Toll the Hounds

Murk, too, this teller of the tale, with his sage wink. We are in the midst!



Night, shadows overlapping, a most indifferent blur that would attract no one’s notice, barring that nuisance of a cat on the sill of the estate, amber eyes tracking now as one shadow moves out from its place of temporary concealment. Out goes this errant shadow, across the courtyard, into deeper shadows against the estate’s wall. Crouching, Torvald Nom looked up to see the cat’s head and those damned eyes, peering down at him. A moment later the head withdrew, taking its wide gaze with it. He made his stealthy way to the back corner, paused once more. He could hear the gate guards, a pair of them, arguing over something, tones of suspicion leading to accusation answered by protestations of denial but Damn you, Doruth, I just don’t trust you-



– No reason not to, Milok. I ever give you one?



No-



– To Hood you ain’t. My first wife-



– Wouldn’t leave me alone, I swear! She stalked me like a cat a rat-



– A rat! Aye, that’s about right-



– / swear, Milok, she very nearly raped me-



– The first time! I know, she told me all about it, with eyes so bright!-



– Heard it made you horny as Hood’s black sceptre-



– That ain’t any of your business, Doruth-



And something soft brushed against Torvald’s leg. The cat, purring like soft gravel, back bowed, tail writhing. He lifted his foot, held it hovering over the creature. Hesitated, then settled it back down. By Apsalar’s sweet kiss, the kit’s eyes and ears might be a boon, come to think of it. Assuming it had the nerve to follow him.



Torvald eyed the wall, the cornices, the scrollwork metopes, the braided false columns. He wiped sweat from his hands, dusted them with the grit at the wall’s base, then reached up for handholds, and began to climb.



He gained the sill of the window on the upper floor, pulled himself on to it/ balanced on his knees. True, never wise, but the fall wouldn’t kill him, wouldn’t even sprain an ankle, would it? Drawing a dagger he slipped the blade in between the shutters, carefully felt for the latch.



The cat, alighting beside him, nearly pitched him from the sill, but he managed to recover, swearing softly under his breath as he resumed working the lock.



– She still loves you, you know-What-



‘-She does, She just likes some variety. I tell you, Milok, this last one of yours was no easy conquest-



– You swore!-



– You’re my bestest, oldest friend. No more secrets between us! And when I



swear to that, as I’m doing now, I mean it true. She’s got an appetite so shut ing shouldn’t be a problem. I ain’t better than you, just different, that’s all



Different.-



– How many times a week, Durothl Tell me true!-



– Oh, every second day or so-



– But I’m every second day, too!-



– Odd, even, I guess. Like I said, an appetite.-



– I’ll say.-



– After shift, let’s go get drunk-



– Aye, we can compare and contrast-



– I love it. fust that, hah!… Hey, Milok…-



– Aye?-



– How old’s your daughter?-



The latch clicked, springing free the shutters just as a sword hissed from a scabbard and, amidst wild shouting, a fight was underway at the gate.



– A joke! Honest! fust a joke, Milok!-



Voices now from the front of the house, as Torvald slid his dagger blade between the lead windows and lifted the inside latch. He quickly edged into the dark room, as boots rapped on the compound and more shouting erupted at the front gate. A lantern crashed and someone’s sword went flying to skitter away on the cobbles.



Torvald quickly closed the shutters, then the window.



The infernal purring was beside him, a soft jaw rubbing against a knee. He reached for the cat, fingers twitching, hesitated, then withdrew his hand. Pay attention to the damned thing, right, so when it hears what can’t be heard and when it sees what can’t be seen, yes…



Pivoting in his crouch, he scanned the room. Some sort of study, though most of the shelves were bare. Overreaching ambition, this room, a sudden lurch towards culture and sophistication, but of course it was doomed to failure. Money wasn’t enough. Intelligence helped. Taste, an inquisitive mind, an interest in other stuff-stuff out of immediate sight, stuff having nothing to do with whatever. Wasn’t enough to simply send some servant to scour some scrollmonger’s shop and say ‘I’ll take that shelf’s worth, and that one, too.’ Master’s not too discriminating, yes. Master probably can’t even read so what difference does it make?