ARC: The Corpse-Rat King

by Lee Battersby

  “What’s the password?”

  Figgis stood outside, a look of fear suddenly filling his features.

  “You didn’t give me one,” he began. “Do you think we need–”

  “I was just kidding.” Marius stepped outside and crouched on the narrow walkway. “Are you ready?”

  Figgis nodded. “The captain’s sleeping at his desk, and Mister Spone’s in his bunk. As soon as…” He stopped as running footsteps sounded across the top deck, and crouched down next to Marius, eyes wide.

  “Don’t worry,” Marius whispered. “It’s just the changing of the watch. Give it a minute.”

  They waited in silence until the footsteps died away, and normal sounds returned. Marius laid a hand on Figgis’ shoulder. The cabin boy was shivering, whether from the cold or fear, Marius could not be certain. “Go on,” he whispered.

  “Mister Hongg is master of the watch,” he said. “He likes to catch a wink in the lee of the mizzenmast. It looks like he’s standing watching the crew…”

  “Not likely to see us if we use the near stairs, then?”

  Figgis shook his head. “As long as we’re quick, and quiet.”

  “Oh, I’m good at quick and quiet,” Marius said, then bit off the rest of his comment. Figgis lived amongst sailors, true, but there was no need to expose him to more bedroom wit than was absolutely necessary. “Let’s go, shall we?” he said instead, and ushered the young boy ahead of him.

  The space between decks is a gloomy place at the best of times: packed tight with sweating bodies; badly lit; piled high with supplies necessary to survive a long voyage. Whilst the top deck may be polished smooth and presentable to visiting investors and dignitaries, no such effort is wasted on the lower areas. The wood is rough, the angles tight, and what little room is left for movement is cramped, fetid, and jealously guarded by anyone who manages to carve out a tiny allocation of personal space. As mindful as he was of the desire to hurry, Marius forced himself to step carefully through the maze of cargo. Far worse than missing out on the captain’s treasure room would be the consequence of discovery should he upset some precariously balanced box of victuals and ruin the contents by crashing them onto the floor. He tested each creaking step before he committed his full weight to it, slowly slinking down until he and his companion crouched beneath the steps.

  “Which way, Master Figgis?”

  The young cabin boy pointed deeper into the bowels of the ship. “At the end of the corridor, sir. The mate’s cabin is just down there, and the powder room, then the locked room before the rear food store.”

  Marius nodded, memorizing the layout as Figgis spoke. It was all fairly typical of a Scorban trader, a layout refined through several centuries of sea-borne trading. The mystery room would normally be reserved for assorted junk that fit nowhere else – spare weaponry, maps of regions not visited upon the particular voyage, whatever items of trade the captain wished to keep for his own personal collections. It was tiny, perhaps three feet in either direction, the perfect sized for a moderate haul of purloined gold, or valuables not originally belonging to the ship’s owner. A ship is the same as a man, in certain ways. Never steal anything the ship cannot swallow. Marius nodded, and indicated the darkness before them.

  “Lead on.”

  Figgis took an uncertain step forward. Marius followed, observing the space around them as they crept. The Minerva was a working ship. Every ounce of available space was crowded with spare ropes, tools, boxes of tallow and wicks, hides, baubles, whatever the captain might be able to trade to islanders for valuable works of art, fruit, and delicacies. Whatever benefits society might obtain in bulk for a pittance, without having to waste valuable powder and ball. Marius did not need to pry open any of the boxes around him to see the cheap glass beads, thin blankets, and cotton bolts within. He’d packed such boxes himself, and spent his profits like any other sailor. Figgis reached the alcove he had dubbed the mate’s room, and stopped. Theatrically, he raised his finger to his lip, and peeked around the thin wall at the short wooden bunk inside. Marius followed his lead.

