‘What?’ said Moller gruffly, clearly none too impressed at being disturbed at this hour of the morning.
‘I have a problem,’ Hugo replied, a little more desperately than he had intended.
‘Clearly,’ said Moller, looking Hugo up and down. ‘You’d best come in then.’ He pushed open the door, allowing Hugo to step into the gloomy interior of the shop.
Once inside, his eyes slowly adjusted, revealing the dusty wares on sale. All manner of grim and dangerous-looking equipment lined the walls: spiked cages, leghold- and bear-traps, manacles of varying length and thickness, weighted nets and snares.
‘What is it you’re after, then?’ asked Moller. ‘Bear? Wolf? Boar? I’ll assume it’s game since you certainly don’t look the bounty hunting type.’
‘Erm, no,’ Hugo replied. ‘It’s… well, it’s, erm… rats!’
Moller narrowed his eyes, staring across the dark room with clear disdain. ‘Rats?’
‘Yes, I’m plagued by the filthy degenerate vermin. I need traps, and plenty of them.’
Moller shook his head, grumbling to himself as he entered a back room. Hugo could hear banging and clattering as the man searched through a mass of clutter until he eventually found what he was looking for. He returned with a small wooden box which he dropped on the shop counter with a disconsolate shrug. Peering in, Hugo could see a collection of jumbled garbage, some of it recognisable as trap components, but mostly it was a box full of broken wood and rusted metal hinges.
‘Is that it?’ Hugo said. ‘On your door it says Master of Traps!’
Moller frowned, grasping the box. ‘Now look here – I’ve crafted traps for elector counts in four provinces, hunters come to me from as far as Nordland. If you don’t want–’
‘No, no. I’ll take it,’ said Hugo in a panic, producing a purse from inside his coat. ‘Here, for your trouble.’ He placed four shiny gold crowns on the counter.
Moller seemed to instantly brighten, clapping his hand over the coins and sliding them into his meaty palm.
Hugo grabbed the box and was about to leave when Moller held up his hand.
‘I’ve got something else might help,’ he said. ‘If you’re interested.’
Hugo nodded, unsure whether to trust the wry smile on Moller’s face. The trapmaker disappeared into the back room once more, but this time there was no sound of clattering. What Hugo heard was far worse, as though Moller were wrestling with some kind of foul daemonic creature. He reappeared seconds later, holding a large object with a tattered piece of sacking draped over the top. Once he had slammed it down on the counter he jumped back, as though the object might explode in his face. Hugo could hear a frenzied gnashing and spluttering emanating from beneath the sack, and he too retreated to a safe distance.
‘This,’ said Moller, grasping the cloth between the fingers of his outstretched hand, ‘is Gertrude!’
He whipped away the sack to reveal a cage beneath. Hugo couldn’t tell what the sight within it filled him with more: fear or revulsion. Gertrude was the sorriest looking excuse for a cat he had ever seen – all gnashing teeth and mangy fur. She attacked the cage with a frenzy to rival any Norscan, howling like a banshee all the while.
‘Best ratter in the Taalbaston, although she does have some… issues. Yours for only five crowns.’
Hugo stared as the cat tried to chew her way out of the mesh cage, her chipped yellow teeth grinding against the metal.
‘No thanks,’ he replied. ‘The traps will do for now.’
‘Suit yourself,’ said Moller. ‘But if you change your mind, you can always come back.’
‘Of course,’ Hugo said, backing out into the street, and closing the shop door behind him. ‘I’ll be back – right after I’ve flashed my fruits at the Emperor’s Parade.’
It took him hours to disentangle the mess of traps Moller had sold him. Some had broken hinges, some brittle bases, others were rusted beyond use, but eventually Hugo managed to salvage over a dozen usable rat traps.
After much planning, he located them strategically throughout his house then carefully baited each one with Grossreiche Blue – the most pungent cheese he owned. As he carefully secured the clasp on the last one, Hugo giggled at his visions of an unwary quarry wandering up, summoned by the tantalising aroma, only to have its neck snapped as it tried to take a bite.
Still chortling to himself, Hugo retreated to his bedchamber, snuffed out the candle and jumped into bed.
