Toll the Hounds (The Malazan Book of the Fallen #8)

Toll the Hounds (The Malazan Book of the Fallen #8) Page 202

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 vanished into inviting mouth and appreciative palate as befitting all culinary arts when the subtle merging of flavours yielded exquisite master-piece-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. As 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 bemeasured, 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.’