by David Bishop
Jan staggered into the station and laid Mutig’s remains on the end of the long bar. “It was Cobbius,” he murmured, “Abram Cobbius. Mutig told me not long before he died.”
Kurt sent Faulheit to fetch Otto, while Belladonna examined the tortured recruits’ clothes and torso. “This must have taken hours,” she observed, sadness in her voice. “They kept him alive through it all, making him watch as they took his legs and his arm. I’ve never seen such cruelty.”
“I have,” Kurt said, his thoughts drifting to another time and another place. “But the man who did this did it for his own pleasure, not as a sacrifice to a Chaos cult, not as any act of appeasement.”
“What did the commander mean?” Jan asked. “No reinforcements?”
“Henschmann has been calling in favours across the city, isolating us.”
“Maybe, but the commander wouldn’t simply cut us off without a good excuse.”
Kurt grimaced. “I accused him of being Henschmann’s lackey.”
The sergeant’s expression darkened. “You’ve signed our death warrants, Kurt-you realise that, don’t you?”
“Cobbius murdered Mutig you said so yourself!”
“I’m not talking about Mutig, Shallya take his soul! I’m talking about your self-destructive need to prove yourself, no matter what the cost. There’s more at stake here than your reputation, damn you!”
“Enough!” Belladonna stepped between the two old friends, before they resorted to settling their differences with fists instead of words. “Arguing is not going to bring Mutig back and it’s not going to change the commander’s mind. We have to make the best of what we’ve got, come what may.”
The two men glared at each other, still itching to vanquish their anger with violence. It was Kurt who spoke first, blinking and looking away from his former mentor. “Jan, I’m sorry. I didn’t… I’m sorry.”
“You should be, captain. But Belladonna’s right-we should fight our enemies, not each other.”
“That’s better,” she said.
Kurt stared hard at Mutig’s blood-flecked features. “He’d still be alive if we’d arrested Cobbius.”
“True, but Mutig was the architect of his own demise,” Jan said, explaining how the Black Cap had chosen the wrong target to prove his courage. “Cobbius knows we’ll be looking for him, now. He’ll go to ground, no doubt protected by his cousin Lea-Jan. We’ll have to wait for our chance to take him.”
“So what do we do in the meantime?” Kurt asked.
“We do our jobs. If word spreads about Mutig’s murder and the way he was treated, it’ll be open season on Black Caps in Suiddock. We have to carry on as if everything’s normal, for now.”
Faulheit returned, bringing Otto with him. The priest approached Mutig’s body with reverence, but horror overtook him as he saw what had been done to the Black Cap. Otto shook his head, distraught. “Great Morr, save us,” he whispered, before clasping a hand over his mouth. The priest staggered and fell, his eyes rolling back into his head and his eyelids fluttering shut. Belladonna was first to him, kneeling at Otto’s side, pressing an ear against his chest to listen.
“He’s fainted, that’s all,” she said after a moment, rearranging the priest’s body into a more restful position on the wooden floor. “His kind possess a heightened sensitivity to the dead, they absorb some of the pain felt by the deceased in their final moments, offering comfort to the soul and guiding it onwards.” She glanced up at the corpse on the reception desk. “What happened to Mutig, the torments he was put through, they were too much for Otto. His body shut down as a defence against the pain.”
“I didn’t realise,” Kurt said.
“You weren’t to know,” Belladonna whispered, resting a hand of comfort on the captain’s shoulder. Below them, Otto stirred, his lips muttering silent incantations, his eyelids fluttering open again. “Don’t try to get up yet,” Belladonna warned. “You suffered a shock, seeing Mutig’s suffering.”
The priest nodded, licking his dry lips. “I hadn’t realised how bad it would be. Rarely does one of my kind encounter such savagery, such agonies in the dead.” He took a deep breath. “His ghost invaded my thoughts for a moment, overwhelming me.” Belladonna helped him to his feet and went with him to look at the corpse. Otto closed his eyes and reached out both hands above Mutig, breathing in and out slowly, his face a mask of concentration. “I can still hear the dying echoes of his spirit, inside my mind. Mutig died in fear, but he did not die alone.”
