Scourge

by Gail Z. Martin

  “I started to ground myself when I saw Corran go down, and after that, I just reacted.”

  “Is that bad?” Kell wound the gauze around Rigan’s arm and ribs.

  “Only if I want to keep living,” Rigan replied. “I did better this time, but that’s why I still need training. The magic pulls too much from me, instead of drawing energy from around me. It’s like pumping a well dry.”

  “I am not going to be the last Valmonde standing,” Kell said, staring them both down, hands on hips. “So the two of you had better figure out how to do what you do and stay alive—you hear me?”

  Corran chuckled. “Yes, sir. We’ll do our best.”

  “I can’t promise we’ll stay safe,” Rigan said tiredly. “But I can tell you we’ll be as careful as possible.”

  Kell poured medicinal tea for Corran and Rigan and brought it to them, helping Corran sit up so he could sip the healing brew. “Not what I want to hear, but I guess it’ll have to do.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  “WHAT’LL YOU GIVE me?” Widgem thumped down his bag of treasures in front of Kell, spreading out his latest consignment of charms.

  “Not bad. Not bad at all,” Kell said, picking one up and examining it. “I figure you keep the strongest ones for yourself?”

  Widgem grinned. “Perk of doing business. But I save the best of the rest for you.” He pulled out a basket of odds and ends. “And I’ve got some bargains here, if you care to have a look. The shell comb is nice. Only one tooth broken. Couple of small charms. A pottery chit good for a free ale over at Sailors’ Watch Inn.”

  Kell looked up. “Have you ever had their ale? Tastes like donkey piss.” He chuckled and went back to sorting through the motley treasures. “You wouldn’t happen to know what the brass key opens, would you?”

  “Old Ban Donolan’s widow tossed it out with the trash,” Widgem replied. “But the brass ought to be worth something.”

  “If old man Donolan had a treasure hidden somewhere, it would be a shock to everyone in Wrighton.”

  “Couple of nice beads there, and a pair of ivory dice that should be worth something,” Widgem said.

  “The dice aren’t too bad,” Kell allowed, holding them up to the light. “I’ve got no use for any of the rest of it.” He sat back and dug out his purse, then slapped the coins down on the table.

  “I think you’ll find it a fair price, considering what I’ve already paid for the amulets.”

  Widgem rolled his eyes. “Fairer than picking my pocket, but not by much,” he retorted, though Kell could tell he was satisfied. Haggling was a game both enjoyed. “I guess it’ll do.” He gathered the coins and swept them into his coin pouch. “I’ll see you in a couple of days.” As Kell began to rise from his seat, Widgem grabbed his arm.

  “Watch yourself. Something’s brewing. Been more people gone missing lately.”

  Kell sat back down and leaned forward. “What do you know?”

  Widgem looked around before replying. “You don’t last as long as I have without keeping your nose to the wind,” he said in a low voice. “People are nervous, and the guards are wound tighter than usual. Haven’t you noticed the way men’ve been disappearing? No good reason, just gone all of a sudden. And how whenever the milk goes sour or the babies get colic, everyone’s sure it’s ’cause a witch or a Wanderer’s been meddling? More monsters lately, too. Don’t know why; don’t need to know. But a word to the wise: keep your head down and stay out of people’s way, if you know what I mean.”

  Kell nodded. “Sure. Thanks.”

  He pushed through the unwashed crowd in the tavern’s common room, and sucked in a deep breath of fresh air once he was outside.

  Two more stops, and then it’s home for supper. He felt jumpy, but he could not fault Widgem’s warning; the sense of something in the offing had already set his nerves on edge.

  “I’ve got news if you’ve got a bronze to spare.” Tek sidled up to Kell, appearing out of the shadows of a nearby alley. Kell jumped at the sound of the voice. The boy’s soot-smudged face sported a bruise on the temple, and fresh blood oozed from one corner of his lip.

  Kell dug out a bronze and flicked it to the boy. “What do you hear?”

