by Jim C. Hines
“Right. Now, someone point me towards this Sam fellow.”
Sam yelped in surprise when Tipple and the others barged through the door. He was sitting in bed, knees hugged to his chest, with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders. Young Wendleglass sat on a chair at the foot of the bed.
“Ah, there you are.” Wendleglass looked Tipple up and down, and his nose wrinkled. “You smell of smoke and pickles.”
Tipple sniffed his jerkin. “Yep.”
“Have you learned anything from Sam?” asked Rook.
“Oh, we’ve had a lovely chat,” said Wendleglass. “Sam was telling me about the ducks that live by his home. They have the most peculiar cry, like rusty hinges.”
Rook’s expression didn’t change. “Have you learned anything about Nimble Johanna or the threat to Brightlodge?”
“Oh, yes. I mean, no. That is, um, he hasn’t said anything—not about that. Not that I asked, really.” Wendleglass looked down at Sam. “Do you know anything about Nimble John—Johanna—or our impending doom?”
Sam pulled himself tighter. “It was like a nightmare.”
“Nightmares are for people who can’t cope with the real world,” said Tipple. “And by cope, I mean starting a tab. Sam, isn’t it?”
“That’s right, sir.”
In the sunlight streaming through the window, Sam was … well, just as unimpressive as he’d looked back in the outlaws’ boat. Young, skinny, and filthy, not to mention bruised as an apple that bounced down a mountainside, but otherwise intact.
Tipple yanked the blanket away. “Come with us, Sammy. The last thing we need is peace and quiet after everything we’ve been through today.”
He escorted Sam down the stairs and into the pub, drawing the others in his wake. He sat down at the bar and guided Sam onto the stool next to him. Normally Lester Mead manned the bar, but today it was Nelly Flagon herself serving up drinks. “Nelly! Your finest for me and my friends, to celebrate our victory over Nimble John’s outlaws.”
“Anything for you, Jeremiah Tipple.” Nelly Flagon crossed her arms and leaned forwards. She snapped her fingers, yanking Tipple’s attention back to her eyes. “S’long as you pay up front.”
Tipple brought a hand to his chest, trying to convey how deeply wounded he was by such unwarranted distrust. “I’m sure my friend Leech will be more than happy to cover the tab.” He glanced at Leech. “As a fine healer and surgeon, your purse must be overflowing with coin. What better way to support the struggling entrepen—enterpruners—the struggling business people of Brightlodge who lost so much to Nimble John’s villainy?”
Leech sighed and dropped several coins onto the bar.
“Surgeon, eh?” asked Nelly. “I appreciate a man who’s good with his hands.”
Tipple laughed and clapped Leech on the shoulder, then turned his attention to Sam. For the next hour, he did his best to loosen the man up. Tipple regaled him with stories of brawls that had left not a single piece of furniture intact, and of the glorious bouts at the old village bars where Tipple had first begun boxing for money. “Trouble was, it was a small village, and all too soon I ran out of people to fight. No bouts meant no money. No money meant it was time to move on. Fortunately, I ended up in Brightlodge. The Hero business isn’t much rougher than tavern brawling, and the payoff’s better. Usually.”
He raised his mug in a toast and waited for Sam to follow suit. “Come on, Sammy my boy. Drink cleanses the soul as well as the palate.” He drank several swallows, wiped his lips, and added, “Of course, some stains are harder to get out …”
“Thank you.” Sam gestured at the drink. “For this, and for saving me.”
“He finally found his tongue!” Tipple wrapped his arm around Sam’s shoulders and gave him a friendly squeeze. “Where are you from, and how did you end up in that den of filth?”
“Grayrock, but I’m not going back there.” Sam took his mug in both hands and stared into it like he was trying to see the future. Or the past. He shuddered and pushed the mug away. “The smell reminds me of the boat.”
“That’s an insult to this fine establishment. Nimble Johanna was loaded down with third-rate swill. Nelly here serves only second-rate stuff.”
“How did they catch you, Sam?” asked Inga. “What did they want redcaps for?”
