by Max Anthony
“Yes we do, Captain,” replied the man, who had seen Honey on several occasions before. “She’s a bit of a misery guts though and she has hardly said a word. We can’t get the rest of the crew to shut up, what with them protesting their innocence and all.” The man snorted, as if the concept of innocence was an alien one to him. “In fact, none of the new lads seem to know this woman. She sits apart from them and doesn’t join in when they sing their shanties.”
“Bring her to the interview room, please,” Captain Honey instructed. “We shall speak to her alone.”
“Whatever you say, Captain,” said the man, heaving himself to his feet and shuffling away through a door. He beckoned them to follow.
Sitting on a hard, wooden seat in the interview room, Skulks clearly heard the rattling of an enormous bunch of keys, along with some cursing and the sound of doors being opened and closed. There followed a clamour as the Blackened Crumpet’s eager crew took the opportunity to implore their captor to listen to their pleas of innocence. Then, more doors were heard and more rattling sounds, before the door to the interview room was opened and a woman was shoved inside. The door was closed behind her, leaving the newcomer alone with Skulks and Honey.
“Hello,” said Captain Honey sweetly.
A few minutes later, Skulks and Honey left the dockside jail, with Skulks in awe of his companion. There had been no violence and no direct threats made, but somehow, Honey had managed to convince the prisoner to talk freely – she’d almost babbled in her haste to tell them everything she knew.
“How did you do that?” Skulks asked. He’d already seen Honey at work on the apothecary Turgos Rumps, but this had taken it to new heights.
Captain Honey shrugged modestly, “I don’t know. I’ve always been good at persuading people with indirect threats. It’s easier than punching them on the nose sometimes.”
“I think I need to do the next part alone,” he said.
Captain Honey did not like to feel powerless, so she huffed and puffed before she nodded her agreement. “Please hurry. I don’t know how long my mother will last. I tried to give her some soup last night, but I don’t think she drank any of it.”
The afternoon was wearing on and Skulks knew he had little time, so he dashed off at speed, weaving through the slow-moving crowds of Hardened’s streets. He paused only briefly at a high-end clothing store where he purchased himself what he thought was suitable attire for his destination. Having dismissed the increasingly frantic advice of the clothing store’s trained assistant that a suit would be best, Skulks had instead settled on a blue, tweed jacket paired with brown boots and tight-fitting purple trousers. Atop his head was a flat cap, which he’d observed being worn with aplomb by a couple of younger gentlemen in the Dilly Dally tavern earlier. Finishing off his ensemble was a smoking pipe. Although Skulks didn’t smoke, he secretly hoped to set away a new trend to complement Hardened’s fascination with false moustaches. Fearful for his job and almost in tears, the assistant had hustled Skulks out of the back door of the shop, interrupting the Wielder’s strutting in front of the wall mirror.
It was shortly after four when Skulks arrived at the Scurtle and Sons International Brewery, bedecked in his unfinery. Over his shoulder he had slung a cheap cloth bag containing his usual clothes, all of which contributed to his appearance of being an itinerant buffoon. He presented himself at the brewery entrance, where a lady sat to ensure no-one uninvited found their way into the brewery itself. She almost choked on her cup of hotleaf when she saw this gentleman’s garb, with her composure further ruffled when he enquired if Boozy Scurtle was present, for it was known that Mr Scurtle did not approve of this derogatory reference to his product.
“My name is Jisti,” announced the man. “Of the High Domes Jistis. I need to speak to Boozy Scurtle about a matter of importance.”
The lady in reception hurried off, because the High Domes Jistis were very big wheels in the world of ale production and shipping. Skulks didn’t have to wait long – there was just time for him to circle the brewery’s entrance lobby twice and for him to study several of the plaques upon the walls, while effecting to puff at his empty pipe. A door opened and a short, slim gentleman came through, dressed in a grey woollen suit.
“Mr Jisti,” said the man, walking over with his hand extended. “I’m Scurtle.”
“Good day, Mr Scurtle,” said Skulks, shaking the hand.
“Come to my office, so that we can discuss the reason for your visit,” said Scurtle, leading Skulks by the arm along a series of corridors.
