Toll the Hounds

Kedeviss had brought to him her suspicions down in the village beside the lake bed, giving firm shape to what he had already begun to believe. Clip had awakened but at a distance, as if behind a veil. Oh, he had always shown his contempt for Nimander and the others, but this was different. Something fundamental had changed. The new contempt now hinted of hunger, avarice, as if Clip saw them as nothing more than raw meat, awaiting the flames of his need.



Yet Nimander understood that Clip would only turn upon them if cornered, if confronted. As Kedeviss had done-even when Nimander had warned her against such a scene. No, Clip still needed them. His way in. As for what would happen then, not even the gods knew. Lord Anomander Rake did not suffer upstarts. He was never slowed by indecisiveness, and in delivering mercy even the cruellest miser could not match his constraint. And as for Clip’s claim to be some sort of emissary from Mother Dark, well, that had become almost irrelevant, unless the god within the warrior was seeking to usurp Mother Dark herself.



This notion disturbed Nimander. The goddess was, after all, turned away. Her leaving had left a void. Could something as alien as the Dying God assume the Unseen Crown? Who would even kneel before such an entity?



It was hard to imagine Anomander Rake doing so, or any of the other Tiste Andii that Nimander and his kin had known. Obedience had never been deemed a pure virtue among the Tiste Andii. To follow must be an act born of deliberation, of clear-eyed, cogent recognition that the one to be followed has earned the privilege. So often, after all, formal structures of hierarchy stood in place of such personal traits and jud|gements. A title or rank did not automatically confer upon the one wearing it any true virtue, or even worthiness to the claim.



Nimander had seen for himself the flaws inherent in that hierarchy. Among the Malazans, the renegade army known as the Bonehunters, there had been officers whom Nimander would not follow under any circumstances. Men and women of incompetence-oh, he’d seen how such fools were usually weeded out, through the informal justice system practised by the common soldier, a process often punctu-ated by a knife in the back, which struck Nimander as a most dangerous habit. But these were human ways, not those of the Tiste Andii.



If Clip and the Dying God that possessed him truly believed they could usurp Mother Dark, and indeed her chosen son, Anomander Rake, as ruler of the Tiste Andii, then that conceit was doomed. And yet, he could not but recall the poisonous lure of Saemenkelyk. There could be other paths to willing obedience.



And that is why I can say nothing. Why Aranatha is light. We must lull Clip into disregarding us, so that he continues believing we are fools. Because there is the chance, when the moment arrives, that I alone will be standing close enough. To strike. To catch him-them-unawares.



It may be that Anomander Rake and the others in Black Coral will have nothing to fear from Clip, from the Dying God. It may be that they will swat them down with ease.



But we cannot be sure of that.



In truth, I am afraid …



‘I can see water.’



Startled, Nimander glanced back at Skintick, but his cousin would not meet his eyes.



‘Where the valley dips down, eastward-I think that is the Cut that Clip de-scribed. And along the north shore of it, we will find Black Coral.’



Clip had halted on an outcropping and was staring down into the misty valley. They had left most of the cloud in their wake, descending beneath its ceiling. Most of the range was now on their left, westward, the nearest cliff-face grey and black and broken only by a dozen or so mountain sheep wending their way along a seam.



Skintick called out to the warrior, ‘That looks to be a long swim across, Clip.’



The man turned, rings spinning on their chain. ‘We will find a way,’ he said. ‘Now, we should continue on, before it gets too dark.’



‘What is your hurry?’ Skintick asked. ‘The entire trail down is bound to be treacherous, especially in this half-light. What would be the point in taking a tumble and…’ Skintick went no further.



And breaking a neck.



In the uncomfortable silence that followed, only the clack of the rings carried on, like a man chewing stones.



After a moment, Clip stepped back from the ledge and set out down the path once more.



Nimander made to follow but Skintick grasped his arm, forcing him round.



‘Enough,’ Skintick growled, and Nenanda moved up beside him, Desra joining them. ‘We want to know what’s going on, Nimander.’



Nenanda spoke. ‘She didn’t just fall-do you think we’re fools, Nimander?’



‘Not fools,’ he replied, and then hesitated, ‘but you must play at being fools… for a little longer.’