“I can’t remember which one was his,” Florin answered, his eyes sliding over the shingles that hung outside most of the warehouses, “but I’m sure these gentlemen can help us. Good morning, monsieurs.”
The two men he had addressed were dressed in the same sea boots and tabards as most of the men here. Cudgels hung at their belts, and they were leaning on the iron-banded door of their master’s warehouse.
“Monsieurs, is it?” one of them asked with a sneer.
“Yes,” Florin replied. “It is.”
He stepped closer to the guard and smiled with the warm good humour of a lion who has cornered a wolf. For a moment the guard held his gaze. Then he looked away and shuffled his feet. Florin, telling himself that he wasn’t disappointed by the lack of challenge, produced a coin.
“We’re looking for the warehouse of Nine Bellies Flangei,” he said, turning his smile onto the second guard. “Do you know where it is?”
“Just down there,” the man said cautiously, and pointed down the wharf. “It’s got a shingle with some candles on it.”
“Thank you,” Florin said and handed him the coin. “Monsieurs.”
The guards nodded and watched as Florin and Lorenzo prowled down the wharf. When they were out of earshot the first guard regained his voice.
“He’s lucky,” he told his mate, gesturing towards the lizard hunters. “If it wasn’t so damned hot I’d have given him a bloody nose. Cheeky sod.”
The other man grunted noncommittally and pocketed the coin. It was, after all, too hot to argue.
They found the widow Flangei busy with a delivery. A barque had tied up outside her late husband’s warehouse, and a stream of porters were carrying barrels from the vessel’s hold to the store. Despite the sweat that plastered their rags to their gaunt frames the men moved with the eagerness of worker ants, their bony bodies bent double beneath their loads.
Lorenzo didn’t blame them. Under the stern gaze of their mistress, he would have worked with the same diligence.
Madame Flangei stood on a handcart, watching her little empire with sharp blue eyes. The fact that her face looked like a well-used hatchet did nothing to compliment her figure. She was a robust woman, and whatever charms she might have had were concealed beneath a functional canvas shift. The cleaver that she wore on her belt didn’t add much to her feminine appeal either. The weapon was, after all, hardly the latest in Bordeleauxan fashion.
Only her hair showed any trace of vanity. It was as red as copper, and she had bound it into a coiffure that looked tight enough to serve as a helmet.
In fact, Lorenzo decided, she looked so formidable that the quartet of guards who stood behind her seemed almost superfluous. Their hands rested easily on their cudgels, but their eyes were everywhere. They had noticed Florin and Lorenzo as soon as the pair had paused to watch their mistress’ goods being unloaded, and now one of them pointed the two men out to her.
“Something you boys want?” Madame Flangei asked with a voice like a bullwhip. She stared down at them with eyes that Lorenzo thought must be the coldest things in a thousand miles.
But if Florin shared his friend’s uncharitable opinion he gave no sign of it. Instead he swept off his hat and bowed.
“Yes, thank you, Mademoiselle. We’re looking for the widow Flangei.” He held his pose as he spoke, although the dark brown intensity of his eyes never left the blue ice of hers.
And even as she answered Lorenzo was amazed to see that that ice had already started to melt.
“Why are you looking for her?” the widow asked. Her voice remained a blunt instrument, but now the fist which had been resting on one hip fluttered up towards her tightly bound hair to pat at an imaginary stray lock.
“We are looking for Madame Flangei to discuss a matter relating to her late husband’s death,” Florin told her, his own voice as smooth as honey.
The widow frowned, and her jaw jutted out like the ram of a galley. “I’ll collect that old fool’s bones tomorrow. As you can see, I’m busy at the moment.”
Florin shook his head and smiled ruefully. “Please, mademoiselle. On another day I would happily spend all afternoon being mocked by you. It would be a small price to pay for your presence. But today our business is too important. And unfortunately it revolves around the widow of an aged merchant, not a lady as young as yourself. Would that it did!”
Lorenzo watched in amazement as the widow’s mouth fell open, then shut with a snap. At the same time, a red flush crept up from beneath her collar and she scowled furiously.
