by Richard Ford
When he looked down her eyes were still closed, her body still reeling in delight. Merrick held her close, feeling her trembling in his grasp. She had fallen for him like a suicide off a cliff and perhaps he should have felt guilty for that. Then again, he was providing a service; he was giving her everything she wanted — passion, excitement. And what did he ask in return? A coin purse here, a spot of jewellery there. Was that too much to ask?
It wasn’t as if she couldn’t afford it, and plainly his need was the greater.
A penchant for the gambling tables had left Merrick Ryder with rather large debts, owed, unfortunately, to Shanka the Lender. It didn’t do to owe Shanka for too long. Not if he wanted to keep his various appendages intact. Consequently he needed coin and fast, and that was where Lady Elina came in.
So what if he’d told her his name was Lord Franco of Riverbeach, a noble from Ankavern cast out by his evil uncle? So what if he’d made up some shit about having a brother who had been helping the brave rebels of Mekkala overthrow the despotic Raj Al’Fazal, Divine Sultan of Kajrapur? So what if he’d told her his brother had been captured by the Sultan and a substantial ransom was needed to secure his release? And that they needed to meet in secret? That the agents of the Sultan were everywhere, watching, waiting? That at any minute they could be waylaid by assassins and slaughtered?
Lady Elina was a widow — a filthy rich widow, past her prime and in need of excitement. If it wasn’t for Merrick she’d be stuck on her estate: bored and fat and lonely. If you looked at it that way, he was doing her a favour.
‘You are so brave, my lady,’ he said, pulling away. ‘So selfless. I am not worthy of you.’ He turned as though to leave.
When she grabbed hold of him once more he could barely contain his grin. It was just like landing a fish — let out the line, wait for the bite, then reel it in.
‘Never say that, Lord Franco. I am honoured to help in any way I can.’
He turned to her, his eyes projecting just the right degree of concern and gratitude. ‘Oh, my lady. I am not worthy of such devotion.’
‘Oh, but you are, my lord.’
She leaned in then, grasping the lapel of his jacket and planting her lips firmly against his. Merrick barely had time to open his mouth before she’d stuffed it with her probing tongue. Her breath smelled faintly of wine and figs but this was mostly overpowered by the liberal dousing of sickly sweet perfume she had used. Despite the harshness of it on his nose and throat, Merrick grasped her firmly, pressing back against her lips, making a satisfied groan as though this was all he wanted and yearned for.
When the kissing was done and Lady Elina had gathered herself, Merrick looked at her expectantly, glancing at the myriad jewelled chains that hung about her neck. ‘Though it pains me to even say it, my love, might I beg for a further contribution to our cause?’
She smiled back at him, as she had done a dozen times before. A dozen times when she had taken one of those chains from her neck and pressed it into his hands with a kiss.
This time, however, she didn’t move.
‘This has been most pleasant, Lord Franco — if that’s even your real name — but I am afraid, as with most pleasurable things, it has come to an end.’
Merrick’s brow furrowed. This wasn’t how things were supposed to go. She was supposed to hand over the goods and send him off on his merry way. What the fuck was-
‘I am afraid, my lady, that your suspicions were correct. His name is not Lord Franco.’ It was a shrill voice that echoed through the derelict chapel.
Merrick turned, his hand instinctively straying to the sword at his side, but there was no sword there. He’d needed money for his new clothes — for how was he to impress a real noblewoman if he kept turning up in the same attire — and had to pawn his blade for the money to pay for them.
In hindsight a bloody stupid move.
Three men strolled into the light that beamed down through the collapsed roof. The first two wore plain black coats, nicely stitched. They looked as if they could handle themselves in a fight. Behind them was a skinny bloke, well past middling years, in a frilly shirt and frock coat and, obviously, a wig on his big, wide head.
Merrick was already looking for the quickest exit but there was only one way out and that was blocked. He was about to try talking, the next best thing, when Lady Elina piped up, ‘Why, Ortes. How good of you to join us.’
Ortes, the one at the back, raised his head but didn’t bother to step in front of his men. ‘It’s my pleasure, Lady Elina.’
