Toll the Hounds

‘And that’s what keeping her from hunting the killers down? That’s ridicu-lous. Tell her, from me, Scillara, that all this going soft shit is, urn, unattractive. Tell her, if she’s not ready to start talking vengeance, then she can forget about me. We’ve never run from anything in our lives, and as soon as I’m back on my feet, I plan on a rat hunt the likes of which the Guild has never seen.’

‘All right.’

‘Is this what all the arguing’s about? Her and Antsy?’

A nod.

‘Find me a High Denul healer, will you? I’ll pay whatever it takes.’

‘Fine. Now eat.’

The corpse still smelled of fermented peaches. Laid out on a long table in one of the back rooms, the Seguleh might have been sleeping one off, and Picker ex-pected the ghastly warrior’s serenely closed eyes to flicker open at any moment. The thought sent shivers through her and she glanced over once more at Duiker.

‘So, Historian, you’ve done some thinking on this, some jawing with that bard and that alchemist friend of yours. Tell us, what in Hood’s name are all these pickled Seguleh doing in the cellar?’

Duiker frowned, rubbed at the back of his neck, and would not meet Picker’s hard stare. ‘Baruk didn’t take the news well. He seemed… upset. How many casks have you examined?’

‘There’s twelve of the bastards, including this one. Three are women.’

Duiker nodded. ‘They can choose. Warriors or not. If not, they cannot be chal-lenged. Seems to relate to infant mortality.’

Picker frowned. ‘What does?’

‘Denul and midwifery. If most children generally survive, then mothers don’t need to birth eight or ten of them in the hopes that one or two make it-’

‘Well, that’s the way it is everywhere.’

‘Of course,’ Duiker continued as if he had not heard her statement, ‘some cul-tures have an overriding need to increase their population base. And this can im-pose strictures on women. There’s a high attrition rate among the Seguleh. A duelling society by its very nature cuts down the survival rate once adulthood is reached. Young warriors in their prime-probably as deadly as a war, only this is a war that never ends. Still, there must be periods-cycles, perhaps-when young women are freed up to choose their own path.’

Picker’s eyes settled on the corpse on the table while Duiker spoke. She tried to imagine such a society, wherein like bhederin cows all the women stood moaning as their tails were pushed to one side almost as soon as the last calf dropped out bleating on to the ground. It was madness. It was unfair. ‘Good thing even Seguleh women wear masks,’ she muttered.

‘Sorry, what?’

She scowled across at the historian. ‘Hides all the rage.’

‘Oh, well, I don’t know that the non-warrior women do-it never occurred to me to ask. But I see your point.’

‘But is that enough?’ she asked. ‘Do so many warriors kill each other that it’s necessary to demand that of the women?’

Duiker glanced at her, then away again.

The bastard’s hiding some suspicions.

‘I don’t know, Picker. Could be. Their savagery is infamous.’

‘How long do you think these ones have been down there? In the cellar, I mean, in those casks?’

‘The seals are templar. Baruk suggests that the cult persisted, in some residual form, long after its presumed extinction.’

‘Decades? Centuries?’

He shrugged.

‘But what are they doing here in Darujhistan anyway? Those islands are right off the south end of the damned continent. Nearly a thousand leagues between them and this city.’

‘I don’t know.’

Yeah, right. Sighing, she turned away. ‘Seen Antsy?’

‘At the bar.’

‘Typical. Depleting our stock.’

‘Your indecision has left him despondent.’

‘Stuff that, Duiker,’ she snapped, walking from the room, leaving him there with that damned corpse. It was a contest which of them was the less forthcom-ing, in any case, and she was tired of the duck and dodge. Yet, something in all of that had lodged in her the suspicion that the Guild contract out on them was con-nected, somehow, with this old temple and all its grisly secrets. Find the connec-tion, and maybe find the piece of shit who put on the chop on us. Find him, or her, so I can shove a cusser up inside nice and deep.

Antsy was leaning on the bar, glowering at nothing in particular, at least until he found a perfect victim in Picker as she walked up. ‘Careful, woman,’ he growled, ‘I ain’t in the mood.’

‘Ain’t in the mood for what?’

‘For anything.’

‘Except one thing.’

‘Anything you might try on me, is what I meant. As for the other thing, well, I’ve already decided to go it alone if I have to.’

‘So,’ she leaned on the bar beside him, ‘what are you waiting for, then?’

‘Blend. Once she’s back on her feet, Pick, she’ll be hungry enough to take the light to ’em.’ He tugged on his moustache, then scowled at her, ‘It’s you I ain’t figure.’

‘Antsy,’ Picker said, sighing, ‘much as I’d love to murder every damned assas-sin in this city, and the Guild Master, too, they’re not the source of the problem. Someone hired them, only we don’t know who, and we don’t know why. We’ve been through this before. We’re back right where we started, in fact, only this time we’re down two.’ She found she was trembling, and was unable to meet Antsy’s stare. ‘You know, I find myself wishing Ganoes Paran was here-if any-body could work out what’s going on, it’s the Captain.’

Antsy grunted. ‘Master of the Deck, aye.’ He drank down the last of his drink and straightened. ‘Fine, let’s go to the Finnest House, then-maybe he’s in there, maybe he’s not. Either way, it’s doing something.’

‘And leave Blend here on her own?’

‘She’s not alone. There’s Duiker and Scillara. Not to mention that bard. There ain’t nobody coming back to finish us, not in the daytime at least. We can be back before dusk, Pick.’

Still she hesitated.

Antsy stepped close. ‘Listen, I ain’t so stupid, I know what’s goin’ on in your head. But us just sitting here is us waiting for their next move. You know the ma-rine doctrine, Corporal. It ain’t our job to react-it’s our job to hit first and make them do the reacting. Twice now they hit us-they do it again and we’re fin- ished.’

Despite the alcoholic fumes drifting off the man, his blue eyes were hard and clear, and Picker knew he was right, and yet… she was afraid. And she knew he could see it, was struggling with it-badly-since fear was not something he’d ex-pect from her. Not ever. Gods, you’ve become an old woman, Pick. Frail and cowering.

They’ve killed your damned friends. They damn near killed your dearest love.

‘I doubt he’s there,’ she said. ‘Else he’d have been by. He’s gone somewhere, Antsy. Might never be back and why would he? Wherever Paran’s gone, he’s prob-ably busy-he’s the type. Always in the middle of some damned thing.’

‘All right,’ Antsy allowed. ‘Still, maybe there’s some way we can, um, send him a message.’

Her brows rose. ‘Now that’s an idea, Antsy. Glad one of us is thinking.’

‘Aye. Can we go now, then?’

They set out, making use of a side postern gate. Both wore cloaks, hiding armour and their swords, the weapons loose in their scabbards. Antsy also carried two sharpers, each in its own cloth sack, one knotted to his weapon harness and the other down at his belt. He could tug a grenado loose and fling it in its sack as one might throw a slingstone. It was.his own invention, and he’d practised with a stone inside the sack, acquiring passable