“I don’t know about any redcaps, ma’am. Johanna kept those monsters tied up, then one day she just killed them. Cut their throats, as cold as she was butchering cattle. I didn’t ask questions. I was afraid she’d do the same to me. As for how they got their hands on me …” He flushed. “I was … chasing a lady.”
“Ha!” Tipple pounded him on the back hard enough to make him spill most of his drink. “You’re far from the first to follow that path to ruin. Who was she? Not Nimble Johanna?”
“No, not Johanna.” Sam’s cheeks were red, from drink or embarrassment or both. “Nobody knows who she is. They call her the Ghost of Grayrock.”
“A ghost?” Wendleglass perked up. “I’ve learned a thing or two about ghosts, since my father’s … um … return.”
“I don’t know about her being a ghost, but her money’s real enough,” said Sam. “She’s the one who hired Nimble Johanna. I never overheard exactly what she wanted, but Johanna was scared of her. Lots of people were. Men who crossed the ghost’s path tended to disappear.”
“And yet you sought her out?” asked Rook.
Sam turned a deeper shade of red. “Well, they say she’s very beautiful.”
Inga rolled her eyes.
“I found her at the docks,” Sam continued. “Cloaked in smoke and fog. I crept closer, but that’s when Johanna’s men spotted me.”
“You walked right into the outlaws’ hands,” said Tipple.
“That’s right. They said they meant to ransom me. If my parents couldn’t pay, they’d put me to work as one of their crew.”
Tipple was only half listening. Johanna had been parked on the river with a boat full of ale and dead redcaps. She’d sent a handful of her people ahead into Brightlodge, along with three more dead or soon-to-be-dead redcaps. On a hunch, he leaned over the bar and searched the shelves. “Hey, Nelly! How about another drink of that dead-cow ale?”
“Can’t get enough of my foaming jugs, can you?” Nelly winked and brought a new mug to the bar. “There you go, love.”
“Dead cow?” Inga covered Tipple’s mug with one hand. Had he been in a fouler mood, that would have earned her a good uppercut right there. Inga leaned forwards. “Where did you get that keg?”
“Came in just last week.”
“The crates on Nimble Johanna’s ship had the same mark,” said Inga.
“What is it?” asked Wendleglass.
“Horse piss, best I can tell.” Tipple belched. “I sampled some of Johanna’s stock during the fighting.”
“You were supposed to be keeping redcaps off my back,” said Inga.
“A man can do two things at once.” Tipple tugged his mug free and sniffed. Anger clouded his vision. “Hey, that’s right. Where’s the good stuff? Why are Sam and I sitting here drinking horse piss?” He took another sniff, then hurled the mug across the room. “Horse piss gone bad!”
“Bad how?” asked Inga.
“If there’s one thing I know, it’s alcohol. Alcohol and brawling. Right, that’s two things. The point is, this stuff is tainted somehow.”
“Tainted with death,” muttered Blue.
Tipple spun. “What do you know about it, redcap?”
“Dead cow.” Blue went very still. “Dead Grayrock. Dead Heroes.”
“You think they poisoned the ale?” asked Inga.
“If they did, we’d be dragging corpses out of the pubs by now.” Tipple stood and brushed his hands together. “But we need to conficaste—confi—we need to take every barrel with that dead cow on it. And some samples of Nelly’s other stock. Just to be safe. Wouldn’t you agree, Wendleglass?”
“Um, yes. I suppose that would be wise.”
“King Wendleglass,” said Inga, “maybe you ought to ask some Heroes to travel to Grayrock to investigate this ghost.”
“Dead and red.” Blue rocked in place. “Bled and fed.”
“Right.” Tipple leaned over the bar. “I think we’re going to need a drink for the redcap as well.”
CHAPTER 5
GLORY
Grayrock was a pit. Literally.
The unimaginatively named town was northeast of Brightlodge, on the edge of the forest past Talondell. Generations of quarry workers had dug the town deeper and deeper into the base of a mountain in order to supply much of Albion with bricks, cobblestones, and high-quality throwing stones for the short-lived sport of rockball, which had been very popular about ten years back until the high rate of concussions put an end to the first season during the Rockball Cup Finals.
