‘Tell me, are my two gate guards as incompetent as they appear to be?’
‘That would be quite an achievement, Mistress.’
‘It would, yes.’
‘It may surprise you,’ Torvald Nom said, ‘but they actually possess a nasty streak. And considerable experience. They have been caravan guards, enforcers, Guild thugs and bounty hunters. It’s the formality of this present job that has them so . . . awkward. They will adjust in time.’
‘Not too well, I hope.’
All right, Torvald Nom decided, she was talking about something and he had no idea what that something was. ‘Mistress, regarding Studlock, Lazan and Madrun—’
‘Captain, I understand you are estranged from House Nom. That is unfortunate. I always advise that such past errors be mended whenever possible. Reconciliation is essential to well-being.’
‘I will give that some thought, Mistress.’
‘Do so. Now, please make your way out using the stairs. Inform the castellan that I wish to speak to him – no, there will be no repercussions regarding your seeking a private conversation with me. In fact, I am heartened by your concern. Loyalty was ever the foremost trait of the family Nom. Oh, now, do finish your wine, Captain.’
He did, rather quickly. Then walked over and locked the balcony doors. A bow to Lady Varada, and then out into the corridor, closing the door behind him. A moment to figure out where the stairs were, and, feeling slightly numbed – was it the wine? No, it wasn’t the wine – he descended to the ground floor and out through the formal entrance, striding across the compound to where stood the castellan and his two friends.
‘Castellan Studlock,’ Torvald Nom called out, pleased to see how all three looked up guiltily from their game. ‘The Mistress wishes to see you immediately.’
‘Oh? Of course. Thank you, Captain.’
Torvald watched him flit away, and then turned to Lazan Door and Madrun. ‘Interesting technique you have here. I feel the need to describe your duties, since it appears the castellan forgot to. You are to patrol the compound, preferably at random intervals, employing a variety of routes to ensure that you avoid predictability. Be especially mindful of unlit areas, although I do not recommend you carry torches or lanterns. Any questions?’
Madrun was smiling. He bowed. ‘Sound instruction, Captain, thank you. We shall commence our duties immediately. Lazan, collect up your scrying dice. We must attend to the necessary formalities of diligent patrol.’
Scrying dice? Gods below. ‘Is it wise,’ he asked, ‘to rely upon the hoary gods to determine the night’s flavour?’
Lazan Door cleared his throat then bared his metal fangs. ‘As you say, Captain. Divination is ever an imprecise science. We shall be sure to avoid relying overmuch on such things.’
‘Er, right. Good, well, I’ll be in my office, then.’
‘Again,’ Madrun said, his smile broadening.
There was, Torvald decided as he walked away, nothing pleasant about that smile. About either of their smiles, in fact. Or anything else about those two. Or Studious Lock, for that matter – Blood Drinker, Bile Spitter, Poisoner, oh, they had so many names for that one. How soon before he earns a few more? And Madrun Badrun? And Lazan Door? What is Lady Varada up to?
Never mind, never mind. He had an office, after all. And once he crawled over the desk and settled down in the chair, why, he felt almost important.
The sensation lasted a few heartbeats, which was actually something of an achievement. Any few precious moments, yes, of not thinking about those three. Any at all.
Make new masks – now why should they do that? Renegade Seguleh are renegade – they can’t ever go back. Supposedly, but then, what do any of us really know about the Seguleh? Make new masks, he said to them. Why?
What’s wrong with normal advice? Wash that robe, Lazan Door, before the spiders start laying eggs. Choose no more than two colours, Madrun, and not ones that clash. Please. And what’s with those moccasins?
Masks? Never mind the masks.
His stomach gurgled and he felt another rise of bilious gas. ‘Always chew your food, Tor, why such a hurry? There’s plenty of daylight left to play. Chew, Tor, chew! Nice and slow, like a cow, yes. This way nothing will disagree with you. Nothing disagrees with cows, after all.’
So true, at least until the axe swings down.
He sat in his office, squeezed in behind the desk, in a most disagreeable state.
‘She’s poisoning him, is my guess.’
Scorch stared, as if amazed at such a suggestion. ‘Why would she do that?’
