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

‘Who?’

‘Eldra Foundry. And in six months I’ll earn my ticket as a smith, since that’s allowed. Some kind of rehabilitation programme.’

Scillara’s throaty laugh straightened up both guards. ‘Well, that’s one way to get there, I suppose.’

He nodded. ‘I went about it all wrong, it seems.’

‘I’m not sure,’ said Scillara. ‘Is the Guild happy with that? I mean, it’s sort of a way round them, isn’t it?’

‘They’ve no choice. Every Guild in the city has to comply, barring, I suppose, the Assassins’ Guild. Obviously, for most prisoners six months working in a trade might earn them an apprentice grade of some sort-but there’s no limit to how fast you can advance. Just pass the exams and that’s that.’

Scillara looked ready to burst out laughing. Even Barathol was struggling.

Blend sighed and then said, ‘I’ll go settle the fine. Consider it a loan.’

‘Much appreciated, Blend, and thank you.’

‘Remembering Kalam,’ she replied, heading out. Neither guard paid her any at-tention. But she was used to that.

A bhokaral answered the door. High Alchemist Baruk stared down at it for a long moment before concluding that this was nothing more than a bhokaral. Not a demon, not Soletaken. Just a bhokaral, its little wizened face scrunched up in belligerent regard, spiky ears twitching. When it made to close the postern door again Baruk stepped forward and held it open.

Sudden outrage and indignation. Hissing, spitting, making faces, the bhokaral shook a fist at Baruk and then fled down the corridor.

The High Alchemist closed the door behind him and made his way along the corridor. He could now hear other bhokarala, a cacophony of bestial voices joining in with the first one, raising an alarm that echoed through the temple. At a branching of the passageway he came upon an old Dal Honese woman tearing apart a straw broom. She glared up at Baruk and snapped something in some tribal tongue, then made squiggly gestures with the fingers of her left hand.

The High Alchemist scowled. ‘Retract that curse, Witch. Now.’

‘You’ll not be so bold when the spiders come for you.’

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‘Who?’

‘Eldra Foundry. And in six months I’ll earn my ticket as a smith, since that’s allowed. Some kind of rehabilitation programme.’

Scillara’s throaty laugh straightened up both guards. ‘Well, that’s one way to get there, I suppose.’

He nodded. ‘I went about it all wrong, it seems.’

‘I’m not sure,’ said Scillara. ‘Is the Guild happy with that? I mean, it’s sort of a way round them, isn’t it?’

‘They’ve no choice. Every Guild in the city has to comply, barring, I suppose, the Assassins’ Guild. Obviously, for most prisoners six months working in a trade might earn them an apprentice grade of some sort-but there’s no limit to how fast you can advance. Just pass the exams and that’s that.’

Scillara looked ready to burst out laughing. Even Barathol was struggling.

Blend sighed and then said, ‘I’ll go settle the fine. Consider it a loan.’

‘Much appreciated, Blend, and thank you.’

‘Remembering Kalam,’ she replied, heading out. Neither guard paid her any at-tention. But she was used to that.

A bhokaral answered the door. High Alchemist Baruk stared down at it for a long moment before concluding that this was nothing more than a bhokaral. Not a demon, not Soletaken. Just a bhokaral, its little wizened face scrunched up in belligerent regard, spiky ears twitching. When it made to close the postern door again Baruk stepped forward and held it open.

Sudden outrage and indignation. Hissing, spitting, making faces, the bhokaral shook a fist at Baruk and then fled down the corridor.

The High Alchemist closed the door behind him and made his way along the corridor. He could now hear other bhokarala, a cacophony of bestial voices joining in with the first one, raising an alarm that echoed through the temple. At a branching of the passageway he came upon an old Dal Honese woman tearing apart a straw broom. She glared up at Baruk and snapped something in some tribal tongue, then made squiggly gestures with the fingers of her left hand.

The High Alchemist scowled. ‘Retract that curse, Witch. Now.’

‘You’ll not be so bold when the spiders come for you.’

‘Now,’ he repeated, ‘before I lose my temper.’

‘Bah! You’re not worth the effort anyway!’ And all at once she collapsed into a heap of spiders that scurried in all directions.

Baruk blinked, and then quickly stepped back. But none of the creatures skit-tered his way. Moments later they had inexplicably vanished, although not a single crack or seam was visible.

‘High Alchemist.’

He looked up. ‘Ah, High Priestess. I did knock-’

‘And a bhokaral let you in, yes. They’re in the habit of doing that, having chased away most of my acolytes.’

‘I wasn’t aware bhokarala were in the habit of infestation.’

‘Yes, well. Have you come to speak to me or the chosen… mouthpiece of Shadowthrone?’

‘I do not believe you have been entirely usurped, High Priestess.’

‘Your generosity is noted.’

‘Why is there a witch of Ardatha in your temple?’

‘Yes, why? Come with me.’

The Magus of Shadow- gods below- was sitting on the floor in the altar chamber, sharpening knives. A dozen such weapons were scattered round him, each one of a different design.’…, tonight,’ he was muttering, ‘they all die! Cut throat!, cleaved hearts, pierced eyeballs, pared-back fingernails. Mayhem and slaughter, Clip-pings-’ and then he glanced up, started guiltily, licked his lips once and suddenly smiled. ‘Welcome, High Barukness. Isn’t it a lovely day?’

‘High Alchemist Baruk, Magus. And no, it is not a lovely day. What are you doing?’

His eyes darted. ‘Doing? Nothing, can’t you see that?’ He paused. ‘Can’t he smell them? Close, oh so close! It’s going to be a mess and whose fault will that be? A real mess-nothing to do with Iskaral Pust, though! I am perfect.’ He attempted an ex-pression of innocence. ‘I am perfect… ly-perfectly-fine.’

Baruk could not help himself, turning to Sordiko Qualm. ‘What was Shad-owthrone thinking?’

The question clearly depressed her. ‘I admit to a crisis of faith, High Alchemist.’

Iskaral Pust leapt to his feet. ‘Then you must pray, my love. To me, since Shadowthrone sees through my eyes, hears through ears, smells through my nose.’ His crossed his eyes and added in a different tone, ‘Farts through my bung-hole, too, but that would be too offensive to mention.’ He struggled to correct his gaze and smiled again. ‘Sordiko, my sweetness, there are very special, very secret prayers. And, er, rituals. See me after this man has left, there’s no time to waste!’