It wasn’t that strange a request, all things considered. Lomax’s ascetic life hadn’t been by choice so much as by necessity. A man without pleasures or vices was a hard man to trap. The life of a dyspeptic shut-in had kept old Lomax toddling along through two generations of greedy grasping relatives who chafed at the tightness of Lomax’s purse strings and weren’t shy about trying to cut, burn or poison their way into said purse. Those same relatives had set up a howl that would have sent invading Norscans scurrying back to their boats when they found out that Lomax was leaving his substantial fortune to the Order of Manann.
It was more out of spite than religious epiphany, Dubnitz knew. Lomax was doing the next best thing to taking it with him, and because greedy relatives didn’t like it when miserly relations loudly announced their intention to change their will and leave the bulk of their substantial fiduciary assets to an up-and-coming order of humble templars, there would be some attempt to stop it.
Thus, strings. A night of sybaritic pleasure, one full night, and then the new will took effect at cockcrow. All the Order had to do was give their new patron the best night of his life. Grandmaster Ogg was filled with a joy that he could barely contain and had ordered his most masterful carousers to take things in hand. Dubnitz and Piet set to it with a will, the former theorizing that Lomax, long having gone without, might mistake quantity for quality, and make the night’s work quick and easy.
By the eighth mug of rotgut, Lomax was cackling and clapping as a Strigany dancing girl spun and shook across the tabletop. The Scalded Gull had grown loud since they’d arrived as celebrants filtered into the alleys from the party outside. Dubnitz watched bleary-eyed as pickpockets plied their trade through the dense crowd and the dancing girl’s ferret-faced kin did the same to the pickpockets. Then, as Lomax started shouting a bawdy tune he’d known in his boyhood, Dubnitz spotted the assassin.
He was a dock-snake, one of the lean, lethal savages who ascribed to no union or guild and who roamed from berth to berth, unloading and loading vessels for under-the-table pay. A hooked fish-knife sprouted from one sinewy hand as he slithered through the crowd, his eyes locked on Lomax with the feral intensity of a starving wharf rat.
Dubnitz roared and shot awkwardly to his feet. Alcohol fumes clouded the edges of his vision. The dock-snake stumbled back as the dancing girl screamed and the crowd began to roll back like ripples spreading from a stone dropped in a rain barrel. Piet, still in his seat, was looking around blearily as he groped blindly for his sword.
Dubnitz’s sword sprang from its sheath in a crooked arc, slicing air rather than flesh as it passed just in front of the dock-snake’s nose. The man sprang past him, one bare foot hooking the table edge as he propelled himself up and at Lomax, who had tipped his head back and was raising a mug all unawares. Dubnitz spun and grabbed the back of the would-be killer’s trousers and, with a roll of his shoulders, sent the dock-snake hurtling backwards into the wall behind the bar with bone-breaking force.
And then, as the echoes of that crash faded, it all went to hell. People screamed. The dancing girl leapt off the table in a splash of silks and a rattle of bangles. Dubnitz spun in a circle, seeking enemies even as he noted that it was taking Lomax a long time to gulp his ale.
‘Dubnitz,’ Piet said. ‘Did something just happen?’
‘Someone tried to kill Lomax,’ Dubnitz mumbled. The room swayed around him.
‘Did you stop them?’
‘Yes,’ Dubnitz said.
‘Are you sure? He looks dead. Is he dead?’ Piet said, gesturing sloppily towards the crossbow bolt that had sprouted from the bottom of Lomax’s mug. The point of said bolt had passed through the mug and between Lomax’s open jaws, piercing the soft tissues of his sinuses on its trek into his brain.
Dubnitz looked blearily over his shoulder. He blinked owlishly and belched. ‘I’d say it’s a definite possibility,’ he said, stumbling over ‘possibility’.
‘Are we sure he’s dead?’
Dubnitz kicked the body, toppling over in the process. From the floor, he said, ‘Almost positively, yes.’
‘We’re dead,’ Piet muttered, shaking his head.
‘I thought he was the one who was dead,’ Dubnitz said, as he heaved himself to his feet.
‘Ogg is going to kill us.’
‘Bound to happen,’ Dubnitz said cheerfully, squinting around at the empty tavern. The evening crowd had chosen discretion over curiosity and fled. The Scalded Gull was empty of life, though the sounds of the Spring Tide celebration still curled through the open windows. ‘Don’t sober up on me now, Piet, it’ll only end in tears.’
Piet cursed and tried to stand, but he only succeeded in windmilling his arms and causing his chair to groan in protest. ‘What are we going to do? Lomax is dead!’
