Toll the Hounds

Is this the city of the day just past? No, it is transformed, mghtmare-tinged, into a netherworld so well suited to the two figures walking-with comfort and ease-towards the gate of an estate. Where stand two guards, nervous, moments from warning the strangers off-for the Lady of the House was in residence and she valued her privacy, yes, she did. Or so it must be assumed, and Scorch and Leff, having discussed the matter at length, were indeed convinced that, being a Lady, she valued all those things few others could afford, including… er, privacy. They held crossbows because who could say what might creep into view and besides, the heavy weapons were so comforting to cradle when clouds devoured the stars and the moon had forgotten to rise and the damned lanterns still weren’t lit. True enough, torches in sconces framed the arched gateway but this did little more than blind the two guards to the horrors lurking just beyond the pool of light.

Two such horrors drew closer. One was enormous, broad-shouldered and oddly short-legged, his hair shaggy as a yak’s. He was smiling-or, that is, his teeth gleamed and perhaps it was indeed a smile, perhaps not. His companion was almost as tall, but much thinner, almost skeletal. Bald, the high dome of his forehead bore a tattooed scene of some sort within an elaborate oval frame of threaded gold stitched through the skin. His teeth, also visible, were all capped in silver-tipped gold, like a row of fangs. He wore a cloak of threadbare linen so long it dragged behind him, while his looming companion was dressed like a court jester-bright greens, oranges and reds and yellows-and these were just the colours of his undersized vest. He wore a billowy blouse of sky-blue silk beneath the vest, the cuffs of the sleeves stiff and reaching halfway between wrist and elbow. A shimmering black kerchief encircled his ox-like neck. He wore vermilion pantaloons drawn tight just beneath the knees, and calf-high snug moccasins.

‘I think,’ muttered Scorch, ‘I’m going to be sick.’

‘Stop there!’ Leff barked. ‘State your business if you have any-but know this, the Mistress is seeing no one.’

‘Excellent!’ said the huge one in a thunderous voice. ‘There will be no delay then in her granting us audience. If you please, O orange-eyed one, do inform the Mistress that Lazan Door and Madrun have finally arrived, at her service.’

Leff sneered, but he was wishing that Torvald Nom hadn’t gone off for supper or a roll with his wife or whatever, so he could pass all this on to him and not have to worry about it any more. Standing here at the gate, yes, that was within his abilities. ‘Train your weapon on ’em, Scorch,’ he said. ‘I’ll go find the castel-lan.’

Scorch shot him a look of raw terror. ‘There’s two, Leff, but only one quarrel! Leave me yours.’

‘Fine, but I’d like to see you get two off with them only ten paces away. If they rushed you, why, you’d be lucky to get just one off.’

‘Still, it’ll make me feel better.’

‘Now now, gentlemen,’ the big one said, all too smoothly, ‘there’s no need for concern. I assure you, we are expected. Is this not the estate of Lady Varada? I do believe it is.’

‘Varada?’ hissed Scorch to Leff. ‘Is that her name?’

‘Shut it,’ Leff snapped under his breath. ‘You’re making us look like idiots!’ He carefully set his crossbow down and drew out the gate key. ‘Nobody move unless it’s to go away-not you, Scorch! Stay right there. I’ll be right back.’

After he slipped out of sight, closing and locking the gate behind him, Scorch faced the two strangers once more. He managed a smile. ‘Nice get-up, that,’ he said to the jester. ‘You a court clown or something? Sing us a song. How ‘bout ariddIe? I ain’t any good at riddles but i like hearing ’em and the way when I do my thinking, trying to figure ’em out, my whole brain |ust goes white, sorta. Can you juggle? I like juggling, tried it once, got up to two at a time-that took weeks, let me tell you. Weeks. Juggling demands discipline all right, and maybe it looks eas-ier to other people, but you and I know, well, just how talented you have to be to do it. Do you dance, too, or stand on your head-’

‘Sir,’ the giant cut in, ‘I am not a jester. Nor a juggler. Nor a riddler, nor singer, nor dancer.’

‘Oh. Colour-blind?’

‘Excuse, me?’

‘The guard,’ said the other man, the thin one, in a voice even thinner, ‘has misconstrued your attire, Madrun. Local fashion is characteristically mundane, unimaginative. Did you not so observe earlier?’

‘So I did. Of course. A clash of cultures-’