One of the Greencoats bowed his head in respect as she approached; the other pushed the door fully open to allow her entry to the house, which seemed to be listing dangerously and at risk of imminent collapse. She entered without acknowledging the men; Waylian offered them a limp smile of thanks. His nicety was not returned.
The interior of the house was decrepit, with plaster peeling from the walls and furniture not fit for firewood slung about the place. More Greencoats stood inside, their faces pale, their shoulders slumped. It was then that the smell suddenly hit Waylian. He lifted a hand to his face to block the stench – it was like rotten eggs and dead badger – but to no avail. The stink was in his nose, in his head. No amount of lavender or mint would clear it any time soon.
They took the stairs, which creaked ominously, but somehow managed to bear their weight. The higher they went the worse the smell became. Something was definitely dead in here, and Waylian felt a growing sense of foreboding.
At the top of the landing stood a grim figure, waiting as though expecting the Red Witch. His grey hair was cropped short, a leather patch covering one eye, adjacent a nose that had been broken more than once. His lantern jaw and grim visage gave Waylian pause for a second. As Gelredida reached the top of the stairs the stern Greencoat gave her a nod. It was a gesture of familiarity, which the Red Witch returned in kind.
‘Ben Kilgar, as I live and breathe.’ Though Gelredida’s words were warm, her expression did not soften.
‘It’s Serjeant Kilgar now, Magistra,’ he replied in a deep rumbling brogue. ‘Good to see you. It’s been …’
‘A long time. I’d say too long, but perhaps I’d be wrong about that.’
He nodded in agreement. It was then Waylian noticed he only had one arm, his left one missing at the elbow.
‘If only we were meeting under better circumstances,’ she said. ‘Shall we proceed?’
Serjeant Kilgar didn’t speak, merely leading them along the corridor. Two pale-looking Greencoats at another doorway stood to quick attention as their serjeant approached. He pushed the door open and stepped inside. As he did so, the smell that was plaguing Waylian’s nostrils suddenly intensified, though neither the stern Greencoat serjeant nor Gelredida seemed to notice.
She walked in, and Waylian dutifully followed, though with every step his stomach churned, as much with dread at what he would find as with the increasingly nauseating aroma. Having stepped over the room’s threshold he regretted it immediately.
The room was lit by dim candlelight, the single window having been covered with neatly arranged boarding. In the flickering light he could see strange sigils had been daubed on the walls, though in the dimness it was difficult to tell what with. The symbols seemed to exude a strange miasma that numbed his head and made his eyes water. Indeed, the whole place seemed filled with a thick pall, like strong pollen – only with a sicklier sweetness.
But it was not this that made Waylian baulk. It was not this that made him retch, clamping a hand to his mouth to hold in a stinging uprush of bile. It was not this that made him rush into the corridor to evacuate his stomach contents on the dirty floorboards.
It was the disembowelled corpse nailed down in the centre of the room.
Waylian heaved. He heaved until he could heave no more, evacuating his breakfast of fried bread and black pudding. Nowhere near as nice coming out as it had been going in.
And it wasn’t even the entrails strewn across the floor that got him, but rather the staring blank eyes of the corpse. He couldn’t seem to get that image out of his head, no matter how much he puked.
Eventually he managed to swallow back what was left in his throat and leaned against the wall, gasping for air. As he wiped his moist nose on his sleeve, Gelredida marched from the room with Kilgar behind.
‘I can assure you, serjeant, it is a hoax.’
‘But the symbols, the murder, it’s—’
‘Your problem, I’m afraid. The symbols are gibberish, the manner of death made to look like some infernal rite, more than likely to divert attention from the real culprit to a member of the Caste. No, Ben, you’re not looking for any warlock. Just a run of the mill sadist.’
‘I’m sorry to have wasted your time.’
‘Not at all. You were right to send for me. One can never be too careful. The last thing we need right now is a rogue magicker wandering loose in the city.’
‘Indeed. Thank you for your time, Magistra. It was good to see you again.’
‘And you, serjeant.’
With that she turned and regarded Waylian like shit on her shoe. ‘Do pull yourself together, Jotun. It won’t be the last corpse you ever see. Better get used to it.’
