Toll the Hounds Read online

  ‘That’s true. Which is why I won’t be asking you about anything. Where you’ve been, what you’ve done.’

  ‘But that’s different!’

  Her brows rose.

  ‘No, really,’ Torvald said, walking over. ‘What I told you last night, I wasn’t exaggerating.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  He could see that she didn’t believe him. ‘I am stung. Crushed.’

  ‘You’d better get going,’ Tiserra said, returning once more to the lump of clay on the wheel. ‘You’ve got a debt to clear.’

  ‘The loot’s not sticky?’

  ‘It’s all clean as can be, I made sure. Unless Gareb’s scratched secret sigils on every coin he owned he won’t know either way. He might suspect, though.’

  ‘I’ve got a good tale to explain all that, if necessary,’ Torvald said. ‘Foreign investments, unexpected wealth, a triumphant return.’

  ‘Well, I’d tone down the new version, Tor.’

  He regarded her, noting her amusement, and said nothing. What was the point? That giant whose life I saved more than once, his name was Karsa Orlong. Do you think I could make up a name like that, Tis? And what about these shackle scars? Oh, it’s the new style among the highborn, enforced humility and all that.

  Oh, it didn’t matter anyway. ‘I don’t plan on meeting Gareb in person,’ he said as he walked to the front door. ‘I’ll work through Scorch and Leff.’

  The lump of wet clay slid off the wheel and splatted on the wall, where it clung for a moment, then oozed down to glom on to the floor.

  Surprised, Torvald turned to his wife and saw the expression that he hadn’t seen in . . . in . . . well, in quite a while. ‘Wait!’ he cried. ‘That partnership is over with, I swear it! Darling, they’re just acting as my go-between, that’s all—’ ‘You start scheming with those two again, Torvald Nom, and I’ll take out a contract on you myself.’

  ‘They always liked you, you know.’

  ‘Torvald—’

  ‘I know, my love, I know. Don’t worry. No more scheming with Scorch and Leff. That’s a promise. We’re rich now, remember?’

  ‘The problem with lists,’ Scorch said, ‘is all the names on ‘em.’

  Leff nodded. ‘That’s the problem, all right. You got it dead on there, Scorch. All them names. They must’ve had some kind of meeting, don’t you think? All the loansharks in some crowded, smoky room, lounging about with nubile women dropping grapes in their mouths, and some scribe with stained lips scratching away. Names, people down on their luck, people so stupid they’d sign anything, grab the coin no matter how insane the interest. Names, you got it, Scorch, a list of fools. Poor, dumb, desperate fools.’

  ‘And then,’ Scorch said, ‘when the list is done, out it goes, for some other poor, dumb, desperate fools to take on.’

  ‘Hey now, we ain’t poor.’

  ‘Yes we are. We been poor ever since Torvald Nom vanished on us. He was the brains – admit it, Leff. Now, you tried being the brains ever since and look where it’s got us, with a damned list and all those names.’

  Leff raised a finger. ‘We got Kruppe, though, and he’s already given us six of ‘em.’

  ‘Which we passed on and you know what that means? It means thugs kicking in the door in the middle of the night, delivering threats and maybe worse. People got hurt ‘cause of us, Leff. Bad hurt.’

  ‘They got hurt because they couldn’t pay up. Unless you decide to run, and I do mean run, as in out of the city, as in hundreds of leagues away to some town or city with no connections to here, but people don’t do that and why not? Because they’re all caught up, tangled in the nets, and they can’t see their way clear because they got husbands and wives and children and maybe it’s hard but at least it’s familiar, you know what I mean?’

  ‘No.’

  Leff blinked. ‘I was just saying—’

  ‘What did they think they were doing, to get caught up in nets – swimmin’ the lake? Besides, not all of it’s loans, is it? There’s blackmail, too, which gives me a thought or two—’

  ‘No way, Scorch. I don’t want in on anything like that.’

  ‘I’m just suggesting we talk to Tor about it, that’s all. See what he conjures up in the way of plans and such.’

  ‘Assuming Tor ever shows up.’

  ‘He will, you’ll see, Leff. He was our partner, wasn’t he? And he’s back.’

