by David Bishop
“Lea-Jan Cobbius?”
Mutig nodded, the colour draining from his face. “Tell the captain… I’m sorry that I didn’t…”
Jan leaned closer, trying to hear what the Black Cap was saying. But Mutig was dead.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Kurt took the commander around the station while Belladonna dealt with Lothar. The cells were empty for the moment, but they intrigued the commander. “You keep your prisoners in plain view?”
“That way anyone entering the station can see what happens to those who break the law,” Kurt replied. He led the commander up to the first floor, acting as guide for the tour. “We’ve three rooms that face south, towards the Bruynwarr, and three rooms at the front that overlook Three Penny Bridge. I’ve allocated the men one of the south-facing chambers as sleeping quarters, with the adjoining room set aside for ablutions. The graveyard shift is using the sleeping quarters at the moment, while the night shift are able to go to their own homes between tours of duty. The other room on the back of the building doubles as an interview room, and as the mess. At the front we have the kitchen, my office and female sleeping quarters.”
“Female quarters?” the commander sneered. “Not exactly protocol for a Watch Station, are they?”
“With respect, sir, you assigned Belladonna Speer to this station, so we had to find private quarters for her. Also, we acquired the services of another woman, Gerta Gestehen, who cooks for everyone.”
“Gestehen-I’ve heard that name before.”
Kurt sighed. “You probably know her as Gerta the Blurter. She came to the station, claiming a connection to the murdered elf, Arullen Silvermoon.”
The commander rolled his eyes. “That woman is infamous among Black Caps for her wild claims. Don’t tell me you’re fool enough to have swallowed one of her bizarre confessions?”
“Her story was a lie, as usual, but she was carrying evidence that links her to the victim. We believe she may have purchased it from the killer or from somebody who at least saw the body being dumped. Until we find that individual, we’re keeping Gerta here. It’s the safest place she can be.”
“You may believe that, but I doubt most right-minded citizens agree with you, Schnell.”
“Be that as it may-”
“Enough!” the commander snapped. “I’ve seen more than enough of this hole. Take me to your office, captain-we need to talk. More accurately, I need to talk and you need to listen.” Kurt led him into the threadbare office, the three chairs and makeshift desk failing to impress. “Sit down, Schnell. What I have to say won’t take long, that’s if you’re prepared to listen.”
“I’m always prepared to-”
“Don’t interrupt me!” the commander snarled. He slowly circled the room, as if marking his territory. “First of all, I believe you’re sorely in need of some lessons about tact and diplomacy. From what I’ve been told your sole successes since arriving here yesterday have been in making new enemies. In the space of a day you’ve turned more people against you, this station and all who serve inside it than most captains of the watch manage in their entire careers. Are you determined to get somebody killed?”
“No, sir, but I won’t-”
“I said don’t interrupt me!”
Kurt closed his mouth, willing himself to be quiet and take whatever abuse or advice the commander had come to deliver. Arguing with this man would do the station no good at all.
“That’s better,” the commander said after a lengthy pause. “As I was saying, you’ve created no shortage of enemies for yourself and, by extension, for the City Watch of all Marienburg. I’ve got members of the Stadsraad screaming for you to be removed, while half the merchants in the city have been signing a petition calling for your demotion. Frankly, I’m surprised you haven’t got the Stevedores and Teamsters Guild threatening to blockade Suiddock, it’s the only major force in this district that isn’t up in arms about you. Unless you learn to exercise some discretion, I doubt you’ll be alive come Geheimnistag.” He stopped by one the windows overlooking Three Penny Bridge. “Well? What’ve you to say for yourself?”
Kurt took a deep breath before speaking, giving himself time to choose his words carefully. “I imagine most, if not all, of those complaints originate from one source: Adalbert Henschmann. I visited him yesterday and put him on notice that the days when his League of Gentlemen Entrepreneurs could rob and extort the people of Suiddock are over. He didn’t take kindly to my words.”
“I’m not surprised. Did he threaten you?”
“Naturally. He also sent a fat fool called Oosterlee to bribe me. Neither was a success.”
The commander glared at Kurt. “Theodorus Oosterlee?”
