A murder in Marienburg w-1

by David Bishop

  Two of the recruits raised their hands, responding to Kurt’s passion and his rhetoric. Two more twitched but kept their hands buried in their pockets. The others, including the still stricken Bescheiden, made no effort to respond- their attitude was all too apparent. Kurt called forward the two men who had volunteered to help. One was a lumbering brute, a bear of a man who stood at least a head higher than Kurt. His shoulders were so broad he probably had to turn sideways to get through most doorways, but he had gentle eyes in stark contrast to his imposing physique. The other man was Kurt’s build and age, but he bore more scars on his face and hands than Kurt had ever seen on a living creature. His face had a haunted look, little surprise in the aspect of someone who had survived such injuries.

  “What are your names?”

  “Joachim Narbig,” the smaller man replied, “I serve Manann, the city and you -in that order, sir.”

  Kurt let that slide for now, knowing he needed all the allies he could get. The source of Narbig’s religious fervour could be determined later and dealt with, if necessary. He turned to the other volunteer, an eyebrow arched enquiringly. “Jacques Scheusal,” the man-mountain replied in a thick Bretonnian accent.

  “Just what we need, another bloody foreigner,” one of the others muttered, earning a laugh from his colleagues. Kurt pushed past Jacques and Joachim to confront the other watchmen.

  “Who said that?” None of them spoke. “Come on, show us the courage of your convictions-or are you too much of a coward to even do that?”

  After a few moments one of the recruits stepped forward to confront Kurt, a cocky grin smeared across his face like pork fat on a crust of bread. He stood at ease, thumbs hooked in his waist belt, a faint twitch troubling the corner of one eye. “I did-sir,” he said, with heavy sarcasm on the last word.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Raufbold, Jorg Raufbold-but all the women call me Gorgeous Jorg.”

  “And you don’t approve of foreigners in the watch?”

  “We should kick ’em out of the watch,” Raufbold replied. “This is our city, let us run it.”

  “Really? I didn’t notice you volunteering to help me clear out the tavern.”

  Raufbold ran a hand across his jaw line. “The ladies love me the way I am. Go in there and you’ll get your face kicked in. You want to be a hero, go right ahead. We’ll wait here, see how long you last.”

  Kurt stepped closer, until his nose was almost touching Raufbold’s. “Aren’t you forgetting something?” The watchman shrugged before looking over his shoulder to smirk at the others. That expression changed rapidly when Kurt closed his fist around Raufbold’s groin. “What I said to Willy applies to you too-to all of you. When you speak to me, you call me ‘sir’ or suffer the consequences. Now, Gorgeous Jorg, how much do you think the ladies will still love you if I crush your jewels between my fingers?”

  Raufbold bleated an unintelligible reply.

  Kurt tightened his grip further, eliciting a sob of pain from the watchman. “What was that?”

  “I don’t know-sir!”

  “That’s better.” Kurt let go and Raufbold sank to his knees, all trace of cockiness squeezed out of him. Kurt glared at the other reluctant recruits. “The rest of you can wait here. Jacques, Joachim and I will now show you how we deal with those who would make a mockery of our station. Watch and learn.” He marched towards the converted building, hoping the two volunteers would follow. To his relief, they did. The easy part was over. Anybody could intimidate a pair of fools. Reclaiming the station would be much harder. Abram Cobbius was enjoying the attentions of a serving wench when three strangers walked into his tavern. In truth, he did not own the watering hole, but he considered it a home from home. After a hard day extorting money from nearby residents and merchants, Abram was fond of retiring to the Abandon Hope Tavern for a tankard or two of Marienburg’s most violent ale. He knew he had nothing to fear, thanks to the proximity of the Stevedores’ and Teamsters’ Guild headquarters. While cousin Lea-Jan remained in charge of that powerful union, Abram was safe from harm. Few would dare challenge him and none would dare infringe upon his exploits. So why in the name of Manann were three Black Caps daring to invade his domain? Abram pushed the wench aside and stood up, displeased at being interrupted.

  “Who gave you permission to come in here?” he snarled, slouching towards the unwelcome trio.

  One of the threesome stepped forward to meet Abram, a determined set to his face. “I was about to ask you the same question. Are you responsible for what’s happened here?”

