Toll the Hounds полностью

The wound had healed quickly, reminding him that there had been changes — the powder of otataral he had rubbed into his skin only a few days ago, or so it seemed. To begin a night of murder now years past. The other changes, however, were proving far more disconcerting. He had lost so much time. Vanished from the world, and the world just went on without him. As if Rallick Nom had been dead, yes — no different from that, only now he was back, which wasn’t how things should be. Pull a stick from the mud and the mud closes in to swallow up the hole, until no sign remains that the stick ever existed.

Was he still an assassin of the Guild? Not at the moment, and this truth opened to him so many possibilities that his mind reeled, staggered back to the simpler no shy;tion of descending into the catacombs, walking up to Seba Krafar and announcing his return, resuming, yes, his old life.

And if Seba was anything like old Talo, he would smile and say welcome back, Rallick Nom. From that moment the chances that Rallick would make it back out alive were virtually nonexistent. Seba would see at once the threat standing before him. Vorcan had favoured Rallick and that alone was sufficient justifica shy;tion for getting rid of him. Seba wanted no rivals — he’d had enough of those if Krute’s tale of the faction war was accurate.

He had another option when it came to the Guild. Rallick could walk in and kill Seba Krafar, then announce he was interim Master, awaiting Vorcan’s return. Or he could stay in hiding for as long as possible, waiting for Vorcan to make her own move. Then, with her ruling the nest once again, he could emerge out of the woodwork and those missing years would be as nothing, would be without mean shy;ing. That much he shared with Vorcan, and because of that she would trust no one but Rallick. He’d be second in command, and how could he not be satisfied with that?

Oh, this was an old crisis — years old now. His thought that Turban Orr would be the last person he killed had been as foolish then as it was now.

He sat on the edge of the bed in his room. From the taproom below he could hear Kruppe expounding on the glories of breakfast, punctuated by some muted no doubt savage commentary by Meese, and with those two it was indeed as if nothing had changed. The same could not be said for Murillio, alas. Nor for Crokus, who was now named Cutter — an assassin’s name for certain, all too well suited to the man Crokus had become. Now who taught him to fight with knives like that? Something of the Malazan style — the Claw, in fact.

Rallick had been expecting Cutter to visit, had been anticipating the launch of a siege of questions. He would want to explain, wouldn’t he? Try to justify his de shy;cisions to Rallick, even when there was no possible justification. He didn’t listen to me, did he? Ignored my warnings. Only fools think they can make a differ shy;ence. So, where was he? With Murillio, I expect, holding off on the inevitable.

A brief knock at the door and Irilta entered — she’d been living hard of late, he could see, and such things seemed to catch up faster with women than with men — though when men went they went quickly. ‘Brought you breakfast,’ she said, carrying a tray over. ‘See? I remembered it all, right down to the honey-soaked figs.’

Honey-soaked figs? ‘Thank you, Irilta. Let Cro- er, Cutter know that I’d like to see him now.’

‘He went out.’

‘He did? When?’

She shrugged. ‘Not so long ago, according to Murillio.’ She paused for a hack shy;ing cough that reddened her broad face.

‘Find yourself a healer,’ Rallick said when she was done.

‘Listen,’ she said, opening the door behind her, ‘I ain’t got no regrets, Rallick. I ain’t expecting any god’s kiss on the other aide, and ain’t nobody gonna say of Irilta she didn’t have no fun when she was alive, no sir,’

She added something else but since she was in the corridor and closing the door Rallick didn’t quite catch it. Might have been something like ‘try chewin on that lesson some. .’, but then, she’d never been the edgy one, had she?

He looked down at the tray, frowned, then picked it up and rose.

Out into the corridor, balancing it one-handed while he lifted the latch of the next door along and walked into Murillio’s room.

‘This is yours,’ Rallick said. ‘Honey-soaked figs, your favourite.’

A grunt from Murillio on the bed. ‘Explains these strips of spiced jerky — you are what you eat, right?’

‘You’re not nearly as sweet as you think, then,’ Rallick said, setting the tray down. ‘Poor Irilta.’