“But the followers of the Old Faith say also that there is an evil in the world, which seeks to pervert the weave of destiny. There is an evil which alters the flower or the leaf to become the nourishment of daemons, so to spread the seed of Chaos within the world.
“Those who believe this have the following warning to give to the unwary: beware the treasonous beauty of that which is food for daemons, for though it harbours the milk of ecstasy, it promises destruction.”
When he heard this, Philippe Lebel felt a chill in his heart, and for just one moment he saw the world as Armand Carriere saw it: as a peculiar and magical place full of threats and confusions, in which no man could live in comfort and safety.
It was not the kind of world in which he desired to spend the remainder of his days.
“Can you not see,” said Armand, “that Gruiller keeps his garden for the nourishment of daemons, who fly there by night? I cannot tell whether he is their servant or their master, or what he may have to do with the other horrid things which happen in Parravon by night, but this I know: that man’s soul is not his own, and his garden is a thing so vile as to terrify the mind of any honest man!”
But Philippe would have none of this. “Armand,” he said, truly believing that he was reaching out a helping hand to save his friend from unworthy fears, “this is nonsense. The Old Faith is for gypsies and the ragged men of the forests. We are of the town, and have better gods to guide us. The excellent gardeners of Parravon have shown us that the flowers of the wild are there to be tamed, arranged and regimented to our pleasure. Gaspard Gruiller is but a gardener, after all. He does not seek to make a secret of his garden, but willingly took us into it to show off his pride in his achievement. Lay down that book, I beg you, and take up another, which will teach you the ways of the merchant in the market and the arts of civilized men.”
Philippe said that his friend looked long and hard at him then, but said nothing, and finally laid the book aside. They both went to the window, to stare across the ridge at the tower-house and the tall dark hedge which surrounded its garden.
“Did we really play along that ridge when we were children?” asked Philippe, with a small laugh. “The thorn-bushes must have been sparser then, for I am sure that we could not find a way among them now.”
“It was a long time ago,” Armand replied. “And we were children then, very different from what we have become.”
Early the next day, Armand’s mother came to his room to search for him, because he had not come to breakfast. She found the room empty, with the bed in disarray and the shutters wide open.
She went to the window and looked out, and immediately saw her son’s body, some little distance from the wall, deep in the bosom of a thorn-bush.
It was not easy to reach the body, and the elder Carriere had to call upon the assistance of his neighbours to hack a way through to it. Philippe was one of those who helped with this dire work, and thus was able to see the corpse of his friend before it was taken—with great difficulty—from the bush.
It was plain that Armand had fallen into the bush from a height, and the only sensible hypothesis which could be offered in explanation was that he had undone the shutters of his window during the hours of darkness, climbed up on to the sill, and launched himself from it in a prodigious leap, which had delivered him inevitably to his fate.
The thorns had punctured him in very many places, hard-driven by the force of his fall, and when they had finally pulled him free of the bush they saw that there was hardly an inch of his flesh unmolested.
It was as though he had been ripped and rent by many wicked claws.
When the company returned to the Carriere house Philippe told them all about the dreams which Armand had suffered, and about their visit to Gaspard Gruiller’s strange garden.
Because it was the first time he had told the story it was far more confused in the telling than the version which you have just heard, but it would probably have made no difference if every detail had been in its proper place, for these were townsmen and tradespeople, and though they bolted their doors most carefully at night, they were inclined to believe that whatever the dark might hide was no concern of theirs. Nightmares, they agreed, were a sign of madness and folly, and if any more proof were needed that poor Armand had been utterly deranged, one only had to look at the peculiar books which he had chosen to read.
As for Gaspard Gruiller, the elder Carriere and all his friends were unanimous in declaring him a good neighbour. If the plants in his garden captured and devoured birds, that was certainly peculiar, but Parravon had no shortage of birds, and the great majority were a nuisance to other gardeners, so Gruiller’s activities must be counted to the public good.
