by C. L. Werner
Each end of the bridge was protected by a massive iron gate, supported on either side by a pair of towers. Soldiers, elements of the Republican Guard engaged by the Council of Remas for the protection of all the noble houses and ostensibly for every citizen of the city, carefully monitored the traffic passing onto the bridge, turning back any who looked too ragged to have any proper business to conduct. The towers to either side of the gate were enormous, rising high above the bridge, twice the height of even the tallest of the palazzos and leaning out over the water at insane gravity-defying angles that seemed impossible even with the many stone buttresses that rose from the water to support them.
As the small group of riders passed through the gates, they were examined by the guards. However, it was obvious that Zelten and his men were known to the sentries and though they cast a few lingering looks at Brunner, the riders were passed with only a cursory inspection.
Making their way along the bridge, Brunner could see that each of the palazzos was very sturdily built, a small fortress in its own right, despite the ostentatious extravagance that clothed the structures. The windows of the lower floors were narrow, far too small for even a goblin to wriggle through. Only the upper floors were given to great stained-glass panels and enormous skylights, yet even these were less prevalent than Brunner had seen in similar wealthy districts in Luccini and Miragliano.
Between the rich palazzos, at regular intervals, squat grey forts stood, small two-storey structures. One of the mercenaries riding beside him mentioned that each of the forts held a battery of cannon. It appeared that many centuries past, the Great Reman Bridge had been sacked by a fleet of elf corsairs, an event that had never been forgotten or forgiven. If such a fleet were ever to dare such an attack again, they would rue the decision.
At length, very near the centre of the bridge, the palazzo of Prince Gambini loomed before the riders. It was one of the larger palaces on the bridge, its plaster walls decorated with extravagant murals and tile mosaics. Before the gates that led into the courtyard of the palace was set a giant stone statue, a leering gargoyle-lion from legendary Cathay. Four halberdiers in heavy steel armour, their helms rising into a short sharp spike, stood at attention before the gate.
Zelten broke away from the other riders and saluted Prince Gambini’s guards. The sergeant in command of the detail returned the salute, then stepped forward to talk with the mercenary.
‘The prince has been very eager to hear of your return,’ the sergeant stated. ‘You have news for him?’
Zelten shrugged his shoulders. ‘Tacca is seeing about getting his trade goods secured for the night. He will be better able to tell his lordship the details of his meeting.’ The sergeant nodded as he considered Zelten’s words. The guard seemed most sympathetic; the workings of merchants were something far beyond his understanding as well. Then the guard noticed the new man among Zelten’s troop.
‘New recruit?’ he asked, some of the suspicion of a trained sentry slipping into his voice. Brunner met the sergeant’s gaze, keeping his own face expressionless and indifferent to the man’s interest in him.
‘We ran into some trouble on the road back,’ Zelten confessed. ‘I fear that his won’t be the only new face I’ll be bringing here.’ The sergeant nodded his head, then snapped orders to his men to open the gates. Zelten favoured the man with another salute and made his way into the courtyard, the other mercenaries following behind him. Brunner came last of all, leading Paychest after his own steed. The bounty hunter stared at the walls of the courtyard, at the massive doors of the palazzo itself. He was near his prey now, the bounty hunter could sense it. Now he just had to figure out how he would get his target to reveal himself.
The old warrior loomed above the long table, his keen eyes considering the charts and maps strewn across its surface. The man’s grizzled, powerful features wore a look of intense study, a wrinkled finger slowly tapping against a waterway shown on one of the maps. The ring that adorned the finger was huge, depicting a lion’s head with a large red ruby stuffed between its jaws. It was as much a symbol of position and authority as the bronze pectoral that hung from a thick gold chain about his broad neck. They were the emblems of rank belonging to a man who had once commanded the army of Remas, the most powerful soldier in all the city.
