by David Bishop
Mutig’s breath caught in his throat when he heard the name of his captor. Of all the people he could have chosen to confront, fate had somehow led him to one of Suiddock’s most notorious sadists. “If you torture me, the captain will see you executed for it,” he said, his words braver than his heart.
Cobbius merely laughed, his men eagerly joining in the hilarity. “Torture you? What a wonderful idea, I hadn’t thought of that. I was just going to dump your body on the cutter of my acquaintance and have you turned into choice cuts of long pig. I love a nice piece of long pig. But you’ve given me-” His words were stopped by the sound of running feet approaching and the tavern door bursting inwards. “Marius? What are you doing running in here like the wolves of Ulric are after you? This tavern’s closed-or can’t you read the sign outside?”
A voice Mutig didn’t recognise replied, bearing the cultured accent of a Bretonnian. “The River Watch, they’ve seized the Grey Sail and are searching the hold. I only escaped because I was on dry land at the time, making a delivery to the meat market.”
“Why are the River Watch interested in my ship?” Cobbius demanded, anger rising in his words.
“They know what we’ve been doing on board! I overheard some of them talking on the dock when I crept closer. Somebody must have told them.”
“You mean they know what you’ve been doing on board. I own the Grey Sail, but I leased it to you, Marius. You’re the captain, you take the blame for everything that happens on board.”
“But I was following your orders, Cobbius!”
“That’s your word against mine, and I’ve got my cousin to back me up.”
“I’ve never met your cousin,” Marius protested.
“Yes, you have. He was a witness when I leased you the Grey Sail, remember?”
“No, that’s a lie!”
Mutig heard a sharp intake of breath from the other men in the tavern.
“Did you just call me a liar?” Cobbius asked, cold fury evident in his voice.
“No, I didn’t mean-”
“You called me a liar and you did it in front of my men, too.”
“Please, I was upset, I wasn’t trying to-”
“Nobody calls me a liar, you frog-faced Bretonnian body-snatcher!” Mutig heard something swift and sure flying through the air, before thudding deep into its target, the impact sounding like a carving knife slicing into the heart of a cabbage. Somebody choked and gurgled a few times, before falling heavily to the wooden floor. “Stick that in your pipe and smoke it, Marius!” The others laughed, their relief palpable in the confined, murderous atmosphere of the tavern.
Mutig swallowed hard, fearing the worst. If that was how Cobbius dealt with employees who displeased him, how in the name of Manann would he treat a member of the Watch? The answer was not long in coming, but the Black Cap found no comfort in his captor’s words.
“Now, where was I before that fool interrupted me?”
“Torture,” one of the others prompted.
“That’s right, torture,” Cobbius agreed. He leaned forwards, his face looming in focus before Mutig’s terrified, tear-filled eyes. “Tell me, can you read and write?”
“Y-Yes,” the watchman replied. “A l-little.”
“That’s good. Education is important. I often wished I’d made the effort to learn more.” The others laughed at this, enjoying their master’s good humour. He shushed them into silence before resuming his close questioning of Mutig. “So, my unwelcome guest-which hand do you write with, hmm?”
“My right hand,” Mutig whimpered, unable to hold back his fear any longer.
“Somebody lend me a knife,” Cobbius said to the room. “And make it a sharp one. Don’t want to be hacking away all afternoon, now, do we? I’m sure this Black Cap has places to go, things to do.”
Mutig started screaming and didn’t stop for an hour.
CHAPTER TEN
Lothar Holismus thought he was dreaming, his consciousness replaying the nightmare that had plagued him for years, tormenting him with the past. His brother Joost would appear in Lothar’s sleep, whispering in the younger man’s ears, telling him about the salvation to be had by becoming one with Chaos. Lothar had worshipped his elder brother, looked up to him as a father figure. Lothar had never known his real father, and with Joost being so many years older, it was only natural for Joost to fill that role in the Holismus household. Joost was everything Lothar wanted to be-brave, a charismatic leader, a well-respected figure across Suiddock. When Joost was made captain of the station on Three Penny Bridge, it was the proudest day of Lothar’s young life. He had been among the citizens who stood outside the station when it opened, cheering as the new captain announced his intention to make the district safe for honest, decent, hard-working men and women of Marienburg.