It was a town blanketed in grey dust, surrounded by grey stone. Glory was starting to forget what colour looked like.
To the north, a tall, grey dam stopped the river from turning the town into a lake. From either end of the dam stretched a stone wall (also grey), protecting the people from the outlaws and worse living in the woods beyond. Even the people were grey. When the quarry workers returned from a hard day of cutting and shaping rock, the dust made them look like living statues.
The only exception to the colour scheme was the statue of an oak tree in the centre of town, carved to commemorate something or someone terribly important that everyone had forgotten about years ago. It too was grey stone, but flecks of pink quartz gave it a bit of a sparkle, making it immeasurably better than the rest of this pockmark in the earth.
Shroud and Winter had taken Grayrock in stride, but that was no surprise. Shroud preferred greys and blacks. They were part of his image as a self-proclaimed master assassin. As for Winter, she ran about barefoot and clad in furs. Her idea of fashion could only be improved by a layer of dust and dirt.
Then there was Sterling, who had spent the entire time brushing off his brightly coloured, ribbon-slashed sleeves, his flamboyant trousers, and his gleaming boots. He was fighting a losing battle, but he hadn’t surrendered yet.
On the bright side, blood stood out quite vividly on the grey stone road, making it easy to see the site of the most recent death.
“It’s the fourth suicide this month.” The Mayor of Grayrock was a rectangular man who wore a faded sash with an embroidered image of an oak tree to mark his importance. “No need for Heroes to concern themselves. Some people simply can’t handle the stress and pressure of the rock business is all.”
“The fellow our friends rescued, Sam, talked about the Ghost of Grayrock.” Winter was an odd one, always laughing and chatting with everyone she met, as if her lifelong goal was to befriend all of Albion. At first glance, she looked like an uncivilised girl from the mountains. A second glance pretty much confirmed the first.
The wolf pelt she wore revealed as much as it covered, and the fur trim made her look like an ill-sheared sheep. There were hints at a sense of fashion or style, from the thick collar to the cinched waist and the high leather belt, but it was all second-rate work. To top things off, tattoos covered her hands and her bare feet. Winter said they helped her to focus her power.
Glory sniffed. She herself had never needed anything beyond her own strength of Will.
“The so-called ghost, yes.” The Mayor scowled. “Look, these are people who hit rocks for a living. They get suspicious of anyone who isn’t covered in dust and calluses, but as long as this ghost isn’t violating any laws, her business is her own.”
“What business is that?” asked Winter.
“I wouldn’t know. Let me be clear. Any minor problems in Grayrock are completely under control. There’s certainly no call for outsiders who don’t know nothing about Grayrock to come tromping in and stir things up.”
“I understand. Clumsy, ignorant buffoons are so frustrating, aren’t they?” Glory continued before the Mayor could figure out how to respond. “Sam said the Ghost of Grayrock was hanging about the docks, but we didn’t find anything there. Where do you think we might locate her?”
“I couldn’t say. I’ve not seen her myself.”
The man was as useful as a trapdoor on a rowboat.
“What happened to the dead fellow?” Shroud peered up from the shadows of his black hood. He was crouched on the edge of the road, sketching and measuring the splattered blood. Glory couldn’t have said whether he was asking about the body because he wanted more information or if he simply wanted to admire the artistry of the broken corpse.
The Mayor grimaced. “I’m sorry, what was your name again, sir?”
Shroud stood and offered the Mayor a half bow. A cream-coloured card appeared between his index and middle finger, as if by magic. The card was embossed with the seal of the Conclave, and read:
~SHROUD~
CONCLAVE-TRAINED SOLVER OF PROBLEMS
OBSTACLES REMOVED, INHERITANCES ACQUIRED,
SUCCESSIONS FACILITATED, FEUDS RESOLVED
PRESENT THIS CARD AND RECEIVE A 15% DISCOUNT!
If this card was the same as those he had distributed to Glory and the others in their little band of Heroes, there would be a note on the back indicating that this month only, the assassin was offering a two-for-one deal on twins. Shroud had also passed out a series of informational pamphlets to his fellow Heroes back in Brightlodge.
