Toll the Hounds

And after a time of silence, this one spoke in a rasping voice. To begin with, a single word: ‘Well?’

And his companion replied in kind. ‘Well.’

The cane tapped a few times on the cobbles.

The companion then said, ‘It’s out of our hands now, until the end.’

‘Until the end,’ agreed Shadowthrone. ‘You know, Cotillion, I never much liked Caladan Brood.’

‘Really? I never knew.’

‘Do you think…’

‘I think,’ said Cotillion, ‘that we need not worry on that count.’

Shadowthrone sighed. ‘Are we pleased? It was… delicate… the timing. Are we pleased? We should be.’

‘The damned Hounds of Light,’ said Cotillion, ‘that was unexpected. Two, yes. But ten? Gods below.’

‘Hmph! I was more worried by my Magus’s temporary sanity.’

‘Is that what you call it?’

‘He had a chance-a slim one, but he had a chance. Imagine that one wielding Dragnipur.’

Cotillion regarded his companion. ‘Are you suggesting he would not have re-linquished it? Ammeanas, really. That was all your play. I’m not fooled by his seemingly going rogue on you. You vowed you’d not try to steal the sword. But of course you never mentioned anything about one of your High Priests doing it for you.’

‘And it would have been mine!’ Shadowthrone hissed in sudden rage. ‘If not for that confounded fat man with the greasy lips! Mine!’

‘Iskaral Pust’s, you mean.’

Shadowthrone settled down once more, tapped his cane. ‘We’d have seen eye to eye, eventually.’

‘I doubt it.’’

‘Well, who cares what you think, anyway?’

‘So where is he now?’

‘Pust? Back in the temple, poring through the archives of the Book of Shadows.’

‘Looking for what?’

‘Some provision, any provision, for a High Priest of Shadow having two wives.’

‘Is there one?’

‘How should I know?’

‘Well,’ Cotillion said, ‘didn’t you write it?’

Shadowthrone shifted about. ‘I was busy.’

‘So who did?’

Shadowthrone would not answer.

Cotillion’s brows rose. ‘Not Pust! The Book of Shadows, where he’s proclaimed the Magus of the High House Shadow?’

‘It’s called delegation,’ Shadowthrone snapped.

‘It’s called idiocy.’

‘Well, hee hee, I dare say he’ll find what he’s looking for, won’t he?’

‘Aye, with the ink still wet.’

They said nothing then for a time, until Cotillion drew in a deep breath and let it out in a long sigh, and then said, ‘We should give him a few days, I think.’ And this time, he was not speaking of Iskaral Pust.

‘Unless you want to get cut to pieces, yes, a few days.’

‘I wasn’t sure he’d, well, accept. Right up until the moment he…’ Cotillion winced and looked up the street, as if straining to see some lone, wandering, lost figure dragging a sword in one hand. But no, he wouldn’t be coming back. ‘You know, I did offer to explain. It might have eased his conscience. But he wasn’t in-terested.’

‘Listen to these damned bells,’ said Shadowthrone. ‘My head’s hurting enough as it is. Let’s go, we’re done here.’

And so they were, and so they did.

Two streets from his home, Bellam Nom was grasped from behind and then pushed up against a wall. The motion ripped pain through his broken arm. Gasp-lug, close to blacking out, he stared into the face of the man accosting him, and then slumped. ‘Uncle.’ And he saw, behind Rallick, another vaguely familiar face. ‘And… Uncle.’

Frowning, Rallick eased back. ‘You look a mess, Bellam.’

And Torvald said, ‘The whole damned Nom clan is out hunting for you.’

‘Oh.’

‘It won’t do having the heir to the House going missing for days,’ Torvald said. ‘You got responsibilities, Bellam. Look at us, even we weren’t so wayward in our young days, and we’re heirs to nothing. So now we got to escort you home. See See how you’ve burdened us?’

And they set out.

‘I trust,’ Rallick said, ‘that whoever you tangled with faired worse, Bellam.’

‘Ah, I suppose he did.’

‘Well, that’s something at least.’

After they had ushered the young man through the gate, peering through to make sure he actually went inside, Rallick and Torvald set off.

‘That was a good one,’ Rallick said, ‘all that rubbish about us in our youth.’

‘The challenge was in keeping a straight face.’

‘Well now, we weren’t so bad back then. At least until you stole my girlfriend.’

‘I knew you hadn’t forgotten!’

‘I suggest we go now to sweet Tiserra, where I intend to do my best to steal her back.’

‘You’re not actually expecting she’ll make us breakfast, are you?’

‘Why not?’

‘Tiserra is nobody’s servant, cousin.’

‘Oh, well. You can keep her, then.’

Torvald smiled to himself. It was so easy working Rallick. It had always been so easy, getting him ending up thinking precisely what Torvald wanted him to think.

Rallick walked beside him, also pleased as from the corner of his eye he noted Torvald’s badly concealed, faintly smug smile. Putting his cousin at ease had never taxed Rallick.

It was a comfort, at times, how some things never changed.

When Sister Spite stepped on to the deck, she saw Cutter near the stern, leaning on the rail and staring out over the placid lake. She hid her surprise and went to join him.

‘I am returning to Seven Cities,’ she said.

He nodded. ‘That’s close enough.’

‘Ah, well, I am pleased to have your company, Cutter.’

He glanced over at her. ‘Get what you wanted?’

‘Of course not, and… mostly.’

‘So, you’re not upset?’

‘Only in so far as I failed in sinking my teeth into my sister’s soft throat. But that can wait.’

If he was startled by her words, he did not show it. ‘I would have thought you’d want to finish it, since you came all this way.’

‘Oh, there are purposes and there are purposes to all that we do, my young friend. In any case, it is best that I leave immediately, for reasons I care not to explain. Have you said your goodbyes?’

He shrugged. ‘I think I did that years ago, Spite.’

‘Very well, shall we cast off?’

A short time later, the ship slipping easily just out from the shoreline, on a west-ward heading, they both stood at the port rail and observed the funeral procession’s end, there at a new long barrow rising modestly above the surrounding hills. Crowds upon crowds of citizens ringed the mound. The silence of the scene, with the bells faint and distant, made it seem ethereal, like a painted image, solemn through the smoke haze. They could see the cart, the ox.

Spite sighed. ‘My sister once loved him, you know.’

‘Anomander Rake? No, I didn’t know that.’

‘His death marks the begi

‘Of what?’

‘The end, Cutter.’

He had no response to that. A few moments drifted past. ‘You said she loved him once. What happened?’

‘He acquired Dragnipur. At least, I imagine that was the cause. She is well named, is my sister.’

Envy.

Cutter shot her a glance, thinking of her own name, this beautiful woman at his side, and wisely he said nothing, nothing at all.

The bell that wasn’t there had finally stopped its manic ringing, and Scillara was able to climb back on to the temple roof, so that she could gaze out over the city. She could see the lake, where one lone ship had unfurled sails to ride the morning breeze. She knew those sails and she tracked them for a time.

Who was on board? Well, Spite for certain. And, if he’d any sense, Barathol. With smiling Chaur at his side, the giant child with his childish love that would never know betrayal, at least until the day, hopefully decades hence, when the blacksmith bowed to old age and took to bed for the last time. She could almost see him, his face, the deep wrinkles, the dimming of his dark eyes, and all the losses of his life falling away, veil by veil, until he ceased looking outward entirely.