‘Do ye now?’ The foreman looked over at the nobleman.
Yes, Murillio thought he might know this young man.
‘You are the one named Murillio,’ the nobleman said, with an odd glitter in his gaze.
‘You have the better of me—’
‘That goes without saying. I am the principal investor of this operation. I am also a councillor. Gorlas Vidikas of House Vidikas.’
Murillio bowed a second time, as much to hide his dismay as in proper deference. ‘Councillor Vidikas, it is a pleasure meeting you.’
‘Is it? I very much doubt that. It took me a few moments to place you. You were pointed out, you see, a couple of years back, at some estate fête.’
‘Oh? Well, there was a time when I was—’ ‘You were on a list,’ Gorlas cut in.
‘A what?’
‘A hobby of a friend of mine, although I doubt he would have seen it as a hobby. In fact, if I was so careless as to use that word, when it came to his list, he’d probably call me out.’
‘I am sorry,’ Murillio said, ‘but I’m afraid I do not know what you are talking about. Some sort of list, you said?’
‘Likely conspirators,’ Gorlas said with a faint smile, ‘in the murder of Turban Orr, not to mention Ravyd Lim – or was it some other Lim? I don’t recall now, but then, that hardly matters. No, Turban Orr, and of course the suspicious suicide of Lady Simtal – all on the same night, in her estate. I was there, did you know that? I saw Turban Orr assassinated with my own eyes.’ And he was in truth smiling now, as if recalling something yielding waves of nostalgia. But his eyes were hard, fixed like sword points. ‘My friend, of course, is Hanut Orr, and the list is his.’
‘I do recall attending the Simtal fête,’ Murillio said, and in his mind he was reliving those moments after leaving the Lady’s bedchamber – leaving her with the means by which she could take her own life – and his thoughts, then, of everything he had surrendered, and what it might mean for his future. Appropriate, then, that it should now return to crouch at his feet, like a rabid dog with fangs bared. ‘Alas, I missed the duel—’
‘It was no duel, Murillio. Turban Orr was provoked. He was set up. He was assassinated, in plain view. Murder, not a duel – do you even comprehend the difference?’
The foreman was staring back and forth between them with all the dumb bewilderment of an ox.
‘I do, sir, but as I said, I was not there to witness the event—’
‘You call me a liar, then?’
‘Excuse me?’ Gods below, ten years past and he would have handled this with perfect grace and mocking equanimity, and all that was ruffled would be smoothed over, certain debts accepted, promises of honouring those debts not even needing explicit enunciation. Ten years past and—
‘You are calling me a liar.’
‘No, I do not recall doing so, Councillor. If you say Turban Orr was assassinated, then so be it. As for my somehow conspiring to bring it about, well, that is itself a very dangerous accusation.’ Oh, he knew where this was leading. He had known for some time, in fact. It was all there in Gorlas Vidikas’s eyes – and Murillio now recalled where he had last seen this man, and heard of him. Gorlas enjoyed duelling. He enjoyed killing his opponents. Yes, he had attended one of this bastard’s duels, and he had seen—
‘It seems,’ said Gorlas, ‘we have ourselves a challenge to honour here.’ He gave a short laugh. ‘When you retracted your accusation, well, I admit I thought you were about to tuck your tail between your legs and scuttle off down the road. And perhaps I would’ve let you go at that – it’s Hanut’s obsession, after all. Not mine.’
Murillio said nothing, understanding how he had trapped himself, with the foreman to witness the fact that the demand for a duel had come from him, not Gorlas Vidikas. He also understood that there had been no chance, none at all, that Gorlas would have let him go.
‘Naturally,’ continued the councillor, ‘I have no intention of withdrawing my accusation – so either accept it or call me out, Murillio. I have vague recollections that you were once judged a decent duellist.’ He scanned the track to either side. ‘This place seems well suited. Now, a miserable enough audience, granted, but—’
‘Excuse me,’ cut in the foreman, ‘but the day’s shift bell is about to sound. The crews can get a perfect view, what with you two on the ridgeline – if you’d like.’
Gorlas winked over at Murillio as he said, ‘By all means we shall wait, then.’
