Hangarath himself had waited on the harbour front for the first marble shipment to arrive, lounging on his sedan fanned by two serving girls. At last the great vessel was sighted, and excitement rose as it entered the great harbour. Hundreds of sweating, sinewy men manned the cranes, winches and pulleys required to get this precious cargo on to the shore. Hundreds of noble families watched, too, for the Grand Duke had ordered that they all relocate here from Tanaren. Many had started to build their own estates here, and the foundations of at least a dozen stood out on the nearby surrounding hills. Just the day before, Hangarath had formally declared that this new city, his city, the city of New Perego, would be the new seat and capital of the Duchy of Tanaren, only the third such place, after Roshythe and Tanaren City itself, to bear such an honorific.
The excitement was almost febrile as the first shipment of marble sailed towards the newly built jetty, its statue of Hytha standing nearly thirty feet tall at its head. Then, however, Hangarath was to realise the folly of ignoring all his advisors, the ship and harbourmasters, the architects and indeed the locals, who had warned him that to accommodate such grand deep-drafted boats the harbour floor itself needed to be just that bit lower. The ship carrying the Duke’s precious marble ran aground some forty yards from the shore.
Although, after months of hard labour and effort, the marble was fully salvaged, the impetus had long gone from Hangarath’s dream. Tanaren was renamed the capital just eight days after losing its former status; everybody moved back to it, abandoning their building projects, including the Grand Duke himself, who passed away just three years later with a colic caused by, some say, the bile induced by his ill-fated adventure.
As for New Perego itself, it could have become a historical footnote if some of Tanaren’s more enterprising and less morally upright citizens had not seen a marvellous opportunity rising from the ashes of ignominy. The warehouses that stood there would make excellent brothels.
And so the town did evolve and grow, not as a paragon of classic architecture or as a seat of ducal governance, but as a far less salubrious fleshpot of a place, a place where merchants, sailors and other seafarers would stop for a little relief, rest and relaxation before continuing their own voyages to other destinations. For no one ever stopped here for long. With the brothels came the gangs, the feared Rose District gangs of Tanaren, for here in New Perego profits could easily eclipse those of the capital – the west of the country was a conservative place with few such bawdy houses and so its reputation soon spread far and wide. It had little to offer other than taverns, women, gambling and the fist and spike fights declared illegal in the country as a whole. And therefore, to the right type of person, it was one of the best places to visit in the world. The magistrate was bought and paid for, and the city guard was little more than a finger bandage over an open wound.
And it was here that Haelward and Willem finally arrived after four testing days’ travel over open country.
Willem was unused to the life of a fugitive, though his travels with Morgan had toughened him up considerably. It was not a dry cold as he had experienced on the mountain but rather a wet and miserable one, one that seeped into his clothes and chilled the marrow of his bones. They had had to turn the horse loose and abandon some of their baggage with it, as both were slowing them down. On their first full day in the country Haelward had seen some pursuers, four men standing against the horizon almost as if posing for a painting such was there apparent determination to be spotted at every turn. Haelward gave them the slip fairly easily but at the cost of a slight detour that cost them precious hours. Eventually, though, they doubled back and, early on the third day struck the coast, finding a narrow goat track that virtually hugged the high cliffs overlooking the sea. They found a village and risked a stay at its inn overnight. It was clean and warm and the food, though simple, was plentiful enough, and so the following morning in much better sprits they hit the road again. The goat track had become a cart track and it was following this that they finally stumbled into New Perego just after noon.
Willem stood on the seafront, his head turning from the weathered statute of Hytha stuck out in the midst of the sea like a giant reproachful gesture to the warren of iniquity it guarded, towards the town itself. Its warehouses were six or seven storeys high, its large storerooms long since converted into smaller partitioned rooms for maximum profitability. Between each of these imposing structures were narrow winding streets, dark, filthy and dangerous, filled with taverns and tiny windowless houses. Crime could pay well, though, for perched atop the surrounding hills were some handsome estates, often built over the foundations left by the nobles who had once been about to relocate here, now used as bases by the Tanaren gangs.
‘Have you been here before?’ Willem asked. The seafront bobbed with a hundred small boats, their larger parents safely anchored offshore, and the smooth cobbled street sandwiched between the sea wall and brothels teemed with people – merchants in furs and silks, rugged sailors with brass rings through their ears, and hawkers selling aphrodisiacs of powdered horn and tonics made of bitter leaves and tree bark. There were pickpockets, exotic strangers with dark skin and curved knives, and children selling tat or offering to clean shit off people’s shoes for a penny, and outside the great double doors of each gigantic brothel there were the women. In Tanaren City the church frowned on ostentatious displays of flesh so the women employed in such houses there rarely left them. Here, though, there was not even a house of Artorus to temper behaviour and so plunging necklines and slashed skirts and garters were the norm. They could hassle the passers-by, too, inviting them in with a promise of a memorable couple of hours, a promise that was rarely actually realised once the gullible client emerged again blinking in the daylight, his purse substantially lighter. It was a bewildering melange of humanity – cruelty, savagery and even tenderness could be found here in equal measure.
