ARC: The Corpse-Rat King (21 page)

“Yes?”

“Well, you paid for the trip. Thought you might like a free feed into the bargain.” Bomthe laughed again at his natural wit, and resumed his walk. “Come along now. Mustn’t be late. They may not be real royalty but I still don’t fancy a spear in the belly, yes?”

The belly wasn’t the first part of Bomthe that Marius would stick a spear into, but he dogged the captain’s heels and followed him across deck to a rope ladder and down into a rowboat tied alongside. He’d had no desire to set foot on the island, but this new development merited all sorts of investigation. He may not be a real king, Marius decided as they pulled away from the side of the
Minerva
, but he’d do.

FIFTEEN

The island was not only as bad as it sounded, Marius thought as he stood ankle-deep in the scummy wash and watched sailors pull the longboat up the rocky beach, it was as bad as it could be made to sound. They had landed in the centre of a curving beach that provided the only stretch of sand on this side of the island, and now stood exposed on a wind-scoured strip of grey pebbles. Behind them lay a fringe of whitened, low-lying scrub and a few stunted trees that leaned over in the wind like pensioners at a soup kitchen. At the far end of the beach, in the dubious shelter of a small, twisted copse, a collection of huts marked the beginnings and end of human habitation at this end of the peninsula. As far as Marius could tell, none of the pathetic flora of the island had been harmed in the construction of the village. Instead, it appeared as if the huts had been cobbled together from whatever flotsam had washed up on the shore over the last three hundred years, as well as a smattering of items that could only have been stolen from visiting ships. Surely, no captain would willingly let go of the map board that served as the window shutter of that hut there, for example, or the collection of hand mirrors that tinkled in the wind from their current duty as some sort of half-assed mobile in that hut over there’s half-assed garden.

A group of barely-dressed natives lounged under the trees, watching with disinterest as the crew swore and strained to drag the boat above the water line. Marius stared back at them, a look of deeply-held pain scrawled across his features. Eventually, the sounds of cursing withered away, and Marius glanced over his shoulder to see Bomthe lining the sailors up into some sort of ragged double line. He turned, and nodded to Marius with a smile.

“Shall we proceed, Mister Helles?”

Marius raised a hand towards the village. “Where? There?”

“That’s right. Stand
up
, Wellings!” He slapped at one of the slouching crew members, who responded by stiffening almost an entire centimetre. “The King’s family will be expecting us.”

“You’re kidding me.”

“Kidding?” Bomthe’s smile was as nasty as the wind. “Why would I kid, Mister Helles? This village controls the only safe embarkation point on the entire southern peninsula. Any trade that comes, comes through here. In local terms, these people are the rich and noble. If we wish to continue trading with them, we need to make with the nicey nicey. Adjust that scabbard, Pergess, or you’ll be using it to carry your pego.” From the speed with which the sailor in question complied, Marius was only half-sure the threat was idle. Finally satisfied with the comportment of his troops, Bomthe swung around and raised his hand. “Ready, men. Mister Helles?”

Grudgingly, Marius trudged out of the surf to stand at Bomthe’s side.

“Forward!” As one, the detachment strode ahead, or rather, they shuffled and slid across the rolling pebbles beneath their feet, stifling whatever curses sprung to their chapped and bitten lips. The natives waited until the column was almost upon them. Then one of the older men leaned down and cuffed a boy sitting at his feet, who slowly rose and wandered down into the village, kicking at the ripples of sand that marked the short path.

“Halt!” Bomthe commanded. The column shuffled to a stop. Marius stared into the centre of the half dozen huts. A small trestle had been erected in front of the largest of them, a pile of foot-long strips of bark to one side. Arranged along the table’s length were more strips. On top of them lay a range of unidentifiable lumps of various dull colours. Past the trestle, a spit turned over a small fire, staffed by a bare-breasted teenage girl who frowned with concentration as she pulled something from one nostril with an extended finger and flicked it into the fire. The creature on the spit could have been no more unmistakably a dog if it still wore its tags. Marius swallowed, and was answered by the taste of bile.

“Now what?” he muttered.

“Now we wait for the new King to make his appearance,” Bomthe replied, “and invite us to join the splendour of his inauguration feast.”

“You make a magnificent liar.” Marius couldn’t take his eyes from the slowly rotating dog. The young cook caught his eye, snorted, and spat something thick into the flames.

