Toll the Hounds Read online

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Gate guards,’ Leff said. ‘We got lots of qualifications.’

  ‘Oh. Any of them relevant?’

  ‘What?’

  Leff looked at Scorch and saw the panic spreading like a wildfire on his friend’s face. A match to his own growing dismay – madness, thinking they could just step up another rung on the ladder. Madness! ‘We . . . we could walk her dogs, I mean?’

  ‘You could? I suppose you could, if the Mistress had any.’

  ‘Does she?’ Leff asked.

  ‘Does she what?’

  ‘Have any. Dogs we could walk.’

  ‘Not even ones you can’t walk.’

  ‘We can guard the gate!’ Scorch shouted. ‘That’s what we’re here for! To get hired on, you see, as estate guards. And if you don’t think we can swing a sword or use a crossbow, why, you don’t know us at all, do you?’

  ‘No, you’re right,’ the foreman replied. ‘I don’t.’

  Leff scowled. ‘You don’t what?’

  ‘Stay here,’ the old man said, turning away, ‘while I get Castellan Studlock.’

  As the foreman waded away through the dust – watched with longing by the ox beside the rubble heap – Leff turned on Scorch. ‘Studlock?’

  Scorch shrugged helplessly. ‘I ain’t never heard of him.

  Why, have you?’

  ‘No. Of course not. I’d have remembered.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why? Are you a Hood-damned idiot?’

  ‘What are we doing here, Leff?’

  ‘Torvald said no, remember? To everything. He’s too good for us now. So we’ll show him. We’ll get hired on this fancy estate. As guards. With uniforms and polished buckles and those braided peace-straps for our swords. And so he’ll curse himself that he didn’t want us no more, as partners or anything. It’s his wife, I bet – she never liked us at all, especially you, Scorch, so that’s what you’ve done to us and I won’t forget any time soon neither so don’t even think otherwise.’

  He shut his mouth then and stood at attention since the foreman was returning and at his side pitter-pattered a figure so wrapped up in swaddles of cotton it took three steps for every pendulum pitch forward from the foreman.

  The feet beneath the ragged hem were small enough to be cloven hoofs. A hood covered the castellan’s head and in the shadow of the hood’s broad mouth there was something that might have been a mask. Gloved hands were drawn up in a way that reminded Leff – and, a moment later, Scorch – of a praying mantis, and if this was the estate castellan then someone had knocked the world askew in ways unimaginable to either Leff or Scorch.

  The foreman said, ‘Here they are, sir.’

  Were there eyes in the holes of that smooth mask? Who could tell? But the head shifted and something told both men – like spider legs dancing up their spines – that they were under scrutiny.

  ‘So true,’ Castellan Studlock said in a voice that made Leff think of gravel under the fingernails while Scorch thought about the way there was always one gull that bullied all the rest and if the others just ganged up, why, equality and freedom would belong to everyone! ‘So true,’ said the swaddled, masked man (or woman, but then the foreman had said ‘sir’, hadn’t he), ‘there is need for estate guards. The Mistress will be arriving today, in fact, from the out-country. Proper presentation is desired.’ The castellan paused and then leaned forward from the waist and Leff saw the red glint of unhuman eyes in the holes of the mask. ‘You, what is your name?’

  ‘Leff Bahan, sir, is my name.’

  ‘You have been eating raw lake conch?’

  ‘What? Er, not recently.’

  A wrapped finger darted upward and wagged slowly back and forth. ‘Risky. Please, open your mouth and stick out your tongue.’

  ‘What? Er, like this?’

  ‘That is fine, very fine, yes. So.’ The castellan leaned back. ‘Greva worms. You are infected. Pustules on your tongue. Dripping sinuses, yes? Itchy eyelids – the eggs do that, and when they hatch, why, the worms will crawl out from the corners of your eyes. Raw lake conch, tsk tsk.’

  Leff clawed at his face. ‘Gods, I need a healer! I gotta go—’

  ‘No need. I will happily see your ailment treated – you must be presentable to the Mistress, yes, each standing at attention on either side of the gate. Well attired, hale of complexion and parasite-free. A small barracks is being readied. It will be necessary to hire at least three more to complete the requirements – do you have reliable friends capable of such work?’

