Dead Stars - Part One (The Emaneska Series) (34 page)

As he hid by the tree and pondered his next move, he noticed a smudge of brown creeping its way along the rain-dappled canal. It was a narrowboat, and an incredibly long one at that, piled high with barrels, boxes, and other things, all wrapped in tarpaulins. A lonely ox stood amidships, dripping wet and miserable. At each end of the boat stood a group of people, about ten or so, and each of them wielded a long oar. Instead of rowing with them, they were using them to push against the bottom of the canal.

Farden heard the metallic clank of a winch being turned. He shuffled around and stared at the palisade. There was a wooden frame suspended under the bridge; a sort of rudimentary gate for the canal. He had never noticed it before, but there it was. And it was being raised for the boat, with no questions asked. Farden was suddenly struck with an idea. It was so sudden it almost stung him.

He quickly fished the little mistfrond from his pocket and looked at it closely. He couldn’t quite decide whether it was a fruit or a seed. It was odd, whatever it was, and it smelled faintly of almonds. Farden grimaced. The narrowboat was drawing level with his hiding spot now. The forward team were busy steering the boat, while the aft team left their job up to momentum, and set about gathering mooring ropes. They were wearing waxed yellow coats to keep the rain at bay.

Farden readied himself to run. His body groaned at the very thought of running anywhere, but Farden brusquely told it to be quiet. There was knife-work to be done. He lifted the mistfrond to his lips and, with a wince, he took a bite and began to chew.

To his surprise, it tasted sweet like a pear, but its pink flesh had a rough, sandy texture that wasn’t all that pleasant. It grated against his teeth as he tried to chew it into pieces he could swallow. Purple juice ran down his chin, mingling with the rain. But he need not have hurried, as the strange little fruit was already beginning to take effect.

It was a feeling that was beyond strange, and a sight that was slightly terrifying. His hands seemed to evaporate like mist on a sunny morning. Farden clenched his fist and was relieved to find he could still feel them. If he looked hard enough, he could see a faint outline of them against the rain, but only because of the droplets that clung to them. Farden swallowed his mouthful and watched as his shoulders and chest began to fade away. The mage couldn’t help but gasp as the tingly feeling spread to his legs and feet. He got to his feet, but stumbled, immediately disorientated by his apparent lack of feet. He could feel them, but they were just trails of mist and rain.

Farden was just about to make a dash for it when Loki’s words came crashing into his head. Something about being violently ill…

No sooner had he remembered them did his stomach lurch and bile begin fill his throat. Farden retched, but somehow managed to keep it down. The narrowboat was about to pass him, and he was running out of time before it reached the gate. He didn’t know how long the fruit would last.

Fighting back the vomit, Farden sprinted to the edge of the canal, weak, invisible legs flying. As the ground fell away, he leapt as far and as hard as he could. The mage had aimed it perfectly. Arms wind-milling, he soared through the rain. The jump was perfect, it was just a shame about the landing. Having invisible legs tends to do that to a landing.

Farden crumpled to a painful heap beside the miserable ox, and slammed his head into the animal’s leg. The poor ox, wide-eyed and more than a little scared, lowed gruffly and stamped its hooves, utterly confused. Farden winced as one hoof grazed his arm. He was still fighting against the powerful urge to empty his stomach.

He clamped his hand over his mouth and hid behind a crate as a shout rang out from the rear of the narrowboat. ‘Easy girl!’ it cried, but the ox kept stamping. One of the men began to climb over a mound of cargo to see what the problem was, but he needn’t have bothered. The ox had fallen silent, relaxed by a misty hand calmly stroking its bedraggled flanks.

‘Spooked, she was. Must be the noise of the gate!’ called the man to his crew, crawling back to his spot.

As the blunt nose of the narrowboat slipped under the bridge and into the town, Farden kept one eye on the guards standing on the bank and one on the hand resting on the crate in front of him. The guards, surly and stony-faced, waved the boat through and tipped their helmets to its crew. They looked as miserable as the ox. Their leather and iron armour was dripping wet. The rain played little rhythmic ditties on their metal helmets and shields.