Joost’s breakdown was not long in coming. He spent more and more time at the station, until the rest of the Holismus family did not see him for months at a time. Lothar heard whispers his elder brother was unwell, even unstable, making decisions that defied belief and endangering the lives of Black Caps assigned to Three Penny Bridge.
The youth came home early one day and found his mother sobbing in the kitchen, clutching a scrap of paper covered in blood, only four words visible on it: Save me, your son. The writing was close to illegible, but Lothar could still recognise his brother’s hand. After comforting their mother, Lothar ran to the station to confront Joost. He arrived in time to see Joost mortally wound one of the Black Caps, before the deranged captain took a dagger to his own face. The last anyone saw of Joost Holismus was when he dove off Three Penny Bridge and never resurfaced.
But Lothar was haunted by visions of his brother every night, and followed by whispers about Joost’s surrender to the dark tyranny of Chaos. To know your sibling, the person you had worshipped, could slaughter innocent lives and commit suicide, all in the name of Chaos… It had been too much for Lothar. He took to drinking, drowning his sorrows, blotting out reality.
After one particular binge he woke to find himself a member of the Watch, having signed up for ten years in the Black Caps during a drunken stupor. Since then he had staggered from one station to the next, disgracing his family name and the uniform he wore. Lothar did not dare sleep without the aid of alcohol, for when he slept sober Joost would appear in his dreams, taunting and tormenting him. The once noble face was a horrific parody of itself, the features warped and twisted, the lips contorted, the tongue inside that hissing, spitting mouth a black and suppurating apparition, as if a serpent lived inside Joost now. So Lothar drank himself to sleep every night and kept the daemon at bay, blocking out his brother’s spectral presence with ale and anything stronger.
When Lothar arrived at Three Penny Bridge, he knew this was his last chance for redemption. How ironic, it should come at the place that apparently drove his brother to shame and suicide, and that had destroyed his mother. The apothecary said she died of a heart attack, but Lothar knew it was a broken heart that claimed her.
As he set foot inside the station, Lothar made a silent pact with himself. He would not drink, no matter how things got, no matter how much his nightmares tormented him. If he didn’t want to end up like Joost, he had to put the bottle aside and make a new life for himself. Lothar was grateful when Sergeant Woxholt suggested his name for the graveyard shift, hoping that sleeping in daytime might keep Joost’s ghost at bay. When he staggered upstairs with Raufbold and Narbig to the newly installed sleeping quarters at the back of the station, Lothar even let himself hope for his first real sleep in years. No hangover when he woke up, no pounding headache in the middle of his slumber. Just close your eyes and rest, for the first time in such a long, long time.
“I can lead you to salvation,” the voice had whispered, sibilant and coaxing.
“Leave me be,” Lothar muttered in his sleep, tossing and turning.
“Accept salvation and you shall never know pain or fear again.”
“I said leave me be!” Lo
thar shouted, waking with a start. He sat bolt upright in bed, convinced he would find Joost’s wraith-like presence looming over him. Instead all he saw were the surly faces of Raufbold and Narbig unhappy at having been woken up.
“Put a boot in it, Holismus,” Raufbold snarled from his bed in the opposite corner. “Otherwise I’ll come over there and do it for you, understand?” The murderous look on Narbig’s face suggested he was more than willing to assist.
“Sorry,” Lothar murmured. “Bad dream, I guess.”
“Go back to sleep,” Narbig hissed, before turning over and facing away from Holismus. Raufbold did the same, muttering further threats and curses under his breath.
Lothar lay back down on his bed, feeling the pounding of his heart slowly easing. There was a window behind his mattress, overlooking the Bruynwarr and southern Suiddock, but they had hung a blanket over it to block out the daylight. Lothar thought he saw a shadow fall over the blanket, but knew that was impossible. The sleeping quarters were on the upper floor of the station. Outside the window was nothing but a straight drop down into the cut that linked the Bruynwarr with the Rijksweg. There was no ledge, no balcony, nothing to stand on even if someone had been crazed enough to clamber sideways across the station exterior from one of the adjoining buildings. Light danced across the blanket again, catching Lothar’s eye. It was probably just a gull, hovering outside, casting shadows across the window.
