by Richard Ford
Magistra Gelredida was greeted by an ageing woman. Her face was heavily wrinkled and looked grotesque, being as gaudily painted as those of the other whores. She might possibly have been desirable once, it was hard to tell now, age and a livid scar beside her left eye having long since kissed goodbye to her beauty.
‘You’ve told no one?’ Gelredida asked.
The whore raised one painted eyebrow. ‘What do you think?’ she replied.
‘And these?’ The Red Witch gestured to the score of girls in their various states of undress.
‘We both know what’ll assure their silence.’
Gelredida produced a pouch from out of nowhere, and Waylian heard the telltale chink of coins as she placed it in the hand of the brothel-mistress.
‘She’s upstairs,’ said the old whore. ‘The door’s open. The smell should guide you right enough.’
With that she was off into another room hidden by a thick curtain.
Gelredida took the stairs, and Waylian was quick to follow, having no desire to be left alone with these women of the night.
‘Why are there no Greencoats here, Magistra?’ he asked as they reached the first floor landing.
‘It’s the way I want it,’ Gelredida replied. ‘This way we might investigate the scene untroubled and word of this can be kept to a minimum.’
‘But how can you guarantee the silence of those … women?’
Gelredida stopped and turned, regarding Waylian with a wry smile.
‘All men are braggarts by nature, and women of means are most often gossips and rumourmongers. Whores, however, learn to keep their peace … if the price is right. I would sooner trust the discretion of a whore than of anyone else in this city.’
She made her way along the corridor. Waylian followed, and, as the sound of sobbing from downstairs receded, a familiar smell began to assail his nostrils. The stink of rot, of carcasses, wafted down the corridor as though they were about to enter a butcher’s shop. Waylian braced himself for what he was about to see as Gelredida turned through an open door.
There were candles, black-stemmed with glowing red flames, as before. The walls bore their familiar dark sigils — but Waylian’s attention went immediately to the corpse. This time, instead of being splayed on the ground, the body of this unfortunate whore was nailed to the ceiling, her entrails dangling down to caress the floor like the branches of a willow tree. How the killer had managed to nail her there without alerting the rest of the brothel’s occupants he had no idea. But then they weren’t dealing with any ordinary killer. This was a rogue caster, a foul magicker of the most despicable kind. Who knew what fell tricks he had used to accomplish his ghastly deed.
As Waylian regarded her, staring blankly from milk-white eyes, he suddenly felt a pang of shame. Downstairs he had considered those women whores. He had thought them base and unworthy of his compassion. But this was just a girl, not much older than he was. A girl who might have had dreams, might have aspired to something more than spreading her legs for coin, but now those dreams were slain along with her. And slain in the most obscene manner.
‘We should get her down,’ he said, as Gelredida busied herself examining the walls.
‘She can stay where she is for the moment. I doubt she’s late for any appointments.’
Waylian felt anger well up from his belly. The humiliation of the last few days, coupled with his current shame, seemed to boil up within him.
‘We need to get her down!’ he cried, too loud.
Gelredida rounded on him, her face creased in annoyance. He braced himself for the tirade, for the abuse and the ridicule, but it never came. Her features softened and she slowly nodded.
‘Very well. Use that.’ She gestured to a chair in one corner before turning back to the wall and studying the sigils closely, though not close enough to touch them.
Waylian grabbed the chair and dragged it through the pool of blood, the legs making a trail along the floorboards, until it was positioned beneath the girl. He climbed on it, grasping a nail that secured one of her feet to the ceiling. Congealed blood on the head of the nail made his fingers slippery and he couldn’t get proper purchase. After pulling his robe over his hand Waylian managed to get a grip on the nail and he tugged. It finally came away in a shower of plaster and the girl’s leg dropped, dangling uselessly. He used the same technique on the other leg, and her body slumped, hanging from her arms. Thankfully, Waylian had prepared himself, and he managed to take the girl’s weight, her entrails still dangling, soaking his robe in blood. He didn’t care about that. He just wanted her down off that ceiling.
