Brokrin, the Iron Dragon’s captain, stepped towards Drumark. ‘You are not shooting holes in the bottom of my ship,’ he snapped at him. ‘We have enough problems with the rats. If you go shooting holes in the hull we won’t be able to take on any aether-gold even if we do find a rich cloud-vein.’
Drumark jabbed a thumb down at his boot. ‘It peed on my foot. Only respect for you, cap’n, keeps me from getting a good fire going and smoking the vermin out.’
‘That is some sound thinking,’ Horgarr, the Iron Dragon’s endrinmaster scoffed. He pressed his shovel against the deck and leaned against it as he turned towards Drumark. ‘Start a fire in the ship’s belly. Nothing bad could happen from that. Except the fifty-odd things that immediately come to mind.’
Brokrin shook his head as Drumark told Horgarr exactly what he thought of the endrinmaster’s mind. No duardin had any affection for rats, but Drumark’s hatred of them was almost a mania. His father had died fighting the pestiferous skaven and every time he looked at a rat he was reminded of their larger kin. It made him surly and quick to anger. This would be the third fight between the two he would have to break up since coming down into the Iron Dragon’s holds. Unable to find any aether-gold, the ironclad had put in at Greypeak, a walled human city with which Barak-Zilfin had a trading compact. The grain the city’s farmers cultivated was well regarded by the Kharadron and would fetch a good price in the skyhold. Not as much as a good vein, but at least there would be something for the aether-ship’s backers.
At least there would be if the rats that had embarked along with the grain left anything in good enough condition to sell. There were more than a few Kharadron who claimed that the Iron Dragon was jinxed and that her captain was under a curse. Sometimes he found himself wondering if his detractors were right. This was not the first time Brokrin’s ship had suffered an infestation of vermin, but he could not recall any that had been so tenacious as these. Whatever they did to try to protect their cargo, the rats found some way around it. They were too clever for the traps old Mortrimm set for them, too cunning to accept the poisoned biscuits Lodri made for them. Even the cat Gotramm had brought aboard had been useless – after its first tussle with one of the rats it had found itself a spot up in the main endrin’s cuppola and would claw anyone who tried to send it below deck again.
‘These swine must have iron teeth.’ The bitter observation was given voice by Skaggi, the expedition’s logisticator. Tasked with balancing profit against expense and safeguarding the investment of the expedition’s backers, every ounce of grain despoiled by the rodents stung Skaggi to the quick. He held a heavy net of copper wire in his hands, extending it towards Brokrin so he could see the holes the rats had gnawed. ‘So much for keeping them out of the grain. We will be lucky if they do not start in for the beer next.’
Skaggi’s dour prediction made Drumark completely forget about his argument with Horgarr. He looked in horror at Skaggi. An instant later, he raised the shovel overhead and flung it to the floor.
‘That is it!’ Drumark declared. ‘I am bringing my lads down here and we will settle these parasites here and now!’ He turned to Brokrin, determination etched across his face. ‘You tell Grundstok thunderers to hunt rats, then that is just what we will do. But we will do it the way we know best.’
Skaggi’s eyes went wide with alarm, his mind turning over the expense of patching over the holes the thunderers would leave if they started blasting away at the rats. He swung around to Brokrin, his tone almost frantic. ‘We will be ruined,’ he groaned. ‘No profit, barely enough to pay off the backers.’
Drumark reached out and took hold of the copper net Skaggi was holding. ‘If they can chew through this, they can chew their way into the beer barrels. Me and my thunderers are not going dry while these rats get drunk!’
The sound of shovels slapping against the floor died down as the rest of the duardin in the hold paused in their efforts to hear what Drumark was shouting about. Many of them were from his Grundstok company and looked more than ready to side with their sergeant and trade spades for guns.
‘The rats will not bother the beer while they still have grain to eat,’ Brokrin stated, making sure his words were loud enough to carry to every crewman in the hold. How much truth there was in the statement, he did not know. He did know it was what Drumark and the others needed to hear right now.
‘All due respect, cap’n,’ Drumark said, ‘but how long will that be? Swatting them with shovels just isn’t enough and we have tried everything else except shooting them.’
