by Death
‘Now then … ‘ the watchman began.
He didn’t finish. As he held up his lantern the flickering light revealed the nearest of the things.
Whatever it was, it was no child.
‘Oh, Sigmar,’ the watchman whimpered, his mouth suddenly dry. He took a step back and felt the stone of the bin behind him. ‘Oh, Sigmar.’
The creature stepped cautiously towards him. Beneath the dark rags of its cloak it moved with a perfect, nimble balance. But it wasn’t the thing’s wiry grace that made the watchman lose control of his bladder. It wasn’t even the scaly lash of its tail. It was the sharp-edged horror of the face which peeked out from beneath its hood.
It had the wrinkled snout and the twin chiselled teeth of a rat, although a rat grown obscenely large. Its eyes flamed yellow in the lamplight. They burned with a horrible, malign intelligence.
As the watchman started to sob, the thing peeled back its thin lips and hissed a question.
‘Alone?’ it squeaked, its features contorted with the effort of using Reikspiel.
The watchman moaned wordlessly and, with a quick twitch of its snout, the thing drew closer to him.
‘Alone?’ it repeated, and a confused tangle of sharp steel angles appeared in its paw. The weapon glistened with yellow slime, and for some reason the watchman thought about the rotten corn in the bins around him.
‘No,’ he said, seized by a sudden, terror-induced inspiration. ‘Not alone. There!’
He pointed to the back wall of the silo and, as every razor-toothed head turned to follow his finger the watchman hurled his lantern at their leader and bolted for the door.
Behind him there was a squeak of rage and a sudden blossom of flame as the lamp smashed on stone. The flare of light only lasted for a second, but it was enough to see the gap beneath the door.
As he sprinted towards it he felt half a dozen thuds on his back and legs. None of them brought more than a pinprick of pain, and in his panic the watchman barely even felt that. He even managed a couple more steps before the poison did its work.
It was a quick death. Almost instantaneous. His lungs collapsed at the same time that his muscles melted, and before he could even feel surprise his heart had stopped. The watchman fell to the ground.
After contemptuously examining their victim, his murderers returned to their work.
‘What!’ Gristwald barked with horror. His plump cheeks reddened and he rocked back as though he had been struck. Fortunately there was a flagon of ale on the table before him. He grabbed it and took a swig to soothe his nerves.
Florin waited until the man had composed himself before repeating his offer.
‘Six coppers.’ He smiled a big white smile, the happiest man in the inn. ‘Six coppers per bushel.’
The merchant looked as though he might be about to cry. But it wasn’t a handkerchief he pulled from within his waistcoat, it was a tin of snuff.
‘Care for some?’ he asked, offering the box to Florin, who shook his head. ‘It keeps the ague away. That’s how I keep so healthy.’
‘Then I don’t mind if I do,’ said Lorenzo, reaching over to take a pinch. The merchant resisted the urge to snatch the box away. If Florin was well dressed, well shaved and as clean as any man had a right to be, Lorenzo was more what Gristwald had always imagined Bretonnians to be.
The merchant watched as the old man dropped the snuff into his already smouldering pipe, and then drew deeply to ignite it.
‘An aid to my health,’ he coughed happily, ‘is exactly what I need in this horrible place. What with the food and the weather, I don’t know how anybody can survive at all in your Empire. The women must make up for it, eh?’
He winked obscenely at the merchant, who hurriedly turned back to Florin. Apart from that ridiculous ponytail the younger man, at least, seemed civilised.
For a Bretonnian, anyway.
‘The thing is,’ he said, ‘your friend is right. This is the Empire. Now, I’m not saying that you couldn’t get six coppers a bushel in Tilea, or Araby. Maybe you would. But up here it’s a copper a bushel, and that’s for the top quality stuff. I mean, you brought your cargo by sea. Who knows what sea vapours may have gotten into it?’
‘It’s corn,’ Florin reminded him, ‘not perfume. Good, clean corn.’
Lorenzo interrupted them by coughing up a lump of phlegm. He spat it out and nodded approvingly.
‘Good stuff this,’ he said, inspecting the smouldering bowl of his pipe. ‘Can you eat it?’