‘Yes, I have been here before, but not for a few years and if I am being honest I am not really sure where to start. There is a tavern in the second street here. I seem to recall a friendly landlord there; perhaps we can start by asking him.’
‘But there are thousands of people here. Who is going to notice the arrival of one girl?’ Willem was despairing; it would be like trying to find a particular flea on a dog.
‘Not as many as you think; most are on Sea Street here, as are we. Also, there are a lot of people here who make it their business to know everything that’s going on. I suggest we ask discreetly, even offer some coin, though not enough to draw attention to ourselves.’
Willem ran his hand through his hair. ‘Do you think that is possible?’
Haelward shook his head. ‘Probably not, but look at it this way – with all these people around, it should be quite easy for us to disappear.’
‘Where shall we spend the night?’
‘It is but noon, Willem! Do not worry. There are always rooms here. A few taverns tie ropes across their spare rooms; one penny and you can spend the night leaning on one. I know I have, in the distant past.’
‘Then you had best lead on then; we could be here for months, after all.’
Ignoring the painted girls flashing their breasts at him, Haelward ducked down into one of the ramshackle side streets. He did not say as much to Willem but he was closer to the truth than Haelward would like to admit. There were watchful eyes everywhere and combing the brothels one by one would be bound to get them noticed.
It was not far to the tavern. The streets were cobbled but the cobbles themselves were buried under several inches of compacted refuse of a kind Willem could not bring himself to look at too closely. The tavern that Haelward stopped outside was little more than a largish house, a single downstairs room with a few tables and an upstairs with a couple of tiny rooms to rent.
It was busy, though, with no tables free and many people standing. The landlord, though, saw them enter and immediately came over.
‘Hello, sirs, do you both wish for an ale? We don
’t have a lot of variety in; this is winter after all, but the beer is solid enough, good ballast for a thirsty traveller. Come over to the bar and I will give you a jug each.’ And then he was gone.
Peering into the gloom, Haelward led the way up to the bar. The man reappeared shortly afterwards and handed them each a froth-crowned pewter mug, which both men accepted gratefully.
‘It’s Marten, isn’t it?’ Haelward said to him. ‘I remember you from my last trip here about five years ago.’
‘That is my name, yes, but I see so many people every day I would be lying if I said I remembered you, sir.’
‘Oh I understand that perfectly well. There was an incident last time I was here, but I doubt if you would remember that either.’
‘Incident?’ his heavy-jowled face looked intrigued. ‘What sort of an incident?’
‘Oh, a few of us bought off the Dakarant gang by winning a few spike fights for you...’
‘You?’ the man’s eyes widened and he bent his head forward to see Haelward’s face all the better. ‘Horiward? No, Haelward ... it’s Haelward, isn’t it?’
Haelward nodded, grinning broadly at Marten.
‘By Artorus, you saved me a fortune and got the Dakarant boys off my back. Are you here for the fights again? If so, I have got more than a few ducats I could put on you.’ He saw Willem for the first time. ‘Your friend here along with some of his mates took on the Dakarant boys in a spike fight. The odds were something like ten to one against them. No one knew they were marines. By the Gods, I got drunk that night and had enough left over to pay their protection money and get the wife a new dress. If there is anything you need while you are here, just ask me.’
Haelward drank some ale, giving him a frothy moustache. Willem followed suit, with exactly the same result.
‘Actually there is something,’ Haelward replied. ‘I am looking for someone, but I don’t want to talk too loudly down here about it, if you understand me.’
‘Come upstairs in five minutes,’ Marten said, his face serious. ‘I just have a couple of things to deal with first.’
Five minutes later the two men were seated in one of the tiny guest rooms waiting for Marten to arrive. There was an equally tiny wardrobe, the low bed on which they were sitting, a small table holding a candlestick and a chamber pot, and that was it.
Sweating and bustling, his imposing ginger moustache dwarfing his upper lip, Marten finally burst into the room to see them. ‘Now, Haelward, what can I do to help?’
Haelward gave him a brief description of Alys, told him that she would be a recent arrival and would have arrived by land, not sea. Willem ably supported him with some well-timed interjections if he felt that Haelward’s tale was lacking in flavour a little. When they had finished, Marten looked thoughtful.
‘I will ask around. Give me a day or two and I should have an answer for you. Be prepared for bad news, though – the gangs guard their property fiercely and will not give anything up for nothing. You can stay here if you like, rent free; I feel I owe you that.’
‘No, my friend, we will pay you rent. And thank you. I am grateful you remembered me. I honestly thought we would be here for weeks before we found anything.’
Marten said his goodbyes and returned to his duties downstairs. Haelward drained his mug and lay back against the wall.
‘Thank every single God in the Pantheon that he recognised me.’ His relief was palpable. ‘If ever we needed a lucky break, that was it.’
Willem did not reply; he did not look happy though.
‘What is it?’ Haelward asked.
‘We are going to be too late. aren’t we? She will have to ... work for whoever has her, until we find her, if we find her.’
