Toll the Hounds

  Cartographer tottered back to them. ‘If it pleases,’ he said, attempting a smile that Precious decided was too ghoulish to describe without descending into insanity, ‘I have outlined a solution.’

  ‘Sorry I missed it,’ said Quell.

  ‘He meant that literally,’ said Precious, pointing up the road.

  Quell in the lead, they walked up to observe the faint scouring on the pale dust of the track.

  ‘What in Hood’s name is that?’

  ‘A map, of course.’

  ‘What kind of map?’

  ‘Our journey to come.’

  Reccanto Ilk squatted to study the effort, and then shook his head. ‘I can’t even make out the island we’re on. This is a stupid map, Cartogopher.’ He straightened and nodded to the others. ‘That’s what you get tryin’ to work with a dead man. I swear, common sense is the first to go when you turn into the walking dead – why is that?’

  The Bole brothers looked thoughtful, as if working on possible answers. Then, noticing each other’s frown, both broke into smiles. Amby snorted then had to wipe goo from his upper lip with the back of one hand.

  ‘I must be mad,’ Precious whispered.

  Quell asked, ‘This is some kind of gate you’ve drawn here, Cartographer?’

  ‘Absent of investiture, but yes. I have no power to give it. But then, you do.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Quell mused, ‘but I don’t recognize anything you’ve drawn, and that makes me nervous.’

  Cartographer walked along one side and pointed a withered finger down at the far end of the map. ‘Do you see this straight, wide groove? All the rest funnels into this path, the path we need to take. The best maps show you the right direction. The best maps are the ones that lead you to a specific destination.’

  Reccanto Ilk scratched at his head, looking bewildered. ‘But that’s what maps are for – what’s he glommering on about?’

  ‘Not all maps,’ corrected Cartographer, with a shake of his head – and nothing, Precious concluded, could ever be as solemn as a dead man’s shake of the head. ‘Objective rendition is but one form in the art of cartography, and not even the most useful one.’

  ‘If you say so,’ said Master Quell. ‘I’m still uneasy.’

  ‘You have few other options, Wizard. The carriage is damaged. The marital argument is even now extending beyond the town’s limits and will soon engulf this entire island in a conflagration of disputing versions of who-said-what.’

  ‘He’s smarter than he was before,’ observed Faint.

  ‘That’s true,’ said Reccanto.

  ‘I gather more of myself, yes,’ said Cartographer, giving them all another ghastly smile.

  Flinches all round.

  ‘How come,’ asked Quell, ‘you never showed this talent before?’

  The corpse straightened. ‘I have displayed numerous talents on this journey, each one appropriate to the situation at the time. Have you forgotten the coconuts?’

  Faint rolled her eyes and said, ‘How could we forget the coconuts?’

  ‘Besides,’ resumed Cartographer, ‘as an uninvited guest, I feel a pressing need to contribute to the enterprise.’ One ragged hand gestured at the scribbles on the track. ‘Invest power into this, Master Quell, and we can be on our way.’

  ‘To somewhere we can stop for a time?’

  Cartographer shrugged. ‘I am not able to predict the situations awaiting us, only that in general they are not particularly threatening.’

  Quell looked as if he needed to piss again. Instead, he turned back to the carriage. ‘Everyone on board. Precious, you’re with me as usual. Same for you, Mappo.’ He paused. ‘The rest of you, get ready.’

  ‘For what?’ Gruntle asked.

  ‘For anything, of course.’

  Reccanto, still strutting after his extraordinary on-the-knees skewering lunge, slapped one hand on the huge warrior’s back. ‘Don’t fret, friend, you’ll get used to all this eventually. Unless,’ he added, ‘it kills you first.’

  Cartographer held up some ropes. ‘Who will kindly tie me to a wheel?’

  Night sweeps across the Dwelling Plain. Along the vast vault of the sky the stars are faint, smudged, as if reluctant to sharpen to knife points amidst the strangely heavy darkness. The coyotes mute their cries for this night. Wolves flee half blind in formless terror, and some will run until their hearts burst.