‘Not really,’ Gristwald said, resisting the temptation to see what would happen if the Bretonnian did.
‘Shame,’ Lorenzo said. ‘What with your crops rotting back into the ground this year, this stuff would have been quite valuable if you could have eaten it.’
Gristwald shrugged and arranged his pinched features into a smile which was as carefree as Florin’s.
‘Luckily, we have enough in the stores. One of the Provost Marshal’s edicts. I don’t care what everybody says,’ he glanced nervously around and leaned forward conspiratorially, ‘I don’t see why he shouldn’t be running the city. People complain because he’s a merchant, but who needs some mad old aristocrat, starting wars and raising taxes? It’s us merchants who know how things work.’
‘We certainly do,’ Florin nodded sagely. ‘Things like supply and demand.’
‘Which is why it’s interesting that you mention the grain stores,’ Lorenzo added.
‘Why?’ Gristwald asked at length.
‘We know about them,’ Florin told him, and tapped the side of his nose.
For a moment the shock was enough to rob Gristwald of his art, and panic showed on his plump features. By the time he had regained control of his face it was too late. Florin knew that the rumour which had brought them all the way from Bordeleaux had been true. As winter approached, Vistein had neither harvest nor stores. Hunger already stalked the streets, and starvation was already closing in.
It was the perfect sellers’ market.
‘It’s up to you,’ Florin decided with a smooth insouciance. ‘We can sit here and talk about the hows and the whys and the wheres of Vistein’s grain stores.’
‘Especially of the wheres,’ Lorenzo interjected.
‘Or we can shake hands, give you a whole ship full of corn, and leave you to make what profit you can on it. No offence, but the weather here doesn’t agree with me.’
‘Nor does the food,’ Lorenzo added with a heartfelt sincerity. Everything that was said about the Empire’s cooking was true. Last night somebody had even tried to sell him a pie with meat in it. It was all wrong.
‘Do we have a deal?’ Florin offered his hand.
‘Six coppers?’ Gristwald asked.
‘Six coppers.’
The merchant thought about how much the grain would be worth when everybody knew that Vistein’s silos were as barren as its fields, then spat on his hand and gripped Florin’s.
‘Done,’ he said, and the deal was closed.
It took less than an hour to finish their transaction. The three men arrived at the harbour within fifteen minutes of shaking hands and, abandoning his facade of bonhomie, the merchant rounded up half a dozen carters. While Lorenzo counted, examined and caressed the coins they had received in payment, Florin watched the merchant’s men empty the Katerina’s hold.
It was a small vessel, one of Bordeleaux’s typical little fat-bottomed herring boats, but her belly had been full, and the carters were soon streaming with sweat beneath the sacks of corn they were unloading.
‘A fine vessel,’ Gristwald told Florin, his beady eyes never leaving the precious cargo that his men were stacking onto their carts. ‘Beautiful lines. Have you had her long?’
‘Not long,’ Florin said. He too was intently watching the merchant’s men.
‘Now that you’re in Vistein, you should go to the Pit,’ Gristwald said, trying to keep the conversation going.
‘The Pit?’ Florin asked. He knew why the merchant
was trying to distract him. He had known it the moment they had shaken hands. Although exorbitant, the price he had demanded for his cargo had been far too low.
‘Yes, the
You! Watch what you’re doing, you damned fool! You’ll tear the sack!
Yes, the Pit. The best fighting pit south of Kislev, they say.’
‘I’ll visit it,’ Florin nodded.
‘Aha! I knew you were a sportsman,’ Gristwald smiled approvingly, then rubbed his hands greedily together as the last of the corn was loaded onto the carts. ‘Now you must excuse me. I want to get this under cover in case it rains. And if you can get some more, then maybe we can do business again?’
‘I’ll let you know,’ Florin said.
Florin pursed his lips as he watched Gristwald bully his porters into something approaching a run. Within minutes they had disappeared through the gate that cut through the high stone walls which surrounded Vistein’s harbour.