The brewery was pleasantly warm and smelled of fermenting. Seated in Scurtle’s comfortable office, Skulks wasted no time in sallying forth with his lies and mistruths.
“Mr Scurtle, the Jistis are looking to expand into pastures new. Specifically, we would like to increase our footprint in the city of Hardened, hence the reason for my visit.”
“And how may I assist you with this?” asked Scurtle, already hoping against hope that the visit would result in an offer for his loss-making brewery. Although he’d been a forerunner in the field of mass-produced ales, his methods were dated and newer breweries selling more fashionable products were gradually driving him out of business. The Jistis were known to be filthy rich and ruthless in their pursuit of expansion.
“We, by which I mean me and my family, are considering making an offer for your brewery and your brands.”
Scurtle tried to look like this mattered to him not at all. “What makes you think I’m looking to sell?” he enquired airily. “Did you know that the average gentleman in Hardened drinks three times more ale than he does water? And that the average lady drinks two-point-five times more ale than water? One Hardened adult in two drinks at least one of our products once a week or more. Business is booming and I’m looking to increase production. I couldn’t possibly consider selling. I have people relying on me.”
Whilst Skulks had his flaws and though he knew nothing whatsoever about ale beyond how to drink it until he fell over, he could read faces and had already ascertained that Scurtle was keen. “I hear it said that you’ve been overtaken by your rivals,” said Skulks, guessing correctly. “Newer, fashionable ales are driving you to the wall and no-one wants to drink a mug of Hardened Bridge when they could drink a rich and heavy Ten Dams Pride. Or an imported bottle of Bu’Jo Pale Ale. Nevertheless, I should like to take a look across your brewery floor, to see how you run things. I would also like to speak to some of your employees.”
“Certainly, Mr Jisti, let us head to the production area right now.”
Scurtle led Skulks to a huge room, wherein worked many dozens of people. The Scurtle and Sons International Brewery was very labour-intensive, which was part of the reason it was struggling to make a profit. There were forty enormous wooden vats in the room, with walkways suspended above them. Sacks of ingredients lined the walls, while men and woman alike rolled barrels this way and that across the brewery floor. Skulks was a natural conman, but he didn’t need to make much of an effort to appear vastly interested in the workings of the brewery. The smell alone was almost making him giddy, redolent as it was with memories of a hundred thousand rambling conversations with a hundred thousand different people. Skulks didn’t like to stay in the house of an evening.
“Mrs Warbler,” called Scurtle. “Could you come over here a minute, please?”
A lady approached them, with partially-healed scratches evident across her face. “What is it Mr Scurtle?” she asked.
Ignoring her for the moment, Scurtle addressed Skulks. “This lady is one of our newest employees. She worked in a sausage factory until a few days ago. Grenny, isn’t it?” Grenny Warbler nodded, whilst Scurtle continued, “This gentleman has come for a tour of the factory and would like to speak to some of the employees. We’ve already got that lady from the Foods and Beverages Inspection Department here, haven’t we?”
Skulks was very interested to hear this news. “I hope you’re not under investigation?” he asked.<
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“No, no, just a standard inspection visit,” said Scurtle.
“I would like to meet this lady,” said Skulks. “And would be interested to hear her findings.”
“We have nothing to hide,” replied Scurtle. “Grenny, can you tell us where this lady is to be found?”
Grenny Warbler pointed across the brewery floor to a young-looking woman with dark hair tied back. This lady was dressed in a crumpled and ill-fitting light-grey suit of the type favoured by minor or underpaid officials. She was taller than average and had something of the exotic about her. She was accompanied by another employee of the brewery and was currently looking up at the brewing vats with curiosity. Skulks didn’t recognize this woman, but had a fairly good idea of who she might be.
“I am sure everything is in order, Mr Scurtle,” advised Skulks, “but I always find it best to introduce myself to officials of importance when I get the opportunity. To show a friendly face, so to speak.”
“Let us go and talk to her now,” replied Scurtle, leading them towards the dark-haired woman. As they approached, the woman looked up and her eyes narrowed in what Skulks took to be suspicion.