‘Because of you,’ said Leff. ‘She hates you, Scorch, because of the way you always got Tor into trouble, and now she thinks you’re going to do it all over again, so that’s why she’s poisoning him.’
‘That don’t make any sense. If she was worried she wouldn’t be killing him!’
‘Not killing, just making sickly. You forget, she’s a witch, she can do things like that. Of course, she’d do better by poisoning you.’
‘I ain’t touching nothing she cooks, that’s for sure.’
‘It won’t help if she decides you’re better off dead, Scorch. Gods, I am so glad I’m not you.’
‘Me too.’
‘What?’
‘I’d have orange eyes and that’d be awful because then we’d both have orange eyes so looking at each other would be like looking at yourself, which I have to do all the time anyway but imagine double that! No thanks, is what I say.’
‘Is that what you say?’
‘I just said it, didn’t I?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t know what you just said, Scorch, and that’s the truth.’
‘Good, since what I had to say wasn’t meant for you anyway.’
Leff looked round and no, he didn’t see anyone else. Of course he didn’t, there was no point in looking.
‘Besides,’ said Scorch, ‘you’re the one who’s been poisoned.’
‘It wasn’t no poison, Scorch. It was a mistake, a misdiagnosis. And it’s fading—’ ‘No it ain’t.’
‘Yes. It is.’
‘No. It ain’t.’
‘I’d stop saying that if I was you—’
‘Don’t start that one again!’
Blessed fates! Leave them to it, thy round self begs! The night stretches on, the city wears its granite grin and shadows dance on the edge of darkness. Late-night hawkers call out their wares, their services both proper and dubious. Singers sing and the drunk drink and thieves do their thieving and mysteries thrive wherever you do not belong and that, friends, is the hard truth.
Like rats we skitter away from the pools of light, seeking other matters, other scenes both tranquil and foul.
Follow, oh, follow me!
Benefactor of all things cosmopolitan, bestower of blessings upon all matters human and humane (bless their hearts both squalid and generous, bless their dreams and bless their nightmares, bless their fears and their loves and their fears of love and love of fears and bless, well, bless their shoes, sandals, boots and slippers and to walk in each, in turn, ah, such wonders! Such peculiar follies!), Kruppe of Darujhistan walked the Great Avenue of sordid acquisitiveness, casting a most enormous, indeed gigantic shadow that rolled sure as a tide past all these shops and their wares, past the wary eyes of shop owners, past the stands of fruit and succulent pastries, past the baskets of berries and the dried fish and the strange leafy things some people ate believing themselves to be masticators of wholesomeness, past the loaves of bread and rounds of cheese, past the vessels of wine and liquors in all assorted sizes, past the weavers and dressmakers, past the crone harpist with nubs for fingers and only three strings left on her harp and her song about the peg and the hole and the honey on the nightstand – ducking the flung coins and so quickly past! – and the bolts of cloth going nowhere and the breeches blocking the doorway and the shirts for men-at-arms and shoes for the soulless and the headstone makers and urn-pissers and the old thrice-divorced man
who tied knots for a living with a gaggle of children in tow surely bound by blood and thicker stuff. Past the wax-drippers and wick-twisters, the fire-eaters and ashcake-makers, past the prostitutes – oozing each languorous step with smiles of appreciation and fingers all aflutter and unbidden mysterious sensations of caresses in hidden or at least out-of-reach places and see eyes widen and appreciation flood through like the rush of lost youth and princely dreams and they sigh and call out Kruppe, you darling man! Kruppe, ain’t you gonna pay for that? Kruppe, marry every one of us and make us honest women! Kruppe – rushing quickly past, now, aaii, frightening prospect to imagine! A bludgeon of wives (surely that must be the plural assignation)! A prattle of prostitutes!
Past this gate, thank the gods, and into the tunnel and out again and now civilization loomed austere and proper and this bodacious shadow strode alone, animated in its solitude, and yet this moment proved ample time to partake of past passages through life itself.
