by Richard Ford
Now that was a problem. He’d been given a full purse, been told to do his thing. He was pretty sure that meant paying off the Harbourwatch and any Greencoats that might be on patrol around the wharfside, rather than wasting it on whores and wine. Though frankly, whores and wine were never a waste.
He sat up, looking down at his bare legs and his flaccid cock, sitting there beneath the hem of his shirt all useless and stubby, and his head began to swim. A wave of nausea hit him and he lay back down, head sinking into the goose feather pillow. It would have been nice to lie there forever. To forget the world outside, forget the debts he owed, forget the job he had to do. Forget Bastian and Friedrik and Shanka and Bolo the fucking Slaver.
But they would not forget him.
He forced himself to sit up, biting back the sick feeling, swallowing down the bile. Gradually the room stopped spinning and he swung his legs over the side of the bed. Whose room was this anyway? Lilleth’s? Meagan’s? Not that it mattered — after a while every whore’s chamber looked the same.
Merrick pulled on his britches, and fumbled with his sword belt until he finally managed to fasten the buckle. There was no bowl of water to wash with, not even a half-empty glass of wine to wet his parched throat, but then that was the way with whorehouses: they were all smiles on the way in and not even a polite ‘fuck off’ on the way out.
He stumbled down the stairs, ignoring the prone bodies lying around, trying to avoid looking at the other patrons as they tried to leave without looking at him. Not that he shared their shame. He’d been here too often to feel that sting any more. Nowadays he didn’t feel the sting of anything much, which was most likely why Bastian and Friedrik had picked him for this job in the first place.
It was cold out on the street, and busy for so early in the morning. Someone was noisily selling fruit at a foul-smelling stall right outside the brothel, but Merrick had no money for food. Besides, if he didn’t get to Palien soon, hunger would be the least of his worries.
He tripped more than once, still feeling the after effects of his revelry. Not that it had been much fun — a couple of drunken fucks and the rest of the time lying in a stupor. Still, it had at least served to kill a couple of days, numb the dread feeling inside him. That kind of service couldn’t be counted in gold or silver.
Somehow he managed to make his way to the Northgate slums unhindered. It was as though the scum and footpads knew he was coming, and knew to stay out of his way.
The Guild had a hundred safe houses throughout the city, and Merrick Ryder was in the privileged position of knowing more than a few. The one where he was to meet Palien was hardly one of the nicer ones, though. It stood on a street corner, stretching up three storeys. How far it dug down into the shit and sewers below, Merrick had no idea, and no great desire to find out.
Before he could even knock, the door opened a crack, and a big figure looked out. Merrick recognised him; he was one of the thugs that had rescued him outside the derelict chapel. Merrick had always been good with faces, especially ones that had saved him from a stabbing and then dragged him halfway across the city by the scruff of his neck.
The man said nothing, just opened the door and nodded for Merrick to enter.
It was dark inside, dark enough for someone to be lurking in wait with knife in hand, but Merrick had already done all this back in Bolo’s lair; already braved the dark — and lived. Besides, if the Guild wanted him dead he’d already be lying in the street with his head smashed in or floating down the Storway with his throat gaping wide, so there was nothing to fear here. He hoped.
In the dimness he could make out a tiny candlelit room beckoning him on. At the doorway his confidence took a blow to the gut as he saw Palien.
Tall and lithe and athletic, his hair and moustache waxed and coiffured, not a hair out of place, as always. Merrick had met him a few times before, been drawn in by his charm and looks, which was odd, as usually Merrick was the one doing the charming. His past experience had also taught him how dangerous Palien was, and explained why he wasn’t looking forward to this one bit.
‘Where the fuck have you been for the past three days?’ Palien said as Merrick entered.
‘I was doing as I was told. Organising the smooth transaction of goods.’ It wouldn’t do to explain how he’d been pissing up the last of his coins from the Guild on cheap wine and whores.
‘So you weren’t dipping your wick on Verdant Street?’ Palien raised one eyebrow a full inch higher than the other.