“Accept salvation…” the voice whispered.
“Hey, did you hear that?” Lothar called out. “Jorg Joachim-did you hear that voice?”
“What voice?” Narbig replied wearily.
“We didn’t hear any damned voice,” Raufbold growled. “Go to sleep, for the love of Manann!”
But Lothar couldn’t sleep, dared not sleep. He knew his brother was back, lurking at the edge of his dreams, waiting to reveal himself. All he could do now was wait for him to return.
“Accept salvation and you shall never know pain or fear again,” the voice hissed at him.
Now convinced the voice was whispering to him from beyond the window, Lothar twisted around on the bed. His hand trembling he reached towards a corner of the blanket. As his fingers touched the coarse, scratchy fabric, sunlight bathed the window and the clear silhouette of a human head appeared on the blanket. Willing himself on, Lothar lifted back the material and saw a face staring at him, eyes blazing malevolently, the mouth a cruel parody of a smile. Water dripped from the warped, twisted features and a black tongue slithered and snaked about those contorted, ugly lips. “Join me, brother,” Joost Holismus whispered. “Join me and know salvation as I have known it. Become one with Chaos, Lothar!”
***
“He called me what?” Henschmann snarled at the cowering figure on the floor in front of him. “Did you say that whelp Schnell called me Casanova? In front of everyone on Three Penny Bridge?” Oosterlee looked up long enough to hurriedly nod confirmation of this fact before returning his attention to the floorboards beneath his flabby legs. “He shall pay for insulting me like this. I will make the insolent upstart understand that I command Suiddock and all who reside or work here-they do so at my say and under my sufferance. Anyone who dares call me by that name again shall suffer an egregious, ignominious death!”
Oosterlee wished the wooden floor would swallow him up, rather than having to remain where he was and listen to Henschmann’s rantings. It was embarrassing enough being forced to act as a messenger boy for a common criminal, however powerful that criminal might be-the scion of a once formidable merchant family should never be so humiliated. But it was frightfully unnerving to have to prostrate himself on the floor in front of this raving psychopath, especially since Oosterlee knew what Henschmann was prone to doing when presented with an idle or unwelcome report.
No matter that Adalbert was Master of the League of Gentlemen Entrepreneurs, his philosophy in such matters could best be summarised by three simple yet heart-stopping words: garrotte the messenger. Now Oosterlee was the messenger and Henschmann was positively spitting with rage, the veins on his neck and temples bulging alarmingly.
The ranting continued for several more minutes before burning itself out. Henschmann sunk into a chair at the far end of the Directorate’s meeting table, leaving the unfortunate Oosterlee still clinging to the floor by the door. “However, it would not do to strike this Schnell down directly. I have made certain assurances and thus the new captain must be allowed to hang himself, if possible. Better to make him suffer by serving punishment upon one of his recruits. Do you have any suggestions?”
Oosterlee realised he was being asked a question and popped his head back up. “Suggestions?”
“Yes, I need to know which of Schnell’s Black Caps I should punish in his stead.”
“There was a woman with him-young, rather striking, quite beautiful in her way. I’m sure her suffering would be of great torment to the captain, if you so chose.”
“I would, but until lately she was the apple of the commander’s eye. To hurt her might be interpreted more as a stab at his heart, instead of a dagger to the spirit of Captain Schnell. No, it will have to be one of the others. Did you see any other suitable candidates?”
Oosterlee shook his head, not daring to say any more.
“Very well,” Henschmann decided, standing up once more. “I shall leave the final choice to one of my enforcers. Better to delegate the responsibility in any case. Deniable culpability, and all that nonsense.”
“Indeed.”
Henschmann paused beside the craven figure on his floor. “Well? What are you waiting for, slug?”
“There was one other element of the report I have thus far failed to convey.”
“Sigmar’s beard, man! Try speaking in plain words, for once in your fat, indigent existence.”