Lorenzo could never understand why Florin had this effect on women. It couldn’t be what he said, the older man decided, because what he said was usually complete nonsense. So if it was nothing he said, it must just be the way he said it.
“Well, I am the Widow Flangei.” The widow finally recovered her voice. By now the blush had reached her hairline, and without any warning her scowl suddenly collapsed into a delighted smile.
Florin feigned embarrassment.
“Madame Flangei, I am so sorry. I hope you didn’t take any offence. I certainly meant no disrespect. Can you forgive me?”
The widow silenced his apologies with a giggle that had her men looking at her in frank astonishment. She remained oblivious to them, though. She was too busy wishing that she’d worn something a little more flattering than her canvas shift. She fidgeted with her belt so that it tightened around her waist, but then Florin approached and she forgot all about even that.
“You are most gracious,” he purred, “although now that I have acted like a perfect fool, I am almost too embarrassed to introduce myself.
“I am Florin d’Artaud, Hero of Lus… I mean, agent of the Harbour Master. This is my comrade, Lorenzo.”
So saying he took her hand, which was as calloused as a sailor’s, and caressed it as he pressed it politely to his lips. He gazed up at her as he did so, and she sighed.
“Is there somewhere a little more private we can go?” he asked, forgetting to release her hand. Madame Flangei, forgetting to take her hand back, licked her lips and nodded.
“Henri,” she said, turning to her nearest henchman. “See that all hundred and twelve barrels are weighed and tested. All of them, understand? Then you can send the skipper up for payment. Me and Monsieur d’Artaud are going up to the backroom to discuss business.”
The henchman, trying not to look too amazed at this transformation of his mistress, snapped a salute as the widow, leading Florin by the hand, retreated to the cooler confines of her inherited building.
Lorenzo watched them go, exchanged a bemused look with the guard, then found a patch of shade and tried to make himself comfortable. He knew Florin well enough to know that he would be gone for a fair while.
It was afternoon by the time Florin emerged from the warehouse. He nodded happily to the guards who waited at the gates, then strolled over to Lorenzo with a friendly smile. But Lorenzo, who had spent the afternoon watching the heat haze flicker over the rotting stew of the harbour, was in no mood to smile back.
“What took you so long?” he snapped as Florin gave him a hand up from where he had been squatting against a wall.
“What?” Florin asked, the smile never leaving his face as he gazed across the harbour to the sea gates.
“I said, what took you so long?” Lorenzo repeated, and violently dusted himself down.
“Oh that,” said Florin, and made some vague gesture. “Well, you know how it is. And the widow Flangei is certainly an incredible woman.”
Lorenzo looked at him sourly. “Incredible is one word for it. She looked like she’d eat a man alive.”
Florin turned to look at the older man, a strange expression on his face. Then, for no reason at all, he burst into a fit of wild laughter.
“I don’t see what’s so funny,” Lorenzo muttered. “I’ve been out here baking in the midday heat while you’ve been in there faffing around for hours on end. I mean, I suppose at some point you did ask her about what
happened to old Nine Bellies.”
“Yes, of course,” Florin said, wiping his eyes. “Of course I did. He was eaten by the lizards alright. They took him right off the wharf. Just by where you’re standing now.”
Lorenzo turned to look suspiciously at the water that slopped against the scaffolding that supported the wharf.
“She said they climbed up from below here and started eating him while he was still struggling. She and the guards went to save him, but it was too late. They stripped him to the bone in seconds. Nine bellies and all.”
Lorenzo spat into the harbour. “She didn’t seem overly concerned by her loss.”
“Let’s just say that Monsieur Flangei didn’t have enough of an appetite for his good lady wife.”
“He didn’t have the appetite? But I thought the man ate like a pig. Oh. I see what you mean.”
Florin winked at Lorenzo, who shook his head.
“I’ll never understand women,” he said.
Florin clapped him on one bony shoulder. “Don’t worry,” he said. “As long as you understand boats.”