  Mister Spone lay with his back to the world, his massive frame balanced precariously on the slim wooden bunk. Marius was impressed – the man appeared to be in a deep sleep, despite being crammed into a space far too small for his hulking body. Then he saw the familiar square bottle of Borgho Wharf Brandy sitting empty on the floor, and raised an eyebrow in understanding. Medicinal purposes only, of course. Figgis snuck past, and Marius followed, cocking an eye over the spare space. No personal effects crowded the single shelf, or poked out of the locked chest. No other items of furniture either. Unless he maintained an apartment somewhere onshore, and Marius had never known a sailor so sure of returning from any given voyage that he was willing to leave his possessions in the care of another, everything the big man owned lay inside that miserable alcove. Marius felt a wave of sympathy for the sleeping sailor. It was a long time at a hard life, to be able to carry everything you owned on your back, even if you had to be a giant of a man to pick it up. Figgis was already half a dozen footsteps ahead of him, and he quickly turned to catch up.

  “Here,” the cabin boy said, indicating a rough-hewn door a few yards further down the corridor. Marius nodded and slipped past his companion, testing the handle with a quick twist of his wrist. It was locked. Marius grunted in disappointment. He had known captains so hard that they left doors open, knowing that reputation alone would ensure no disobeying of an order not to enter. Bomthe was obviously no such captain. Marius knelt and eyed the lock mechanism, gently snorting as he reached into his jerkin and removed a set of picks. Bomthe might be no terror, but he was no spendthrift either. The lock was as basic as it could be and still be called by the name. Marius made sure Figgis was watching, then deliberately closed his eyes and sprung the mechanism.

  “Magic,” he said in answer to Figgis’ gaping eyes. “And a cheapskate with no notion of security.” He stood, and indicated the door with a flourish. “Care to do the honours?”

  Figgis shook his head. Marius shrugged, and carefully lowered the handle. No good giving the game away with a squeaking handle, he supposed. He leaned gently against the door, and it swung open soundlessly. The two interlopers stepped inside quickly, and Marius drew the door shut behind them.

  The stench was the first thing to hit them – like rotting meat, with shit and piss rolled through it – a miasma so thick that Figgis immediately gagged and pulled his shirt up to cover his mouth and nose. Marius had no such need, but he still pursed his lips in disgust. No windows lit the room. It was empty, except for a pile of rags in the far corner. Marius took a step towards them, then pulled up sharply as his foot slid across the slick floor. He crouched down, and examined the planking, frowning when he saw the irregular pattern of stains that covered the space. He ran a finger through the nearest, and smelled it, then wrinkled his nose and wiped his finger clean against the wall.

  “What the hell is this?” he muttered, staring around at the empty, stinking room. Figgis made no answer. Marius glanced up at him, but the boy was staring out into the darkness, and it was obvious that his living eyes could make out no details. Marius turned his attention back to the empty space. There was no sign of treasure, or secrets, or indeed, any indication that any had been stored there. Only the pile of filthy rags, and the stains on the floor, and the overpowering reek of ordure. Marius remained kneeling, rubbing his fingers together and frowning at the lack of evidence. He held his position for over a minute before giving up.

  “Ah, well,” he said, standing and slapping his hands against his thighs. “Never mi–”

  The bundle of rags groaned, and sat up.

  “Holy hell.” Marius stepped backwards in shock, then gathered himself and leaned forward for a closer look. The bundle resolved itself into three men, encrusted with grime and filth, their matted hair plastered to their faces and tangled so deeply into their beards that it was almost impossible to see the features beneath. One held h
is hand out with torturous slowness, and Marius saw the heavy manacle around his wrist, the red edges of skin beneath sealed over and risen so that the manacle no longer bit into the flesh but was enfolded beneath it by months of growth. The man grunted, and Marius felt his features harden in response. He had heard such a low and bubbling moan before, and knew what it meant – the prisoner’s tongue had been removed, undoubtedly in tandem with his teeth.

  “You poor bastards,” he muttered, shuffling forward and grabbing the man’s wrist to further examine the damage. “What the hell did you do to merit this?” It was as he had supposed. The manacles had been in place so long that the skin had simply incorporated the edges, like gravel sealed up within a wound. He dropped the arm, and raised his hand towards the captive’s face. The man flinched, and scuttled away as far as his chain and the body of his neighbour would allow. Marius opened his hand and made gentle shushing sounds.