“I ordered the remains taken out to the cemetery for burial,” said the Mayor. “I didn’t want the sight of a dead body upsetting my people. It’s my duty to care for them, after all.”
“Very thoughtful,” said Glory. “And I’m sure the bloodstains all over the road won’t bother them in the slightest.” She had met his type back home, cocksure and arrogant, having inherited their power instead of earning it through their virtues and their actions. Glory had inherited certain privileges from her well-off father, but she had long since surpassed any advantages his wealth had given her.
The man refused to answer to anything but “Mayor” or “Your Honour.” Given the rumour around town that he had been born Frankfort Snogsworth Mudwater III, Glory couldn’t really blame him for that. “You’re sure this was a suicide?”
“That’s right,” the Mayor said decisively. “Just like the others. Poor soul jumped to his death. If only he’d come to me for help instead.”
Glory glanced at Sterling, who rolled his eyes. With a weary sigh, she gestured towards the buildings to either side of the road. “None of these rooftops are more than ten feet high. How exactly do you think he managed to splatter himself from such a height?”
The Mayor’s forehead wrinkled. He scowled at the closest home. Glory could almost see his thoughts crawling along, like insects with half their legs plucked off. Then his eyes lit up. “He must have brought a chair onto the roof and jumped from that!”
“Excellent thinking, my good man!” Sterling slipped an arm casually around the Mayor’s shoulders. “If that’s the case, the chair couldn’t have gone far. Why don’t you search the area while we see what we can figure out here? Together, we’ll soon uncover the truth of this terrible tragedy.”
Once the Mayor scurried off, Shroud crouched on his heels to examine his sketch, comparing it to the street. “I’ve measured the width of the blood splatter and the indentation in the cobblestones. Assuming this fellow was of average height and weight, if he did jump from a chair, it would have to have been a chair seventy-five feet high. Even jumping from the town wall shouldn’t have made a mess this size.”
From outside Grayrock, the town wall stood roughly twelve feet tall. Inside the town was another matter. The early settlers had dug deeper and deeper, until most of the town was roughly twenty feet lower than the land outside.
“How do you know that?” asked Winter.
“Research.” Shroud tucked his notebook away in his cloak. “Death is an art. It takes a lifetime to truly understand and master its many forms.” He pointed to the top of the roof. “You throw
bodies down from various heights and study the results. I worked out a formula for the height of the fall based on the diameter of the splattered blood. I’m not one to boast, but I can lay out a tarp, toss a man from the top of a tower, and leave not a single drop of blood to stain the road. In this case, the more likely possibility is that the victim didn’t jump at all but was thrown down by someone or something incredibly strong.”
“Interesting schooling you had,” Sterling commented.
Shroud pulled his black cloak more tightly around his shoulders. “This was more of an independent study.”
“Right.” Glory stepped away from them both. “Four deaths. Hardly the kind of thing that threatens the very survival of Brightlodge.”
“All four deaths were men,” Shroud pointed out. “All quarry workers, too.”
“Ninety percent of the men in this town are quarry workers,” Glory said. “And most of the women.”
“It’s a place to start.” Sterling stepped between them and brushed another layer of dust from his shirt. “Unless you’d prefer to stick around here and help the Mayor look for a seventy-five-foot chair?”
By the time they reached the quarry that occupied the eastern quarter of the town, dust coated the inside of Glory’s mouth and nostrils. She could literally taste the grey.
A broad pit spread out at the base of a curved cliff. Wooden scaffolding clung to the rock face. From a distance, it looked like an enormous arena with oversized stone steps descending to the bottom, where tiny men waged a never-ending battle against the mountainside.
Given what Glory had seen of the townspeople thus far, her money was on the mountainside.
“It’s the Ghost of Grayrock all right,” said an older worker when they asked about the deaths. Like most of the others, he wore tight, layered clothing, with a head wrap to cover his mouth and nose. He was currently setting a series of small fires atop a broad block of stone. “To look upon her is to pay a terrible price. Longing fills your every waking moment, and your dreams are haunted by her beauty. Desperation turns to despair, until you welcome death.”
“I’m sorry,” said Winter, “but what are you doing?”
