Callis & Toll: The Silver Shard

by Nick Horth

  ‘Get to the point,’ said Bengtsson, though there was an edge to his voice that betrayed his growing interest.

  ‘I know what the skyfarers treasure above all else,’ said Toll. ‘The breath of Grugni. The fuel that powers your fleets and your cities. Aether-gold. If you agree to give me passage, I can grant to you an augury of incomparable value, one that would make you the richest sky-captain on the Taloncoast. Perhaps in all the realms.’

  There was silence, for a long while. Bengtsson’s crystal eyes never left the witch hunter’s.

  ‘And the Collegiate, they would agree to this?’ he asked at last.

  ‘Of course not,’ said Toll. ‘But I’ve no intention of asking for their permission. I mean to see Ortam Vermyre dead, admiral, and I will pay any price to see that happen.’

  Bengtsson leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers and study­ing the witch hunter.

  ‘I’m listening,’ he said.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  In Callis’ long and varied experience, The Drowned Rat was perhaps the most depressing establishment he’d ever had the misfortune of visiting. It was a squat, cramped hovel carved out of clay and propped up with mortared bone. The only light sources were a couple of half-heartedly excavated holes in the slanted roof that bled a thin trickle of light across several hide-wrapped stools and tables. The apparent proprietor was a leathery, ancient duardin with a missing eye and a mouthful of broken teeth, who peered at Callis as if he were a particularly low species of vermin that had crept into his establishment.

  ‘Two ales,’ attempted Callis.

  ‘Ales?’ spat the duardin, turning up his considerable nose.

  ‘Forgive my ignorance. What’s the typical delicacy you serve around these parts?’

  ‘Guama,’ grunted the barkeep, and proceeded to pour a thick, greenish-brown liquid into two clay cups. There was a strong, altogether unpleasant smell, somewhere between damp wood and sewer runoff. Callis offered a thin smile, slotted his last glimmering across the counter, and warily carried the two cups of unspeakable liquid over to where Shev was waiting in one dank corner.

  He slid the aelf her drink across the table. To his surprise, she took up the cup and took a great swig of the stuff. Her face went through several stages of grief, and ended somewhere near capitulation.

  ‘Gods, that’s rough,’ she groaned.

  Callis took a sip of his own, and immediately regretted it. The substance tasted even worse than it smelled, but it did at least leave a satisfying fire in his stomach.

  ‘I hope your man can find us passage,’ said Shev. ‘Bilgeport is short of charms, and you can bet our quarry is already nearing his prize.’

  ‘Toll can be very persuasive when the need arises,’ he said. ‘And he won’t allow Vermyre to slip away from him. Not again.’

  Shev frowned, and her lips twitched, as if she was about to say something.

  ‘Speak whatever’s on your mind,’ he said.

  ‘It doesn’t worry you?’ she replied. ‘The intensity with which he hates this man? I’ve known men lost to revenge before. It never leads to anything good, Armand.’

  ‘Vermyre’s betrayal left a scar, that’s true,’ Callis nodded. ‘But I put my trust in him. He’s not led me astray before.’

  She leaned back in her chair, peering at him through those hazel eyes.

  ‘Why are you out here, Armand?’ she asked. ‘You’re no true believer, that’s for certain. A man like you, who made his name in the battle for Excelsis – even a Reclaimed – I’d have thought you set up for life.’

  He sighed and shrugged. Even that small motion sent a shiver of pain through his chest. If he was honest with himself, he hadn’t truly given much thought to why he’d accepted Toll’s offer of employment. It was hardly as if the witch hunter had lied about how hard and thankless the work would be.

  ‘For most of my life, I thought the army was my calling,’ he said, choosing his words carefully. ‘I was a good soldier. My comrades respected me, I think. It was a tough life, but it gave me structure. Purpose. And then, in a moment, I lost it all.’

  ‘Vermyre’s betrayal?’

  ‘Yes, but that was only a part of it. Everything I had ever known. All the assumptions I had made, the foundations of what I believed in, they were shattered. Suddenly, the world became an infinitely larger and more terrifying place. But, somehow…’

  ‘You found your place in it?’

