by Phil Kelly
Remembering Harratio’s advice, Alabastian walked right past the Necrai Bridge and onwards along the river embankment. He heard the vague, distant clank of rigging against masts, the occasional babble of conversation drifting up from one of the river barges below. The sweetblack had given everything a kind of pleasant numbness, and the chill he had felt on his way over was kept at bay by a feeling of warm-skinned bonhomie. His path seemed to be weaving a little more than he intended it to, but the guardian rail – a wide slab atop sculpted caryatids that were painfully thin in the Athanasian fashion – helped him keep his bearings.
In fact, the journey seemed to be taking longer than it should have. Some of the voices in the fog had become harsh, menacing croaks, sounding barely human with the distortion of the river fog. He had a brief vision of a glaivewraith drifting in towards him, its distended horse-skull grinning behind the tip of a long polearm aimed straight for his heart. Once more he remembered Mother’s words from when he was a boy. It is not wise to mock the servants of Nagash, lest they come for you, and prove how deadly they are.
The sounds were getting louder, out there in the mist. Weird groans, distorted and wordless under the mournful cawing of gulls.
He put some confidence back in his stride, hand resting on his dress-dagger’s hilt as if he knew how to use it. What did the young and vital have to fear of musty old spectres? He was vaguely aware it was the liquor talking; such bottle-born courage was the reason it had been invented by the Glymmsforge alcomysts. But it worked.
Still, when the tall stanchions of the Negatian Bridge came into view, Alabastian felt a sensation of relief blossom within his gut. A left turn here, a left again on the other side, and he would be back on track.
The Negatian Bridge was narrower than the Necrai, and had less statuary, but with far less in the way of footfall it was usually free of mendicants. He increased his pace up the slight incline, hoping–
‘Please…’
There was a dark figure on his left, bowed low as if in supplication to a king.
‘Please, Master Valenth. Just a drop.’
Alabastian’s heart felt like it was going to explode. It was the beggar from the Necrai Bridge, his stubby fingers and filthy palms unmistakeable. Somehow he had got within five feet of him.
Staggering back, Alabastian hawked up an oyster gobbet of sweetblack-stained saliva and spat it towards the leper’s back. It landed full centre with a wet splat.
‘There,’ he said. ‘There’s your precious drop. Now don’t bother me again.’
There was a moment of stillness, numb and sobering. Whatever brief burst of courage had compelled him to spit on the creature evaporated. His fast walk turned into a strange half-run, then into a jog. He passed another figure in the mist, dark and tall, and nodded towards it as if all were well. Yet in his chest, his heart hammered.
The image of that creature skittering after him on all fours swelled up in his mind like blood welling from an arrow wound. He turned back, face taut with fear, but saw nothing.
At the end of the bridge, he forced himself to stop and turn, his dagger sliding from his sheath.
‘Come ahead, then,’ he whispered. ‘I’ll take a few more of those fingers from you. See how keen you are on harassing me then.’
Long seconds stretched by, the blanket of mist dampening his sleeves and hair. Nothing.
Alabastian huffed a cloud of condensing breath, pulled his collar up, and made for home. He felt a mighty need to square things with Xarantine, double the guard, and return to bed with the nightlamp at full blaze.
‘The scion returns,’ said Maltratt. ‘A pleasant evening, I trust?’
‘No,’ said Alabastian, barely meeting her eye as he slammed the coach house door shut. ‘It was not. In fact, it was perfectly awful. Ruined by a beggar who wouldn’t take no for an answer.’
‘Did he assail you?’ asked Xarantine, getting up from the card table to stand by Maltratt’s side.
‘He did not “assail” me, no,’ said Alabastian. ‘He followed me, is all. He lay in wait for me, hoping to beg some aqua, and I didn’t react well. I’m not sure how he got ahead of me, given his condition, but he did. It’s been a trying night.’
‘What do you mean by condition?’ said Xarantine.
‘Fingers missing, dripping skin, some hideous malady by the look of it.’
‘Moss leper, maybe,’ muttered Maltratt. ‘That gate to Ghyran in North Athanasia lets through all manner of freaks. Should be walled up for good.’