Brokrin gave Drumark a stern look. ‘I’ve said it before, and now I’m saying it again – you are not shooting holes in my ship.’ The chastened sergeant held Brokrin’s gaze for a moment, then averted his eyes. The point had been made.
‘What are we going to do?’ Gotramm asked. The youthful leader of the Iron Dragon’s arkanauts, he had watched with pointed interest the exchange between Brokrin and Drumark.
‘I know one thing,’ Horgarr said, pulling back his sleeve and showing the many scratches on his arm. ‘That cat is staying right where it is.’ The remark brought laughs from all who heard it, even cracking Drumark’s sullen mood.
Brokrin was more pensive. Something Drumark had said earlier had spurred a memory. It was only now that his recollection fell into place. ‘The toads,’ he finally said. The newer members of the crew glanced in confusion at their captain, but those who had served on the Iron Dragon before her escape from the monster Ghazul knew his meaning.
‘Some years ago,’ Brokrin explained to them, ‘we sailed through a Grimesturm and a rain of toads fell on our decks. They were everywhere, even worse than these rats. You could not sit without squashing one or take a sip of ale without having one hop into your mug.
‘To rid the ship of her infestation,’ Brokrin continued, ‘we put in at the lamasery of Kheitar. The lamas prepared a mixture of herbs, which we burned in smudge pots. The smoke vexed the toads so much that they jumped overboard of their own accord.’
‘You think the lamas could whip up something to scare off rats?’ Gotramm asked.
Brokrin nodded. ‘Kheitar is not far out of our way. There would be little to lose by diverting our course and paying the lamasery a visit.’
‘Kheitar is built into the side of a mountain,’ Horgarr said. ‘Certainly it will offer as good an anchorage as the peak we’re moored to now.’
Skaggi’s eyes lit up, an avaricious smile pulling at his beard. ‘The lamas are renowned for their artistic tapestries as well as their herbalism. If we could bargain with them and get them to part with even one tapestry we could recover the loss of what the rats have already ruined.’
‘Then it is decided,’ Brokrin said. ‘Our next port of call is Kheitar.’
The lamasery’s reception hall was a stark contrast to the confined cabins and holds of the Iron Dragon. Great pillars of lacquered wood richly carved with elaborate glyphs soared up from the teak floor to clasp the vaulted roof with timber claws. Lavish hangings hung from the walls, each beautifully woven with scenes from legend and lore. Great urns flanked each doorway, their basins filled with a wondrously translucent sand in which tangles of incense sticks slowly smouldered. Perfumed smoke wafted sluggishly through the room, visible as a slight haze where it condensed around the great platform at the rear of the chamber. Upon that platform stood a gigantic joss, a golden statue beaten into the semblance of an immensely fat man, his mouth distorted by great tusks and his head adorned by a nest of horns. In one clawed hand the joss held forward a flower, his other resting across his lap with the remains of a broken sword in his palm.
Brokrin could never help feeling a tinge of revulsion when he looked at Kheitar’s idol. Whoever had crafted it, their attention to detail had been morbid. The legend at the root of the lamas’ faith spoke of a heinous daemon from the Age of Chaos that had set aside its evil ways to find enlightenment in the ways
of purity and asceticism. Looking at the joss, Brokrin felt less a sense of evil redeemed than he did that of evil biding its time. The duardin with him looked similarly perturbed, all except Skaggi, who was already casting a greedy look at the tapestries on the walls.
The young initiate who guided the duardin into the hall stepped aside as Brokrin and his companions entered. He bowed his shaved head towards a bronze gong hanging just to the left of the entrance. He took the striker tethered to the gong’s wooden stand and gave the instrument three solid hits, each blow sending a dull reverberation echoing through the chamber.
‘Take it easy,’ Brokrin whispered when he saw Gotramm from the corner of his eye. The young arkanaut had reached for his pistol the moment the gong’s notes were sounded. ‘If we aggravate the lamas they might not help get rid of the rats.’
Gotramm let his hand drop away from the gun holstered on his belt. He nodded towards the joss at the other end of the hall. ‘That gargoyle is not the sort of thing to make me feel at ease,’ he said.
