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

Well, he would just have to make the best of it, wouldn’t he? As the ox haltedat the top of the ridgeline, the old man walking slow as a snail over to where stood the eponymous foreman beside some fancy noble-now both looking their way-Murillio eased himself down, wincing at the lancing pain shooting up his legs, thinking with dread of the long walk back to the city, his hand holding Harllo’s tiny one, with darkness crawling up from the ditches to either side-a long, long walk indeed, and how he’d manage it was, truth be told, beyond him.

Soldiers knew about blisters, didn’t they? And men and women who worked hard for a living. To others, the affliction seemed trivial, a minor irritation-and when there were years between this time and the last time one had suffered from them, it was easy to forget, to casually dismiss just how debilitating they truly were.

Raw leather rubbed at each one like ground glass as he settled his weight back down. Still, it would not do to hobble over, and so, mustering all his will, Murillio walked, one careful step at a time, to where the foreman and the nobleman stood discussing things with the carter. As he drew closer, his gaze narrowed on the highborn one, a hint of recognition… but where? When?

The carter had been told by the foreman where to take the supplies, and off he went, with a passing nod at Murillio.

The foreman was squinting curiously, and as Murillio drew up before them he spat to one side and said, ‘You look lost, sir. If you’ve the coin you can buy a place at the workers’ table-it’s plain fare but fillin’ enough, though we don’t serve noth-ing but weak ale.’ He barked a laugh. ‘We ain’t no roadside inn, are we?’

Murillio had thought long on how he would approach this. But he had not expected a damned nobleman in this particular scene, and something whispered to him that what should have been a simple negotiation, concluded by paying twice the going rate for a five-year-old boy, might now turn perilously complicated, ‘Are you the foreman of the camp, sir?’ he asked, after a deferential half-bow to the nobleman. At the answering nod, Murillio continued, ‘Very good. I am here in search of a young boy, name of Harllo, who was sold to your camp a few weeks back.’ He quickly raised a gloved hand. ‘No, I have no desire to challenge the propriety of that arrangement. Rather, I wish to purchase the boy’s freedom, and so deliver him back to his, er, terribly distressed parents.’

‘Do ye now?’ The foreman looked over at the nobleman.

Yes, Murillio thought he might know this young man.

‘You are the one named Murillio,’ the nobleman said, with an odd glitter in his gaze.

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Well, he would just have to make the best of it, wouldn’t he? As the ox haltedat the top of the ridgeline, the old man walking slow as a snail over to where stood the eponymous foreman beside some fancy noble-now both looking their way-Murillio eased himself down, wincing at the lancing pain shooting up his legs, thinking with dread of the long walk back to the city, his hand holding Harllo’s tiny one, with darkness crawling up from the ditches to either side-a long, long walk indeed, and how he’d manage it was, truth be told, beyond him.

Soldiers knew about blisters, didn’t they? And men and women who worked hard for a living. To others, the affliction seemed trivial, a minor irritation-and when there were years between this time and the last time one had suffered from them, it was easy to forget, to casually dismiss just how debilitating they truly were.

Raw leather rubbed at each one like ground glass as he settled his weight back down. Still, it would not do to hobble over, and so, mustering all his will, Murillio walked, one careful step at a time, to where the foreman and the nobleman stood discussing things with the carter. As he drew closer, his gaze narrowed on the highborn one, a hint of recognition… but where? When?

The carter had been told by the foreman where to take the supplies, and off he went, with a passing nod at Murillio.

The foreman was squinting curiously, and as Murillio drew up before them he spat to one side and said, ‘You look lost, sir. If you’ve the coin you can buy a place at the workers’ table-it’s plain fare but fillin’ enough, though we don’t serve noth-ing but weak ale.’ He barked a laugh. ‘We ain’t no roadside inn, are we?’

Murillio had thought long on how he would approach this. But he had not expected a damned nobleman in this particular scene, and something whispered to him that what should have been a simple negotiation, concluded by paying twice the going rate for a five-year-old boy, might now turn perilously complicated, ‘Are you the foreman of the camp, sir?’ he asked, after a deferential half-bow to the nobleman. At the answering nod, Murillio continued, ‘Very good. I am here in search of a young boy, name of Harllo, who was sold to your camp a few weeks back.’ He quickly raised a gloved hand. ‘No, I have no desire to challenge the propriety of that arrangement. Rather, I wish to purchase the boy’s freedom, and so deliver him back to his, er, terribly distressed parents.’

‘Do ye now?’ The foreman looked over at the nobleman.

Yes, Murillio thought he might know this young man.

‘You are the one named Murillio,’ the nobleman said, with an odd glitter in his gaze.

‘You have the better of me-’

‘That goes without saying. I am the principal investor of this operation. I am also a councillor. Gorlas Vidikas of House Vidikas.’

Murillio bowed a second time, as much to hide his dismay as in proper deference. ‘Councilman Vidikas, it is a pleasure meeting you.’

‘Is it? I very much doubt that. It took me a few moments to place you. You were pointed out, you see, a couple years back, at some estate fete.’

‘Oh? Well, there was a time when I was-’

‘You were on a list,’ Gorlas cut in.

‘A what?’’A hobby of a friend of mine, although I doubt he would have seen it as a hobby. In fact, if I was so careless as to use that word, when it came to his list, he’d probably call me out.’

‘I am sorry,’ Murillio said, ‘but I’m afraid I do not know what you are talking about. Some sort of list, you said?’

‘Likely conspirators,’ Gorlas said with a faint smile, ‘in the murder of Turban Orr, not to mention Ravyd Lim-or was it some other Lim? I don’t recall now, but then, that hardly matters. No, Turban Orr, and of course the suspicious suicide of Lady Simtal-all on the same night, in her estate. I was there, did you know that? I saw Turban Orr assassinated with my own eyes.’ And he was in truth smiling now, as if recalling something yielding waves of nostalgia. But his eyes were hard, fixed like sword points. ‘My friend, of course, is Hanut Orr, and the list is his.’

‘1 do recall attending the Simtal fete,’ Murillio said, and in his mind he was re-living those moments after leaving the Lady’s bedchamber-leaving her with the means by which she could take her own life-and his thoughts, then, of everything he had surrendered, and what it might mean for his future. Appropriate, then, that it should now return to crouch at his feet, like a rabid dog with fangs bared. ‘Alas, I missed the duel-’

‘It was no duel, Murillio. Turban Orr was provoked. He was set up. He was assassinated, in plain view. Murder, not a duel-do you even comprehend the difference?’