  “There was a brawl down on the docks. Seems that the Mayor’s guards cleared most everyone away from Wharf Street. Some of the Wanderer merchants didn’t take kindly to getting pushed out of their usual places. They did some pushing in return.”

  Kell frowned. “What happened?”

  “Near as I can make out, there were a couple of Wanderers selling from their carts down on the wharf. The guards tried to arrest them. Most of the time, they’d have just scattered, or taken their carts and run. But today, it turned into a fight.”

  “And?”

  The next thing I knew, people were yelling at the guards. The merchants were mad about the guards closing off their traffic, and the dockhands were mad that they wouldn’t get paid because the guards had the wharves closed down. There was a brawl and—”

  “Then what?”

  “I got clobbered,” Tek replied, displaying his bloodied lip like a badge of honor. “It was my own fault. I kicked one of the guards in the shins. He tried to grab me, and he cuffed me a good one, but I got away.”

  “And the Wanderers?” Kell asked, wishing he had a better view of the waterfront. He could hear a commotion in the distance.

  “Oh, you know them. They’re slippery sons of bitches,” Tek said. “Good at starting things, and leaving someone else holding the bag. I imagine they’ll be gone by sundown, on to somewhere else. But I’ve never seen the likes of it, that fight. Like a match to tinder. Everyone’s been angry at the Mayor’s guards, what with monsters and talk of witches.”

  “They’re still fighting? Has the Mayor sent reinforcements?”

  Tek shrugged. “Not yet. He’s got the streets all blocked off this way. You still going to pick up that body I told you about?”

  “We’re the only undertakers in this part of Wrighton. Someone needs burying, we go get them.”

  Tek raised an eyebrow. “That’s going to take you awful close to the docks.”

  “The chandler’s house is still in our territory, and the wharf is several blocks beyond it. Can’t leave the family with a body going sour on them, now can I?” Not to mention that it’s the chandler’s aunt, so it’ll be a full Guild burial.

  “Watch your back,” the boy said. “Tempers were getting pretty nasty.”

  “I’ll be in and gone before the guards ever notice,” Kell assured him. “And I’m the undertaker. No one ever cares about what we do.”

  “Yeah, well. It’ll get ugly if the guards get reinforcements.”

  “Thanks for the heads up.” Kell tossed Tek another coin. “Good information. Keep it up.”

  Tek tugged his forelock and hurried away. “Gods bless you. I know what I’m going to spend this on!” The boy ran off with this windfall, while Kell pondered his next move.

  If Tek’s right, heading towards the docks could be a dangerous move. But if I go home without a Guild burial, Corran will have my head. And the Guild Master might make trouble about it. He sighed. I’m not actually going to the docks. I’ll still be several blocks away. And I’ve got a cart full of bodies—hardly anything anybody else wants. It’s pretty easy to tell my business. If it looks too dangerous, I’ll turn around and go home, Corran be damned. Tek loves a good story. What if he made the whole thing up, and then I don’t pick up the body? There’ll be the dark gods to pay then, that’s for certain.

  Forcing down his nervousness, Kell turned the cart toward the chandler’s house. It was downhill from The Muddy Goat, meaning the return trip would be all the harder, laden with yet another body. Someday, I’ll make Corran buy me a donkey. Until then, I guess I get to be the ass.

  As he approached the docks, Kell could hear raised voices and smell smoke. His route had taken longer than usual and sunset had begun to color the sky. Kell hesitated, but forged ahea
d. I’m not going to be the reason we can’t put meat on the table for dinner, he thought, setting his jaw.

  Sosten, the chandler, lived three blocks back from the waterfront, at the edge of the Valmonde’s territory. He did well for himself, as the neatly painted sign and storefront attested.

  “You’re late.” Sosten glared at Kell, but his eyes darted toward the disturbance at the waterfront.

  “Been a busy day,” Kell replied.

  “Started to wonder whether you were coming,” Sosten replied, as he watched Kell struggle to carry the dead weight of the old lady to the cart. He didn’t offer to help. “Sounds like things have gotten out of hand down by the docks.”

  “You know anything about that?” Kell asked, huffing as he wrestled the corpse into place, doing his best not to handle the body too indelicately while the next of kin was watching.