“My dear Mrs Groves,” said Scurtle to her. “Might I introduce Mr Jisti from High Domes. I’m sure you’ve heard of him, given your line of work.”
The lady introduced as Mrs Groves smiled thinly at Skulks. “Pleased to meet you,” she said, before cutting to the chase. “I am very busy, so if you could excuse me to continue my work.” Her accent was most definitely not local to Hardened.
With his skin thicker than an elephant’s footpad, Skulks ignored this casual dismissal. Instead, he engaged the introduced Mrs Groves in a long and tedious discussion about the weather in Hardened, his appreciation of salted pork, rounding it all off with a rambling diatribe against moustaches. Over the course of the conversation, Mrs Groves’ appearance subsided from self-confidence into desperation as the boor in front of her showed no sign of relenting. Eventually, Mr Scurtle stepped in, not wanting to miss out on the chance to sell his loss-making brewery because Mr Jisti liked a gossip. Skulks-Jisti managed one last faux pas by standing upon Mrs Groves’ foot as he was dragged away.
“Don’t forget to look me up next time you’re in High Domes!” Skulks called over his shoulder as he was ushered towards the other end of the brewery, as far from Mrs Groves as possible. Turning his attention back to the brewery owner, Skulks stated what pleasant company the young Mrs Groves had turned out to be, entirely counter to the usual miserable curmudgeons to be found in the Foods and Beverages Inspection Department. At this point, Mr Scurtle had noticed that he was no longer escorting Mr Jisti, rather it appeared to be Mr Jisti doing the escorting and their pace had picked up considerably as they headed away from Mrs Groves and back towards the entrance lobby. Shortly, Mr Jisti announced himself satisfied with his visit to the Scurtle International Brewery and assured Mr Scurtle that he would be in touch and soon.
The business handshake between Mr Scurtle and Mr Jisti was cut short by a sound which was somewhere between a scream and a screech, leading Skulks to the conclusion that it was time to scarper. Additional to the impetus from this scream was Skulks’ knowledge that his roving hands had, almost of their own volition, stolen Mr Scurtle’s expensive spectacles and he wished to escape before their absence was noted.
Humming tunelessly as if he were on a carefree jaunt through a forest, Skulks left the brewery with his finely-made boots clacking across the floor and his cloth bag over his shoulder. The brewery opened directly onto a busy street and although it was becoming dark, the streets were crowded with people heading about their business. Skulks hustled his way through the throng, using his elbows to clear a path, which elicited a considerable number of tuts and mutters at his rudeness. A group of burly gentlemen who would have had more than a thing or two to say took pity on Skulks when they saw his clothing, thinking that he was a simpleton or an eccentric.
Skulks checked his spoils. As well as Mr Scurtle’s spectacles, Skulks had also managed to filch several items from the clothing of the so-called Mrs Groves. He’d cleaned her out of the three vials she was carrying, one of which was identical to the vial responsible for all of this palaver in the first place. There were two other vials, contents unknown, but Skulks left them firmly stoppered. On top of the three vials, Skulks found he had stolen a small bag of powder, two earrings and when he’d trodden upon Mrs Groves’ foot, he’d extracted a gold-and-diamond stud with which she had pierced her navel. He was quite pleased with himself, confident that he’d foiled whatever nefarious plans Zera Graves was scheming. As he’d correctly assumed, Mrs Groves was in fact Zera Graves.
“Now all I have to do is hide these potions and arrest this evil agent of a foreign power,” he said to himself as he ordered a pie from a street-side vendor.
Before Skulks had taken three bites of his Steak Delicious, he became aware of a disturbance in the crowded street. There were shouts and screams to accompany this disturbance. Craning his neck, Skulks looked back and noted that something was surging through the crowd, making good progress towards the pie vendor at which he stood.
“Perhaps I shall be saved the effort of finding Zera Graves for a second time. I doubt that whatever is coming through the crowd at such a pace is doing so purely in order to purchase a pie.” Thus turned Skulks’ mental cogs, blissfully overlooking the fact that just moments before, he himself had made similar urgent progress in order to purchase a pie.