Merrick had no idea what was going on, but didn’t like it one little bit. It was time to start talking … just until he could start running.
‘I’m afraid I am at a loss,’ he said, taking a step away from the man Ortes and his dangerous-looking companions. ‘The lady and I were just conducting-’
‘I know what you were conducting. And I know you’re no nobleman,’ said Ortes. ‘You’re a back street chancer. A swindler, thief and gambler … Merrick Ryder!’
‘Preposterous! I have no idea what this man’s talking about,’ Merrick said to Elina quickly, desperate to salvage the situation, even though it was obvious he’d been rumbled. ‘Who is this man, anyway?’
Before she could answer, Ortes finally found the courage to step out from behind his men, raising his chin and clamping his hands on his hips as though some hero of legend.
‘I am Ortes Ban Hallan, Duke of Valecroft, and that,’ he pointed to Elina, ‘is my beloved aunt!’
‘Ah,’ said Merrick. ‘Well … I can assure you, this is not what it looks like.’
‘Shut it,’ said one of the black-coated henchmen, taking a threatening step forward. Merrick had never regretted pawning a sword so much in his life, but he did as he was told.
‘You see, my dear,’ said Elina, all smiles and sarcasm. ‘I’ve had my doubts about you for some time. That’s why I had you followed. That’s why my nephew has been checking up on you for the past few days.’
Merrick turned to her, at his most solemn and sincere. ‘I can assure you, my lady, this is all an unfortunate misunderstandoooff-’
The closest henchman punched him in the gut. It was like being hit with a hammer: all the air in his lungs escaped in a violent rush.
‘No more of your lies,’ spat Ortes as Merrick dropped to his knees, gasping for breath. ‘Get him out of here — make sure he never bothers Lady Elina again.’
Before Merrick could move the eager thugs grabbed hold of him and dragged him across the crumbling floorboards.
This couldn’t be happening. How could that old trout have rumbled him so easily? How could he have been found out by a pompous, overdressed sow? Curious though he was to know, this wasn’t quite as pressing as getting himself out of his current and worsening predicament.
The interior of the chapel lurched past as Ortes’ henchmen dragged him along. Merrick’s head slammed against the threshold step as they pulled him into a back street. As he floundered in mud, his head pounding, one of them got in an opportunistic kick to his ribs.
This was getting serious. If he didn’t think of something soon these morons could do some permanent damage, perhaps even to his face. And he was happy with his face just the way it was.
As though on cue, one of his assailants pulled a knife from his black coat.
‘Now I’m gonna fucking slice your guts. It’ll be the last time you take advantage of kindly old ladies.’
Merrick held up his hands instinctively as the knife came down to slash his flesh. He cried out in anticipation of the pain and blood; but they never came. Hearing a sharp thud, he opened his eyes in time to see the knife man collapsing sideways, blade falling from limp hand. Beside him was a hulking brute Merrick didn’t recognise, carrying a wooden cosh that he’d just used to good effect.
The remaining henchman stumbled back, raising his hands in surrender as a second brutish thug emerged from the shadows.
One of the new thugs seized Merrick and hauled him
up. Merrick was groggy, his legs unsteady, but he still had wit enough to grasp an opportunity when he saw it — even if presented by a bull of a man who looked like he might eat Merrick’s liver as soon as look at him.
The two thugs dragged him off as Ortes’ henchman looked on in silence, in total fear of these two behemoths. They were easily a full head taller than Merrick and twice as wide at the shoulders. A sudden ‘out of the frying pan’ feeling crept up on him. How much of a rescue was this?
‘Look, gents,’ Merrick said as they led him around a corner and down a dark alley. ‘If Shanka’s sent you, I’ve got his money. At least … in theory. There’s just a couple of arrangements I have to make to release the equity.’
‘Stop talking,’ said one of the brutes. Merrick wasn’t going to argue.
They walked in silence along the back alleys, through slurry and shit, past rats and garbage. Merrick guessed that if they’d wanted him dead they would have killed him already, or just left him to Ortes’ men, so there was no point trying to escape — at least not yet.