  “People been talking about it all afternoon. Damn Wanderers, starting trouble again.”

  “Sounds like an awful lot of people to just be Wanderers.”

  “You know how it goes. Someone gets a fight going, and everyone else piles on. You’re not going on that way, are you? Wouldn’t advise it.” Sosten dug for his coin purse. “Mind you settle her with full Guild honors. Here’s an extra silver for making the trip, even though you were late.”

  He handed over a small bundle of candles. “And these are for your brothers, with my regards. Now don’t dally. If I hadn’t been waiting on you, I would have closed up the shutters for the night a candlemark ago. Don’t want any trouble.” With that, Sosten disappeared inside.

  Kell threw a sheet over the bodies and walked around to the front of the cart, picking up the long shafts and leaning into his task. Thanks to the fight, the lamplighters had not yet made their rounds, and the streets were darker than usual. Sounds of the disturbance carried, echoing from the buildings, closer than before.

  It can’t hurt to have a look . Corran and Rigan will want to know what’s going on, and if I have a good tale, I might not get quite such a dressing down for being late with supper.

  He pulled the cart into an alley two blocks away from Sosten’s shop and parked it in the shadows. Kell made his way carefully to the far end of the street, being sure to hug the walls and stay in the shadows. He could still see little of what was going on, so he crept down a second block, to where the alley opened onto a view of the wharfs.

  A mob of men and women armed with torches shouted obscenities at the Mayor’s guardsmen, who answered their taunts with threats. The guards were armed with swords, but the mob had taken up whatever tools were handy, brandishing kitchen knives, fireplace pokers and fishing spars, among other implements. From what Kell could see, there were several hundred residents, facing down a few dozen of the Mayor’s men.

  Sweet Doharmu—this won’t end well, Kell thought, scrambling back into the darkness. He moved quickly down the alley, anxious to be well away from the noise and fighting.

  He ran the last half block and tugged the wagon into motion. I need to get out of here. The cart was heavy and the road steep. Much as Kell wished he could sprint for home, he dared not abandon the bodies. Sosten would string me up by my thumbs if I left his old auntie by the side of the road. He’d have the Guild after our hides.

  Cursing under his breath, Kell tugged the cart with all his might, wishing he had someone behind to push.

  “You there! Stop!”

  Kell leaned forward, struggling for one step and then another, wanting to be away from whatever was going on behind him.

  “Wanderer! You with the cart! Stop in the name of the Lord Mayor!”

  Boots clattered on the cobblestones as guards ran toward him. Kell’s heart pounded as the soldiers surrounded him. He lowered the cart slowly, trying to make sure it did not roll down the hill. “I’m the undertaker! Not a Wanderer.”

  “You’ve got a cart, don’t ya?” one of the guards retorted.

  “And it’s full of dead bodies. I’m the undertaker.”

  “Put your hands up, or you’ll need a gravedigger.” One of the guards brought his sword point up to Kell’s chin, nicking the skin. “No more of your lip.”

  “Please. You’re making a mistake—”

  The guard’s sword flicked and opened a cut on Kell’s cheek. “Shut your mouth.”

  “Bunch of dead bodies in the back, like he said,” one of the other guards reported, pulling the sheet away.

  “All I care is that he’s got a cart,” the head guard replied. “Our orders were to round up the damn Wanderers, and get them off the streets. Take him.”

  Terror flooded through Kell. He jerked away as a guard grabbed for his arm, and dodged between the soldiers.

  “Get him!”

  Kell tripped over garbage and flailed, keeping his balance and charging down the alley. He hoped the soldiers would relent after a few minutes’ chase, but as he plunged on into the night, his pursuers gave no sign of giving up.

  Panic surged through him. It was one thing to outrun the market guards—they were hardly the Mayor’s best and brightest—but the wharf guards were hardened soldiers. He slipped and careened into the gutter, but kept his feet under him.

  He ran for his life.