‘That settles it,’ Florin said, going over to lean against the Katerina’s rail next to Lorenzo. ‘We’ll have to get back home, fill her up again, and make another run before winter closes in. Did you see how eager he was to pay six per bushel? Next time we’ll get a dozen per bushel. A score!’
‘As you say,’ Lorenzo shrugged.
‘And don’t you worry,’ Florin clasped his old friend by one bony shoulder. ‘We’ll definitely be able to do it before the storms close in.’
Lorenzo grunted. He was watching a squabble of seagulls fighting over what looked like a fish head on the quayside. The birds didn’t see the pack of children until it was too late. There was a sudden rush, and the slowest of the gulls were caught in grubby hands. There was a brief confusion of squawks and snapping bones and then the urchins were gone, racing off before anybody could steal their bounty. Lorenzo, reminded of the carefree days of his own youth, smiled.
‘I know what you’re going to say,’ Florin told him, ‘but what you’re forgetting is that the quickening winds will lend us speed. It’s the very fact that the storms are approaching that means we’ll be able to make it before the season ends.’
Lorenzo turned, spat over the railing to the water below, and grinned with all three of his teeth.
‘What shall we do first? Inn or brothel?’
Florin frowned suspiciously.
‘Why aren’t you arguing?’
‘Why should I argue?’
‘Because it’s dangerous. Well, not compared to the profit we can make, but
’ Florin trailed off. ‘You think that Katerina will talk me out of it, don’t you?’
‘Not at all,’ Lorenzo lied happily. ‘Anyway, let’s go. I’m hungry, even for the nightsoil they call food in this Ladyless place.’
‘She won’t, you know,’ Florin told him as he led off.
‘What?’
‘Katerina,’ Florin said more sharply. ‘She won’t talk me out of it.’
‘Remember what we were going to call the ship when we bought it?’ Lorenzo, who was halfway down the gangplank, turned to ask.
‘The Esmerelda. But
’
‘And remember what we bought her for in the first place?’ Lorenzo looked around the harbour to find an inn.
‘Yes, yes, yes. It was to find that temple in Araby. Although
’
‘And what are we doing instead?’ Lorenzo pressed on remorselessly. ‘And where are we doing it?’
The two men looked at each other. Then, at the same time, they both started to laugh.
‘Ah, to the hells with it,’ Florin cried, slapping Lorenzo on his shoulder, ‘so I haven’t got the hang of marriage yet. Forget the inn. Let’s go find this fighting pit Gristwald was talking about.’
If Vistein had possessed a heart it would have been the fighting pit. The pit itself was a natural oubliette, a steep-sided hole which geology had carved into rock upon which the town was built. Its sheer sides had been polished to an unforgiving smoothness and, as centuries of victims had discovered, once you were in it, you were trapped.
Above the stone, three tiers of balconies rose up towards the timbers of the roof. The carpentry was dwarfish, and the ancient oak beams were as solid as stone. They had to be. Each tier crowded slightly closer in than the one below, allowing the audience a clear view down into the bloodshed and violence below.
Florin and Lorenzo, heavy with copper, had taken a box on the bottom tier. It was well appointed. The chairs were padded, the railing was polished, and the table was packed with all the culinary delights of the Empire. Best of all, the box was so close to the fighting pit that they could smell the odour of the rotting blood that stained the sand below.
‘Personally,’ Lorenzo said as he rummaged around through the food on the table, ‘I could never see the point of these places.’ He selected a string of fat sausages. He sniffed them, grimaced, and put them absentmindedly into his satchel.
‘How can you say that?’ Florin asked. He had been drinking the black, yeasty beer that had been provided. He had needed to drink a lot to make up for the filthy taste of the stuff. ‘Fighting pits are the epitome of civilisation.’
Lorenzo snorted, and critically examined a shapeless brown thing. He might have called it a pudding if it hadn’t been filled with cooked offal.
‘These northerners know as much about civilisation as a drunken ogre,’ he decided. ‘I mean, look at this food. Not a single frog’s leg in sight. Not even any snails!’
Florin shrugged magnanimously.
‘It’s the Empire. Of course they aren’t as civilised as us. Anyway, we’re not here for the food. We’re here for the sport.’
Lorenzo barked with humourless laughter.
