by Luke Webster
“Now,” Ghost hissed.
“Now what?” Dead asked.
“Fake pain,” he ordered, frustrated.
“Huh?”
The whipper looked at his supervisor who gestured to continue.
“Two,” came the count.
“Now,” Ghost shouted as the whip made contact.
“Ghost, I have no idea what you’re on about.”
“You, you damned fool,” Ghost railed. “You’re getting whipped and having a conversation with an invisible person in the process.”
“I’m getting whipped?” asked Dead surprised, trying to crane his neck around to see.
“Three.”
“Now, act like you’re in pain,” ordered Ghost, jumping up and down.
“Ow, I’m in pain.” Dead said in a loud, unconvincing voice.
“This is flyshit,” yelled a disgruntled onlooker.
“He’s making fun of us,” cried an old woman with no teeth, leaning on a slim iron rod.
“The hooks,” ordered the chief watchman as the whipper scrambled to obey. The razor teeth emerged, glistening with the blood of Hillard.
“Four.”
The lash of the hook snared into Dead’s back and stayed there. No amount of yanking by the persecutor could free the hooks, lodged into the leathery skin. The chief watchman was required to take the hooks out by hand. They were untarnished by Dead’s blood.
Forty six more times the hooks snaked into Dead’s back with no response. By the end the whipbearer was exhausted. Dead’s back was covered in hundreds of small holes but was otherwise fine. The crowd was furious. They cried that the whips were blunt. The chief watchman tried to calm them.
“Look at his back,” shouted one unkempt man, his teeth yellow and black. “Of course they’re blunt.”
More growls and grumbles. The supervisor had had enough.
“The whips are not blunt,” he shouted, and to emphasis the point he took the hookwhip and lashed the unkempt man in the face. The hooks dug in tight and when pulled away pieces of flesh came too. The man held his face in his hands and whimpered, now blind in his right eye. On the hook ends hung pieces of wet, red flesh.
“Does anyone else want to tell me these are blunt?” he bellowed.
The crowd quieted, then from the rear came a suggestion that bribery was at play.
“Corrupt,” came the chant, as the angry mob built its temper.
Ghost was concerned, they were liable to rip everyone apart, including Dead. The watch knew it too and a small contingent marched out of the courts in quick step, bearing cudgels and shock prods.
With the threat of an uproar guards surrounded Dead and moved him back into the court, Ghost in pursuit. They were taken to a rail system that fed into the justice building. Dead was forced into a caged carriage while two guards rode in the following carriage, a sliding portcullis giving full view access to Dead. The two carriages were towed by a one man operated steam engine, the small steamer already burning in expectation. The tiny train jolted and passed through the underground tunnel that led to Ashmore Asylum, leaving an angered mob behind.
33
Christopher Geiland cursed the messenger upon hearing of Ivan’s death. With a quick pace the noble dressed in furs and left the manor. The carriage waited, led by his agent Macleay, a strong man that had a knack for retrieving information in unsettling ways. Geiland gave no orders as he clambered up the steel rungs, rocking the wooden fixtures of the coach as he settled in. Macleay only drove to one destination.
Steel rimmed wheels skirted over a cobbled pathway as they left the estate, taking a twisting route designed to evade followers. A short distance was a long trip when Macleay drove. In his impatience Geiland entertained the notion of ordering him to a more direct route but dismissed the thought, aware of just how much danger they were in.
They passed south, going through the Noble’s Quarter and into the Royal Plaza. They circled the citadel, Geiland peering out at the tall mass of stones. From the street there was no sign of the grief that existed inside. Geiland almost felt sorry for the Steward family, but thoughts of sympathy did not hold well in the large man. He had built an industry from the slavery and pain of others, breaking backs and clogging lungs in the Roughshed Ranges that his family had owned for generations. He was the main supplier of coal to the city, pumping out tons of the black fuel each day to quell the power hungry city. More families were fatherless because of him than from half the wars that had been fought within the city. He would not bear himself to cry for one more fatherless family.