“Yes, that’s the one. Bloated with his own self-importance. I took him down a peg or two.”
“Theodorus Oosterlee was one of my oldest friends,” the commander said, no trace of feeling in his voice, no hint of emotion in his impassive face and cold, dead eyes.
“You said he was-past tense. Oosterlee is dead?”
“The River Watch found his corpse an hour ago, floating in the cut beneath this station. I’m surprised you didn’t hear about it.”
Kurt shrugged. “I’ve yet to meet with my counterpart in the Suiddock River Watch.”
“Perhaps you would be better advised to start forming such alliances, instead of going out of your way to antagonise one of the most powerful men in this city, Schnell.” The commander turned back to the window, seemingly intent on watching passersby struggle to move around his transportation. A crippled soldier struggled past, a broken crutch supporting him where a left leg should have been, his tatty uniform hanging from an emaciated frame. “What have you discovered about the murder of this elf?”
“His name was Arullen Silvermoon.”
“Indeed. The House of Silvermoon is demanding answers and I have nothing to give them.”
Kurt shrugged. “Neither have I, sir. They have been told everything we know thus far.”
“Everything. Even about this person named by Gerta the Blurter?”
“Fingers Blake? No, not yet. We’re still trying to find him, but he seems to have vanished, and nobody’s talking about him, no matter how great a reward we offer.”
“Yes, your famous reward of a hundred golden guilders. Who is supplying this money?”
“We plan to seize assets from criminals and use these to fund informants.”
“And what about Black Caps in other districts? How are they supposed to keep their informants happy if you’re offering a small fortune to any scum that walks in off the street with gossip and rumour?”
“We will only pay the full amount to someone whose information leads to the elf’s killer.”
“That’s not what people are saying in other parts of the city, Schnell. You’ve created problems beyond imagining in all parts of Marienburg with your antics. I decide to pay you a visit, in the hope you might listen to reason, and instead I find you staggering out of a disorderly house with one of your men, a member of the watch who is plainly dead drunk in the middle of a Backertag. What am I to make of this?”
“Holismus saw his brother and-”
“Holismus? You’re saying he saw Joost Holismus? Impossible! That man is dead.”
“His brother says otherwise.”
“His brother is a drunk and drunks are not to be trusted, Schnell!”
Kurt bit his tongue, stopping himself from repeating the rumours he had heard about the commander’s brandy-sodden wife. That way lay instant dismissal, and that did nobody any good.
“Consider yourself and this station on notice,” the commander continued. “Either find a way to work with the local community-all of the local community -or suffer the consequences.”
Kurt stood, unable to contain his anger any longer. “Is that an order, sir?”
“Yes, it most certainly is.”
“You are ordering me to kowtow to the likes of Henschmann and his cronies, allow them leave to rob an
d extort and threaten and murder as they see fit?”
“No, of course not, captain. I am telling you to do your job-without rocking the boat!” The commander strode past Kurt towards the office door, but the captain grabbed his arms and held him fast.
“Who sent you to warn me off?” Kurt demanded.
“How dare you? Unhand me at once, man!”
“Who’s pulling your strings, sir? The Stadsraad or Henschmann himself?”
The commander’s eye narrowed. “What did you say?”
Kurt let go of his arm. “You heard me.”
“I won’t forget this, Schnell. From now on, this station and its Black Caps are on their own. Don’t expect any co-operation or assistance from other stations, other garrisons, other districts or other divisions of the Watch. If this place goes up in flames, we might come to watch you burn, but nothing more. Remember that when your temper leaves you and your men dancing with Morr himself!” The commander stalked from the office, cursing under his breath in language that would make a stevedore blush.
Kurt followed him out, not wanting anyone else to get in harm’s way. He had burned enough of the station’s bridges already, no need for the others to suffer further from the commander’s wrath. The two men raced down the wooden steps to the ground floor, where Belladonna was waiting nervously with Faulheit. Both their faces were ashen, as if they had heard every word that had been spoken in Kurt’s office. No, he soon realised, the cause was something else, something far more horrific.
