Toll the Hounds

by Steven Erikson

  ‘Such rumours,’ interjected the one Scorch rightly assumed was named Lazan Door, ‘whilst no doubt egregiously exaggerated and so potentially entertaining, can wait, yes? Dear Studious, who dreamed of never again seeing our pretty faces, you have a new Mistress, and she is in need of compound guards. And, as we are presently under-employed, why, destinies can prove seamless on occasion, can’t they?’

  ‘So they can, Lazan. Yes, compound guards. You see, we have gate guards already. And a captain as well, who is presently elsewhere. Now, if you two will follow me, we can meet the Mistress.’

  ‘Excellent,’ said Madrun.

  Scorch and Leff moved well aside as the trio filed in through the gate. Leff then locked it and turned to Scorch.

  ‘We never got no audience with the Mistress!’

  ‘We been snubbed!’

  Leff collected his crossbow again. ‘It’s because we’re on the lowest rung, that’s why. The lowest . . . again! And here we thought we were climbing! Sure, Tor did some climbing, captain and all. But look at us – not even compound guards and we got here first!’

  ‘Well,’ said Scorch, ‘if we’d a known there was a difference – gate and compound – we would’ve pushed for that, right? We was ill-informed – look at you, after all.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘You got orange eyes, Leff!’

  ‘That was a different kind of ill-informed.’

  ‘That’s what you think.’

  ‘If you’re so smart, Scorch, you coulda asked about being compound guards!’

  ‘If it was just me, I would have!’

  ‘If it was just you, Studlock never would’ve hired you at all, except maybe to clean out the latrines!’

  ‘At least then I’d be inside the gate!’

  Well, he had a point there. Leff sighed, stared out on the street. ‘Look, there’s the lantern crew.’

  ‘Let’s shoot ‘em!’

  ‘Sure, if you want us to get fired, Scorch, is that what you want?’

  ‘I was only joking, Leff.’

  There were looks that killed, and then there were looks that conducted torture. Excoriating skin with incremental, exquisite slices that left blood welling to the surface. That plucked eyeballs and pulled until all the tendons stretched, upon which those long wet ligaments were knotted together so that both eyes sat on the bridge of the nose. Torture, yes, delivered in cold pleasure, in clinical regard.

  It was hardly surprising, then, that Torvald Nom devoured his supper in haste, forgetting to chew, and so was now afflicted with terrible indigestion, struggling to keep from groaning as he helped Tiserra clean the plates and whatnot; and the ominous silence stretched on, even as she cast sidelong looks of blood-curdling excision all unconvincingly dressed up as companionable, loving glances.

  It was time to return to the estate for the evening. These precious deadly moments of domestic tranquillity – fraught as all such moments were with all that was left unspoken, the topics unbidden yet ever lurking, the hidden pitfalls and explosive nuances or even more explosive lack thereof – why, they had to come, alas, to an end, as considerations of career and professional responsibility returned once more to the fore.

  ‘My sweet, I must leave you now.’

  ‘Oh, must you?’

  ‘Yes. Until midnight, but don’t feel the need to wait up.’

  ‘I’ve had a busy day. Two new orders. I doubt I’ll be awake when you return, darling.’

  ‘I’ll try to be quiet.’

  ‘Of course you will.’

  Perfunctory kiss.

  Just so, the pleasant exchanges to conclude the repast just past, but of course such words were the flourishes of feint and cunning sleight of hand. Beneath the innocence, Torvald well understood, there was this: ‘My sweet, I will run not walk back to the estate now.’

  ‘Oh, your stomach is upset? Let’s hope you heave all over your two gate guards when you get there.’

  ‘Yes. And suddenly it’ll be midnight and like a doomed man I will count the steps to the gallows awaiting me at home. Pray to Beru and every other ascendant the world over that you’re asleep when I get here, or at least feigning sleep.’

  ‘I’ve had a busy day, husband, just thinking of all the things I’d like to do to you for breaking that promise. And when you get home, why, I’ll be dreaming dreadful scenes, each one adding to that pleasant smile on my slumbering visage.’

  ‘I shall attempt to sleep on no more than a hand’s span of bed, stiff as a planed board, not making a sound.’