A week ago this would have made him sick to his stomach, but recent events had hardened him. Waylian felt like a boy no longer.
Her exsanguinated body was light as a child’s doll, and even Waylian, weakling that he was, could take her weight. Finally, he managed to remove the nails securing her hands, and she flopped over his shoulder like an old, empty sack. He climbed off the chair and laid her out on the floor. As he knelt beside her he tried to close her eyes but try as he might, he couldn’t seem to get them to shut all the way. She still looked out from half-closed lids, almost as though she were pretending to sleep but still peeking. The splaying of her entrails and the pallid white tinge to her flesh, however, made it obvious she was not.
A sharp intake of breath from his mistress made Waylian glance her way. She had thrown back her hood now, and was standing some paces away from the wall, as though suddenly understanding the symbols daubed there.
‘It cannot be,’ she whispered. ‘Madness. Only a fool would …’
Waylian moved to her side. He regarded the sigils but they only made him feel nauseous. Even though he had no understanding of what they meant, he could sense they were forbidden — writings that should be seen by no mortal eye.
‘What we have here, Waylian, is a ritual of the most diabolical origin.’ Waylian? She called me Waylian. ‘I did not recognise it with the first murder. I did not think it possible with the second, but this poor girl has proved beyond doubt what our foe is up to.’
Waylian could only turn his eyes away from the wall before the bile rising in his throat threatened to make him puke. As he did he saw two burly men at the door.
‘Ah,’ said Gelredida, ‘you’re here. As you can see, it’s something of a mess.’ She gestured to the corpse. ‘I’m sure you know what to do.’ She flung a bag of coins to one of the men, and Waylian began to wonder just how much money she had inside that robe of hers.
As the men pulled out a pile of hempen sacks and some rope, one of them asked, ‘The Storway?’
‘Yes,’ Gelredida replied. ‘And don’t weight the body down this time, otherwise it’ll never reach the sea. We don’t want her bobbing up in the harbour.’
Waylian was suddenly horrified. ‘You can’t just-’
His mistress fixed him with a stern look.
The men went about their business, wrapping the body in the sacks and securing them tight with the rope.
‘No, this isn’t right,’ Waylian said as one of them hoisted the body onto his shoulder. This had been a human being, a girl with a life and feelings. She couldn’t just be discarded like so much sewage. ‘She should be buried.’ Gelredida was annoyed but Waylian didn’t care any more. ‘You can’t. This is wrong.’
He stared at her, trying his best to hold her gaze. She stared back, her eyes boring into him, assessing him as though he were being tested in the classroom. But for the second time she acquiesced to his demands, producing another two crowns from inside her robes.
‘Very well.’ She flung the coins on the ground. ‘You look like resourceful gentlemen, and that should ensure you get the body out of the city unnoticed. See that she’s buried on Dancer’s Hill. No need to mark the grave.’
When neither of them complained, Gelredida walked from the room.
As Waylian followed her he was suddenly aware of the blood covering his robe, the blood of a girl he’d never met and whose
name he didn’t know.
Gelredida made her way down the stairs and towards the door, but Waylian paused, turning to the weeping girl.
‘What was her name?’ he asked, as gently as he could manage.
The girl looked up at him, her painted face smeared and runny with tears. ‘What do you care?’ she asked.
‘Just tell me,’ he demanded, his voice less gentle.
‘Kaylee,’ said the girl, before burying her head in her neighbour’s shoulder.
Waylian nodded his thanks and quickly followed his mistress out into the night.
It was some time before he realised Gelredida was not headed back to the Tower of Magisters. Even though his sense of direction was awful he knew they were heading away from the great building.
They came to the end of an alleyway, which opened up to a wide, paved clearing spreading to left and right. Through the gloom, Waylian could see a spiked fence stretching out in both directions. As they drew closer he saw that beyond the fence was a knoll, on which stood a dark and brooding edifice, all crumbling domes and broken spires.
