Toll the Hounds

by Steven Erikson

  Blend said, ‘So try not cutting yourself shaving, Antsy.’

  ‘There’s been the odd scrap downstairs,’ Picker said, frowning at Mallet. ‘Are you saying that’s been feeding the damned ghosts?’

  The healer shrugged. ‘Never enough to make a difference.’

  ‘We need us a necromancer,’ Bluepearl announced.

  ‘We’re getting off track,’ Picker said. ‘It’s the damned contract we got to worry about. We need to find out who’s behind it. We find out who, we throw a cusser through his bedroom window and that’s that. So,’ she continued, looking at the others, ‘we need to come up with a plan of attack.

  Information to start. Let’s hear some ideas on that.’

  More silence.

  Blend stepped away from the door. ‘Someone’s coming,’ she said.

  Now they could all hear the boots thumping up the stairs, hissed protestations in their wake.

  Antsy collected his sword and Bluepearl slowly rose and Picker could smell the sudden awakening of sorcery. She held up a hand. ‘Wait, for Hood’s sake.’

  The door was flung open.

  In strode a large, well-dressed man, out of breath, his light blue eyes scanning faces until they alighted on Mallet, who rose.

  ‘Councillor Coll. What is wrong?’

  ‘I need your help,’ the Daru noble said, and Picker could hear the distress in the man’s voice. ‘High Denul. I need you, now.’

  Before Mallet could reply, Picker stepped forward. ‘Councillor Coll, did you come here alone?’

  The man frowned. Then a vague gesture behind him. ‘A modest escort. Two guards.’ Only then did he note the sword on the table. ‘What is happening here?’

  ‘Picker,’ said Mallet, ‘I’ll take Bluepearl.’

  ‘I don’t like—’

  But the healer cut her off. ‘We need information, don’t we? Coll can help us. Besides, they wouldn’t have set more than one clan on us to start and you took care of that one.

  The Guild needs to recover, reassess – we’ve got a day at least.’

  Picker looked across at the councillor, who, if he didn’t quite grasp what was going on, now had enough for a fair guess. Sighing, she said to him, ‘Seems there’s someone wants us dead. You might not want to get involved with us right now—’

  But he shook his head, fixed his gaze once more on Mallet. ‘Healer, please.’

  Mallet nodded to a scowling Bluepearl. ‘Lead on, Councillor. We’re with ya.’

  ‘. . . came upon Osserick, stalwart ally, broken and with blood on his face, struck into unconsciousness. And Anomander fell to his knees and called upon the Thousand Gods who looked down upon Osserick and saw the blood on his face. With mercy they struck him awakened and so he stood.

  ‘And so stood Anomander and they faced one another, Light upon Dark, Dark upon Light.

  ‘Now there was rage in Anomander. “Where is Draconnus?” he demanded of his stalwart ally. For when Anomander had departed, the evil tyrant Draconnus, Slayer of Eleint, had been by Anomander’s own hand struck into unconsciousness and there was blood on his face. Osserick, who had taken the charge of guarding Draconnus, fell to his knees and called upon the Thousand Gods, seeking their mercy before Anomander’s fury. “I was bested!” cried Osserick in answer. “Caught by Sister Spite unawares! Oh, the Thousand Gods were turned away, and so was I struck into unconsciousness and see there is blood on my face!”

  ‘“One day,” vowed Anomander, and he was then the darkness of a terrible storm, and Osserick quailed like a sun behind a cloud, “this alliance of ours shall end. Our enmity shall be renewed, O Son of Light, Child of Light. We shall contest every span of ground, every reach of sky, every spring of sweet water. We shall battle a thousand times and there shall be no mercy between us. I shall send misery upon your kin, your daughters. I shall blight their minds with Unknowing Dark. I shall scatter them confused on realms unknown and there shall be no mercy in their hearts, for between them and the Thousand Gods there shall ever be a cloud of darkness.”

  ‘Such was Anomander’s fury, and though he stood alone, Dark upon Light, there was sweetness lingering in the palm of one hand, from the deceiving touch of Lady Envy. Light upon Dark, Dark upon Light, two men, wielded as weapons by two sisters, children of Draconnus. Who stood unseen by any and were pleased by what they saw and all that they heard.

