Toll the Hounds

The carriage door squealed open, swung once on its hinges, then fell off, landing with a rattle on the cobbles.



On her hands and knees fifteen paces away, Shareholder Faint lifted her aching head and gingerly turned it towards the carriage, in time to see Master Quell lunge into view, tumbling like a Rhivi doll on to the street. Smoke drifted out in his wake.



Closer to hand, Reccanto Ilk stood, reeling, blinking stupidly around before his eyes lit on the battered sign above the door to Quip’s Bar. He staggered in that direction.



Faint pushed herself upright, brushed dust from her meat-spattered clothes, and scowled as scales of armour clinked down like coins on to the stones. From one such breach in her hauberk she prised loose a taloned finger, which she peered at for a moment, then tossed aside as she set out after Reccanto.



Before she reached the door she was joined by Sweetest Sufferance, the short, plump woman waddling but determined none the less as both her small hands reached out for the taproom’s door.



From the rubbish cart, Glanno Tarp was digging himself free.



Master Quell, on his hands and knees, looked up, then said, ‘This isn’t our street.’



Ducking into the gloom of Quip’s Bar, Faint paused briefly until the heard a commotion at the far end, where Reccanto had collapsed Into a chair, one arm sweeping someone’s leavings from the table, Sweetest Sufferance dragged up another chair and I humped down en it,



The three drunks who were thr oilier customers watched Faint walk across the room, each of them earning a scowl from her.



Quip Younger-whose father had opened this place in a fit of ambition and optimism that had lasted about a week-was shambling over from the bar the same way his old man used to, and reached the table the same time as Faint.



No one spoke.



The keep frowned, then turned round and made his way back to the bar.



Master Quell arrived, along with Glanno Tarp, still stinking of refuse.



Moments later, the four shareholders and one High Mage navigator of the Trygalle Trade Guild sat round the table. No exchange of glances. No words.



Quip Younger-who had once loved Faint, long before anyone ever heard of the Trygalle Trade Guild and long before she hooked up with this mad lot-delivered five tankards and the first pitcher of ale.



Five trembling hands reached for those tankards, gripping them tight.



Quip hesitated; then, rolling his eyes, he lifted the pitcher and began pouring out the sour, cheap brew.



Kruppe took a mouthful of the dark magenta wine-a council a bottle, no less-and swirled it in his mouth until all the various bits of pie were dislodged from the innumerable crevasses between his teeth, whereupon he leaned to one side and spat on to the floor. ‘Ah.’ He smiled across at Meese. ‘Much better, yes?’



‘I’ll take payment for that bottle right now,’ she said. ‘That way I can leave before I have to witness one more abuse of such an exquisite vintage.’



‘Why, has Kruppe’s credit so swiftly vanished? Decided entirely upon an untoward breaking of fast this particular morning?’



‘It’s the insults, you fat pig, piled one on another until it feels I’m drowning in offal.’ She bared her teeth. ‘Offal in a red waistcoat.’



‘Aaii, vicious jab. Kruppe is struck to the heart… and,’ he added, reaching once more for the dusty bottle, ‘has no choice but to loosen said constricture of the soul with yet another tender mouthful.’



Meese leaned forward. ‘If you spit that one out, Kruppe, I will wring your neck.’



He hastily swallowed, then gasped. ‘Kruppe very nearly choked once more. Such a morning! Portents and pastry, wails and wine!’



Heavy steps descending from the upper floor.



‘Ah, here comes yon Malazan saviour. Mallet, dear friend of Kruppe, will Murillio-sweet Prince of Disenchantment-recover to his fullest self? Come, join me in this passing ferment. Meese, sweet lass, will you not find Mallet a goblet?’



Her eyes narrowed into thin slits. ‘How about one for yourself, Kruppe?’



‘Delightful suggestion.’ Kruppe wiped at the bottle’s mouth with one grimy sleeve, then beamed across at her.



She rose, stalked off.



The Malazan healer-sat down with a heavy sigh, closed his eyes and rubbed vigorously at his round, pallid face, then looked round the bar. ‘Where is everyone?’



‘Your companion of the night just past Kruppe has sent home, with the assurance that your self is safe from all harm. Tis dawn, friend, or rather morning’s fresh stumping on dawn’s gilt heels. Ships draw in alongside berths, gangplanks clatter and thump to form momentous bridges from one world to the next. Roads take sudden turns and out trundle macabre mechanisms scattering bits of flesh like dark seeds of doom! Hooded eyes scan strangers, shrikes cry out above the lake’s steaming flats, dogs scratch vigorously behind the ears-ah, Meese has brought us her finest goblets! A moment, whilst Kruppe sweeps out cobwebs, insect husks and other assorted proofs of said goblets’ treasured value-there, now, let us sit back and watch, with pleased eyes, as Meese fills our cups to brimming glory. Why-’