Out from one sleeve a berry-studded pastry, a ripe pompfruit, and a flask of minty wine; out from the other a new silver dinner knife with the Varada House monogram (my, where did this come from?), the polished blade – astonishing! – already glistening with a healthy dollop of butter streaked with honey – and so many things crowding these ample but nimble hands but see how one thing after another simply vanishes into inviting mouth and appreciative palate as befitting all culinary arts when the subtle merging of flavours yielded exquisite masterpiece – butter, honey, and – oh! – jam, and pastry and cheese and fruit and smoked eel – agh! Voluminous sleeve betrays self! Wine to wash away disreputable (and most cruel) taste.
Hands temporarily free once more, to permit examination of new shirt, array of scented candles, knotted strings of silk, handsome breeches and gilt-threaded sandals soft as any one of Kruppe’s four cheeks, and here a kid-gut condom – gods, where did that come from? Well, an end to admiration of the night’s most successful shopping venture, and if that crone discovered but two strings left on her harp, well, imagine how the horse felt! Standing now, at last, before most austere of austere estates. The gate creaked open, inviting invitation and so invited Kruppe invited himself in.
Steps and ornate formal entranceway and corridor and more steps these ones carpeted and wending upward and another corridor and now the dark-stained door and – oh, fling aside those wards, goodness – inside.
‘How did you – never mind. Sit, Kruppe, make yourself comfortable.’
‘Master Baruk is so kind, Kruppe shall do as bid, with possibly measurable relief does he so oof! into this chair and stretch out legs, yes they are indeed stretched out, the detail subtle. Ah, an exhausting journey, Baruk beloved friend of Kruppe!’
A toad-like obese demon crawled up to nest at his feet, snuffling. Kruppe produced a strip of dried eel and offered it. The demon sniffed, then gingerly accepted the morsel.
‘Are things truly as dire as I believe, Kruppe?’
Kruppe waggled his brows. ‘Such journeys leave self puckered with dryness, gasping with thirst.’
Sighing, the High Alchemist said, ‘Help yourself.’
Beaming a smile, Kruppe drew out from a sleeve a large dusty bottle, already uncorked. He examined the stamp on the dark green glass. ‘My, your cellar is indeed well equipped!’ A crystal goblet appeared from the other sleeve. He poured. Downed a mouthful then smacked his lips. ‘Exquisite!’
‘Certain arrangements have been finalized,’ said Baruk.
‘Most impressive, Baruk friend of Kruppe. How can such portentous events be measured, one wonders. If one was the wondering type. Yet listen – the buried gate creaks, dust sifts down, stones groan! Humble as we are, can we hope to halt such inevitable inevitabilities? Alas, time grinds on. All fates spin and not even the gods can guess how each will topple. The moon itself rises uncertain on these nights. The stars waver, rocks fall upward, wronged wives forgive and forget – oh, this is a time for miracles!’
‘And is that what we need, Kruppe? Miracles?’
‘Each moment may indeed seem in flux, chaotic and fraught, yet – and Kruppe knows this most surely – when all is set out, moment upon moment, then every aberration is but a modest crease, a feeble fold, a crinkled memento. The great forces of the universe are as a weight-stone upon the fabric of our lives. Rich and poor, modest and ambitious, generous and greedy, honest and deceitful, why, all is flattened! Splat! Crunch, smear, ooze! What cares Nature for jewelled crowns, coins a-stacked perilously high, great estates and lofty towers? Kings and queens, tyrants and devourers – all are as midges on the forehead of the world!’
‘You advise an extended perspective. That is all very well, from an historian’s point of view, and in retrospect. Unfortunately, Kruppe, to those of us who must live it, in the midst, as it were, it provides scant relief.’
‘Alas, Baruk speaks true. Lives in, lives out. The sobs of death are the sodden songs of the world. So true, so sad. Kruppe asks this: witness two scenes. In one, an angry, bitter man beats another man to death in an alley in the Gadrobi District. In the other, a man of vast wealth conspires with equally wealthy compatriots to raise yet again the price of grain, making the cost of simple bread so prohibitive that families starve, are led into lives of crime, and die young. Are both acts of violence?’
The High Alchemist stood looking down at Kruppe. ‘In only one of those examples will you find blood on a man’s hands.’
‘True, deplorable as such stains are.’ He poured himself some more wine.
‘There are,’ said Baruk, ‘countless constructs whereby the wealthy man might claim innocence. Mitigating circumstances, unexpected costs of production, the law of supply and demand, and so on.’
