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

Toll the Hounds (The Malazan Book of the Fallen #8) Page 252

Hold this gaze, if you dare, in the tracking of these tremulous ripples, the lives, the lives! See Stormy Menackis, wrought with recrimination, savaged by guilt. She sleeps badly or not at all (who would risk peering into her dark bedroom at night, for fear of seeing the gleam of staring eyes?). She trembles, her nerves like strings of fire, whilst poor Murillio stands apart, desperate to comfort her, to force open all that had now closed between them.

And in the courtyard a mob of unattended young savages whaled about with wooden swords and it’s a miracle no one’s yet lost an eye or dropped to the pave-stones with a crushed trachea.

While, in a workroom not too far away, Tiserra sits at the potter’s wheel and stares into space as the lump of clay spins round and round to the rhythm of her pumping foot-struck frozen, shocked by the stunning realization of the sheer depth of her love for her husband. A love so fierce that she is terrified, compre-hending at last the extent of her vulnerability.

The sense is a wonder. It is delicious and terrifying. It is ecstatic.

Smile with her. Oh, do smile with her!

Whilst at this very moment, the object of Tiserra’s devotion strides into the courtyard of the Varada estate, his new place of employment. His mind, which had been calm in the course of his walk from home, now stirs with faint unease. He had sent Scorch and Leff home, and he had stood at the gate watching them stumble off like undead, and this had made him think of moment of greatest danger-just before dawn was the moment to strike, if one intended such violence-but who would bother? What was this mysterious Lady Varada up to anyway?

A seat on the Council, true, but was that sufficient cause for assassination? And why was he thinking of such things at all? There’d been rumours-picked up at the drunk baker’s stall-that the night just past should have belonged to the Assassins’ Guild but had turned sour for the hired killers and oh, wasn’t that re-grettable? A moment of silence then pass the dumplings, if you please.

Now he paused in the courtyard, seeing the latest employees, his peculiar charges, with their dubious pasts and potentially alarming motivations. Reunited, yes, with the castellan, with the infamous Studious Lock. Madrun and Lazan Door were tossing knuckles against the compound wall to his right. Technically, their shift was over, although Torvald Norn suspected that this game of theirs had been going on for some time. Another word of warning to them? No, his spir-its were already plunging, as they were wont to do when he awakened to a sense that something was being pulled over him, that he was being connived around-as his mother used to say when with one foot she pinned young Torvald to the floor and stared down at him as he squirmed and thrashed (mostly an act, of course; she weighed about as much as a guard dog, without the bite). Connived around, dear boy, and when I get to the bottom of things and all the trouble’s on the table, why, who will I find hiding in the closet?

His sweet mother never quite mastered the extended metaphor, bless her.

Suddenly too despondent to so much as announce his arrival, Torvald Nom headed for his office, eager to climb over the desk and plant himself in the chair, where he could doze until the sounding of the lunch chime. At least the cooks she’d employed knew their business.

Leave him there, now, and ride one last ripple, out beyond the city, west along the lakeshore, out to a dusty, smoky pit where the less privileged laboured through their shortened lives to keep such creatures as Gorlas Vidikas and Humble Measure at the level of comfort and entitlement they held to be righteous. And, to be fair, they laboured as well to contribute to the general feeling of civilization, which is normally measured by technical wherewithal, a sense of progression and the notion of structural stability, little of which said labourers could themselves experience, save vicariously.

The child Harllo has been lashed ten times for being places he wasn’t supposed to be, and this punishment was fierce enough to leave him prostrate, lying on his stomach on his cot with thick unguents slowly melting into the wounds on his back.

Bainisk had received a whip to his left shoulder which would result in the third such scar for dereliction of his responsibilities as overseer in Chuffs, and he now came to sit beside Harllo, studying his young charge in a silence that stretched.

Until at last Harllo said, ‘I’m sorry, Bainisk-’

‘Never mind that. I just want to know what you were up to. I didn’t think you’d keep secrets from me, I really didn’t. Venaz is saying “I told you so”. He’s saying you’re no good , Mole, and that I should just push you on to the dredge crews.’

The young ones did not live long in the dredge crews. ‘Venaz wants to be your best mole again.’