The foreman trundled down the path into the pit, to ensure that the crew captains were told what was going on. They’d enjoy the treat after a long day’s work in the tunnels.
As soon as the foreman was out of earshot, Gorlas grinned at Murillio. ‘Now, anything more we should talk about, now that we’ve got no witness?’
‘Thank you for the invitation,’ Murillio said, tightening the straps of his glove. ‘Turban Orr didn’t deserve an honourable death. Hanut is your friend? Tell me, do you enjoy sleeping with vipers, or are you just stupid?’
‘If that was an attempt to bring me to a boil, it was pathetic. You truly think I don’t know all the tricks leading up to a duel? Gods below, old man. Still, I am pleased by your admission – Hanut will be delighted to hear that his suspicions were accurate. More important, he will find himself in my debt.’ And then he cocked his head. ‘Of course, the debt will be all the greater if I let you live. A duel unto wounding – leaving your fate in Hanut’s hands. Yes, that would be perfect. Well, Murillio, shall it be wounding?’
‘If you like,’ Murillio said.
‘Are your boots pinching?’
‘No.’
‘You seem in discomfort, Murillio, or is that just nerves?’
Bells clanged in the pit below. Distant shouts, and out from the tunnel mouths spewed filthy figures looking barely human at this distance. Runners raced down the lines. Word was getting out.
‘What’s this Harllo boy to you, anyway?’
Murillio glanced back to Gorlas. ‘You married Estraysian D’Arle’s daughter, didn’t you? She’s made herself very . . . popular, of late, hasn’t she? Alas, I am starting to understand why – you’re not much of a man, are you, Gorlas?’
For all the councillor’s previous bravado, he paled in the late afternoon light.
‘It’s terrible, isn’t it,’ Murillio went on, ‘how every sordid detail, no matter how private and personal, so easily leaves the barricaded world of the wellborn and races like windblown seeds among all us common folk, us lowborn. Why, whatever happened to decency?’
The rapier rasped its way out of the sheath and the point lifted towards Murillio. ‘Draw your weapon, old man.’
Krute of Talient stepped inside. He saw Rallick Nom standing by the window, but it was shuttered closed. The man might as well be standing facing a wall. Oh, he was a strange one indeed, stranger now than he’d ever been before. All that silence, all that sense of something being very much . . . wrong. In his head? Maybe. And that was a worrying thought – that Rallick Nom might not be right any more.
‘It’s confirmed,’ said Krute, setting down the burlap sack filled with the makings for supper. ‘One contract dissolved, a new one accepted. Stinks of desperation, doesn’t it? Gods, Seba’s even called me back and that’s an invitation no sane man would refuse.’ He paused, eyeing his friend, and then said, ‘So you may not be seeing much of me from now on. From what I’ve gathered, this new one’s pretty straightforward, but it’s the kind that’ll shake up the precious bloods.’
‘Is it now?’ Rallick asked, expressionless.
‘Listen,’ said Krute, knowing he was betraying his nerves, ‘I couldn’t say no, could I? It’s fine enough living off your coin, but that’s hard on a man’s pride. I’ve got a chance to get back into the middle of things again. I’ve got a chance to walk with the Guild again. Rallick, I got to take it, you understand?’
‘Is it that important to you, Krute?’
Krute nodded.
‘The
n,’ said Rallick, ‘I had best leave your company.’
‘I’m sorry about that – it’s my being . . . what’s that word again?’
‘Compromised.’
‘Exactly. Now, if you’d made your move on Seba, well, we wouldn’t be in this situation, would we? It’s the waiting that’s been so hard.’
‘There are no plans to replace Seba Krafar,’ said Rallick. ‘I am sorry if I have unintentionally misled you on that count. This is not to say we’re uninterested in the Guild.’ He hesitated. ‘Krute, listen carefully. I can leave you some coin – enough for a while, a half-year’s worth, in fact. Just decline Seba’s invitation – you don’t know what you’re getting into—’
‘And you do? No, Rallick, the point is, if I don’t know it’s because I’ve been pushed out of things.’
‘You should be thankful for that.’
