Toll the Hounds (The Malazan Book of the Fallen 8)
When the truth was, luck and mischance were the only players in the game of success. Privilege of birth, a sudden harmony of forces, a sudden inexplicable balance later seen as a run of good fortune. Oh, they might strut about- we all might- and proclaim that talent, skill and cunning were the real players. But Challice held the belief that even the poor, the destitute, the plague-scarred and the beleaguered might possess talents and cunning, only to And their runs of for tune nonexistent, proper rewards for ever beyond reach.
Servants bowed, and that they needed to do so was proof of just how flimsy the delusion of superiority was.
She opened the door and walked with dignity into the sitting room. ‘Councillor Lim, have you been left here alone? No one to provide you with refreshments? This is unacceptable-’
‘I sent her away,’ he cut in, and she saw that his expression was strange, con-flicted by something but in a most peculiar way.
‘You have not even poured yourself some wine. Allow me-’
‘No, thank you, Lady Challice. Although, perhaps, I should pour you one. Yes.’
And he went over to select a decanter and then a goblet. She watched the amber wine slosh into the crystal, and then flow over before he righted the decanter. He stared down at the goblet for a moment, and then faced her. ‘Lady Challice, I have terrible news.’
Then why do you struggle so not to smile? ‘Ah. Speak on, then, Councillor.’
He stepped forward. ‘Challice-’
All at once, she sensed that something was deeply awry. He was too excited with his news. He was hungry to see its effect on her. He had no interest in using her body this night. And here she had arrived dressed like a fancy whore. ‘Forgive me,’ she said, stepping back and attempting to draw the shift more modestly about her.
He barely registered the gesture. ‘Challice. Gorlas has been murdered. Your husband is dead.’
‘Murdered? But he’s still out at the mining camp. He’s-’ and then she stopped, stunned at how disbelief could so swiftly become certainty.
‘Assassinated, out at the camp,’ Shardan Lim said. ‘Was it a contract? I can’t imagine who would…’ And then he too fell silent, and the regard he fixed upon her now was suddenly sharp, piercing.
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When the truth was, luck and mischance were the only players in the game of success. Privilege of birth, a sudden harmony of forces, a sudden inexplicable balance later seen as a run of good fortune. Oh, they might strut about- we all might- and proclaim that talent, skill and cunning were the real players. But Challice held the belief that even the poor, the destitute, the plague-scarred and the beleaguered might possess talents and cunning, only to And their runs of for tune nonexistent, proper rewards for ever beyond reach.
Servants bowed, and that they needed to do so was proof of just how flimsy the delusion of superiority was.
She opened the door and walked with dignity into the sitting room. ‘Councillor Lim, have you been left here alone? No one to provide you with refreshments? This is unacceptable-’
‘I sent her away,’ he cut in, and she saw that his expression was strange, con-flicted by something but in a most peculiar way.
‘You have not even poured yourself some wine. Allow me-’
‘No, thank you, Lady Challice. Although, perhaps, I should pour you one. Yes.’
And he went over to select a decanter and then a goblet. She watched the amber wine slosh into the crystal, and then flow over before he righted the decanter. He stared down at the goblet for a moment, and then faced her. ‘Lady Challice, I have terrible news.’
Then why do you struggle so not to smile? ‘Ah. Speak on, then, Councillor.’
He stepped forward. ‘Challice-’
All at once, she sensed that something was deeply awry. He was too excited with his news. He was hungry to see its effect on her. He had no interest in using her body this night. And here she had arrived dressed like a fancy whore. ‘Forgive me,’ she said, stepping back and attempting to draw the shift more modestly about her.
He barely registered the gesture. ‘Challice. Gorlas has been murdered. Your husband is dead.’
‘Murdered? But he’s still out at the mining camp. He’s-’ and then she stopped, stunned at how disbelief could so swiftly become certainty.
‘Assassinated, out at the camp,’ Shardan Lim said. ‘Was it a contract? I can’t imagine who would…’ And then he too fell silent, and the regard he fixed upon her now was suddenly sharp, piercing.
She could not face the question he looked ready to ask, and so she went to col-lect the goblet, unmindful of the wine spilling over her hand, and drank deep.
He had moved to one side and still he said nothing as he watched her.
Challice felt light-headed, unbalanced. She was having trouble thinking. Feel-ings and convictions, which arrived first? Truths and dreads-she was finding it hard to breathe.
‘Challice,’ Shardan Lim whispered, suddenly standing close. ‘There were other ways. You could have come to me. If this comes out, you will hang-do you un-derstand me? It will take your father down-the entire House D’Arle. The whole Council will be rocked to its very foundations. Hood’s breath, Challice-if anyone discovers the truth-’
She turned to him and her voice was flat as she said, ‘What truth? What are you talking about, Councillor? My husband has been murdered. I expect you and the Council to conduct an investigation. The assassin must be found and pun-
tailed. Thank you for taking upon yourself the difficult task of informing me. Now, please, leave me, sir.’
He was studying her as if he ‘had never truly seen her before, and then he stepped away and shook his head. ‘I’d no idea, Challice. That you were this…’
‘That I was what, Councillor?’
‘It may be… ah, that is, you are within your rights to claim the seat on the Council. Or arrange that someone of your own choosing-’
‘Councillor Lim, such matters must wait. You are being insensitive. Please, will you now leave?’
‘Of course, Lady Challice.’
When he was gone, she stood unmoving, the goblet still in one hand, the spilled wine sticky under her fingers.
A formal investigation. And yes, it would be thorough. Staff would be questioned. Improprieties revealed. Shardan Lim himself… yes, it would be occurring to him about now, as he walked the street, and he might well change his destination-no longer back to his house, but to the Orr estate. To arrange, with growing desperation, the covering of his own tracks.
But none of this affected her. Shardan Lim’s fate was meaningless.
She had succeeded. She had achieved precisely what she wanted, the very thing she had begged him to do. For her. For them. But no, for her.
He had killed her husband. Because she had asked him to. And it was now al-most certain that he would hang for it. Shardan would talk, pointing the finger so that all eyes shifted away from him, and his accusation would be all fire, blazing with deadly details. And as for her, why, she’d be painted as a foolish young woman. Playing with lowborn but astoundingly ignorant of just how vicious such creatures could be, when something or someone stood in their way. When obsessive love was involved, especially. Oh, she’d been playing, but that nasty young lowborn thug had seen it differently. And now she would have to live with the fact that her idle game had led to her husband’s murder. Poor child.