‘You want us to get out there?’ said Xarantine. ‘Make sure he gets a nice cold bath in the Hisset?’
‘I would prefer you to run me a nice hot one,’ said Alabastian. ‘I feel the need to scrub myself clean, then retire to fresh sheets and sleep with a guard close at hand.’
‘We can do that.’ Maltratt pointed a thick finger at Nimsk, one of the mansion’s teenage chambermen. ‘Nimsky, boil a few of the big kettles and get the young master his bath started.’
‘Right.’ The boy waved his hand in front of his nose. ‘About time, really.’
Maltratt snorted despite herself and turned back, cocking her head. ‘How was your mate? Bothered about you being so tardy?’
‘He was as perfectly put together as ever, and making me feel like a stablehand by comparison. Speaking of which, why am I still in the hallway? Would you mind not barring my way like some flophouse doorman?’
‘Sorry, young master,’ said Maltratt, stepping aside with her lantern jaw sticking out. ‘Old habits from my days in the Darkjackets. Enter, by all means. We’ll make sure there’s someone in earshot at all times.’
‘Ever so many thanks for doing your job.’ He tried to keep the acid from his tone, but with the comfort of familiar surroundings, old habits were already creeping back in. ‘Now get the bath kettles going. And I want it hot.’
Xarantine let out a measured breath. ‘Right you are,’ she said, ‘Alabastian.’
He lay in a tangle of sheets, unable to sleep. The wind outside the bedroom was insistent, and growing more so by the hour. Occasionally the curtains, custom-made of heavy velvet to keep out the sunlight and fringed with half-rotten lace, shifted or bulged as a draught made it through the oaken frames. The purple-grey mist from the river would have dispersed by now, thinned by the gathering tempest. Likely the Hisset would have been unveiled and robbed of its romantic mystique, exposed with its hunting vermin, bobbing corpses and all.
The streets, too, would be revealed, laid bare and perfect for a spot of voyeurism. He could easily grab a bottle of Mother’s finest Princedom Red from the cellar, climb the stairs to the attic and peer out of the window, watching the people of the city go about their business and taking notes on the activity of those he recognised. Then he remembered he had drunk the cellar dry some weeks ago, and slumped even further into his depressive fug.
The mantel roof of the mansion had such a commanding view over the southern plaza, where the statue of Lord Vandus formed a popular meeting point for lovers and conspirators alike. Yet after the trying events of the evening, and with the cellar dry, he really did not feel like it.
Which is precisely why you must do it, young man. Face it, the better to conquer it.
Mother’s voice, ringing in the back of his mind. Always so domineering. And usually right.
Alabastian lay fitfully in the sheets for a few more minutes, occasionally changing position in petulant bursts of activity and turning the pillow so it was cool against his cheek, but sleep wouldn’t come. When he did manage to doze a little, he saw the greyed-out mists of memory part to reveal that hideous, robe-swathed cripple, skin blotchy with sores and fingers adrip as one evil eye glinted in the half-light.
Sitting up with a heavy sigh, Alabastian pushed his fists into his eyes, and got to his feet. He made for the bedroom door, taking care to avoid the area he had strewn with bro
ken glass earlier that day.
Face it, the better to conquer it.
Along the scuffed carpet he went to the far side of the hallway, where the steep stairs led up to the attic. Gingerly he climbed up, avoiding those floorboards that he knew would creak by planting one foot at the extreme diagonal every other step. No need to risk a ticking off from Maltratt, or worse, another raised eyebrow from Xarantine.
The attic spread before him as he reached the top of the stairs, its dusty confines full of furniture hooded by old sheets. Strewn around the place was a wide variety of the general bric-a-brac his father could never bring himself to give away, stashed up here by the staff after Baron Valenth had left town with his mistress.
Alabastian had once thought the place a treasure trove, a warren full of interesting hiding places for those rare occasions when Mother had deigned to play seek-the-stray with him. Not so much these days, when he saw it for what it was: a graveyard of sorts, the remnants of a dead marriage littered everywhere and sheeted the better to keep them out of sight, and therefore out of mind.
