Scourge

by Gail Z. Martin

  Machison sat staring at the closed door for several minutes after Jorgeson left. Understanding the nuances of League politics was like puzzling out the workings of a lockbox; the interlocking mesh of gears and levers that, when pushed and pulled, moved everything around them.

  Kadar doesn’t even have to scuttle the negotiations to score a win. All he has to do is bring a shadow over how they were handled, while protecting his own interests. Then he can whisper into Aliyev’s ear that Gorog and I are to blame.

  “Two can play that game,” he murmured. “Kadar needs to be sent a warning.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  KELL MANEUVERED THROUGH the Market, dodging oncoming carts and stepping around fresh puddles of horse piss. Fear hung heavy in the air. He could feel it in the furtive glances and hear it in the murmurs of the crowd, in the unnatural hush of the vendors, in the way people held themselves, as though ready to flee at any moment.

  The Lord Mayor’s guards did not take the deaths of three of their own lightly; they were far more motivated to find the killers— they seemed to believe a group of hunters had lured them into the old house and collapsed the roof—than they had ever been to fight monsters. Guards went door to door, making enquiries, and frightened merchants, eager to deflect attention from themselves, told lies. Rumors flew from one end of Wrighton to the other, faster than the crow can fly.

  To the brothers’ great relief, nothing had yet led the guards to the Valmonde’s shop. When the accusations and wild tales had finally quieted, the guards determined that a tremor had brought down the building and chalked it up to an act of the gods.

  The prophet hawked his visions of doom near the League monument, attracting a crowd. Some of the onlookers jeered and heckled at his claim that the monsters afflicting the city were the judgment of the gods, but a few looked stricken with conscience. Kell repressed a shudder at the memory of the large beetles, and felt his temper rising at the thought of people feeling guilty about their own murders. Afraid he might say something he would regret if he listened longer, Kell took up his cart and resolutely walked away.

  He parked the cart and made his way into the first shop. “I need some more pigments,” Kell said, when his turn came at the counter. “Business has been brisk.”

  “In any other trade but yours, that’d be a good thing,” Parah said. “But then we’ve all had a run of hard luck lately.”

  Kell nodded, commiserating. “Too bad the monsters couldn’t have come last week, when we had guards on every corner. Give them something useful to do.” He left it up to interpretation whether ‘useful’ referred to the guards fighting the monsters, or the monsters killing the guards.

  Parah winked. “I hear you. Truer words were never spoken.”

  Kell paid for the pigments and thanked her. If she’d noticed that he had bought more than usual, and a bag of salt as well, she did not say anything. Some of the pigments were to hide Rigan’s still-healing bruises. It would not do to have people wondering about his injuries.

  That meant Rigan was house-bound until he healed. He could not go with Corran to the cemetery, so his duties fell to Kell, on top of fixing meals and trading with the merchants, though Rigan helped as much as he was able. The beating and the toll the magic had taken slowed Rigan’s recovery, and impatience made him snappish. Kell had already let the others know not to expect anything more creative than stew or cheese and dried meat until his brother was back on the job and out of his hair.

  “Treating yourself, Master Kell?” Ebby, the tea vendor chuckled as Kell spared a coin for a cup of her specially-blended brew.

  “I deserve it,” Kell declared, adding sugar to the drink and pausing to enjoy the aroma. “I’m highly unappreciated.”

  “You might be the only business that didn’t lose coin the last few weeks. We all come your way, sooner or later. But when folks are afraid to come to the market, the rest of us go home with light purses.” She paused. “Got any more of those charms? Good luck’s been scarce lately.”

  Kell produced his last three amulets. “They’ve been in demand, what with all that’s been going on. What’s your fancy?”

  Ebby chose a talisman and paid, and Kell slipped the other two charms into a pocket.

  “Got any tips for me?” Kell asked, holding up an extra bronze and twirling it between his fingers. Ebby’s tea was popular, and most people who shopped in the market stopped at her stand. That meant Ebby heard much of the neighborhood gossip, including who might be sick and not expected to recover. The Valmondes might be the only officially-appointed Guild undertakers in this part of Wrighton, but some of the other undertaking families were known to poach along the edges of others’ territories, an infraction which the Guild did not police as diligently as they could. Kell jealously guarded ‘his’ streets, doing his best to curry goodwill to head off competitors.