‘The cap’n is not saying to close your eyes,’ old Mortrimm the navigator told Gotramm. ‘He is just saying do not be hasty drawing a weapon. Abide by the Code – be sure who you set your axe against, and why.’
Brokrin frowned. ‘Let us hope it does not come to axes. Barak-Zilfin has a long history trading with the lamas.’ Even as he said the words, they felt strangely hollow to him. Something had changed about Kheitar. What it was, he could not say. It was not something he could see or hear, but rather a faintly familiar smell. He turned his eyes again to the daemon-faced joss, wondering what secrets it was hiding inside that golden head.
Movement drew Brokrin’s attention away from the joss. From behind one of the hangings at the far end of the hall, a tall and sparingly built human emerged. He wore the saffron robes of Kheitar’s lamas, but to this was added a wide sash of green that swept down across his left shoulder before circling his waist. It was the symbol that denoted the high lama himself. The uneasy feeling Brokrin had intensified, given something solid upon which to focus. The man who came out from behind the tapestry was middle-aged, his features long and drawn. He certainly was not the fat, elderly Piu who had been high lama the last time the Iron Dragon visited Kheitar.
The lama walked towards the duardin, but did not acknowledge their presence until after he had reached the middle of the hall and turned towards the joss. Bowing and clapping his hands four times, he made obeisance to the idol. When he turned back towards the duardin, his expression was that of sincerity itself.
‘Peace and wisdom upon your path,’ the lama declared, clapping his hands together once more. A regretful smile drew at the corners of his mouth. ‘Is it too much to hope that the Kharadron overlords have descended from the heavens to seek enlightenment?’ He shook his head. ‘But such, I sense, is not the path that has led you here. If it is not the comfort of wisdom you would take away from here, then what comfort is it that we can extend to you?’
Although Brokrin was the Iron Dragon’s captain, it was Skaggi who stepped forwards to address the lama. Of all the ship’s crew, the logisticator had the glibbest tongue. ‘Please forgive any intrusion, your eminence,’ he said. ‘It is only dire need which causes us to intrude upon your solitude. Our ship has been beset by an infestation of noxious pests. Terrible rats that seek…’
The lama’s serenity faltered when Skaggi began to describe the situation. A regretful look crept into his eyes. ‘We of Kheitar are a peaceful order. Neither meat nor milk may pass our lips. Our hands are not raised in violence, for like Zomoth-tulku, we have forsaken the sword. To smite any living thing is to stumble on the path to ascension.’
Brokrin came forwards to stand beside Skaggi. ‘Your order helped us once before, when hail-toads plagued my ship. The high lama, Piu, understood the necessity of removing them.’
The lama closed his eyes. ‘Piu-tulku was a wise and holy man. Cho cannot claim even a measure of his enlightenment.’ Cho opened his eyes again and nodded to Brokrin. ‘There are herbs which could be prepared. Rendered down they can be burned in smudge pots and used to fumigate your ship.’ A deep sigh ran through him. ‘The smoke will drive the rats to flee. Would it be too great an imposition to ask that you leave them a way to escape? Perhaps keep your vessel moored here so they can flee down the ropes and reach solid ground.’
Skaggi’s eyes went wide in shock. ‘That would cause the lamasery to become infested.’ He pointed at the lavish hangings on the walls. ‘Those filthy devils would ruin this place in a fortnight! Think of all that potential profit being lost!‘
Cho placed a hand against his shoulder. ‘It would remove a stain from my conscience if you would indulge my hopes. The death of even so small a creature would impair my own aspirations of transcendence.’
‘My conscience would not permit me to cause such misery to my benefactors,’ Brokrin stated. ‘But upon my honour and my beard, I vow that I will not use whatever herbs you provide us without ensuring the rats can make landfall without undue hazard.’
‘It pleases me to hear those words,’ Cho said. ‘I know the word of your people is etched in stone. I am content. It will take us a day to prepare the herbs. Your ship will be safe where it is moored?’
‘We are tied to the tower above your western gate,’ Mortrimm stated. He gestured with his thumb at Brokrin. ‘The cap’n insisted we keep far enough away that the rats wouldn’t smell food and come slinking down the guide ropes.’
