Tales of the Old World

by Marc Gascoigne

  The Harbour Master frowned at the injustice of it all, then continued.

  “And then yesterday, things got even worse. The things have actually dared to kill one of the merchants. You know the candle importer, old ‘Nine Bellies’ Flangei? He was taken whilst he was inspecting his stock. Now all of his fellows are complaining. I hear some of them are even thinking about withholding their anchorage contributions. It would never happen, of course, but all the same they need reassurance. And as you can guess, Monsieur d’Artaud there aren’t many people who can reassure men who’ve seen what these things can do.”

  Florin nodded with false sympathy.

  “I don’t see how they could have reached Bretonnia from Lustria, though.” He frowned. “I mean, I can assure you that we didn’t bring any back. Did we, Lorenzo?”

  “Course not,” Lorenzo replied. “They’re bad enough a thousand leagues distant let alone on our own doorstep.”

  “Yes, I know none were on your ship’s manifest.” The Harbour Master waved a soothing hand. “I’ve already checked. But however these things got here, get here they did. So now we need somebody qualified to hunt them down and eradicate them. My men are excellent soldiers, but they lack expertise.”

  “You want us to do it?” Florin cast a doubtful eye towards the monster’s severed head. It glared up at him, a challenge still gleaming in its dead eye.

  “That’s right,” the Harbour Master said. “Who better to reassure the merchants and deal with these vermin than the man who knows them best, Captain Florin d’Artaud, hero of Lustria?”

  He beamed with the happy enthusiasm of a man who has found the perfect solution.

  Florin fidgeted, torn between pride and sincerity. For once, sincerity won out. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I really don’t know anything about these creatures. In fact, the man who killed this one probably knows more than me.”

  “Not anymore. He’s dead. But anyway, you’re too modest, Monsieur d’Artaud. Your tavern is called the Lizard’s Head.”

  “Yes, but…”

  “And you admit to knowing what these things are?”

  “I wouldn’t say admit…”

  “And to knowing their provenance.”

  “What does provenance…?”

  “Good. So all you have to do is to decide how best the worried merchants of Bordeleaux should view your relationship with these vermin. As the man who will earn a fine bounty for their extermination. Or as the man who has some other connection with them.”

  The three men sat in contemplative silence. The Harbour Master didn’t bother to enunciate the threat any further. He didn’t need to.

  “Well, it would be quite an interesting hunt,” Florin suggested, a smile starting to play across his face.

  “Interesting.” Lorenzo’s voice was full of disgust. “Lethal more like.”

  “That’s all settled, then,” the Harbour Master said, getting to his feet. “We can stop wondering about how these things followed you back from Lustria, and start paying you a crown a head. Now, if you will excuse me, I have other business to be about. If you would like to go to the customs house at dawn, I’ll get my clerk to show you what happened to poor old Nine Bellies.”

  “You mean that you aren’t going to give me your men?” Florin asked, casting an eye over the polished warriors of the Harbour Master’s entourage. They stood as still as stone, each man a part of a perfect formation.

  “Gods no,” the Harbour Master chuckled. “These are the finest warriors in Bordeleaux. Apart from our knightly masters, of course.” He paused to glance over his shoulder before continuing. “In any case, they have other fish to fry. Well, good day to you.”

  A moment later Florin and Lorenzo were alone in their tavern. They glared at the lizardine head with the concentration of fortunetellers forced to share a single crystal ball.

  “At least we won’t be bored,” said Florin.

  Lorenzo just spat.

  The next morning was grey and damp. Sunrise had been lost beneath a warm fog that was as wet as rain, and beneath his mail Lorenzo’s tunic was soon as damp as his spirits. He grumbled and cursed as he trudged along behind Florin, his head bowed and his shoulders up around his ears.

  Florin, on the other hand, looked like a man on his way to a day at the races. Despite the sodden humidity of the streets the last hours had seen his spirits rising like mercury in a broken thermometer.