  “Hey, hey now. No.” He glanced down, and saw where the chains fell from the prisoner’s wrists to bolts in the floor. There was no give. However long they had been in this cell, they had been unable to do more than sit and accept whatever beatings and torture had been meted out to them. The chains were too short to allow them to even kneel, much less shift to avoid sitting in their own excrement. Marius’ eyes narrowed. It took a slow ten count to remove the fury from his voice.

  “It’s okay,” he said as gently as he could. “I won’t hurt you. I’m not going to hurt you. I promise. I just want to…” He touched the prisoner’s hair, pushed it aside to catch a glimpse of one maddened, terrified eye. “My name is Marius,” he said, withdrawing his hand and placing it against his chest. “Marius. I’m going to help.”

  At the sound of his name, the captive to Marius’ left sat up, and uttered a moan that may have been an attempt to repeat the word. He lunged forward the bare inch the chain allowed, and raised his hands with sudden urgency, before dissolving into a welter of bubbling sobs. Marius glanced back towards Figgis, who had retreated towards the door and now stood as far into the corner as he dared, peering into the darkness with fear.

  “It’s all right, lad,” Marius said to him. “They’re just men. Prisoners, I think. They’ve been treated… terribly.” He turned back to the sobbing inmate. “Have you heard of me?” he asked gently. “Does my name mean something?” He reached out and placed his hand on the man’s shoulder, gave it a small squeeze. “It’s okay,” he said. “It’s okay.”

  The prisoner raised his head. Marius shifted so that he knelt directly in front of him.”You do know me, don’t you?” he said. The man nodded, once, a shaking, faltering dip of the head.

  “Who are you?” Marius reached out and drew the prisoner’s hair back from his face. When he saw the face beneath he fell backwards, eyes wide, arms splayed out to stop him striking the deck with his head.

  “Oh, fuck,” he said. “Oh, Gods. What did you do? What did you fucking do?”

  “Sedition,” said a voice from the doorway. Marius spun around. Two figures filled the open door. A hand opened the gate of a lantern. Light spilled out, revealing the massive frame of Mister Spone. Captain Bomthe stood just behind him, an empty bottle swinging from his hand. “Treason, rebellion, and attempted murder.” He stepped into the room, his tread as steady and sober as a priest’s, and stared down at the chained men. “Guilty as charged,” he said, and passed the bottle behind him. Spone took it without a word and handed it to Figgis, cowering in the corner.

  “Take that to my cabin,” Bomthe said without removing his gaze from Marius, “and wait there. I’ll deal with you later.”

  “It’s not the boy’s fault,” Marius said automatically, “I forced him to bring me here.”

  “I’m sure you did,” the captain replied. “But still, he came.” He gestured to Spone to come forward. “I run a tight ship, Mister Helles. I expect compliance and nothing less. I don’t care why my orders are disobeyed, or how, just that they are.” He ran his eyes across the prisoners. “What is our position, Mister Spone?”

  “Three hundred miles from port, Captain,” the big man replied. “Nearing the Durah Straits.”

  “Hmm. Near enough. I doubt His Majesty will quibble over a few fathoms.” He turned from his perusal and stepped towards the door. “Bring them up. And bring our guest with you.”

  “Wait. What is going–” Marius made to stand, but Spone was standing above him. The first mate reached down and yanked him up quickly enough to stop the question.

  “This way, sir,” he said.” Quietly now, if you please.” He shoved Marius towards the door, and it was all he could do to catch himself before he clattered into the doorframe. Spone placed a heavy hand in his back and pushed him ahead. As they left the room, four armed sailors slipped past. The giant mate forced Marius up nearby stairs onto the open deck. The sound of cursing and loosed chains followed them.

  The captain was waiting. Spone took Marius’ arm and stood next to Bomthe. Marius tested his grip, then gave up.