‘What is this, Magistra?’ he asked as they neared the fence, which Waylian could now see was wrought in brass, each stanchion etched with tiny, indecipherable symbols.
Gelredida did not answer, but continued walking along the perimeter, never taking her eyes from the dark monument that squatted ominously at the top of the hill.
Eventually they reached a gate. It was embossed with a grotesque frieze wrought from the same brass as the fence. Rendered in eerie detail were scenes of horror: men, women and children being torn apart by ghastly, emaciated creatures, all talons and fangs and naked fury. Waylian was repulsed by the scene but strangely couldn’t drag his eyes away from it.
In the centre of the gate was a square block of metal, its surface covered with symbols similar to those on the fence stanchions. Gelredida took a deep breath then leaned in close, whispering to the block as though she were confiding in a lover.
The wave of nausea that engulfed Waylian was similar to that he had felt when looking at the daubed sigils at the scenes of the recent murders. He raised a hand to his face in time to staunch a drop of blood as it seeped from his nostril.
Before he could cry out in alarm, the gate moved. The characters depicted on the brass frieze shifted mechanically, some throwing up their arms, other widening their gaping mouths in some macabre mockery of a puppet show. All at once the figures drew back, somehow opening the brass gate and leaving the pathway clear to the imposing monument.
Waylian followed his mistress as she made her way up the hill. Though the feeling of nausea relented, it was replaced with an overwhelming sense of dread, as though they were trespassing on unholy ground and at any moment the guardians of this place might leap forth and inflict their punishment on transgressors.
By the time they reached the monument, Waylian was all but terrified out of his wits.
Gelredida stopped before an entrance to the monolith, which looked to have had a huge stone block jammed into it.
‘The Chapel of Ghouls,’ she breathed. ‘You’ve heard of it?’
‘Yes, Magistra,’ he replied.
‘Of course you have; even the lowliest street urchin has heard of it. For almost seven centuries this tomb has sat in the middle of the city, like a canker at its heart. Over the years people have made up their own tales about this place, much of it myth and rumour. Tales that go back the seven centuries since they were trapped here.’
‘The ghouls?’
‘Yes, of course the ghouls. They ran rife throughout the provinces, threatening to turn it into a land of the dead. It took the Wyvern Guard to finally lure them here with the help of the Crucible of Magisters. This was the only ground on which they could be stopped. By the time they had finally bound the creatures to this place there was almost nothing left of either order.’
‘But what does this have to do with-’
‘Someone is trying to enact a ritual. An ancient and forbidden rite that will bring these monsters back to run rampant. I didn’t want to believe it before, but now it’s time to face the truth.’
‘But why? Why would someone want to release these creatures?’
Gelredida shook her head. ‘Madness. Hubris. Insane curiosity. The motive does not matter. The fact that someone is trying is all that matters. Someone is trying to become the Maleficar Necrus.’
‘Can we stop them?’ His voice quailed, but he was not ashamed of his fear.
‘We have to, Waylian. If these creatures are unleashed on the city they will leave nothing alive.’
He could see fear in Gelredida’s eyes and he had to admit, that unnerved him more than anything else.
His mistress placed a hand on the huge stone slab that covered the entrance as though she were feeling for something. Once satisfied, she nodded. ‘The wards are still in place. They have not been weakened, yet. There is still time.’
With that she turned from the monument, and Waylian followed as she made her way back down the path and out through the gate. He barely heard its grinding and squeaking as the ancient brass portal closed behind them — all he could think was if these ghouls could strike terror in the Red Witch, they must be truly deserving of fear.
THIRTY
At night the Crown District was aflame with dancing lights. The lamplighters didn’t just ignite torches in their stanchions, but also thousands of tiny candles that sat within the intricately laid out flowerbeds and lined the mosaic pathways. The various ponds and miniature waterways that criss-crossed the district were likewise illuminated by thousands of floating candleholders, each bearing a bright flame.