  The conversation ended abruptly, for no reason obvious to either of them, and they stood looking at each other for a dozen heartbeats. They were opposite the entrance to the Phoenix Inn. It was morning, when they did their best thinking, but that had a way of dying quick, so that by late afternoon they would find themselves sitting somewhere, sluggish as tortoises in a hailstorm, arguing about nothing in particular with monosyllabic brevity and getting angrier by the moment.

  Without another word they both went into the Phoenix Inn.

  Clumped inside, looking round – just to be sure – then heading over to where sat Kruppe, plump hands upraised and hovering like hooded snakes, then striking down to one of dozens of pastries heaped on numerous platters in front of him. Fingertip fangs spearing hapless sweets right and left, each one moving in a blur up to his mouth, gobbled up in a shower of crumbs one after another.

  Mere moments later and half the offerings were gone. Kruppe’s cheeks bulged, his jam-smeared lips struggling to close as he chewed and frantically swallowed, pausing to breathe loudly through his nose. Seeing Scorch and Leff approaching, he waved mutely, gesturing them into their seats.

  ‘You’re going to explode one day, Kruppe,’ said Leff.

  Scorch stared with his usual expression of rapt disbelief.

  Kruppe finally managed to swallow everything down, and he raised his hands once more, left them to hover whilst he eyed his two guests. ‘Blessed partners, is this not a wondrous morning?’

  ‘We ain’t decided yet,’ Leff said. ‘We’re still waiting for Torvald – he had a runner find us down at the docks and said he’d meet us here. He’s already changing things all round, like maybe he don’t trust us. It’s a blow, I tell you, Kruppe. A real blow.’

  ‘Conflagration of suspicions climbing high into yon blue sky is quite unnecessary, shifty-eyed friends of wise Kruppe. Why, infamous and almost familiar offspring of House Nom is true to his word, and Kruppe asserts – with vast confidence – that the first name is about to be struck from dire list!’

  ‘First? What about the six—’

  ‘You’ve not heard? Oh, my. Each had flown, only moments before the cruel night-beaters closed in. Most extraordinary ill-luck.’

  Scorch clawed at his face. ‘Gods, we’re back where we began!’

  ‘That’s impossible, Kruppe! Someone must’ve tipped ‘em off!’

  Kruppe’s gnarled brows lifted, then waggled. ‘Veracity of your discoveries is not in doubt, you will be pleased to hear. Thusly, you have succeeded in your task with said six, whilst they who compiled the list have, alas, not quite matched your rate of success. And so, how many remain? Twelve, yes? Not counting sleep-addled Torvald Nom, that is.’

  ‘He ain’t no sleep-addered or whatever,’ Scorch said. ‘In fact, he looked just fine yesterday.’

  ‘Perhaps glorious reunion has sapped all verve, then. Kruppe assumed sleep-addered indeed, given the man’s hapless and ineffectual perusal of this taproom – ah, at last he sees us!’

  And both Scorch and Leff twisted round in their chairs to see Torvald Nom sauntering up and, noting the man’s broad smile, they were instantly relieved and then, just as quickly, nervous.

  ‘My apologies for being late,’ Torvald said, dragging up another chair. ‘I got a shave and the old woman threw in the buffing of my nails for free – said I was surprisingly handsome under all those whiskers and if that’s not a good start to a day then what is? True, she was about a thousand years old, but hey, compliments don’t have to be pretty, do they? And you’re Kruppe. You must be – who else in this city tr
ies to eat with his nose when his mouth is filled? I’m Torvald Nom.’

  ‘Sit, newfound friend. Kruppe is generous enough this morning to disregard dubious observation regarding his eating habits and the habits of his orifices. Kruppe further observes that you, while once a poor destitute man, have suddenly acquired impressive wealth, so finely attired and groomed are you, and that with great relief friends Scorch and Leff are soon to pay a most propitious visit to one Gareb the Lender. And on this of all days, one suspects Gareb to be most gracious at repayment of said debt, yes?’

  Torvald stared at Kruppe, evidently speechless with admiration.

  Kruppe’s left hand darted down, captured a puff pastry that indeed might have been trying to escape, and pushed it whole into his mouth. Beaming, he chewed.

  ‘You got the money?’ Leff asked Torvald.

  ‘What? Oh. Here,’ and he drew out a pouch. ‘In full. Kruppe, you are witness to this, so don’t try anything, Leff. Nor you either, Scorch. Walk it straight over to Gareb’s. Get the chit saying I’m cleared, too. Then come straight back here and I’ll buy you all lunch.’