She strode past him, and Waylian could only follow in her wake. As they traversed the filthy streets in silence, he dared not ask any questions about the murder, and she, clearly, would volunteer no information. When they reached the Tower, Gelredida abandoned him without a word, stalking away into the bowels of the massive building.
Waylian was not sorry to see her go.
Later, lying in his bedchamber, Waylian could think of only one way to erase the image of that blank-eyed corpse from his mind. Squeezing his eyes shut he began to picture Glorie.
Or was it Gael?
Anyway, whatever she was called she was firmly implanted in his psyche, and lying there alone and in the dark he could think of nothing else. Slowly his hand crept down beneath the covers. At first he felt a pang of guilt – what would she think of him if she knew what he was about to do,
and
while he was thinking of her – thinking of her naked, in his bed, touching him, running her lips up and down his …
Then the guilt was gone. He bit his lower lip, tightening his grip on himself, his head filled with her, imagining what she would look like after he’d had his way with her. That smile, which in the library had been friendly and open, in his dark chamber would be coquettish, filled with promise. Her hair, which fell about her shoulders in those red-gold locks, would be tousled and unkempt. Her complexion, usually pale and smooth, would be rosy red about the cheeks and glowing with the sweat of lovemaking.
Waylian felt himself grow harder as he imagined taking her breast in his hand, drawing it closer to his mouth, taking the nipple between his teeth and …
‘Leave that thing alone, Jotun.’
He almost leapt out of his bed, but had the presence of mind to pull his blanket up to his neck as he saw Gelredida standing over him. She looked even less amused than usual.
‘Get dressed,’ she ordered, raising an eyebrow in displeasure. ‘We have work to do.’
With that she turned and left his chamber, closing the door behind her and leaving him in darkness once more.
Waylian stared at the door for several moments after she’d gone, wishing fervently that he hadn’t just been caught cock in hand, but no amount of staring would turn back time.
He dressed quickly, his cock rapidly growing flaccid as his vision of the girl was shattered and replaced by the memory of Gelredida leering down at him as he frantically abused himself.
The Magistra was waiting for him in the entrance hall, the vast double doors already opened. Waylian couldn’t bear to look her in the eyes as he approached. He was thankful when she turned and walked out into the night without acknowledging his arrival. Thank the gods she hadn’t questioned him further. What excuse would he have dreamt up?
I’m sorry, Magistra – it wasn’t what you thought. I was actually just scratching vigorously at a troublesome itch on my thigh.
They made their way through the streets once more, heading from brightly lit, cobbled avenues to filth-strewn alleyways. Waylian would have felt more intimidated at night, walking in the troubled quarters of the city, but he knew from his earlier experience that there would be nothing to fear … at least not while his mistress was present. He didn’t ask where they were going, but even at night, with his limited knowledge of the city’s geography, he could tell they were repeating their previous journey. His suspicions were confirmed as they came again upon the ramshackle house with its eviscerated occupant.
There was only a single Greencoat now, the street mob having clearly lost interest and wandered off to find some other misfortune to ogle at. Gelredida approached the guard, her head hidden beneath the hood of her robe. At first the Greencoat stayed at attention, clearly obeying his orders to allow no one in the house. The Red Witch spoke a few words Waylian couldn’t hear. The Greencoat’s stern features softened – he even managed a smile – and he moved aside, beckoning her in. Waylian suddenly felt a wave of calm wash over him, along with a strange feeling of goodwill towards his mistress. He followed her inside, glancing briefly towards the Greencoat and seeing the idiot grin on his face. Whatever glamour his mistress had used was potent indeed.
As they made their way up the rickety stairs, Waylian couldn’t hold it back any more. He had to know what they were doing – especially if he was going to have to view that hideous corpse again.
‘Why have we come back here, Magistra?’
No answer.
It was probably wishful thinking that she might deign to let him in on why they’d returned.
As she entered the room Waylian paused just outside. He felt his stomach churning in anticipation, the mushroom soup and hard bread he’d eaten for dinner threatening to broil up to the surface, but by a titanic effort of will he managed to keep it down. Clenching his fists to his sides he followed her in.