  South of the western tail of the Gadrobi Hills, a lone chain-clad figure pauses in his journey, seeing at last the faint bluish glow that is the ever-beating heart of the great, legendary city.

  Darujhistan.

  Three leagues west of him, three more strangers gaze upon that selfsame glow, and in the eyes of one of them – unseen by the others – there is such dread, such anguish, as would crush the soul of a lesser man. His gauntleted hand steals again and again to the leather-wrapped grip of his sword.

  He tells himself that vengeance answered is peace won, but even he does not quite believe that. Beyond the city awaiting him, the future is a vast absence, a void he now believes he will never see, much less stride into.

  Yet, for all the tumultuous, seething forces of will within these arrayed strangers, none among them is the cause of the night’s thick, palpable silence.

  Less than a league north of the three strangers, seven Hounds are arrayed along a ridge, baleful eyes fixed upon the glow of the city.

  The beasts possess the capacity to detect a rabbit’s rapid heartbeat half a league away, so they hear well the tolling of the twelfth bell, announcing the arrival of midnight in the city of Darujhistan.

  And as one, the seven Hounds lift their massive heads, and give voice to a howl.

  The stars are struck into blazing sparks overhead. The High King halts in mid-stride, and the ancient, stubborn blood in his veins and arteries suddenly floods cold as ice. For the first time in this journey, Kallor knows a moment of fear.

  Havok’s long head snaps up and the beast skitters to one side. Astride the animal, Samar Dev makes a desperate grab for Karsa, lest she be thrown to the ground, and she can feel the sudden tautness of every muscle in the huge warrior.

  Ahead of them, Traveller pauses, his shoulders hunching as if those all too close howls even now lash at his back. Then he shakes himself, and marches on.

  Atop a cornice of a gate facing the south plain, a squat toad-like demon lifts its head, pointed ears suddenly alert.

  Then, as the howls slowly fade, the demon settles once more.

  Although now, at last, it can feel, rising up from the very earth, rising up to shiver along its bones, the rumble of heavy paws on distant ground.

  Drawing closer, ever closer.

  In the city behind Chillbais, the twelfth bell clangs its sonorous note. Another season’s grand fête is almost gone. One more day in the name of Gedderone. One more night to close the riot of senseless celebration.

  Dance, and dance on.

  Because, as everyone knows, all that you see about you will last, well . . . for ever!

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  My friend, this is not the place

  The cut flowers lie scattered on the path

  And the light of the moon glistens

  In what the stems bleed

  In the day just for ever lost

  I watched a black wasp darting into the face

  Of a web, and the spider she dropped

  Only to be caught in mid-air

  Footfalls leave no trace

  In the wake of a hungry creature’s wrath

  You can only lie in hope, dreaming

  She lightly touched ground

  And danced away like a breath

  Hiding beneath leaves nodding in place

  While the hunter circles and listens

  But pray nothing is found

  My friend, this is not your face

  So pale and still never again to laugh

  When the moon’s light fell and then stopped

  Cold as silver in the glade
>
  Look back on the day, it’s for ever lost

  Stare into the night, where things confound

  The web stretches empty, wind keening

  In threads of absent songs

  (Song of) Old Friend

  Fisher

  Voluminous in wonder, but, be assured, terse in grief. Consider the woodsman standing facing the forest, axe in hand. In a moment he will stride forward. Consider now the first line of trees, rooted, helpless against what comes.

  The seep of trickling water round roots does not quicken. The sweet warmth of sunlight on leaves does not blaze into urgent flame. The world and its pace cannot change. What is to be done? Why, there is nothing to be done. The woodsman swings his axe with blinding speed and splendid indifference, and he hears not the chorus of cries.

  Is this fancy worthless? For some, perhaps many, it must be. But know this, empathy is no game.

  Twist back time. Dusk still gathers, but it is early yet and so it is a weak gathering. A lone rider draws up on a ridge overlooking a mining camp. Up here the sun’s light remains. Dust streams gold and nothing wants to settle. In the shadowy pit below figures seethe back and forth.

