Toll the Hounds

The fate of Darujhistan-and of the T’orrud Cabal-was not their reason for being here, however.



The door swung open with a creak and in strode Caladan Brood, carrying in one hand the sword Dragnipur. He paused just inside and glowered across at Vorcan, and then Derudan. ‘This has nothing to do with you,’ he told them.



Vorcan bowed. ‘Forgive us, Warlord, but we will stay.’



Clearing his throat, Baruk said, ‘My fault, Warlord. It seems they do not trust me-not in such close proximity to that weapon.’



Brood bared his teeth. ‘Am I not guardian enough?’



Seeing Vorcan’s faint smile, Baruk said, ‘The lack of trust is mutual, I am afraid. I am more at ease with these two here in front of us, rather than, urn, my starting at every shadow.’



The warlord continued staring at Vorcan. ‘You’d try for me, Assassin?’



Crone cackled at the suggestion.



‘I assume,’ Vorcan said, ‘there will be no need.’



Brood glanced at Baruk. ‘What a miserable nest you live in, High Alchemist. Never mind, it’s time.’



They watched him walk into the circle. They watched him set Dragnipur down, bridging the two anvils. He took a single step back, then, and grew still as he stared down at the sword.



‘It is beautiful,’ he said. ‘Fine craftsmanship.’



‘May you one day be able to compliment its maker in person,’ Vorcan said, ‘fust don’t expect me to make the introduction. I don’t know where they will all spill out, so long as it isn’t in my city.’



Brood shrugged. ‘I am the wrong one from whom to seek reassurance, Assassin.’ He drew the huge hammer from his back and readied the weapon. ‘I’m just here to break the damned thing.’



No one spoke then, and not one of the watchers moved a muscle as the war-lord took a second step back and raised the hammer over his head. He held it poised for a moment. ‘I’d swear,’ he said in a low rumble, ‘that Burn’s smiling in her sleep right now.’



And down came the hammer.



Fisher was waiting in the garden, strangely fresh, renewed, when Lady Envy re-turned home. She had walked in the midst of thousands, out to a barrow. She had watched, as had all the others, as if a stranger to the one fallen. But she was not that.



She found a delicate decanter of the thinnest Nathii greenglass, filled with am-ber wine, and collected two goblets, and walked out to join the bard. He rose from the bench he had been sitting on and would have taken a step closer to her, but then he saw her expression.



The bard was wise enough to hide his sigh of relief. He watched her pour both goblets to the brim. ‘What happened?’ he asked.



She would not speak of her time at the barrow. She would, in fact, never speak of it. Not to this man, not to anyone. ‘Caladan Brood,’ she replied, ‘that’s what happened. And there’s more.’



‘What?’



She faced him, and then drained her goblet. ‘My father. He’s back.’



Oh frail city…



An empty plain it was, beneath an empty sky. Weak, flickering fire nested deep in its ring of charred stones, now little more than ebbing coals. A night, a hearth, and a tale now spun, spun out.



‘Has’ thou ever seen Kruppe dance?’



‘No. I think not. Not by limb, not by word.’



‘Then, my friends, settle yourselves for this night. And witness



And so they did. Bard and Elder God, and oh how Kruppe danced. Blind to the threat of frowns, blind to dismay, rolling eyes, blind even to contempt-although none of these things came from these two witnesses. But beyond this frail ring of warm light, out in that vast world so discordant, so filled with tumult, judgement harsh and gleeful in cruelty, there can be no knowing the cast of arrayed faces.



No matter.



One must dance, and dance did Kruppe, oh, yes, he did dance.



The night draws to an end, the dream dims in the pale silver of awakening. Kruppe ceases, weary beyond reason. Sweat drips down the length of his ratty beard, his latest affectation.



A bard sits, head bowed, and in a short time he will say thank you. But for now he must remain silent, and as for the other things he would say, they are between him and Kruppe and none other. Fisher sits, head bowed. While an Elder God weeps.



The tale is spun. Spun out.



Dance by limb, dance by word. Witness!