Toll the Hounds

  Rallick nodded. ‘Rooftops and wires, Mistress?’

  She smiled. ‘You make me nostalgic. Please, take the lead.’

  And yes, Torvald comprehended all the subtle layers beneath those gentle words, and he was pleased. Leave it to my cousin to find for himself the most dangerous woman alive. Well, then again, maybe I found myself the second most, especially if I forget to buy bread on my way home.

  Edging round the corner of the wall, an alley behind them, a street before them, Scorch and Leff paused. No point in being careless now, even though there’d be no attack from any assassins any time soon, unless of course they did breed fast as botflies, and Scorch wasn’t sure if Leff had been joking with that, not sure at all.

  The street was empty. No refugees, no guards, no murderous killers all bundled in black.

  Most important of all: no Hounds.

  ‘Damn,’ hissed Leff, ‘where are them beasts? What, you smell badder and worster than anyone else, Scorch? Is that the problem here? Shit, I want me a necklace of fangs. And maybe a paw to hang at my belt.’

  ‘A paw? More like a giant club making you walk tilted over. Now, that’d be funny to see, all right. Worth getting a knock or two taking one of ‘em down, just to see that. A Hound’s paw, hah hah.’

  ‘You said you wanted a skull!’

  ‘Wasn’t planning to wear it, though. To make me a boat, just flip it upside down, right? I could paddle round the lake.’

  ‘Skulls don’t float. Well, maybe yours would, being cork.’

  They set out on to the street.

  ‘I’d call it Seahound, what do you think?’

  ‘More like Sinkhound.’

  ‘You don’t know anything you think you know, Leff. That’s your problem. Always has been, always will be.’

  ‘Wish there’d been twenty more of them assassins.’

  ‘There were, just not attacking us. We was the diversion, that’s what Tor said.’

  ‘We diverted ‘em, all right.’

  At that moment a Hound of Shadow slunk into view, not twenty paces away. Its sides were heaving, strips of flesh hanging down trailing threads of blood. Its mouth was crusted with red foam. It swung its head and eyed them.

  In unison, Scorch and Leff lifted their crossbows into vertical positions, and spat on the barbed heads. Then they slowly settled the weapons back down, trained on the Hound.

  Nostrils flaring, the beast flinched back. A moment later and it was gone.

  ‘Shit!’

  ‘I knew you smelled bad, damn you! We almost had it!’

  ‘Wasn’t me!’

  ‘It’s no fun wandering around with you, Scorch, no fun at all. Every chance we get, you go and mess it all up.’

  ‘Not on purpose. I like doing fun stuff as much as you do, I swear it!’

  ‘Next time,’ muttered Leff. ‘We shoot first and argue later.’

  ‘Good idea. Next time. We’ll do it right the next time.’

  Beneath a moon that haunted him with terrifying memories, Cutter rode Coll’s horse at a slow trot down the centre of the street. In one hand he gripped the lance, but it felt awkward, too heavy. Not a weapon he’d ever used, and yet something made him reluctant to abandon it.

  He could hear the Hounds of Shadow, unleashed like demons in his poor city, and this too stirred images from the past, but these were bittersweet. For she was in them, a presence dark, impossibly soft. He saw once more every one of her smiles, rare as they had been, and they stung like drops of acid on his soul.

  He had been so lost, from the very morning he awoke in the monastery to find her gone. Oh, he’d delivered his brave face, standing there beside a god and unwilling to see the sympathy in Cotillion’s dark eyes. He had told himself that it was an act of courage to let her go, to give her the final decision. Courage and sacrifice.

  He no longer believed that. There was no sacrifice made in being abandoned. There was no courage in doing nothing. Regardless of actual age, he had been so much younger than her. Young in that careless, senseless way. When thinking felt hard, unpleasant, until one learned to simply shy away from the effort, even as blind emotions raged, one conviction after another raised high on the shining shield of truth. Or what passed for truth; and he knew now that whatever it had been, truth it was not. Blustery, belligerent stands, all those pious poses – they seemed so childish now, so pathetic. I could have embraced the purest truth. Still, nobody would listen. The older you get, the thicker your walls. No wonder the young have grown so cynical. No wonder at all.