  ‘Er,’ said Scorch when it was obvious that Leff had momentarily lost his facility for speech, ‘we might. I could go and see . . .’

  ‘Excellent, and your name is?’

  ‘Scorch. Er, we got references—’

  ‘No need. I am confident in my ability to judge character, and I have concluded that you two, while not to be considered vast of intellect, are nevertheless inclined to loyalty. This here will mark an advancement in your careers, I am sure, and so you will be diligent as befits your secret suspicion that you have exceeded your competence. All this is well. Also, I am pleased to note that you do not possess any parasites of a debilitating, unsightly sort. So, Scorch, go yonder and find us one, two or three additional guards. In the meantime, I will attend to Leff Bahan.’

  ‘Right. Yes sir, I will do just that!’

  The foreman was standing nearby, smirking. Neither Scorch nor a stunned Leff noticed this detail, and yes, they should have.

  ‘A woman needs her secrets,’ said Tiserra, lifting up an eggshell-thin porcelain cup and holding it in front of the bright sunlight. ‘This one is good, darling. No flaws.’ And the hag in the stall grinned, head bobbing.

  Torvald Nom nodded happily, then licked his lips. ‘Isn’t this fun?’ he said. ‘Fine crockery to go into our new kitchen and the fancy oven on its four legs and all. Real drapes. Plush furniture, colourful rugs. We can get the storage shed rebuilt, too. Bigger, solid—’ Tiserra set the cup down and moved directly in front of him. ‘Husband.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You’re trying too hard.’

  ‘I am? Well, it’s like a dream, you see, being able to come back home. Do all these things for you, for us. It still doesn’t feel real.’

  ‘Oh, that’s not the problem,’ she said. ‘You are already getting bored, Torvald Nom. You need more than just tagging along at my side. And the coin won’t last for ever – Beru knows I don’t make enough for the both of us.’

  ‘You’re saying I need to get a job.’

  ‘I will tell you a secret – just one, and keep in mind what I said earlier: we women have many secrets. I’m feeling generous today, so listen well. A woman is well pleased with a mate. He is her island, if you will, solid, secure. But sometimes she likes to swim offshore, out a way, floating facing the sun if you will. And she might even dive from sight, down to collect pretty shells and the like. And when she’s done, why, she’ll swim back to the island. The point is, husband, she doesn’t want her mate’s company when swimming. She needs only to know the island waits there.’

  Torvald blinked, then frowned. ‘You’re telling me to get lost.’

  ‘Leave me my traipsing through the market, darling. No doubt you have manly tasks to pursue, perhaps at a nearby tavern. I’ll see you at home this evening.’

  ‘If that’s how you want it, then of course I will leave you to it, sweetness – and yes, I could do with a wander. A man has secrets, too!’

  ‘Indeed.’ And she smiled. ‘Provided they’re not the kind that, if I find out, I will have to hunt you down and kill you.’

  He blanched. ‘No, of course not! Nothing like that!’

  ‘Good. See you later, then.’

  And, being a brave man, a contented man (more or less), Torvald Nom happily fled his wife, as brave, contented men are wont to do the world over. Need to plough that field behind the windbreak, love. Going to head out now and drop the nets. Better sand down that tab
letop. Time to go out and rob somebody, sweetness. Yes, men did as they did, just as women did as they did – mysterious and inexplicable as those doings might be.

  And, so thinking, it was not long before Torvald Nom found himself walking into the Phoenix Inn. A man looking for work in all the wrong places.

  Scorch arrived a short time later, pride and panic warring in his face, and my, how that pride blazed as he strutted up to where Torvald Nom was sitting.

  Back at the estate Castellan Studlock brought Leff into an annexe to one side of the main building, where after some rummaging in crates stuffed with straw the muffled figure found a small glass bottle and presented it to Leff.

  ‘Two drops into each eye. Two more on to the tongue. Repeat two more times today and three times a day until the bottle is empty.’

  ‘That will kill them worms in my head?’

  ‘The Greva worms, yes. I cannot vouch for any others.’

  ‘I got more worms in my head?’

  ‘Who can say? Do your thoughts squirm?’

  ‘Sometimes! Gods below!’