“I was with him,” Jan said.
“Good. That was a comfort for him, at the last.” The priest swayed and staggered back a step, but Belladonna was there to help him this time. He opened his eyes and looked directly at Kurt. “Mutig had something to tell you, Captain Schnell. A message for all your Black Caps.”
“What message?”
“Beware the catacombs. Stone, tooth and claw wait there. Doom lingers below. Beware…” Otto shuddered, before his body relaxed once more. “Mutig is at peace now,” Otto said. “His torments are over. But I feel yours are yet to come, captain.”
“I fear you’re right,” Kurt conceded.
“What do you want done with Mutig’s mortal remains?”
“By rights all Black Caps are entitled to a final resting place in the watch vaults beneath headquarters, but I doubt any of us will be welcome there at present. Can you keep him at your temple for a day or two, until the commander calms down?”
Otto nodded. “I’ll require help to transport his body to the temple.”
“Faulheit can assist you,” Kurt said, turning to Belladonna before she could object. “I know you want to examine the body for evidence, but it will have to wait. You need to sleep first. That’s an order.”
Belladonna went upstairs, not bothering to disguise her unhappiness at being told what to do. While Faulheit helped Otto prepare the corpse for its final journey, Kurt took Jan to one side.
“The commander was right about one thing-we’ve made next to no progress discovering who murdered Arullen Silvermoon. I have my suspicions about the culprits, but no proof. We need to find this Fingers Blake, the thief who sold the brooch to Gerta. Any suggestions?”
“The night shift will be arriving soon, but it’ll be busy enough coping with the usual drunken brawl and trouble outside taverns,” Jan replied. “Have you got any of that bribe money left?”
“No.”
“Pity. We could have used it to hire an old friend of mine, Sam Warble.”
“The halfling detective?”
Jan nodded. “He can find people and get into places that are beyond us, but he’s not cheap-thirty guilders a day, plus expenses. Of course, he does owe me a favour…”
Kurt couldn’t help smiling. “Dare I ask why?”
“Let’s just say it involved twenty-seven herring sausages, a beginner’s guide to taxidermy and a serving wench called Brunnhilde who accused Sam of murder. I persuaded her to think otherwise.”
“You think Warble can find Blake for us?”
“Perhaps. At the least, he’ll offer some useful advice.”
“He could probably find Abram Cobbius as well, if we asked.”
Jan shook his head. “Finding Cobbius is not the problem. He’ll be sequestered in the guild headquarters. We have to wait until he gets bored, eludes those guarding him and comes out to play.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” Kurt conceded. “If you’re willing to cash in your favour with Warble, go ask him to find our missing thief. Every time I go upstairs Gerta demands to know what progress we’re making. I can’t keep her here indefinitely and I daren’t let her back out on the streets. Besides, much more of her cooking and I’m liable to sink the next river taxi I get into.”
“I know how you feel,” Jan agreed, patting his bulging stomach. “I could be a while finding Warble. I’ll try Sam’s lodgings in the Winkelmarkt first. Failing that, he’s liable to be eating in a halfling tavern near the elf quarter. You know how halfling
s love their food.” Raufbold’s stomach was cramping and he could hardly see to walk when he staggered into the Marienburg Gentlemen’s Club. He’d accosted two more dealers after Roos, but got the same response from both of them-if he wanted crimson shade, he had to pay a visit to Helga. Now he stood on the stairs that led up to the club’s first floor, the beefy blonde sneering down at him in disgust. Raufbold’s tunic was soaked with sweat, his hands were shaking like a boatman trying to navigate his way out of a fishing net and his heart was pounding as if determined to burst from his chest at any moment. “P-Please,” the Black Cap heard his weak, feeble voice pleading. “I need some shade… please…”
She unfolded her arms and held out a tiny leather pouch, dangling it in front of his face. Raufbold made a wild grab for the drugs, but Helga was too quick for him and he fell face-first into the wooden steps, splitting the skin across one cheek. “You disgust me,” she sniffed, her nose in the air.
