by David Bishop
“You get any closer, captain, and people will think you’re planning to propose,” Raufbold quipped.
“Your eyes are bloodshot.”
“So would your eyes be if you’d been up all night on patrol.”
“Narbig and Holismus were out there too. How come you’re the only one with bloodshot eyes?”
Raufbold scowled for a moment, until inspiration crept across his devious features. He shook his prisoner by the collar. “I remember now. It was this little low life. He threw a handful of salt in my eyes. Yeah, that was it-I got salt in my eyes. Is that a crime now?”
Kurt jerked a thumb towards the crowded cage. “Stick him in there, if you can manage that.”
“As you command, captain!” Raufbold affected a limp-wristed salute before strolling away.
“And Raufbold?”
“Yes, captain?”
“I catch you using crimson shade on duty again, you’ll spend the next ten years on Rijker’s.”
“Aye, aye, captain!”
Disgusted by Raufbold’s insolence, Kurt strode out of the station and stood on the cobbles of Three Penny Bridge, stretching his arms out in a yawn. “What time do you call this?” a voice called out.
“Dawn on Backertag,” Kurt replied, smiling as his sergeant strolled on to the span. “I thought you told the day shift to be here before dawn, so they’d be ready to relieve the graveyard crew.”
Jan shrugged. “I kept getting stopped every ten paces, people asking me if it was true about the Black Caps reopening the station here. Apparently, we’re offering a reward for information about who murdered that elf-a hundred golden guilders, if the rumours are to be believed.”
“They’re not, but I’ll take any help I can get.” Kurt clapped an arm round his sergeant’s broad shoulders. “You grew up on the same passageway as Lea-Jan Cobbius, didn’t you?”
“Yes, but that was a long time ago-why do you ask?” Kurt explained about the extortion racket run by Cobbius’ murderous relative Abram, and about the promise made to Mrs. Vink. “So, you want to know if Lea-Jan will object to us arresting his cousin, yes?”
“Something like that.”
The sergeant frowned. “It won’t hurt to rattle Abram’s cage, but Lea-Jan is another matter.”
“That’s what I thought. We’ll have to tread carefully, for now,” Kurt replied. “Speaking of cages, we’ve had a busy night here…” He led Jan inside and enjoyed the sergeant’s curse of astonishment at the collection of miscreants, deserters and reprobates crowding the holding cell. “We need to get all those bound for Rijker’s on a transport, and we also need to release anyone held overnight to sober up. That should create some space. Once you’ve done that, I suggest you get the remaining prisoners building the other three cages-under careful supervision, of course. Oh, and could somebody find some trousers for Winkie and Scratch? I was planning to have sausages for breakfast, but those two have put me right off.”
“Right. Another busy day,” Jan decided, before noticing Kurt staggering towards the east stairs. “Where are you going, captain?”
“To get some sleep. The first person to disturb me will be supping with Morr before sunset.” Hans-Michael Mutig arrived a few minutes later, having marched halfway across Marienburg from his home in Kruiersmuur to reach the station. The sooner he found new sleeping quarters nearer Three Penny Bridge, the better. By rights, he should have felt aggrieved the likes of Scheusal and Holismus had been chosen ahead of him to lead one of the shifts. But deep down, Mutig was secretly relieved. He hated responsibility, hated having other men on the watch look to him for guidance or leadership.
It had been the same all his adult life, thanks to his chiselled good looks and tendency to stand out from any crowd of men. People expected him to be a leader, as if his height and appearance were the sole measure of a man. Mutig could bluff his way through most situations as a Black Cap, due to the limited authority his uniform brought and the fact he stood half a head taller than most people he met.