  Oh, she stood there still, a dark figure in his memories, the flash of eyes, the beginnings of a smile even as she turned away. And he could forget nothing.

  At this moment, Challice, having ascended to the top of the estate tower – that ghoulish Gadrobi embarrassment – now stepped out on to the roof, momentarily buffeted by a gust of smoke. She held in her hands the glass globe in which shone the prisoner moon, and she paused, lifting her gaze, and stared in wonder at the destruction now filling a third of the sky.

  *

  But she had left him with bad habits. Terrible ones, and they had proceeded to shape his entire life. Cutter remembered the expression on Rallick’s face – the shock and the dismay – as he looked down at the knife buried in his shoulder. The recognition – yes, Cutter was Apsalar’s creation, through and through. Yes, another man had been lost.

  It seemed wryly fitting that the moon was breaking into pieces in the night sky, but to find amusement in such a poignant symbol was proving a struggle. He did not possess Rallick’s hardness, the layers of scar tissue worn like armour. And, for all that she had given him, Cutter was not her perfect reflection. He could not silence the anguish he felt inside, the legacy of delivering murder, making the notion of justice as unpalatable as a prisoner’s gruel. And these were things she did not feel.

  He rode on.

  The Hounds knew him, he was sure of that, and if that meant anything on this night, then he had no reason to fear them.

  The occasional refugee darted across his path. Like ousted rats, the desperate hunt for cover filled their minds, and the faces flashing past seemed empty of anything human. Survival was a fever, and it left eyes blank as those of a beached fish. Witnessing this, Cutter felt his heart breaking.

  This is my city. Darujhistan. Of the Blue Fires. It does not deserve this.

  No, he did not fear the Hounds of Shadow. But he now despised them. The devastation they were delivering was senseless, a pointless unleashing of destruction. He did not think Cotillion had anything at all to do with that. This stank of Shadowthrone, the fickleness, the cruel indifference. He had freed his beasts to play. In blood and snapped bones. In flames and collapsed tenements. All this fear, all this misery. For nothing.

  Awkward or not, the lance felt reassuring in his hand. Now, if only Shadowthrone would show himself, why, he’d find a place to plant the damned thing.

  There, within its tiny, perfect world, the moon shone pure, unsullied. There had been a time, she realized, when she too had been like that. Free of stains, not yet bowed to sordid compromise, feeling no need to shed this tattered skin, these glazed eyes.

  Women and men were no different in the important things. They arrived with talents, with predispositions, with faces and bodies either attractive to others or not. And they all made do, in all the flavours of living, with whatever they possessed. And there were choices, for each and every one of them. For some, a few of those choices were easier than others, when the lure of being desirable was not a conceit, when it reached out an inviting hand and all at once it seemed to offer the simplest path. So little effort was involved, merely a smile and thighs that did not resist parting.

  But there was no going back. These stains didn’t wash off. The moon shone pure and beautiful, but it remained for ever trapped.

  She stared up into the sky, watched how fragments spun out from a fast-darkening core. The momentum seemed to have slowed, and indeed, she thought she could see pieces
falling back, inward, whilst dust flattened out, as if transformed into a spear that pierced all that was left of the moon.

  The dust dreams of the world it had once been. But the dust, alas, does not command the wind.

  Cutter knew now that he had – since her – taken into his arms two women as if they were capable of punishing him, each in turn. Only one had succeeded, and he rode towards her now, to stand before her and tell her that he had murdered her husband. Not because she had asked him to, because, in truth, she did not have that sort of hold over him, and never would. No, Gorlas Vidikas was dead for other reasons, the specifics of which were not relevant.

  She was free, he would say. To do as she pleased. But whatever that would be, he would tell her, her future would not – could never – include him.

  ‘See, there he is, at her side. What gall! Kills her husband and now she hangs on his arm. Oh, made for each other, those two. And may Hood find them the deepest pit, and soon.’

  He could face that down, if need be. But he would not subject her to such a fate. Not even for love could he do that.

  He had returned to his city, only to lose it for ever.