  ‘Two possibilities,’ Studlock said. ‘Suspicion worms or guilt worms.’

  Leff scowled. ‘You saying it’s worms cause those things? Guilt and suspicion? I ain’t never heard anything like that.’

  ‘Are you sometimes gnawed with doubt? Do notions take root in your mind? Do strange ideas slither into your head? Are you unaccountably frightened at the sight of a fisher’s barbed hook?’

  ‘Are you some kind of healer?’

  ‘I am what one needs me to be. Now, let us find you a uniform.’

  Torvald Nom was rehearsing what he would tell his wife. Carefully weighing each word, trying out in his mind the necessary nonchalance required to deftly avoid certain details of his newfound employment.

  ‘It’s great that we’re all working together again,’ Scorch said, ambling happily at his side. ‘As estate guards, no less! No more strong-arm work for smelly criminals. No more hunting down losers to please some vicious piranha. No more—’

  ‘Did this castellan mention the wages?’

  ‘Huh? No, but it’s bound to be good. Must be. It’s demanding work—’

  ‘Scorch, it may be lots of things, but “demanding” isn’t one of them. We’re there to keep thieves out. And since all three of us have been thieves ourselves at one time or another, we should be pretty damned good at it. We’d better be, or we’ll get fired.’

  ‘We need two more people. He wanted three more and all I got was you. So, two more. Can you think of anybody?’

  ‘No. What family?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘This Mistress – what House does she belong to?’

  ‘Don’t know.’

  ‘What’s her name?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘She’s from the countryside?’

  ‘Think so.’

  ‘Well, has any noble died recently that might have pulled her in? Inheritance, I mean?’

  ‘How should I know? You think I bother keeping track of who’s dead in that crowd? They ain’t nothing to me, is my point.’

  ‘We should’ve asked Kruppe – he’d know.’

  ‘Well we didn’t and it don’t matter at all. We got us legitimate work, the three of us. We’re on our way to being, well, legitimate. So just stop questioning everything, Tor! You’re going to ruin it!’ ‘How can a few reasonable questions ruin anything?’

  ‘It just makes me nervous,’ Scorch replied. ‘Oh, by the way, you can’t see the castellan.’

  ‘Why? Who else would I talk to about getting hired?’

  ‘No, that’s not what I mean. I mean you can’t see him. All wrapped up in rags. With a hood, and gloves, and a mask. That’s what I mean. His name is Studlock.’

  ‘You can’t be serious.’

  ‘Why not? That’s his name.’

  ‘The castellan is bundled like a corpse and you don’t find that somewhat unusual?’

  ‘Could be afraid of the sun or something. No reason to be suspicious. You never met any strange people in your day, Tor?’

  And Torvald Nom glanced across at Scorch, and found he had no reply to that at all.

  ‘I see you have found another candidate,’ Studlock said. ‘Excellent. And yes, he will do nicely. Perhaps as the Captain of the House Guard?’

  Torvald started. ‘I haven’t said a word yet and already I’m promoted?’

  ‘Comparative exercise yields confidence in this assessment. Your name is?’

  ‘Torvald Nom.’

  ‘Of House Nom. Might this not prove a conflict of interest?’

  ‘Might it? Why?’

  ‘The Mistress is about to assume the vacant seat on the Council.’

  ‘Oh. Well, I have virtually no standing in the affairs of House Nom. There are scores of us in the city, of course, with ties stretching everywhere, including off-continent. I, however, am not involved in any of that.’

  ‘Were you cast out?’

  ‘No, nothing so, er, extreme. It was more a question of . . . interests.’

  ‘You lack ambition.’

  ‘Precisely.’

  ‘That is a fine manicure, Torvald Nom.’

  ‘Er, thank you. I could recommend . . .’ but that notion dwindled into a painful silence and Torvald tried hard not to glance down at the castellan’s bandaged fingers.

  At this moment Leff appeared from round the other side of the main house. His lips and his eyes were bright orange.

  Scorch grunted. ‘Hey, Leff. Remember that cat you sat on in that bar once?’

  ‘What of it?’

  ‘Nothing. Was just reminded, the way its eyes went all bulgy and crazed.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Nothing. Was just reminded, is all. Look, I brought Tor.’