‘I don’t need any patronizing shit from you, Rallick Nom. You’re all secrets now, nothing but secrets. But you’ll live here, with me, and eat what I cook, and what about me? Oh, right, on the outside again, this time with you. Well, I can’t live like that, so you’d better go. Don’t think ill of me – I won’t tell Seba about you.’
‘Can I not buy your retirement, Krute?’
‘No.’
Rallick nodded and then walked to the door. ‘Guard yourself well, Krute.’
‘You too, Rallick.’
*
Emerging from the tenement building’s narrow back door, Rallick Nom stepped out into the rank, rubbish-filled alley. His last venture into the world had seen him very nearly killed by Crokus Younghand, and of his time spent recovering at the Phoenix Inn, it was clear that no one who’d known of his presence had said a thing – not Kruppe, nor Coll, nor Murillio, nor Meese, or Irilta; the Guild had not sniffed out his ignominious return. Even that wayward cousin of his, Torvald, had said nothing – although why that man had so vigorously avoided him was both baffling and somewhat hurtful.
Anyway, in a sense, Rallick remained invisible.
He paused in the alley. Still light, a ribbon of brightness directly above. It felt odd, to be outside in the day, and he knew it would not be long before someone caught sight of him, recognizing his face – eyes widening with astonishment – and word would race back to Seba Krafar. And then?
Well, the Master would probably send one of his lieutenants to sound Rallick out – what did he want? What did he expect from the Guild? There might be an invitation as well, the kind that was deadly either way. Accept it and walk into an ambush. Reject it and the hunt would begin. There were few who could take down Rallick one on one, but that wouldn’t be the preferred tactic in any case. No, it would be a quarrel to the back.
There were other places he could hide – he could probably walk right back into the Finnest House. But then, Krute was not the only one getting impatient. Besides, Rallick had never much liked subterfuge. He’d not used it when he’d been active in the Guild, after all – except when he was working, of course.
No, the time had come to stir things awake. And if Seba Krafar’s confidence had been rattled by a handful of rancorous Malazans, well, he was about to be sent reeling.
The notion brought a faint smile to Rallick’s lips. Yes, I am back.
He set out for the Phoenix Inn.
I am back, so let’s get this started, shall we?
Echoing alarms at the blurred border between the Daru and Lakefront districts, a half-dozen streets behind them now as Barathol – holding Chaur’s hand as he would a child’s – dragged the giant man through the late afternoon crowds. They had passed a few patrols, but word had yet to outdistance the two fugitives, although it was likely that this flight would, ultimately, prove anything but surreptitious – guards and bystanders both could not help but recall the two huge foreigners, one onyx-skinned, the other the hue of stained rawhide, rushing past.
Barathol had no choice but to dispense with efforts at stealth and subterfuge. Chaur was bawling with all the indignant outrage of a toddler unjustly punished, astonished to discover that not all things were cute and to be indulged by adoring caregivers – that, say, shoving a sibling off a cliff was not quite acceptable behaviour.
He had tried calming Chaur down, but simple as Chaur was, he was quick to sense disapproval, and Barathol had been unthinking and careless in expressing that disapproval – well, rather, he had been shocked into carelessness – and now the huge child would wail unto eventual exhaustion, and that exhaustion was still a long way off.
Two streets away from the harbour, three guards thirty paces behind them suddenly raised shouts, and now the chase was on for real.
To Barathol’s surprise, Chaur fell silent, and the smith pulled him up alongside him as they hurried along. ‘Chaur, listen to me. Get back to the ship – do you understand? Back to the ship, to the lady, yes? Back to Spite – she’ll hide you. To the ship, Chaur, understand?’
A tear-streaked face, cheeks blotchy, eyes red, Chaur nodded.
Barathol pushed him ahead. ‘Go. On your own – I’ll catch up with you. Go!’
And Chaur went, lumbering, knocking people off their feet until a path miraculously opened before him.
Barathol turned about to give the three guards some trouble. Enough to purchase Chaur the time he needed, at least.
He managed that well enough, with fists and feet, with knees and elbows, and if not for the arrival of reinforcements, he might even have won clear. Six more guards, however, proved about five too many, and he was wrestled to the ground and beaten half senseless.