  ‘It was decided then that Anomander would set out once more, to hunt down the evil tyrant. To destroy him and his cursed sword which is an abomination in the eyes of the Thousand Gods and all who kneel to them. Osserick, it was decided, would set out to hunt Spite and exact righteous vengeance.

  ‘Of the vow spoken by Anomander, Osserick knew the rage from which it was spawned, and in silence he made vow to answer it in his own time. To spar, to duel, to contest every span of ground, every reach of sky, and every spring of sweet water. But such matters must needs lie upon calm earth, a seed awaiting life.

  ‘This issue with Draconnus remained before them, after all, and now Spite as well. Did not the Children of Tiam demand punishment? There was blood on the faces of too many Eleint, and so Anomander and so Osserick had taken on themselves this fated hunt.

  ‘Could the Eleint have known all that would come of this, they would have withdrawn their storm-breath, from both Anomander and Osserick. But these fates were not to be known then, and this is why the Thousand Gods wept . . .’

  Rubbing his eyes, High Alchemist Baruk leaned back. The original version of this, he suspected, was not the mannered shambles he had just read through. Those quaint but overused phrases belonged to an interim age when the style among historians sought to resurrect some oral legacy in an effort to reinforce the veracity of eyewitnesses to the events described. The result had given him a headache.

  He had never heard of the Thousand Gods, and this pantheon could not be found in any other compendium but Dillat’s Dark and Light. Baruk suspected Dillat had simply made them up, which prompted the question: how much else did she invent?

  Leaning forward once more, he adjusted the lantern’s wick, then leafed through the brittle sheets until another section caught his interest.

  ‘In this day there was war among the dragons. The First Born had all but one bowed necks to K’rul’s bargain. Their children, bereft of all that they would have inherited, burst skyward from the towers in great flurry yet even these were not united beyond rejecting the First Born. Factions arose and red rain descended upon all the Realms. Jaws fastened upon necks. Talons opened bellies. The breath of chaos melted flesh from bones.

  ‘Anomander, Osserick and others had already tasted the blood of Tiam, and now there came more with raging thirst and many a demonic abomination was spawned of this crimson nectar. So long as the Gates of Starvald Demelain remained open, unguarded and held by none, the war would not end, and so the red rain descended upon all the Realms.

  ‘Kurald Liosan was the first Realm to seal the portal between itself and Starvald Demelain, and the tale that follows recounts the slaughter committed by Osserick in cleansing his world of all the pretenders and rivals, the Soletaken and feral purebloods, even unto driving the very first D’ivers from his land.

  ‘This begins at the time when Osserick fought Anomander for the sixteenth time and both had blood on their faces before Kilmandaros, she who speaks with her fists, took upon herself the task of driving them apart . . .’

  Baruk looked up, then twisted in his chair to regard his guest, who was busy preening herself on his map-table. ‘Crone, the inconsistencies in this text are infuriating.’

  The Great Raven cocked her head, beak gaping for a moment in laughter, then said, ‘So what? Show me a written history that makes sense, and I will show you true fiction. If that is all you want, then look elsewhere! My master concluded that Dillat’s nonsense would make a fine gift for your collection. If you are truly displeased, there are plenty of other idiocies in his library, those that he bothered to extract from Moon’s Spawn, that is. He le
ft whole rooms crammed with the rubbish, you know.’

  Baruk blinked slowly, struggling to keep his horror from his voice as he said, ‘No, I did not know that.’

  Undeceived, Crone cackled. Then she said, ‘My master was most amused at the notion of falling to his knees and crying out to the Hundred Gods—’

  ‘Thousand. The Thousand Gods.’

  ‘Whatever.’ A duck of the head and the wings half spread. ‘Or even making a vow to battle Osserc. Their alliance fell apart because of a growing mutual dislike. The disaster with Draconus probably delivered the death-blow. Imagine, falling for a woman’s wiles – and a daughter of Draconus at that! Was Osserc not even remotely suspicious of her motives? Hah! The males among every species in existence are so . . . predictable!’

  Baruk smiled. ‘If I recall Fisher’s Anomandaris, Lady Envy managed pretty much the same with your master, Crone.’

