‘Quite a sales pitch,’ Murillio observed. ‘Does it actually work?’
‘Classes are full. There’s a waiting list.’
‘I was wondering if you need help. With basic instruction.’
‘What school trained you then?’
‘Carpala.’
She snorted. ‘He took one student every three years.’
‘Yes.’
And now she looked at him with an intensity he’d not seen before. ‘Last I heard, there were seven students of his left in the city.’
‘Five, actually. Fedel tumbled down a flight of stairs and broke his neck. He was drunk. Santbala—’
‘Was stabbed through the heart by Gorlas Vidikas – the brat’s first serious victory.’
Murillio grimaced. ‘Not much of a duel. Santbala had gone mostly blind but was too proud to admit it. A cut on the wrist would have given Gorlas his triumph.’
‘The young ones prefer killing to wounding.’
‘It’s what duelling has come to, yes. Fortunately, most of your students here are more likely to stab themselves than any opponent they might one day face, and such wounds are rarely fatal.’
‘Your name?’
‘Murillio.’
She nodded as if she’d already guessed. ‘And you’re here because you want to teach. If you’d taken up teaching when Carpala was still alive—’
‘He would have hunted me down and killed me, yes. He despised schools. In fact, he despised duelling. He once said teaching the rapier was like putting a poisonous snake into a child’s hand. He drew no pleasure from instruction and was not at all surprised when very nearly every one of his prize students either got themselves killed or wasted away as drunkards or worse.’
‘You did neither.’
‘No, that’s true. I chased women.’
‘Only now they’re too fast for you?’
‘Something like that.’
‘I am Stonny Menackis. This school exists to make me rich, and yes, it’s working. Tell me, will you be sharing your old master’s hatred of teaching?’
‘Not as vehemently, I imagine. I don’t expect to take any pleasure in it, but I will do what’s needed.’
‘Footwork.’
He nodded. ‘Footwork. The art of running away. And forms, the defensive cage, since that will keep them alive.
Stop-hits to the wrist, knee, foot.’
‘Non-lethal.’
‘Yes.’
She sighed and straightened. ‘All right. Assuming I can afford you.’
‘I’m sure you can.’
She shot him a quizzical glance, and then added, ‘Don’t think about chasing me, by the way.’
‘I am finished with all that, or, rather, it’s finished with me.’
‘Good—’
At this moment they both noticed that a woman had come up to them.
Stonny’s voice was suddenly . . . different, as she said, ‘Myrla. What are you doing here?’
‘I’ve been looking for Gruntle—’
‘That fool went off with the Trygalle – I warned him and now he’s going to get himself killed for no good reason!’
‘Oh. It’s Harllo, you see . . .’
‘What about him?’
The woman was flinching at everything Stonny said and Murillio suspected he would have done the same in the face of such a tone. ‘He’s gone missing.’
‘What? For how long?’
‘Snell said he saw him, two days back. Down at the docks. He’s never not come home at day’s end – he’s only five—’
‘Two days!’
Murillio saw that Stonny’s face had gone white as death and a sudden terror was growing in her eyes. ‘Two days!’
‘Snell says—’
‘You stupid woman – Snell is a liar! A damned thief!’
Myrla stepped back under the onslaught. ‘He gave us the coin you brought—’
‘After I nearly had to strangle him, yes! What’s Snell done to Harllo? What’s he done?’
Myrla was weeping now, wringing her chapped hands. ‘Said he done nothing, Stonny—’
‘A moment,’ cut in Murillio, physically stepping between the two women as he saw Stonny about to move forward, gloved hand lifting. ‘A child’s gone missing? I can put out the word – I know all sorts of people. Please, we can do this logically – down at the docks, you said? We’ll need to find out which ships left harbour in the last two days – the trading season’s only just starting, so there shouldn’t be many. His name is Harllo, and he’s five years old—’ Gods below, you send him out into the streets and he’s only five? ‘Can you give me a description? Hair, eyes, the like.’