‘Says who?’ Dubnitz said, spreading his arms. ‘Tavern’s empty, Piet.’
‘He’s got an arrow sticking out of his head!’
‘So we pull it out,’ Dubnitz said mildly, striding to the bar and reaching under it. He pulled out a bottle and eyed it, then pulled the stopper with his teeth and knocked back a slug. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand he stomped back towards the table. ‘Have some good Sartosian red and calm down,’ he said, tossing the bottle to Piet, who caught it awkwardly.
‘I don’t think more alcohol is the solution here,’ Piet said, taking a long drink.
‘Can’t hurt,’ Dubnitz muttered, taking hold of the end of the bolt transfixing the dead man’s head to the back wall of the tavern. He had been tilting his head back for a swig from his mug when the bolt had perforated his palate and nailed him and his mug to the wall. Dubnitz worked the bolt free with a grunt and squinted at it. ‘Pretty sure he’s dead,’ he said.
‘I thought we’d established that,’ Piet said gloomily.
Dubnitz didn’t reply. He carefully pulled the dead man’s head back down. The eyes had rolled to the white and a trickle of blood seeped from one nostril, but other than that, there was little sign of what had killed him. Unless you got a good luck in his mouth or at the top of his head, Lomax could have simply been dead drunk, as opposed to just plain dead.
‘I’m sorry old man,’ Dubnitz murmured, closing Lomax’s eyes. ‘We promised you a night out to celebrate your generosity and what did you get for it but a bolt to the brainpan. Maybe you should have given the money to the Cult of Morr instead.’
‘What are we going to do?’ Piet said mournfully, staring into the bottle, which he’d managed to half-empty in impressive time. ‘Grandmaster Ogg is going to pickle us like herring.’ He looked blearily at Dubnitz. ‘I don’t want to be pickled.’
‘We won’t get pickled,’ Dubnitz said, peering at Lomax’s body speculatively. He turned, swaying slightly, and sighted down the crossbow bolt. He found the open window of the tavern and said, ‘Aha!’
‘Aha?’ Piet said, blinking.
‘The window,’ Dubnitz said, stumbling towards the window. He stuck his head out and peered at the wall of the stables opposite. The night-stew that passed for fresh air in Marienburg slapped his face, sobering him slightly. ‘The arrow came from outside.’
‘Brilliant deduction,’ Piet said, shoving himself to his feet. ‘Sam Warble himself couldn’t have done it better. Are you sure your name isn’t Zavant Konniger? We’re going to get pickled!’
‘Stop saying pickled. Ogg will jelly us, if anything. Man loves his jellied eels.’ Dubnitz absently scratched his chin with the crossbow bolt, then thought of poison, stared at the bolt and swallowed thickly. ‘What time is it, Piet?’
‘How should I know? Time to find warmer waters,’ Piet said, taking another swig from the bottle. ‘If we ride out now, we can be halfway to Altdorf in a few days.’
‘Don’t put the saddle on the horse just yet,’ Dubnitz said and snatched the bottle from him and knocked back the rest of it in one gulp. He tossed the bottle out of the window and strode back towards the bar. ‘I’ve got a cunning plan.’ He grabbed a broom
and number of rags from behind the bar and several more bottles. He used his foot to roll a small keg of Averland Bear’s Milk towards the table.
‘This isn’t going to work,’ Piet said as Dubnitz pulled Lomax’s corpse upright by its shirt-front.
‘Of course it will,’ Dubnitz said, yanking the cork out of a bottle of wine with his teeth and pouring the contents over the body. ‘If he smells like a brewery exploded, no one will give him a second look. And all we need to do is keep him moving until the will goes into effect.’
‘This is madness,’ Piet said as he draped the dead man’s arm over his shoulders. ‘We should alert the watch. Captain Schnell, over at the Three Penny Bridge watch station, is a friend of mine.’
Dubnitz shook his head. ‘I owe Schnell money. Besides, this is Marienburg, and we’ve done worse,’ Dubnitz said, doing the same with Lomax’s other arm. ‘Besides, it’s all for a good cause, Piet. We’re seeing that Lomax’s last request is carried out.’ The body slumped between them, feet dragging. ‘We need twine.’
‘Twine,’ Piet muttered, looking around. ‘Why do we need twine?’
‘Well, to keep him walking, obviously,’ Dubnitz said. ‘It doesn’t have to be twine. See if you can get this broomstick down his trousers.’
‘Couldn’t we just sit here quietly with a few drinks?’ Piet implored.