The coach leered around the plaza, heading back to the Noble’s Quarter through the left gate. They were close to where they began, Macleay only turning to the east when he was certain that they were not followed. The Longshore gates opened as they drew near, the guard notified in advance to keep watch.
The Longshore manor was not as lavish as the Geiland’s. It was beset in rich woods, not rare ones. It was still one of the more impressive within the city, though the lord paid no mind as he waddled through the reception hall, ignoring a waiting servant. Macleay followed.
“Things are sour,” Geiland blubbered as he stomped into Senior Longshore’s office. He was met by several eyes, smiling at the approach.
“We were just talking of these sour tidings,” Senior Longshore informed him.
“So you know?”
“We do,” Geoffrey Goldshore said, looking up from a gold cuplet, enjoying the fruits of his wealthier brother.
“Beg pardon,” Longshore smiled, gesturing for Macleay to remove himself before turning to Geiland.
“What will we do? Our plan is spoilt.”
“It has a little, hasn’t it?” Longshore flashed his grin, while Geoffrey smirked into his cup. “But then, I think this will work out best.”
Geiland approached the pair, seating himself in a fur-trimmed elk sofa and helping himself to a drink.
“Go on,” he puffed, relieved in their calm presence.
“We were just talking about this Ammba girl that was foolish enough to get lost on your estate.”
“What of it?” he choked.
“Don’t concern yourself with her anymore. Follow our guide, order an investigation and find a scapegoat. Play the role I assigned you.”
“And the girl?”
“Forget her, I will deal with that myself,” Senior Longshore said with a flourish, helping himself to the fine selection of wine. “How fares Victoria?”
34
Pilus was a man similar to Callis in philosophy. He had not always been a priest, an ex-footsoldier of the Muhjhan crime lords, finding a better life in the church than on the streets. Callis saw something of himself in the new Esum. Pilus was calculating with a desire for promotion. Like many of his kin he wore scars, though his were bought through the harsh streets rather than the methodical flagellations of devout priests. Callis saw a true priest of Aea-Baeni and had sponsored his rise to the leader’s throne.
“I am a man of Aea-Baeni, in the Beast I take my glut.” Pilus stated, rehearsing the speech of acceptance, standing before the council.
“Then it has been decided. Pilus Emar, under sponsor of Aea-Baeni and the council of El-Manati, shall be promoted to the rank of Esum, high priest of Ea-Manate.” Isheal Esum stated, priest of Ide-Beldnae.
The council dispersed, several figures hanging behind to discuss politics. Callis and his new counterpart waited as Gaius Ipsum approached.
“Brother Pilus, congratulations on your rise,” he greeted.
“Thank you brother,” Pilus responded with a naturally guarded tongue, learnt from an early age in the service of crime lords.
“Have you had a chance to ponder my proposal?” Gaius asked in a low voice, facing Callis.
“It has been discussed and decided on. We are ready to turn the flock.”
Gaius breathed deep, his chest bellowing with anticipation as he scanned the remnant faces in the room.
“The singers have len
t us their voices. Come the next vote the Tower shall be ready to shift.”
“How set are they in this move?” Callis asked, an anxious tone betraying his steel stare.
“They ironed strong. They do not wish to be the dragging wheel in an alliance any longer.”
“Then change comes bearing to us. Let us hold it with devout hands,” Callis almost chuckled.
“Yes brother,” he smiled, passing a hand over his shoulder. Gaius left the Beastmen.
“Brother Gaius seems set on this victory,” Pilus remarked.
“He is, but it would be unwise to think the factions have lent their true support to his cause.”
“They are untrustworthy.”
“As are we,” Callis smiled, leading the way to their apartments.
Nielle kept one eye on Islemann. The black robed figure had stood motionless between the thrones for over an hour, awaiting the leader’s return. The hood shadowed his twisted face and Nielle wondered if the assassin had fallen asleep upright. He continued picking out the dirt that compacted under the dais slate steps. For all the talk of his unprecedented promotion Nielle had found little shift in his duties. He still had the same tasks but now had to carry around a heavy blade and wear a heavy cloak whilst doing them. Most disturbing though was his introduction to Islemann. Now that they were acquainted the man seemed to be a constant figure lingering over Nielle’s shoulder.