Myrla was nodding, even as tears streamed down her lined cheeks and her entire body trembled. She nodded and kept on nodding.
Stonny spun round and rushed away, boots echoing harshly down the corridor.
Murillio stared after her in astonishment. ‘Where – what?’
‘It’s her son, you see,’ said Myrla between sobs. ‘Her only son, only she don’t want him and so he’s with us but Snell, he has bad thoughts and does bad things sometimes only not this, never this bad, he wouldn’t do anything this bad to Harllo, he wouldn’t!’
‘We’ll find him,’ said Murillio. One way or the other, Lady’s pull bless us, and bless the lad. ‘Now, please, describe him and describe him well – what he normally does each day – I need to know that, too. Everything you can tell me, Myrla. Everything.’
Snell understood, in a dim but accurate way, how others, wishing only the best in him, could have their faith abused at will, and even should some truth be dragged into the light, well, it was then a matter of displaying crushed self-pity, and the great defender would take him into her arms – as mothers do.
Can we hope that on rare occasions, perhaps late at night when the terrors crept close, he would think about how things he’d done could damage his mother’s faith, and not just in him, but in herself as well? The son, after all, is but an extension of the mother – at least so the mother believed, there in some inarticulate part of her soul, unseen yet solid as an iron chain. Assail the child and so too the mother is assailed, for what is challenged is her life as a mother, the lessons she taught or didn’t teach, the things she chose not to see, to explain away, to pretend were otherwise than what they were.
Weep for the mother. Snell won’t and he never would, saving all his future to weep exclusively for himself. The creeping terrors awakened startling glimmers of thought, of near-empathy, but they never went so far as to lead to any self-recognition, or compassion for the mother who loved him unconditionally. His nature was the kind that took whatever was given to him as if it was a birthright, all of it, for ever and ever more.
Rage at injustice came when something – anything – was withheld. Things he righteously deserved, and of course he deserved everything he wanted. All that he wanted he reached for, and oh such fury if those things eluded his grasp or were then taken away!
In the absence of what might be imposed, a child will fashion the structure of the world to suit itself. Created from a mind barely awake – and clearly not even that when it came to introspection – that world becomes a strange place indeed. But let us not rail at the failings of nearby adults tied by blood or whatever. Some children are born in a cage – it’s already there, in their skulls – and it’s a dark cage.
He was wandering the streets, fleeing all the cruel questions being flung at him. They had no right to accuse him like that. Oh, when he was all grown up, nobody would be allowed to get after him like this. He’d break their faces. He’d step on their heads. He’d make them afraid, every one of them, so he could go on doing whatever he liked. He couldn’t wait to get older and that was the truth.
And yet, he found himself heading for Two-Ox Gate. He needed to know, after all. Was Harllo still lying there? He hadn’t hit him so hard, had he? Enough to kill him? Only if Harllo had been born weak, only if something was wrong with him from t
he start. And that wouldn’t be a surprise, would it? Harllo’s own mother had thrown him away, after all. So, if Harllo was lying dead in the grasses on that hilltop, why, it wasn’t Snell’s fault, was it? Something would have killed him sooner or later.
So that was a relief, but he’d better go and find out for sure. What if Harllo hadn’t died at all? What if he was out there somewhere, planning murder? He could be spying on Snell right now! With a knife he’d found, or a knotted stick. Quick, cunning, able to dart out of sight no matter how fast Snell spun round on the street – he was out there! Waiting, stalking.
Snell needed to prove things, and that was why he was running through Maiten, where the stink of Brownrun Bay and the lepers was nearly enough to make him retch – and hah! Listen to them scream when struck by the bigger stones he threw at them! He was tempted to tarry for a time, to find one of the uglier ones he could stone again and again until the cries just went away, and wouldn’t that be a mercy? Better than rotting away.