  ‘Yes, you will. Darling.’

  And the perfunctory kiss, smooch smooch.

  Blue light painted the streets through which Torvald Nom now hurried along, blue light and black thoughts, a veritable bruising of dismay, and so the buildings to each side crowded, leaned in upon him, until he felt he was squirting – like an especially foul lump of excrement – through a sewer pipe. Terrible indeed, a wife’s disappointment and, mayhap, disgust.

  The princely wages were without relevance. The flexible shifts could barely earn a begrudging nod. The sheer impressive legality of the thing yielded little more than a sour grunt. And even the fact that Torvald Nom now held the title of Captain of the House Guard, while Scorch and Leff were but underlings among a menagerie of underlings (yes, he had exaggerated somewhat), had but granted him a temporary abeyance of the shrill fury he clearly deserved – and it waited, oh, it waited. He knew it. She knew it. And he knew she was holding on to it, like a giant axe, poised above his acorn of a head.

  Yes, he’d given up slavery for this.

  Such was the power of love, the lure of domestic tranquillity and the fending off of lonely solitude. Would he have it any other way?

  Ask him later.

  Onward, and there before him the estate’s modest but suitably maintained wall, and the formal gate entranceway, its twin torches flaring and flickering, enough to make the two shapes of his redoubtable underlings look almost . . . attentive.

  Not that either of them was watching the street. Instead, it seemed they were arguing.

  ‘Stay sharp there, you two!’ Torvald Nom said in his most stentorian voice, undermined by the punctuation of a loud, gassy belch.

  ‘Gods, Tor’s drunk!’

  ‘I wish. Supper didn’t agree with me. Now, what’s your problem? I heard you two snapping and snarling from the other side of the street.’

  ‘We got two new compound guards,’ said Leff.

  ‘Compound guards? Oh, you mean guarding the compound—’

  ‘That’s what I said. What else do compound guards guard if not compounds? Captains should know that kind of stuff, Tor.’

  ‘And I do. It’s just the title confused me. Compound needs guarding, yes, since the likelihood of someone getting past you two is so . . . likely. Well. So, you’ve met them? What are they like?’

  ‘They’re friends of Studlock – who they call Studious,’ said Scorch, his eyes widening briefly before he looked away and squinted. ‘Old friends, from under some mountain.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Torvald Nom.

  ‘That collapsed,’ Scorch added.

  ‘The friendship? Oh, the mountain, you mean. It collapsed.’

  Leff stepped closer and sniffed. ‘You sure you’re not drunk, Tor?’

  ‘Of course I’m not drunk! Scorch is talking a lot of rubbish, that’s all.’

  ‘Rubble, not rubbish.’

  ‘Like that, yes! Oh, look, Leff, just open the damned gate, will you? So I can meet the new compound guards.’

  ‘Look for them in the compound,’ Scorch advised.

  Oh, maybe his wife was right, after all. Maybe? Of course she was. These two were idiots and they were also his friends and what did that say about Torvald Nom? No, don’t think about that. Besides, she’s already done the necessary thinking about that, hasn’t she?

  Torvald hastened through the gateway. Two strides into the compound and he halted. Studious? Studious Lock? The Landl
ess? Studious Lock the Landless, of One Eye Cat?

  ‘Ah, Captain, well timed. Permit me to introduce our two new estate guards.’

  Torvald flinched as Studlock drifted towards him. Hood, mask, eerie eyes, all bound up in rags to cover up what had been done to him back in his adopted city – yes, but then, infamy never stayed hidden for long, did it? ‘Ah, good evening, Castellan.’ This modest, civil greeting was barely managed, croaking out from an all too dry mouth. And he saw, with growing trepidation, the two figures trailing in Studlock’s wake.

  ‘Captain Torvald Nom, this gaily clad gentleman is Madrun, and his ephemerally garbed companion is Lazan Door. Both hail from the north and so have no local interests that might conflict with their loyalties – a most important requirement, as you have been made aware, for Lady Varada of House Varada. Now, I have seen to their kit and assigned quarters. Captain, is something wrong?’

  Torvald Nom shook his head. Then, before he could think – before his finely honed sense of propriety could kick in – he blurted out: ‘But where are their masks?’