In the morning, Hugo was awoken to brilliant sunlight invading the slats in his Cathayan blinds. He could remember no nightmares; in fact his sleep had been so sound he couldn’t remember dreaming at all.
With a spring in his step he crossed his room and flung open the door, eager to see the carnage his traps had wrought. He padded, barefoot, to the end of the corridor then gingerly peered around the corner. Hugo had never had the strongest of stomachs, and despite the inevitable joy he knew it would bring, he was still reluctant to view a splattered rat’s corpse.
But there was nothing there – no trap, no Grossreiche Blue, and definitely no dead rat.
Hugo stared for several seconds. He was certain he had placed one of the traps right on that spot, but there was nothing. Scratching his head, he moved on to the next trap.
Perhaps he was mistaken, he thought as he moved through the house, perhaps his frenzied eagerness to eliminate the vermin had confused him and fuddled his mind. It was perfectly possible, he was under a lot of strain after all, but when he reached the location of the next trap he let out an audible yelp. That one had also disappeared!
With rising panic, Hugo rushed through the mansion, his feet slapping against the bare floorboards as he hurried to view each carefully-planned spot in which he had left his baited traps. Every one was missing, with not even a crumb of cheese left to mark where they had been.
His heart was beating now, slamming against his ribcage, the blood pumping audibly in his ears. The pressure in his head felt as though it would smash through his skull, releasing his frustration in a black gout of fetid steam.
‘I know what you’re up to!’ Hugo screamed, his voice echoing through the chambers and corridors of his mansion. ‘You’re trying to send me mad! Well it won’t work! Do you hear me? I’m Hugo Kressler, the greatest merchant of Talabheim, and I won’t be beaten by scavenging pests!’
At that he raced down the stairs, this time not bothering to don his greatcoat or boots before hurrying into the morning air.
Hugo returned two hours later. He tramped up the garden path bearing a heavy package, made all the more cumbersome by the gnashing, whining, spitting creature that was secreted within its wire mesh confines. On any other day his entrepreneurial nature would have compelled him to haggle with Moller over the price, but this was not a day for bartering – besides, five crowns had seemed like a bargain under the circumstances.
The front door slammed open as Hugo entered, a maniacal grin on his face.
‘I’m back!’ he screamed. ‘And I’ve brought a friend with me!’
After placing the cage down in the centre of the reception hall he removed the sack that covered it, eager to release Gertrude on his unsuspecting houseguests. On seeing the raging whirlwind of fur and claws though, Hugo had second thoughts. Perhaps he should try and bond with Gertrude first, at least enough to stop her trying to claw his throat out.
He raced to the pantry, sniffing the pail of milk that sat within. It was a bit on the sour side, but he doubted Gertrude would notice – by the looks of her she’d not been offered anything this fresh for months.
Pouring some of the milk into a saucer he returned to the entrance hall and placed it in front of the cage.
‘How about a little peace offering?’ he said, sliding back the bolt.
In response, Gertrude calmed a little, seemingly mesmerised by the promise of milk.
Hugo swung the cage door open and backed away, leaving the saucer between him and the cat. She padded forwards with a sniff, th
en tentatively lapped up a mouthful. To Hugo’s relief, his souring milk appeared to Gertrude’s liking and she finished off the saucer with gusto, then sat back with a satisfied purr.
‘There,’ he said, taking a step forwards to pat her head. ‘You’re not all that bad after all, are you?’
His hand didn’t reach within a foot of her before she screeched, clawing at him, yowling her hatred and attacking with unrestrained fury.
Hugo fled, sprinting up his staircase pursued by the angry cat all the way back to his bedchamber. He just managed to slam the door before Gertrude inflicted any further harm, and slid the bolt across just in case.
It was several hours before he mustered the courage to open his door, peering out into the dark corridor beyond. When he saw there was no wicked, hissing cat waiting for him, he let out a sigh of relief and stepped out into the passage.
His bare foot squelched down on something soft and unctuous. It oozed between his toes, unleashing the most horrendous odour Hugo had ever had the misfortune to experience.
He didn’t have to look down to know that Gertrude had left him a gift reflecting just what she thought of him.