As the rest of the boat followed its nose and slid under the bridge, the water gate slowly began to lower. The winch that held its chains clanked and squeaked and moaned. Farden used the noisy opportunity to finally vomit down the side of his crate. His stomach felt as though it were having a fist-fight with the rest of his organs. He heaved and he retched until there was nothing left to spit. Farden slumped to the wet deck and took a deep breath, feeling his throat burn.
Damn that god
, he thought.
And damn that fruit too.

The effects of the mistfrond lasted just long enough for the narrowboat to creep past the gate and get half a mile into town. Farden threw up twice more before the fruit was done with him. His hands began to materialise out of their wraithlike haze. He was still a faint shadow in the rain, but a shadow that was quickly growing skin, bone, clothes, and colour. Farden had to jump now, or risk reappearing in the middle of the street.

As the narrowboat crept past another that was moored beside a ladder, Farden bade the ox a swift pat farewell and leapt the murky, watery gap between the two boats. He landed with a soft thud, this time on his feet. Trusting the downpour to hide him, Farden scurried up the wooden ladder and onto the street, unseen boots crunching on the gravel. The street was empty but for a few brave souls hurrying back and forth in their cloaks and hoods. Lanterns had been put out to spare the torches, and the quiet street was bathed in a wet, lemon glow. Farden wasted no time in admiring it. He sprinted into the nearest alley he could find and caught his breath between the buildings. The noises of a nearby inn, maybe a cathouse, could be heard above him. The din spilt out of cracked windows.

The mage put his head against the cold brick of the building. The nausea was slowly dying away, and with it the mistfrond’s effects. Slowly but surely, in the dripping darkness of the alley, the mage’s limbs began to reappear out of their misty haze. Within minutes, he was solid again.

‘Onward,’ Farden whispered to himself.

No sooner had he taken a step forward, did he hear a very familiar sound indeed.

Hur-hur-hur-hur
… came the laugh, echoing down the alleyway.

Farden froze.

Fat Forluss.

Footsteps followed in the laugh’s wake. Farden tugged his hood down and stepped back into the street. He jogged a short distance, and then turned to watch Forluss and a trio of his friends emerge from the very alleyway Farden had hid in. The mage shook his head. It was a lucky escape for him. Not so lucky for Forluss.

Farden’s eyes burnt into the obese lump as he swaggered along the gravel road. Forluss stared at everybody he passed, challenging them, daring them to get in his way. They knew better than to try.

While Farden kept his head down and his hood low, Forluss led his friends to a nearby building that sat on the edge of a curve in the canal. It had a rain-washed and sun-faded sign hanging from a pole.
The Piebald Skald
, it said, with a crude painting of a man with a black and white face for good measure. Forluss went in, closely followed by the others. Farden narrowed his eyes, and ran his finger along the blunt side of his longest knife. It was time.

‘What’s in yer hand, Forluss?’ demanded an old voice.

Forluss looked up from his fistful of dog-eared cards, cheap cuts of parchment, coloured and varnished. ‘Nothing for you, Isfridder. Keep your old nose out of it.’

‘Well, you going to play, or not?’ asked another.

Forluss glared at the other who had spoken. ‘Shut up and wait your turn. I didn’t bring you ‘ere to moan.’

The table fell quiet and sipped their drinks while Forluss tried his hardest to figure out what he held, if anything. He flicked his cards with a greasy fingernail and scowled at their pictures for the hundredth time. Forluss sniffed, and took a thoughtful sip of his foaming mug of brimlugger, a dubious local concoction of pickled wine and ale. ‘Fine,’ he relented. He picked out four of his cards and slammed them on the wooden table. ‘Two silver ravens, a half-moon, and an eight.’

The old man called Isfridder shook his head. ‘That’s a seven, Forluss.’

Fat Forluss shook his head. His three friends looked on with smirking faces. ‘No it ain’t. Look there, that’s an eight.’

Isfridder tapped a gnarled old finger on the card, counting the tally-marks. ‘No, that’s a hair stuck in the varnish. What are you, stupid, as well as fat?’

Forluss stood up, shoving the table with his belly. ‘You trying to cheat me, old man?’