  Ebby put another pot on her little brazier to boil. “I heard the cobbler’s son has a fever. The silversmith’s old grandmam looks peaky. One of the wagon men had his leg crushed day before last when two rigs collided; that kind of thing can go bad fast.”

  “Much obliged. I’ll keep an eye out.” Kell had long ago gotten over the ghoulishness of inquiring about the neighbors. He finished his tea and gave back the cup. “Let me know if you hear anything else,” he added as he headed back to his cart. Ebby assured him that she would.

  “Bring me your dead!” Kell shouted as the cart rattled on the cobblestones. “Valmonde Brothers Undertakers. We’ll send you out in style!”

  Some chuckled at Kell’s cries, others admonished him, but no one ignored him. Tom the silversmith flagged Kell down as he passed by the shop. “My grandmam passed over last night,” he said. “I want you to send her off and do it right.”

  Kell never let on that Ebby had told him. “I’m sorry for your loss,” he said in an appropriately solemn tone.

  Tom and Kell carried the dead woman down the stairs together. Tom’s wife made a sign of blessing as they passed out of the shop, and together, Kell and Tom laid the old lady’s body in the cart. “She’ll be buried in the Smiths’ Guild’s lot in the cemetery?”

  Kell quoted him a price. “That gets you the full Guild honors, a Guild place in the yard, additional prayers from the priest, and our best preparation.”

  Tom dug out his money from a leather purse beneath his tunic and handed over the fee. “See that she’s sent off well.”

  Kell assured him that he would.

  As he passed a stable, a man came out to meet him. “Got one for you,” he said, motioning for Kell to come closer. “One of our wagon drivers lost a leg in an accident. Surgeons couldn’t help him. The blood went bad.”

  The man’s body lay on a bed of straw. His stump was bandaged and bloody. The corpse looked fresh. “How long ago did he die?” Kell asked.

  “Just a candlemark or so. We haven’t gotten rid of the leg, if you want to bury them together.”

  “Sure,” Kell said. “Give me both. But who’s paying for the burial?”

  The stablehands had gathered around, and they looked at each other. “I guess we are,” the man who had hailed Kell said. “He wasn’t from around here. How much will it cost?”

  Kell quoted them a third of what the silversmith had paid, knowing the stablehands had little coin to part with. “It’s not going to be fancy,” he warned as the men dug for their coins. “But it’ll get the body marked, a decent shroud, and a place in holy ground.”

  “Done,” the stable hand said, handing the money over to Kell. “Thank you. We weren’t sure whether we could do right by him or not.”

  Kell pocketed the money and smiled. “Valmonde Brothers takes good care of you. Tell your neighbors.”

  So far, Ebby’s tips had been spot on, and as Kell continued his rounds, he worried about the cobbler’s boy. He slowed as he passed the shop, looking for signs of mourning. No ash mark over the doorframe, no black cloth in the window. Kell murmured a prayer under his breath, and went on his w
ay. Not today, thank the gods.

  One of Kell’s informants was waiting for him when he came around the corner by the weaver’s shop. Kell pulled out a couple of bits of dried licorice from his pocket and handed them over to Tek, who accepted them happily.

  “What do you hear?” Kell asked.

  “There’s a dead man at the whorehouse. Stabbed. I heard Mistress Rose is in a hurry for you to come by and take him.”

  “Done,” Kell said, walking on as Tek jogged alongside.

  “The midwife has two for you,” Tek added. “The knife-maker’s daughter had a rough time with the birth. Neither made it.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. Are they with the midwife, or the knifemaker?”

  Tek gave him the directions. “No one’s seen the potter’s son, Allery, in days,” he went on. “He hasn’t shown up at your place, has he?”

  Kell looked away. “We’d have said something to the potter if he had. Someone has to pay for the burial.”

  “That’s what I figured.” Tek followed him to the end of the block, and Kell paid him a bronze for the information.

