‘It won’t end well if they tell us to forget our past,’ a strange man noted over my shoulder.
I pushed him away and leaned on Sand. ‘The gods are a touchy subject. The Brothers,’ I nodded at the knights who had relaxed just slightly, ‘are doing their damned duty, and we keep praying to the gods, no matter what. Odin made us; we lost them, and now we endure tyranny and fear of the south, but northern men will not bend a knee if there is threat to our freedoms.’ Sand did not look convinced and chortled a bit.
‘Fine speech. You should be a general,’ he said with a mocking bow. I pushed him, but he mimicked me with a sonorous voice. ‘The city of Dagnar and Red Midgard will go on, and we will stand fast.’ I was about to push him over when everyone went quiet. The hanged man had apparently died, for the Harlot was walking for a body that was no longer moving, but then, to our growing anger, he began wheezing pitifully once more.
‘Odin!’ we heard him gasp.
‘Silence the blaspheming bastard!’ Black yelled, and the Harlot took a stick and slapped it across the hung man’s face, drawing blood and ripping the skin. She did it efficiently, with little emotion, but the crowd was fuming now.
Blasphemy.
We all blasphemed, indeed.
It was impossible to forget the gods. The stories spoke of them, of the wondrous magic they wielded, the miracles they performed. There were powers, the legends said, mysteries one could see, the eternal flames of Muspelheim and ancient ice rivers of Nifleheim mixing in the Filling Void and some few could tap into those powers, to call forth magic of life and death. We all knew these legends. Gods had magic, some other races as well. No humans did, but then, the belief in gods, magic and other races, the Nine Worlds even? All blasphemy. High King Balic Barm Bellic of Malingborg, claimed he was the god. And now they beat a dying man for uttering a word. A name.
It was too much.
An old, terribly wrinkled and ugly man was shuffling at the back of the crowd, his blond and gray beard foamed with ale. He yelled out. ‘Oi! Isn’t the old Magor Danegell a heretic then? His shield bears the words! And he is breaking the alliance of the North as well!’ Men and women yelled encouragements to the man from the crowd, and Black turned to look for the old man, who disappeared into the thick of the pressing flesh. I nodded. There were unsettling rumors our king, the king of the northern peninsula of rough land called the Red Midgard looked to make war on our allies in the north, especially with Falgrin and Ygrin. They said the king was plotting for power from the Rose Throne in the Red Tower of the Temple, high up on Dagnar’s top. They claimed he was covetously gazing north from the Pearl Terrace, high above the city, staring at our allies, the Fringe Kingdoms. And he did have the words “Sword of the Goddess,” in his shield, indeed. They were there on the shields of the Brothers as well, ancient words of the old house, and everyone in the crowd saw them. Magor had not changed that in the past years even if he had passed laws for the High King’s cult to be revered above any others, and the old beliefs to be put down. ‘Hypocrites!’ the old man yelled from out of sight.
‘Lies!’ the Black Brother yelled back, his surprisingly gentle voice carrying easily through the murmurings. ‘Your king is the rock of the north and is not plotting to make war on allies and brothers. This festering cesspit of gossip had better not believe the lies of those who would give us away to chaos. We are allied with the north. While we owe fealty to the south, to the High King Balic, who is our king’s sovereign, King Morag guards our land and the innocent. When has he failed to do so? A thief is hanging here today, and you blame the king for his punishment for this man’s crimes? And—’
A young, toothless man spat and screamed. ‘The High King is the king to our king, but still a tyrant! We all know that! We have heard the stories! Hammer Legions are leveling cities that defied Balic! If the High King wants us to bow to a mere man, then why cannot we just forsake him?’
A woman yelled. ‘Why do you not let us call to our gods? Why is our king taking our old ways? We have little more than our beliefs!’
It seemed everyone had forgotten the hanging man.
The White Brother scowled and pointed a finger at the Harlot, apparently telling her to hurry it up. She did not, but turned her back rebelliously and scowled at her victim.
I cared not for religion, I decided, nor for the politics.