  This journey to Challice would be his last. By dawn he would be gone. Darujhistan would not miss him.

  She looked down once more at the imprisoned moon cupped in her hands. And here, she realized, was her childhood in all its innocence. Frozen, timeless, and for ever beyond her reach. She need only let her gaze sink in, to find all that she had once been. Cursed with beauty, blessed with health and vigour, the glow of promise—

  Dust of dreams, will you now command the wind?

  Dust of dreams, is it not time to set you free?

  It was easy, then, to climb up on to the low wall, to stare down at the garden flagstones far below. Easy, yes, to set it all free.

  Together, they plummeted through the smoky air, and when they struck, the globe shattered, the tiny moon flung loose to sparkle briefly in the air. Before twinkling out.

  Dreams will not linger, but their dust rides the winds for ever.

  Kruppe is no stranger to sorrow. The round man need only look at his own waistline to grasp the tragedies of past excesses, and understand that all the things that come to pass will indeed come to pass. Heart so heavy he must load it into a wheelbarrow (or nearly so), and with not a single sly wink to offer, he leaves the grim confines of the Phoenix Inn and commences the torrid trek to the stables, where he attends to his sweet-natured mule, deftly avoiding its snapping bites and lashing kicks.

  The moon’s face has broken apart into a thousand glittering eyes. Nothing can hide and all is seen. All can see that there is nothing left to hide. Dread clash is imminent.

  The vast pressure snuffs blazing fires as would a thumb and finger a candle wick, snuff! Here and there and elsewhere, too. But this blessing is borne with harsh, cruel burden. A god has died, a pact been sealed, and in a street where onlookers now gather at the very edges, a most honourable man sits hunched over his knees, head bowed low. The wind takes ethereal chains emerging from the sword in his hands, and tugs them, tears at them, shreds them into ghostly nothings that drift up only to vanish in the smoke enwreathing the city.

  Will he rise again?

  Can he answer this final challenge?

  What sort of man is this? This white-maned Tiste Andii whose hands remain stained with a brother’s blood, a people’s vast loss?

  Ah, but look closely. The core burns still, hot and pure, and it gathers unto itself, bound by indomitable will. He will take the wounds of the heart, for Anomander Rake is the sort of man who sees no other choice, who accepts no other choice.

  Still. For now, grant him a few more moments of peace.

  The round man rides out into Darujhistan.

  There are temptations, and to some they can prove, ah, overwhelming. If need be, the round man can prove a most blunt barrier.

  Just ask the man with the hammer.

  As a warrior walked alone – in his wake a Toblakai and a witch, on the flanks three, now four Hounds of Shadow – an ox and cart drew to a halt outside an estate. The two men leading it separated, one heading to the back of the cart to set a trembling hand upon a chest – terrified that he might find it still, silent – and a moment later a faint sob broke free, but it was one of relief. The other man hurried up to the postern gate and tugged on a braided cord.

  He ducked upon hearing the heavy flap of feathered wings overhead, and glared upward, but saw nothing but a thick, impenetrable layer of smoke. He twitched as he waited, muttering under his breath.

  The door creaked open.

  ‘Master Baruk! I am glad it’s you and not one of your damned servants – getting past them is impossible. Listen, we have a hurt man – bad hurt – who needs healing. We’ll pay—’

  ‘Sergeant—’

  ‘Just Antsy these days, sir.’

  ‘Antsy, I am so sorry, but I must refuse you—’

  At that, Barathol came round the cart and marched up, his hands curling into fists for a moment, before loosening as he reached towards the huge axe slung across his back. But these gestures were instinctive – he was not even aware of them, and when he spoke it was in a tone of despairing fury. ‘His skull is fractured! He’ll die without healing – and I will not accept that!’

  Baruk held up both hands. ‘I was about to leave – I cannot delay any longer. Certain matters demand my immediate attention—’

  ‘He needs—’

  ‘I am sorry, Barathol.’

  And the alchemist was backing through the gate once more. The panel clicked shut.

  Antsy snatched and tugged at his moustache in agitation, and then reached out to restrain Barathol, who seemed about to kick down that door. ‘Hold on, hold on – I got another idea. It’s desperate, but I can’t think of anything else. Come on, it’s not far.’

