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

Toll the Hounds (The Malazan Book of the Fallen #8) Page 314

‘Excuse me,’ cut in Fisher. ‘When all what is done?’

‘This, of course! Foolish Iskaral-keep it simple! Simpler, even! Listen, dear middling bard, when all this is done, eke out the eel-no, wait-er, seek out the eel. Seal? Damn, I had the message memorized and everything! Peek at-eat an eel-seek and peek the bleak earl-perk the veal, deal the prick-oh, Hood’s breath! What was it again? And I had the gall to call him brilliant! He should’ve sent Sor-diko Qualm, yes, so I could’ve followed the glorious rocking ship of her sweethips-’ and he wagged his head side to side, side to side, eyes glazing, ‘slib-slab, slib-slul), oh!’

‘Thank you,’ Fisher said as the man began muttering under his breath and pausing every now and then to lick his lips, ‘for, er, the message. I assure you, I understand.’

‘Of course you do-you’re a man, aren’t you? Gods, that a simple casual stride could so reduce one to gibbering worship-why, who needs gods and goddesses when we have arses like that?’

‘Indeed, who? Now, since you have successfully delivered your message from your master, may I proceed on my way?’

‘What? Naturally. Go away. You’re a damned distraction, is what you are.’

A tilt of the head, and the bard was indeed on his way once more.

The mob outside the newly consecrated Temple of the Fallen One, or the Crippled God, or indeed the name by which most knew it-the Temple of Chains-was thick and strangely rank. More than natural sweat as might be squeezed out by the mid-morning sun, this was the human rendering of desperation, made even sicklier with obsequious anticipation.

Yet the door to the narrow-fronted temple remained shut, evidently barred from within. Offerings were heaped up against it-copper and tin coins as well as links of chain and the odd clasp and cheap jewellery.

Bedek on his cart and Myrla standing before him, gripping the handles, found themselves in the midst of trembling alcoholics, the pock-scarred, the lame and the deformed. Milky eyes stared, as if cataracts were punishment for having seen too much-all other eyes were filled with beseeching need, the hunger for blessing, for even the passing brush of a twisted hand if it belonged to the Prophet. Misshapen faces lifted up, held fixedly upon that door. Once within the press, and unable to get any closer, the stink became unbearable. The breath of rotting teeth and consumptive dissolution. From his low perch, Bedek could see nothing but shoulders and the backs of heads. Whimpering, he plucked at his wife’s tunic.

‘Myrla. Myrla!’

The look she turned on him was both savage and… small, and with a shock Bedek suddenly saw her-and himself-as meaningless, insignificant, worthless. They were, he realized, no better than anyone else here. Each of them seeking to be singled out, to be guided out, to be raised up from all the others. Each dreaming of coming into glorious focus in the eyes of a god-eyes brimming with pity and knowledge, eyes that understood injustice and the unfairness of existence. A god, yes, to make them right. To make us all-each and every one of us-right. Whole.

But Bedek had held no such notions. They were not why he was here. He and Myrla were different. From all of these people. They, you see, had lost a child.

The door would remain locked, they learned, until at least midday. Sometimes even later. And even then, the Prophet might not emerge. If he was communing with his own pain, they were told, he might not be seen for days. Yes, but did he bless people? Did he help people?

Oh, yes. Why, I saw a man in terrible pain, and the Prophet took it all away.

He healed the man?

No, he smothered him. Delivered his spirit-now at peace-into the hands of the Fallen One. If you are in pain, this is where you can end your life-only here, do you understand, can you be sure your soul will find a home. There, in the loving heart of the Fallen One. Don’t you want to find your legs again? Other side of life, that’s where you’ll find them.

And so Bedek came to understand that, perhaps, this Crippled God could not help them. Not with finding Harllo. And all at once he wanted to go home.

But Myrla would have none of that. The yearning was unabated in her eyes, but it had been transformed, and what she sought now had nothing to do with Harllo. Bedek did not know what that new thing might be, but he was frightened down to the core of his soul.

Snell struggled to form a sling to take the runts, both of whom were lying senseless on the floor. He had checked to see they were both breathing, since he’d heard that making them black out could sometimes kill them-if he’d held them tight for too long-though he’d been careful. He was always careful when doing that, though if one of them did die, why, he would say it went to sleep and just never woke up and that happened, didn’t it, with the little ones? And then he’d cry because that was expected.