Jan was standing in the entrance of the station, cradling Mutig’s mutilated corpse in his arms. Raufbold slipped out of the station as soon as he heard the commander was on the premises. He had little fear of that old toad, but recognised the unexpected visitation as an opportunity. Raufbold knew the commander’s presence would keep the rest of the Black Caps in the station busy and distracted, enabling him to satisfy a growing craving.
He hadn’t had a proper chance to savour the sweet, burning taste of crimson shade in his lungs since being posted to Three Penny Bridge. Sure, he’d helped himself to the drugs he had confiscated from a minor offender, but that was low quality crimson shade. Now that old, familiar need was starting to make its presence felt. His hands always gave the first sign, fingers trembling as if they were afraid. Next came the sweats, a thin sheen of nervous perspiration appearing across his skin until it soaked through his clothing. Left unanswered, the cravings would cause cramps in his stomach, blur his vision and shorten his already brief temper. Finally pain and delirium would overtake him, until he was ready to slaughter anyone who got in his way, butcher anybody who had the means to fund his habit. Raufbold had encountered a few crimson shade addicts suffering withdrawal symptoms during his time as a Black Cap-wretched creatures, beneath contempt or pity, the lowest of the low. He had no intention of going the same way.
Raufbold slunk across Three Penny Bridge to Riddra, knowing he would have little trouble finding a fresh supply of his personal daemon there. In a city where too many people survived on all manner of intoxicants, Riddra was the hub for suppliers and supplies. Opiates from Nippon were smuggled ashore here and the small island was also home to Marienburg’s most infamous drug den, the Golden Lotus Dreaming House.
If you believed the rumours, many of the city’s prominent and influential people visited the unremarkable building squatting near Three Penny Bridge to feed their filthy habits. Of course, they came after dark, and usually by boat, using a concealed entrance in a side alley. Raufbold knew better than to set foot inside the timber and stone building, even crossing the cobbled street to avoid being near it. An old wives tale said anyone who passed the front door of the Golden Lotus would become an addict, so powerful was the waft of black lotus fumes that seeped from the building.
In truth, Raufbold crossed the street simply because everyone else did. No respectable citizen walked by the Golden Lotus in daylight.
Besides, crimson shade was one of the few drugs not available within the Dreaming House. For that you had to find a dealer among those skulking along the narrow passages and alleyways that populated the shadows of Riddra. Crimson shade was extracted from leaves of the blood oak of Estalia, the foliage laboriously ground down to a paste by mortar and pestle, before being dried and desiccated. The results were sold as a fine powder that addicts rubbed into their gums, snorted through their nostrils or mixed with herbs and smoked in a pipe.
Raufbold had no time for the affectation of smoking a pipe these days. When he first tried crimson shade, he had enjoyed the ritual of filling and lighting a pipe. Now he would snatch the powder from whomever was supplying him and force the results into his gums, rubbing and rubbing until his teeth were coated in blood, waiting for that rush no other experience could match.
At least one good thing had come out of his new posting, Raufbold decided as he searched the streets of Riddra for a familiar face. He wouldn’t have to cope with the long trek across Marienburg to get a fresh supply of his favourite vice. But he would have to be careful from whom he got supplies. They needed to be discreet.
The last thing Raufbold wanted was his dealer being brought into the station on charges and trying to escape a spell in Rijker’s by giving up the name of their local Black Cap customer. Yes, discretion would be crucial, and for that he needed to find Marcel Roos. The Bretonnian drug dealer was fond of offering his customers a discount price for their crimson shade, if they agreed to read his twelve-volume novel about art, memory, time and sweet biscuits. Roos was convinced he would one day become a famous scribe, his magnum opus acclaimed throughout the Old World as a work of searing insight and poetry. The fact that few people could read and even fewer of them were likely to be looking for literature while feeding their addiction didn’t seem to bother Roos. He always said history would recognise his genius. Raufbold had been a regular customer for more than a year and had often promised to buy a copy of Roos’ masterpiece. One day he would have to make good on that promise.
Raufbold spotted Roos lingering in the shadows on the western most edge of Riddra, scribbling furiously in a leather-bound journal, the telltale bulge of a drug pouch visible in the folds of his cloak. “Marcel, there you are! I’ve been thinking about your novels and I’ve come to a decision.”