  The shaggy haired giant frowned. ‘Oh,’ he said, ‘that is most unfortunate. Reassure me once more, Studious, please.’

  The castellan’s pause was long, and then one rag-tied hand fluttered. ‘Reputations, alas, are what they are, Madrun. Evidently, our captain here has travelled some. One Eye Cat? Let us hope he never wandered close to that foul, treacherous den of thieves, murderers and worse—’

  ‘Never been there,’ Torvald Nom said, hastily, licking his lips. ‘But the tales of the, er, the ones hired to oust the Malazan Fist . . . and, er, what happened afterwards—’

  ‘Outrageous lies,’ said Lazan Door in his breathy, wispy voice, ‘such as are invariably perpetrated by those with a vested interest in the illusion of righteousness. All lies, Captain. Foul, despicable, ruinous lies. I assure you we completed our task, even unto pursuing the Fist and his cadre into the very heart of a mountain—’

  ‘You and Madrun Badrun, you mean. Studious Lock, on the other hand, was . . .’ And only then did Torvald Nom decide that he probably shouldn’t be speaking, probably shouldn’t be revealing quite the extent of his knowledge. ‘The tale I heard,’ he added, ‘was garbled, second and maybe even third hand, a jumble of details and who can separate truth from fancy in such things?’

  ‘Who indeed,’ said the castellan with another wave of one hand. ‘Captain, we must trust that the subject of our past misadventures will not arise again, in any company and in particular that of our two intrepid gate guards.’

  ‘The subject is now and for ever more closed,’ affirmed Torvald Nom. ‘Well, I’d best get to my office. To work on, um, shift scheduling – it seems we now have our night shift pretty much filled. As for the daytime—’

  ‘As stated earlier,’ cut in the castellan, ‘the necessity for armed vigilance during the day is simply non-existent. Risk assessment and so forth. No, Captain, we have no need for more guards. Four will suffice.’

  ‘Good, that will make scheduling easier. Now, it was a pleasure meeting you, Lazan Door, Madrun Badrun.’ And, with disciplined march, Torvald Nom crossed the compound, making for his tiny office in the barracks annexe. Where he shut the flimsy door and sat down in the chair behind the desk which, in order to reach it, demanded that he climb over the desk itself. Slumping down, hands holding up his head, he sat. Sweating.

  Was Lady Varada aware of any of this . . . this background, back there where the ground still steamed with blood and worse? Well, she’d hired Studlock, hadn’t she? But that didn’t mean anything, did it? He’d crunched down his name, and even that name wasn’t his real name, just something the idiots in One Eye Cat gave him, same as Madrun Badrun. As for Lazan Door, well, that one might be real, original even. And only one of them was wearing a mask and that mask was some local make, generic, not painted with any relevant sigils or whatever. So, she might not know a thing! She might be completely blind, unsuspecting, unaware, unprepared, uneverything!

  He climbed back over his desk, straightened and smoothed out his clothing as best he could. It shouldn’t be so hard, the captain seeking audience with the Mistress. Perfectly reasonable. Except that the official route was through the castellan, and that wouldn’t do. No, he needed to be cleverer than that. In fact, he needed to . . . break in.

  More sweat, sudden, chilling him as he stood between the desk and the office door, a span barely wide enough to turn round in.

  So, Lazan Door and Madrun Badrun would be patrolling the compound. And Studious Lock the Landless, well, he’d be in his own office, there on the main floor. Or even in his private chambers, sitting there slowly unravelling or undressing or whatever one wanted to call it.

  There was a window on the back wall of the annexe. Plain shutters and simple inside latch. From there he could clamber on to the roof, which was close enough to the side wall of the main building to enable him to leap across and maybe find a handhold or two, and then he could scramble up to the next and final level, where dwelt the Lady. It was still early so she wouldn’t be asleep or in any particular state of undress.

  Still, how would she react to her captain’s intruding so on her privacy? Well, he could explain he was testing the innermost security of the estate (and, in finding it so lacking, why, he could press for hiring yet more guards. Normal, reasonable, sane guards this time. No mass murderers. No sadists. No one whose humanness was questionable and open to interpretation. He could, then, provide a subtle counterbalance to the guards they already had).

