Toll the Hounds Part 44

'You're trying too hard.'

'I am? Well, it's like a dream, you see, being able to come back home. Do all these things for you, for us. It still doesn't feel real.'

'Oh, that's not the problem,' she said. 'You are already getting bored, Torvald Nom. You need more than just tagging along at my side. And the coin won't last for ever Beru knows I don't make enough for the both of us.'

'You're saying I need to get a job.'

'I will tell you a secret just one, and keep in mind what I said earlier: we women have many secrets. I'm feeling generous today, so listen well. A woman is well pleased with a mate. He is her island, if you will, solid, secure. But sometimes she likes to swim offsh.o.r.e, out a way, floating facing the sun if you will. And she might even dive from sight, down to collect pretty sh.e.l.ls and the like. And when she's done, why, she'll swim back to the island. The point is, husband, she doesn't want her mate's company when swimming. She needs only to know the island waits there.'

Torvald blinked, then frowned. 'You're telling me to get lost.'

'Leave me my traipsing through the market, darling. No doubt you have manly tasks to pursue, perhaps at a nearby tavern. I'll see you at home this evening.'

'If that's how you want it, then of course I will leave you to it, sweetness and yes, I could do with a wander. A man has secrets, too!'

'Indeed.' And she smiled. 'Provided they're not the kind that, if I find out, I will have to hunt you down and kill you.'

He blanched. 'No, of course not! Nothing like that!'

'Good. See you later, then.'

And, being a brave man, a contented man (more or less), Torvald Nom happily fled his wife, as brave, contented men are wont to do the world over. Need to plough that field behind the windbreak, love. Going to head out now and drop the nets. Better sand down that tabletop. Time to go out and rob somebody, sweetness. Need to plough that field behind the windbreak, love. Going to head out now and drop the nets. Better sand down that tabletop. Time to go out and rob somebody, sweetness. Yes, men did as they did, just as women did as Yes, men did as they did, just as women did as they they did mysterious and inexplicable as those doings might be. did mysterious and inexplicable as those doings might be.

And, so thinking, it was not long before Torvald Nom found himself walking into the Phoenix Inn. A man looking for work in all the wrong places.

Scorch arrived a short time later, pride and panic warring in his face, and my, how that pride blazed as he strutted up to where Torvald Nom was sitting.

Back at the estate Castellan Studlock brought Leff into an annexe to one side of the main building, where after some rummaging in crates stuffed with straw the m.u.f.fled figure found a small gla.s.s bottle and presented it to Leff.

'Two drops into each eye. Two more on to the tongue. Repeat two more times today and three times a day until the bottle is empty.'

'That will kill them worms in my head?'

'The Greva worms, yes. I cannot vouch for any others.'

'I got more worms in my head?'

'Who can say? Do your thoughts squirm?'

'Sometimes! G.o.ds below!'

'Two possibilities,' Studlock said. 'Suspicion worms or guilt worms.'

Leff scowled. 'You saying it's worms cause those things? Guilt and suspicion? I ain't never heard anything like that.'

'Are you sometimes gnawed with doubt? Do notions take root in your mind? Do strange ideas slither into your head? Are you unaccountably frightened at the sight of a fisher's barbed hook?'

'Are you some kind of healer?'

'I am what one needs me to be. Now, let us find you a uniform.'

Torvald Nom was rehearsing what he would tell his wife. Carefully weighing each word, trying out in his mind the necessary nonchalance required to deftly avoid certain details of his newfound employment.

'It's great that we're all working together again,' Scorch said, ambling happily at his side. 'As estate guards, no less! No more strong-arm work for smelly criminals. No more hunting down losers to please some vicious piranha. No more-'

'Did this castellan mention the wages?'

'Huh? No, but it's bound to be good. Must be. It's demanding work-'

'Scorch, it may be lots of things, but "demanding" isn't one of them. We're there to keep thieves out. And since all three of us have been thieves ourselves at one time or another, we should be pretty d.a.m.ned good at it. We'd better be, or we'll get fired.'

'We need two more people. He wanted three more and all I got was you. So, two more. Can you think of anybody?'

'No. What family?'

'What?'

'This Mistress what House does she belong to?'

'Don't know.'

'What's her name?'

'No idea.'

'She's from the countryside?'

'Think so.'

'Well, has any n.o.ble died recently that might have pulled her in? Inheritance, I mean?'

'How should I know? You think I bother keeping track of who's dead in that crowd? They ain't nothing to me, is my point.'

'We should've asked Kruppe he'd know.'

'Well we didn't and it don't matter at all. We got us legitimate work, the three of us. We're on our way to being, well, legitimate. So just stop questioning everything, Tor! You're going to ruin it!' 'How can a few reasonable questions ruin anything?'

'It just makes me nervous,' Scorch replied. 'Oh, by the way, you can't see the castellan.'

'Why? Who else would I talk to about getting hired?'

'No, that's not what I mean. I mean you can't see him. All wrapped up in rags. With a hood, and gloves, and a mask. That's what I mean. His name is Studlock.'

'You can't be serious.'

'Why not? That's his name.'

'The castellan is bundled like a corpse and you don't find that somewhat unusual?'

'Could be afraid of the sun or something. No reason to be suspicious. You never met any strange people in your day, Tor?'

And Torvald Nom glanced across at Scorch, and found he had no reply to that at all.

'I see you have found another candidate,' Studlock said. 'Excellent. And yes, he will do nicely. Perhaps as the Captain of the House Guard?'

Torvald started. 'I haven't said a word yet and already I'm promoted?'

'Comparative exercise yields confidence in this a.s.sessment. Your name is?'

'Torvald Nom.'