The general lifted his hand, scratching at his thick grey eyebrow as he considered the map again. It was an old map, dating back many centuries, and he wondered how much accuracy he could allow in the antique document. None of the newer maps showed the canal that had arrested his interest. Had it ever been there? Or perhaps it had been filled, perhaps simply blocked up? Mandalari considered that point. The city of Miragliano had destroyed a good number of their canals after the plague had stricken their city and they had forced back the hordes of the verminous skaven. Tradition held that many of these canals had not been filled in, only bricked over. If this old canal had indeed been simply covered rather than filled, it might be of value to him. He would have to have his next batch of spies check on it, determine what its current state was.
Mandalari stood, stretching his once powerful frame. He was still far from an infirm man, he had not allowed the stamp of age to wither his body, but had fought its approach through a brutal regimen of exercise and the painful ministrations of a waterfront witch purportedly crafted to extend his vitality. Yet the general had to admit that he was but a poor shadow of the man he had once been. Once he had led victorious armies through the still burning streets of half the great cities of Tilea, he had taken his part in the fighting, seeking out the staunchest resistance his enemies could muster and crushing them with his own hands. The general’s craggy features split into a stern smile. That had been the life, those moments in the midst of the fray, lungs filled with the smell of blood and fire, ears filled with the war cries of the valiant and the screams of the slain.
But that life was no more, only a mocking shadow of all that he had been now remained. Mandalari limped away from the table, making his way across the cedar-wood floor toward a tall mahogany cabinet. As he walked, his crimson robe swirled about him, exposing the dark wooden post that completed his left leg below the knee. The base of the post was fashioned in the shape of a dragon’s paw, and upon its surface had been etched depictions of the general’s past victories.
As Mandalari hobbled his way to the cabinet and began to rummage about for yet another folio of maps, the general grimly pondered his artificial leg. The real limb had been crushed by a stone cast down from the walls of Miragliano twelve years past, when Remas had been handed a humiliating defeat by Prince Borgio.
Mandalari smashed the palm of his hand against the side of the cabinet as he recalled the ignominy of his wound. It had turned the tide of the battle, he knew in his heart that had he not been struck down, he would have seen through Borgio’s ploy and it would have been Mandalari the Magnificent not Borgio the Besieger who would have carried the day. Instead, the surgeons in his camp had taken his ruined leg and the great mercenary army of Remas had taken to its heels, routed by the timely counter-assault of the Miraglianan host.
The old general savagely pulled the desired folio from among the numerous leather-bound folders within the cabinet and turned to hobble his way back toward the table. But as he turned, Mandalari froze, startled to find that he was not alone. Recognition of his visitor calmed the general’s initial surprise and the soldier continued toward the table.
‘You should announce yourself before intruding upon your betters,’ the general observed. He set the folio down on the table and looked up at his visitor.
The man he addressed idly considered a marble bust resting atop a pedestal near the door leading into the general’s bedchamber, a slim hand running along the cold jaw line of the sculpture. Casually, and in his own time, the visitor returned the general’s gaze.
‘I apologise,’ the visitor said at last. ‘I did not realise you wanted our arrangement to be better known in the palazzo. I had thought that you want
ed me to see and hear and report.’ The man smiled, a mocking, snide expression. ‘I was unaware that I was to be seen and be heard. I was unaware that a spy should be noisy in his comings and goings. Shall I seek out some of the ogres engaged at the Old Tower and see if one of them might teach me a few things about subtlety and silence?’
Mandalari glared at his agent, his eyes hardening to a sharp edge. ‘Do not make light of me,’ he warned. ‘I am still a general and I will be respected.’
‘Indeed,’ sighed the visitor, voice heavy with sympathy. ‘I sometimes forget that you are a man of such distinction, easily capable of standing on your own.’
The general’s mouth twisted into a snarl. ‘One day your wit will be the death of you,’ he said.
‘But not so long as I have such interesting things to say,’ the agent winked at Mandalari. ‘Isn’t that so? I hear and see so many things. There are so many places I can go that you can’t. Up steps, for instance.’