‘Well …’
‘I don’t really give a fuck what you were doing, Ryder. What I do give a fuck about is whether you met with Bolo and sealed the arrangement. And I’ve been waiting here three days to fucking find out.’
‘I got a little bit waylaid.’
‘I don’t give a fuck!’ Palien’s voice almost raised the roof. At his yell, the thug at Merrick’s shoulder stood a shuffling step back, as though the comment had been directed at him.
Merrick felt his heart beating faster. Time to put Palien at his ease, perhaps.
‘Everything is good with Bolo. I finalised the deal. We drank on it.’ And I threw it up outside. ‘He tried to barter on price but I made it clear we’re not to be trifled with … you’re not to be trifled with. He already has some merchandise.’ And it looked in a sorry state. ‘I told him it wouldn’t be a problem getting more.’
As Merrick spoke, Palien’s raised eyebrow slowly lowered until it was level with its fellow.
‘It won’t be a problem getting more,’ Palien confirmed. ‘What have you done to square the dock? Have the bribes been paid, or have you pissed all that money away?’
‘That’s all coming together nicely.’ Kind of. ‘But as a matter of fact, the money you gave me for that side of things may not cover it.’ Because I have indeed pissed all that money away.
Palien simply stared, giving no indication he had even heard.
Merrick had been here before, staring hard bastards in the face. Usually he would be able to run away or talk his way out, but right now there was nowhere to run and no excuse he could think of, so he just stared back. Palien was waiting for him to crumble, for him to admit either he still had the money or he’d spent it. Fact was, he didn’t have the money, and if he told Palien it was gone, there would be unpleasantness.
And Merrick really wanted to avoid any unpleasantness.
Despite the chill of the room a bead of sweat broke from the nape of his neck and ran down the back of his shirt. A bang behind made him jump, and it was with relief that he heard the muffled sound of voices as Palien’s attention was redirected to the doorway.
Another henchman walked in, his face sheepish, like he was scared for his life for interrupting. Beside him was a second figure, not as tall as the thug, but very much larger than life.
He was foreign, an easterner, most likely Dravhistani, his clothes woven from bright silks, his hair covered by a headwrap usually worn in the Eastern Kingdoms. A sash held in his generous waist and over one shoulder was an ornate bag which Merrick noticed he clutched to his side protectively.
‘Erm … he’s here,’ said the henchman.
Palien began to raise that eyebrow again. ‘Yes, thank you. I can fucking see that.’
He turned his attention back to Merrick, reaching behind him, and for a second Merrick felt the bite of panic. He thought about reaching for his sword, but that would have been the dumbest thing to do. If Palien was reaching for a blade killing him wouldn’t solve anything.
Luckily he wasn’t. He grabbed a coinpurse and threw it to Merrick.
‘You’d better make that last,’ Palien said. ‘If you need any more you’d best sell something, and looking at you it’s not likely you’ll get much for your arse.’
‘Of course. This should do nicely.’
‘Fuck off then. As you can see I have a proper guest.’
Merrick didn’t wait. He nodded at the three men — only the foreigner deigned to nod back — and left as fast as
he could manage.
Back out on the street he began to feel better, his hangover waning. A cup of ale and some kind of unidentifiable meat from a street seller filled the gap in his belly and quenched his thirst. Merrick knew he had a task to finish, though, and that gave him a bellyache that no amount of meat pie could halt.
The coin was in his purse and bribes needed to be paid. It was best for his health if he did the paying before the temptation to spend it all on cheap whores and cheaper wine got too much, and his first stop would be the hardest.
The barracks of the Sentinels stood to the eastern side of Skyhelm. Merrick’s face was well enough known to see him into the Crown District — that was, after all, why the Guild had hired him in the first place.
He was ushered into the barrack block. It was late enough for morning reveille to have finished and in the centre of the paved training square was the man he had come to see.
Captain Garret sat at a small table, on an equally small chair. It was almost funny to see his long legs and bulky torso on that fragile-looking seat. Or it would have been funny if Merrick hadn’t been there with such a distasteful purpose. He had to size Garret up, to see if the incorruptible captain was quite as pious as he made out. The old man wouldn’t need to know exactly what Merrick was up to, but if he could be persuaded to turn a blind eye here or there it would help him no end.
