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

Toll the Hounds (The Malazan Book of the Fallen #8) Page 395

Scorch looked startled, but then he always looked startled.

‘Relax,’ hissed Leff, ‘you’re driving me to distraction.’

‘Hey, you hear something?’

‘No.’

‘Exactly.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean? We ain’t hearing nothing. Good. That means there’s nothing to hear.’

‘They stopped.’

‘Who stopped?’

‘Them, the ones on the other side of the gate, right? They stopped.’

‘Well, thank Hood,’ said Leff. ‘Those knuckles was driving me crazy. Every damned night, on and on and on. Click clack click clack, gods below. I never knew Seguleh were such gamblers-it’s a sickness, you know, an addiction. No wonder they lost their masks-probably in a bet. Picture it. “Ug, got nuffin but this mask, and m’luck’s boot to change, ‘sgot to, right? So, I’m in-look, ‘sa good mask! Ug.”‘

‘That would’ve been a mistake,’ Scorch said, nodding. ‘If you don’t want nobody to know you’re bluffing, what better way than to wear a mask? So, they lost ’em and it’s been downhill ever since. Yeah, that makes sense, but it’s got me thinking, Leff.’

“Bout what?’

‘Well, the Seguleh. Hey, maybe they’re all bluffing!’

Leff nodded back. This was better. Distract the fidgety idiot. All right, maybe things didn’t feel quite right. Maybe there was a stink in the air that had nothing to do with smell, and maybe he had sweat trickling down under his armour, and he was keeping his hand close to the sword at his belt and eyeing the crossbow leaning against the gate. Was it cocked? It was cocked.

Click clack click clack. Come on, boys, start ’em up again, before you start making me nervous.

Cutter halted the horse and sat, leaning forward on the saddle, studying the ship moored alongside the dock. No lights showed. Had Spite gone to bed this early? That seemed unlikely. He hesitated. He wasn’t even sure why he had come here. Did he think he’d find Scillara?

That was possible, but if so it was a grotesque desire, revealing an ugly side to his nature that he did not want to examine for very long, if at all. He had pretty much abandoned her. She was a stranger to Darujhistan-he should have done better. He should have been a friend.

How many more lives could he ruin? If justice existed, it was indeed appropriate that he ruin himself as well. The sooner the better, in fact. Grief and self-pity seemed but faint variations on the same heady brew that was self-indulgence-did he really want to drown Scillara in his pathetic tears?

No, Spite would be better-he’d get three words out and she’d start slapping him senseless. Get over it, Cutter. People die. It wasn’t fair, so you put it right. And now you feel like Hood’s tongue after a night of slaughter. Live with it. So wipe your nose and get out there. Do something, be someone and stay with it.

Yes, that was what he needed right now. A cold, cogent regard, a wise absence of patience. In fact, she wouldn’t even have to say anything. Just seeing her would do.

He swung down from the saddle and tied the reins to a bollard, then crossed the gangplank to the deck. Various harbour notices had been tacked to the mainmast. Moorage fees and threats of imminent impoundment. Cutter managed a smile, imagining a scene of confrontation in the near future. Delightful to witness, if somewhat alarming, provided he stayed uninvolved.

He made his way below. ‘Spite? You here?’

No response. Spirits plunging once more, he tried the door to the main cabin, and found it unlocked. Now, that was strange. Drawing a knife, he edged inside, and waited for his eyes to adjust to the gloom. Nothing seemed untoward, no signs of disarray-so there had been no roving thief, which was a relief. As he stepped to-wards the lantern hanging from a hook, his foot struck something that skidded a fraction.

Cutter looked down.

His lance-the one that dead Seguleh horseman had given him, in that plague-stricken fort in Seven Cities. He recalled seeing it later, strapped to the back of a floating pack amidst wreckage in the waves. He recalled Spite’s casual retrieval. He had since stashed the weapon beneath his bunk. So, what was it doing here?

And then he noted the beads of what looked like sweat glistening on the iron blade.

Cutter reached down.

The copper sheathing of the shaft was warm, almost hot. Picking the lance up, he realized, with a start, that the weapon was trembling. ‘Beru fend,’ he whis-pered,’what is going on here?’

Moments later he was back on the deck, staring over at his horse as the beast tugged at the reins, hoofs stamping the thick tarred boards of the dock. Its ears were flat, and it looked moments from tearing the bollard free-although of course that was impossible. Cutter looked down to find he was still carrying the lance. He wondered at that, but not for long, as he heard a sudden, deafening chorus of howls roll through the city. All along the shoreline, nesting birds exploded upward in shrieking panic, winging into the night.