‘Make your report,’ Mandalari growled, face reddening from his agent’s scornful abuse. When he once more commanded the armies of Remas, he would take great pleasure in rewarding his spy for the humiliation and indignity of his mocking tongue. Perhaps he would even hand the villain over to the Temple of Solkan. Their inquisitors had a way of making a man regret every breath he had ever drawn before they were finished exacting their god’s cruel definition of retribution. For now, however, he would have to continue to endure the spy’s flippant bearing.
‘Tacca has returned from Miragliano,’ the spy said. ‘Is that not good news? Does it not do your heart good to see the tensions between our two cities healed by the search for ever bigger markets, ever higher profits? Is not greed the mightiest peacemaker of them all?’
Mandalari grew pensive for a moment, then stared hard at his agent. ‘Did they… did they meet with any trouble on the way back?’ he asked at last.
‘Some,’ the spy favoured his master with a knowing smile. ‘They have lost some men.’ The agent’s smile broadened into one of condescension and mockery. ‘Manfred Zelten was not among those who perished on the road.’
The general smashed his hands against the surface of the table. ‘Ulric and Myrmidia!’ he roared. ‘Everything I have built is threatened by that foreign filth!’ Mandalari pointed a thick hand at his agent. ‘You will keep your eyes and ears upon this Reiklander! I will not permit this scum to threaten my plans with Prince Gambini! I have worked too hard to set my plans into motion to have them denied by a mere captain of a ragtag band of brigands!’
‘Of course not, general,’ the man near the door said, brushing a strand of hair from his face. ‘This man will not endanger your ambitions.’
‘No, he will not,’ the general declared, the thunder of his enraged outburst lurking within his quiet tones. He pointed again at his agent. ‘Keep an eye on him. See where he goes and what he does. And report his activities to me.’
‘Is that not what I always do?’ asked the spy as he turned and slipped away. Mandalari watched him go, then turned his attention back to the table, his eyes burning into the cluttered maps.
There would be war with Miragliano, he would have his revenge upon the city. And no man, be he prince or peasant, would stand in his way.
Within the Gambini palazzo there was a room as bright as the white sands of Araby’s shore, as cool as the summer breeze across the plains of Bretonnia. Thick matting of soft pristine fabric covered the floors, vibrant murals depicting quiet pastures alive with wild flowers graced the walls. The furnishings were slender and graceful, crafted of some pale wood from the slopes of the Abasko Mountains, the legs of the dainty tables and chairs forming the downward curves of swan necks, the heads of the birds forming the feet. Upon the tables reposed slender-waisted vases, intricately painted vessels from far Cathay, each worth more than even a modest nobleman in the Empire could brag his fortune into amounting. Each of the vases was filled with fragrant bouquets of fresh white roses, seemingly chosen for their ability to match the trim of the walls, the hue of the furnishings and the dye of the rugs.
The room had been appointed many months ago by Prince Umberto Gambini. In previous weeks it had been alive with the noise of decorators, the protests of artists angered at the hurrying of their trade, and the glowering sentries who ensured that the expensive accoutrements of the chamber did not stray from it.
Now the room held but one occupant, a tall, slender woman with lustrous black hair and milky skin. She wore a long dress of soft velvet, the luxurious fabric hugging her with just a trace of immodest tightness about the waist and bosom. She sat lounging upon a small couch, gazing up at a small delicate cage in which a small black songbird trilled its dainty notes. The lady’s eyes were hooded in the half-sleep of idle contemplation, her thoughts far beyond the room, as though carried away by the bird’s warbling lyrics. Her comely features held breeding and power in them, and her mouth was pinched into the quiet, secret smile that often heralds the ruin of men.
The sound of light footfalls intruded upon the woman’s thoughts and she looked away from the caged bird. Rising to her feet, she seemed almost to glide across the room, so effortless were her movements. As she neared the outer door to the sitting room, the sound of tiny bells jingling overcame the light footsteps she had heard. The lady paused before the door as the portal began to open. For a second, a brief glimmer of worry clouded her fine features, but as she saw who her visitor was, the cloud passed and her face wore a look of excitement and anticipation.