  Scorch was looking back and forth between Torvald and Kruppe, and finally of the latter he asked, ‘What was that you said about Gareb?’

  Kruppe swallowed, licked his lips, and said, ‘Why, only that a dastardly thief broke into his estate last night and stole his entire hoard. The poor man! And ‘tis said the thief stole much more than that – why, the wife’s dignity, too, or at least her innocence in so far as non-marital intercourse is concerned.’

  ‘Hold on,’ Leff said. ‘The thief slept with Gareb’s wife? Where was Gareb?’

  ‘At a moneylenders’ meeting, Kruppe understands, discussing important matters and, no doubt, eating his fill of grapes and whatnot.’

  ‘Well then,’ Torvald Nom said, ‘won’t he be happy I’ve returned to repay my debt.’

  ‘Won’t he just!’ said Kruppe, beaming once more.

  Leff took the bag of coins and peered inside. ‘All there?’

  ‘All there,’ Torvald replied.

  Leff rose and said, ‘Let’s get this done with, Scorch.’

  When the two were gone, Torvald Nom sat back in his chair and smiled at Kruppe.

  Who smiled back.

  And when that was done with, Kruppe collected another pastry and held it before his mouth, in order to more closely observe its delight, and perhaps torture it a moment before his mouth opened like a bear’s jagged maw. Poised thus, he paused to glance over at Torvald Nom. ‘Upstairs, dear sir, you shall find, if you so desire, a cousin of renown. Like you, suddenly returned to fair Darujhistan. None other than Rallick, among the Noms of House Nom one might presume a sheep blacker than you. Indeed, the very black of nadir, the Abyss, whilst you might reveal a lesser black, such as charcoal. Two sheep, then, in this very inn, of a very dark hue – why, could Kruppe but witness such a meeting!’ And time now to lift an admonishing finger. ‘But listen, dear friend Torvald Nom, most clandestine is Rallick’s return, yes? Seal thy lips, I beg you!’

  ‘He’s in hiding? Who from?’

  A flutter of pudgy fingers, like worms in a reef-bed.

  ‘Quick, then, lest he depart on some fell errand. Kruppe will save your seat here against your return – he so looks forward to the sumptuous lunch for which Torvald will pay and pay happily!’

  Torvald was suddenly sweating, and he fidgeted in the chair. ‘The reunion can, er, wait. Really, why would I want to bother him right now? No, honest, Kruppe, and as for secret, well, I’ll keep it just fine, provided you, er, do the same. Say nothing to Rallick, I mean. Let me . . . surprise him!’

  ‘Rallick has little love for surprises, Torvald Nom, as you must surely know. Why, just last night he—’

  ‘Just don’t say anything, all right?’

  ‘Oh, aren’t conspiracies delicious? Kruppe will say nothing to no one, none to worry no matter what. This is a most solemn promise most solemnly promised! Now, old friend, be so good as to accost yon Meese o’er there – some wine to loosen the throats prior to vast meal, yes? Kruppe’s mouth salivates and, perhaps, so too sniffles his nose – all in anticipation, yes?’

  ‘If this is what I want, then I don’t want it.’

  ‘Oh, now that makes sense, Antsy. And if you happen to be a short bow-legged red-faced crab of a man, well, you’d rather be a short bow-legged red-faced crab of a—’

  ‘You’re an idiot, Bluepearl, and that don’t change no matter what you want. What I’m saying is simple, right? Even you should grasp the meaning. A soldier retires, right? And looks to a life all simple and peaceful, but is it?’

  ‘Is it which?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Is it simple or is it peaceful?’

  ‘It isn’t and that’s my point!’

  ‘That wasn’t your point. Your point was you don’t want it and if that’s the case, then head on over to the Malazan Embassy and throw yourself on the mercy of whoever and if they don’t hang you they’ll sign you up all over again.’

  ‘The point was, I’d like being retired if I only could be!’

  ‘I’m going to the cellar to check on stock.’

  Antsy watched him leave, then snorted and shook his head. ‘That man needs help.’

  ‘So go help him,’ Blend said from the next table over.

