Toll the Hounds

Antsy jumped in his seat, then glared at her. ‘Stop doing that! Anyway, I didn’t mean that kind of help. Oh, gods, my head aches.’



‘Sometimes,’ Blend said, ‘I try to make myself as quiet as possible because that way the military marching band in my skull maybe won’t find me.’



‘Huh,’ said Antsy, brows knitting. ‘Never knew you played an instrument, Blend. Which one?’



‘Pipes, drums, flute, rattle, horn, waxstring.’



‘Really? All at once?’



‘Of course. You know, I think I’d be annoyed if I headed upstairs and found Picker creeping out of Scillara’s room right about now.’



‘So stay sitting right there.’



‘Well, it’s only my imagination inventing the scene.’



‘You sure?’



She lasted four or five heartbeats before swearing under her breath and rising.



Antsy watched her leave, then smiled. ‘It’s better,’ he said to no one, ‘when you don’t have an imagination. Like me.’ He paused, scowled. ‘Mind, could be I could use one right about now, so I could figure out how and when them assassins are gonna try again. Poison. Magic. Knives. Crossbow quarrels in the night, through the window, right through the shutters, a perfect shot, Thump to the floor goes Antsy, the Hero of Mott Wood. A spear up through that floor just to finish him off, since they been tunnelling for weeks and was waiting, knowing he’d fall right there right then, aye.’



He sat, eyes wide, red moustache twitching.



Sitting in the shadows in the far corner, back resting against the wall, Duiker watched with wry amusement. Extraordinary, how some people survived and others didn’t. The soldier’s face was always the same once the mask fell away-a look of bemusement, the faint bewildered surprise to find oneself still alive, knowing all too well there was no good reason for it, nothing at all but the nudge of luck, the emptiness of chance and circumstance. And all the unfairness of the world made a bitter pool of the eyes.



A commotion from the back room and a moment later the narrow door opened and out walked the bard, grey hair tousled by sleep, eyes red even at this distance. A glance over at Antsy. ‘There’s lice in the mattress,’ he said.



‘I doubt they mind the company,’ the ex-sergeant replied, levering himself up-right and making for the stairs.



The bard stared after him for a moment, then headed over to the bar, where he poured himself a tankard of pungent, dark Rhivi beer. And came over to where Duiker sat.



‘Historians and bards both,’ he said, sitting down.



Duiker nodded, understanding well enough.



‘But what you observe and what I observe, well, that can turn out quite differ-ently. Then again, maybe the distinction is merely superficial. The older I get, the more I suspect just that. You describe events, seeing the great sweep of things. I look at the faces, rushing by so fast they might be no more than a blur if I don’t take care. To see them true, to remember them all.’



‘Where are you from?’ Duiker asked.



The bard drank down a mouthful and set the tankard carefully before him. ‘Ko-rel, originally. But that was a long time ago.’



‘Malazan invasion?’



An odd smile as the man studied the tankard on the table before him. His hands, however, remained in his lap, ‘If you mean Greymane, then yes.’



‘So which of the countless contradictory tales are true? About him, I mean.’



The bard shrugged. ‘Never ask that of a bard. I sing them all. Lies, truths, the words make no distinction in what they tell, nor even the order they come in. We do as we please with them.’



‘I’ve been listening to you these past few nights,’ said Duiker.



‘Ah, an audience of one. Thank you.’



‘You’ve sung verses of Anomandaris I’ve never heard before.’



‘The unfinished ones?’ The bard nodded and reached for the tankard. ‘“Black’ Coral, where stand the Tiste Andii…” He drank another mouthful.



‘Have you come from there, then?’



‘Did you know that there is no god or goddess in all the pantheon that claims to be the patron-or matron-of bards? It’s as if we’ve been forgotten, left to our own devices, That used to bother me, for some reason, but now I see it for the true honour it represents. We have been unique, in our freedom, in our re-uponiiihility, is there a patron of historians?’



‘Not that I’m aware of. Does this mean I’m free, too?’



‘It’s said you told the tale of the Chain of Dogs once, here in this very room.’