  “If you mean turning an abandoned building into the finest tavern south of the Rijksweg, then I guess I can take credit for that,” Abram replied before gesturing at the greasy, yellow walls and beer-stained floorboards. The ceiling was hidden above a cloud of pipe smoke. “I let the wenches choose the decor.”

  “How noble of you,” the intruder said. “We’ve come to reclaim this property for the watch.”

  Abram laughed out loud, unable to stop himself. He swung round to his seven henchmen, all of whom were watching this exchange with amusement between swilling ale and bothering the other wenches. “You hear that, men? Our visitor is reclaiming the station!” They laughed in response.

  “Got them well trained, haven’t you?” the stranger asked. “Can they do any other tricks? Balance a pig’s bladder on their noses, perhaps, or roll over and play dead?”

  Abram’s amusement was fading fast. “You’ll be the one playing dead if you don’t leave now.” He took a better look at the Black Cap leader, assessing his enemy’s capabilities. Abram ignored the other two, knowing his own men would deal with them in the unlikely event this turned to violence. The intruder was in his middle years, with a firm jaw and no trace of fat round the face. The watchman tunic was stretched across a wiry physique, muscles bulging the sleeves. His features were implacable, no fear in those piercing, ice-blue eyes, while the shaven head spoke of a man not swayed by vanity. He meant business and he had the bravado to go with it. The intruder had a powerful physical presence that would intimidate most people, but Abram couldn’t care less. This place was his territory. “Your accent tells me you’re not local. If you were, you’d know better than to come in here, trying to throw your weight around. Walk out while you still can, stranger-understand?”

  “Perfectly.” The newcomer made as if to leave, but paused, raising a finger in the air. “There’s just one thing before I go.” He beckoned for Abram to come closer, so he could whisper something. Amused, Abram leaned closer, expecting the fool to do the sensible thing and offer an abject apology. Instead the Black Cap smashed his forehead into the bridge of Abram’s nose. The extortionist staggered backwards, white spots dancing in front of his eyes. Pain lanced through his head as blood gouted from both nostrils, soaking the front of his handsome leather jerkin. Abram had the misfortune to forget about the chair he’d had to walk around to confront the intruders, and fell straight over it, his head thudding into the floorboards.

  “Get him!” Abram screamed at his cronies. “Everybody, get him!”

  The henchmen stood up, ready for action, murder in their eyes. The three Black Caps glanced at each other and smiled-until another twelve henchmen appeared from staircases leading off the central drinking area of the tavern, all hastily fastening their trousers back up. “Ahh,” the leader of the Black Caps sighed. “Bugger.” Jacques Scheusal considered himself a simple man. He believed in loyalty and following orders, doing your best and never giving in. When his new captain had asked for volunteers to clear out the station, Jacques had not hesitated. He knew the effort would almost certainly involve fighting and danger, but a man of his size had little to fear in most melees. He could charge through any door, flatten most opponents with a single blow from his meaty forearms, and he had survived more stabbings than he cared to remember.

  As the biggest and burliest watchman in Rijkspoort, he had been used as brute force, his mere presence enough to intimidate anyon
e looking to start trouble. Jacques had been delighted to get transferred to Three Penny Bridge, hopeful it might mean better prospects. His time in Rijkspoort had been blighted by anti-Bretonnian comments from men meant to be his brothers in arms. He was less impressed to discover Raufbold had also been transferred, since it was Raufbold who’d led the snide remarks. The new captain’s attitude and Altdorf accent were more promising, but his grasp of tactics left a little to be desired in Jacques’ opinion. Starting a bar brawl in Marienburg’s most notorious drinking house? Even a simple man knew there were easier ways of making an impression.