There was a movement of the crowd, a subtle, very tiny movement, almost unthreatening, and yet, somewhat so as the people took a step closer to the Brothers and the rank of troops behind them. The White Brother whistled, the soldiers snapped to attention at a barked order of the Black, their round shields rattled, a hundred tall, tapering spear points rested on top of the shields, aimed at the crowd. A skull and sword symbol was painted on their pauldrons and shields. The red-caped, conical helmeted men looked nervous but steady. Silence reigned. The two dangerous Brothers glowered at the barely cowed crowd. The hanging man kept dying, very slowly, and I decided his plight was more important than the gods and the kings, and unconfirmed rumors.
The gods were gone, and suffering remained. The north was cruel and harsh, and men should pay for their crimes, but the display we were witnessing served no purpose. It seemed to me it was only the Lord of the Harbor, Master of Trade, the sleek, silent and helmeted man sitting on his horse, a noble of one of the ten houses, who enjoyed the gory sight of a gruesome death the Lord Captain Crec Helstrom of Red Midgard had commanded for that morning. Lord Helstrom commanded the Guards of Dagnar, the Mad Watch, and its armored chain mail members held the tall spears, still aimed at the crowd, but the Lord of the Harbor was always present to collect the possessions of the condemned for the state. There was nothing he could do with Alrik, though. He had nothing. Instead, the Lord of the Harbor was now humming softly as he gazed at the proceedings, a nasty specimen to be sure, and I cursed myself for not remembering his name.
Poor Alrik, I thought. The bastard had been seen sneaking out of a high noble house in the Third Ring. A known member of a criminal gang, they gave him no quarter. But this death was wrong.
‘Alrik didn’t pay her or the bastard on a horse anything before the show, so she is making a point,’ Sand told me morosely. ‘Many unfortunates from this crowd are likely to be up there one day, and she makes some of her upkeep from the poor souls hoping for a quick end. He should have paid her. Anything but that.’
I nodded, swiping at a bothersome, dark, and fat fly. ‘He likely had nothing. And nobody brought him anything before this show. That much loyalty his gang has for him.’
‘Probably has enemies in his guild,’ Sand grumbled. Sand was right, of course. The Harlot was putting on a show for the benefit of the Bad Man’s Haunt, the gate district of Dagnar, the capital of the Red Midgard. We were all wastrels, thieves, highwaymen, whores, and smugglers. While we had a place to fill in the never-ceasing circle of life in the king’s city, it also meant some unfortunate fools had to be hung now and then. Or disemboweled in public. The Harlot did that expertly, and it was rumored she used her kitchen knife.
I took a deep breath. Poor bastard, I thought again and hesitated and waited until the two tall knights turned away to look at Alrik and to whisper to the Lord of the Harbor, who dismissed their pleas.
Then I made up my mind, flicked a thick piece of metal in my hand, and flipped a silver coin towards the Harlot. It flew in the air, twinkling in the oppressive heat of the morning and landed at her feet. She eyed it in surprise, and then looked around. Her eyes met mine. Uncannily she had guessed I had thrown the coin, but she was the Harlot, and they said she could smell money. She saw a man with a dark beard, deep brown eyes, and short hair. She grinned at me, but I made no movement, nor did I acknowledge her quizzical look. She nodded gratefully anyway and turned away to pick up the coin. The Master of Trade had turned for the crowd to try to catch the man who wanted to hasten the fun or perhaps to demand more coin, but I did not look at him or the knights, who seemed happy to have the torture cut as short as possib
le. I sensed the Lord of the Harbor was now staring enviously at the silver in the Harlot’s hand.
‘What in Hel’s name did you do?’ Sand asked me in morbid stupefaction as he stared at the woman ambling away, and the knights were staring at the crowd. ‘That was silver. It was. Wasn’t it? The piece we earned last week? Good, well deserved silver, gone. Eh? Alrik never knew us. You will never get out of here if you waste your fortune. And neither will I, as I cannot leave you alone to starve.’
‘Yeah, I know,’ I grinned. ‘It was your coin, anyway.’
He grunted as a wounded animal would, his hands tapping his pouch. He found it open and looted, and I whistled softly as he balled his fists. ‘Look—’
I grinned at him disarmingly. ‘Relax, just wanted to test my fingers a bit. You’ll get mine,’ I told him. We had robbed a box of misplaced wine from the harbor, our favorite haunt for trouble. We sold it at some profit to a drunkard butler of some noble house at the gates, where such transactions often took place. The man had been out to find something to cover his thievery from his master. He paid a lot though not as much as the load was worth. We were good thieves but bad businessmen.