  It was the promise of action that did it. That and the possibility of bloodshed. It was always the way, he thought. Life was never better than when lived in the glorious terror of mortal risk, never sweeter than when Morr himself followed in your shadow.

  Florin grinned and looked back towards Lorenzo. “Lizards, hey? Should be just like the good old days.”

  Lorenzo shot him a sour look. “Not unless you want to starve yourself and then shove some leeches down your breeches.”

  Florin laughed uproariously and slapped Lorenzo on the back.

  “I hate it when you’re in a good mood,” the older man grumbled.

  “Why?”

  “Because somebody always ends up getting hurt.”

  “Well then.” The humour bled from Florin’s face to leave a wolfs grin of anticipation. “Let’s make sure it isn’t us. You remember what those things did in Lustria. Imagine if they start taking over the city. Our city.”

  “I’m sure your civic conscience does you credit,” Lorenzo snorted. “But why couldn’t we have bought a window for a chapel instead? Or had a sewer dug? Or made a donation to the priestesses of Shallya? Or…”

  “Look, there’s the customs house,” Florin interrupted. Lorenzo looked up to see the great granite blockhouse looming out of the mist ahead. Officially, being no more than a commoner’s building, it wasn’t a fortress. It had no battlements, no drawbridge, no turrets or murder holes or crenellations.

  What it did have were massively thick walls and a battery of cannons on the reinforced roof.

  “Ever seen the gunners practise a volley from there?” Florin asked. Lorenzo shook his head.

  “No. Can’t see the Harbour Master wasting any black powder either. Anyway, I don’t think that the cannons are supposed to exist. Our noble masters might not like it.”

  Florin grunted with shared contempt, and looked around. The streets were becoming busier the closer to the docks they came, although nobody seemed to be paying them much attention.

  “I hear that in l’Anguille some of the merchants are talking about changing all that. You know that in Marienburg they’re ruled by the most able men in the city, not by aristocrats? Well, in l’Anguille… never mind.” He broke off as a man hailed them through the crowd that had gathered around the customs house.

  “Monsieur d’Artaud?”

  “And who might be asking?”

  “I’m Couraine,” the man said as he hurried forward. “Apprentice to the undersecretary of the Harbour Master’s office.”

  “You’re a clerk?”

  “Yes,” Couraine said as he gawped at Florin. “At least, almost. I still haven’t finished my apprenticeship.”

  Florin could well believe it. Couraine was barely old enough to grow a beard, and he was as pale and skinny as a shaved rat. He had the face of one too, pinched and bucktoothed. But what really made him stand out amongst the leather-skinned bruisers who crowded around the customs house was that he was unarmed. Whereas other men bristled with cutlasses and boathooks and daggers, the only thing the apprentice carried was a massive leather-bound ledger.

  “So,” Florin said, slapping him on a bony shoulder. “You’re to be our guide.”

  Couraine swallowed nervously.

  “Oh no,” he stuttered. “I’m just going to show you where the attacks have taken place.”

  Florin looked at Lorenzo, who rolled his eyes.

  “Oh, and the body of Monsieur Flangei. My master said you might want to take a look. Do you?”

  “Yes. Where is it?”

  “If you’d
just follow me, monsieur,” Couraine said, and scuttled back towards the customs house. Florin and Lorenzo followed him through the waiting merchants and captains, past the guards at the entrance, and into the echoing hall beyond. Even now, in the height of summer, it was cool inside the granite-built fortress.

  “Down here,” Couraine called back over his shoulder, and disappeared down a flight of stairs. They followed him past the last slitted window and into the darkness of the cellars. Couraine paused to take an oil lamp from a cubby hole. He lit it, and looked back at his two charges, the three men’s faces now bathed in a warm, butter yellow glow.

  “We’re only allowed to use one lamp per party,” Couraine apologised in the gloom. “My master says that it is all we need. Also,” he took a deep breath, and narrowed his eyes in concentration, “any extra expenditure can only lead to an increase in harbour duties, which would damage the great trading tradition of our city.”

  Lorenzo snorted, and Couraine looked at him nervously.