  “Did the Lord Mayor pay you to bury those guards that got squashed when the quake came?” Tek asked.

  Kell forced himself to keep a neutral expression. “The Lord Mayor has his own men for that, up in Vista.”

  “Thought maybe he’d use someone local. Especially if there wasn’t much left to bury. Been talk that it might have been a witch what killed those guards.” He pointed toward several odd markings chalked on a nearby wall. “Of course, with those Wanderers scribbling their spells on the walls, there’s no telling who’s behind it all.”

  “Loose talk like that’ll get someone killed,” Kell warned. He glanced at the chalk marks, remembered his conversation with the old Wanderer woman, and shivered.

  Tek shrugged. “Just telling you what I hear so you keep paying me. Wouldn’t do to have nothing to say.”

  Kell headed to the midwife’s first. The dead woman looked no older than Rigan, and her baby lay swaddled on her chest, as if he were only napping.

  “The family gave me money for the burial and asked me to arrange it,” the midwife said. “Her father wants Guild honors and the Guild lot.” Her voice caught. “He asked me to deal with you because he didn’t think he could.” She gave him the full Guild fee twice over. “That’s for her, and for the babe as well.”

  Kell swallowed hard and looked away. “We’ll take care of it.”

  She thanked him and he moved on, but despite the sunlight and the day’s mild breeze, Kell’s mood darkened.

  It’s all part of the job, he told himself. Easier on the families for us to handle things than have them do it all themselves. He didn’t usually mind taking in corpses of adults. Children—especially babies—were the worst.

  Kell pushed his mood away and forced himself to sing out his call loud and clear. The next stop was Mistress Rose’s whorehouse. The madam was waiting in the doorway, and she signaled for him to come around to the back. Kell was used to it; having the undertaker’s cart out front could be bad for business.

  “I wouldn’t pay for the son of a bitch’s burial at all if there was a trench I could throw him in and be done with it,” Rose said as she led Kell up the back stairs. “Even better if it was a latrine.” A few of Rose’s ladies smiled at him as he passed, and one threw a kiss. Kell blushed and kept his gaze on Rose’s back.

  “The guy took a swing at one of my girls,” Rose said, escorting Kell into a well-appointed bedroom. “Tried to rough her up. We don’t stand for that around here. She defended herself.” Rose paused. “Of course, the guards might not see things that way.”

  “You need him to disappear?”

  “I’ll pay for extra of that quicklime you use so no one will recognize him if someone gets it in his head to dig him up.”

  “All right. What else?”

  “Put him in the pauper’s corner,” Rose said, with a malicious smile. “You know any tricks about burying someone so the gods won’t take them? Like upside down or with the wrong markings? I’ll give you an extra coin if you make sure his trip to the After won’t be easy.”

  “Believe it or not, you’re not the only person who’s ever asked that.”

  Rose chuckled. Her voice had been coarsened over the years by whisky and pipe smoke. She had likely been beautiful when she was younger. Now, she looked shrewd and hard, but rumor had it she treated the girls in her house well. Kell looked at the dead man. It wouldn’t take many such incidents for Rose’s visitors to understand the need for ‘manners.’ “You have two older brothers, don’t you?”

  Kell nodded, pulling the dead man and the bed sheet onto the floor. It was going to fall to him to get the corpse downstairs, and the ride would not be gentle. He would have to drag the body by its feet. He can’t get any deader. And I imagine it will amuse Rose’s girls.

  “Tell your brothers to stop by sometime. I’m grateful for your help. First visit is on the house.” She gave Kell an appraising look. “I’m sure I could find a girl who’d be willing to make a man of you.”

  His cheeks burned. “Thanks for the offer,” Kell managed. “But I’ve got to get back with the bodies.”

  “The dead aren’t in any hurry.”

  Half certain Rose was teasing, and half terrified she wasn’t, Kell ducked his head to avoid eye contact. “Maybe another time,” he said, hoping desperately it would be a year or two before anyone else died at the brothel.

  Rose chuckled as Kell headed down the steps, pulling the dead man behind him with a disconcerting string of thuds as the corpse’s head hit each step. By the time he reached the bottom, all of Rose’s girls who weren’t occupied had come to watch.