  ‘Nothing he was unaware of at the time,’ the Great Raven said with a strange clucking sound to punctuate the statement. ‘My master has always understood the necessity of certain sacrifices.’ She fluffed up her onyx feathers. ‘Consider the outcome, after all!’

  Baruk grimaced.

  ‘I’m hungry!’ Crone announced.

  ‘I didn’t finish my supper,’ Baruk said. ‘On that plate—’

  ‘I know, I know! What do you think made me hungry in the first place? Sit in wonder at my patience, High Alchemist! Even as you read on interminably!’

  ‘Eat now and quickly, old friend,’ Baruk said, ‘lest you die of malnutrition.’

  ‘You were never such a careless host before,’ the Great Raven observed, hopping over to the plate and spearing a sliver of meat. ‘You are troubled, High Alchemist.’

  ‘By many things, yes. The Rhivi claim that the White Face Barghast have disappeared. Utterly.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Crone replied. ‘Almost immediately after the fall of Coral and the Tiste Andii investiture.’

  ‘Crone, you are a Great Raven. Your children ride the winds and see all.’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘Why then will you not tell me where they went?’

  ‘Well, the Grey Swords as you know marched south, down to Elingarth,’ Crone said, circling the plate in short hops.

  ‘And there they purchased ships.’ A pause and cock of the head. ‘Could they see the wake before them? Did they know to follow? Or is there perhaps a great hole in the world’s ocean, drawing every ship into its deadly maw?’

  ‘The White Face took to the seas? Extraordinary. And the Grey Swords followed them.’

  ‘None of this is relevant, High Alchemist.’

  ‘Relevant to what?’

  ‘Your unease, of course. You fling queries at your poor bedraggled guest in order to distract yourself.’

  It had been months since Crone’s previous visit, and Baruk had come to believe, with some regret, that his cordial relations with the Son of Darkness were drawing to a close, not out of any dispute, simply the chronic ennui of the Tiste Andii. It was said the permanent gloom that was Black Coral well suited the city’s denizens, both Andii and human.

  ‘Crone, please extend to your master my sincerest thanks for this gift. It was most unexpected and generous. But I would ask him, if it is not too forward of me, if he is reconsidering the Council’s official request to open diplomatic relations between our two cities. Delegates but await your master’s invitation, and a suitable site has been set aside for the construction of an embassy – not far from here, in fact.’

  ‘The estate crushed by a Soletaken demon’s inglorious descent,’ Crone said, pausing to laugh before spearing another chunk of food. ‘Aagh, this is vegetable! Disgusting!’

  ‘Indeed, Crone, the very same estate. As I said, not far from here.’

  ‘Master is considering said request, and will continue considering it, I suspect.’

  ‘For how much longer?’

  ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘Does he have concerns?’

  The Great Raven, leaning over the plate, tilted her head and regarded Baruk for a long moment.

  Baruk felt vaguely sickened and he looked away. ‘So, I have reason to be . . . troubled.’

  ‘Master asks: when will it begin?’

  The High Alchemist eyed the stack of loosely bound parchment that was Anomander’s gift, and nodded. But he did not answer.

  ‘Master asks: do you wish for assistance?’

  Baruk winced.

  ‘Master asks,’ Crone went on, relentless, ‘would said assistance better serve you if it was covert, rather than official?’

  Gods below.

  ‘Master asks: should sweet Crone stay the night as Baruk’s guest, awaiting answers to these queries?’

  Clattering at the window. Baruk swiftly rose and approached it.

  ‘A demon!’ cried Crone, half spreading her enormous wings.

  ‘One of mine,’ said Baruk, unlatching the iron frame and then stepping back as Chillbais clambered awkwardly into view, grunting as he squeezed through. ‘Master Baruk!’ he squealed. ‘Out! Out! Out!’

  Baruk had felt ill a moment earlier. Now he was suddenly chilled in his very bones. He slowly shut the window, then faced the Great Raven. ‘Crone, it has begun.’

  The demon saw her and bared needle fangs as he hissed, ‘Grotesque monstrosity!’

  Crone made stabbing motions with her beak. ‘Bloated toad!’

  ‘Be quiet, both of you!’ Baruk snapped. ‘Crone, you will indeed stay the night as my guest. Chillbais, find somewhere to be. I have more work for you and I will collect you when it’s time.’