'Of House Nom. Might this not prove a conflict of interest?'

'Might it? Why?'

'The Mistress is about to a.s.sume the vacant seat on the Council.'

'Oh. Well, I have virtually no standing in the affairs of House Nom. There are scores of us in the city, of course, with ties stretching everywhere, including off-continent. I, however, am not involved in any of that.'

'Were you cast out?'

'No, nothing so, er, extreme. It was more a question of . . . interests.'

'You lack ambition.'

'Precisely.'

'That is a fine manicure, Torvald Nom.'

'Er, thank you. I could recommend . . .' but that notion dwindled into a painful silence and Torvald tried hard not to glance down at the castellan's bandaged fingers.

At this moment Leff appeared from round the other side of the main house. His lips and his eyes were bright orange.

Scorch grunted. 'Hey, Leff. Remember that cat you sat on in that bar once?'

'What of it?'

'Nothing. Was just reminded, the way its eyes went all bulgy and crazed.'

'What's that supposed to mean?'

'Nothing. Was just reminded, is all. Look, I brought Tor.'

'I see that,' snarled Leff. 'I can see just fine, thank you.'

'What's wrong with your eyes?' Torvald Nom asked.

'Tincture,' said Leff. 'I got me a case of Greva worms.'

Torvald Nom frowned. 'Humans can't get Greva worms. Fish get Greva worms, from eating infected conch.'

Leff's bulging orange eyes bulged even more. Then he spun to face the castellan.

Who shrugged and said, 'Jurben worms?'

Torvald Nom snorted. 'The ones that live in the caverns below? In pockets of green gas? They're as long as a man's leg and nearly as thick.'

The castellan sighed. 'The spectre of misdiagnosis haunts us all. I do apologize, Leff. Perhaps your ailments are due to some other malady. No matter, the drops will wash out in a month or two.'

'I'm gonna have squished cat eyes for another month?'

'Preferable to Greva worms, I should think. Now, gentlemen, let us find the house clothier. Something black and brocaded in gold thread, I should imagine. House colours and all that. And then, a brief summary of your duties, shifts, days off and the like.'

'Would that summary include wages?' Torvald Nom asked.

'Naturally. As captain you will be paid twenty silver councils per week, Torvald Nom. Scorch and Leff, as guards, at fifteen. Acceptable?'

All three quickly nodded.

He felt slightly shaky on his feet, but Murillio knew that had nothing to do with any residue of weakness left by his wound. This weakness belonged to his spirit. As if age had sprung on to his back with claws digging into every joint and now hung there, growing heavier by the moment. He walked hunched at the shoulders and this seemed to have arrived like a new habit, or perhaps it was always there and only now, in his extremity, had he become aware of it.

That drunken pup's sword thrust had pierced something vital indeed, and no Malazan healer or any other kind of healer could mend it.

He tried forcing confidence into his stride as he made his way down the crowded street, but it was not an easy task. Half drunk. Breeches at my ankles. Worthwhile excuses for what happened that night. The widow Sepharla spitting venom once she sobered up enough to realize what had happened, and spitting it still, it seems. What had happened, yes. With her daughter. Oh, not rape too much triumph in the girl's eyes for that, though her face glowed with delight at her escort's charge to defend her honour. Once the shock wore off. I should never have gone back to explain- Half drunk. Breeches at my ankles. Worthwhile excuses for what happened that night. The widow Sepharla spitting venom once she sobered up enough to realize what had happened, and spitting it still, it seems. What had happened, yes. With her daughter. Oh, not rape too much triumph in the girl's eyes for that, though her face glowed with delight at her escort's charge to defend her honour. Once the shock wore off. I should never have gone back to explain- But that was yesterday's nightmare, all those sparks raining down on the domestic scene with its airs of concern, every cagey word painting over the cracks in savage, short jabs of the brush. What had he expected? What had he gone there to find? Rea.s.surance?

Maybe. I guess I arrived with my own brush.

Years ago, he would have smoothed everything over, almost effortlessly. A murmur here, a meeting of gazes there. Soft touch with one hand, the barest hint of pressure. Then again, years ago, it would never have happened in the first place. That drunken fool! it would never have happened in the first place. That drunken fool!

Oh, he'd growled those three words often in his head. But did they refer to the young man with the sword, or to himself?

Arriving at the large duelling school, he made his way through the open gate and emerged into the bright sunlight of the training ground. A score of young, sweating, overweight students sc.r.a.ped about in the dust, wooden weapons clattering. Most, he saw at once, lacked the necessary aggression, the killer's instinct. They danced to avoid, prodding the stick points forward with lack of any commitment. Their footwork, he saw, was abysmal.

The cla.s.s instructor was standing in the shade of a column in the colonnaded corridor just beyond. She was not even observing the mayhem in the compound, intent, it seemed, on some loose st.i.tching or tear in one of her leather gauntlets.

Making his way along one side of the mob getting lost in clouds of white dust, Murillio approached the instructor. She noted him briefly then returned her attention to the gauntlet.

'Excuse me,' Murillio said as he arrived. 'Are you the duelling mistress?'

'I am.' She nodded without looking at the students, where a couple of fights had started for real. 'How am I doing so far?'

Murillio glanced over and studied the fracas for a moment. 'That depends,' he said.

She grunted. 'Good answer. What can I do for you? Do you have some grandson or daughter you want thrown in there? Your clothes were expensive . . . once. As it looks, I doubt you can afford this school, unless of course you're one of those stinking rich who make a point of dressing all threadbare. Old money and all that.'

'Quite a sales pitch,' Murillio observed. 'Does it actually work?'

'Cla.s.ses are full. There's a waiting list.'