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

‘She’s poisoning him, is my guess.’

Scorch stared, as if amazed at such a suggestion. ‘Why would she do that?’

‘Because of you,’ said Leff. ‘She hates you, Scorch, because of the way you always got Tor into trouble, and now she thinks you’re going to do it all over again, so that’s why she’s poisoning him.’

‘That don’t make any sense. If she was worried she wouldn’t be killing him!’

‘Not killing, just making sickly. You forget, she’s a witch, she can do things like that. Of course, she’d do better by poisoning you.’

‘I ain’t touching nothing she cooks, that’s for sure.’

‘It won’t help if she decides you’re better off dead, Scorch. Gods, I am so glad I’m not you.’

‘Me too.’

‘What?’

‘I’d have orange eyes and that’d be awful because then we’d both have orange eyes so looking at each other would be like looking at yourself, which I have to do all the time anyway but imagine double that! No thanks, is what I say.’

‘Is that what you say?’

‘I just said it, didn’t I?’

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‘She’s poisoning him, is my guess.’

Scorch stared, as if amazed at such a suggestion. ‘Why would she do that?’

‘Because of you,’ said Leff. ‘She hates you, Scorch, because of the way you always got Tor into trouble, and now she thinks you’re going to do it all over again, so that’s why she’s poisoning him.’

‘That don’t make any sense. If she was worried she wouldn’t be killing him!’

‘Not killing, just making sickly. You forget, she’s a witch, she can do things like that. Of course, she’d do better by poisoning you.’

‘I ain’t touching nothing she cooks, that’s for sure.’

‘It won’t help if she decides you’re better off dead, Scorch. Gods, I am so glad I’m not you.’

‘Me too.’

‘What?’

‘I’d have orange eyes and that’d be awful because then we’d both have orange eyes so looking at each other would be like looking at yourself, which I have to do all the time anyway but imagine double that! No thanks, is what I say.’

‘Is that what you say?’

‘I just said it, didn’t I?’

‘I don’t know. I don’t know what you just said, Scorch, and that’s the truth.’

‘Good, since what I had to say wasn’t meant for you anyway.’Leff looked round and no, he didn’t see anyone else. Of course he didn’t, there was no point in looking.

‘Besides,’ said Scorch, ‘you’re the one who’s been poisoned.’

‘It wasn’t no poison, Scorch. It was a mistake, a misdiagnosis. And it’s fading-’

‘No it ain’t.’

‘Yes. It is.’

‘No. It ain’t.’

‘I’d stop saying that if I was you-’

‘Don’t start that one again!’

Blessed fates! Leave them to it, thy round self begs! The night stretches on, the city wears its granite grin and shadows dance on the edge of darkness. Late-night hawkers call out their wares, their services both proper and dubious. Singers sing and the drunk drink and thieves do their thieving and mysteries thrive wherever you do hot belong and that, friends, is the hard truth.

Like rats we skitter away from the pools of light, seeking other matters, other scenes both tranquil and foul.

Follow, oh, follow me!

Benefactor of all things cosmopolitan, bestower of blessings upon all matters human and humane (bless their hearts both squalid and generous, bless their dreams and bless their nightmares, bless their fears and their loves and their fears of love and love of fears and bless, well, bless their shoes, sandals, boots and slippers and to walk in each, in turn, ah, such wonders! Such peculiar follies!), Kruppe of Darujhistan walked the Great Avenue of sordid acquisitiveness, casting a most enormous, indeed gigantic shadow that rolled sure as a tide past all these shops and their wares, past the wary eyes of shop owners, past the stands of fruit and succulent pastries, past the baskets of berries and the dried fish and the strange leafy things some people ate believing themselves to be masticators of wholesomeness, past the loaves of bread and rounds of cheese, past the vessels of wine and liquors in all assorted sizes, past the weavers and dressmakers, past the crone harpist with nubs for fingers and only three strings left on her harp and her song about the peg and the hole and the honey on the nightstand-ducking the flung coins and so quickly past!-and the bolts of cloth going nowhere and the breeches blocking the doorway and the shirts for men-at-arms and shoes for the soulless and the headstone makers and urn-pissers and the old thrice-divorced man who tied knots for a living with a gaggle of children in tow surely bound by blood and thicker stuff. Past the wax-drippers and wick-twisters, the fire-eaters and ashcake-makers, past the prostitutes-oozing each languorous step with smiles of appreciation and fingers all aflutter and unbidden mysterious sensations of caresses in hidden or at least out-of-reach places and see eyes widen and appreciation flood through like the rush of lost youth and princely dreams and they sigh and call out Kruppe, you darling man! Kruppe, ain’t you gonna pay for that! Kruppe, marry every one of us and make us honest women! Kruppe-rushing quickly past, now, aaii, frightening prospect to imagine! Abludgeon of wives (surely that must be the plural assignation)! A prattle of prostitutes!

Past this gate, thank the gods, and into the tunnel and out again and now Civilization loomed austere and proper and this bodacious shadow strode alone, animated in its solitude, and yet this moment proved ample time to partake of past passages through life itself.