‘Don’t want yours. Want mine. Yours is yours. Mine is—’
‘Shh,’ I told him. ‘Look.’
The Harlot bowed to the sullen crowd, the tall, chain-mailed men of the Mad Watch stepped away from her, their spears rattling. She ambled for the piss sodden legs dancing in front of her. She grabbed them with no further ceremony. Then she jumped on him, pulling him down so hard, we all heard the nasty cracking sound as the neck broke.
He died. The Harlot struggled to her feet and bowed my way.
A meek servant adjusted the red tabard of the Lord of the Harbor and then the man moved forward to stare at the crowd, covered by a cordon of burly house guards and the two Brothers whose horses stepped in front of the Mad Watch. Seventh House? I thought. I could not remember where the Lord of the Harbor was from, and it bothered me. The man took off his helmet. ‘Ann thinks he looks like a thin version of you,’ Sand snickered, and I pushed him so hard, he nearly fell. We had seen him often enough in these events.
The man was a sleek noble with dark curly hair, thin face, and a cruel, grating voice as he stood up in his stirrups and addressed us over the shoulders of the two knights. ‘Let it be known, scum, that King Magor Danegell, the Beast of the North, will hang any thief and their family should the raids in the Silk Streets and Blue Doors Districts continue. Rob the poor and eat each other, vermin, but leave the better folk alone. You have no business beyond the Fourth Ring.’
‘What happened to Alrik’s family?’ someone yelled at him mockingly from the crowd.
‘He didn’t have any,’ the king’s man stated impatiently. ‘The records—’
There was a slow murmur of laughter rippling through the crowd. ‘We are all orphans, my lord! None of us are married nor carry children. Barren and forgotten we are, as a gravestone! We are but turds!’ another voice yelled, a blonde, teary woman I knew was the dead man’s wife. People cheered her bravery wildly as she wiped away tears. The Black Brother was pointing at her, speaking sibilantly to the White, who shook his head tiredly. She would live, I decided. No need to inflame the situation more.
‘Silence,’ a gorgeously armored Captain of the Watch yelled, his men were rattling their spears and pulling at glittering swords as the crowd cheered the woman. They had scarlet cloaks and black bronze shields but were citizen soldiers in truth. Their aggressive display didn’t help the situation, and none went quiet as ordered. The vocal threats rose in volume, and even the Brothers decided not to challenge the crowd and the soldiers began to withdraw from the scaffolds, slowly and with dignity, guards forming steel fisted ranks around the official and the Harlot. They would be back. The knights led them up the hill to the gates for the Fourth Ring and beyond all the way to the top, to the Tower of the Temple, the Sun Court and the barracks of the First Ring.
‘Shit snuffling, wart-ass toy soldiers,’ Sand whispered with barely controlled rage. He had a dangerous, violent streak in him, like his father did, who was a highwayman called the Bear. They often reacted very violently to setbacks, except when Ann talked sense to them. The Bear was also my mother’s boyfriend. Boyfriend, for mother was forty-five, and he was ten years younger than she was. It was strange, sometimes, but that strangeness had brought Sand and me together. We were like brothers. And his sister Ann?
She was dutiful, I thought. Beautiful, but severe.
She had a high, gentle forehead; silken, blonde locks that fell around her face in haphazard curls, and she had sweet, kissable lips. I know Sand tried to set up a romance between us, but for some reason I looked away when she passed, croaked when she spoke to me and blushed if she squeezed past me in the hallway. I was intrigued, but not … enough? Perhaps I was a coward, an idiot, and we all knew she was wise and eminent like the Elder Judges. In short, she made me feel like a log. She was family. Sand would be disappointed. He would pummel me, I would hurt him back, and we might wrestle. We fought often, and we loved each other like real brothers. I was far from a weakling myself, hard, dark, and wild.