‘Indeed, a plethora of justifications, making the waters so very murky, and who then sees the blood?’
‘And yet, destitution results, with all its misery, its stresses and anxieties, its foul vapours of the soul. It can be said that the wealthy grain merchant wages subtle war.’
Kruppe studied the wine through the crystal. ‘And so the poor remain poor and, mayhap, even poorer. The employed but scarcely getting by cling all the harder to their jobs, even unto accepting despicable working conditions – which in turn permits the employers to fill their purses unto bulging, thus satisfying whatever hidden pathetic inadequacies they harbour. A balance can be said to exist, one never iterated, whereby the eternal war is held in check, so as to avoid anarchy. Should the grain merchant charge too high, then revolution may well explode into life.’
‘Whereupon everyone loses.’
‘For a time. Until the new generation of the wealthy emerge, to begin once again their predations on the poor. Balance is framed by imbalances and so it seems such things might persist for all eternity. Alas, in any long view, one sees that this is not so. The structure of society is far more fragile than most believe. To set too much faith in its resilience is to know a moment of pristine astonishment at the instant of its utter collapse – before the wolves close in.’ Kruppe raised one finger.
‘Yet, witness all these who would grasp hold of the crown, to make themselves the freest and the wealthiest of them all. Oh, they are most dangerous in the moment, as one might expect. Most dangerous indeed. One is encouraged to pray. Pray for dust.’
‘An end to it all.’
‘And a new beginning.’
‘I somehow expected more from you, my friend.’
Kruppe smiled, reached down and patted the demon’s pebbly head. It blinked languidly. ‘Kruppe maintains a perspective as broad as his waistline, which, as you know, is unceasing. After all, where does it begin and where does it end?’
‘Any other momentous news?’
‘Cities live in haste. Ever headlong. Nothing changes and everything changes. A murderer stalks Gadrobi District, but Kruppe suspects you know of that. Assassins plot. You know this too, friend Baruk. Lovers tryst or dream of said trysts. Children belabour unknown futures. People retire and others are retired, new careers ab
ound and old nemeses lurk. Friendships unfold while others unravel. All in its time, most High Alchemist, all in its time.’
‘You do not put me at ease, Kruppe.’
‘Join me in a glass of this exquisite vintage!’
‘There are a dozen wards sealing the cellar – twice as many as at your last visit.’
‘Indeed?’
‘You did not trip a single one.’
‘Extraordinary!’
‘Yes, it is.’
The demon belched and the heady fragrance of smoked eel wafted through the chamber. Even the demon wrinkled its nostril slits.
Kruppe produced, with a flourish, some scented candles.
An intestinal confusion of pipes, valves, copper globes, joins and vents dominated one entire end of the building’s main front room. From this bizarre mechanism came rhythmic gasps (most suggestive), wheezes (inserting, as it were, a more realistic contribution) and murmurs and hissing undertones. Six nozzles jutted out, each one ready for a hose attachment or extension, but at the moment all shot out steady blue flame and this heated the crackling dry air of the chamber so that both Chaur and Barathol – working barebacked as they had been the entire day just done – were slick with sweat.
Most of the clutter in this decrepit bakery had now been removed, or, rather, transferred from inside to the narrow high-walled yard out at the back, and Chaur was on his hands and knees using wet rags to wipe dust and old flour from the well-set pavestone floor. Barathol was examining the brick bases of the three humped ovens, surprised and pleased to find, sandwiched between layers of brick, vast slabs of pumice-stone. The interior back walls of the ovens each contained fixtures for the gas that had been used as fuel, with elongated perforated tubes projecting out beneath the racks. Could he convert these ovens to low-heat forges? Perhaps.
The old copper mixing drums remained, lining one half of the room’s back wall, and would serve for quenching. He had purchased an anvil from an inbound caravan from Pale, the original buyer having, alas, died whilst the object was en route. A plains design, intended for portability – Rhivi, he had been informed – it was not quite the size he wanted or needed, but it would suffice for now. Various tongs and other tools came from the scrap markets on the west side of the city, including a very fine hammer of Aren steel (no doubt stolen from a Malazan army’s weaponsmith).
Toll the Hounds Page 53