At his first station, he had acquired a reputation for being a fearless, dangerous fighter. In truth he only used his club once in anger and that was against a man so drunk he could hardly stand. It had been Mutig’s first full day at the station and he knew he needed to make a strong impression. So he found a tavern where the customers were inebriated beyond reason and picked a fight with the biggest, drunkest thug in the taproom. Mutig beat his assailant to a pulp and dragged the bloody mess back to the station, proof of his prowess and bravery. After that, word of his brutality and courage quickly spread among the local citizens and everyone knew better than to take on Mutig. What they didn’t know was the Black Cap had spent an hour vomiting into a canal before entering the tavern, his gut and bowels churning with terror at the prospect of what he was about to do. Mutig was a coward and he knew it. But like stutterers who found new ways of suggesting words they couldn’t say for themselves, Mutig had developed a defence mechanism to hide his churning, craven cowardice.
Every time he was assigned to a new station, Mutig used the same trick of beating a drunken bully as a shield for his own inner terrors. Today was the day he had to go through the ordeal again, and pray he found the right victim, someone who wouldn’t be able to fight back, someone who wouldn’t discover his innate weakness.
Get through today alive, and Mutig knew his future on Three Penny Bridge was secure. He could hide behind his appearance, make sure he was always one step behind when others volunteered for dangerous duties, always the last one into a tavern brawl to keep the peace. That way he stayed alive. That way nobody ever knew his dirty secret. Just get through today, Mutig told himself.
He walked into the station on Three Penny Bridge to find the place a madhouse of half naked men, angry citizens demanding a hundred golden guilders for what they knew and sundry other visitors being jostled about in the melee of people all fighting for attention. Mutig was about to back out when he bumped into a bleary-eyed Faulheit, stumbling in behind him. “Watch where you’re going!” the obese grouch growled at Mutig before taking in his height. “Oh, it’s you. Sorry, didn’t realise.”
Mutig wasn’t certain he heard Faulheit properly, such was the cacophony of shouting and arguing within the station. “What did you say?”
An empty glass bottle suddenly shattered behind the bar, effectively silencing the throng. Mutig spun round to see Sergeant Woxholt atop the bar, arms folded and determined of face. “That’s better!” he bellowed. “Now, who’s here to claim the reward money for information about the murdered elf?” Most of the citizens stabbed the air with eager hands. “Right. All of you need to go downstairs where you’ll be-” But the rest of his words were drowned out by the sudden surge of people towards the staircases that led down to the station’s lower level. Once the bulk of the throng had departed, Woxholt continued his speech. “As I was saying, those with information need to go downstairs where you’ll be interviewed by one of our Black Caps.” The sergeant scanned the room for recruits and spotted the two men lurking in the entrance. “Faulheit! You’re just in time. I’ve heard you can read and write.”
“A little,” Faulheit reluctantly agreed.
“That’ll do. You go downstairs and start taking statements.”
“But there must be a hundred people in the basement!”
“A hundred and twenty by my count, so don’t take all day about it. Remember, it’s up to Captain Schnell to decide who gets the reward. If you tell someone they’re definitely getting the golden guilders, it’ll be coming out of our wages for the next seventeen years-is that clear?”
“Yes, sergeant,” Faulheit said, continuing to mutter under his breath as he descended.
“Mutig!” Woxholt called.
“Yes, sergeant?”
“Once Winkie and Scratch have put on their trousers, you’re to take them home and wait while they explain to their wives where they’ve been all night and why they’re wearing borrowed clothes. Throw them in the Rijksweg if e
ither man gives you any trouble. After that you’re on street patrol, right?”
“Yes, sergeant,” Mutig replied, breathing a sigh of relief. With any luck he could find a tavern on the way back where the customers had been drinking all night and were more than a little worse for wear. A few brutal blows with his club and his reputation as the hard man of Three Penny Bridge would be established. If only he could quell the queasy dread in the pit of his bowels. Mutig marched towards the two hung-over, half-naked prisoners, trying to put a brave face on his inner fears. Just get through the day.
CHAPTER NINE
The missive from the elves arrived not long after Belladonna that morning, delivered by a tight-lipped messenger from the elf quarter. He marched into the station as if he owned the place, intense eyes searching the faces of those within. “You!” he said, pointing an accusing finger at Belladonna. She was helping Sergeant Woxholt supervise construction of the new cells by prisoners, ensuring the workmanship was good enough for the job. “You were the female who guarded the body of our fallen brother yesterday!”