Skulks turned out to be correct in his assumption. It was not a hungry factory worker which burst free from the crowd in front of the pie vendor, but a spider-Graves. Her human legs were entirely gone, replaced by the familiar black and hairy spider legs, though these ones were thick and with a very wide span. Her arms were also gone, replaced by black and hairy double-jointed chitinous arms which ended in wickedly-sharp serrated blades. At least Skulks assumed they were wickedly-sharp, because he had no intention of letting her shave his legs with them in order to test out his hypothesis. Not that Skulks habitually shaved his legs, of course, being content with their manly hairiness.
The spider-Graves still wore the tattered remains of her rumpled ten Sliver suit and her head looked out angrily from the top of her shirt. She leaned over Skulks and spoke, her voice now more sibilant than it had been at the brewery.
“Give it here!” she demanded.
“Mrs Groves,” replied Skulks haughtily, “I have paid for this pie and I am most assuredly not going to give it to you. If you are so hungry, I suggest you speak to your employers about a pay rise!”
“I won’t ask again,” said spider-Graves, not distracted by Skulks’ pie tomfoolery.
“Just give her the pie if she’s so desperate for it,” offered a lady from the passing crowd, speaking as if it formed part of her daily routine to assist in confrontations between ridiculously-dressed men and seven-feet tall human spiders. “My late husband, Plumpus rest his soul, always said that you should give ground on the little things and fight your corner when it comes to the big things.”
“Your late husband must have been a very dear man,” said Skulks, smoothly hurling the half-eaten pie into the face of the spider-Graves. A bladed arm descended at speed, cleaving the air where Skulks had stood but a moment before. Having missed its primary target, the arm smashed into the pie vendor’s stall, breaking it in two and scattering Trotter Tureens and Kidney Yum-Yums onto the pavement.
“Damn and blast it, woman!” exclaimed the pie vendor, expelling a forthright outburst in his anger. “That’s my livelihood you’ve just ruined there!”
Oblivious to these complaints, the spider-Graves continued to swipe at Skulks as he ducked and rolled. He fumbled to get a dagger-sword free from one of his hidden sheaths, a task made harder by the bag of clothing he had in one hand. His tweed jacket was cut close to his frame and made it trickier to pull the blade free. After some grunting, Skulks got a dagger-sword out, but tore a pocket off his jacket in the process. Not wi
shing to spend his evening doing needlework, Skulks cursed his clumsiness even while he fended off another attack from spider-Graves. As he fought, it came to his attention that there was something of a bother in the street around the brewery entrance. Guessing it to be more trouble, Skulks focused his efforts on enacting the arrest of the spider-Graves by means of overwhelming force.
The trouble was, spider-Graves was not of a mind to come along without fuss and she skittered and scuttled this way and that, forcing the crowds of people aside. Many had now stopped to watch, for although the people of Hardened were an accepting lot, they didn’t usually see a drama to match this one currently unfolding on Brewery Lane. Spider-Graves was also tough, in the same way that the spider-limbs were tough and although Skulks’ dagger-swords were viciously sharp, they were not at their best against unliving flesh. Nevertheless, after a few seconds of combat, Skulks had managed to slice away two leg-tips and had half-severed one of the spider-Graves’ arms, which hung limp and bloodless against her side.
“You won’t stop us,” she hissed in anger, confusing Skulks with her use of the plural.
“He might not stop you, but we will!” shouted the pie vendor, who had fastened himself to one of spider-Graves’ eight legs. He was joined by two other men from the crowd, who attached themselves to two other legs with scant consideration for their own safety. As Skulks kept her remaining arm occupied with his attacks and feints, the three men tugged in opposite directions. One of these worthy gentlemen was a bargeman by his stocky appearance and his efforts soon brought forth wrenching and cracking sounds from the leg at which he was straining. He hurled himself back and gave one mighty final twist, which pulled the leg free from its socket.
As spider-Graves turned to cut at the bargeman with her single working arm, Skulks took the opportunity to leap upwards and drove his forehead into the face of Graves, whilst his dagger-sword cut through the flesh where her arm joined her shoulder.