  “This isn’t our normal way of handling a body, in case anyone asks,” Kell felt obliged to point out.

  “It’s better than he deserves,” said a dark-haired girl who might have been a year Kell’s senior. A bruise around her throat suggested she was the one who had killed the client. “I wouldn’t have minded if you’d have just rolled him down the steps.”

  “Can you drag the son of a bitch behind your wagon? Carrying him’s too good for him,” a redhead asked. She stood beside the girl with the bruised throat with her arm protectively around her shoulders and a fierce look on her face.

  “People would talk,” Kell replied. He hauled the sheet-wrapped body out the door and manhandled the corpse onto the wagon.

  “Have a care no one sees him,” Rose said quietly, as she paid Kell his usual fee and a tidy sum extra. “It’s the Chancellor of the Exchequer.”

  As if we didn’t have enough trouble already. “You’re kidding.”

  Rose shook her head. “We get all kinds here. Long as they pay and mind their manners, everyone’s welcome.” She looked toward the brunette. “Tell him what you heard from that blighter, Doria,” Rose urged. “Kell’s doing you a big favor.”

  Doria eyed Kell with suspicion. “We were talking a bit, before we got to business. I asked him about the building that collapsed on the other side of Wrighton. He said the Lord Mayor’s men hadn’t ruled out magic. They think a witch might be loose somewhere in the city. Best you be careful.”

  “Thanks for the warning,” Kell replied, just about managing to keep his voice level. “I’ll keep my eyes open.” He dug out the charms from his pocket. “If you’re worried, I’ve got a few charms left. Just the thing to give you some peace of mind.”

  Doria pulled out several warm coins from a small bag hidden in her bosom and took one of the charms. “I’ll take all the luck I can get,” she muttered.

  “You won’t be sorry,” Kell promised.

  “Come back and see us sometime,” Rose urged with a winsome smile.

  “When you’re older!” the redhead added. The other girls laughed, and Kell resisted the urge to bolt, forcing himself to keep his head up as he walked to the wagon.

  What a day. I’ve got a corpse in the back the guards could hang me for—probably bla
me me for stabbing him, too, if they catch me. Everyone’s talking about the quake, and the Lord Mayor is looking for Rigan, even if he doesn’t realize that’s who his witch is. Just lovely.

  Kell dumped some quicklime on the dead chancellor’s face before he left the alley behind the brothel, and pulled the tarpaulin tight around the bodies. The next stop was The Lame Dragon, to see if Prendicott had any trade for him.

  Before he went to the back door of the inn, Kell ran a hand through his hair, hoping Polly would be there to greet him. He rapped at the kitchen door, but it was the stern cook who answered his knock. “Nothing today,” she said.

  Kell shifted, trying to see past her.

  “She’s gone, boy.” The cook’s expression softened. “Took off before dawn.”

  Kell looked at her, stunned. “Why?” He remembered the man they had buried, the one Polly had knifed, and felt fear curdle in his stomach.

  “Don’t know for sure, lad,” the cook said, dropping her voice. “She didn’t confide in me. Something scared her, and she ran. Don’t think she’ll be back.”

  “Do you know where she went?”

  The cook shook her head. “No, and I don’t want to know. What I don’t know, I can’t tell.”

  Kell managed to nod, and remembered the other reason he had come to the door, besides checking for bodies and hoping to see Polly. “Can I give you coin for a pot of stew?” Kell asked, digging out the money as the cook gave him a skeptical look.

  “Hungry?” she said in a voice raw from kitchen smoke.

  “It’s for the knife-maker. His daughter died giving birth and he lost both her and his grandchild. Here,” he said, pressing the coins into her hand. “That should pay for the stew and a boy to run it over to him. Tell him it’s from a friend.”

  The cook frowned. “Is this a joke?”

  “No joke. It’s just... the decent thing to do.” After the day Kell had, it felt good to do something nice for someone.

  “All right,” the cook said slowly. “You could take the man in the small guest room upstairs, save yourself a trip.”