“Please,” he begged, prising himself up off the steps. “I’ll do anything you ask-anything!”
“Anything?”
“Yes!”
“Betray your fellow watchmen? Steal from them, lie to them?”
“Yes!”
“Murder them?”
Raufbold didn’t hesitate for a moment. “Yes!” He’d have sold both his testicles for the bittersweet relief of crimson shade, even though he knew its effects would last a day or two at best. “I’ll do anything!”
Helga smiled, an expression ill suited to her sour countenance. She opened the leather pouch and emptied its contents onto the steps in front of the Black Cap. Raufbold threw himself forward, pawing at the tiny crystals with his sticky hands, swiping the crimson shade into his mouth. When he could get no more with his fingers, he pushed his face against the staircase and licked the last specks up, along with all the dirt and dung tracked into the club by visitors in recent days. Helga climbed down the steps, clambering awkwardly over Raufbold. She knelt on one knee beside him, pressing her wide, flabby face close to his. “Now listen to me, you disgusting, vile little worm of a man. I own you now, you’re mine. Whatever happens in that station, you will send an hourly report back to me. A messenger will be lurking near the privy, waiting for word from you. They will also bring you fresh orders, when necessary. Obey without question and you’ll have all the crimson shade your sick, queasy, little heart desires. Deviate from my commandments and you’ll never find another person in the city willing to feed your cravings. Is that quite clear?” Raufbold nodded, all his troubles floating away from him. “Then get out and never sully this place with your presence again.” Scheusal, Bescheiden and Verletzung all appeared for their night shift on time and-to Kurt’s relief-sober. After his travails with Lothar and the murder of Mutig, the last thing this station needed was for another man to go missing or off the deep end. He briefed the trio about all that had happened and warned them not to patrol near the guild headquarters. “If you see Abram Cobbius on the street, don’t try to be a hero and tackle him single-handed. Keep a good watch on his movements and get a message back to here, telling us where you are and what you’re doing. Understand?”
Satisfied they had grasped his instructions, Kurt let Scheusal take charge of allocating assignments for the evening’s patrols. The Bretonnian gave a good account of himself, sending Bescheiden east to Luydenhoek and basing the scowling Verletzung on the more dangerous island of Riddra. Scheusal claimed the Stoessel patrol for himself, a sensible choice in the circumstances. He looked to his captain for approval and Kurt was happy to give him the nod. Jan had been right, as usual. Scheusal might not have much to say for himself, but he obviously listened and learned. His brawn hid a deceptively intuitive brain. I’m lucky to have him here, Kurt thought. I could do with half a dozen more like him.
Jan returned as the night shift was leaving, the sergeant telling the three men to be careful out there as they departed. Once inside, he sought out Kurt. “No luck with Warble, I’m afraid,” he reported.
“I thought he owed you a favour?”
“He did. He still does. Sam’s up to his neck in a smuggling case, something involving a solid gold statue of a bird. But he did make a few suggestions of places we could look for our thief, and told me how we could recognise him in a crowd. Blake’s got a hook nose, black curly hair and it seems Fingers is more than just a nickname.” Kurt smiled, waiting patiently for the rest of the explanation. “Blake has six fingers on each hand. That sort of mutation would normally have the witch hunters all over him, but he hides the extra fingers with a special pair of gloves. Nobody has ever seen Blake without those gloves on, so people started speculating about what was wrong with his hands-hence the nickname, Fingers.”
“So how does Warble know-”
The sergeant held up both hands and shook his head. “Trust me, you don’t want to know the details. All Sam would tell me was Blake does remove his gloves in the privy. After that, I didn’t ask.”
“Fair enough. So, where are the favoured haunts of our twelve-fingered friend?”
“The Alderman’s Alehouse on Paleisbuurt, the Goat and Stoat at Goudberg, and the Marienburg Gentlemen’s Club on Riddra. I’ve already tried the first two, that’s why I was so long getting back here.”
