As Marius watched, a prisoner was bundled through the door to the main hall. Two hooded stewards waited inside. They took possession of him and rushed him down to a waiting cell. The prisoner made one attempt to protest, but it fell into the void: the stewards simply swung him sideways as they ran, crashing his head against the wall and pushing him inside the cell door before Marius was even sure what had happened. By the time he had blinked they had taken up position again and were already grabbing the next entrant. Marius scurried over to the cell door. Another pair of hooded figures had the prisoner by the arms, whilst a third watched. They pulled his arms outwards, and the gaolers bent him backwards so that the only balance he had came from the two men at his side. Marius turned to his companions.
“What the hell…?”
The waiting steward grabbed the prisoner’s hair and tilted his head backwards in one swift movement. Then, just as swiftly, they cut his throat.
He was turned so that the jet of blood struck the far wall. Marius leaped forward, but his own gaolers held him fast in unconscious imitation of those inside the cell. When he struggled they simply lifted him from the ground and stepped in opposite directions until his leverage disappeared, and all he could do was watch as the flow of blood slowed, and stopped, and it was clear the prisoner was dead. Only then did they let him go. He sagged, and watched the gaolers haul their victim upright and slap him until his eyes opened. Then he was bundled out of the cell, bundled down the corridor past Marius and his captors, and shoved out into the moonlit yard to stand with all the others who had been harvested before him.
Marius slumped against the wall and watched as a dozen prisoners were deposited in the yard in just over three minutes. Every time he thought he had the new rules of death worked out, somebody came out of the fog of misunderstanding to deliver a mighty slap to his equilibrium. It was Scorbus’ fault. It had to be. Death simply didn’t work anymore. Not when a man could pour out his blood onto a stone floor and then simply get up and walk away. The natural order had not simply been overturned. It had been bent over a barrel and sodomised. Scorbus had to be responsible. The King made the rules. The King always made the rules. Somewhere, deep inside him, a voice tried to remind Marius that he had been the King, even if it was only for a few minutes. He put mental hands around the voice’s throat, and choked it into silence.
“I can see,” he managed to say to his guardians, “why it wasn’t necessary for me to be processed.”
“Our lady requires it.”
“But this is…” He waved a hand at all of the goings-on. “This is slaughter. This is… It’s barbarism.”
“It is necessary.”
“Necessary? Necessary for what?”
And then it struck him. He turned slowly, watching the milling, confused crowd in the yard. It was at least thirty feet to a side, running the length of the entire building and taking up a full plot next to it. High stone walls leaned slightly outwards to discourage climbing, and the expanse was hidden from view of the surrounding buildings by a thin roof of fabric stretched across retractable poles. They were extended now, almost all the way across the space, leaving only a square in the middle no more than two feet across, through which Marius could see the thin shaft of night he had spied from the doorway. He took a few steps outside, the red-robed figures silent by his side, and glanced around. Directly behind him, above the door, a short balcony jutted out from the wall. More than three hundred dead men and women stood half-naked, the fresh cuts across their throats like some sort of macabre uniform, marking them out forever as the possessions of the house that had created them. Their blood-stained chests and undershirts stood in obscene parody of the red and black shirts of the Fellipani stewards who continued to push stunned corpses out into the yard.
Marius had seen this sort of thing before. Crowds of confused, silent civilians, stumbling about marshalling yards with no idea where they were or how they had got there, but knowing with dreadful certainty that the life they had been ripped from was one they would never see again. Waiting to be told why. Waiting to be told anything.
Press-ganged sailors. Dragooned soldiers. Blackbirded slaves. Conscripts.
“An army,” he whispered. “A fucking army.”
“Our Lady demands it,” Loncelno, or P’Tesh, replied, and pushed him through the door. “Now she is your Lady too.”
Marius stumbled forward. By the time he had turned to protest, the stewards were gone. Marius frowned. Back to wandering the streets, no doubt, waiting to snag more unsuspecting volunteers for the throng behind Marius. Besides, what was he going to protest about? This was exactly where he wanted to be, wasn’t it? At the heart of the mystery, with ample opportunity to explore his surroundings without interruption, and maximum potential for discord and chaos. He sidled away from the door, and slid along the wall until he came to the corner, where he could step into the deepest shadows and view as much of the courtyard as possible. The knife slid easily from his sleeve. He tied it to his waist, high enough that the sheath sat inside his trouser leg and the hilt was hidden by the folds of his jerkin. He straightened up and, for the first time, began to examine his surroundings.
Not that there was a great deal to see. Marius’ initial observations had proven accurate, but now that he was at a different angle he could see the great wooden doors leading out to the street. They were painted black and, as far as he could tell, were held shut only by a thin rope looped between the handles, as if whoever had been put in charge of securing them had knocked off early on a Friday afternoon in the hope that everybody would take their inaccessibility on trust. What was more, it seemed to work. The inmates shuffled past them without a glance, and Marius gaped in astonishment as he watched corpse after corpse not stop to test them. He was about to sidle over and do just that when something more important caught his attention.