“Yes,” Belladonna admitted, trying to keep worry from her face. Had the elves discovered her conversation with the dead elf’s spirit? Had he resumed talking, even after she bade him to rest? She knew too little about their ways to assess the possibilities of this happening, and the messenger’s face was impassive, revealing nothing of his purpose. Belladonna kept her counsel, not wishing to volunteer anything that might worsen the situation. Bad enough having an elf murdered on your watch, let alone announcing you had resurrected his spirit and interrogated it for clues to the killer’s identity.
“This is a missive from the House of Silvermoon. You will read it-aloud!” The messenger produced a scroll of thick, yellow parchment tied with black ribbon, and handed it to her. She glanced at the sergeant, but all he did was shrug watching carefully from one side. Belladonna slid the ribbon from the parchment and unrolled the page, gripping it top and bottom and hoping her hands wouldn’t shake.
“The House of Silvermoon seeks answers to the unresolved questions stemming from the violent murder of Arullen Silvermoon, after he was lured from the elf quarter by a person or persons unknown. Such answers must be presented to the House of Silvermoon before the end of the intercalary holiday known as Day of Mystery, or else there shall be an irredeemable breakdown in relations between those within the Sith Rionnasc’namishathir and those beyond its walls. Heed this missive well.” Belladonna checked both sides of the parchment, but that was the sum total of its information. She looked to the messenger. “We know nothing more about Arullen’s murder-yet.”
“Then you have until five sunsets hence to discover the truth,” the elf replied sternly. He bowed his head to her and dutifully acknowledged the sergeant’s presence before marching from the station.
“Charming,” Woxholt observed dryly. “Why do I get the feeling we haven’t heard the last of this?”
“Because we haven’t,” Kurt commented as he came down the east stairs. “The elves are a proud people, but they know we represent the best chance of discovering who murdered Arullen. If they keep the pressure on us, it improves the likelihood we’ll concentrate on that particular crime.”
“I thought you were going to sleep?” the sergeant asked.
“I did.”
“Two hours is not enough rest, even for you.”
“It’ll have to do,” Kurt said, “Besides, the noise from the basement woke me up. Have any of our eager informants actually told us anything useful yet?”
Woxholt shrugged. “I’ll go and find out, if you and Belladonna keep watch over the prisoners.” After a nod from Kurt, the sergeant disappeared downstairs, his booming voice commanding silence from those below. Once he had gone, the captain joined Belladonna by the new cages. Three were now complete and the enforced labourers were hard at work on the final enclosure.
“We have to stop meeting like this,” she said, her eyes smiling at him.
“Don’t,” he replied.
“Don’t what?” Belladonna asked, her voice all innocence. Kurt took her roughly by the arm and pulled her across to the station entrance. “You’re hurting me,” she complained, tearing her arm free.
“Don’t flirt with me, and don’t pretend not to realise you’re doing it, either,” Kurt warned. “I’m captain of this station.” He pointed at the citizens making their way past on the cobbles, several of them peering interestedly into the station. “My first and last priority are the people who work here, and the people beyond these walls we’ve sworn to protect. I don’t have time for games or pretence. Given the choice, I wouldn’t have a woman among my Black Caps, but Otto persuaded me to give you a chance and Jan said much the same. You’ve proven you have talents the other recruits don’t possess, and that makes you an asset to this station. But you’ll never be anything more than that to me, understand?”
“You do like making speeches, don’t you? You should be a politician, not a Black Cap.”
Even Kurt had to smile at her comment. “Please don’t put that curse on me.”
“Fine,” Belladonna replied. “I’ll do as you ask. But don’t expect me to change who I am, either.”
“Agreed,” he said with a sigh.
“Captain Schnell?” an authoritative voice asked. “Captain Kurt Schnell?” Belladonna looked over Kurt’s shoulder to see a wealthily dressed, middle-aged man strutting towards the station entrance. His broad girth and double chins spoke of a life lived in luxury, while the red-veined nose and silver-topped cane suggested a strong fondness for drink, affectation and possibly a case of gout, the rich man’s disease. The ornate robes and other finery screamed the obvious: the new arrival was well off and he wanted everyone to know it. “I have a delivery for you.”