  Antsy jumped in his seat, then glared at her. ‘Stop doing that! Anyway, I didn’t mean that kind of help. Oh, gods, my head aches.’

  ‘Sometimes,’ Blend said, ‘I try to make myself as quiet as possible because that way the military marching band in my skull maybe won’t find me.’

  ‘Huh,’ said Antsy, brows knitting. ‘Never knew you played an instrument, Blend. Which one?’

  ‘Pipes, drums, flute, rattle, horn, waxstring.’

  ‘Really? All at once?’

  ‘Of course. You know, I think I’d be annoyed if I headed upstairs and found Picker creeping out of Scillara’s room right about now.’

  ‘So stay sitting right there.’

  ‘Well, it’s only my imagination inventing the scene.’

  ‘You sure?’

  She lasted four or five heartbeats before swearing under her breath and rising.

  Antsy watched her leave, then smiled. ‘It’s better,’ he said to no one, ‘when you don’t have an imagination. Like me.’ He paused, scowled. ‘Mind, could be I could use one right about now, so I could figure out how and when them assassins are gonna try again. Poison. Magic. Knives. Crossbow quarrels in the night, through the window, right through the shutters, a perfect shot. Thump to the floor goes Antsy, the Hero of Mott Wood. A spear up through that floor just to finish him off, since they been tunnelling for weeks and was waiting, knowing he’d fall right there right then, aye.’

  He sat, eyes wide, red moustache twitching.

  Sitting in the shadows in the far corner, back resting against the wall, Duiker watched with wry amusement. Extraordinary, how some people survived and others didn’t. The soldier’s face was always the same once the mask fell away – a look of bemusement, the faint bewildered surprise to find oneself still alive, knowing all too well there was no good reason for it, nothing at all but the nudge of luck, the emptiness of chance and circumstance. And all the unfairness of the world made a bitter pool of the eyes.

  A commotion from the back room and a moment later the narrow door opened and out walked the bard, grey hair tousled by sleep, eyes red even at this distance. A glance over at Antsy. ‘There’s lice in the mattress,’ he said.

  ‘I doubt they mind the company,’ the ex-sergeant replied, levering himself upright and making for the stairs.

  The bard stared after him for a moment, then headed over to the bar, where he poured himself a tankard of pungent, dark Rhivi beer. And came over to where sat Duiker.

  ‘Historians and bards both,’ he said, sitting down.

  Duiker nodded, understanding well enough.

  ‘But what you observe and what I observe, well, that can
turn out quite differently. Then again, maybe the distinction is merely superficial. The older I get, the more I suspect just that. You describe events, seeing the great sweep of things. I look at the faces, rushing by so fast they might be no more than a blur if I don’t take care. To see them true, to remember them all.’

  ‘Where are you from?’ Duiker asked.

  The bard drank down a mouthful and set the tankard carefully before him. ‘Korel, originally. But that was a long time ago.’

  ‘Malazan invasion?’

  An odd smile as the man studied the tankard on the table before him. His hands, however, remained in his lap. ‘If you mean Greymane, then yes.’

  ‘So which of the countless contradictory tales are true? About him, I mean.’

  The bard shrugged. ‘Never ask that of a bard. I sing them all. Lies, truths, the words make no distinction in what they tell, nor even the order they come in. We do as we please with them.’

  ‘I’ve been listening to you these past few nights,’ said Duiker.

  ‘Ah, an audience of one. Thank you.’

  ‘You’ve sung verses of Anomandaris I’ve never heard before.’

  ‘The unfinished ones?’ The bard nodded and reached for the tankard. ‘“Black Coral, where stand the Tiste Andii . . .”‘ He drank another mouthful.

  ‘Have you come from there, then?’

  ‘Did you know that there is no god or goddess in all the pantheon that claims to be the patron – or matron – of bards? It’s as if we’ve been forgotten, left to our own devices. That used to bother me, for some reason, but now I see it for the true honour it represents. We have been made unique, in our freedom, in our responsibility. Is there a patron of historians?’

  ‘Not that I’m aware of. Does this mean I’m free, too?’

  ‘It’s said you told the tale of the Chain of Dogs once, here in this very room.’

  ‘Once.’

  ‘And that you have been trying to write it down ever since.’

  ‘And failing. What of it?’

  ‘It may be that expositional prose isn’t right for the telling of that story, Duiker.’