And if any further proof were needed that the gardener was worthy to live among honest tradespeople, there was the universally acknowledged fact that he was a man with no significant debts.
THE TILEAN RAT
by Sandy Mitchell
It was one of those Marienburg fogs, the kind you get when the year isn’t sure if it’s time to be winter yet, and alternates sunshine and drizzle with sharp, dagger frosts. Then at dusk, when the freeze comes, hardening the puddles until they crack underfoot, the mist starts rising from the waterways that flow through the city like blood through its veins.
It always starts slowly, a smooth, even layer above the water, so the ships and the riverboats choking the channels look as if they’re floating on clouds, and the hundreds of bridges stitching the isles of the Reikmouth together seem to rise unsupported between them. Then the breeze starts to form ripples in the vapour, sculpting strange shapes that slip away when you look at them. As it rises the turbulence grows, lapping around the pilings of the wharves, then higher still, until it begins to flow gently through the streets like the ghost of the river itself.
Once that happens, the city changes. If you walk the streets then you move like a ghost yourself, wrapped in your own shroud. Torches flare, their light swallowed by the smothering grey, and the voices of the people around you become hushed, huddled close to their speakers for comfort.
None of which mattered to Buttermere Warble. He was comfortably settled in his favourite corner of Esmeralda’s Apron, a halfling dive on the edge of the Elven Quarter, working his way steadily through the menu. Right then his biggest problem in life was deciding between walnut soufflé and cherries Bretonnaise for dessert; so when the door banged open, to leave trouble hovering diffidently on the threshold, it took him a moment to notice her.
She didn’t look like trouble then, of course, not to the casual eye, but Warble had a nose for it. So he glanced up as she pushed the door closed, snipping off a tendril of fog that had wandered in with her to see what all the noise was about.
There wasn’t anything obvious about her he could put his finger on to account for the sudden sense of foreboding he felt then. Elves were a common enough sight in the Apron; it was close to their own part of town, and the food was well worth the detour. There were several in the tavern already, their knees jammed awkwardly under the halfling-sized tables, and at first he thought she was there to meet friends; she stayed close to the door, sweeping her eyes across the room, as though looking for someone.
But the pit of his stomach told him otherwise, so when their eyes met, and she started across the room towards him, he barely felt a flicker of surprise.
The Apron was always crowded at that time of night, so Warble had time for a good, long look at her before she made it to the table. Her clothes were well made, but nondescript: a black leather tabard over a woollen tunic and trews, both green; strong but muddy boots; and a black heavy cloak. She had pointy ears, green eyes, all the usual features; the only thing that surprised him was her hair, which curled thickly down to her shoulders, and was the colour of a freshly-minted penny.
Redheads were almost unknown among elves; Warble had certainly never seen one before, and if something didn’t exist in Marienburg, the saying went, it probably didn’t exist anywhere.
“Mr Warble?” Her voice was a warm contralto, like melting syrup. He nodded, and motioned for her to sit. She still towered over him, but at least he could talk to her now without breaking his neck.
“Call me Sam,” he said. Nobody called him Buttermere, except his mother, whose fault it was.
“Sam.” The way she said it was like drowning in chocolate. “I need help.”
“Everyone does,” he said, deciding on the soufflé. “It’s that kind of world.”
“It is if you come from Feiss Mabdon,” she said bitterly. Warble paused, his arm half raised to signal the waitress, and tilted his head back to look her straight in the eyes. He’d seen the handful of tattered refugees who’d made it to the Wasteland a few months before, picked up in mid-ocean by trading vessels; what news they’d brought had been garbled in the telling as it raced from street to street, but he was sure he was about to hear something that would put him off his meal if he let it.
“Go on,” he said finally, curiosity outweighing his more physical appetites. She paused for a moment, marshalling her thoughts.