“I am a diplomat,” Bomthe said, following Marius’ gaze, “and a servant of the king. Such service has its occasional sacrifices.”

In the moments before Marius could formulate a reply, the new King chose to make his entrance. To their credit, none of the sailors so much as smirked as the balding, pudgy monarch swept out of the largest hut, his crown of bark and nut casings sitting high on his round head, a cloak made from strips of what looked to Marius like a variety of old naval uniforms trailing behind his loin cloth-clad body. He paused to look over his shabby dominion, then stared with regal haughtiness at the assembled company. Bomthe stepped forward, removed his hat, and bowed low. He glared upwards at Marius, and with a sigh, Marius copied his action. There was a shuffle behind him as the sailors did likewise. The King waited until even Marius was beginning to feel an uncomfortable stretching sensation in the small of his back, then issued a command in a voice that resembled a small child experiencing explosive diarrhoea. Two natives armed with spears emerged from either side of the hut and tapped Bomthe on the shoulders. He straightened, and motioned his men to do the same. Two sailors from the rear of the cohort stepped forward, bearing between them a sea trunk that had seen better days. Better months, if truth be told, Marius thought as he gazed at it. The sailors laid it down before the King and opened the lid, stepping back quickly to their place closest to the point of escape. The monarch bent his portly frame down into the open trunk until he disappeared behind the open lid. Marius risked a glance at Bomthe.

“An inauguration gift,” the captain muttered.

The King straightened and raised his hands. Hanging from them were several rows of brightly coloured bead necklaces. Marius bit his upper lip.

“From Manky Glenis in the Pudding Square markets more like,” he mumbled back. “I’d recognise her tat anywhere.”

“It is never unwise to be prudent in one’s outlay,” Bomthe replied as the King raised his booty high above his head and called to his people in a joyous voice. “Besides, one must tailor one’s gifts to the expectations of the receiver. It would seem we have made the right estimation in this instance.” Before them, the King was busy rummaging through the trunk, dispensing penny rings and five-for-a-thruppence bead bracelets to the stream of islanders who had appeared from nowhere at his call. He looked over to Bomthe and nodded with expansive humour, a gesture the captain accepted with a small incline of the head. “It would seem we are now welcome in His Majesty’s realm.”

“Oh, happy day.”

“Don’t underestimate the value of our trade here, Mister Helles,” Bomthe said as he turned and dismissed the men, who quickly sought the shade of the nearby trees, and the company of the island girls who were keen to show off their new jewellery to the tanned sailors so admiring of their charms. “We do very well from our commercial endeavours here. The archipelago is a source of almost unending bleaching and heating elements.”

Marius stared at him while understanding took long seconds to register. “Shit?” he finally asked. “You trade for shit?”

“I believe the commercial term is guano,” Bomthe strode into the square and greeted the new ruler with a solid embrace and double-handshake. “And I have it on good authority that is it very high-grade shit indeed.” The king let him go and turned to crush Marius in a similar embrace. “This end of the island alone is a veritable gold mine of commercial-grade heating and bleaching material. I’m sure you can see why.”

The King let go of Marius and stepped into the centre of the village. He clapped his hands several times in quick succession. Immediately, each of the islanders turned their attention to him. He shot off a quick-fire speech and they leaped to their feet and began busying themselves in diving into huts and pulling out items of furniture. Young girls ran behind the huts and returned with large fruits of various descriptions balanced upon their heads. Bomthe took Marius by the elbow and ushered him toward the table.

“I believe we are invited to join the inauguration feast,” he said, “where it would be considered advisable to eat everything that is put before us and drink anything we are offered, do I make myself clear?”

“Like good diplomats, eh?”

“It does involve sacrifices.”

They sat at the King’s right hand and the villagers and sailors intermingled around a series of planks laid on the sand before the table. Four natives emerged from behind the largest hut, carrying a long bark platter between them, upon which rested a mound of cooked meat. They laid it before the King, who piled his own plate high then indicated to Bomthe and Marius to do the same. They complied, and once they had finished, the rest of the village paraded past the table to take a meagre share for themselves. Once everyone was seated, the King clapped his hands, and the village fell to eating. Teenage girls passed amongst them, handing out small quantities of stunted and burned vegetables. Between mouthfuls, Marius glanced over at the sullen child still turning the spit.

“What about that?” he asked Bomthe, indicating the turning meat. “I thought that was dinner.”

