A review by nclcaitlin
Toll the Hounds by Steven Erikson

3.5

Picker is back, baby!

We’re back in Darujhistan facing assassination attempts, cults, and frolicking nobles. 

Backdropping this is the Chain which forever grinds on, yet what happens when there aren’t enough souls slain by the sword to satisfy it? 

The chapters were shorter in this book! I hate stopping halfway through one, but I’ve found with Malazan, I have to, otherwise it’s another twenty minutes. 

Also, Picker, Blend, and Antsy gives me endless amounts of joy. 

Petition to give Antsy a break. 

Also, Cutter/Crokus returns to the city where it all begun so that it felt like a full circle. Even Chalice made her appearance!

I really do think that Erickson should write an anti-manual on capitalism with Marx. It reads that Erickson feels as Duiker the historian does - witnessing humanity’s failure and self-destruction but only able to comment pitifully. 

‘Civilization is the mechanism of controlling and maintaining that multitude. The more civilized a nation, the more conformed its population, until that civilization's last age arrives, when multiplicity wages war with conformity. The former grows ever wilder, ever more dysfunctional in its extremities; whilst the latter seeks to increase its measure of control, until such efforts acquire diabolical tyranny.'

Again, the sexualisation is amped up yet again. Why?! This time, it’s used in a more humorous way compared to the last one, so I’m willing to label this as a staple of grimdark. 

“You must remember his big, er, hands.”

“My kitten remembers, all right.”

Another snort from Blend. “Meow.”

“Hee hee! And she'll see that with me she'll have more than she ever believed possible! Why, I shall be a giant walking penis!”

“You already are.”

Worst character in this book goes to Snell - a young boy who is a psychopath and absolutely cruel to his siblings. 

Finally, Erickson, please listen to your own advice:

’Sad truth,' Kruppe said - his audience of none sighing in agreement - 'that a tendency towards verbal excess can so defeat the precision of meaning.

That intent can be so well disguised in majestic plethora of nuance, of rhythm both serious and mocking, of this penchant for self-referential slyness, that the unwitting simply skip on past - imagining their time to be so precious, imagining themselves above all manner of conviction, save that of their own witty perfection. Sigh and sigh again.’