  Kell plowed forward, steering by instinct, his only goal to get as far away from the harbor as possible. He vaulted over broken crates and shattered barrels, doing his best not to notice the large rats that squealed and ran across his path. He was totally lost, utterly terrified, and a long way from home.

  “Gotcha.” Two guards stepped into the mouth of the alley, as a third closed behind him. Kell leaped for a low balcony, hoping to pull himself up.

  Strong hands grabbed his legs and yanked him to the ground. Kell hit hard, the impact knocking the breath from him. One of the guards straddled him and hit him across the face with his fist. Kell struggled against the man’s weight.

  “I’m the undertaker!” he yelled. In the struggle, a pouch fell from Kell’s jacket. The guard held it up, dangling the lucky amulets by their cords.

  “Undertaker, huh? These are charms. What are you—witch or Wanderer?”

  “I told you—”

  “Bloody Wanderer.” The fist struck again, knocking Kell’s head to the side. Another blow snapped his head back, splitting his lip and loosening a few teeth. Blood filled Kell’s mouth. His ears rang and one eye was swelling shut.

  “Please. I’m the—”

  The next punch brought darkness.

  KELL WOKE SLOWLY. It was dark, even when he opened his eyes, but gradually his vision adjusted. As consciousness returned, so did pain. He groaned and tried to sit up. Rough rope bound his wrists and ankles.

  “It’s no use,” a nearby voice said. “They tied us tight.” Kell managed to raise himself onto his elbows. “Where are we?” “An old barn. Maybe a warehouse.” The man’s deep voice was heavily accented, and Kell strained to understand him.

  Kell could make out the man’s silhouette in the moonlight that filtered through the holes in the building’s walls. “What are they going to do with us?”

  “Nothing good.”

  Kell’s head pounded and he could not see out of one eye. His ears buzzed, and he ached in so many places that he wondered whether the guards had continued beating him even after he passed out. His ribs burned as he took a deep breath. “How long have I been here?”

  “It was dark when you came and it’s still dark. It’s been a couple of bells at least.”

  Kell gingerly lay back down. The floor beneath him was hard packed dirt, and the building smelled of hay and dust. There are dozens of old barns and warehouses around the city. We could be in any of them.

  Corran and Rigan won’t have any idea what’s become of me, or where to look. Gods help me.

  He heard others talking in low tones close by. Kell could not understand their words; eventually, he realized they were speaking the odd dialect the Wanderers used among themselves. “Are you all Wanderers?”

  “Probably,” the
man replied. “I don’t know you. But your blood calls to me. I thought I knew all of our people.”

  “I’m not a Wanderer, but my mama had Wanderer blood. I’m an undertaker.”

  “Well, we’re all likely to need your services very soon. I don’t believe the guards mean to let us leave. My name is Zahm. What is yours?”

  “Kell.”

  “I am sorry to meet you like this, Kell. If we’re going to die together, it’s best someone knows your name.”

  Kell slipped in and out of consciousness. He thought he heard the bells peal nine times, but he was no longer sure what was real and what was a product of his unquiet dreams. If it’s past tenth bells, Corran and Rigan already know something’s wrong. Maybe Corran and the hunters will find us. Maybe Rigan can track me with his magic. But they’d better hurry.

  The next time he came around, he heard the stranger near him calling out to the others. Voices replied in the same dialect, perhaps a dozen speakers. “Little brother,” Zahm said, to Kell. “Are you awake?”

  “Yes.”

  “Ah. Maybe good, maybe bad. Good that I can talk to you. Bad, because it might be better not to know what’s coming.”

  Kell felt a cold chill at the man’s words. “What did you find out?”

  Zahm was quiet for a few moments. “How old are you, little brother?”

  “Fourteen.”

  “A man, in the ways of my people. Old enough to hear truth.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Sohar and Dojne say they heard the guards talking. The Lord Mayor sent the guards to rid the city of Wanderers.”

  “Why?”

  “What does today’s reason matter? There is always an excuse. The guards have been telling people we are to blame for the monsters. That we are witches.”

  “Are you?”

  Zahm gave a low, bitter chuckle. “Not in the way they mean it. But such lies are convenient.”