  He is finally seen. An old man works his way up the path. A runner hurries to the main building squatting atop a levelled heap of tailings.

  It begins.

  ‘Another guest? Come for the boy? What’s so damned special about that boy?’ But Gorlas Vidikas wasn’t much interested in any answers to those questions, especially since this runner was in no position to explain much of anything, having been sent direct from the foreman. He rose and pulled on his cloak, then collected up his fine deerskin gloves, and set out. Would he have the pleasure of killing yet another fool? He dearly hoped so.

  Was it that pompous old bastard, Coll? That would be ideal, and who could say, maybe the ghost of Lady Simtal would stir awake at the man’s last gasp, to howl her delight at this most perfect vengeance, this long-awaited conclusion to the vile treachery of her last fête. Of course, that was mostly Hanut Orr’s business, and maybe Shardan Lim’s as well, but Gorlas welcomed the sudden unexpected currency he would reap in reward for killing at least two of the old conspirators.

  Coll’s death would also leave open a seat on the Council. Gorlas smiled at the thought as he climbed the slatted wooden steps up towards the ridge where it wound behind and above the main building. Humble Measure would offer up his own reward for such a thing, no doubt one that would make the gratitude of Hanut and Shardan seem like a pauper’s grudging gift. He had a sudden, odd image then of a half-dozen such paupers – beggars and worse – gathered in some abandoned building, squatting on damp earth as they passed round a pathetic slab of grainy bread and a mouldy lump of cheese. And, as he looked on like some unseen ghost, he had the sense that the circle was somehow . . . incomplete.

  Someone is missing. Who’s missing?

  He shook himself then, dispelling the scene, and found that he had halted just below the landing, one hand on the rail at his side. At that last moment, as the image burst apart, he thought he had caught a glimpse of something – a corpse twisting beneath a thick branch, the face swinging round to meet his own – then gone.

  Gorlas found his mouth unaccountably dry. Had some god or spirit sent him a vision? Well, if something or someone had, it was a poor one, for he could make no sense of it, none at all.

  He tugged on his gloves and resumed the climb, emerging out into the blessed sunlight where everything was painted gold. Yes, the wealth of the world was within reach. He’d never understood poor people, their stupidity, their lack of ambition, their laziness. So much within reach – couldn’t they see that? And then how dare they bitch and complain and cast him dark looks, when he went and took all that he could? Let them fall to the wayside, let them tumble underfoot. He was going where he wanted to be and if that meant pushing them out of the way, or crushing them down, so be it.

  Why, he could have been born in the damned gutter, and he’d still be where he was today. It was his nature to succeed, to win. The fools could keep their resentment and envy. Hard work, discipline, and the courage to grasp opportunity when it presented itself – these were all the things most people lacked. What they didn’t lack, not in the least, was the boundless energy to complain. Bitterness was a waste of energy, and, like acid, it ate the vessel that held it.

  As he came round the curve of the ridge he saw at once that the man awaiting him was not Coll. Nor, Gorlas realized, was he a stranger. Gods below, can this be? Oponn, is it you so blessing me now? Pull me forward, Lady. Shove him closer, Lord.

  The young man (well, they were of the same age, but not in Gorlas’s eyes) saw him approach and slowly dismounted, stepping round the horse and positioning himself in the centre of the path facing Gorlas.

  ‘She was not foolish enough to send you here, was she?’

  ‘You know me, then.’

  Gorlas smiled. ‘I watched you once, only a few days back, from across a street. You looked guilty, did you know that? You looked like a coward – what is your name? I want to know your name, so I can be precise when I tell her what I’ve done to you . . . and your corpse.’

  The man stood unmoving, arms at his sides. ‘I am not here for Challice,’ he said.

  ‘If you want to think it was all your idea, fine. But I should tell you, I know her well – far better than you. She’s been working on you, filling your head – she’s pretty much led you here by the hand, even if you’re too thick to realize it. Of course, she probably didn’t want anyone too smart, since a clever man would have seen through her deadly scheming. A clever man would have walked away. Or run.’