‘Been a long time,’ said Merrick as he strolled across the drill yard adopting his easy smile.
Garret looked up from his sourbread and ham, and smiled back.
‘Too long.’ He stood, offering his hand to Merrick, who was glad to shake it. ‘Sit down,’ he said, gesturing to the second chair opposite his own. ‘Are you hungry? There’s plenty for both of us.’
‘Just tea, if you’re still addicted to that Han-Shar brew you insist on.’
Garret grinned, sitting himself down and pouring Merrick a cup from the pot in the centre of the table.
‘Sorry I don’t have any wine. I know you’re partial to that Braegan filth.’
‘Tea will do for now.’
‘Hah. Rough night? You don’t change, do you, lad?’
You’ve got no idea, Garret. ‘You know me. But what about you? Still here after all these years — it’s like you enjoy acting the caretaker to the royal palace.’
Garret’s smile lost its humour. ‘It’s a duty. One I’m proud of. Not that I’d expect you to understand that.’
‘I understand it well enough. Just don’t ask me to join up.’
Garret gave a knowing smirk at that one and the men paused to sip from their cups. They were made of porcelain, imported from the East, and each one had an exotic bird painted in blue on the side, a refinement which looked quite ridiculous in Garret’s big hairy hand.
‘So how have you been keeping?’ asked the captain, leaning back in his chair. ‘Because you look like shit.’
‘Thanks. It’s all the fashion in Northgate.’ Merrick thumbed the lapels of his grubby shirt. ‘And you’re the last person to comment on dress. That uniform’s older than I am.’
‘It’s served me well enough, and I’m proud of it. As proud as when I wore it beside your father.’ The mere mention of Merrick’s father made the sweet taste of tea suddenly sour in his mouth. Garret knew he’d said something clumsy. ‘Sorry, lad. I know how you feel about him, but I’m an old soldier, and I served with your father for a lot of years. It was a shame what happened.’
‘A shame, was it? He left us. Left us with nothing. Disappeared without a fucking word, never to be seen again.’ Merrick knew he hadn’t come to whine about his own problems, but the merest mention of his bastard of a father was guaranteed to get him riled.
‘Now that’s not fair, lad, and you know it. No one really knows what happened to him, and he left you and your mother wealthy enough. I did my best to look out for you. It was an awful shame the way things ended up.’
An awful shame? That was one way of looking at it. After his mother had died from the Sweet Canker, Merrick had been left with a fortune. It had taken him less than two years to piss and gamble it away.
But then what he had lost in untold riches he had gained in friends from the Guild, so it worked out a sweet deal in the end. Psychotic friends who would sooner cut your balls off than look at you were by far the best kind.
‘Anyway, enough of the past,’ said Merrick, keen to get back to business. ‘How are you? Things must be difficult right now. I don’t envy you your lot.’
Garret suddenly looked grave. ‘You have no idea, lad. News from the north isn’t good. There’ll be a battle soon, slaughter we haven’t seen since Bakhaus Gate.’ Merrick had heard the tales, though he’d only been a boy at the time. Garret would never have made such a comparison lightly. ‘The future of the entire Free States hangs in the balance and wicked things are afoot here. Word from the Greencoats is there’s a rogue magicker on the loose. The magisters say it’s nothing to be concerned about, but those shady bastards tell two lies for every truth. And the Inquisition lost a lieutenant last week — young Petraeus and two Knights of the Blood, hacked up for sport in a back alley. They were on their way to arrest some spy but they never made it back. Petraeus was a champion fencer, and his two knights seasoned campaigners. They wouldn’t have gone down easy, but there was no sign of anyone else. Petraeus didn’t even get a chance to draw his blade. It’s clear we’ve got some dangerous foreign killer on the loose as well as some murdering caster.’
‘Maybe it’s the same person,’ said Merrick, though he wasn’t really interested in Garret’s woes.