Kurt’s face had soured in the time it took Belladonna to study the newcomer. “Who from?”
“Perhaps we could speak inside?” the visitor suggested, gesturing grandly at their surroundings. “Somewhere away from prying eyes, where we might converse in private, as between two men.”
“Whatever you have to say to me can be said in plain view of the street,” Kurt said.
“So be it. My name is Oosterlee, Theodorus Oosterlee-perhaps you’ve heard of me?”
Kurt shook his head, but the name certainly jarred a memory for Belladonna. Five years ago the Oosterlee family had been one of Marienburg’s leading importers and exporters of premium goods-the finest spices from Araby, the best silks from the Orient, all the wealth of the New World could be had for an appropriate price from an Oosterlee emporium. But the family had fallen upon hard times and tumbled from grace following a series of damaging scandals. Theodorus Oosterlee had gambled away his legacy and been forced to take on silent partners, men apparently far less scrupulous than his father had ever been. Oosterlee had remained in place as the respectable face of the business, but word among the well to do suggested the business was little more than a front for the worst smugglers and brigands. In Marienburg, that almost invariably led to one man-Adalbert Henschmann. Belladonna cleared her throat, trying to get the captain’s attention, but he chose to ignore her.
“Perhaps not,” Oosterlee conceded when Kurt did not reply to his question. “Never mind. I represent a particular group of businessmen who trade from these parts of the city. They have asked me to approach you about coming to an arrangement, a kind of sponsorship for your station. One might go so far as to call it patronage-in the old fashioned, benevolent sense of the word, of course.”
“Of course,” Kurt agreed, his voice remaining noncommittal.
Oosterlee seemed heartened by this response, but still felt the need to wipe the sweat from his brow. “Remarkably close for so early, isn’t it?”
“I find the morning breeze quite cooling,” Kurt growled, taking a step closer to his visitor. “You mentioned something about an arrangement.”
“Yes, absolutely right-business first, that’s the way to do it,” Oosterlee clucked. “My associa
tes and I would like to offer you a gift, an appreciation if you will for the services your station will be offering to the citizens of Suiddock.” He giggled like a little girl, fresh beads of sweat already forming on his brow. Trying to deflect attention from himself, he ran a gloved finger over the flaking whitewash on the walls of the station exterior. “You could use the money to give this place a lick of paint, spruce it up a little, hmm?”
Kurt took another step nearer to Oosterlee, looming over the obese man. “How much?”
“I’m sorry?”
“How much… appreciation… are your masters willing to show us?”
Oosterlee swallowed hard, struggling to maintain his composure. “I’m not sure what you-”
“How much money?” Kurt snapped, a vicious tone to his words. “Show me how much they’ve sent along here with their little lapdog.”
“I say, there’s no need to become abusive, my friend. I’m simply here-”
“I’m not your friend, Oosterlee. Scum like you turn my stomach, pathetic lapdogs running around, doing their master’s bidding, desperate to please him, even more desperate to collect the scraps from his table, to feast on the leavings of parasites who suck this city dry.” Kurt grabbed Oosterlee’s rich clothes. He rooted around in the fat man’s pockets for several seconds before producing a leather pouch bulging with coins. “Is this the appreciation you were mentioning, by any chance?”
“Well, I didn’t want to-”
“Is it?” Kurt snarled, his face so close to Oosterlee their noses were touching.
“Yes,” the messenger squeaked. Kurt released him and Oosterlee staggered backwards on the cobbles of Three Penny Bridge. He watched in dismay as Kurt emptied the pouch of golden guilders into one hand. “Obviously, if that isn’t enough I’m sure my associates would be more than happy to-”
“Who wants to be rich?” Kurt bellowed at all those on the bridge. “Who wants a taste of this man’s wealth? Who wants a golden guilder, courtesy of Theodorus Oosterlee and his corrupt masters?”