Well, she didn’t have to like him, did she – she just had to do what he’d bought her for!
Hugo hopped to his nightstand, removed the doily that sat atop it and wiped the pungent cat crap from his foot, then went in search of Gertrude.
After checking the ground floor and finding no trace of the cat or her prey, Hugo moved to the first floor. As he reached the top landing he cringed as he saw fresh claw marks on his fine oak banister. He clenched his teeth against the fury, and moved towards the stair for the second floor, only to slip and stumble on a warm puddle of what could only be cat piss.
Hugo clenched his fists, moving to the foot of the stairwell and dragging his sodden foot along his embroidered Kislevite rug. It was then there pealed forth a horrendous sound the like of which he had never heard before. It was a tortured crowing, as though some wild animal were braying its last in agonising pain, and he was suddenly frozen to the spot by the sound.
Steeling himself, Hugo moved up the stairs onto the second-storey corridor. A number of doors led off into his various guestrooms and the sound seemed to be emanating from within one of them. It was louder now, and clearly coming from the first room on the right. Hugo grasped the door handle, girding his loins as he pushed open the door, squinting as he entered lest the sight be too much for his delicate sensibilities.
Gertrude let out another shattering howl, and Hugo’s jaw dropped open at the sight. The cat lay in the middle of the room, her fur in tattered pieces, and clasped to her body, from the tip of her tail to the ends of her ears, were Hugo’s missing rat traps.
What could have done this? What foul creature could overcome Gertrude so? What fiendish jester was taunting him in such a manner?
The answer was clear – these rats were revealing themselves as a force to be reckoned with!
‘Bastards!’ Hugo cried. ‘You may have won this battle, but the war isn’t over yet!’
With Gertrude safely de-trapped and placed in her cage, Hugo left his mansion once more. This time he had the wherewithal to dress himself, albeit shabbily, before he set out onto the darkening streets.
The Frog and Trumpet was one of the more upper-class drinking establishments of Talabheim, being situated in the affluent Manor District and with a clientele to match. Although Hugo received a curious look from the doorman as he walked in, his face was well-known enough to secure him entry despite his drab appearance.
Dergen Henschnapf was sitting in his usual spot by the fire, supping his schnapps and listening to the well-versed lute player secreted in one corner of the drinking house. When Hugo slumped into the grand leather chair opposite, Dergen peered curiously over his half-moon spectacles, barely recognising his old friend.
‘I have a problem,’ Hugo said, his eyes wide and desperate.
‘Clearly,’ Dergen replied.
‘Why does everyone keep saying that? Anyway, you have to help me, I have nowhere else to turn.’
Dergen took another sip of schnapps before giving Hugo his Do go on, I’m listening look.
‘I have rats. In my house. They’re everywhere,’ Hugo said before glancing around furtively, as though admitting he had rats in public might be more of a social faux pas than turning up at the Frog and Trumpet looking like a pauper’s dog.
Dergen said nothing, merely altering his expression to What would you like me to do about it.
‘You have connections,’ said Hugo, growing ever more desperate, unable to keep his voice below a hoarse whisper. ‘You move in those kind of circles.’
Dergen raised an eyebrow. ‘What exactly are you suggesting?’ he replied.
‘Do I have to spell it out? You know people in the extermination business.’
Now it was Dergen’s turn to glance furtively before sitting up and moving closer to Hugo.
‘I have contacts, yes, but they’re not skilled in exterminating the kind of vermin you’re talking about.’
‘You must know someone, Dergen. There must be something you can do, I’m at my wits end!’
Dergen reclined in his chair, deep in thought. Then he nodded, a sly smile crossing his lips. ‘Actually I do know someone who may be able to help. Owes me a favour, and he’s skilled in just this line of work.’
‘Really?’ Hugo’s face brightened. ‘You do?’
‘Yes. You can find him in the Ten-Tailed Cat. Just ask for Boris, the barman will know who you mean.’
