Toll the Hounds (The Malazan Book of the Fallen 8)
Harllo went to stare down at him. Venaz was still smiling, lying on his back, his cut and bruised hands making strange circular motions. He had soiled himself and the stench made Harllo step back, away, to walk over and kneel down beside the other boy.
Who was sitting up, cradling his broken arm, hair hanging over his face.
‘Hello,’ said Harllo, ‘who are you?’
Hanut Orr stood in the shadows behind the Phoenix Inn, waiting for the first of the cowardly bastards to come rushing out from the kitchen door. His man must be inside by now, stirring things up. Not long, then.
He ducked at the sound of ferocious howls echoing through the city, and then a thundering concussion somewhere to the south-but close-and he stepped out to the centre of the alley. Some shambling figure walking past had to shift quickly to one side to avoid colliding with him.
‘Watch it,’ Hanut snapped, and then he looked up into the slash of night visible between the buildings, as it suddenly lit red and orange.
It was pretty much the last thing he ever saw.
As soon as he was past the fool, Gaz whirled round, his right fingerless hand lashing out to crack with a crunch against the base of his victim’s neck. Bone against bone, and it was not knuckles that broke-they were by now too scarred, too cal-cined, for that. No, what snapped was Hanut Orr’s neck.
Gaz was swinging with his other hand even as the body crumpled, his left pounding into the man’s forehead, Hinging the head back like a bulbous seed pod on a broken stalk. Slap went the body, head bouncing once and then lolling way too far to one side.
He stared down, and then moaned, This was no drunk who’d been leaning against a wall behind the inn. He should have noted the man’s tone when he’d warned him off.
This was a highborn.
Gaz found he was breathing fast. A rapid pounding in his chest, a sudden heat flooding through him. His knuckles throbbed.
‘Thordy,’ he whispered, ‘I’m in deep trouble. Thordyyyy…’
He looked up and down the alley, saw no one, and then set off, stiff-legged, leaning far forward, his fingerless hands drawn up under his chin. He was going home. Yes, he had to get home, and be there all night, yes, he’d been there all night-
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Harllo went to stare down at him. Venaz was still smiling, lying on his back, his cut and bruised hands making strange circular motions. He had soiled himself and the stench made Harllo step back, away, to walk over and kneel down beside the other boy.
Who was sitting up, cradling his broken arm, hair hanging over his face.
‘Hello,’ said Harllo, ‘who are you?’
Hanut Orr stood in the shadows behind the Phoenix Inn, waiting for the first of the cowardly bastards to come rushing out from the kitchen door. His man must be inside by now, stirring things up. Not long, then.
He ducked at the sound of ferocious howls echoing through the city, and then a thundering concussion somewhere to the south-but close-and he stepped out to the centre of the alley. Some shambling figure walking past had to shift quickly to one side to avoid colliding with him.
‘Watch it,’ Hanut snapped, and then he looked up into the slash of night visible between the buildings, as it suddenly lit red and orange.
It was pretty much the last thing he ever saw.
As soon as he was past the fool, Gaz whirled round, his right fingerless hand lashing out to crack with a crunch against the base of his victim’s neck. Bone against bone, and it was not knuckles that broke-they were by now too scarred, too cal-cined, for that. No, what snapped was Hanut Orr’s neck.
Gaz was swinging with his other hand even as the body crumpled, his left pounding into the man’s forehead, Hinging the head back like a bulbous seed pod on a broken stalk. Slap went the body, head bouncing once and then lolling way too far to one side.
He stared down, and then moaned, This was no drunk who’d been leaning against a wall behind the inn. He should have noted the man’s tone when he’d warned him off.
This was a highborn.
Gaz found he was breathing fast. A rapid pounding in his chest, a sudden heat flooding through him. His knuckles throbbed.
‘Thordy,’ he whispered, ‘I’m in deep trouble. Thordyyyy…’
He looked up and down the alley, saw no one, and then set off, stiff-legged, leaning far forward, his fingerless hands drawn up under his chin. He was going home. Yes, he had to get home, and be there all night, yes, he’d been there all night-
In trouble in trouble I’m in trouble now. Mages and necromancers, guards everywhere-listen to the alarms-they’re found him already! Oh oh oh trouble, Thordy, so much trouble…
Councillor Coll had pushed him back on to the bar, then down on to its battered surface. The severe arch forced by the position had Hanut Orr’s thug groaning in pain.
‘Is he waiting, then?’ Coll asked, leaning close. ‘Your shitface boss-is he wait-ing outside?’
The man understood loyalty, and he understood the demands of raw survival, and of course there was no contest between the two. He managed a nod and gasped, ‘Alley. He’s in the alley. There’s another man, other side of the street out front.’
‘And who are you all looking for?’
Any-uh-any one of you. No, wait. The assassin, the one with the two knives-the one who just killed Gorlas Vidikas.’
The man saw Coil’s broad, oddly puffy face twist into a frown, and the heavy weight pressing down on his chest-keeping him pinned on the countertop-eased back.
‘Meese, this one moves, kill him.’
The woman with the absurd two-handed mace stepped up, eyes flat and lifeless as they fixed on the thug. ‘Give me a reason,’ she said.
The thug simply shook his head and stayed right where he was, leaning now against the rail.
He watched as Coll shambled over to where stood the short, round man in the red waistcoat. They spoke for a time, in tones so low the man had no chance of overhearing their conversation. And then Coll went behind the bar and emerged a moment later with an antique broadsword that looked like a perfect fit in those huge hands. Trailed by the fat man, he marched out into the kitchen, presumably for the back door.
Well, Hanut Orr was an arrogant tyrant. So he got what he wanted and a whole lot more. Things like that happen.
The man suddenly recalled that he’d spilled nothing about the two men waiting outside Coil’s estate. Well, this could work out just fine, so long as he managed to get out of this damned inn before Coll got ambushed at his gate.
Damned noisy in the city tonight-ah, yes, the last night of Gedderone Fete. Of course it was noisy, and dammit, he wanted to be out there himself, partying, dancing, squeezing soft flesh, maybe picking a fight or two-but ones he could win, of course. Nothing like this crap-
All at once Coll and the fat man were back, both looking confused.
‘Sulty dear,’ sang out the fat man, and one of the serving wenches looked over-they all had themselves a quiet, nervous audience among the half-dozen others in the tavern, and so numerous sets of eyes watched as she headed over. She was just rounding the nearest table when the fat man said, ‘It would appear that Hanut Orr has met an untimely end-before we even arrived, alas for Coll’s sake. Best summon a guard-’