  ‘I see that,’ snarled Leff. ‘I can see just fine, thank you.’

  ‘What’s wrong with your eyes?’ Torvald Nom asked.

  ‘Tincture,’ said Leff. ‘I got me a case of Greva worms.’

  Torvald Nom frowned. ‘Humans can’t get Greva worms. Fish get Greva worms, from eating infected conch.’

  Leff’s bulging orange eyes bulged even more. Then he spun to face the castellan.

  Who shrugged and said, ‘Jurben worms?’

  Torvald Nom snorted. ‘The ones that live in the caverns below? In pockets of green gas? They’re as long as a man’s leg and nearly as thick.’

  The castellan sighed. ‘The spectre of misdiagnosis haunts us all. I do apologize, Leff. Perhaps your ailments are due to some other malady. No matter, the drops will wash out in a month or two.’

  ‘I’m gonna have squished cat eyes for another month?’

  ‘Preferable to Greva worms, I should think. Now, gentlemen, let us find the house clothier. Something black and brocaded in gold thread, I should imagine. House colours and all that. And then, a brief summary of your duties, shifts, days off and the like.’

  ‘Would that summary include wages?’ Torvald Nom asked.

  ‘Naturally. As captain you will be paid twenty silver councils per week, Torvald Nom. Scorch and Leff, as guards, at fifteen. Acceptable?’

  All three quickly nodded.

  He felt slightly shaky on his feet, but Murillio knew that had nothing to do with any residue of weakness left by his wound. This weakness belonged to his spirit. As if age had sprung on to his back with claws digging into every joint and now hung there, growing heavier by the moment. He walked hunched at the shoulders and this seemed to have arrived like a new habit, or perhaps it was always there and only now, in his extremity, had he become aware of it.

  That drunken pup’s sword thrust had pierced something vital indeed, and no Malazan healer or any other kind of healer could mend it.

  He tried forcing confidence into his stride as he made his way down the crowded street, but it was not an easy task. Half drunk. Breeches at my ankles. Worthwhile excuses for what happened that night. The widow Sepharla spitting venom o
nce she sobered up enough to realize what had happened, and spitting it still, it seems. What had happened, yes. With her daughter. Oh, not rape – too much triumph in the girl’s eyes for that, though her face glowed with delight at her escort’s charge to defend her honour. Once the shock wore off. I should never have gone back to explain—

  But that was yesterday’s nightmare, all those sparks raining down on the domestic scene with its airs of concern, every cagey word painting over the cracks in savage, short jabs of the brush. What had he expected? What had he gone there to find? Reassurance?

  Maybe. I guess I arrived with my own brush.

  Years ago, he would have smoothed everything over, almost effortlessly. A murmur here, a meeting of gazes there. Soft touch with one hand, the barest hint of pressure. Then again, years ago, it would never have happened in the first place. That drunken fool!

  Oh, he’d growled those three words often in his head. But did they refer to the young man with the sword, or to himself?

  Arriving at the large duelling school, he made his way through the open gate and emerged into the bright sunlight of the training ground. A score of young, sweating, overweight students scraped about in the dust, wooden weapons clattering. Most, he saw at once, lacked the necessary aggression, the killer’s instinct. They danced to avoid, prodding the stick points forward with lack of any commitment. Their footwork, he saw, was abysmal.

  The class instructor was standing in the shade of a column in the colonnaded corridor just beyond. She was not even observing the mayhem in the compound, intent, it seemed, on some loose stitching or tear in one of her leather gauntlets.

  Making his way along one side of the mob getting lost in clouds of white dust, Murillio approached the instructor. She noted him briefly then returned her attention to the gauntlet.

  ‘Excuse me,’ Murillio said as he arrived. ‘Are you the duelling mistress?’

  ‘I am.’ She nodded without looking at the students, where a couple of fights had started for real. ‘How am I doing so far?’

  Murillio glanced over and studied the fracas for a moment. ‘That depends,’ he said.

  She grunted. ‘Good answer. What can I do for you? Do you have some grandson or daughter you want thrown in there? Your clothes were expensive . . . once. As it looks, I doubt you can afford this school, unless of course you’re one of those stinking rich who make a point of dressing all threadbare. Old money and all that.’