Come out, Bastian, come out and get what’s coming to you…
Slender trails of small footprints and scuffs had once showed the way through the jumble of furniture to his favourite nooks and dens. Now, there was but one path through the dust. It led to his rocking chair, strategically placed in front of the circular window that overlooked the statue of Lord Vandus. Alabastian’s fist closed in a gesture of triumph as he spotted a pewter drinking goblet and half-empty bottle of strong Athanasian that Harratio had given him at one of the costume fittings.
Broad shafts of light filtered through the circular window, the shadow of its frame settling upon the upholstered rocking chair like the crosshairs of a marksman’s arquebus. Alabastian slid into its recesses, the upholstery perfectly accommodating to his posture, and cast his eyes over the square below. Framed by mantled roofs, it was a stage, and he the aristocrat in the high box. The unwitting theatre was lit by Lunaghast, the Moon of Secrets. They said that its soft light could drive you mad, if you stood in it too long, and force you to babble your darkest secrets into the sky.
The tableau below was disappointingly empty. Alabastian picked up the wine goblet from beneath his chair, using the cuff of his sleeve to wipe it clean before filling it with the dregs of the red he retrieved after it. A thin spider-strand found its way into the thick crimson vintage in the process, but he fished it out, and took a swig. Past its best, perhaps, but eminently drinkable. It would fight the sweetblack for the honour of claiming his headache tomorrow, but he was willing to–
There was a figure down there in the square, looking up at him. Bent-backed and filthy with muck, it was craning its neck to peer up. Its face was half shrouded. In places it was wrinkled and sunken, like a rotten apple, whilst in others it was swollen and lumpy. He could make out the black slit of a mouth drooling beneath one glimmering, watery eye, and see its ravaged fingers held up in a gesture of pleading, those awful, dripping stumps gleaming in the moonlight.
‘Get away!’ cried Alabastian, tumbling out of the rocking chair. It whipped back and forth with crazed squeals of old wooden floorboards. His goblet hit the floor, a spill of wine like dark blood splashing across the lengths of oak and white dustsheets. He rushed back to the door, all thoughts of watching midnight lovers driven from his mind.
‘Xarantine! Maltratt!’
Alabastian thundered down the steep attic stairs, tripping down the last three in his haste to get away. He clutched at the dark mahogany banister, spinning around and twisting his ankle as he staggered down the hall. ‘Maltratt! Attend me, damn it!’
‘What is it? What happened?’ The close-cropped scalp of the house guard came into view on the stairs, followed by her broad shoulders. She gained the landing, eyes wide and alert and her hand on the pommel of her short sword. Xarantine came stamping up the stairs in her wake, hurriedly buckling on her breastplate.
‘That thing is outside, by Nagash! It followed me here! I didn’t give it the aqua it wanted, and now it’s coming after me. Get out there and kill it!’
‘We’ll see him off for you, sir,’ said Maltratt. ‘Run him along, sort of thing, send him packing.’
‘You’ll bloody well run him through!’ shrieked Alabastian.
Xarantine was already moving, jumping the last few stairs to the hallway and grabbing a halberd from the rack above the door. She lifted the latch with the butt of the polearm, pushing it wide before slipping out into the misty streets as slick as an eel. Maltratt thumped down the stairs behind her, drawing her short sword and moving out with the gait of some unstoppable bailiff.
Alabastian ventured down the stairs to watch them leave, then locked the door behind them with his heirloom keyslide and ran back to his bedroom. He slammed the door of that, too, pressing his back against it before dragging a chair over and wedging it under the door handle.
After what seemed like a solid hour of waiting he heard the lock slide open in the front door. He said nothing, still feeling tightness in his chest. He couldn’t help imagining the creature pushing its way inside to leave bloody handprints on the hallway plaster as it slunk up the stairs.
Then came the clump of boots. ‘Alabastian?’
Xarantine’s strident tones. He relaxed a little, standing up and straightening his jerkin.
‘Up here.’
There was a sharp rap on his bedroom door, and after a moment of steeling himself, he opened it halfway. Xarantine looked in, seeming stressed out, and for once, a little contrite.
‘Well? Did you kill it?’
‘We couldn’t find it, whatever it was.’