“You missed an area,” came a deep rattle. The boy looked up with wide eyes.
“Exc… excuse me?”
“You’ve quickened your pace. You’re not doing the job right.” Islemann’s voice was a rattlesnake’s warning.
Nielle did not respond, returning to the missed sections. They were the steps in front of Islemann. Glancing up, the servant could make out a gleaming white smile shrouded in black.
The game was interrupted by the presence of Callis and Pilus, still concerned with talk of votes and riggings.
“Bring wine,” Pilus snapped at Nielle, a thankful order. The child ran to the wine cleft, fetching an expensive jar of Prytrian Black. He could hear the murmurings of his master, and the new priest. They were discussing votes and mannerisms of power. As Nielle returned, the talk shifted to the allocation of a new gold fledgling to replace the murdered one.
“I do not need one,” Pilus spat. “He is enough.”
A quick flourish in Nielle’s direction.
“He has uses,” Callis agreed. “And he understands much of Aea-Baeni. Still, it is expected of us to take one under wing. If we do not choose ourselves then they will assign one.”
Nielle handed out two cups, pouring pungent alcohol. He could feel Islemann’s stare on his back and a shiver crawled the length of his spine.
“There is a plain born fledgling that works the latrines,” the boy interrupted.
“What do we want with a stinking bucket boy?” Pilus cursed. The muscles in Nielle’s neck tightened as he heard a rattling chuckle in his ear.
“We teased him a lot… because he’s deaf.”
“That might be convenient,” Callis mused.
Pilus agreed, “Go get him for us. Make sure he’s washed first.”
Nielle was about to take off when he felt a large hand run over his shoulder.
“Well done young sir,” Islemann croaked, phlegm gracing Nielle’s cheek. The child did not answer, shaking free and racing from the room.
35
Fredrick’s mind was tortured by unending doldrum days. Restlessness replaced fear, his time dragging on. After such a period of stagnation Fredrick had reached a point where the danger of trial would be a welcome distraction, waking him from his pondering hell. Few visitors came to his cell. Damian, once a regular, found to be absent. The council had barred the regent’s son from visiting his friend, an argument exploding just outside the cell days before, audible through the iron door. For days Fredrick pondered in isolation, unsure of his fate now that Ivan was now longer able to protect him. His lawyer had checked in once during that time, a scant visit to clear several details. There came no word of trial, Fredrick’s lawyer implying that it could be months before the issue were resolved. The council had suspended the date of the trial, pushing it back in order to distance it from Ivan’s funeral.
The care that Fredrick had been privileged to under Lord Steward’s reign dwindled. His books were not replaced, leaving a scant collection of worn novels. Even the bucket boy came less to empty his chamber pot, only once a day instead of on-demand as before, the stench of feces and urine heavy in the air.
As the son of a wealthy senator Fredrick was unaccustomed to discomfort and he sought solitude in sleep. His father, Andrew Themmond, had been ordered into the Northane Kingdom on a diplomatic mission three years past. Rather than dragging Fredrick into a hostile environment, his father had chosen to leave him in Ironwood. Andrew had been an old associate of Ivan Steward, the pair having studied for a time in the Capital’s libraries, Steward working towards his Masterhood, Andrew towards his senatorship. Ivan had welcomed the boy to Ironwood, arriving with a retinue of slaves. The regent had granted hospitality and friendship, almost to the point of adoption. When news of his father’s expedition ceased Fredrick had stayed under the shadow of the citadel, his first year gripped in fear at the thought of that final message. Word of his father never came and despite Lord Steward’s attempts no trace of the senator could be found. The Kingdom was a dangerous place for an Imperial, the barbarians distrusting of the old powers that had enslaved its people for generations. Although he could never be certain, Fredrick felt deep down that his father was already dead.