  Barathol was too distraught to say anything – he would grasp any hope, no matter how forlorn. Face ashen, he went back to the ox, and when Antsy set out, he and the ox and the cart bearing the body of Chaur followed.

  In the stricken man’s mind, few sparks remained. The black tide was very nearly done. Those flickers that knew themselves as Chaur had each lost touch with the others, and so wandered lost. But then, some of them had known only solitary existences throughout their lives – crucial sparks indeed – for ever blind to pathways that might have awakened countless possibilities.

  Until one, drifting untethered, so strangely freed, now edged forward along a darkened path it had never before explored, and the track it burned remained vibrant in its wake. And then, in a sudden flaring, that spark found another of its kind.

  Something stirred then, there in the midst of an inner world fast dying.

  Awareness.

  Recognition.

  A tumbling complexity of thoughts, connections, relationships, meanings.

  Flashing, stunned with its own existence, even as the blackness closed in on all sides.

  Cutting down an alley away from Baruk’s estate, Antsy, ten paces in the lead, stumbled suddenly on something. Swearing, he glanced back at the small object lying on the cobbles, and then bent down to collect it, stuffing the limp thing into his cloak.

  He swore again, something about a stink, but what’s a dead nose gonna know or care? And then he resumed walking.

  They arrived at an estate that Barathol recognized. Coll’s. And Antsy returned to help lead the suddenly uneasy ox down the side track, to that primordial thicket behind the garden wall. Beneath the branches the gloom was thick with flying moths, their wings a chorus of dry whispering. Fog crawled between the boles of twisted trees. The air was rich with a steamy, earthy smell.

  Tears ran down Barathol’s cheeks, soaked his beard. ‘I told him to stay on the ship,’ he said in a tight, distraught voice. ‘He usually listens to me. He’s not one to disobey, not Chaur. Was it Spite? Did she force him out?’

  ‘What was he doing at the gaol?’ Antsy asked, just to keep his friend
talking for reasons even he could not explain. ‘How did he even find it, unless someone led him there? It’s all a damned mystery.’

  ‘He saved my life,’ said Barathol. ‘He was coming to break me out – he had my axe. Chaur, you fool, why didn’t you just leave it all alone?’

  ‘He couldn’t do that,’ said Antsy.

  ‘I know.’

  They arrived at the edge of the clearing, halting just beyond a low, uneven stone wall almost buried beneath vines. The gateway was an arch of rough stone veined with black roots. The house beyond showed a blackened face.

  ‘Let’s do this, then,’ said Antsy in a growl, coming round to the back of the cart. ‘Before the ox bolts—’

  ‘What are we doing?’

  ‘We’re carrying him up the path. Listen, Barathol, we got to stay on that path, you understand? Not one step off it, not one. Understand?’

  ‘No—’

  ‘This is the Finnest House, Barathol. It’s an Azath.’

  The ex-sergeant seemed to be standing within a cloud of rotting meat. Moths swarmed in a frenzy.

  Confused, frightened, Barathol helped Antsy lift Chaur’s body from the cart bed, and with the Falari in the lead and walking backwards – one tender step at a time – they made their way up the flagstone path.

  ‘You know,’ Antsy said between gasps – for Chaur was a big man, and, limp as he was, it was no easy thing carrying him – ‘I was thinking. If the damned moon can just break apart like that, who’s to say that can’t happen to our own world? We could just be—’

  ‘Be quiet,’ snapped Barathol. ‘I don’t give a shit about the moon – it’s been trying to kill me for some time. Careful, you’re almost there.’

  ‘Right, set him down then, easy, on the stones . . . aye, that’ll do.’

  Antsy stepped up to the door, reached for the knife at his belt and then swore. ‘I lost my knife, too. I can’t believe this!’ He made a fist and pounded against the wood.

  The sound that made was reminiscent of punching a wall of meat. No reverberation, no echoes.

  ‘Ow, that hurt.’

  They waited.

  Sighing, Antsy prepared to knock a second time, but then something clunked on the other side of the barrier, and a moment later the door swung back with a loud squeal.