Bomthe raised his eyebrows. “Hm. I’ll ask.” He leaned over to the king, and asked a quick question in the native tongue. The King replied, and looked over to Marius, laughing. Bomthe smiled in return. “That is for the children,” he said. “The late monarch’s favourite hunting dog, apparently. The natives hope the children will ingest its loyalty and cunning along with its flesh.”

“Huh. Then what are we eating, his favourite horse?”

Bomthe stared down at his plate and blinked several times before leaning back to the King to ask another question. Upon the reply he straightened, and stared out beyond the huts to the distant sea. He swallowed, then nodded to himself as if confirming some long-held inner thought. Marius noticed the action and stopped scooping the greasy meat into his mouth.

“What?”

“We are not eating the late monarch’s favourite horse,” Bomthe said carefully.

“Well, no, I hardly expected…”

“We are, in fact, eating the late monarch.”

Marius felt what little blood remained in his face drain into his boots. “What?” he asked in a voice suddenly devoid of moisture.

“The islanders believe that it will imbue them with his strength, his nobility, and his wisdom.”

“You mean they’re…”

Very deliberately, with the King’s gaze firmly upon him, Bomthe reached down and scooped up a handful of meat. He placed it in his mouth, chewed several times and swallowed.

“Be a good fellow, Mister Helles,” he said, eyes fixed upon the horizon. “Eat your wisdom.”

Marius stared at Bomthe, then at the King, the islanders, the sailors lounging around the village square laughing and stuffing their faces with handfuls of dripping meat. “But…”

“Trade with this village is worth several times more than the lives of everyone on board my vessel. You and I included. We are guests at the most important occasion this archipelago has seen in more than thirty years. If we offer such a gross insult as to refuse to dine with the new King, what do you think would happen to that trade?” Bomthe scooped up another gobbet of meat and ate it, closing his eyes as he swallowed. “What do you think our lives would be worth then?”

“You’d be surprised,” Marius muttered. He reached down, picked up a few strands of the stringy meat, and held it up in salute to the King, who was looking around Bomthe at Marius with a curious half-smile on his lips.

“Ah well,” he said, smiling back, “let’s hope they serve you with chips, mate.”

“If you like your tongue,” Bomthe said in the same equal tone he’d been using since discovering the identity of their meal, “I’d suggest you keep it still.” He slid the last of his meat into his mouth and swallowed. “You’re on a very thin plank as it is, Mister Helles.”

Whilst Marius was considering how wise it would be to push the conversation any further the King rose, cleared his throat for attention, and phlegmed up another speech. Children scurried to clear away the meal, much to the relief of Marius. The King sat down, elbowing Bomthe with a dirty chuckle and pointing to the door of the largest hut. The curtains across its entrance swished open, half a dozen naked girls ran out, and the dancing began.

Being dead should have meant, as far as Marius had considered the matter, that blood ceased to flow throughout his body. Sure, Keth had shown him otherwise, but Keth was different, and besides, he hadn’t really had a handle on the state of his being then, and after all, that was
Keth
. And yet, as the girls before him gyrated and folded their nubile, sweating bodies into shapes he’d only ever seen formed by clowns making balloon animals for children in the marketplace, at least one part of his body exhibited proof that blood was flowing into it at a furious rate indeed. A dancer shimmied up to the table, bent back at an angle that intimated a loss of at least three vertebrae, breasts swinging from side to side like passengers on a running camel. The King whooped in a most unregal way and leaned forward to slap her on the stomach, indicating to Bomthe that he should do the same. Bomthe complied with nowhere near the reserved air he had displayed during the meal. The girl slid along the table and presented the swaying vista of her body to Marius. He swallowed, remembering the first time he had seen Keth. He had been alone, a stranger to the city, and the tavern window had shown the only light along the whole posh side of the docks. He’d squeezed himself into a booth with a pint of bottom scrumpy, and watched as the dancing girls moved through the crowd, sliding from one dropped farthing to the next, displaying themselves for those who would pay only to imagine, and marking out those who would pay more, later, to touch. Keth had swayed out of the crowd, back arched, hips swinging in long, slow circles, and leaned over the table towards him, long hair gently tickling the sides of his face, ends dipping into his flagon. And with no money, and no contacts, he’d gone out that night and found a game of penny ante, and the next night a game of three card poke, and the next joined in a plot to rumble a distributor of fake Tallian art treasures… and every night, every penny he earned, he brought back to the tavern, and waited with his solitary pint of dregs, waited for Keth to come swaying out of the crowd…