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

Was it because Gorlas despised it? Was it because, while it had once seemed to offer her a kind of promise, it had, over time, transformed into a symbol of some-thing entirely different? A tiny moon, yes, shining ever so bright, yet there it re-mained, trapped with nowhere to go. Blazing its beacon like a cry for help, with an optimism that never waned, a hope that never died.

Now, when she looked upon the object, she found herself feeling claustropho-bic, as if she was somehow sharing its fate. But she could not shine for ever, could she? No, her glow would fade, was fading even now. And so, although she pos-sessed this symbol of what might be, her sense of it had grown into a kind of fas-cinated resentment, and even to look upon it, as she was doing now, was to feel its burning touch, searing her mind with a pain that was almost delicious.

All because it had begun feeding a desire, and perhaps this was a far more pow-erful sorcery than she had first imagined; indeed, an enchantment tottering on the edge of a curse. The burnished light breathed into her, filled her mind with strange thoughts and hungers growing ever more desperate for appeasement. She was being enticed into a darker world, a place of hedonistic indulgences, a place unmindful of the future and dismissive of the past.

It beckoned to her, promising the bliss of the ever-present moment, and it was to be found, she knew, somewhere out there.

She could hear her husband on the stairs, finally deigning to honour her with his company, although after a night’s worth of drinking and all the manly mutual rais-ing of hackles, verbal strutting and preening, he would be unbearable. She had not slept well and was, truth be told, in no mood for him (but then, she realized, she had been in no mood for him for some time, now-shock!), so she swiftly rose and went to her private changing room. A journey out into the city would suit her rest-lessness. Yes, to walk without purpose and gaze upon the detritus of the night’s fes-tivities, to be amused by the bleary eyes and unshaven faces and the last snarl of exhausted arguments.

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Was it because Gorlas despised it? Was it because, while it had once seemed to offer her a kind of promise, it had, over time, transformed into a symbol of some-thing entirely different? A tiny moon, yes, shining ever so bright, yet there it re-mained, trapped with nowhere to go. Blazing its beacon like a cry for help, with an optimism that never waned, a hope that never died.

Now, when she looked upon the object, she found herself feeling claustropho-bic, as if she was somehow sharing its fate. But she could not shine for ever, could she? No, her glow would fade, was fading even now. And so, although she pos-sessed this symbol of what might be, her sense of it had grown into a kind of fas-cinated resentment, and even to look upon it, as she was doing now, was to feel its burning touch, searing her mind with a pain that was almost delicious.

All because it had begun feeding a desire, and perhaps this was a far more pow-erful sorcery than she had first imagined; indeed, an enchantment tottering on the edge of a curse. The burnished light breathed into her, filled her mind with strange thoughts and hungers growing ever more desperate for appeasement. She was being enticed into a darker world, a place of hedonistic indulgences, a place unmindful of the future and dismissive of the past.

It beckoned to her, promising the bliss of the ever-present moment, and it was to be found, she knew, somewhere out there.

She could hear her husband on the stairs, finally deigning to honour her with his company, although after a night’s worth of drinking and all the manly mutual rais-ing of hackles, verbal strutting and preening, he would be unbearable. She had not slept well and was, truth be told, in no mood for him (but then, she realized, she had been in no mood for him for some time, now-shock!), so she swiftly rose and went to her private changing room. A journey out into the city would suit her rest-lessness. Yes, to walk without purpose and gaze upon the detritus of the night’s fes-tivities, to be amused by the bleary eyes and unshaven faces and the last snarl of exhausted arguments.

And she would take her breakfast upon a terrace balcony in one of the more el-egant restaurants, perhaps Kathada’s or the Oblong Pearl, permitting her a view of the square and Borthen Park where servants walked watchdogs and nannies pushed two-wheeled prams in which huddled a new generation of the privileged, tucked inside nests of fine cotton and silk.

There, with fresh fruits and a carafe of delicate white wine, and perhaps even a pipe bowl, she would observe all the life meandering below, sparing a thought just once and then done with for the dogs she didn’t want and the children she didn’t have and probably would never have, given Corlas’s predilections. To think, for a time, in a musing way, of his parents and their dislike of her-convinced that she was barren, no doubt, but no woman ever got pregnant from that place, did she? And of her own father, now a widower, with his sad eyes and the smile he struggled to fashion every time he looked upon her. To contemplate, yet again, the notion of pulling her father aside and warning him-about what? Well, her hus-band, for one, and Hanut Orr and Shardan Lim for that matter. Dreaming of a great triumvirate of tyranny and undoubtedly scheming to bring it about. But then, he would laugh, wouldn’t he? And say how the young Council members were all the same, blazing with ambition and conviction, and that their ascension was but a matter of time, as unstoppable as an ocean tide, and soon they would come to re-alize that and cease their endless plans of usurpation. Patience, he would tell her, is the last virtue learned. Yes, but often too late to be of any value, dear Father. Look at you, a lifetime spent with a woman you never liked, and now, free at last, you find yourself grey, a fresh stoop to your shoulders, and you sleep ten bells every night -

Such thoughts and others whilst she refreshed herself and began selecting her attire for the day. And in the bedroom beyond she heard Gorlas sit on the bed, no doubt unlacing his boots, knowing well that she was here in the tiny chamber and clearly not caring.

And what then would Darujhistan offer up to her this bright day? Well, she would see, wouldn’t she?

She turned from watching her students in the compound and, eyes alighting upon him, she scowled. ‘Oh, it’s you.’

‘This is the new crop, then? Apsalar’s sweet kiss, Stonny.’

Her scowl turned wry and she walked past him into the shade of the colon-nade, where she sat down on the bench beside the archway, stretching out her legs. ‘I won’t deny it, Gruntle. But it’s something I’ve been noticing-the noble-born children are all arriving lazy, overweight and uninterested. Sword skill is something their fathers want for them, as obnoxious to them as lyre lessons or learning numbers. Most of them can’t even hold up the practice swords for longer than fifty heartbeats, and here it’s expected I can work them into something worth more than snot in eight months. Apsalar’s sweet kiss? Yes, I’ll accept that. It is theft, all right.’