  The fighting was fast and furious. Three Black Caps against half a dozen drunken thieves and robbers had seemed favourable odds when Jacques followed his new boss inside the tavern. But three against eighteen? Even for a man mountain like Jacques, that was asking a lot. He fought well, swatting aside four of the enemy in his first charge. But first one man, then another jumped onto Jacques’ back and wrapped their arms round his massive head and neck, fingers clawing at his eyes and mouth. He spotted a wooden supporting beam nearby and marched backwards towards it. The first man on his back let go with a howl of pain, but the other clung on grimly, his hands closing round Jacques’ throat, choking the big man’s air supply. Still Jacques fought on, smashing a fist down on the head of a passing opponent, rendering them senseless. But darkness was overwhelming him, clouding his vision and weakening his legs. Jacques sank to one knee, hefty hands still flailing at the thugs buzzing around him like flies. Finally he blacked out, pitching face-first into the beer-soaked floorboards. Joachim Narbig fought like a man possessed, using swift, precise movements to disable each foe as they drew near. An elbow into the throat choked one enemy, while two fingers stabbed into the eyes sent another howling away in pain. Joachim took seven drunkards out of action, all the while muttering the catechism of a true believer, calling on Manann to protect him from those who did not know the ways of righteousness. But even Manann could not hold back such a tide and sheer weight of numbers were Joachim’s undoing. Still fighting valiantly, he was driven back out onto the bridge, taking two of Abram’s henchmen with him. “A little help wouldn’t go astray,” he snarled at the other watchmen. Kurt was full of admiration for the way Jacques and Joachim fought, especially considering the uneven odds and unfamiliar territory. Both were worthy additions to the new station’s complement of men, and could well be potential candidates for the sergeants he would need. Of course, his first priority was surviving this foolish attempt to reclaim the station. Kurt knew he should have discovered the enemy’s strength before starting a bar brawl. His old sergeant would not have been impressed by such a wanton disregard for tactics or common sense. Still, there was plenty of time for self-recriminations later, assuming he was still alive to indulge in them. First he had to get out of here.

  By the time Jacques was felled, less than a dozen foes remained on their feet. Unfortunately for Kurt, Joachim was sent sailing back outside mere moments later. That left Kurt on his own, ten murderous men advancing on him, several already bloodied by the brawling. Front and centre was the leader of the pack, black rings forming under his eyes from the badly broken nose Kurt had shattered. “Do you have any idea who I am?” the furious thug demanded.

  “Can’t say I know your name,” Kurt admitted, “but your face seems familiar. I saw an ass whose rear end looked just like you on my way here. Perhaps you two are related?”

  “My name is Abram Cobbius. My cousin is one of the most powerful men in all Marienburg.”

  “Uh-huh. Get on well, do you?”

  “Kill this fool,” Abram commanded. His men advanced on Kurt, blades and cudgels drawn, ready to rend him limb from limb. Kurt backed slowly away from them, until the solid wooden bar prevented him retreating any further. His eyes darted round the tavern, searching for anything that might be of use. The advancing horde had blocked off any chance of escaping through the front doors, but there was a large leaded glass window at the other end of the bar looking out across the Bruynwarr to the southern part of Suiddock. Kurt had no wish to sample the canal water, but retreat was always better than surrender in his experience, especially if the enemy was not planning on taking any prisoners. He jumped up onto the bar as the nearest thugs sliced the air where he’d been standing with their knives.

  “It’s been a pleasure making your acquaintance, but we’ll have to settle this later,” Kurt smiled.

  “I said kill him!” Abram bellowed.

  Kurt was already running along the bar towards the window. So much for making a strong first impression, he thought idly, before throwing himself head first at the leaded glass window.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The boatman licked his lips nervously as he guided the narrow craft into the cut separating Riddra and Stoessel. Marcellus Punt had no wish to pass under Three Penny Bridge-you never knew what might happen to anyone who went near that benighted span-but he was being paid handsomely to do so. Besides it was the nature of his passenger that was perturbing the boatman. “If I’d known what you were, I’d never have taken the fare,” he grumbled for the fifth time of asking, not that his passenger had asked. “All I got told was your name, Otto. They never said you were one of… them.”

  The passenger sat at the other end of the tiny vessel, a hood drawn up over his hairless head, thin fingers clasped in front of his haughty, patrician features. “So you have said,” Otto replied. “Several times.”

  “Well, it ain’t right, is it? False defences or some such.”

  “I take it you mean false pretences.”

  “That’s the one! False pretences, that’s what it is.”

  “I make no pretence about my vocation when I asked your employer, Mr. Undershaft, to organise transportation for me back to my abode. If he chose not to tell you about me, that was his decision.”

  “Well, it still ain’t right. Ain’t proper. You should have your own boat to do your business in. Not frightening the life out of poor, innocent working souls who are just trying to earn a crust.”