  “What the hell…” he tried again. Spone simply shook him until he stopped talking. Bomthe didn’t even look in his direction. Marius waited until his he could refocus his eyes, then stood silently. Slowly, the sailors came up the stairs, dragging the prisoners behind them. They hauled their charges to a spot a few feet in front of the captain and threw them to the deck. Bomthe made a small motion, and the captors beat at the prisoners, forcing them up to their knees.

  “They won’t go no farther, sir,” one of the sailors reported.

  “That’s fine, Quig,” the Captain replied. “No need for much more.” The sailors slapped at the prisoners until they shuffled apart as far as the chains would let them – without the bolts to restrict them there was perhaps a foot between each man. They knelt back on their heels, drinking in the night and the fresh air. Bomthe gave them a few moments, then coughed slightly. As one, the prisoners stiffened, and bent over themselves in attitudes of terror. Marius glanced up at the first mate. The big man was staring at the prisoners with an impassive gaze. Marius swallowed, and risked another attempt to speak.

  “Captain,” he began, and winced. When Spone made no move to shatter his bones he took a breath and continued. “Captain, what is this? What’s going on?”

  “What’s going on, Mister Helles,” Bomthe stepped forward and stood behind the prisoners, facing Marius, “is government business.”

  “What are you talking about? What did you mean about… these men have been tortured.”

  “These men,” Bomthe pulled back the head of the middle prisoner and stared down at his terrified face, “are prisoners of His Imperial Majesty Tanspar the First, having plotted to murder the King and his family and seize control of the parliament. They have confessed, and are here for the carrying out of their sentence.”

  “But Tanspar is dead. You don’t have to–”

  His Majesty’s physical condition is of no interest to me. His payment is good either way.”

  “What? No. I mean, why do you…?”

  Bomthe looked up, and smiled. “Why me? Out here, instead of the block at Justice Square?” He dropped the man’s head, and moved to his left, grabbing the head of the next in line and staring at it in the same way as before. “I don’t question His Majesty’s commands,” he said softly. “I just carry them out.” He frowned, and glanced up at Marius. “Tell me, Mister Helles,” he said, twisting the prisoner’s head so that he and Marius stared directly at each other. “You seemed to know this man.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me.” Bomthe gave the unresisting head a gentle shake. “In the room, you recognized him, didn’t you? It makes for a strange thought, does it not, that you would take board on my ship, through an intermediary, that you would pay an exorbitant fee in such short time without protest, that you would break into the one store on this ship that contains not a single item a petty lock pick might be expected to steal, and after all that, you and this traitor to the crown recognize each other. What do you say, Mis
ter Helles?”

  Marius stared at the prisoner. He slowly raised his head, matched Marius’ gaze for long moments, then slowly, imperceptibly, shook his head. Marius echoed the movement, tearing his gaze away from the bloodied visage back to the captain.

  “No,” he managed to croak. “Not even slightly. I, uh…” He took a deep breath, then steadied his gaze. “I was simply shocked at the inhuman conditions in which I found them. You run a barbarous sort of prison, sir.”

  Bomthe matched his stare for half a dozen heartbeats, before tilting his head back and uttering a short bark of laughter. “Ha! Well said, sir, even if I don’t believe a word of it.” He entwined his fingers in the prisoner’s hair and shook him vigorously. The weakened man made no effort to resist, simply toppled from one side to the other. “You do know this man, I am sure of it, but it makes no matter to me. It doesn’t change his situation. Or yours,” he added, his smile tightening.

  Marius looked away. “And what has this wretch and his friends supposed to have done to warrant such cruelty?”

  “Oh, I’m sure you know,” Bomthe said, letting loose his grip and standing back. The captive slumped to one side. Spone quickly stepped forward and held him up with his leg. “Treason, sedition, attempted murder.”

  “And how?” Marius asked, not wishing to hear the answer but knowing all too well what it would be. Because he did recognize the beaten and bloodied wretch before him, and recognizing him, knew exactly what plan he had implemented and failed. Because Gereth vel Brinken had been a drinking buddy of Marius’ since he first started sneaking out from his father’s house to drink at the dockside taverns.