‘Sport. Waste of time, more like. If you want to see things being killed, you can go and watch a rat-catcher for free.’
‘It’s not the killing,’ Florin said. ‘It’s the display of heroism. Of courage.’
Lorenzo rolled his eyes as Florin used his teeth to uncork another bottle and pointed excitedly into the ring.
‘Look. Things are starting to liven up.’
As the audience crowded eagerly around the railings, a ladder was lowered into the pit and a plump man, dignified despite the oversized powdered wig he was wearing, clambered down onto the sand. He strode to the middle of the pit, beaming up at the crowd as they shouted obscene welcomes.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he cried. There was a chorus of catcalls, the voices sharp with the anticipation of bloodshed. The pit master lifted his hands to call for quiet. ‘Ladies and gentlemen and his Lordship the Provost Marshal.’
This time there was nothing good-natured about the mob’s derision. Their collective voice was deafening. It echoed around the claustrophobic drum of the building, the hatred in it obvious.
‘Popular fellow, this Provost Marshal,’ Lorenzo said.
‘He certainly has a reputation,’ Florin smirked, and followed the direction of the crowd’s obscene gestures. For the first time he noticed the figure who sat in a gilded box to his left.
It was difficult to see much of him amongst the shadows and torchlight, but Florin wasn’t looking at him anyway. He was looking at the girl beside him. He was looking at the way that her hair shone like liquid gold, and the way that she moved, as slow and easy as pouring honey, and the way that the torchlight caressed her skin, so white and so smooth.
There weren’t many blondes like that in Bretonnia, he thought.
There weren’t many blondes like that anywhere.
‘Sportsmen,’ the pit master continued, looking nervously towards the Provost Marshal as the jeering died down. ‘We are gathered here tonight in the beating heart of our fair city to witness once more the greatest of virtues. Courage. Cunning. Daring. The virtues that make our Empire great, and our city greater.’
The cries of derision gradually melted away as the pit master hurried on.
‘The first match we have tonight,’ he bellowed, ‘involves one of the foulest beings to walk this e
arth. A creature that is green-skinned and sharp-toothed. A thing which lives for violence, and whose character is blighted by cruelty and blood lust. Yes,’ the man boomed, ‘the true sportsmen amongst you know that I am talking of the foul, the hideous, the orc.’
The boos echoed so long and so loud that Florin could feel the timber reverberating beneath him. The pit master was gesturing towards one of the iron-barred caves that had been cut into the side of the pit. Something moved in the darkness within.
‘And standing against the foul beast is one of our own. A hero of the regiments and of the wars in the North. A man whose courage is a match for any such creature. I give you Heinz van Lundtdorf!’
The boos turned to rapturous applause as van Lundtdorf was lowered from above into the arena. His polished breastplate was alive with reflected torchlight, and his crimson cape flared elegantly as he descended, waving to his fans as he was lowered past them.
‘What a show off,’ Florin said.
Lorenzo grunted. He watched the ensuing slaughter without any of Florin’s animated feeling. Even before the orc had shambled out of the cage, he had known it was doomed. If the local champion ever lost to anything, it would never be to anything at the top of the bill. The sharps who ran the gambling in these places knew better than to allow that.
Five minutes of theatrics later, and the green corpse of the broken creature was hauled away while the gladiator milked the applause. Florin cursed.
‘Anybody could have killed that damn thing,’ he said, taking the pie Lorenzo handed him and hurling it into the pit. ‘It’s ridiculous. It may be the Empire, but at least some of the people here deserve a bit of style. A bit of honour.’
His expression softened as he turned to look at the woman who sat in the Provost Marshal’s gilded box. She appeared to be feeding him strawberries, but when she caught Florin’s eye she winked, a flash of dark eyelashes over impossibly blue eyes.
‘Shallya save us,’ Lorenzo muttered, but his oath was lost beneath the boom of the pit master’s voice.
The gladiator van Lundtdorf ascended back up so as to sit out the next fight. It was between a pack of warhounds and a gaggle of goblins that had been armed with spears. This time Florin, who had a love of the big dogs, cheered with the crowd when the dogs won.