‘What does Mother pay you for? Get back out there!’
‘There’s no sign of anyone that fits your description. We can’t search the whole district. Look, we’ll both stand vigil tonight. Maltratt will take downstairs, I’ll be up here with you. No cards, no distractions.’
‘See that there aren’t. It will be a miracle if I can get any sleep at all without you two yammering away in your cups.’
Xarantine shook her head, her concerned expression replaced by a far more familiar look of exasperation. ‘Just try and rest, you bloody craven. And lay off the liquor awhile.’
‘Rest, she says. I’ll not be getting back to sleep anytime soon. In fact, I think I’ll come downstairs with you. Slum it for a bit. At least until we’re sure I’m safe.’
Alabastian sat huddled under a blanket in the servants’ quarters, stooped over a steaming cup of expensive Verdian tea as he stared out into nothingness. Maltratt and Xarantine kept him company, and every so often told him to get some sleep. Fools. How was he supposed to rest at all, with the vision of that thing foremost in his mind?
So he sat, eyes unfocused and knees pulled up under his chin, waiting for dawn.
He felt his hand stray down to his phial-belt, and considered taking a few drops of aqua ghyranis to keep him alert. It was not something he wanted to do in front of the staff, of course; if he was to indulge then he would be obliged to share by the rules of etiquette, and he was not in the business of giving something for nothing. Instead he dredged up the will to speak.
‘Is there any chance we can get Varda and ven Guillo back, do you think, with enough aqua? Double the manpower for a while?’
‘Not a chance,’ said Maltratt, her expression drooping like that of a longmouth hound. ‘Even if we knew where to find them, they went with the master of the house. They are as loyal to him as we are to you.’
Xarantine rolled her eyes, and put her feet up on the desk.
‘Can’t we call someone to help us? Anyone?’
‘What about your friends? Can you get some of them to stay over for a while until this blows over?’
‘Not likely,’ said Alabastian, blowing out his cheeks. ‘They’ll all be far too preoccupied with preparations for the ball. Even
a visit is unlikely, this side of the river.’
‘Oh, I don’t know about that,’ said Maltratt. ‘Your mate, what’s he called, Horace or something–’
‘Harratio?’ said Alabastian, suddenly alert.
‘That’s the cove. He was over here the other day. Said his bladder was after him, and that he had no intention of using an alleyway. I know his coachman through Lassiter, he vouched for him.’
Alabastian scoffed. As if a noble needed a coachman to vouch for him.
‘I let him in,’ continued Maltratt. ‘Insisted on using the upstairs bathroom, for some reason. To be honest it looked like he was more interested in having a good snoop around than he was in using the lavatory. Still, he might be interested in staying for a day or two, don’t you think?’
‘You don’t know Harratio at all. He never comes this side of the river. Not since ven Breichart disappeared, anyway. You must be mistaken.’
‘Not the first time he’s done it,’ said Xarantine. ‘I remember something like that a few weeks back, Maltratt, when you were on leave. He’s old Azyr money, right? Tall fellow, with a nose like a butcher’s cleaver?’
Alabastian nearly choked at the blatant disrespect. ‘If the man has a weak bladder that’s his own business. It is not given to the staff to dwell on the shortcomings of their betters. Is this the sort of thing you talk about, down here?’
‘You bloody well brought it up,’ said Xarantine. ‘We’re only trying to help. As usual.’
‘Right,’ said Alabastian. ‘Let us sit in silence, then. That way you might actually pay attention to what’s going on around you.’
‘Fine words, from someone who spends the better part of each day slobbing around in bed.’
Alabastian felt his mood go from sullen to burning rage.
‘Enough! Enough waiting. We get our swords, strap on our breastplates, and we go out there and find this bastard. I know where he lingers. Then when we bump into him, we’ll slide a blade into his heart and whoops, over the bridge’s balustrade he goes, to join who knows how many hundreds of others floating in the Hisset. He’s a beggar, for the love of Sigmar! One of the Reclaimed! No one will miss him. That way we won’t have to worry about upping our vigilance, you addle-brained sots can go back to your cards, and I can get some damned sleep!’
