Angels

by Philip E. Batt

be in the market at this hour of the morning,' Cromwell added.

  'Excellent,' Winterburne replied, a wry smile passing his lips. This could actually turn out to be a most entertaining way to start the day. 'Let's surprise them,' he said.

  oOo

  Sergeant Finlay Moore thought of himself as a seasoned man of the Watch and believed that he could offer many a golden nugget of experience to those newer members of staff that he naturally tended to take under his wing. He wore his armour with pride and with the bearing of a man that always hoped his folks would have been proud to see him reach the heady rank of Sergeant. They never did see that day, but it was for them that he felt he had struggled against adversity to raise himself through the ranks to the very top. Well, when he meant top, he meant to the top of those in the Watch that did the real work. And today, he thought, would be a doddle. After all, what could possibly go wrong in the market? It's just a stroll, right? Moore watched the market stall holders scurrying around in the early morning sun, unpacking their merchandise and preparing their displays on the table tops, readying themselves for the main influx of city dwellers that always came every day.

  The City Market had always been laid out in the same square, a little way inland from the harbour and towards the east, in precisely the same spot for longer than he could remember and no one knew whether it had ever been anywhere else. Over the years its reputation for a wide range of spices, cloth, fruit, and vegetables, as well as its delicious meats and cheeses, had grown to near legendary status throughout the Empire. Occasionally, it could even boast a visit from an exotic travelling caravan bringing goods prepared by the artisans of far away places like the Commonwealth, Norska, and even Esteria.

  Large clouds of steam and sumptuous smells created by all manner of cooking meats floated across the aisles as refreshment stalls began to serve breakfast to the already hungry stallholders. Merchants, young and old, man and woman, shouted across the streets formed by the stalls and booths, laughing and joking with colleagues and acquaintances. Most had shared the same pitches for a very long time and many families had passed them on from generation to generation. Children grew up with each other, playing in the aisles and walkways, and when they were old enough took over the stalls next to their friends. It was their perpetual extended family, continuing on through the ages.

  To brighten them up, stalls had been adorned with striped canvas coverings in a variety of shades of blues, reds and greens. Bunting had also been strung between them, all adding to the colourful scene along with the vivid colours of the fruits and vegetables. Some of the stalls had poles at each corner between which ropes had been stretched and a further sheet of the same colours draped across to provide a roof of sorts. Not even unexpected showers could be allowed to stop business from continuing in Highport market. Stall occupants barked their calls and announcements, drawing people's attention to their wares and proclaiming the benefits of their goods over the others nearby.

  The subject of Moore's lecture today happened to be ''Any working man in his right mind should be making sure that he had a pension to look after him in his old age'' and Watchman Edmund Roland, a relatively new recruit, was lapping it up.

  'Take me as a prime example,' Moore preached. 'I am fifty-four years old,' he paused as he shot a sideways look towards an attractive young brunette woman who was calling out and selling the virtues of her particular stock of melons. He raised his eyebrows as he watched her, after all it never hurt to look, and then realised immediately that it may not actually have been the right thing to do, particularly in front of his latest pupil.

  'Anyway,' he continued, regaining his composure at last, 'I know that I will have a good retirement, God willing that I live that long. 'Twas the best thing the Emperor ever did in making sure that public servants, like us,' he gestured towards Roland and then back to himself, 'got their pensions paid for. It's only right and proper,' he added, 'that our civic duties should be rightly recognised, and our sacrifices rewarded accordingly.'

  Moore had performed that particular speech many times over the years and it was one of his favourites.

  Roland looked across at him and nodded as he listened attentively to the Sergeant's wise words of wisdom.

  'To sum up,' Moore said, 'I would have to say, for that action alone, I would certainly vote for him.'

  Roland looked puzzled and frowned. 'But, we don’t get to vote, Sergeant. He is the Emperor.'

  'True.' Moore held up his finger as he built up to the main crux of his argument. 'But you miss my point, lad,' he said, sniffing loudly. 'What I am saying, is that if we did get to vote, then his actions would be worthy of my cross.'

  Moore glanced at Roland who now seemed to be convinced and was nodding his agreement. He expected that Roland, being relatively new to the ways of the Watch, would find his insights fascinating, particularly since he had not yet reached the point in his career where he had realised that none of the other members of the Watch listened to a word he said any more. Until that day though, he thought, he was more than happy to spill out the contents of his vast experience to this particular captive audience.

  As the pair reached the first intersection of two aisles, Moore sniffed the air, rubbing his stomach as the glorious aroma of cooking meat reached his nostrils. He took a long deep sniff as he sucked in the air, revelling in its emphatic statement of presence.

  'Ah,' he said, 'bacon.' The widest smile crossed his face. 'And, just at the most opportune moment. I think it's time for a little breakfast, don't you?' As usual, he had timed his lecture perfectly. 'You can’t beat a bacon roll in the morning, lad, it's what porkers were created for.' He pointed across to one of the refreshment stalls that he was known to visit regularly. 'If ever the common man wanted proof that there is a God, then it is evidenced in the existence of the common, or garden, bacon sandwich.'