‘Such consideration and concern does you credit, captain,’ Cho declared. He suddenly turned towards Skaggi. ‘If it is not an imposition, would it be acceptable to inquire if the tapestries we weave here still find favour among your people?’
The question took Skaggi by such surprise that the logisticator allowed excitement to shine in his eyes before gaining control of himself and resuming an air of indifference. Brokrin could tell that he was about to undervalue the worth of Kheitar’s artistry. It was a prudent tactic when considering profit but an abominable one when thinking in terms of honour.
‘Your work is applauded in Barak-Zilfin,’ Brokrin said before Skaggi could find his voice. The logisticator gave him an imploring look, but he continued just the same. ‘There are many guildhalls that have used your tapestries to adorn their assemblies, and poor is the noble house that has not at least one hanging from Kheitar on its walls.’
With each word he spoke, Brokrin saw Skaggi grow more perturbed. Cho remained implacable, exhibiting no alteration in his demeanour. Then the high lama turned towards the wall from which he had emerged. Clapping his hands together in rapid succession, he looked aside at the duardin.
‘I thank you for your forthrightness,’ Cho said. ‘Your honesty makes you someone we can trust.’ There was more, but even Brokrin lost the flow of Cho’s speech when the hangings on the walls were pushed aside and a group of ten lamas entered the hall. Each pair carried an immense tapestry rolled into a bundle across their shoulders. To bring only a few tapestries out of Kheitar was considered a rewarding voyage. Was Cho truly offering the duardin five of them?
Cho noted the disbelief that shone on the faces of his guests. He swung around to Skaggi. ‘I have noticed that you admire our work. I will leave it to you to judge the value of the wares I would offer you.’ At a gesture from the high lama, the foremost of his followers came near and unrolled their burden. Skaggi didn’t quite stifle the gasp that bubbled up from his throat.
The background of the tapestry was a rich burgundy in colour and across its thirty-foot length vibrant images were woven from threads of sapphire blue, emerald green and amber yellow. Geometric patterns that transfixed the eye formed a border around visions of opulent splendour and natural wonder. Soaring mountains with snowy peaks rose above wooded hills. Holy kings held court from gilded thrones, their crowns picked out with tiny slivers of jade wound between the threads. Through the centre of the tapestry a stream formed from crushed
pearl flowed into a silver sea.
‘Magnificent,’ the logisticator sputtered before recovering his composure.
‘It gladdens me that you are content with our poor offerings,’ Cho told Skaggi. He looked back towards Brokrin. ‘It is my hope that you would agree to take this cargo back to your city. Whatever price you gain from their sale, I only ask that you return half of that amount to the lamasery.’
‘Well… there are our expenses to be taken into account…’ Skaggi started. However good a deal seemed, the logisticator was quick to find a way to make it better.
‘Of course you should be compensated for your labours,’ Cho said, conceding the point without argument. ‘Captain, are you agreeable to my offer?’
‘It is very generous and I would be a fool to look askance at your offer,’ Brokrin replied. ‘It may be some months before we can return here with your share.’
‘That is understood,’ Cho said. He gestured again to the lamas carrying the tapestries. ‘Pack the hangings for their journey. Then take them to the Kharadron ship.’
The unaccountable uneasiness that had been nagging at Brokrin asserted itself once more. ‘I will send one of my crew to guide your people and show them the best place to put your wares.’ He turned to Mortrimm. ‘Go with them and keep your wits about you,’ he whispered.
‘You expect trouble?’ Mortrimm asked.
Brokrin scratched his beard. ‘No, but what is it the Chuitsek nomads say? “A gift horse sometimes bites.” Just make sure all they do is put the tapestries aboard.’
Nodding his understanding, Mortrimm took his position at the head of the procession of lamas. Because of their heavy burdens, the navigator was easily able to match their pace despite one of his legs being in an aethyric brace. Brokrin and the other duardin watched as the tapestries were conducted out of the hall.
‘Should I go with them, cap’n?’ Skaggi asked. ‘Make certain they do not mar the merchandise when they bring it aboard?’
Sacrosanct & Other Stories Page 18
