Toll the Hounds
Garsten’s eyes flicked back and forth, gauging which viper was likely to carry the least painful bite. After a moment he snarled under his breath and revealed the tile.
‘Gate!’
‘Delighted to find you sitting on my right,’ Spinnock said.
‘ I retreat through!’
Cowardly, but predictable. This was the only path left to Garsten that allowed him to hold on to the coins in his vault. Spinnock and Seerdomin watched as Garsten marched his pieces from the field.
And then it was Spinnock’s turn. With the Gate in play he could summon the five dragons he had amassed. They sailed high over Seerdomin’s elaborate ground defences, weathering them with but the loss of one from the frantic sorcery of the two High Mages atop the towers of Seerdomin’s High Keep.
With the ground defences in sudden disarray on the collapse of command, Spinnock advanced a spearhead of his own mercenaries as well as his regiment of Elite Cavalry, neatly bisecting the enemy forces. Both vassals subsequently broke in uprising, each remaining on the field long enough to further savage Seerdomin’s beleaguered forces before retreating through the Gate. By the time the game’s round reached him, Seerdomin had no choice but to reach out one hand and topple his queen.
Voices rose on all sides, as wagers were settled.
Spinnock Durav leaned forward to collect his winnings. ‘Resto! A pitcher of ale for the table here!’
‘You are ever generous with my money,’ Seerdomin said in sour amusement.
‘The secret of generosity, friend.’
‘1 know.’
As was customary, the other three players, having retreated, could not par-take of any gesture of celebration by the game’s victor. Accordingly, Spinnock and Seerdomin were free to share the pitcher of ale between them, and this seemed a most satisfying conclusion to such a skilfully waged campaign. The crowd had moved off, fragmenting on all sides, and the servers were suddenly busy once more.
‘The problem with us night owls,’ said Seerdomin, hunching down over his flagon. When it seemed he would say no more he added, ‘Not once does a glance to yon smudged pane over there reveal the poppy-kiss of dawn.’
‘Dawn? Ah, to announce night’s closure,’ Spinnock said, nodding. ‘It is a con¬stant source of surprise among us Tiste Andii that so many humans have re¬mained. Such unrelieved darkness is a weight upon your souls, or so I have heard.’
‘If there is no escape, aye, it can twist a mind into madness. But a short ride beyond the north gate, out to the Barrow, and bright day beckons. Same for the fishers sailing Outwater. Without such options, Spinnock, you Andii would indeed be alone in Black Coral. Moon’s Spawn casts a shadow long after its death, or so the poets sing. But I tell you this,’ Seerdomin leaned forward to refill his flagon, ‘I welcome this eternal darkness.’
Seerdomin had enough burdens, and Spinnock was determined that his friend should never comprehend the necessity he had become-these games, these nights among the eternal Night, this squalid tavern and the pitchers of cheap, gassy ale.
‘This one has worn me out,’ the man now said, setting down his empty flagon. ‘I thought I had you-aye, I knew the Gate tile was still unplayed. Two tiles to get past you, though, and everything would have been mine.’
There wasn’t much to say to that. Both understood how that single gamble had decided the game. What was unusual was Seerdomin’s uncharacteristic need to explain himself. ‘Get some sleep,’ Spinnock said.
Seerdomin’s smile was wry. He hesitated, as if undecided whether or not to say something, or simply follow Spinnock’s advice and stumble off to his home.
Speak not to me of weakness. Please.