“Yes, of course. It’s about the golden guilders you gave me as a gift for the captain…”
“What have you done with my coins?” Henschmann scowled.
“Schnell tore them from my hands and threw them all into the air. I tried to recover them, but the vast majority were taken by the scum that frequent Three Penny Bridge in daylight.” Oosterlee reached into a pocket and produced three, lonely guilders. “That was all I recovered, I regret to say.”
“Then they shall be your payment.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Swallow them.”
“But you said if I did as you asked, you would forgive my debts.”
Henschmann’s face darkened. “You singularly failed to achieve any of the tasks I sent you to do. As of this moment, your debts have doubled-due compensation for your spectacular failure.”
“Doubled?” Oosterlee quailed, his voice close to breaking.
“I will allow you to keep those three guilders, if you swallow them. Here. Now.”
The prostrate man stared at the coins in his fat, sweaty fist. “In that case, I’ll have to decline your generous offer and leave the guilders here with you.”
“It was not an offer, Oosterlee. It was an order. Swallow them. Now.” Henschmann watched as his minion tried to swallow the first coin. Within moments Oosterlee was choking the golden guilder caught in his windpipe, refusing to descend any further. He coughed and spluttered, his breath fast becoming a desperate wheeze for help. “What’s that?” Henschmann asked. “Having trouble getting it down?” Oosterlee nodded, his face turning purple as feeble fingers clutched at his throat, miming for a drink. Henschmann picked up a silver goblet of white wine and poured it over Oosterlee’s head, laughing as the liquid burned its way into the dying man’s eyes. “Helga, could you come in here? I believe my guest needs assistance.”
The big, butch bodyguard stomped into the meeting room, her sour face curdling with disdain at the sight of Oosterlee losing consciousness on the floor. “Did you have to do that in here?” she asked.
“Help me… p-please…” Oosterlee gasped, his hands going into spasm. His body jerked and twitched once, twice-and no more. A pool of
yellow liquid oozed out from beneath the corpse as Oosterlee’s muscles relaxed and his bladder emptied its waste.
“See?” she said, pointing at the mess on the floorboards. “Not only do I have to get rid of this fat lump, now I have to mop up after him. It would have been much easier if you’d left him to me.”
“But where would the fun be in that?” Henschmann wondered aloud. “Toss that carcass out the privy chamber downstairs.”
The privy chamber was a set of doors on the ground floor of the Marienburg Gentlemen’s Club, supposedly leading to the bar’s water-closet. In fact they opened directly on to the Bruynwarr, giving drunken newcomers an unpleasant surprise once they passed beyond the doors. “It strikes me that I need another set of eyes and ears inside Three Penny Bridge station.”
Helga frowned. “That weasel Bescheiden isn’t enough?”
“He’ll sell himself to the highest bidder. I need someone who’s loyal without question, if needed.”
The bodyguard stroked her chin thoughtfully. “One of the Black Caps posted there buys crimson shade from our dealers. Control his supply and you control him, body and soul.”
Henschmann smiled appreciatively at the irony of this suggestion. “Excellent. What’s his name?”
“Calls himself Gorgeous Jorg.” Scheusal was not due on duty until sunset, but he returned to the station early, hoping to enjoy some more of Gerta’s cooking. The woman had quickly become a favourite among the Black Caps on Three Penny Bridge, partly due to her wild claims about all the crimes she’d committed but mostly thanks to her skills in the station’s rudimentary kitchen. She could transform the simplest of ingredients into a stew that set the mouth watering, while her herring broth and sourdough bread was beyond compare.
Besides, Scheusal was finding himself thinking about Gerta a lot since her arrival. Perhaps it was because Scheusal himself was built more like a beer barrel than a ship’s mast, but he’d always been partial to women with child-bearing hips and a rump you could get a good grip on. And then there was her smile, all rosy cheeks and dimples, with a smattering of comely freckles across her nose, framed by that lustrous hair. Scheusal quickened his pace as he approached the station and took the steps up to the first floor three at a time. So when he burst into the kitchen, he was more than dismayed to discover Bescheiden smiling sweetly at Gerta and asking for another helping of her dumplings.