‘People need to see him up and about,’ Dubnitz said. ‘It is our duty, for the Order and for Manann. Now, in his name find some twine or a broom or... here.’ Dubnitz grabbed up a chair and broke it on the floor, depositing the bulk of Lomax’s weight onto Piet. Taking the pieces of the chair, he stuffed them down the back of Lomax’s trousers and into his boots, stiffening his legs. Then he swiftly tied Lomax’s ankles to Piet’s and his own.
‘With him between us, we should be able to manage it,’ Dubnitz said, draping Lomax’s arm back over him. Awkwardly, he snatched the broom from Piet’s hands and jammed it down the back of Lomax’s jerkin and down into one leg of his trousers. Then he handed a rag to Piet and jerked Lomax’s head up. ‘Now, tie his head to the back of the broom.’
‘People are going to notice!’ Piet protested.
‘Not with his hat on they won’t,’ Dubnitz said assuredly. ‘Trust me, I’ve done this before.’
‘When?’ Piet demanded.
‘I’m not at liberty to say. A woman’s honour was involved. The situation was very uncomfortable for everyone concerned,’ Dubnitz said, stuffing Lomax’s fallen hat on his head. Lomax hung between them, not quite sagging. His head tilted down slightly, and he looked – and smelled – drunk.
‘Now what do we do?’ Piet said.
‘Now we carouse as we’ve never caroused before,’ Dubnitz said. He snatched up Lomax’s cane and spun it with the dexterity of a professional alcoholic.
They shuffled towards the door, Piet first and then Dubnitz, walking Lomax’s corpse between them. As they exited the tavern, a sound from above caused them to look up. A body, dressed in battered leathers, rolled off of the stable roof and thumped into the alleyway. A moment later, a crossbow followed, shattering as it struck the ground. Dubnitz stretched out Lomax’s cane and prodded the fallen man.
‘He’s dead too,’ he said.
‘I hope so,’ Piet said. ‘That’s Giuseppe Giancarlo, the Miragliano Murderist!’
‘How can you tell?’ Dubnitz said, rolling the body over to reveal its mauled face and chest. The man, whatever his identity, looked as if he’d walked face first into an exploding cannon.
‘Only man I know whoever lavished that much affection on his crossbow,’ Piet said, nudging the broken crossbow with his boot. Dubnitz saw that it had been inlaid with silver and the stock was ornately engraved.
‘Didn’t do him much good,’ Dubnitz said, peering up. ‘I suppose we know now who shot Lom– I mean, shot at Lomax.’ Giving in to ghoulish impulse, he grabbed the back of Lomax’s head and made it nod. Piet blanched.
‘Don’t do that,’ he said.
‘He doesn’t mind.’
‘It’s blasphemous!’
Dubnitz snorted and looked at the body again. ‘Of course, now we’re left with the question of who killed your friend Giuseppe.’
The sound of soft sandals scraping the cobbles caused the two knights to swing around to the darkened end of the alleyway, their burden causing them to almost overbalance. ‘I think we’re about to find out,’ Piet said.
The Arabyan was the first to step forward. He was wreathed in black robes and he stopped and leaned on his scimitar. ‘I want Lomax,’ he said, fluffing his curled beard. A discreet cough caused him to pause, and he turned slightly. ‘We want Lomax, Mock Duck and I,’ he corrected. The Cathayan slid forward to join him, pistols strung from his narrow frame like holy talismans. He drew one and cocked it, aiming it at Dubnitz. His dark eyes found the body of Giuseppe and narrowed. He looked at the Arabyan, who frowned. ‘Which one of you killed Giuseppe?’
Dubnitz and Piet both held up their hands. ‘Not us,’ Dubnitz said. ‘I assumed it was you.’
The Arabyan blinked. Then, he coughed. Something bright protruded from his throat. He reached up with a trembling finger and touched it. Then, with a gurgle, he toppled forward, revealing the wavy-bladed dagger jutting from the back of his neck. The Cathayan spun, drawing a second pistol. He leapt into the darkness, his pistols roaring. More pistol shots sounded, and then, silence.
‘We should go,’ Piet said.
‘I concur,’ Dubnitz said. ‘Make for the alley mouth–’
The shapes were shadows within the darkness at first, blotches of black. As they eased into the torchlight, metal gleamed. Brass masks, wrought in the shape of a daemon’s grinning leer, peered out of ragged cowls. Gauntleted hands emerged from voluminous sleeves, clutching wavy-bladed daggers. There were three of them.
‘Well, there’s a sight I hoped never to see,’ Dubnitz hissed.
