Toll the Hounds

It’s said joy’s quick crash was weighted in truth. All at once Challice, sprawled prone atop him, felt heavier.



In her own silence, Challice of House Vidikas was thinking back to that morning, to one of those rare breakfasts in the company of her husband. There had been sly amusement in his expression, or at least the tease of that emotion, making his every considerate gesture slightly mocking, as if in sitting facing one another at the table they were but acting out cliched roles of propriety. And finding, it seemed, a kind of comfort in the ease of their mutual falsehoods.



She suspected that some of Gorlas’s satisfaction involved a bleed-over into her private activities, as if it pleased him to take some credit for her fast-receding descent into depravity; that his unperturbed comfort was in fact supportive, something to be relied upon, a solid island she could flail back to when the storm grew too wild, when her swimming in the depths took on the characteristics of drowning.



Making her so-called private activities little more than extensions of his possession. In owning her he was free to see her used and used up elsewhere. In fact, she had sensed a sexual tension between them that had not been there since… that had never been there before. She was, she realized, making herself more desirable to him.



It seemed a very narrow bridge that he chose to walk. Some part of her, after all, was her own-belonging to no one else no matter what they might believe-and so she would, ultimately, be guided by her own decisions, the choices she made that would serve her and none other. Yes, her husband played a most dangerous game here, as he might well discover.



He had spoken, in casual passing, of the falling out between Shardan Lim and Hanut Orr, something trivial and soon to mend, of course. But moments were strained of late, and neither ally seemed eager to speak to Gorlas about any of it. Hanut Orr had, however, said some strange things, offhand, to Gorlas in the few private conversations they’d had-curious, suggestive things, but no matter. It was clear that something had wounded Hanut Orr’s vaunted ego, and that wasever the danger with possessing such an ego-its constant need to be fed, lest ii deflate to the prods of sharp reality.



Sharden Lim’s mood, too, had taken a sudden downward turn. One day veri-tably exalted, the next dour and short-tempered.



Worse than adolescents, those two. You’d think there was a woman involved…



Challice had affected little interest, finding, to her own surprise, that she was rather good at dissembling, at maintaining the necessary pretensions. The Mistress of the House, the pearlescent prize of the Master, ever smooth to the touch, as delicate as a porcelain statue. Indifferent to the outside world and all its decrepit, smudged details. This was the privilege of relative wealth, after all, encouraging the natural inclination to manufacture a comforting cocoon. Keeping out the common indelicacies, the mundane miseries, all those raw necessities, needs, wants, all those crude stresses that so strained the lives of normal folk.



Only to discover, in gradual increments of growing horror, that the world within was little different; that all those grotesque foibles of humanity could not be evaded-they just reared up shinier to the eye, like polished baubles, but no less cheap, no less sordid.



In her silence, Challice thought of the gifts of privilege, and oh wasn’t she privileged indeed? A rich husband getting richer, one lover among his closest allies (and that was a snare she might use again, if the need arose), and now another-one Gor-las knew virtually nothing about. At least, she didn’t think he did.



Sudden rapid flutter of her heart. What if he has someone following me? The possibility was very real, but what could she do about it? And what might her husband do when he discovered that her most recent lover was not a player in his game? That he was, in fact, a stranger, someone clearly beyond his reach, his sense of control. Would he then realize that she too was now beyond his control?



Gorlas might panic. He might, in truth, become murderous.



‘Be careful now, Cro-Cutter. What we have begun is very dangerous.’



He said nothing in reply, and after a moment she pushed herself off him, and rose to stand beside the narrow bed. ‘He would kill you,’ she continued, looking down on him, seeing once again how the years had hardened his body, sculpted muscles bearing the scars of past battles. His eyes, fixed on her own, regarded her with thoughts and feelings veiled, unknowable.



‘He’s a duellist, isn’t he?’



She nodded. ‘One of the best in the city.’



‘Duels,’ he said, ‘don’t frighten me.’



‘That would be a mistake, Cutter. In any case, given your… station, it’s doubtful he’d bother with anything so formal. More like a half-dozen thugs hired to get rid of you. Or even an assassin.’