  He nodded. ‘I can’t really explain it. My life was unmoored, and exposed for the lie it had always been. There were daemons amongst us, all along. But rather than the fear I expected, I only felt a calm assurance. As if my entire life had been leading up to this moment of realisation, and now I was truly free.’

  ‘Maybe I was wrong,’ she murmured. ‘Maybe you are a true believer after all.’

  He laughed and raised his cup. She clinked it with her own, spilling a few drops of its foul-smelling contents. He realised he was staring. She was beautiful. The scars were nothing, really.

  The door of the tavern swung open with a creak.

  Captain Arika Zenthe – or whomever she was currently pretending to be – strode in, accompanied by Oscus and four other aelf corsairs. Zenthe still had her hair covered by a scarlet wrap, and she had ditched her twin swords in favour of a pair of ruby-hilted daggers that were secured crosswise upon her leather armour. The duardin barkeep shrank back just a bit behind his counter. Obviously the aelves of the Scourge were considered no less enigmatic figures in Bilgeport than they were along the dock districts of Excelsis.

  ‘Save the bilgewater,’ Zenthe said as she entered, waving a dismissive hand at the nervous duardin. ‘I’ve brought something that’s less likely to rot my guts from the inside.’

  The captain drew a decanter of amber liquid from within her coat, and pried loose the stopper with her teeth. She caught sight of Callis and Shev in their dimly lit corner.

  ‘Well, if it isn’t Arclis the tomb-thief and the indomitable guilder,’ she said, spitting out the cork and taking a deep draught of the decanter’s contents. As she approached their table, her angular nose crinkled in disgust. ‘By the deep, you were actually foolish enough to drink their local fish-piss? Gods help you, both of you. Pour that trash out, and let’s have a proper drink.’

  Callis sighed, and tipped his drink out onto the floor. A small, six-limbed, purple-shelled crustacean that had been nestling between the dusty cobbles gave an indignant shriek as it was doused in the sour guama, and scuttled away into the shadows.

  Zenthe poured him a slug of the amber liquid. Her men took tables around the bar. Callis noted that they were far from relaxed. They all carried weapons, and had chosen positions which gave them a good view of each entrance.

  ‘Expecting trouble?’ he said, and took a swig. Fiery, but with a pleasant honey-like aftertaste.

  ‘Always,’ she replied, lowering her voice just a fraction. ‘Arika Zenthe is not a name that’s praised to the topsails in these seas. I’ve made fools of the High Captains far too many times.’

  ‘Well, as long as they don’t know we’re here,’ said Shev.

  Zenthe fixed her with an almost pitying stare. ‘Of course they do. Or, if they don’t yet, they soon will. You can’t just disguise a ship like the Thrice Lucky, girl. We might have bought some time, but nothing more. We’re in the bloody water, and there’s sharks circling. Probably the only thing that’s holding them back is they expect me to have something up my sleeve.’

  ‘And do you?’ asked Callis.

  ‘No,’ said Zenthe cheerily.

  He sighed, and drained the last of his liquor. Zenthe refilled his cup.

  ‘Don’t worry your precious heads, young ones,’ she said. The good captain was grinning honestly for the first time in days. Callis realised that she was genuinely enjoying herself. ‘I’ve been in far worse scrapes tha
n this. And I know the High Captains better than they know themselves. Azrekh, the runaway slave. Lorse, who’d gut his own mother for a glimmering. That fat slug Kaskin, cleverer than you’d give him credit, despite his bluster.’

  ‘If what you say is true then might it not be a good idea to lie low somewhere?’ whispered Shev. ‘Maybe head back to the ship, or book passage to Excelsis.’

  Zenthe sighed.

  ‘The Thrice Lucky is probably the least safe place in all Bilgeport,’ she said, then took a long, slow draught of liquor. ‘She’s made her last kill. Hull breach like that, you’d need a team of shipwrights working on her day and night for the next span to get her back cutting the waves. She’s served me well, but like all old wolves, there comes a time when you can’t lead the hunt any more. Here’s to her memory.’

  Callis was surprised how sad he was to hear her say those words. He’d hardly enjoyed a moment of his time on the Thrice Lucky, but the wolf-ship had cut a path through the worst the Taloncoast could throw at her, and brought them out alive. Well, most of them anyway.

  ‘We’re here until we can find safe passage back to Excelsis,’ said Zenthe. ‘With a captain we can trust to keep their mouth shut. Not an easy find.’