“Yes?” the dealer asked, his face lighting up until he recognised Raufbold. “Oh. It’s you.”
“Is that any way to treat one of your most loyal customers?”
Roos went back to his writing. “I can’t sell you anything today, Jorg.”
“Why not? My guilders are as golden as the next man.”
“Orders. No dealer in Suiddock is allowed to sell you a grain of crimson shade.”
“Orders? Whose orders?”
Roos shrugged. “I don’t know precisely, but the message was delivered by Henschmann’s personal bodyguard Helga, so you figure it out. Your money’s no good to us today-or tomorrow.”
“Why?”
“You’ll have to ask Helga that. Mine is not to reason why, mine is simply to do as I’m told or die.”
Raufbold drew his dagger and rested the blade across Roos’ journal, stopping him from writing. “I’ll kill you before you write another word if you don’t sell me what I need, Marcel. How’s that sound?”
Roos swallowed hard but still shook his head. “I’m scared of you, Jorg, but I’m terrified of Henschmann. You know what he does to anyone who dares disobey him.”
Raufbold used the tip of his dagger to pull back the dealer’s cloak, revealing the bulging pouch. “What’s to stop me killing you and taking your bag of crimson shade?”
“It’s salt-try it if you don’t believe me. Helga took all my supplies, same with all the dealers in Suiddock. Killing me won’t do you any good, Jorg.”
The Black Cap sliced the pouch open and stuck a finger into the contents as they poured out. He rubbed the white crystals against his gums but they were salt, as Roos had warned. Increasingly frustrated, Raufbold lifted his dagger up so the point du
g into the skin beneath the dealer’s jaw. “Why? Why cut off crimson shade supplies for the whole of Suiddock, just to deny me?”
“Helga said to give you a message. If you want your drug, come and get it. She’s waiting for you at the Marienburg Gentlemen’s Club.” Roos swallowed, a trickle of sweat running down his face.
“Why?” Raufbold demanded, his hands beginning to tremble uncontrollably. The craving was getting stronger by the moment, made worse by the knowledge his supply had been cut off. “Why?”
“I don’t know. Please, Jorg, I’ve told you all I know.”
“That’s not good enough,” the Black Cap snarled. Anger overtaking him, he rammed the dagger up into Roos’ head, until the hilt jammed against the jaw line. The dealer tried to cry out, but the blade had pierced his tongue.
Still not satisfied, Raufbold twisted the knife inside Roos’ head, feeling the tip grind against bone and sinew, until something brittle broke deep within the skull. The dealer’s body was twitching and thrashing, fingers dancing like madmen. Raufbold ripped his dagger free, a spray of blood and viscera coming away with the metal blade. Roos toppled over, falling face-first into the cobbles with a sickening thud, a crimson pool forming around his skull.
Realising what his craving had driven him to do, the Black Cap glanced about to see if anyone had witnessed his butchery, but everyone knew enough to mind their own business in this part of Suiddock. Raufbold wiped his dagger clean in Roos’ cloak, not noticing the blade’s tip had broken off. He stood up, his face bathed in sweat, his heart racing and breath coming in short, quick gasps. Roos must have been telling the truth, nobody would lie to a crimson shade addict holding a knife on them, but Raufbold wasn’t ready to walk into whatever trap was being laid for him. He had to find another dealer first, make sure he had no other choice. Raufbold looked at his quivering hands, scarcely able to focus on them. His withdrawal symptoms were accelerating. He had to hurry. The commander had wasted no time to offer commiserations for the murder of Mutig. He pointed to the body triumphantly while sneering at Kurt. “See? This is what comes of your high-handed attitude, Captain Schnell. One of your recruits has been murdered and his blood is upon your hands! Well, I’m certain this poor soul’s sacrifice is merely the first of many here, all sacrificed at the altar of your ego. Remember what I said, captain-nobody else in the Watch will lift a finger to help you or your Black Caps. Nor can you expect any replacements or reinforcements. You’re on your own!” The commander strode from the station to his coach, taking care not to brush against Mutig’s corpse on the way out. Within moments the coach had rolled away, wooden wheels scraping across the cobbles on the bridge, until the sound was overtaken by the inevitable cries of gulls wheeling overhead.