Her name was Astra, and most of what she told him matched the story Warble had already pieced together for himself. It was common knowledge that the dark elves had overrun the northern isles of the elven kingdom, and that most of the population of Feiss Mabdon had drowned after taking to the sea, fleeing from the armies marching on their city. What he hadn’t been prepared for were her tales of the atrocities committed by the invaders, which had made the near certainty of death in mid-ocean seem infinitely preferable to the wretched refugees. He’d been right, he did lose his appetite.
“So where do you fit into all this?” he asked eventually. “You seem to have survived, at least.”
“I wasn’t there.” Her eyes flashed, bright, cold emeralds boring into his own. “I was on a trading voyage close to Lustria. When I returned…” She paused. “You can still see the smoke where the city was. All I can hope is that my family drowned cleanly. Instead of…”
“I’m sorry.” Warble nodded. “But I still don’t see why you’ve come to me.”
“There’s only one thing left, of all that my family once owned. A small statuette of a rat. It’s almost worthless in itself, but it’s very precious to me.” Her voice dropped. “I took it with me, to Lustria. But just after we docked here, it was… it was stolen.” Her voice wavered a little, and Warble found himself patting her hand.
“That’s tough,” he said. She sniffed, and forced a smile.
“I asked around. Everyone said go to Sam Warble. They said if anyone in Marienburg could find it, it was you.”
The halfling nodded slowly.
“I’ll do my best,” he said. “But I can’t promise anything. It’s a big city. And I don’t come cheap.”
“I can pay.” Her smile became genuine, dazzling, like sunshine bouncing from the harbour on a midwinter morning.
“I charge thirty a day, plus expenses,” he said, expecting her to argue. Astra just nodded, took out a purse that would have choked a troll, and started to count. Warble’s thirty crowns barely made a dent in it.
“Trade must be good,” he said.
“Good enough. When can you start?”
“I already have.” He pushed the empty plate aside. “Where can I find you?”
“The Flying Swan. Do you know it?” Knowing every inn in Marienburg, Warble nodded. “Ask for me there.”
“Is that where you lost the statue?”
“Yes. I’d spent the day in the market, trading. When I got back, the room had been ransacked.”
“Makes sense,” Warble said. “Word gets around fast when someone’s raking it in. Was anything else missing?”
“No.” Astra shook her head. “lust the statue. Luckily I’d had my money with me.”
“Can you describe it?” Warble asked. She thought for a moment.
“It’s a statuette of a rat, about eighteen inches high.” She held her hand above the tabletop, the palm downwards, to demonstrate. “It’s made of solid brass, so it weighs quite a bit. It’s up on its hind legs, wearing armour, and carrying a sword. And it’s standing on a piece of red quartz, with its talons clenched to hold it in place.” Her eyes lost their focus, and her voice became dreamy. “My father bought it in Tilea, years ago, before I was born. I used to play with it as a child. I thought it looked silly.”
Warble nodded. He didn’t rate his chances very highly, but he’d do his best.
He started looking in earnest the next day, and, as he’d expected, he drew a blank. None of the regular fences had anything; he saw enough brass rodents to fill a sewer, but none of them were perched on a red quartz base. He came closest with Old Harald, a decrepit human of indeterminate age, who kept a curio shop down by the Fisherman’s Steps. You had to know where it was; in that narrow tangle of streets it was easy to lose your way, and sometimes it seemed the place wasn’t there at all when you set out to find it.
“Looking for it too, are you?” he said, once Warble had finished describing the creature for what felt like the two-thousandth time. Harald’s eyes flashed blue in the musty-smelling shop, reflecting the light from the candles he’d scattered at random among the tumbled profusion of his stock, and for a moment it was easy to believe the street stories of strange, magical artifacts that sometimes fell into his hands. It was nearly noon outside, but the fog was as thick as ever; the only difference daylight had made was that Warble moved through the streets in a tiny bubble of milk-coloured air, instead of the bruise-purple gloom of the previous night. He tilted his head back to look at the man.
“Who else is asking?” he said. Harald shrugged, wiping a hank of greasy white hair from his eyes.