  Flickering a forked tongue out at Crone, the squat demon waddled towards the fireplace. It clambered on to the glowing coals, then disappeared up the chimney. Black clouds of soot rained down, billowing out from the hearth.

  Crone coughed. ‘Ill-mannered servants you have, High Alchemist.’

  But Baruk was not listening. Out.

  Out!

  That lone word rang through his mind, loud as a temple bell, drowning out everything else, although he caught a fast-fading echo . . .

  ‘. . . stalwart ally, broken and with blood on his face . . .’

  CHAPTER TWO

  Anomander would tell no lie, nor live one,

  and would that deafness could

  bless him in the days and nights

  beyond the black rains of Black Coral.

  Alas, this was not to be.

  . . .

  And so we choose to hear nothing

  Of the dreaded creak, the slip and snap

  Of wooden wheels, the shudder on stone

  And the chiding rattle of chains, as if

  Upon some other world is where darkness

  Beats out from a cursedly ethereal forge

  And no sun rises above horizon’s rippled

  Cant – some other world not ours indeed –

  Yes bless us so, Anomander, with this

  Sanctimony, this lie and soft comfort,

  And the slaves are not us, this weight

  But an illusion, these shackles could break

  With a thought, and all these cries and

  Moans are less than the murmurs

  Of a quiescent heart – it’s all but a tale,

  My friends, this tall denier of worship

  And the sword he carries holds nothing,

  No memory at all, and if there be a place

  In the cosy scheme for lost souls

  Pulling onward an uprooted temple

  It but resides in an imagination flawed

  And unaligned with sober intricacy –

  Nothing is as messy as that messy world

  And that comfort leaves us abiding

  Deaf and blind and senseless in peace

  Within our imagined place, this precious order . . .

  Anomandaris, Book IV Soliloquy

  Fisher kel Tath

  Dragon tower stood like a torch above Black Coral. The spire, rising from the nort
hwest corner of the New Andiian Palace, was solid black basalt, dressed in fractured, faceted obsidian that glistened in the eternal gloom enshrouding the city. Atop its flat roof crouched a crimson-scaled dragon, wings folded, its wedge head hanging over one side so that it seemed to stare down on the crazed shadowy patchwork of buildings, alleys and streets far below.

  There were citizens still in Black Coral – among the humans – who believed that the ferocious sentinel was the stone creation of some master artisan among the ruling Tiste Andii, and this notion left Endest Silann sourly amused. True, he understood how wilful such ignorance could be. The thought of a real, live dragon casting its baleful regard down on the city and its multitude of scurrying lives was to most truly terrifying, and indeed, had they been close enough to see the gleaming hunger in Silanah’s multifaceted eyes, they would have long fled Black Coral in blind panic.

  For the Eleint to remain so, virtually motionless, day and night, weeks into months and now very nearly an entire year, was not unusual. And Endest Silann knew this better than most.

  The Tiste Andii, once a formidable, if aged, sorceror in Moon’s Spawn, now a barely competent castellan to the New Andiian Palace, slowly walked Sword Street as it bent south of the treeless park known as Grey Hill. He had left the fiercely lit district of Fish, where the Outwater Market so crowded every avenue and lane that those who brought two-wheeled carts in which to load purchases were forced to leave them in a square just north of Grey Hill. The endless streams of porters for hire – who gathered every dawn near the Cart Square – always added to the chaos between the stalls, pushing through with wrapped bundles towards the carts and slipping, dodging and sliding like eels back into the press. Although the Outwater Market acquired its name because the preponderance of fish sold there came from the seas beyond Night – the perpetual darkness cloaking the city and the surrounding area for almost a third of a league – there could also be found the pale, gem-eyed creatures of Coral Bay’s Nightwater.

  Endest Silann had arranged the next week’s order of cadaver eels from a new supplier, since the last one’s trawler had been pulled down by something too big for its net, with the loss of all hands. Nightwater was not simply an unlit span of sea in the bay, unfortunately. It was Kurald Galain, a true manifestation of the warren, quite possibly depthless, and on occasion untoward beasts loomed into the waters of Coral Bay. Something was down there now, forcing the fishers to use hooks and lines rather than nets, a method possible only because the eels foamed just beneath the surface in the tens of thousands, driven there by terror. Most of the eels pulled aboard were snags.