Toll the Hounds

‘I know that! I feel it — I felt it before I ever came aboard your cursed ship! Why do you think just sitting here, doing nothing, strikes me as the worst decision possible? I need to see people, I need to warn-’

‘Oh dear,’ Spite cut in, ‘do you truly believe that you alone are aware of the danger? That all hangs in the balance right there at your fingertips? The arrogance of youth!’

Scillara filled her pipe with rustleaf and spent a moment sparking it alight. Heavy, brooding emotions filled the cabin. Nothing new in that, of course. This entire journey had been chaotic and contrary from the moment she, Cutter, Barathol and Chaur had been fished from the seas even as the sky flung giant goblets of fire down on all sides. Worshipful bhokarala, a miserable mule, an old hag who collapsed into a heap of spiders if one so much as looked askance in her direction. A scrawny, entirely mad High Priest of Shadow, and a brokenhearted Trell. And while Spite comported herself with all the airs of a coddled princess, she was in truth a Soletaken sorceress, dreadfully powerful and dangerously fey as some Elder Goddess. No, a more motley shipload of passengers and crew Scillara could not imagine.

And now here we are. Poor Darujhistan!

‘Won’t be long now,’ she said to Cutter. ‘We’re better off trying to stay as far beneath notice as possible.’

Iskaral Pust, seated on his chair with his legs drawn up so that his toadlike face was between his knees, seemed to choke on that comment; then, reddening and even bulging, he scowled at the table. ‘We have a crew of mad apes!’ His head tilted and he stared agog at Scillara. ‘We could smoke dried fish with her — just hang ’em in her hair! Of course, the fish’d end up poisoning us all, which might be her plan all along! Keep her away from food and drink — oh yes, I have figured her out. No High Priest of Shadow can be fooled so easily! Oh, no. Now, where was I?’ His brows knitted, then suddenly rose threateningly as he glared at her. ‘Beneath notice! Why not just sneak out in that cloud of yours, woman?’

She blew him a smoky kiss.

Spite set her goblet down. ‘The dispositions facing us now are probably worth discussing, don’t you think?’

This question, addressed to everyone, yielded only blank stares.

Spite sighed. ‘Mappo Runt, the one you seek is not on this continent. Even so, I would advise you cross overland here, perhaps as far as Lamatath, where you should be able to procure passage to the fell empire of Lether.’

The Trell studied her from beneath his heavy brows. ‘Then I shall not linger.’

‘Oh, he mustn’t linger,’ Iskaral Pust whispered. ‘No no no. Too much rage, too much grief. The giant oaf cannot linger, or worse malinger. Malingering would be terrible, and probably against the law anyway. Yes, perhaps I could get him arrested. Locked up, forgotten in some nefarious dungeon. Oh, I must cogitate on this possibility, all the while smiling benignly!’ And he smiled.

Mogora snorted. ‘Husband,’ she said sweetly, ‘I have divined your fate. In Darujhistan you shall find your nemesis, a catastrophic clash. Devastation, misery for all, the unleashing of horrible curses and ferocious powers. Ruin, such ruin that I dream each night of blessed peace, assured that the universe is in balance once more.’

‘I can hardly imagine,’ Spite said, ‘Shadow imposing balance of any sort. This husband of yours serves a diabolical god, a most unpleasant god. As for your divination, Mogora, I happen to know that you possess no such talents-’

‘But I can hope, can’t I?’

‘This is not the world for wishful thinking, dear.’

‘Don’t you “dear” me! You’re the worst kind of witch, a good looking one! Proof that charm is naught but a glamour-’

‘Oh, wife,’ Iskaral Pust crooned, ‘would that you could glamour yourself. Why, an end to my nausea-’

With a snarl Mogora veered into a seething mass of spiders, spilling down over the chair and on to the plank floor, then scattering in all directions.

Iskaral Pust snickered at the others. ‘That’s why I sit like this, you fools. She’ll bite you all, at every chance!’ He jabbed a gnarled finger at Scillara, ‘Except you, of course, because you make her sick!’

‘Good,’ she replied, then glanced across at Barathol. The huge black-skinned man was half smiling as he observed the others. Behind him stood Chaur, his foolish grin unwavering even as he tried stamping on spiders. ‘And what of you, blacksmith? Eager to explore this grand city of blue fire?’

Barathol shrugged. ‘I believe I am, although it has been some time since I last found myself among crowds. I imagine I might even enjoy the anonymity.’ He seemed to take note of his hands where they rested on the table before him, and saw something in their skein of scars that made him frown, then slowly withdraw them from view. His dark eyes shifted from hers, almost shyly.