Not all of the dead were as aimless as he had supposed. Now that he was becoming accustomed to the pattern of movement in the yard he could see small knots of men standing stationary in the corners. Conversations were taking place. He fixed his gaze upon the nearest group. They stood with an air of purpose, their bodies angled to shield something, or someone, from general view. Marius shifted position until he was no more than two feet away, close enough to overhear the murmured exchanges taking place.
“…advantages, in the long run,” a familiar voice was saying. “There’s no fatigue, and you never need to sleep. And hunger. Do you know what it’s like to never be hungry?”
There was a murmur of assent. Marius listened to the figure in the centre of the group spruiking the advantages of being dead for perhaps another minute, then leaned past the protective circle of bodies, grabbed the talker’s ear, and pulled him sharply out of the group.
“Ow! What the hell… Oh. Hi!”
“What the hell,” Marius shook the ear, “are you doing here?”
The other members of the group turned towards Marius. He shook his victim again.
“He’s with me,” Gerd said, holding his hands up to placate them. The men looked at Marius again, then drifted off, glancing at him over their shoulders as they went. Marius stared them down, then went back to his assaulting his young friend.
“Let me ask you again…”
“Let go.” Gerd wriggled free. “I’ve been here all day,” he said, looking Marius up and down. “Nice boots.”
“Thank you. And why have you been here all day?”
“We saw you getting thumped up and dragged inside the walls, and I thought you might need some help. So I went scouting around the city walls to see if there was some sort of hidden entrance or a grave or something I could go down and come back up inside the city, so I could find you and give you some assistance.”
“I see. And…”
Gerd looked sheepish. “I didn’t get very far.”
“What an amazing and unsuspected surprise.”
“Well it’s not like you were an overwhelming success.”
Marius g
azed at his young friend for long moments. He couldn’t decide whether a witty retort or a simple clip upside the head would get his point across better. Finally, he settled for a simple question.
“What about Granny?”
This time Gerd really did look embarrassed. “She said she wasn’t an idiot, and that she’d catch up with us once we’d managed to dig ourselves out of whatever stupid holes we got ourselves into.”
“She’s smarter than she looks.”
“She always has been.” Gerd straightened up, rubbing his ear. “That’s what makes her so frightening.”
As they spoke, two more newly dead came through the door. Blood-soaked stewards stood inside the courtyard for a moment, then stepped back and swung the door shut, letting it fall into place with an echoing thud. The sound of bolts being rammed home scraped across the air. Gerd nudged Marius and pointed to the balcony.
“Here we go.”
“What?”
“Watch.”
There was a burst of flickering light from the rear of the balcony as a door opened and shut. A figure appeared, dark against the stone. A hooded steward lit two braziers at either side of the railing, and once they were alight, removed a robe from the figure. She stepped forward to stand between the two cones of flames.
Marius had no heartbeat, which left him at a loss to explain why so much blood suddenly rushed towards his trousers.
“Holy snapping duck shit.”
“Impressive, isn’t she?”
“Impressive” wasn’t the first thought that occurred to Marius. “Yes, please,” was probably closer to the mark, although Marius couldn’t concentrate on forming words right at that minute. The woman under the torchlight was like every naughty schoolboy fantasy he’d ever had, made flesh. She was stunningly tall, with legs that went all the way up and forgot to stop. Her narrow waist had somehow been encased in a corset whales must have fought for the honour of dying to be part of, and her dress and bustier were so black they seemed to swallow the night, providing blinding contrast to the white, white flesh above. Her long arms disappeared into elbow-high gloves of equal black, and everything tapered up to a swan-like neck that was topped by a pointed, elfin face and hair pulled back tight against her skull. Dark eyebrows stood out above large, cruelly smiling eyes, and the red of her lips was like a thick slash of blood on ceramic, holding back all the nasty truths every truly dirty little boy like Marius longed to hear. Marius could have described the whole effect as severe. He could have also described it as every secret thought he’d had between the ages of thirteen and twenty. He didn’t know whether he wanted to have sex with her or beg her forgiveness. Both, probably. Simultaneously.
Mistress Fellipan. Head of the House of Fellipan. Recently anointed Deputy Mayor of Mish, owner of all the whores and bordellos and courtesans and knocking shops and – especially – houses of discipline in town. And didn’t she just know it. Marius understood with absolute certainty that he could never, in a lifetime of honesty, afford a woman like her. Nobody could. And every man who ever met her would try. He wished for a moment he had breath in his body, just so he could hold it.
“Yes,” he finally managed. “Impressive.”
“She’s come out every three hours,” Gerd whispered. “Wait until you see what comes next.”
“How do you know?”
Gerd shrugged. “I learned a few things from you about hiding, you know.”
“Hmm.”
“Just watch.”