But no, not yet, maybe on the way back, after he’d stood for a time, looking down at the flyblown corpse of Harllo – that would be the perfect conclusion to this day, after all. His problems solved. Nobody hunting him in the shadows. He’d throw stones fast and hard then, a human catapult – smack! Crush the flimsy skull!
Maybe he wasn’t grown up yet, but he could still do things. He could take lives.
He left the road, made his way up the hill. This was the place all right – how could he forget? Every detail was burned into his brain. The first giant tapestry in the history of Snell. Slaying his evil rival, and see the dragons wheeling in the sky above the lake – witnesses!
The slope unaccountably tired him, brought a tremble to his legs. Just nervousness, of course. His shins stung as he rushed through the grasses, and came to the place.
No body.
Sudden terror. Snell looked round, on all sides – he was out there! Wasn’t hurt at all! He’d probably faked the whole thing, biting down on his pain with every kick. Hiding, yes, just to get Snell in trouble and when Gruntle came back there’d be Hood to pay! Gruntle who made Harllo his favourite because Harllo did things to help out but wasn’t it Snell who brought back that last sack of fuel? It was! Of course Gruntle wasn’t there to see that, was he? So he didn’t know anything because if he did—
If he did he’d kill me.
Cold, shivering in the lake wind, Snell ran back down the hill. He needed to get home, maybe not right home, but somewhere close – so he could jump Harllo when he showed up to tell his lies about what had happened. Lies – Snell had no bag of coins, did he? Harllo’s mother’s coins, hah, wasn’t that funny? She was rich enough anyway and Snell deserved that money as much as anyone else – he reached up and tenderly touched the swelling on his left cheek. The bitch had hit him, all to steal back the money. Well, she’d pay one day, yes, she would.
One day, yes, he’d be all grown up. And then . . . look out!
It had taken the death of a once-famous duellist before people started treating Gorlas Vidikas as an adult, but now he was a man indeed, a feared one, a member of the Council. He was wealthy but not yet disgustingly rich, although that was only a matter of time.
Fools the world over worshipped gods and goddesses. But coin was the only thing worth worshipping, because to worship it was to see it grow – more and ever more – and all that he took for himself he took from someone else and this was where the real conquest happened. Day by day, deal by deal, and winning these games was proof of true faith and worship, and oh how deliciously satisfying.
Fools dropped coins into collection bowls. The rich cleaned those bowls out and this was the true division of humanity. But more than that: the rich decided how many coins the fools had to spare and how did that rate as power? Which side was preferable? As if the question needed asking.
Coin purchased power, like a god blessing the devout, but of both power and wealth there could never be enough. As for the victims, well, there could never be enough of them either. Someone was needed to clean the streets of the Estate District. Someone was needed to wash clothes, bedding and the like. Someone was needed to make the damned things in the first place! And someone was needed to fight the wars when the rich decided they wanted still more of whatever was out there.
Gorlas Vidikas, born to wealth and bred to title, found life to be good. But it could be better still and the steps to improvement were simple enough.
‘Darling wife,’ he now said as she was rising to leave, ‘I must take a trip and will not return until tomorrow or even the day after.’
She paused, watching in a distracted way as the servants closed in to collect the dishes from the late breakfast – calloused hands darting in like featherless birds – and said, ‘Oh?’
‘Yes. I have been granted the overseer title of an operation out of the city, and I must visit the workings. Thereafter, I must take ship to Gredfallan Annexe to finalize a contract.’
‘Very well, husband.’
‘There was no advance notice of any of this,’ Gorlas added, ‘and, alas, I had extended invitations to both Shardan and Hanut to dine with us this evening.’ He paused to smile at her. ‘I leave them in your capable hands – please do extend my apologies.’
She was staring down at him in a somewhat disconcerting way. ‘You wish me to host your two friends tonight?’
‘Of course.’
‘I see.’
And perhaps she did at that – yet was she railing at him? No. And was there perhaps the flush of excitement on her cheeks now? But she was turning away so he could not be sure. And walking, hips swaying in that admirable way of hers, right out of the room.
And there, what was done . . . was done.
