Toll the Hounds

‘I have tried-’



‘I will help you,’ insisted the merchant. ‘I will show him our desire to mend our ways. To accord the Benighted the proper respect.’



Others nodded, and the merchant took this in and went on, ‘We will help. All of us here, we will stand with you, Priestess. Once he is made to understand what is happening, once we confront him-there in that damned tavern with that damned Tiste Andii he games with-how can he turn away from us yet again?’



But what of fairness! What of Seerdomin and his own wounds! See the zeal in your fellows-see it in yourself, then ask: where is my compassion when I stand before him, shouting my demands!



Why will none of you defend yourse



‘Priestess



‘Very well.’ And she rose, drawing her woollen robe tight about herself. ‘Lead on, then, merchant, to where he may be found.’



A man huddled against the counter, sneezing fiercely enough to loosen his teeth, and while this barrage went on none at the table attempted to speak. Hands reached for tankards, kelyk glistened on lips and eyes shone murky and fixed with intent upon the field of battle.



Spinnock Durav waited for Seerdomin to make a move, to attempt something unexpected in the shoring up of his buckling defences-the man was always good for a surprise or two, a flash of tactical genius that could well halt Spinnock in his tracks, even make him stagger. And was this not the very heart of the contest, its bright hint of glory?



The sneezing fit ended-something that, evidently, came of too much kelyk. A sudden flux of the sinuses, followed by an alarmingly dark discharge-he’d begun to see stains, on walls and pavestones and cobbles, all over the city now. This foreign drink was outselling even ale and wine. And among the drinkers there were now emerging abusers, stumbling glaze-eyed, mouths hanging, tongues like black worms. As yet, Spinnock had not seen such among the Tiste Andii, but perhaps it was only a matter of time.



He sipped at his cup of wine, pleased to note that the trembling in his fingers had finally ceased. The eruption of power from Kurald Galain that had taken him so unawares had vanished, leaving little more than a vague unease that only slightly soured the taste of the wine. Strange disturbances these nights,-who could say their portent?



The High Priestess might have an idea or two, he suspected, although the punctuation of every statement from her never changed, now, did it? Half smiling, he sipped again at his drink.



Seerdomin frowned and sat back. ‘This is an assault I cannot survive,’ he pronounced. ‘The Jester’s deceit was well played, Spinnock. There was no anticipating that.’



‘Truly?’ Spinnock asked. ‘With these allies here?’



Seerdomin grimaced at the other two players, then grunted a sour laugh. ‘Ah, yes, I see your point. That kelyk takes their minds, I think.’



‘Sharpens, just so you know,’ said Garsten, licking his stained lips. ‘Although I’d swear, some nights it’s more potent than other times, wouldn’t you say so, Fuldit?’



‘Eh? Yah, s’pose so. When you gonna move den, Seerdomin? Eh? Resto, bring us another bottle!’



‘Perhaps,’ muttered Seerdomin, ‘it’s my mind that’s not sharp. I believe I must surrender.’



Spinnock said nothing, although he was disappointed-no, he was shaken. He could see a decent counter, had been assuming his opponent had seen it immediately, but had been busy seeking something better, SOmething wilder, Other nights, Seerdomin’s talent would burst through at moments like these-a fearless gambit that seemed to pivot the world on this very tabletop.



Perhaps if I wait a little longer-



‘I yield,’ said Seerdomin.



Words uttered, a crisis pronounced.



‘Resto, bring us a pitcher, if you’d be so-’ Seerdomin got no further. He seemed to jolt back into his chair, as if an invisible hand had just slammed into his chest. His eyes were on the tavern door.



Spinnock twisted in his seat to see that strangers had arrived at the Scour. A young woman wearing a rough-woven russet robe, her hair cut short-shorter even than the High Priestess’s-yet the same midnight black. A pale face both soft and exquisite, eyes of deep brown, now searching through the gloom, finding at last the one she sought: Seerdomin. Behind her crowded others, all wearing little more than rags, their wan faces tight with something like panic.



The woman in the lead walked over.



Seerdomin sat like a man nailed to his chair. All colour had left his face a moment earlier, but now it was darkening, his eyes flaring with hard anger.



‘Benighted-’



‘This is my refuge,’ he said. ‘Leave. Now.’