Rag was amazed at the sight, imagining herself as a bird looking down on the scene, which must have rivalled the starry night sky for its majesty. It was an all too brief diversion, though, as she walked across the polished cobbles with her crew. Krupps was unusually silent, stern even, as they again headed for the merchant’s house. Steraglio was his usual dark and brooding self and Burney strolled along without a care in the world. Rag brought up the rear, wondering again what she had got herself into.
She was at the back of the group and could turn around and be gone before any of them even noticed she was missing. Would it be so bad going back to the roof of the Bull? No Guild, no crew, no pot to piss in? She knew Chirpy, Migs and Tidge would be glad to see her. Fender would take the piss for fucking up her big chance, but she guessed she could live with that.
It had all seemed so easy when they’d been talking about it, before any actual robbing, but now she was racked with doubt. What if they got caught? What if someone or, gods forbid, something was in the house?
Rag shook her head, clearing out the doubt. This was what she wanted, what she’d yearned for — a way into the Guild — and now she had it within her grasp, there was no way she was going to balls it up.
The merchant’s house was in sight now, and Rag’s stomach felt like it was trying to digest half a brick. Krupps and the others were relying on her to get them in. She’d told them she was a housebreaker. She clearly weren’t no housebreaker, but she’d best learn quick. The other day Steraglio had been ready to knife those two old bags, and Rag knew he’d have no qualms about knifing her good and proper if she couldn’t come up with the goods.
As they got near to the house, Steraglio and Burney broke away. Without a word they snuffed out every candle and lantern that lined the way, plunging the immediate area into darkness, while Krupps and Rag moved up to the spiked iron railing that surrounded the house.
‘This is it then, Sweets. You ready?’
No, I’m shitting myself.
Rag nodded.
‘Okay then, take this.’ He opened his coat and pulled out what she’d learned was an iron-crow. It was a rod of metal, almost two foot long, tapered flat and bent at the end for levering things open. In this case the upstairs window.
She took it from him, hooking it in her belt, and Krupps gave her a wink and a smile, then t
urned towards the spiked railing and grabbed hold, bracing himself against it. Rag climbed up onto his back, planted a foot on his shoulder and kicked off, jumping over the spikes at the top of the fence and landing deftly on the other side.
She wasted no time; it wouldn’t do for the rest of them to have got over the railing only to find her still at the front door wondering how in the hells she was going to get up to the first floor.
The side of the house was lined with prominent stonework and it weren’t nothing for Rag to get her fingers in between the stone, finding purchase in the crumbling mortar and climbing up the side easy as pie. She reached the first floor in no time, growing ever more confident with the ease she was moving. Stepping out to the sill of the window she allowed herself a glance down.
That was a mistake!
She wouldn’t normally mind — she was used to running on rooftops — but it was seeing the spiked railings waiting for her at the bottom that gave her the fear. It was so bad she missed her footing on the sill, a tiny slip that would have meant nothing on the ground, but here a good dozen feet up might have been fatal. She panicked, gripping the window jamb and the brickwork so as it nearly broke her fingernails off. She felt a tug at her belt, looking down in time to see the iron-crow come loose and go sailing down towards the ground. It bounced off the paving with an almighty clang.
Rag hung there for some moments. Waiting for someone to come out and see what the racket was all about. In the shadows below she could see the lads, frozen in place, all watching for sign of movement — the same as her — but it never came.
Come on, Rag, hold it together. Just open the friggin’ window and climb in.
Gingerly she reached out, feeling down to the bottom of the window, praying and praying that it would be open and she wouldn’t need the iron. She pulled, feeling the window give a little, and allowed herself a smile. Easy as cutting a dead man’s purse. Another tug and the window slid up wide enough for her to get in. Rag eased herself over, holding on to the frame and sliding her legs then the rest of her body through the gap.