The body was still there. Waylian could see it was a man in his thirties, a detail he’d failed to notice previously. The guts were still strewn randomly but the blood that surrounded him like a black halo had dried and darkened.
Gelredida held up a single candle as she knelt by the body.
‘What do you notice, Jotun?’
What, other than there’s an eviscerated man on the floor? That he doesn’t look like he’ll be up and about any time soon?
‘Erm … I don’t know what you mean, Magistra.’
‘There’s been a murder. This body has been lying here all day and most of the night. It’s unseasonably warm for this time of year. What is odd?’
‘Erm? There are no flies?’
‘Very good.’
Waylian almost fell over – those were the first words of praise she’d ever granted him.
‘So this isn’t just a murder?’
She stood up, staring at him from beneath her hood, her face eerily framed in the light of the single candle.
‘No, Jotun, this is not just a murder.’
‘But you told the serjeant—’
‘I told the serjeant what he needed to hear. He would not benefit from knowing the source of this killing. He can do nothing for this poor soul, nor the ones to come. It will take a hunter of equal cunning and skill to catch the quarry we seek.’ She glanced down at the body, and a look of sorrow passing over her features disappeared as quickly as it came. ‘A ritual has been enacted here. A rite of such despicable evil it will need to be purged. A dark sacrament so blasphemous it has sucked the life from everything around it.’
‘So we are looking for a member of the Caste?’
Slowly the Red Witch nodded, her face looking haunted beneath the hood. ‘And unless we find him quickly, there will be more like this … many, many more.’
I
t was a yard of steel, an inch and a half wide at the hilt, straight in the blade and tapering to a point an inch from the tip. The crossguard had been worked in bronze, the grip wrapped in leather and the pommel wrought from iron. It was also a pile of shit. But then, Merrick hadn’t really been expecting anything better.
The sword he’d been given by the Guild rattled in its scabbard, rust flaking off the metalwork. He hadn’t dared try to swing it with any impetus lest some part of it fall off, but at least it had cost him nothing.
Almost nothing.
Whether he liked it or not he was about to start earning it, and no mistake.
He stood down at the edge of the wharf just east of the Rafts, looking and feeling like a spare part, but those had been his instructions. There wasn’t much he could do about it. If the stink of dead fish and sweaty sailors wasn’t bad enough he was downwind of the Rafts, and the stench coming from the scum and filth that dwelt there was appalling.
Drunken mariners stumbled along the esplanade, weaving expertly in and out of the whores and pickpockets. Some hung in groups, singing shanties, blowing their rum breath all over each other. Merrick did his best not to catch anyone’s eye, leaning against the corner of a massive warehouse, trying his best to blend in. He had to admit, that wasn’t hard: he looked like shit – just like everyone else in this part of the city.
‘You Ryder?’
A voice from behind him. He’d been told to expect a contact, but would it be a friendly kind of contact, or a ‘stab you in the back soon as look at you’ kind of contact?
Only one way to find out.
‘Who wants to know?’ Might as well come across as careful. Better than coming across like an arsehole.
‘
I
do, and I’m the one standing behind you with a knife.’
Ah, well that puts a different complexion on things.
‘Yes, I’m Ryder. But you knew that already. So there’s really no need for all this rudeness, is there?’
A figure moved out of the shadows, swarthy and foreign. He was small, with a pointy rat’s face, massive nose, big teeth, squinty eyes. He hadn’t been lying either: he had the wickedest curved shank Merrick had ever seen.
‘You can never be too careful,’ the man said. ‘But they told me you spoke like a noble and looked like shit. Now I know I have the right man.’
Charming
.
He spoke in a Kajrapur accent but his grasp of Teutonian was impressive, particularly for a ratty little cutthroat.
‘Yes,’ Merrick replied, pushing himself off the wall and doing his best to look impressive. Maybe not succeeding. ‘My reputation clearly precedes me. I assume you’re here to guide me to Bolo?’
Without another word, the cutthroat sheathed his weapon and led the way from the wharf into the labyrinthine alleyways of the Warehouse District.