  ‘Or until we find a ship worth stealing,’ muttered Oscus.

  ‘My hopes on that end aren’t high,’ said Zenthe. ‘The state of most of those half-rotted cogs out there in the bay, I’d give it a league at most before they went under. If a shipmaster in my fleet dared let their vessel decay to such a state, I’d have them flayed to the bone.’

  She drained the last of the amber spirit. Callis and Shev raised their own cups and drank along.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  The light was dimming now as Toll made his way back from the skyport. In the distance, he could hear the holler of drunken voices and a clatter that was clearly intended to be musical, but fell some way short. Here, though, it was quiet. Disturbingly so.

  Footsteps. Soft, careful, but unmistakeable. He was being followed.

  Toll took a sudden turn, passing into a narrow alley that ran between two rows of cramped, clay huts. Shell fragments mixed with broken glass on the floor, and he had to skip awkwardly between patches of dry earth in order to mask his path. He turned again, and on his right there was an open hole, a makeshift window that led inside one of the crude yurts. With a smooth, practised grace he grasped hold of the sill and levered his body into the structure, pressing flat against the far wall. Two shadows drifted past the opening. They stopped, briefly, and he heard the hush of whispering voices, though he could not make out the words. The sentiment, however, was easier to grasp – they were confused and angry. After a moment, they continued on, following the path ahead.

  Toll stepped cautiously forward. Something draped in hides and net wrappings lay in the corner of the hovel, and it groaned and muttered something as he passed.

  There was another opening at the front of the shack, and he passed through, turning to place his feet upon the sill and jumping to catch a hold on the rough timber roof. He pulled himself up as quietly as possible, and then dropped low as he saw movement across the way, on the roof opposite his own. A human form, wrapped in a black cloak, wielding an alley-bow. The cross-shaped head of the weapon drifted across the streets below as the sniper sought his target.

  Me, no doubt, thought Toll. He had hoped that their presence would go unnoticed for at least another few hours, long enough for him, Callis and the aelf girl to depart upon the Kharadron vessel. As always, however, his best laid plans appeared to have gone awry.

  The sniper offered a muttered curse, and moved closer. He was now no more than ten feet away, and his back was turned.

  Toll rose, push dagger clenched between the first two fingers of his right hand. He ran, put his foot on the lip of the roof and hurled himself across the gap. The crossbowman was just turning when Toll struck him, bearing him to the floor. The man fired, and the bolt shot out from under Toll’s arm and disappeared into the night. Barring one hand across the man’s throat, throttling his startled grunts, Toll struck out with the dagger, sinking it into the sniper’s chest. The man gurgled and spat hot blood onto the side of the witch hunter’s face. Toll did not relent, striking until the man’s ragged breathing finally cut off.

  He heard movement below, and a soft, low whistle coming from the alley running off to the west, towards the market square. He grasped the alley-bow, its hardwood grip slick with spilled blood, and raised it to his chest. It would be best to keep this quiet.

  Bracing one foot back, he leaned over the edge of the roof, leading with the muzzle of the weapon. He saw a flicker of motion, little more than a brush of shadow. He fired, and heard a gratifying howl of pain in response. He put two more bolts into the inky darkness where the sound had come from, and then rolled backwards as a corresponding scatter of bolts whickered off the roof by his feet, tearing up a cloud of dust and splintered wood.

  ‘Jed! Jed!’ he heard, a panicked hiss.

  Toll slipped off the roof on the right hand side, furthest away from the voice and the low moaning of the cutthroat he’d snagged with that last bolt. More footsteps, rushing closer, and the flicker of torches at the far end of the alley. This wasn’t good. They could easily box him in here, trap him and run him to ground. Whoever had made their play, they were taking no chances. He rummaged in his coat, fished out the bronze sphere that had so interested Gunnery Sergeant Drock earlier. It vibrated a little, and he gripped each half and rotated his hands. With a satisfying click the two ends split apart, revealing a thin band of perforated holes along the circumference of the orb. He waited two breaths, then rolled the sphere down the end of the alleyway, where a huddle of figures was just hoving into view.