‘The Murder-Brothers of Khaine,’ Piet whispered, the colour draining from his face. The murder-brothers, sometimes known as the massacre-monks or the slaughter-priests, were the pre-eminent assassins in Marienburg. Devoted to Khaine, god of murder, they lathered an unhealthy amount of religious fervour onto even the simplest back-alley killing.
‘We’re lucky it’s not all twelve of them,’ Dubnitz said, extending Lomax’s cane. Tiles crashed down from the roof, shattering on the ground. Dubnitz’s eyes flickered upwards and he caught sight of furtive movement. ‘Spoke too soon,’ he added.
‘Oh gods,’ Piet said hoarsely. ‘They’re all around us.’
‘Back away slowly,’ Dubnitz said. ‘If we can get to the mouth of the alley–’
‘Give us the merchant, dogs of Manann,’ one of the murder-brothers croaked, his voice distorted by the contours of his mask. ‘Khaine has no interest in your hearts today.’
‘Glad to hear it, but as you can see, our friend here can barely stand without us, so–’ Dubnitz said, tapping Lomax’s chest with the cane.
There was a rush of feet and a wavy dagger speared out of the darkness to the side. Piet snarled and drew his sword, the motion swinging Dubnitz around to face two more of the murder-brothers as they sprang for him. He lashed out with the cane, catching the tips of both blades in the carved grooves that lined the cane and twisted his wrist, jerking the knives from their wielders’ hands. His metal shod boot came down on a sandaled foot and an assassin yelped. The cane slashed out. Narwhal horn was almost as hard as iron, and a brass mask crumpled.
Piet’s sword chopped out, separating a cowled head from hunched shoulders and then they were galumphing towards the mouth of the alleyway, the hounds of Khaine in hot pursuit. As they ran, Dubnitz was reminded of the three-legged races he’d participated in as a boy, and of the Tannery rats which had pursued the racers along the course. He’d hated it then, and time hadn’t dulled the feeling. Sound and the smell of the canals washed over them as they burst out into the throng. People laughed and jeered and wept. Men draped in flags stumbled past o
n stilts carved to look like ships’ masts. Clowns clad in paper seaweed gambolled past. Dubnitz, Piet and the corpse between them fit right in to the madness of Spring Tide.
As they awkwardly shoved into the morass of drunken revelry, Dubnitz craned his neck. ‘I think we lost them!’ Adrenaline had burned away the last dregs of drunkenness that had made their current predicament seem like a good plan. Thinking on it, Dubnitz wondered if it might not have been better to simply hide the body somewhere until the next morning.
‘Knife,’ Piet hissed.
‘What?’
‘Knife,’ Piet snarled, flailing his hand. Dubnitz looked down and saw a wavy-bladed dagger jutting from Lomax’s belly.
‘Whoops,’ Dubnitz said, plucking it out and tossing it into the gutter. The wound wasn’t deep, but it was dark. Dubnitz snatched a bottle of something equally dark and strong smelling from the hands of a woman balancing a trained seagull on her nose and splashed it on the wound. Then he knocked back a drink and handed it to Piet, coughing.
‘Are there really twelve of them,’ Piet said, taking a drink.
‘Supposedly,’ Dubnitz said, scanning the crowd. All of the nearby taverns would be cramped and reeking messes, with no room to move, if it came to that, which it likely would, as the murder-cultists of Khaine were nothing if not persistent. ‘Keep your eyes peeled, Piet.’
‘No worries on that score. I won’t be closing them again until we’re done with this farce,’ Piet hissed. ‘This is an idiotic plan, Dubnitz. We were almost killed back there!’
‘Ish-is thath-that-Bernie?’ a voice roared before Dubnitz could reply. ‘Hey! It’s old Penny-Pinch him-himshelf!’ A fat hand, bedecked with rings of varying degrees of vulgarity, grabbed Lomax’s shoulder and tried to turn him. Momentarily panicked, Dubnitz and Piet flailed about, their balance off. They righted themselves and turned as the fat merchant stumbled back, blinking blearily. The man’s chubby features brightened as he blew at the feather that drooped from his shapeless hat out of his face. ‘It is you!’ he said, slurring his words. He ignored Dubnitz and Piet and poked Lomax in the chest. ‘I shaid to myshelf, I said, ‘Rupol-Rudolpho, that can’t be Bernie Lomax, because he hates parties! But it is you and–’ he sniffed Lomax and reeled back extravagantly. ‘And whooh! You’ve been at it!’
Hammer and Bolter: Issue 21 Page 9