  It all sounded very reasonable, and diligent, as befitted a captain.

  He worked his way round and opened the office door. Leaned out to make sure the barracks remained empty – of course it did, they were out there guarding things! He padded across to the back window. Unlatched it and eased out the shutters. Another quick, darting look, outside this time. Estate wall not ten paces opposite. Main building to his left, stables to his right. Was this area part of their rounds? It certainly should be. Well, if he moved fast enough, right this moment—

  Hitching himself up on to the window sill, Torvald Nom edged out and reached up for the eaves-trough. He tested his weight on it and, satisfied at the modest creak, quickly pulled himself up and on to the sloped roof. Reached back down and carefully closed the shutters.

  He rolled on to his back and waited. He’d wait, yes, until the two monsters tramped past.

  The clay tiles dug into his shoulder blades. Was that the scuff of boots? Was that the whisper of linen sweeping the cobbles? Was that – no, it wasn’t, he wasn’t hearing a damned thing. Where had his damned compound guards gone? He sat up, crept his way to the peak of the roof. Peered out on to the grounds – and there they were, playing dice against the wall to one side of the gate.

  He could fire them for that! Why, even Studlock wouldn’t be able to—

  And there he was, Studious himself, floating across towards his two cohorts. And his voice drifted back to Torvald Nom.

  ‘Any change in the knuckles, Lazan?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ the man replied. ‘Getting worse. Options fast diminishing.’

  ‘How unfortunate.’

  Madrun Badrun grunted and then said, ‘We had our chance. Go north or go south. We should’ve gone north.’

  ‘That would not work, as you well know,’ said Studious Lock. ‘Where are your masks?’

  Lazan Door flung the bone dice against the wall again, bent to study the results.

  ‘We tossed ‘em,’ answered Madrun.

  ‘Make new ones.’

  ‘We don’t want to, Studious, we really don’t.’

  ‘That goes without saying, but it changes nothing.’

  Oh, Torvald suspected he could crouch here and listen to the idiots all night. Instead, he needed to take advantage of their carelessness. He eased back down the slope of the roof, lifted himself into a crouch, and eyed the main building – and, look, a balcony. Well, that wasn’t wise, was it?

  Now, could he mak
e the leap without making any noise? Of course he could – he’d been a thief for years, a successful thief, too, if not for all the arrests and fines and prison time and slavery and the like. He paused, gauging the distance, deciding which part of the rail he’d reach for, then launched himself across the gap.

  Success! And virtually no noise at all. He dangled for a moment, then pulled himself on to the balcony. It was narrow and crowded with clay pots snarled with dead plants. Now, he could work the locks and slip in on this floor, taking the inside route to the level above. That would be simplest, wouldn’t it? Riskier scaling the outside wall, where a chance glance from any of the three fools still jabbering away just inside the gate might alight upon him. And the last thing he wanted was to see any of them draw swords (not that he recalled seeing them wearing any).

  He tested the balcony door. Unlocked! Oh, things would indeed have to change. Why, he could just saunter inside and find himself—

  ‘Please, Captain, take a seat.’

  She was lounging in a plush chair, barely visible in the dark room. Veiled? Yes, veiled. Dressed in some long loose thing, silk perhaps. One long-fingered hand, snug in a grey leather glove, held a goblet. There was a matching chair opposite her.

  ‘Pour yourself some wine – yes, there on the table. The failure of that route, from the roof of the annexe, is that the roof is entirely visible from the window of any room on this side of the house. I assume, Captain, you were either testing the security of the estate, or that you wished to speak with me in private. Any other alternatives, alas, would be unfortunate.’

  ‘Indeed, Mistress. And yes, I was testing . . . things. And yes,’ he added as, summoning as much aplomb as he could manage, he went over to pour himself a goblet full of the amber wine, ‘I wished to speak with you in private. Concerning your castellan and the two new compound guards.’

  ‘Do they seem . . . excessive?’

  ‘That’s one way of putting it.’

  ‘I would not want to be discouraging.’

  He sat down. ‘Discouraging, Mistress?’