  The man tilted his head slightly. ‘What is the value of all this, Gorlas Vidikas?’

  Gorlas sighed, glanced back at the foreman, who stood watching and listening – yes, something would have to be done about that – and then faced the man once more. ‘Since you’re too much the coward to actually tell me your name, I will just have to slice off your face, to take back to her as proof. Look at you, you’re not even wearing a sword. Foreman! Do we still have Murillio’s rapier? I forget, did that go back with him?’

  ‘Not sure, sir – want me to go and look?’

  ‘Well, find the waif a sword. Anything will do – it’s not as if he knows how to use it in any case. And hurry, before we lose the light and the mob down there gets bored waiting.’ He smiled at the man. ‘They’ve got bloodthirsty of late – my fault, that—’

  ‘Yes, about Murillio . . .’

  ‘Ah, is that why you’ve come? The duel was fairly fought. He simply could not match my skill.’

  ‘Where is the boy?’

  ‘So he’s the reason you’re here? This is getting difficult to believe. The child’s not some orphaned prince or something, is he? Rather, was he?’

  ‘Was?’

  ‘Yes. He’s dead, I’m afraid.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘So, still interested?’ Gorlas asked. ‘Of course, that’s not really relevant any more, because I want you to stay. I suppose you can try to run, but I assure you, you’ll be cut down before you get astride that fine horse – a horse I will welcome in my stables. Tell me, are you a better duellist than Murillio was? You’ll have to be. Much better.’

  The foreman had gone halfway down the trail before yelling instructions, and now a youth was scurrying up cradling a sword – not Murillio’s, but something found in one of the workings from the look of it. Thin, tapered to a point that was slightly bent. Iron, at least, but the patina was a thick crust over the blade’s spine, and both edges were severely notched. The handle, Gorlas saw as the foreman – breath wheezing – delivered it, wasn’t even wrapped.

  ‘Sorry about the lack of grip,’ Gorlas said. ‘But really, you should have come prepared.’

  ‘How did it feel,’ the man asked, ‘killing an old man?’

  ‘The duel was fair—’

  ‘Agreed to the death? I doubt that, Vidikas.’

&n
bsp; ‘I dislike the lack of respect in using my last name like that – especially when you won’t even tell me your name.’

  ‘Well, your wife calls you Useless, so if you’d prefer that . . .’

  Gorlas flung the weapon at the man’s feet, where it skidded in a puff of golden dust. ‘On guard,’ he ordered in a rasp. ‘To the death.’

  The man made no move to pick up the weapon. He stood as he had before, head tipped a fraction to one side.

  ‘You are a coward in truth,’ Gorlas said, drawing his rapier. ‘Cowards do not deserve to be treated with honour, so let us dispense with convention—’

  ‘I was waiting for you to say that.’

  The foreman, standing off to one side, still struggling with the ache in his chest from a labouring heart, was in the process of licking his gritty lips. Before he had finished that instinctive flicker, the scene before him irrevocably changed.

  And Gorlas Vidikas was falling forward, landing hard. His rapier rolled from his hand to catch up in the grass lining the track. Dust puffed up, then slowly settled.

  The stranger – had he even moved? the foreman was unsure – now turned to him and said, ‘You heard him dispense with the rules of the duel, correct?’

  The foreman nodded.

  ‘And, think back now, good sir, did you even once hear me voice a formal challenge?’

  ‘Well, I was part of the way down the trail for a moment—’

  ‘But not beyond range of hearing, I’m sure.’

  ‘Ah, no, unless you did whisper something—’

  ‘Think back. Gorlas was babbling on and on – could I have said anything even if I’d wanted to?’

  ‘True enough, thinking on it.’

  ‘Then are we satisfied here?’

  ‘Ain’t for me to say that either way,’ the foreman replied. ‘It’s the man this one was working for.’

  ‘Who, being absent, will have to rely solely upon your report.’