This was a tense moment. Forluss may not have had The Fiend with him tonight, but he did have a little knife on his belt, and his hand was straying to it. Old Isfridder threw up his hands. ‘Fine,’ he whispered. ‘Eight it is. My mistake.’

‘Good man,’ beamed Forluss, sitting back down with a heavy grunt. He swigged some more of his brimlugger. ‘Now what have the rest of you got?’

Isfridder sighed as he put down his cards. ‘A four and a measly copper-gate.’

‘Dragon-tooth and a two.’

‘A pair of sixes, and the silver jester.’

‘Psh. Fools, lot of yer. I got a gold raven, a silver king, and a three-nail.’

Forluss stared daggers at the last man who had spoken. He was obviously new to this game; everybody knew you always let Forluss win. But the young man stood his ground. ‘I win,’ he cackled, cupping his hands around the silver and copper pile in the centre of the table. The others looked on, some smirking, others ashen.

Forluss watched for a moment, before cracking a wide smile and laughing. ‘Well, Dern, you did well. Now, as you won, it’s your round, ain’t it?’

Dern looked up and opened his mouth to speak, but Forluss beat him to it. ‘Women!’ he bellowed over his shoulder. A pair of young women, mere girls to be exact, appeared from behind the thick red curtain that gave the room its privacy. They were wearing short dresses, and cheap copper jewellery around their necks and arms. They curtseyed to the men around the table, trying not to wrinkle their noses at the feeling of hungry eyes roving over their bodies. They smiled tightly. Forluss beckoned to the nearest, a tall girl with jet-black hair, with a single finger. ‘Come here then,’ he grinned. She smiled wider, hiding the disgust perfectly, and went to stand near him. Forluss wrapped a fat arm around her waist and pointed at each of the men. ‘We’ll ‘ave fresh bottles of ‘lugger all ‘round. And a round of pig ribs too. And some of those little fried potatoes your cook does. A bowl for each. That’s right, ain’t it Dern?’

Dern opened his mouth as if he were about to complain. Forluss drummed his nails on the tabletop. Daring him…

‘Course,’ Dern sighed, as he shoved a good chunk of his coin-pile towards the edge of the table. ‘Little potato things. Why not.’ The second girl, a short little thing with a shock of red hair and freckles, quickly scooped it into her apron. The other men sniggered as they looked on. The two girls curtseyed again and managed to escape without too much groping this time. Leaving the men to go back to their cards, they ducked behind the curtain and shook their heads.

‘Gods, he’s disgusting,’ shuddered the red-haired girl, as she fetched five bottles of the green-hued brimlugger from a cupboard. The noisy hubbub of the tavern below kept their voices quiet. A skald was halfway through a lively ballad, and half of the patrons were dancing. The black-haired girl peeked over a balcony. There was a look of longing on her face.

‘We’re bein’ punished, I tell you. Hassfold is punishing us for something, making us look after that fat lump and his crowd.’

‘I don’t know why old Isfridder plays with them.’

‘Company, I guess. He’s an old guard ain’t he?’

While her friend watched the dancing below, the red-head inked a series of scratches on a little scrap of parchment and folded it into a wooden tube. She slipped the tube inside the mouth of a nearby copper pipe and let it fall. There was a bang from far below, and a muffled voice shouted back up the tube.

‘Thank yer kindly!’ it called, dripping with metallic sarcasm.

The black-haired girl waited for a man in a red cloak to pass by before she went to stand with her friend. She leant up against the cupboard and shivered. ‘His hands are like sweaty hams.’

‘Well, he doesn’t seem to fancy me. Just you.’

‘Oh, joy.’

‘I’m just prayin’ Hassfold doesn’t ask us to do anything else. You ‘eard about Sall?’

Another shiver. ‘I just wish he’d go someplace else.’

The man in the red cloak, who had paused near the balcony railing, stepped into their conversation. The two girls looked at him, wrinkling their lips slightly at the sight of his straggly black beard and his pale, thin face. He was dripping wet with rain, and there was a hole in his hood. ‘Maybe I can help you out?’ he muttered in a low voice.