‘Did Mir make anything from the shipwreck last week?’ Sand asked me gruffly as he was pulling me away through the dispersing crowd. He called Mother by her first name, something that was strangely irritating, though of course, he did, but it was weird anyway. I did not know our last name, which was strange as well, but I had been told not to ask. I was Maskan. That’s it.
I nodded. ‘Some bastards brought her a chest of moderately fine loot. There were satin and silken women’s clothing and nice noble’s shoes as well. Expensive red leather and silver. A box of strange trappings of rank, gold, and emeralds. Some were bloody. Freshly bloodied.’
‘Cutthroats,’ Sand agreed with mild disgust. ‘The guards should be faster when a ship gets wrecked down the coast, but then they usually get wrecked at night, anyway.’ He began to hum a grating song.
‘They were lured by the butchers and to the shoals they crash.
In the murderous lot goes, to rob the jewels and the cash.
The ships will be stripped, the goods snipped.
The guards at the gates, cannot change the victim’s fates.’
‘Shut up,’ I told him.
He looked hurt. ‘It wasn’t that bad.’
‘Yes, it was. Was it a Sand original? Let us keep it like that, unique. Possibly even a one-time performance.’
He cursed and said nothing more about that. ‘But she bought them?’
‘Yeah. Mother sold them to an Atenian trader. Made good coin,’ I told him as we were pushing our way through the irascible crowd. Alrik had been liked in the Laughing Lamb, the local tavern, known for the Trade, which meant anything illegal. He had been liked, even if he had connections to the major harbor gangs, which competed with the minor ones of the Bad Man’s Haunt. We had a cellar shop below the Lamb, where we outwardly sold crabs and oysters to noble kitchens. It was named “The Shifty Crab,” our business. Of course, I had never eaten a live oyster in my life and only seen some. I did see the barrels of empty shells that had been gathering dust in our haunt to make up for an acceptable facade. Nor had I caught even so much as a fish from the Arrow Straits. Mother paid her taxes and the inevitable extra for the criminal taxmen, who would never believe we were a near destitute provider of the crustacean wares. It was a shoddy cover for our business, but nobody cared to fight her claims as long as she paid up. So far.
‘I want my silver,’ he sulked.
‘Harbor?’ I asked him. He shrugged and nodded. He had neither talent for cutpursing nor the fingers for pocket picking, but I did. We would go there, mingle in the crowds, and pick someone to pickpocket, someone who was not paying attention. There were plenty of those around, but one had to be entirely preoccupied to qualify as a victim. That is why I nearly always picked off wealthy women’s purses. They rarely noticed anything, being enamored by the many stalls full of treas
ures of the fabulous Harbor Side Market, and the wares of the Horned Brewery, a famous den of debauchery. The noble families ventured out to sample the goods of both. They would especially enjoy the many exotic foods in the Old Outdoor Winery of the Brewery, and some would go inside to gamble with foreign sailors and merchants. And, of course, there were the girls who were pretty as our star the Lifegiver and the Three Sisters, our moons and willing to have some fun for a price. The nobles did this during the daytime. Never at night. Not if they were wise.
‘Sure, harbor,’ Sand said. ‘I’ve got my knife.’ He lifted his leather tunic. A white bone handle flickered in sight just for a second. Sand was there to make sure things settled down if any keener member of the many harbor gangs of criminals accosted us. Or if our victim noticed something. He had never killed, neither had I, but sometimes it could get interesting and dangerous when we found something worth stealing. Thievery in the harbor was risky, but not too if done right. If a rival saw you do it, it might be like feeding the fish. Throw a bit of bread in the water, see one grab it and the others try to tear it from his mouth. Sand made sure our pieces of bread mostly reached our bellies. I could fight well enough as well, but he was the fighter, I was the thief. ‘Mir wanted you to go home after the hanging, no? She will be frantic—’ Sand began, having just remembered this bit of instruction we had been given that morning.
‘Frantic with worry,’ I said and rolled my eyes. ‘She told me to stay near home to help her with some crates of stolen pewter mugs. Boring. Boring! I could do that, but I’ve got to make a living some other way than peddling shit. Can’t be supported by her forever. Don’t want to inherit the business either. Rifling through dead people’s clothing and jewelry, haggling like a southerner? No, thank you. No, thank you indeed.’
The Beast of the North Page 2