  The sphere spat thick, green smoke which rolled up the red-clay walls of the alleyway, smothering the advancing figures in a choking fog. Toll heard coughing and retching as the acrid gas did its work. Then, raising the collar of his coat to cover his mouth, he ducked low and advanced forward, right into the cloud. A figure stumbled out of the haze, holding one gloved hand to its eyes and spluttering. He saw the outline of a broad, well-muscled body, clutching a vicious-looking axe. The man looked up from his retching fit as Toll’s pistol butt descended towards his face. He managed a startled yelp before the club hit him on the base of the neck, driving him to his knees. Toll swung again and again, until he felt the body go limp. Then, just as more figures began to stumble out of the smoke, he rolled the body into a break in the alley to his right, and tugged off its black cloak. Sweeping the garment around his shoulders, he grabbed the man’s boarding axe – a thick-hafted weapon with a double-edged blade – and brought up the cloak’s hood.

  ‘Nagash’s rotting bones,’ spat the nearest figure, leaning against the far side of the alley. Toll emerged from his hiding space, making a show of rubbing at his own eyes – it wasn’t hard, as the choking gas was biting deep into his skin, stinging like daemon-blood.

  ‘Jed and Hogrim are bleeding out,’ came another voice. ‘He’s a slippery one.’

  ‘The High Captain warned us no less,’ whispered the first figure.

  ‘I saw him run that way,’ Toll grunted, making his voice a low growl. Whether it was the sting of the smoke or the dim light, the band of cutthroats seemed not to notice that one of their number had been replaced. Muttering curses and threatening bloody vengeance upon their quarry, they began to file past Toll. One of them stretched out a hand to help him along, but he shook his head and pretended to dry heave, waving the man on.

  As soon as they had filed off into the shadows, Toll’s coughing fit miraculously ceased, and he slipped away into the darkness, moving as fast as he dared towards the Drowned Rat. He only hoped he could reach his companions in time. He was crossing a grimy square littered with broken glass when he saw the silhouettes of figures rise from the low buildings ahead, the gleam of metal in their hands. A ha
il of bolts slammed into the earth all about him, kicking up a cloud of foul-tasting dust. He froze, knowing that he was marked on all sides.

  ‘You’re a talented man,’ came a gruff voice from his left. Sauntering out of the darkness came a duardin wielding a saw-toothed blade, flanked by two burly henchmen. Toll recognised the burn-mark of an escaped slave upon the newcomer’s brow, and marked him as High Captain Azrekh. This one had a reputation for sadism and brutality that echoed even on the streets of Excelsis.

  ‘Give it up now,’ grunted the duardin. ‘No way out of this, witchfinder.’

  Cursing his ill fortune, Toll raised his hands, letting his stolen crossbow clatter to the floor.

  A figure stepped out from the shadows across the square. As it crossed into the flickering moonlight, Toll saw a featureless golden mask, and long, flowing robes of black.

  ‘Ortam,’ sighed Toll. ‘I should have known you’d wish to gloat before you finish me. You always did find the sound of your own voice the sweetest symphony.’

  Vermyre laughed. There was a gurgling wetness to the sound. Following behind the former High Arbiter came a thin, sallow man that Toll recognised as High Captain Lorse. Where Azrekh and Kaskin flaunted their ambition and indulged in the embellishment of their legend, Lorse remained a rarely-seen, enigmatic figure. Toll had long marked him as the most dangerous of the three.

  ‘This is foolish,’ muttered Lorse, his voice gravelly and strained. The tales said that a former rival had taken a knife to Lorse’s throat in a drunken brawl. ‘You never told us he was a witch hunter. We drain a little blood from Excelsis every now and then and no one notices. We start butchering members of the Order, we’ll have the damned storm-bringers at our docks before we know it.’

  Vermyre rested a hand on the man’s shoulder. Lorse flinched, perceptibly, and adopted the expression of a man who had a live blade-spider crawling across his face.

  ‘No one will ever know what happened here, if you are diligent,’ he said. ‘Hanniver is a secretive man, who operates for months, sometimes years without contact or support from Arnhem. By the time the Order notes his disappearance, if indeed they ever do, they will have a thousand other crises to occupy their time. We live in a time of great opportunity, High Captain, if we only have the wit and the boldness to seize it. You think that Arnhem will mark the disappearance of one man, while across the far realms their cities are besieged?’