The occasional thought filtered weakly through the miasma of pain and confusion as he was roughly carried to the nearest gaol. He’d known a cell before. It wasn’t so bad, so long as the gaolers weren’t into torture. Yes, he could make a tour of gaol cells, country to country, continent to continent. All he needed to do was start up a smithy without the local Guild’s approval.
Simple enough.
Then these fragmented notions went away, and the bliss of unconsciousness was unbroken, for a time.
‘‘Tis the grand stupidity of our kind, dear Cutter, to see all the errors of our ways, yet find in ourselves the inability to do anything about them. We sit, dumbfounded by despair, and for all our ingenuity, our perceptivity, for all our extraordinary capacity to see the truth of things, we hunker down like snails in a flood, sucked tight to our precious pebble, fearing the moment it is dislodged beneath us. Until that terrible calamity, we do nothing but cling.
‘Can you even imagine a world where all crimes are punished, where justice is truly blind and holds out no hands happy to yield to the weight of coin and influence? Where one takes responsibility for his or her mistakes, acts of negligence, the deadly consequences of indifference or laziness? Nay, instead we slip and duck, dance and dodge, dance the dodge slip duck dance, feet ablur! Our selves transformed into shadows that flit in chaotic discord. We are indeed masters of evasion – no doubt originally a survival trait, at least in the physical sense, but to have such instincts applied to the soul is perhaps our most egregious crime against morality. What we will do so that we may continue living with ourselves. In this we might assert that a survival trait can ultimately prove its own antithesis, and in the cancelling out thereof, why, we are left with the blank, dull, vacuous expression that Kruppe now sees before him.’
‘Sorry, what?’
‘Dear Cutter, this is a grave day, I am saying. A day of the misguided and the misapprehended, a day of mischance and misery. A day in which to grieve the unanticipated, this yawning stretch of too-late that follows fell decisions, and the stars will plummet and if we truly possessed courage we would ease ourselves with great temerity into that high, tottering footwear of the gods, and in seeing what they see, in knowing what they have come to know, we would at last comprehend the madness of struggle, the absurdity of hope, and off we would stumble, wailing our way into the dark future. We would weep, my friend, we would weep.’
‘Maybe I have learn
ed all about killing,’ Cutter said in a mumble, his glazy eyes seemingly fixed on the tankard in his hand. ‘And maybe assassins don’t spare a thought as to who deserves what, or even motivations. Coin in hand, or love in the heart – reward has so many . . . flavours. But is this what she really wants? Or was that some kind of careless . . . burst, like a flask never meant to be opened – shatters, everything pours out – staining your hands, staining . . . everything.’
‘Cutter,’ said Kruppe in a low, soft but determined tone. ‘Cutter. You must listen to Kruppe, now. You must listen – he is done with rambling, with his own bout of terrible, grievous helplessness. Listen! Cutter, there are paths that must not be walked. Paths where going back is impossible – no matter how deeply you would wish it, no matter how loud the cry in your soul. Dearest friend, you must—’
Shaking himself, Cutter rose suddenly. ‘I need a walk,’ he said. ‘She couldn’t have meant it. That future she paints . . . it’s a fairy tale. Of course it is. Has to be. No, and no, and no. But . . .’
Kruppe watched as the young man walked away, watched as Cutter slipped through the doorway of the Phoenix Inn, and was gone from sight.
‘Sad truth,’ Kruppe said – his audience of none sighing in agreement – ‘that a tendency towards verbal excess can so defeat the precision of meaning. That intent can be so well disguised in majestic plethora of nuance, of rhythm both serious and mocking, of this penchant for self-referential slyness, that the unwitting simply skip on past – imagining their time to be so precious, imagining themselves above all manner of conviction, save that of their own witty perfection. Sigh and sigh again.
‘See Kruppe totter in these high shoes – nay, even his balance is not always precise, no matter how condign he may be in so many things. Totter, I say, as down fall the stars and off wail the gods and helplessness is an ocean in flood, ever rising – but we shall not drown alone, shall we? No, we shall have plenty of company in this chill comfort. The guilty and the innocent, the quick and the thick, the wise and the dumb, the righteous and the wicked – the flood levels all, faces down in the swells, oh my.
Toll the Hounds Page 86