Mistress Fellipan had removed a riding crop from somewhere. Marius spent precious seconds trying to work out from where, and several more cursing himself for having missed it. Now she brought it down hard on the railing, three times in quick succession. The few dead below her who had not yet noticed her entrance swung round towards the sound. She waited until she had their full attention, then placed her hands on the railing, leaning forward to view her captives. Marius gulped.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” she announced. “Welcome to your new life. You have–”
“Wait a minute! Wait a minute!” A figure pushed its way through the crowd to stand before the balcony. “Who the fuck are you, and what the fuck is your fucking game?” One of the men from Gerd’s little group. Marius glared at his young friend.
“I didn’t tell him to,” Gerd muttered. “No way would I tell him to.”
The crowd slowly edged backwards until a space of perhaps three feet surrounded the man. The dead aren’t stupid. They recognise suicide when they see it. Mistress Fellipan didn’t even twitch, or look at the interloper. She didn’t move at all. Instead, the two massive stewards whose job it had been to rush the prisoners from the foyer of the building into the slaughtering cells materialised from the dark as if by magic, and grabbed the protestor by throat and groin. Within seconds he was pinned to the ground, the strongmen holding his wrists and ankles as far apart as possible. Still, neither Mistress Fellipan or the crowd stirred. She stared over their heads at the rear wall, as if far more interested in the interplay of brick and torchlight than in anything below.
The door to the building opened, and a third steward entered the yard. In his arms he carried a post maul of the type used by carnival roustabouts to drive stakes deep into the ground. The thick wooden head was dark with something crusted and dried. He stepped up to the struggling prisoner. Then, without a pause, he swung the maul overhead and brought it down onto the man’s right knee.
The prisoner screamed. He continued to scream as the hammer-wielder moved slowly around his body, bringing the maul down again, and again, first on his legs, then his arms. The stewards stepped away, exposing his hands and arms, but the crippled protestor could no longer pull them back or make any move to protect himself. All he could do was scream. His hips were next, and his ribcage. Then, finally, the hammer came down on his skull, twice, three times, until the jaw was broken and the round dome of his skull was flattened like a broken plate. Even then, the scream continued for long seconds, until it slowly drained away and died. The stewards exited in silence. Marius was rigid, every muscle locked into place by the sudden terror the act had caused. Gerd touched his arm and he flinched, then recovered himself enough to look at his partner.
“Twice now,” Gerd whispered. “It’s been the same thing. At least we know what happened in the tunnels now.”
Marius tried to make his jaw work, but found himself bereft of words. Gerd waited until he had composed himself, then directed his gaze back to the balcony. Around them the rest of the crowd was doing the same. Mistress Fellipan had still not moved. She waited until every eye was upon her, then continued as if nothing had happened, as if there had been no break in her moment of revelation.
“You have been chosen to receive the protection of the House of Fellipan, and to share in a most glorious adventure.”
Typical, thought Marius. There’s always glory involved when someone embarks on large-scale murder.
“You have entered service as armed soldiers of the Fellipani Cadres, in service of a cause so great, so all-encompassing, that you will thank me for bringing you to my side now, before the decision was taken out of your hands.”
“Ah, well, at least she saved everyone that worry.”
“Shh.” Marius was concentrating. There was something wrong, something more than had already been revealed. It wasn’t so much Mistress Fellipan’s words as what lay behind them, hidden behind the smoke of her thoughts. He leaned forward, staring at her as if he could pierce the gloom and see the heart behind the oratory.
“I may have the body of a weak and feeble woman…”
“Body of a demon’s favourite dominatrix.”
“Shut. Up.” He hoped his voice was aloud in Gerd’s head as it was in his.
“But I have given my body to service of a King…”
“I bet.”
Marius reached out and jammed his thumb into Gerd’s ear. Gerd took the hint and stopped whispering.
“A King who will deliver foul scorn on those wh
o have sought to defile his realm, and who has called upon me to take up arms, to be your general. And I shall join you at the side of your King, to whom you shall show your obedience and valour, and to whom you shall deliver victory!”
Marius had heard it all before. Every tuppenny prince with a chance to carve away a piece of somebody else’s unearned lands, and with enough money to hire an army and invent a reason, had delivered a speech like it. Marius had marched with enough of them to know that every single word she spoke rang like gold-plated tin. The crowd around him stared at each other as realisation of their enforced servitude filtered into their bones. He stayed still, focussing on the black-clad figure preening above them. And saw beyond her words, and realised.
“Her chest.”
“What?”
He grabbed Gerd’s arm and slowly, inch by inch, drew him back into the deepest shadows against the wall.
“Look at her chest.”
Gerd laughed. “If you insist.”
“I’m not joking.” He pinched Gerd’s arm. “Look.”
Gerd stared. “Wow.”
“You see?”
“They’re magnificent!”
Marius rolled his eyes.
“Look at them properly.”
“I am, don’t worry.”
“No, not… look at them.”
“I can’t take my eyes off them!”
“They’re not moving.”
“God, it’s like she’s smuggling two bald men in there.”
Marius cuffed Gerd on the shoulder. “I said look, not gawp like an adolescent farm boy. Look closely.”
“I am looking closely. Any closer and she could charge me rent.”
“They’re not moving.”
The Marching Dead Page 8