Haelward knew that there was nothing he could say to allay his worries. ‘No, Willem, I am sorry. Just pray that Marten finds her soon and that there is some way we can get her her freedom.’
‘There will be a way,’ said Willem. ‘I am not leaving here without her, even if I die in the attempt. I have sworn that to the Gods in my prayers.’
‘And I am not leaving here without either of you, even if I die in the attempt,’ said Haelward. ‘I have sworn that to myself since they took her.’
Both men were silent for a while, then Haelward spoke again.
‘Hey, Willem.’
‘What is it?’
‘I had better be invited to the wedding after all this.’
Willem laughed. ‘Of course. You will be the chief guest, the first man.’
Haelward screwed his face up a little. ‘First man? Doesn’t he make speeches and all that?’
‘Yes, it is an honorary title. If I don’t turn up, you are also expected to marry the bride in my stead.’
‘Oh right. I promise I will be gentle with her.’
‘After a couple of weeks here I doubt that will be what she wants.’
‘Oh shut up! She loves you; that is all that matters. She is strong and you can help her forget all ... this.’
More silence, then Willem spoke again. ‘Haelward.’
‘Yes.’
‘What is a spike fight?’
‘You really don’t want to know, Willem. You really don’t want to know!’
It took three days for Marten to get back to them. Willem had tried walking up and down Sea Street hoping to catch a glimpse of a pair of large blue eyes or tied-back brown hair, but with no luck. He even tried to imagine her dressed like the women fronting the brothels here, but found that difficult. As it stood, though, it had been a frustrating time. He had wanted to catch Marten’s ear on a few occasions to ask him for any news, but the man was permanently busy, rushing from here to there with no apparent logic to his actions.
Marten caught them of an evening as business downstairs was finally winding down. Haelward was teaching Willem the finer points of the dice game Killer when, rushing as ever, he came in to join them. He seemed pleased with himself, but there was a reserve there, too, as though his news wasn’t as good as it could be.
‘I know where she is,’ he blurted out. ‘A blue eyed girl with mousy hair, name of Alys. She is working for the Kegertsas in the final whorehouse on Sea Street, on your left as you approach the street from here.’
‘The Kegertsas?’ asked Willem. ‘Is that good or bad?’
‘No better or worse than expected,’ said Haelward. ‘They are a large criminal gang from the Rose District, as we expected. They have one brothel here and own one of the big houses on the hill up there. The next step is for me to meet them and see if they can be persuaded to give her up peaceably.’
‘There will be a price,’ said Marten. ‘They will want to make a pretty penny out of this somehow. If they cannot, they will probably try to kill you in case you get help from Tanaren City.’
Haelward and Willem exchanged glances. ‘I will visit their brothel and ask for a meeting,’ Haelward said. ‘I hope it will be as simple as that.’
‘No need,’ said Marten. ‘Odo Kegertsa knows all about you and is ready to meet to discuss his terms.’
‘Great,’ said Haelward. ‘When and where? The sooner the better obviously.’
‘Good,’ said Marten, ‘because him and his boys are downstairs right now.’
18
‘No, no, you are swinging the blade like it’s a ten-foot pole.’ Reynard could barely stop himself laughing.
They had been practising for over an hour and Reynard still had hardly broken sweat. Morgan stood facing him, his shield tied to his right hand and arm, as he still could not grip properly. He was actually doing fine with the shield, though; it was his left hand that was the problem. He was using his own blade, little more than a soldier’s regular-issue weapon but one that he was so familiar with it often felt like part of his arm. His right arm, that is; with his left he could barely coordinate a forward swing.
This was an informal practice; they were using regular weapons because neither of them seriously intended going for the other, Morgan now realised that int
ent was not the issue here – basic ability was. How was he ever going to lead his men into battle?
It was an odd thing but, until the last few months, he had barely met Reynard, even though they had both been fighting on the same side for many years, different duties and deployments usually keeping them apart. Until recently, too, he was aware that Reynard had displayed that worst characteristic of one noble born, that of looking down on his fellow soldier. However, he now had to accept that he had changed a little, matured perhaps with the extra responsibilities handed to him in having to lead the knights, liaise with the elves on the field, and time and execute his own assaults on the enemy in the fluid cavalry war that was now going on between the rivers Vinoyen and Whiterush. It was not just the elves keeping the Arshumans in check.
Morgan attempted another swing at Reynard’s shield. The knight had time to check to see if the sun had reached noon, wonder if all the knights’ horses were stabled and fed, and cogitate on the nature of attritional war, before idly blocking his feeble blow. Morgan blocked the riposte and shook his head.
‘It’s no damned good. I can’t land a single blow of my own.’ His mood was gloomy.
‘Keep practising,’ Reynard replied. ‘By the spring you might be a match for my grandmother.’
‘I think you are being overly optimistic; I can’t see Trask turning to jelly at the sight of me, somehow. Mytha’s third eye, this is just hopeless.’
He sheathed his sword, struggling a little even to do that properly.
The Forgotten War Page 100