“That leaves Henschmann’s domain and I doubt I’m welcome inside anytime soon,” Kurt sighed.
Jan tapped the side of his nose. “We don’t need to go inside to see if Blake’s coming and going.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Verletzung was cold and wet, and he didn’t enjoy either sensation. A thick mist had rolled in from the sea not long after nightfall and now Suiddock was covered in fog, hanging like a grey shroud over the district, deadening the night. It had driven away the drunkards and fools Verletzung liked to prey upon during his patrols as a Black Cap. To his way of thinking, all life was simply a question of how successfully you were able to acquire power and use it. That philosophy had been thrashed into him as boy, growing up in the soul-destroying area known as Doodkanaal. Verletzung’s father had spent every day of his adult life fishing corpses from the innumerable cuts and canals that splintered the ward’s many islands.
Marienburg had paid young Helmut’s father to keep the waterways unclogged by rotting, festering carcasses. In exchange for this most repugnant of tasks, professional scavengers could lay claim to whatever they found on or around the bodies of the dead.
One day Verletzung senior had discovered a halfling corpse with a hundred golden guilders sewn into the lining of its jerkin. The weight had kept the body beneath the water for more than a week, until eventually the bloated corpse had bobbed to the surface like a cork. Helmut’s father had drunk himself silly with that money, the greatest find of his cruel, violent and vile existence. But he had bragged once too often about his good luck while supping upon fine Bretonnian brandy in a tavern full of cut-throats. When he woke many hours later in a gutter, minus his tunic and money pouch, the bitter man had gone home and taken his shame out on his family.
He beat the eight year-old Helmut for an hour before turning on the boy’s mother. She died from her injuries, but Verletzung senior was not charged with her killing. When the Black Caps came to the door, he claimed to have lashed out at her in self-defence. A nod and a wink was all it took for the drunkard to escape justice.
Helmut waited ten years before seeking vengeance against his father, waited until the old man was no longer strong enough to defend himself. Helmet beat his father black and blue before drowning him in the canal, weighing the body down with one hundred golden guilders. “There, father,” he whispered in the drowning man’s ears as Verletzung senior sank beneath the surface of a Doodkanaal waterway. “There’s your precious coins. I hope you enjoy them.”
Afterwards, Helmut had waited at home for three days, expecting the knock at the door, waiting for the men in black caps to come and take him away for punishment. If there was any justice in this waterlogged city, he should be made to suffer for having commit
ted a cold-blooded, premeditated murder. But Helmut eventually came to the conclusion that there was no justice in Marienburg. You could get away with murder if you were clever enough or lucky enough, or rich enough to bribe the Black Caps. Nobody came to arrest him for his father’s much deserved murder, nobody even enquired what had happened to Verletzung senior. A week later the dead man’s bloated corpse duly appeared in the water by Doodkanaal and was stripped bare by the men who had taken his place as canal cleaners. Nobody cared and nobody commented upon the murder.
Helmut took this as a sign and applied to the City Watch, deciding he would mete out punishment and retribution whenever and wherever he saw fit. Those who held power over others, they were the ones who determined life and death. Morality, right and wrong-these had no meaning for Helmut Verletzung from the day he joined the Black Caps.
After suffering a childhood of beatings and bruises, he soon grew to enjoy making others suffer. He took what he wanted, just as his father had done. But there was one part of his father’s life he had no wish to replicate: working in the waters around Marienburg. Growing up, the family’s lodgings in Doodkanaal had always been damp. They lived in a basement beneath the level of the city’s water table and dampness was always seeping through the floors and walls.
Mould crept across the ceiling like a black, insidious infection, seeking to clog the lungs of anyone unfortunate enough to live in the hovel. Helmut’s father came home every night and sat with his wet feet up in front of the fire, so the single room dwelling stank of the sewerage that drained directly into the canals where he worked. Verletzung senior had coughed constantly, a wet, hacking cough that infuriated the boy. Whatever else happened in his life, Helmut had sworn he would never again endure such moisture-sodden misery.