Hugo suddenly glared with indignation. ‘You expect me to go to the Ten-Tailed Cat? I’m Hugo Kressler, the most powerful merchant–’
‘–in all Talabheim. Yes, I’ve heard it before Hugo, but I’m guessing the rats in your house don’t care about that. And let’s face it, you hardly look too powerful or merchant-like for the Ten Tailed Cat right now, do you? In fact, dressed as you are I’m guessing you’ll fit right in.’
Hugo glanced down at his apparel, then ran a trembling hand through his straw-like mop of hair.
‘Well, I’ve been under a lot of stress,’ he said.
‘All the more reason for you to hurry along,’ replied Dergen, waving Hugo towards the door.
Hugo could only nod, thanking his old friend and rushing from the Frog and Trumpet before anyone else could see him in such a dishevelled condition.
The docks stank of rotting fish and ale, mixed in with the sickly-sweet aroma of cheap perfume wafting from a gaggle of preening harlots. None of them bothered to give Hugo a second glance as he made his way through the shadows towards the Ten-Tailed Cat.
A muted din of conversation emanated from the confines of the alehouse and, as Hugo approached, the door was suddenly flung open, allowing a drink-addled patron to stumble out into the night. The raucous interior was revealed in all its insalubrious glory; a heady mix of dirty laughter and thick pipe smoke.
Hugo hesitated at the threshold. What had he been reduced to? Sneaking through the dark of Talabheim’s most woe-begotten streets to mix with the patrons of the city’s foulest dives. But he was here for a reason… a quest some might say. Even the heroes of legend had to reach their lowest ebb before rising to victory. This was merely another step on his path to defeating the enemy in his home.
Raising his chin, Hugo strode forwards, opening the door to the Ten-Tailed Cat and walking in as though he owned the place. Immediately, several sets of mean, hard-bitten eyes turned his way, and any confidence he may have summoned immediately vanished.
Dropping his head to avoid eye contact with anyone, Hugo made a dash for the bar. It turned into a weird kind of dance as he jinked and dodged to avoid touching any of the hulking, brutish patrons in his path, but eventually he made it in one piece. He squeezed between two grimy dockers and signalled the barman. Over the din of the alehouse he explained he was looking for Boris, and with a nonchalant nod of the head, the round-faced barman signalled towards a booth in one dank corn
er.
As Hugo approached he saw that Boris was a hulking figure, his head encased in a tight leather skullcap, his bare arms bulging with thick, corded muscle. He nursed a large pewter tankard into which he stared with a strange melancholy and, despite his rough exterior, Boris looked as out of place amongst the boisterous carousers of the Ten-Tailed Cat as Hugo felt.
‘Erm, Boris?’ Hugo asked as he reached the booth. The man seemed to brighten at Hugo’s approach, nodding and offering the bench opposite. ‘You’ve been recommended to me by Dergen Henschnapf as a man who might be able to eradicate a certain pest problem I currently have,’ said Hugo, taking the proffered seat.
Boris frowned, suddenly deep in thought. ‘Can’t say as I recognise the name,’ he replied in a rumbling voice. ‘But my memory’s not been all it was since I got retired from sewer duty.’
‘Retired? Does that mean you’re no longer in the business?’
‘Depends what the problem is.’
Hugo glanced around, but it was clear the rest of the alehouse was too busy with its own revelry to care about his problems. ‘I have… rats. In my house,’ he whispered over the din.
‘Have you tried traps?’ asked Boris.
‘Of course I’ve tried bloody traps,’ Hugo snapped with immediate regret. ‘I mean, yes. But these ones are clever, devious… cunning.’
Boris smiled knowingly. ‘Ah. You’ll be needing an expert then.’
Of course I will, that’s why I’m in this stinking fleapit! was what Hugo wanted to say, but he merely nodded in reply, keeping his lip firmly buttoned.
‘Well, you’ve come to the right man,’ Boris continued. ‘I’m the best rat catcher in the city. Let me know the address, I’ll pick up some supplies and be right round.’
Hugo felt a sudden rush of elation. ‘Excellent,’ he replied.
He gave Boris the details of his mansion, along with easy instructions on how to find it, then stood to leave. Before he could escape the cloying confines of the Ten-Tailed Cat, though, he paused, curiosity getting the better of him.
Hammer and Bolter - Issue 2 Page 9