  Moore changed his direction and strolled towards the stall, leading the way through the growing crowds of people. The clouds of delicious smelling steam and smoke floated his way causing his mouth to water even more.

  'Oh, yes,' Moore said, 'without doubt, I cannot wait for the day when I can put up my feet and enjoy a spot of fishing every day, safe in the knowledge that the Empire is paying for me to do it.' Of course, he thought, he couldn't see his wife taking too kindly to that. Discretion suggested that it might not be so good for his credibility if he shared that particular detail with the younger man, though.

  As the pair approached the food stall a woman with blond hair tied up in a tail behind her head turned towards them and grinned as she recognised the Sergeant.

  'And what can I get you two gentlemen this fine morning?' the stall-holder asked. The woman was already reaching for the bacon with her tongs and had placed a few bread rolls to one side of the coals to warm.

  'The most important thing in a Watchman's daily routine,' Moore said, with a sideways lean into Roland, 'is to be regular, and a cooked breakfast, I think, should be a compulsory first entry in any man's timetable.' He turned back to the vendor. 'The usual please, although I think I will be having two today.' He turned back to Roland. 'Need to keep up my stamina,' he said, 'especially at my age.'

  Moore licked his lips at the thought of the roll, wrapping itself around the hot bacon and dripping with warm, tasty grease. 'I'll also have a hot cup of your finest tea to go with it, and, unless I'm very much mistaken, my young friend here will have the same.'

  Having completed his order, he stepped back from the stall, leaving Roland at the front of the queue of locals that had formed up behind him.

  Roland frowned as he looked towards the Sergeant.

  Moore smiled sweetly at Roland, raising his eyebrows and then nodding his head in the direction of the woman.

  'Apparently,' Roland said, to the vendor, 'I will be paying today.' He reached to his belt where he kept his leather bag of coins and pulled out a handful. Roland exchanged a silver for the food and handed Moore his share, which he snatched eagerly, sinking his teeth int
o the bread.

  Moore had taken a pride in growing a reputation of being able to eat for the Empire. His expanding waistline spoke for itself and since he had joined the Watch, thirty years earlier, he had needed to add three more holes to his belt. But, in a strange kind of way, he was proud of that fact and regarded it as a record of achievement in its own right. As far as he was concerned, one hole for each decade was to be regarded as a perfectly acceptable, alternative, method of measuring career progression.

  The two Watchmen took another bite of their breakfast and continued to stroll along their route around the central aisles which formed a circuit of the square.

  'Pay attention, lad,' Moore tried to say, with his mouth full. A gobbet of bacon roll swam around in the sea of tea that he held in his cheeks. He decided that it might be better to swallow the mixture before trying to speak further. 'Pay attention, lad,' he said again, 'the role of the Watchman on this particular duty is to be a visible presence.'

  'I see, Sergeant.'

  'It is not usually necessary to be any more energetic than that, though.' Moore smiled at the young man. He was going to be a good recruit, he could tell, and he was already showing lots of promise even in these early days. 'The Captain always says that ''the mere presence of the Watch should be enough to deter the majority of petty criminals that drain the livelihoods of hard-working merchants''.'

  Roland listened intently.

  'And to be honest,' Moore continued, 'I can't remember the last time I arrested someone in the market.'

  Before the two men had travelled much further their food had been consumed and their beverage drunk.

  'Look,' Moore said, 'we've done a whole lap. Now that wasn't very painful was it?'

  'No, Sergeant.'

  Moore was finding it increasingly difficult to move very far without having to squeeze past groups of shoppers who had stopped, and were listening to the stall holders crying out to attract business. 'There's a lot of folk about today,' he said. 'We could do with a broadsword to clear a path through this lot.' He winked at Roland.

  To their left, a large stall housed all manner of baked goods. There were breads of every shape and size, creamy cakes and every kind of tart imaginable.

  'We need to get us one of them pies on the way back, my boy, they're tops,' Moore said. 'And, if I may say so, one of my personal favourites.'

  There were several people loitering at the stall and out of the corner of his eye Moore saw the shorter figure of a boy. He looked as if he was about ten or eleven years old and had close cropped brown hair. He wore dirty, torn clothes and looked to be deep in thought as he measured up the loaves on offer.

  'I think we should watch that lad, Roland,' Moore said. He had lowered the tone of his tone, although he wasn't sure exactly who he was trying to hide his words from. 'Listen up,' he said. 'That, is Luke Vawdrey. A common thief, rascal and outright trouble-maker. Remember him, he's bad news. Wilier than a fox and twice as odorous.'

  'But he doesn't look so dangerous, Sergeant, he's just a boy.'

  'Just a boy? Just a boy? Ha!' Moore replied. 'Shows what you know, Watchman. Listen to me. It's not that he's dangerous as such, he's just cunning.' Moore squinted as he watched, trying to assess what Luke was up to, but, he thought, with that boy, anything was possible. 'That's right,' he added, 'he's cunning like a magpie. You know what I mean? He works stuff out in his mind.'

  'He just looks like any ordinary street urchin, though,' Roland said.

  'No, lad,' Moore's vision was still transfixed on the boy, 'he's a little shit of the most tedious kind and don't you forget it.'

  Roland chuckled, but