Toll the Hounds (The Malazan Book of the Fallen 8)

‘No more widows. No more clandestine trysts.’

‘Precisely.’

‘You’ll make a good instructor.’

‘Not likely,’ he replied with a grimace, ‘but I have no aspirations to be one, ei-ther. It’s work, that’s all. Footwork, forms, balance and timing-the more serious stuff they can get from someone else.’

‘If you go in there talking like that,’ Cutter said, ‘you’ll never get hired.’

‘I’ve lost my ability to charm?’

Cutter sighed and rose from his chair. ‘I doubt it.’

‘What brought you back?’ Murillio asked.

The question stopped him. ‘A conceit, maybe.’

‘What kind of conceit?’

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‘No more widows. No more clandestine trysts.’

‘Precisely.’

‘You’ll make a good instructor.’

‘Not likely,’ he replied with a grimace, ‘but I have no aspirations to be one, ei-ther. It’s work, that’s all. Footwork, forms, balance and timing-the more serious stuff they can get from someone else.’

‘If you go in there talking like that,’ Cutter said, ‘you’ll never get hired.’

‘I’ve lost my ability to charm?’

Cutter sighed and rose from his chair. ‘I doubt it.’

‘What brought you back?’ Murillio asked.

The question stopped him. ‘A conceit, maybe.’

‘What kind of conceit?’

The city is in danger. It needs me. ‘Oh,’ he said, turning to the door, ‘the child-ish kind. Be well, Murillio-I think your idea is a good one, by the way. If Rallick drops by looking for me, tell him I’ll be back later.’

He took the back stairs, went through the dank, narrow kitchen, and out into the alley, where the chill of the night just past remained in the air. He did need to speak to Rallick Nom, but not right now. He felt slightly punch drunk. The shock of his return, he supposed, the clash inside himself between who he had once been and who he was now. He needed to get settled, to get the confusion from his mind. If he could begin to see clearly again, he’d know what to do.

Out into the city, then, to wander. Not quite running wild, was it?

No, those days were long gone.

The wound had healed quickly, reminding him that there had been changes-the powder of otataral he had rubbed into his skin only a few days ago, or so it seemed. To begin a night of murder now years past. The other changes, however, were proving far more disconcerting. He had lost so much time. Vanished from the world, and the world just went on without him. As if Rallick Nom had been dead, yes-no different from that, only now he was back, which wasn’t how things should be. Pull a stick from the mud and the mud closes in to swallow up the hole, until no sign remains that the stick ever existed.

Was he still an assassin of the Guild? Not at the moment, and this truth opened to him so many possibilities that his mind reeled, staggered back to the simpler no-tion of descending into the catacombs, walking up to Seba Krafar and announcing his return, resuming, yes, his old life.

And if Seba was anything like old Talo, he would smile and say welcome back, Rallick Nom. F rom that moment the chances that Rallick would make it back out alive were virtually nonexistent. Seba would see at once the threat standing More him, Vorcan had favoured Rallick and that alone was sufficient justifica-tion for getting rid of him. Seba wanted no rivals-he’d had enough of those if Ktule’s tale of the faction war was accurate.

He had another option when it came to the Guild. Rallick could walk in and kill Seba Krafar, then announce he was interim Master, awaiting Vorcan’s return. Or he could stay in hiding for as long as possible, waiting for Vorcan to make her own move. Then, with her ruling the nest once again, he could emerge out of the woodwork and those missing years would be as nothing, would be without mean-Ing. That much he shared with Vorcan, and because of that she would trust no one but Rallick. He’d be second in command, and how could he not be satisfied with that?

Oh, this was an old crisis-years old now. His thought that Turban Orr would be the last person he killed had been as foolish then as it was now.

He sat on the edge of the bed in his room. From the taproom below he could hear Kruppe expounding on the glories of breakfast, punctuated by some muted no doubt savage commentary by Meese, and with those two it was indeed as if nothing had changed. The same could not be said for Murillio, alas. Nor for Crokus, who was now named Cutter-an assassin’s name for certain, all too well suited to the man Crokus had become. Now who taught him to fight with knives like that? Something of the Malazan style-the Claw, in fact.

Rallick had been expecting Cutter to visit, had been anticipating the launch of a siege of questions. He would want to explain, wouldn’t he? Try to justify his de-cisions to Rallick, even when there was no possible justification. He didn’t listen to me, did he? Ignored my warnings. Only fools think they can make a differ-ence. So, where was he? With Murillio, I expect, holding off on the inevitable.

A brief knock at the door and Irilta entered-she’d been living hard of late, he could see, and such things seemed to catch up faster with women than with men-though when men went they went quickly. ‘Brought you breakfast,’ she said, carrying a tray over. ‘See? I remembered it all, right down to the honey-soaked figs.’