Eventually, and without warning, the two brutes bundled Merrick through an open doorway into a dimly lit warehouse. It seemed to contain only two large crates, which could easily have been used as man-sized cages. Some paraphernalia on the walls, difficult to recognise in the gloom, looked like farming tools, but in Merrick’s head could quite easily have been implements of torture.
‘Sit down,’ said one of the thugs.
‘But there’s no chair,’ Merrick replied, glancing around.
He screeched suddenly as the other brute kicked him in the back of the knees and sent him sprawling.
Before he could ask what all this was about, two figures walked from the shadows.
The first was tall and bald, his face long and gaunt. He had something of the undertaker about him, a demeanour that was mirthless, as though he had never smiled in his life. The second was shorter and much fuller about the waist. His curly hair was receding and framed an open and strangely jovial face. This man’s welcoming smile seemed at odds with his partner’s skull-faced stare, and it did nothing to reassure Merrick. He recognised these two men instantly, and knew there was nothing to smile about.
‘Hello, Ryder,’ said the shorter figure.
‘Hello, Friedrik,’ Merrick replied, then turned quickly to his silent friend. ‘Bastian. How are you both?’
‘We’re very well,’ Friedrik replied. ‘Clearly much better than you.’ He glanced towards the hulking goons behind Merrick. ‘You were told to bring him here unharmed.’
‘That wasn’t us,’ said one of the thugs, pointing at Merrick’s torn shirt and bruised face. ‘We found him like that.’ Despite his size, he was clearly intimidated by the little man, and with good reason. Friedrik and Bastian controlled the Guild — the organisation that ran every illicit racket in Steelhaven. Nothing happened in the city without their say so. No one was mugged, extorted, pickpocketed, burgled, swindled, brutalised or murdered unless it was on their explicit orders. Working within the boundaries of Steelhaven outside the purview of the Guild carried very harsh penalties indeed.
‘Making friends as usual, Ryder,’ Friedrik said with a grin. ‘That’s good to see.’
‘I’m popular. What can I say?’
‘Yes, very popular. Or so we hear. Apparently Shanka the Lender wants your balls on a skewer.’
‘That’s just a slight misunderstanding I’m currently trying to resolve.’
‘Of course you are. You’ll be pleased to hear I may just have a solution to your problem.’
Merrick felt cold panic begin to rise in his guts. Being in debt to Shanka the Lender was one thing. Being in debt to the Guild was quite another. At least without his balls he’d still be half a man — what the Guild might do was much worse.
‘Honestly, Shanka and I are just ironing out some teething problems. There’s absolutely no need for you to get involved.’
‘Oh, but I insist, Ryder. For old times’ sake.’
Fuck.
‘Okay. I’m all ears.’ Merrick tried a casual smile, but he knew it wasn’t very convincing.
‘We have a job which will utilise your truly unique skills.’ Thieving? Gambling? Drinking? Surely they didn’t want to borrow his skills in the bedroom? ‘We want you to broker a deal with some foreigners. To see it through from start to finish, using your usual charm and finesse.’
‘Really? There’s no one in the whole city better suited to this than me?’
Bastian suddenly stepped forward, his piercing eyes staring down with barely masked hatred. ‘It’s your particular pedigree we’re interested in, Ryder. You have contacts. Friends in high places who will come in very handy. Bribes will have to be paid, blind eyes turned to certain actions. You will make this happen, Ryder, and in return your debts to Shanka the Lender will be paid off.’
‘Sounds fair,’ Merrick replied, though it actually sounded shit. ‘Exactly what deal do I need to broker?’
Bastian looked towards the diminutive Friedrik, who gave a long sigh before he spoke. ‘A slave ship will reach port in two days. When it arrives it will be empty. By the time it leaves, you will ensure it is full. Will this be a problem?’
Shit right it’ll be a fucking problem. Slavery had been outlawed in the Free States for over two centuries. The penalty for slave trading was public castration and execution by hanging.
Merrick looked first at Friedrik, then at the cold, calculating eyes of Bastian.