“You know me, Sam. I’m getting forgetful in my old age.” He sniffed, a droplet of moisture disappearing back up his nose just as Warble had expected it to make a bid for freedom. “Business is bad at the moment. Perhaps if I wasn’t so worried about things…”
“Yeah, right.” The halfling took out a couple of crowns, spinning them idly on the lid of a nearby chest. Then he wandered over to look at a rust-pitted astrolabe that squeaked on its bearings, and showed constellations unmatched by any stars in the skies over Marienburg. Harald was standing in exactly the same place when he turned back, but the coins had disappeared.
“Bit of a gentleman, he was.” Harald nodded to himself. “Well dressed, if you see what I mean.” He meant ostentatiously expensive, which was the only benchmark of quality he recognized.
“Can you describe him?” asked Warble. Harald nodded, stroking his chin, which rasped loudly under his fingertips.
“Fairly short. About a head under average, I’d say.” Short for a human was still tall for Warble; he corrected the picture mentally. “And corpulent. There’s a man fond of the good things in life, I remember thinking at the time. Maybe a bit too fond, if you know what I mean. Decidedly corpulent, to tell you the truth.”
Warble thought about it. A little of the unease he’d felt listening to Astra started worming its way to the surface again. Something about her story didn’t add up. At the time he’d dismissed it, happy to take her money, but it still didn’t taste right. If she’d really been tagged by the guild we don’t talk about, why would they knock over her room while she was carrying all that gold around the streets? Besides which, the Swan paid good money to avoid that kind of inconvenience to its guests.
Of course that would explain who the fat man was; if someone was knocking over protected premises, the guild would want to administer a firm rebuke. But he couldn’t have looked like a dagger, or Harald would have said, or, more likely, been too scared even to mention him, and anyhow they had better ways of tracking people down than trying to trace them back through their loot.
Stranger and stranger. He decided to let it simmer for a while, and see what boiled away.
“That’s all you can tell me?” he asked. Harald nodded.
“He was the only one I spoke to. The little one
never said a thing.”
“What little one?” For a moment the old shopkeeper hesitated, visibly debating with himself whether or not to hold out for more money, then he got a good long look at Warble’s eyes and decided against it.
“I hardly even saw him, and that’s the truth. They came in together, but the fat one did all the talking. The little one just stayed back among the shadows.” His voice took on overtones of desperate sincerity. “You know my eyes aren’t what they were.”
“I know.” Warble nodded sympathetically. “But you said he was small. Like a halfling, maybe?”
“Could be. Or a child.”
“Or a dwarf?”
Harald shook his head.
“No. I’d have noticed a beard.”
“Fine.” Warble flicked him another coin anyway; it was all on expenses, and Astra could afford it. “If they come back, you know where to find me.”
The rest of his regular contacts came up clean, although a couple of them had also had a visit from the fat man. No one had anything to add to Harald’s description of him, except that he paid well for his information. No one else had seen his diminutive sidekick, but that didn’t mean much; they could have split up to cover more ground, or he might have stayed outside to cover the door. With the fog still thick enough to burn, he would have been invisible a yard up the street.
Warble started glancing back over his shoulder, and keeping to the centre of the thoroughfares. By this time it was a more than even bet they’d have heard Sam Warble was after the rat too. That gave them an edge; he was a known face around town, while they were strangers. They wouldn’t take long to find him, if they wanted to, while Warble didn’t even have a name to go on.
No point worrying about it, then. He’d just have to wait for them to make the first move, and in the meantime he could check a couple of sources they didn’t have access to.
Gil Roland was his favourite captain of the City Watch. Unusually honest for a man in his position, but not enough to compromise his efficiency, he liked to hang around with lowlifes like Warble who owed him favours and get his goodwill back in liquid form. The Blind Eye was almost opposite the watch headquarters, and attracted a large and faithful clientele of off-duty watchmen and petty hustlers in more or less equal proportions.
[Warhammer] - The Laughter of Dark Gods Page 24