Lorenzo’s look of confusion gave way to one of suspicion. “You’re not thinking of paddling about beneath the wharf, are you?”
“It’s the only way,” Florin said. “Remember how it was in the jungle? Those things love water. It’s nice and shady for them down there, too. No wonder they do all their hunting around the docks. Bet you anything you like we find them down there.”
“More likely they’ll find us. And I do remember exactly what it was like in the jungle. We might as well swim out to the manacles to hunt sharks. Look, I’ve been thinking. Tilea is supposed to be nice, and if we didn’t mind taking a low price for the tavern we could…”
“No.” Florin shook his head. “It wouldn’t be right. After all, I am Florin d’Artaud, Hero of Lustria. I can’t turn and run when these things are threatening my own city.”
Lorenzo looked at him, appalled. “Please tell me you aren’t serious,” he said.
Florin just shrugged.
“Of course I’m serious. What Bordeleauxan man would leave the fair damsels of this great city to the mercy of monsters?”
“Manann’s scrotum!” Lorenzo swore. “You’ve finally cracked up. Was it the heat?”
“Something like that.” Florin, refusing to take offence, just grinned. “Anyway, we’ll get hold of a boat from Couraine tomorrow morning. Now we should eat. I’ve got an ogre of an appetite, and I think I saw a fish stew shop just back there.”
“The condemned men ate a hearty meal,” Lorenzo muttered, but Florin was already heading hungrily back into the swarming alleyways that led off from the wharf.
The guards studied the vessel that had emerged from the steaming morning mist. It had seen better days. Even in the grey light they could see that the hull was a mildewed patchwork of ancient planking and new timber.
The mast had been lost, too, so the boat wallowed inelegantly forward under the power of the oarsman. He was grunting with exertion and the smell of his sweat was fresh amongst the miasma of rot that hung about the wharf.
The second occupant of the boat was more relaxed. He was not rowing. Instead he was watching. He leant forward over his crossbow, eagerly peering through the mist towards the pilings that supported the Dragon Wharf.
The guards watched him watch. Their heads floated amongst a confusion of bobbing detritus, and their eyes remained as still and unblinking as pebbles. They examined the boat as it splashed ever nearer with a cold-blooded patience, moving only to keep their bodies steady in the lazy current.
When the intruders had almost reached the dark waters beneath the wharf, their boat stopped. The two men barked at each other for a while, then set about lighting a pair of lanterns. Only then did the oarsman continue, slowly edging the boat between the forest of slimed timber that supported the wharf above.
The lamplight was sharp in the guards’ eyes, although they ignored the temptation to blink. With an instinctive wisdom they realised that even that tiny movement might be too much. Instead they suffered, and watched the strange patterns that the reflected lamplight sent dancing around the roof of this drowned underworld.
The boat splashed and echoed its way between the pillars, the oarsman cursing as he rowed. His companion remained silent, his senses as taut as the arms of his crossbow. Occasionally he would hold one of the lanterns up to study the mildewed underside of the wharf above. Mostly he just squinted into the surrounding darkness.
Silently, and with barely a ripple, the guards followed in the intruders’ wake.
Hunters and hunted progressed, and the waters grew more treacherous. Beneath the carpentry of the wharf, the city had spilled into the sea. Collapsed masonry and islands of refuse formed reefs in the stagnant water between the pilings. Strange fungi glistened in the lamplight, and every dip of the oar brought a fresh waft of rotting brine.
It wasn’t until the intruders had reached the crumbling foundations of the warehouses that they stopped. The rotting masonry seemed to send them into some confusion, and they started barking at each other again.
The guards’ eyes glistened in the lamplight as they drifted to a halt around the vessel. Two of them, moving with the silent grace of poured treacle, slipped from the water and slithered into the timber-work above the boat. Those that remained submerged themselves so that only their eyes remained above water. It had been a day since they’d eaten, and that had only been a skinny dockhand. Now their tails twitched with excitement at the thought of the feast to come.
