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

Toll the Hounds (The Malazan Book of the Fallen #8) Page 312

‘There was no bribe, was there?’

Coll frowned. ‘Not as such. The official reasons given are just as Orr claimed. Flimsy.’

‘Yes. And he was not privy to the unofficial ones.’

‘No. Wrong committee.’

‘Hardly an accident. That ambitious trio’s been given places on every meaningless committee we can think of-but that’s not keeping them busy enough, it seems. They still find time to get in our way.’

‘One day,’ said Coll, ‘they will indeed be as dangerous as they think they are.’

Outside the building, standing in the bright sun, the three ambitious young counsellors formed a sort of island in a sea of milling pigeons. None took note of the cooing on all sides.

‘I’ll have that bastard’s head one day,’ said Hanut Orr. ‘On a spike outside my gate.’

‘You were careless,’ said Shardan Lim, doing little to disguise his contempt.

Stung, Orr’s gloved hand crept to the grip of his rapier. ‘I’ve had about enough of you, old friend. It’s clear you inherited every mewling weakness of your predecessor. I admit I’d hoped for something better.’

‘Listen to you two,’ said Gorlas Vidikas. ‘Bitten by a big dog so here you are snapping at each other, and why? Because the big dog’s too big. If he could see you now.’

Hanut Orr snorted, ‘So speaks the man who can’t keep his wife on a fight enough leash.’

Was the perfectt extension of the metaphor deliberate? Who can say? In any case, to the astonishment of both Orr and Lim, Gorlas Vidikas simply smiled, us if appreciative of the riposte. He made a show of brushing dust from his cuffs. ‘Well then, I will leave you to… whatever, as I have business that will take me out of the city for the rest of the day.’

‘That Ironmonger will never get on the Council, Vidikas,’ Shardan Lim said. ‘There’s no available seat and that situation’s not likely to change any time soon. This partnership of yours will take you nowhere and earn you nothing.’

‘On the contrary, Shardan. I am getting wealthy. Do you have any idea how essential iron is to this city? Ah, I see that such matters are beneath you both. So be it. As a bonus, I am about to acquire a new property in the city as well. It has been and will continue to be a most rewarding partnership. Good day to you, sirs.’

There was no denying Seba Krafar’s natural air of brutality. He was a large, bearish man, and though virtually none of the people he pushed past while crossing the market’s round knew him for the Master of the Assassin’s Guild, they none the less quickly retreated from any confrontation; and if any might, in their own natural belligerence, consider a bold challenge to this rude oaf, why, a second, more searching glance disavowed them of any such notions.

He passed through the press like a heated knife through pig fat, a simile most suited to his opinion of humanity and his place within it. One of the consequences of this attitude, however, was that his derisive regard led to a kind of arrogant carelessness. He took no notice whatsoever of the nondescript figure who fell into his wake.

The nearest cellar leading down into the tunnels was at the end of a narrow, straight alley that led to a dead end. The steps to the cellar ran along the back of the last building on the left. The cellar had once served as a storage repository for coal, in the days before the harnessing of gas-back when the notion of poisoning one’s own air in the name of brainless convenience seemed reasonable (at least to people displaying their lazy stupidity with smug pride). Now, the low-ceilinged chamber squatted empty and sagging beneath three levels of half-rotted tenement rooms in symbolic celebration of modernity.

From the shutterless windows babies cried to the accompaniment of clanking cookware and slurred arguments, sounds as familiar to Seba Krafar as the rank air of the alley itself. His thoughts were busy enough to justify his abstracted state. Fear warred with greed in a mutual, ongoing exchange of masks which were in fact virtually identical, but never mind that; the game was ubiquitous enough, after all. Before too long, in any case, the two combatants would end up supine with exhaustion. Greed usually won, but carried fear on its back.

So much for Seba Krafar’s preoccupations. Even without them, it was unlikely he would have heard the one on his trail, since that one possessed unusual talents, of such measure that he was able to move up directly behind the Master Assassin, and reach out with ill intent.

A hand closed on Seba’s neck, fingers like contracting claws of iron pressing nerves that obliterated all motor control, yet before the assassin could collapse (as as his body wanted to do) he was flung halfway round and thrown up against a grimy stone wall. And held there, moccasined feet dangling.