclean finger – ‘is it not true that, from one year to the next, we each ourselves are capable of changes so fundamental that our present selves can in no reasonable way be considered equal to our past selves? If the rule does not apply even within our own individual lives, how can one dare hope to believe that it pertains collectively?’

  ‘Kruppe, what has all this—’

  ‘Years past, Cutter who was once named Crokus, we would not have a discussion such as this, yes? Kruppe sees and sees very well. He sees sorrow and wisdom both.

  Pain and still open wounds. Love found and love lost. A certain desperation that still spins like a coin – which way will it fall? Question as yet unanswered, a future as yet undecided. So, old friend now returned, let us drink, thus yielding the next few moments to companionable silence.’ And with that Kruppe collected his tankard and lifted it high.

  Sighing, Cutter did the same.

  ‘The spinning coin!’

  And he blanched. ‘Gods below, Kruppe!’

  ‘Drink, friend! Drink deep the unknown and unknowable future!’

  And so he did.

  The wheel had stopped spinning, milky water dripping down its sides to gather in the gutter surrounding it. The bright lanterns had been turned well down, sinking the room into soft light, and she now walked towards her bed, drying her hands with a towel.

  In a day or two she would fire up the kiln.

  It was late and this was no time to be thinking the heavy, turgid thoughts that now threatened to reach up and take hold of her weary mind. Regret has a flavour and it is stale, and all the cups of tea in the world could do nothing to wash it away.

  The scratching at the door brought her round – some drunk at the wrong house, n
o doubt. She was in no mood to answer.

  Now knuckles, tapping with muted urgency.

  Tiserra tossed the towel down, rubbed absently at her aching wrist, then collected one of the heavier stirring sticks from the glaze table and approached the door. ‘Wrong house,’ she said loudly. ‘Go on, now!’

  A fist thumped.

  Raising the stick, Tiserra unlatched the door and swung it back.

  The man stepping on to the threshold was wearing a stupid grin.

  One she knew well, had known for years, although it had been some time since she had last seen it. Lowering the stick, she sighed. ‘Torvald Nom. You’re late.’

  ‘Sorry, love,’ he replied. ‘I got waylaid. Slavers. Ocean voyages. Toblakai, dhenrabi, torture and crucifixion, a sinking ship.’

  ‘I had no idea going out for a loaf of bread could be so dangerous.’

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘the whole mess started with me hearing about a debt. One I didn’t know I had. That bastard Gareb set me up, said I owed him when I didn’t, but that’s not something one can argue, not without an advocate – which we couldn’t afford—’

  ‘I know all about Gareb,’ Tiserra replied. ‘His thugs visited here often enough once you disappeared, and yes, I did need an advocate – to get Gareb to back off.’

  ‘He was threatening you?’

  ‘He claimed that your debt was my debt, dear husband. Of course that’s nonsense. Even after I won that challenge, he had me followed around. For months. Suspected you were in hiding somewhere and I was delivering food and the like, I suppose. I can’t tell you how much fun that was. Why can’t I, Torvald? Because it wasn’t. Fun, that is. Not fun at all.’

  ‘I’m home now,’ Torvald said, trying the smile again. ‘Wealthy, too. No more debt – I’m clearing that in the morning, straight away. And no more low-grade temper for your clay either. And a complete replenishment of your herbs, tinctures and such – speaking of which, just to be safe we should probably put together a ritual or two—’