  “You said that very well, Monsieur Couraine,” Florin soothed him. “Now, let’s take a look at this body, shall we?”

  “Yes. Yes, of course.” The apprentice looked at him gratefully, and led the way into the darkness. “We’ve kept it in this room here.”

  As soon as Couraine opened the door the smell hit them. Even to men used to living amongst the constant stink of Bordeleaux the odour of the rotting corpse was eye-watering. The horrible sweetness of it clung to the back of their palates and turned their stomachs.

  “We brought him in here two days ago,” Couraine explained, his features wrinkling with disgust. Reluctantly he led the way through a long, empty room towards the covered remains. The flies that buzzed above the blanket looked horribly plump.

  They were half way down the room when the clerk staggered to a halt. He swallowed twice, pressed one hand to his stomach, and wretched. Florin looked at him. Even in the yellow lamplight he looked as white as wax.

  “Let me take the lamp,” he said, taking it from the cold sweat of Couraine’s trembling fingers. “And perhaps you could do me a favour and wait outside the door? Make sure we aren’t disturbed.”

  “Yes. Yes, of course, monsieur,” Couraine said gratefully, and fled back out of the room.

  Florin took the lamp from him and marched forward to the stinking bundle. The flame flickered into new colours beneath the corpse gas. Without giving himself time to think, Florin knelt down beside the body and pulled the blanket off it.

  “Oh, sweet Manann,” Lorenzo whispered, his eyes as wide as copper coins in the lamplight.

  Florin said nothing. He just gagged as he stumbled back from the thing. When he was back on his feet he pulled the hem of his tunic up over his mouth and exchanged a horrified glance with Lorenzo.

  Then he swallowed, fixed his features into a look of bravado, and forced himself to kneel down again to examine the corpse.

  “I see why Couraine was so jumpy,” he said, drawing a dagger from his boot and prodding the putrefying mass before him. Maggots writhed enthusiastically around the point of the blade, and Florin’s stomach rolled.

  “Do you think that happened after he was dead?” Lorenzo asked, peering over Florin’s shoulder.

  “What?” Florin asked, his voice a squeak.

  “The way that the body… the way he was flayed.”

  “Before and after,” Florin decided. “Look at the way some of the teeth marks jump. Looks like he was moving while they were tearing slivers off.”

  Lorenzo looked and wished he hadn’t. Beneath the melting flesh there were flashes of bone, the cuts on it still fresh and yellow.

  “Look at the way they stripped him of his fat,” Florin said, using his dagger to brush a cluster of squirming maggots from the corpse. “See the way they’ve eaten between his sinews? And look, they’ve eaten his lights but left his heart intact.”

  He prodded the horribly swollen organ that remained within the pink bars of the ribcage. It was as grey and bloated as some poisonous fungus, and the surface glistened with slime. Florin’s brow furrowed as he examined it. It burst suddenly, and Florin and Lorenzo jumped back from the spray of black liquid.

  “I think we’ve seen enough,” Florin said, his voice level. Lorenzo was already half way to the door, so Florin picked up the lantern and followed him. Something popped as he did so, and there was a squelch as the rotting remains settled further.

  Couraine was waiting for them in the corridor outside. He was holding his ledger in front of him, twisting at the corners nervously.

  “The summer’s no time to be killed. It’s only been two days and your friend in there looks like spare ribs in jelly.” Florin winked.

  “Oh, he wasn’t my friend.” Couraine shook his head. “I didn’t know him at all, in fact.”

  “I know. I was just… never mind. Just tell me, do you know why was he called Nine Bellies?”

  Couraine’s mouth fell open.

  “I didn’t know. He was fat, but I didn’t think that he really had nine bellies.” The clerk lowered his voice and looked suspiciously around. “Does that make him a mutant?”

  “No,” Lorenzo cut in. “It makes you an idiot.”

  “Don’t worry about him,” Florin said, clapping Couraine’s bony shoulder. “He’s just being friendly. Now, where exactly was it that Monsieur Flangei was slaughtered?”

