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

One thing was certain. He would permit no one to ever again abuse his virtues-even those few that remained, in their dishevelled state. They were not currency, not things to be measured, weighed against gold, gems, property or power. If the bastards wanted all that, they could sweat their own sweat and bleed their own blood to get it.

Take me as a knife and I will turn in your hand. I swear it.

‘You are smiling,’ Nimander observed. ‘It pleases me to see that alive and well.’

Skintick glanced at him. The legacy of Bastion remained in the stains of old blood beneath the salt that now caked moccasins and leggings. No one had both-ered cleaning their gear, so desperate was the need to leave that city. Something had changed in Nimander , however, beyond the horrors of saemenkelyk and the Dying God’s altar. As if his sense of purpose had taken a fresh beating, like a new seedling trampled underfoot. How many times, Skintick wondered, could Nimander suffer that, before some fundamental poison altered his very nature? The vision he had of Nimander’s final demise was dependent upon a certain sanctity of spirit’s remaining, something precious and rare that would drive him to that last act of despair. If it was already dead, or twisted malign, then Nimander’s fate would become truly unknown.

Has he found ambition? Is the poison of cynicism awakening in his belea-guered soul?

This could change things, Skintick realized. He might become someone I could choose to follow-yes, down that nasty path and why not? Let someone else suffer for our gains, for a change. Topple them into the dirt and see how they like the sweet reversal.

Is he hard enough to play that game?

Am I hard enough to make use of him?

They had found a horse for Clip, but retained the wagon, at least for this jour-ney northward along the edge of the dying salt lake. Nenanda was seated once more on the raised bench, reins in one hand, switch in the other. Aranatha sat with her legs dangling off the end of the wagon, eyes on the row of broken teeth that was Bastion’s dwindling skyline, hazy and shimmering above the heat waves. Desra lounged in the wagon’s bed, dozing among the casks of water and bundles of dried goods. Kedeviss rode flank off to the right, almost thirty paces away now, her horse picking its way along the old beach with its withered drift-wood.

Clip rode far ahead, emphasizing his impatience. He’d not been much inter-ested in hearing the tale of their doings since his collapse at the village-a failing on his part (as he evidently saw the suggestion) that he refused to entertain, al-though this clearly left a mysterious and no doubt troubling gap in his memory. He was, if anything, even more evasive than he had been before, and more than once Skintick had caught suspicion in the warrior’s eyes when observing the rest of them. As if they had conspired to steal something from him, and had succeeded.

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One thing was certain. He would permit no one to ever again abuse his virtues-even those few that remained, in their dishevelled state. They were not currency, not things to be measured, weighed against gold, gems, property or power. If the bastards wanted all that, they could sweat their own sweat and bleed their own blood to get it.

Take me as a knife and I will turn in your hand. I swear it.

‘You are smiling,’ Nimander observed. ‘It pleases me to see that alive and well.’

Skintick glanced at him. The legacy of Bastion remained in the stains of old blood beneath the salt that now caked moccasins and leggings. No one had both-ered cleaning their gear, so desperate was the need to leave that city. Something had changed in Nimander , however, beyond the horrors of saemenkelyk and the Dying God’s altar. As if his sense of purpose had taken a fresh beating, like a new seedling trampled underfoot. How many times, Skintick wondered, could Nimander suffer that, before some fundamental poison altered his very nature? The vision he had of Nimander’s final demise was dependent upon a certain sanctity of spirit’s remaining, something precious and rare that would drive him to that last act of despair. If it was already dead, or twisted malign, then Nimander’s fate would become truly unknown.

Has he found ambition? Is the poison of cynicism awakening in his belea-guered soul?

This could change things, Skintick realized. He might become someone I could choose to follow-yes, down that nasty path and why not? Let someone else suffer for our gains, for a change. Topple them into the dirt and see how they like the sweet reversal.

Is he hard enough to play that game?

Am I hard enough to make use of him?

They had found a horse for Clip, but retained the wagon, at least for this jour-ney northward along the edge of the dying salt lake. Nenanda was seated once more on the raised bench, reins in one hand, switch in the other. Aranatha sat with her legs dangling off the end of the wagon, eyes on the row of broken teeth that was Bastion’s dwindling skyline, hazy and shimmering above the heat waves. Desra lounged in the wagon’s bed, dozing among the casks of water and bundles of dried goods. Kedeviss rode flank off to the right, almost thirty paces away now, her horse picking its way along the old beach with its withered drift-wood.

Clip rode far ahead, emphasizing his impatience. He’d not been much inter-ested in hearing the tale of their doings since his collapse at the village-a failing on his part (as he evidently saw the suggestion) that he refused to entertain, al-though this clearly left a mysterious and no doubt troubling gap in his memory. He was, if anything, even more evasive than he had been before, and more than once Skintick had caught suspicion in the warrior’s eyes when observing the rest of them. As if they had conspired to steal something from him, and had succeeded.

Skintick’s distrust of the bastard was growing. It wasn’t hard to hate Clip-absurdly easy, in fact-and such sentiments could well cloud his sense of the warrior with his endlessly spinning rings. Clip was, he now believed, one of those eager to abuse the virtues of others to achieve whatever private and entirely per-sonal victory he sought. And if the effort left a half-dozen contemptible youths dead in his wake, what of it?

He could not but see the bloodstains they now wore; could not but have no-ticed the notched and nicked weapons they took files to during rest stops. Their damaged armour. And dazed and groggy as he had been upon awakening in the al-tar chamber, he could not have been blind to the scores of dead-the veritable slaughterhouse they had left behind. And yet still Clip saw them as barely worth his regard, beyond that malicious suspicion as it slowly flowered into paranoia, and what might that lead him to do?

To me?

Yes, one more fear to stalk me now, though I am dead.

‘We will need to find a way through those mountains,’ Nimander said, squinting ahead.

‘God’s Walk, Clip called them. An astounding fount of unexpected knowledge, our grateful friend.’

‘Grateful? Ah, I see. Well, he wasn’t there in spirit, was he?’

‘No, too busy dancing from the spider’s bite.’

‘It does little good to try describing what happened,’ Nimander said. ‘To one who remains closed, words are thinner than webs, easily swept aside.’

‘We should have lied.’

Nimander looked over, brows lifting.

Skintick grinned. ‘Some wild tale of godly possession and insane fanatics eager to splash the world with their own blood. Us stumbling on to a path to paradise only to find we’re not welcome. Double-crossing a simpleton god who misunder-stood the notion of puppets-that they be made of followers, not himself. A tale of poisoned wine that was blood that was wine that was blood. Oh, and let’s not forget our glorious slaughter, that improbable collection of lucky swings and pokes and the infernal bad luck of our attackers. And then-’