‘My lady,’ the visitor said, as he bowed deeply before the woman. ‘Manfred Zelten has returned.’
Brunner had to admit that the Gambinis had indeed found ways to make the most of the reduced space that dwelling upon the bridge had forced them to accept. The stable to which Zelten and the other mercenaries had led their horses was three storeys high, a wooden ramp within the building allowing the animals to be led to the upper tiers and berthed directly above their fellows. Brunner was also surprised to see that the animals on the ground level were not elegant, light-limbed riding horses, nor heavy, plodding carriage horses. Instead, he found himself looking at a motley collection of scarred, thick-boned warhorses. Zelten seemed to read the bounty hunter’s thoughts as he made the observation.
‘The good horseflesh is kept up top, well beyond the muck and the smell,’ the mercenary laughed as he handed the reins of his steed to a haggard-looking groom. ‘Actually, old Mandalari, the man in charge of Prince Gambini’s guard, gave the order to keep all cavalry horses on the lower level where they would be ready if they were to be needed at short notice.’
‘Pretty sound reasoning,’ commented Brunner as he removed a crossbow and a large leather bag from his packhorse. He nodded to one of the waiting stablehands and the young boy came forward to lead the animal away.
‘I understand that he served as general of Remas’s army before he lost his leg in battle with Miragliano,’ Zelten shook his head. ‘Still, if his body is weaker, his mind is still sharp and displays some good tactical sense. Prince Gambini listens to him too. I don’t think any other palazzo on the Great Reman Bridge is more ready for another insurrection if such a thing were to come to pass.’
Brunner faced the mercenary, seeming to study him closely. ‘That sounds almost like a street hawker’s pitch,’ the bounty hunter said. Zelten nodded his head.
‘You could do worse than hire on with Prince Gambini,’ Zelten said. ‘Trust me, he’s a lot better than most I’ve taken service with. He actually understands that he doesn’t know everything about everything and listens to those around him when they have advice to give. He’s not the sort to throw away his men on some mad scheme to retake the Badlands, and that means a lot to a mercenary.’
‘That might be why it means little to me,’ commented Brunner, unfastening his long-barrelled handgun from the side of Fiend’s saddle. ‘I’m not one of your mercenaries.’
Zelten reached forward and gripped Brunner’s shoulder. ‘You could be,’ he
said. ‘I saw you fight, you’re good, probably better than me. I could use you. I’m short ten men after the fight with the plague warriors. Recruiting you would go far to filling out that shortfall.’
Brunner shook his head. ‘I agreed to come here with you. There was mention that Prince Gambini might be prepared to offer some reward as recompense for my part in defeating Pulstlitz and his mob. That’s why I’m here.’
‘Don’t you get tired of it?’ Zelten asked. ‘Always on the move, calling no man friend or comrade? Always having to keep one eye open for that knife at your back?’
Another groom came forward and led Brunner’s bay towards the stall in which Paychest had been placed. The bounty hunter looked back at Zelten. ‘I’ve done pretty well on my own,’ he said. ‘I don’t think I’d do so well splitting the money.’
Whatever retort Zelten was preparing was lost as the noise of jingling bells sounded from the entrance to the stables. The mercenary and the bounty hunter both turned around. Brunner expected the noise to have originated from some expensive and outrageous harness on some equally expensive and outrageous horse. Instead he found himself looking at one of the oddest creatures he had ever seen.
The man was tall, his arms and legs on the thin side and seemed too long for his body. His face was sharp, the nose upturned slightly, like the bent bill of a finch, the cheek-bones high and his skin somewhat pallid, despite the Tilean cast of his features. The man wore a checkered tunic and matching checkered breeches, pale-blue against bright grey. A matching rounded cap sporting an enormous red feather perched atop the man’s head of lengthy black hair. The man’s thin hands sported a number of gaudy rings and gripped a tall staff of dark wood. Topping the staff was a bronze head, fashioned to resemble a grinning goblin, a pair of silver bells dangling from each side of the head. The eyes that regarded the stables were bright and friendly and his long face was spread by a broad smile.