‘Aye, maybe. But we’re not even close to catching him, whoever it is. We just don’t have the men. All the best are in the north, and whether they’ll be back or not is still in the balance. More and more people are coming to the city every day, some from Dreldun, burned out of their homes, others just scared of an invasion and of what that might bring. And if King Cael loses …’ Garret took another sip from his cup. He had clearly said enough, and was unwilling to contemplate the consequences should the king fail to stem the Khurtic tide.
Merrick suddenly began to feel uncomfortable. He had come here to size up Garret for a bribe, to see if this proud man, one he’d known since he was a child, would take money to allow him to deal in slaves.
It was obvious Garret would never do such a thing.
‘It’s clear you have much to do, old friend, so I’ll be on my way. Thanks for the tea.’
He had to go, had to get away from this place. This had been a stupid mistake. Garret reminded him too much of a past he’d left behind, a past he’d gambled away and would never get back.
Before he could leave, the captain laid a hand on Merrick’s and smiled.
‘What is it, lad? You wouldn’t just come here out of the blue for nothing. If there’s a problem, you can tell me. I promised your father and mother-’
‘I know,’ said Merrick, suddenly feeling panicked. He didn’t deserve this. If Garret knew what he was up to he wouldn’t just be furious, he’d be deeply ashamed. ‘You don’t have to feel like you owe me anything. There’s been a lot of water under the bridge since then. I’m not a child any more, Garret.’
The old soldier laughed. ‘I know that, lad. That’s why, if you’re ever struggling, you can come to me. If you ever need help, or a job, I’ll be here. There’s a place for you in the Sentinels. We could always use a man of your talents.’
His fucking talents! Why was everyone always interested in his talents? Why did no one want him just for the pleasure of his company?
‘Thanks for the offer.’ Merrick stood, desperate to get out, though he managed not to set off like the place was on fire. ‘But I’ve already got a job.’
Wasn’t that the truth? A job that might see him dead at any moment.
Without another word they nodded their goodbyes, no long platitudes, no warm embraces.
Merrick found himself out on the street again, breathing heavily, his head swimming, the sick feel
ing back in his gut.
What a stupid fucking idea. What an idiot he’d been to try to come here, to think he could sway old Garret, make him betray his city and his king. If Merrick Ryder had never thought himself a treacherous bastard before, then now was the time to start.
Clearly it was time for another drink.
TWENTY
It was at its worst when he was left alone with his thoughts. That face seemed to haunt him, taunting him in his dreams at night and sitting behind him during the day, just out of sight.
The Liber Conflagrantia was vast, but to Waylian it seemed like a coffin in which he was trapped … trapped with a corpse that stared with glassy eyes, reproachful, vengeful, crying out for a justice Waylian could never provide.
Magistra Gelredida had, in recent days, turned her attention solely to the hunt and capture of the killer loose in the city, so much so that Waylian’s lessons were seldom and brief. She did spare enough time to allot him a task every day, each of which demanded he spend endless hours in the Grand Library. He had little time for anything else, and as a consequence was becoming more and more reclusive — the last thing he needed right now.
Every time he tried to turn his attention to his studies all he could see was a dead man’s face staring back from the page of the dusty tome. Every night he spent in the dark, forcing himself to think of something else, all he could see were those cold, dead eyes. On occasion he would manage to picture the blonde girl he had admired from afar — Gladdis? Gemmy? — but it wouldn’t be long before she too paled, her skin turning waxy, the light from her eyes extinguishing to resemble those of a rotting fish.
And it wasn’t as though he didn’t have other things to worry about. For one, he still had to work out what in the hells Jotun meant. Despite all that had happened, despite all she had on her mind, Gelredida still insisted on using that as his name and giving him demeaning, menial tasks to perform until he could decipher it. This time, though, Waylian was convinced he almost had it.
He had rounded it down to Golgarthan origin — the stem tun meaning faeces — but from there he was stuck. He had studied most of the clan dialects and only had one more to go — the Kharna Khel — a fierce northern tribe who were perpetually locked in a battle with the reivers of the Blood Isles and the foul beasts of the Morathi Ice Holds. It was only a matter of time before he stumbled on the right word, but his task was made all the more difficult by the shadow of a dead man following him everywhere he went, his face manifesting on the page of every book.
