Toll the Hounds полностью

Scented cloth held to his face, Gorlas Vidikas observed the operation which he now managed, although perhaps “managed” was the wrong word. The day to day necessities were the responsibility of the camp workmaster, a scarred and pock-faced man in his fifties with decades-old scraps of raw metal still embedded in his hands. He hacked out a cough after every ten words or so, and spat thick yellow mucus down between his bronze-capped boots.

‘The young ’uns go the fastest, of course.’ Cough, spit. ‘Our moles or so we call ’em, since they can squeeze inta cracks no grown-up can get through,’ cough, spit, ‘and this way if there’s bad air it’s none of our stronger workers get killed.’ Cough. . ‘We was havin’ trouble gettin’ enough young ’uns for a time there, until we started buyin’ ’em from the poorer fam’lies both in and outa the city — they got too many runts t’feed, ye see? An’ we got special rules for the young ’uns — nobody gets their hands on ’em, if you know what I mean.

‘From them it goes on up. A miner lasts maybe five years, barring falls and the like. When they get too sick we move ’em outa the tunnels, make ’em shift captains. A few might get old enough for foreman — I was one of them, ye see. Got my hands dirty as a lad and ’ere I am and if that’s not freedom I don’t know what is, hey?’

This workmaster, Gorlas Vidikas silently predicted, would be dead inside three years. ‘Any trouble with the prisoners?’ he asked.

‘Nah, most don’t live long enough to cause trouble. We make ’em work the deadlier veins. It’s the arsenic what kills ’em, mostly — we’re pullin’ gold out too, you know. Profit’s gone up three thousand per cent in the past year. E’en my share I’m looking at maybe buying a small estate.’

Gorlas glanced across at this odious creature. ‘You married?’

Cough, spit, ‘Not yet,’ and he grinned, ‘but you know what a rich man can buy, hey?’

‘As part of what I am sure will be an exceptional relationship,’ Gorlas said, where I profit from your work, ‘I am prepared to finance you on such an estate. A modest down payment on your part, at low interest. .’

‘Really? Why, noble sir, that would be fine. Yessy, very fine. We can do that all right.’

And when you kick off with no heirs I acquire yet another property in the Estate District. ‘It is my pleasure,’ he said with a smile. ‘Those of us who have done well in our lives need to help each other whenever we can.’

‘My thoughts too, ’bout all that. My thoughts exactly.’

Smoke and stenches, voices ringing through dust, oxen lowing as they strained, with overloaded wagons. Gorlas Vidikas and the dying workmaster looked down on the scene, feeling very pleased with themselves.

Harllo squirmed his way out from the fissure, the hand holding the candle stretched out in front of him, and felt a calloused grip wrap round his narrow wrist. The candle was taken and then Bainisk was pulling Harllo out, surprisingly tender but that was Bainisk, a wise veteran all of sixteen years old, half his face a streak of shiny scar tissue through which peered the glittering blue of his eyes — both of which had miraculously escaped damage. He was grinning now as he helped Harllo on to his feet.

‘Well, Mole?’

‘Iron, raw and cold and wide across as three of my hands laid flat.’

‘The air?’

‘I’m here, aren’t I?’

Laughing, Bainisk slapped him on the back. ‘You’ve earned the afternoon. Back to Chuffs you go.’

Harllo frowned. ‘Please, can’t I stay on here?’

‘Venaz giving you more trouble?’

‘Bullies don’t like me,’ Harllo said.

‘That’s ’cause you’re smart. Now listen, I warned him off once already and once is all the warning I give and he knows that so he won’t be bothering you. We need our moles happy and in one piece. It’s a camp law. I’m in charge of Chuffs, right?’

Harllo nodded. ‘Only you won’t be there, will you? Not this afternoon.’

‘Venaz is in the kitchen today. It’ll be all right.’

Nodding, Harllo collected his small sack of gear, which was a little heavier than usual, and set out for upside. He liked the tunnels, at least when the air wasn’t foul and burning his throat. Surrounded by so much solid stone made him feel safe, protected, and he loved most those narrowest of cracks that only he could get through — or the few others like him, still fit with no broken bones and still small enough. He’d only cracked one finger so far and that was on his right hand which he used to hold the candle and not much else. He could pull himself along with his left, his half-naked body slick with sweat despite the damp stone and the trickles of icy water.