  The clerk opened his book and, with a nervous look at Lorenzo, he started shuffling through the pages.

  “Here it is,” he muttered, and began to read: “Monsieur Flangei, a commoner of some substance, was devoured by diverse monstrosities on the day of the seventh quarter moon. The place of his misfortune was the pier which extends from his warehouse, commonly called the Dragon Wharf. Several commoners witnessed his misfortune, none of whom are worthy of note. Reward posted—none as yet.”

  Florin frowned.

  “I know where the Dragon Wharf is. But what about the people who saw the attack. Who were they?”

  “Peasants,” Couraine said. “Not worthy of note.”

  Lorenzo opened his mouth to say something, but Florin gestured him to silence. “Why were they unworthy of note?”

  Couraine shrugged helplessly.

  “It is the way the page has to be filled in. Only knights are worthy of note.”

  “But Flangei wasn’t a knight, and you have his name down there.” Florin pointed to the spidery scrawl of the unfortunate merchant’s epitaph.

  “Yes, but that’s different. We have to know who his family are.”

  “So they can give him a burial,” Florin nodded.

  “So they can pay for expenses incurred. In fact, his wife is due to collect him later. Somebody said she was quite upset. She saw the whole thing, apparently.”

  Lorenzo opened his mouth to say something else, Florin nudged him into silence.

  “And where does the poor woman live?” Florin asked.

  “Oh no.” Couraine’s narrow features twisted into a look of fresh anxiety. “She’s not too poor, is she? Only if she can’t pay, she can’t have the body, and when that happens my master always makes me deal with them. It’s terrible. People don’t seem to understand that good accountancy practices are vital to the lifeblood of the city’s trade. In fact, the last widow even tried to hit me when I was trying to explain that to her.”

  This time Lorenzo didn’t say anything. Instead he just rolled his eyes. Florin tried not to smile.

  “I’m sure she’ll be fine. In fact, if you remind me where Madame Flangei lives, I’ll explain it to her for you.”

  Couraine’s face lit up.

  “I think she lives over her husband’s warehouse. Although I suppose it’s her warehouse now. You will explain to her, won’t you? I mean, it’s the same for everybody.”

  “Relax,” Florin told him with an easy grin. “We’ll do just that.”

  And with a bow that was barely sarcastic, he left Couraine to his relief, and led off into the thickening crowds.

&nb
sp; By the time Florin and Lorenzo had reached the district which ended at the Dragon Wharf the morning mist was long gone. It had been burned away by the blinding sun, and already Bordeleaux was roasting.

  In the alleyways that the two lizard hunters pushed through the air was thick with the perfume of stale sweat and raw sewage. Fortunately the merchants and tradesmen that lined every street in this quarter seemed immune to the heat-greased stench. They shouted and cajoled and lied as eagerly as ever, seemingly oblivious to the sweat which dripped from them.

  Even the courtesans who idled on the balconies above were sodden with perspiration. Runnels of sweat cut through their powder and paint, leaving them as striped as barracuda as they eyed the throng below.

  Hardly any surprise then, Florin thought as he elbowed his way past a cluster of longshoremen, that tempers were already starting to fray. Screams and curses floated through the usual hubbub, and he’d stepped over two bleeding bodies in as many minutes.

  Another fight was just breaking out ahead. Resisting the urge to watch he skirted the knot of spectators and emerged onto the Dragon Wharf. The wet slap of sea air was like a cool hand on a fevered brow, and even the smell of stagnant brine was a relief after the vaporous interior of the city. Florin wiped his brow with relief and marched forward.

  “Which one is Flangei’s warehouse?” Lorenzo asked as the two men walked along the wharf. Cobbles and earth had given way to the wooden platform of its construction, and their boot heels joined in with a hundred others to beat a constant tattoo on the stained timber. To one side the waters of Bordeleaux’s harbour oozed, the turgid waters forested by the masts of countless ships. On the other side the warehouses squatted. Their brick walls were blind of any windows and their wide doors were guarded by listless groups of watchmen.