  Otto glared at the boatman, as if staring into his very soul. “I sense you are many things, Punt, but innocent is not one of them. You have the blood of three men on your conscience.”

  “You can’t tell that, not just by looking at me!” the boatman howled, his fears about the Three Penny Bridge quite forgotten as they passed beneath it. “Besides, there was only two of them and they both had it coming. Most people would consider what I did a proper justice, that’s all.”

  “Tell yourself that all you want. The truth will come out,” Otto replied. His eyes were drawn to a sudden movement above the boatman. A large leaded window on the southern side on the bridge exploded outwards, thousands of glass shards tumbling through the air, accompanied by the falling figure of a man. He plunged towards the boat and clattered into Punt’s back, sending the boatman sprawling into the cut. The fallen man landed nimbly on his feet, glass still raining down around him. Otto arched an eyebrow at the new arrival. “If you’re trying to make a strong first impression, you’ve succeeded.”

  “I was trying to stay alive. Everything after that’s a bonus. The name’s Schnell, Kurt Schnell. I’m the new watch captain for Three Penny Bridge.”

  Otto pointed up at the shattered window of the tavern, where a handful of men were shouting abuse and making obscene gestures at Kurt. “Not quite established your authority yet, I notice.”

  Kurt grinned and offered a hand of friendship to Otto. “You must be the local Priest of Morr.”

  “I don’t usually touch the living,” Otto replied.

  Kurt withdrew his hand. “Of course-but you have a name, haven’t you?”

  “Otto.”

  “Then I am in your debt, Otto. Landing in your boat saved me the embarrassment of drowning.”

  “You live in Marienburg, a city surrounded in all ways by water, and you can’t swim?”

  Kurt shrugged. “Not much call for it where I came from.”

  Otto frowne
d, before plunging his right hand into the water beside the boat. After feeling around underwater for several seconds, he pulled Punt’s head above the surface. The boatman gasped and gurgled, murky water gushing from his mouth. “It seems my pilot is equally unskilled in matters aquatic. Perhaps you could help me get him back on board, since it was your arrival that pitched him into the water?” Together Otto and Kurt managed to manhandle Punt back into the boat, the boatman protesting all the way. Otto navigated the vessel to the nearest mooring, beside a stone staircase that led up from the cut on the Stoessel side of the water. Kurt was first onto dry land, followed by Otto. Punt opted to stay in his boat.

  “Much as I hate the water, I’d rather be nearly half-drowned in it than spend another minute in your company,” he told the priest. “No offence, mind.”

  Otto turned away and marched up the stairs, all too used to the fearful reactions his presence brought among those unused to being around the dead and the dying. Kurt followed him until they emerged on to a minor passageway near the Three Penny Bridge. At the top of the stone steps, Kurt put a hand on the priest’s shoulder, to stop him moving away. “Your temple-is it far from here?”

  “It’s along this alleyway, less than a hundred paces from the bridge. Why do you ask?”

  “I’d like to come and see you there.”

  The priest’s eyes narrowed. “Few enter a Temple of Morr willingly, even in times of necessity. Why should you wish to visit me?”

  Kurt smiled. “Let’s say I have a proposition for you. But first I’ve got a crowd to control.” He marched away, towards Three Penny Bridge. Otto watched him go, intrigued by the new arrival. Kurt Schnell was either the bravest of men, or the most foolish-time would reveal which was the more accurate description. But the priest was more interested by the newcomer’s presence. Schnell was a man steeped in blood, with the lives and deaths of many borne on his shoulders. Death followed him, a spectre waiting for the next corpse to fall, the next soul to be claimed. Otto grimaced. He would be busy in the days to come. Kurt strode back to Three Penny Bridge to find Scheusal slumped on the cobbles and a battered, bleeding Narbig kneeling beside two unconscious thugs from the tavern. Gulls wheeled overhead, their cries like mocking laughter to Kurt’s ears. The rest of the watchmen were standing around laughing and sniggering their voices echoing the sound of the gulls. Kurt got his recruits’ attention by picking up one of the senseless thugs and returning him to the Abandon Hope Tavern, propelling the body back through the entrance at indecent speed. “Who can tell me what just happened?” Kurt asked once his men were listening.