He rose and gestured to his manservant. ‘Make ready the carriage, I am leaving immediately.’
Head bobbing, the man hurried off.
Someone was needed to groom the horses, to check the tack, to keep the carriage clean and the brakes in working order. Someone was needed to ensure he had all he required in the travel trunks. And, as it happened, someone was needed for other things besides. Like spreading the legs as a reward for past favours, and as a future debt when it was time to turn everything round.
They could take his wife. He would take them, one day – everything they owned, everything they dreamed of owning. After tonight, he would own one of them or both of them – both for certain in the weeks to come. Which one would produce Gorlas’s heir? He didn’t care – Challice’s getting pregnant would get his parents off his back at the very least, and might well add the reward of satisfying her – and so wiping that faint misery from her face and bringing an end to all those irritating sighs and longing faraway looks out of the windows.
Besides, she worshipped money too. Hood knew she spent enough of it, on precious trinkets and useless indulgences. Give her a child and then three or four more and she’d be no further trouble and content besides.
Sacrifices needed to be made. So make it, wife, and who knows you might even be smiling when it’s done with.
A bell and a half later the Vidikas carriage was finally clearing Two-Ox Gate and the horses picked up their pace as the road opened out, cutting through the misery of Maiten (and where else should the lost and the hopeless go but outside the city walls?) which Gorlas suffered with closed shutters and a scent ball held to his nose.
When he ruled he’d order a massive pit dug out on the Dwelling Plain and they would drag all these wasted creatures out there and bury the lot of them. It was simple enough – can’t pay for a healer and that’s just too bad, but look, we won’t charge for the burial.
Luxuriating in such thoughts, and other civic improvements, Gorlas dozed as the carriage rumbled onward.
Challice stood alone in her private chambers, staring at the hemisphere of glass with its trapped moon. What would she lose? Her reputation. Or, rather, that reputation would change. Hanut grinning, Shardan strutting in that knowing way of his, making sure his se
cret oozed from every pore so that it was anything but a secret. Other men would come to her, expecting pretty much the same. And maybe, by then, there would be no stopping her. And maybe, before too long, she’d find one man who decided that what he felt was love, and she would then begin to unveil her plan – the only plan she had and it certainly made sense. Eminently logical, even reasonable. Justifiable.
Sometimes the beast on its chain turns on its master. Sometimes it goes for his throat, and sometimes it gets there.
But it would take time. Neither Shardan Lim nor Hanut Orr would do – both needed Gorlas even though their triumvirate was a partnership of convenience. Any one of them would turn on the other if the situation presented itself – but not yet, not for a long while, she suspected.
Could she do this?
What is my life? Here, look around – what is it? She had no answer to that question. She was like a jeweller blind to the notion of value. Shiny or dull, it didn’t matter. Rare or abundant, the only difference lay in desire and how could one weigh that, when the need behind it was the same? The same, yes, in all its sordid hunger.
She could reduce all her needs to but one. She could do that. She would have to, to stomach what was to come.
She felt cold, could see the purple tracks through the pallid white skin of her arms as her blood flowed turgidly on. She needed to walk in sunlight, to feel the heat, and know that people would look upon her as she passed – on her fine cape of ermine with its borders of black silk sewn with silvered thread; on the bracelets on her wrists and down at her ankles – too much jewellery invited the thief’s snatching hand, after all, and was crass besides. And her long hair would glisten with its scented oils, and there would be a certain look in her eyes, lazy, satiated, seductively sealed away so that it seemed she took notice of nothing and no one, and this was, she well knew, a most enticing look in what were still beautiful eyes—
She found herself looking into them, there in the mirror, still clear even after half a carafe of wine at breakfast and then the pipe of rustleaf afterwards, and she had a sudden sense that the next time she stood thus, the face staring back at her would belong to someone else, another woman wearing her skin, her face. A stranger far more knowing, far wiser in the world’s dismal ways than this one before her now.
Toll the Hounds Page 43