‘No. No problem at all,’ he replied
‘Excellent.’ Friedrik smiled. ‘You’ll be given the details of when, where and how. All you need do is be yourself and turn on that famous Ryder charm. It’s unlikely you’ll see us again; from now on you’ll be dealing with Palien, so if there’s anything you need before you go, best speak up now.’
Merrick thought for a moment and then gingerly rose to his feet. ‘Just one thing.’ Bastian scowled as though Merrick had just left a shit on the floor behind him. ‘Any chance you can lend me a sword?’
FOUR
Eastgate Market was the oldest in the city. Not the largest, certainly not the cleanest and it definitely didn’t display the richest wares; but it had a long history. It dated back to the Age of the Sword Kings, when the river barons had brought their goods down the Storway from the foot of the Kriega Mountains.
How Rag knew this she couldn’t remember — it was just one of those useless pieces of information you picked up. She did know other things, however, that weren’t quite so useless. Things like where Harol the Fishmonger kept his stash of crowns and when it would be at its fullest. Things like which hand Carser the Butcher wielded his cleaver with so she could avoid it if he got too close. Things like what the fastest routes out of the market were for when things got too hot. Things like when the lads in the Greencoats would be patrolling and what time they took a break for dice and a swift jar of ale.
The Greencoats were the least of her worries. Well, maybe not the least, but they were way down the list. They didn’t bother much about a lone street urchin. Some of them were even fairly sympathetic at times and turned a blind eye, either too lazy or too preoccupied to pay attention to young wastrels stealing morsels from the market stalls.
No, it was the Guild that was the worst.
They’d have someone wandering around now, sizing up the best punters for the catch, signalling to their pickers, pinchers and cutters so they knew which marks to go for. It was organised, disciplined, and so they took the richest pickings. If Rag got in the way, distracted a picker or drew undue attention, she’d get more than a hiding; she’d be lucky if she’d be left with her eyes. Then it’d be a life on the corners of Dockside or worse, the Rafts, and she’d have no choice but to beg with the rest of the cripples, if she were lucky. If she weren’t lucky she’d be whored out for scraps, a freak, treated like an animal until someone ended her short life for her. Rag had seen it happen, and she was determined it weren’t a fate she’d share. Yes, the Guild c
ontrolled this market, and thieving here without their say so was dangerous indeed.
Nevertheless, a gal had to eat, and Rag was mighty hungry.
The smell of Gunta’s bread stall was wafting her way, almost as though the fat baker was just asking her to take one of his plump, brown loaves. She’d robbed him before, more than once, and it was likely he’d be looking out for her, but Rag had a knack for going unnoticed. For some children, normal children with parents who bought them food and clothes and kept a roof over them, lack of attention might have been a problem. Not so for Rag. Her talent for being ignored suited her just fine.
Across the market the Guild lookout was busy marking a punter for his pincher, so there’d be no trouble there. The three lads in the Greencoats were laughing and joking with two well-dressed girls who looked well out of their league, so no trouble there neither.
Fat Gunta was busy chatting to two equally fat women, who by the looks of them needed to skip a few meals. It was almost as if the baker was begging her to help rid him of his wares.
Rag walked up all casual. She matched the pace of a passing merchant, allowing his bulk to shield her, and for a split second thought of cutting his purse, but she knew it wasn’t worth it. Loaves was of no interest to the Guild. Purses was quite different.
As the merchant passed the end of Gunta’s stall, Rag stopped walking and let him move on, never looking up, never locking her eyes on the mark lest he glance round and see her, or those fat ladies spot her and give the game away. Most times if you didn’t look at someone they wouldn’t look at you, wouldn’t even notice you were there. She was right next to the stall now, within arm’s reach of a nice crusty loaf. It weren’t nothing just to take one, and it was in her hand before anyone noticed; not so fast as to attract attention, not so slow as to take all day. In less time than it took to suck up a breath, her coat was open and the loaf aiming for the inside of it, when someone banged into her. Rag stumbled, the bread spilling from her grip and cracking on the cobbles right in front of the stall, crust breaking to bits like a shattered mirror, and making not much less noise.