He continued to watch the ceiling, so untired it hurt. A spider wove a delicate thread above him, its labour entrancing the boy for hours under a sputtering coal lit lamp, giving him a focus to stay the boredom and hunger.
Loud voices took a moment to register. There was a fight, the sound of metal clanging and a yell. Fredrick bolted upright at the noise, shaking from fear and cold. Someone swore, this time in Imperial, and Fredrick heard the thud of a body hitting the ground. Fredrick looked around for a non-existent weapon as the door sprung open.
“Fredrick, by the eyes of the gods.”
The voice held a distinct Imperial accent. Fredrick recognised his father’s slave, Justin Lukus, an older man who had spent many years teaching Fredrick the three languages of the counties.
“Justin?” Fredrick whispered, too scared to believe his own sight.
“Yea boy, come here.” The familiar man wrapped an arm around the child, favouring his right.
“Are you hurt?”
“A little,” the mentor winced. “That fatheaded guard of yours was too dim-witted to take a bribe so we had to scuttle. I was lucky it was two to one.” Over Fredrick’s shoulder stood a man watching the stairs, a studded blackjack hanging at his side. “He’s reliable,” Justin assured, ushering the boy out of the cell, “Your father paid a heavy weight in gold for his hand… we will be out of the city by nightfall.”
“My father?” Fredrick inhaled, tears brimming over dark eyelashes.
“I will spare you the details till later. For now we must escape the citadel and the treacherous shadow of the council.” They wound their way up the stairwell, cautious of any encounters. As they reached the top they were let through the prison door by an informed guard. Fredrick could not resist tears when he saw Damian there, flanked by two guards, a wide smile flashed as they embraced.
“Justin told me,” Damian jumped, excited to be together.
“He’s alive,” Fredrick confirmed, the tears unstoppable as joy overwhelmed him.
“We will have an escort out of the citadel young sir,” Justin told Fredrick. “But we must act in haste. Say farewell to your friend and thanks, he has done much to secure your release.”
No words came from Fredrick’s pressed lips, the realization only dawning that he would not see Damian again. Damian was gracious, a genuine smile sufficing as they hugged farewell.
&
nbsp; “I will visit you in the Capital one day,” Damian informed him as they parted.
“You will have pride of place in my home,” Fredrick responded, clean streaks running down filthy cheeks.
Two guards left Damian to escort Fredrick to the rear of the citadel along with Justin and the silent guard. Fredrick watched the man who possessed the blackjack, dressed in black armour that looked lighter than the heavy plate the guard wore, the thin chain quiet as he stepped a catlike path. He was not an Imperial, Fredrick could tell, he was tall and fair, his hair straight with gold flecks, the attributes of a native to Ironwood. He was also quiet, watching for danger and tense at all times, as if he were wound up and ready to strike.
They left through the rear yard, the dark dawn still a time away. A cracking frost snapped as they puffed to the stables. While the castle slept there existed the possibility of a servant catching them during a midnight errand. In the stables a drawn carriage waited, four casks set in the rear. The armoured man ushered Fredrick and Justin into the barrels, sealing each one in turn.
“Don’t make a noise or move until you see my face again,” he rasped into both barrels as they locked shut. It was cold and cramped in the casket, Fredrick had little space to move and his sympathies ran to Justin whose larger body must have made the squeeze all the worse. He could just make out the sound of horse shods clacking on cobblestones as the carriage swayed to. As driver, the hired man had donned a simple cloak over his armour, dressed in the fashion of a humble servant. The citadel guards loyal to Damian walked the horses, one set on either side, and escorted the carriage to the front gate.
“What’s this?” called a voice.
“Hey Jimmy, open the gate would you? This here wine merchant wants to leave. Councilor Gehrig is entertaining a bunch of his barbarian friends and they drank him out of stock and has sent for more.”
“Are you kidding? Those savages have the guts of slime fish.”
“Aye, they drink like it, I’ll admit. Certainly know how to get in the good books of the wine sellers.”