Their prey continued to bark meaninglessly as the guards closed in on them from all sides. Within seconds they were in position as, completely oblivious to their peril, the humans continued to bicker.
“Now that we’ve come to the end of this lunacy,” Lorenzo said, gesturing towards the solid masonry before them, “can we go and start putting our affairs in order? Belmeier is coming to value the tavern at noon, and I want to make sure we have everything done by high tide tonight. If we don’t find a ship leaving for Tilea we could end up anywhere.”
Florin didn’t bother to reply. Instead he carried on squinting through the lamp-lit darkness, fidgeting with his crossbow all the while.
“They’re definitely down here,” he said, and bit the inside of his lip. “I can almost smell them. They’ll love all this. The heat. The dankness. Just like the jungle.”
Lorenzo looked at his partner. In the reflected lamplight his expression could have almost been joyful.
“Whether they love it or not,” Lorenzo said, “we have to go. Today. We don’t have any more time. If we don’t sell up and go now, we might not have another chance. Are you listening to me?”
“Yes, of course,” Florin lied, and turned to where he thought he had heard a splash.
“If we don’t go, the Harbour Master will use us as a scapegoat to fob off the merchants. He told us as much himself.”
“No point in that.” Florin’s ears twitched at the sound of something slithering through the darkness. “Hanging us won’t solve anything.”
“Of course there’s a point. It will provide the merchants with a… Oh, by Ranald’s dice bag, I’m sick of this,” Lorenzo yelled, his patience snapping and his anger sudden and ferocious. “Why do you always have to be such a damned fool? It was bad enough with the cards. Then the madness with those mercenaries, and that stinking jungle. Now this. Why is it that every day with you is like with Morrslieb rising?”
Florin looked at his companion. For the first time he could see the genuine anger in the older man’s battered features. The anger and the fear.
“Lorenzo,” Florin said, his features icy with a terrible patience. “I am not a fool.”
And with that he lifted his crossbow, pointed the steel barbed bolt towards Lorenzo, and pulled the trigger.
There was a hum and a blur, and Lorenzo’s mouth fell open as he felt the flash of the bolt whisper past his cheek. But he didn’t have time to be surprised. Before he
could even gasp the bolt had bit home with a dull thud and the water behind him erupted into a desperate thrashing.
“Told you they were here!” Florin exulted, his voice echoing around the drowned depths. He swapped one crossbow for another and looked around for a fresh target.
“Look up,” Lorenzo yelled, seizing the boat hook that lay between his feet. Florin threw back his head in time to see a confusion of scales and talons shining in the lamplight. He aimed and fired the crossbow in a single sweep, and the bolt pinned the lizard to the woodwork beyond it as neatly as a butterfly on a pin.
Before he had time to admire his handiwork another scaled body was falling from above. This time it was Lorenzo who took it. Thrusting up with the boat hook he pierced its stomach then flipped it into the turgid water beyond, a manoeuvre which tipped the boat terrifyingly close to capsizing.
Even as they tried to balance their weight in the yawing vessel, the two men realised that the water around them was alive. As soon as the sharp tang of fresh blood had seasoned the water, the lizards had thrown off all caution. They were hungry, and driven on by their appetites they arrowed towards the boat, the water churning up behind them.
“Damn,” said Lorenzo as he tried to count them. Florin just grinned, a lethal crescent in the darkness. The twin cutlasses he unsheathed shone their own eager welcome as the first scaly body vaulted over the oarlocks, teeth bared.
Florin bellowed as he scissored the heavy blades towards the creature. Steel met scale a whisper before fangs met skin, and the serpentine head went flying back into the water.
“Be careful not to capsize us,” Lorenzo cried, and grabbed a hold of the oars to steady the rocking vessel. He kicked the decapitated body back over the side, and ducked as an arc of bloodied steel flickered overhead. By now the swarm was upon them, and Florin was fighting with an abandon that had the boat rolling like a barrel. Lorenzo could only dodge the blades and pray as, throwing his weight this way and that, he tried to keep them from capsizing.
Tales of the Old World Page 20
