Krupps’ strength eventually won out. He managed to roll Steraglio on his back, both hands on the knife, twisting it to point down at Steraglio’s throat. And now it moved so slowly, closer and closer, and Rag could see the panic in Steraglio’s eyes.
‘Wait,’ he said, his voice high and desperate. ‘Krupps, wait. Please, just fucking wait.’
Krupps didn’t. He pushed and pushed and the knife finally pierced Steraglio’s neck. Rag could see the blood, a trickle at first as Steraglio began to gag, then a flood from his neck and from his mouth as, with a final effort, Krupps shoved the knife in all the way to the hilt.
Steraglio continued to struggle, spitting blood as it bubbled out through his mouth, but Krupps just kept the knife there, waiting for his ‘friend’ to die. When he’d finally stopped moving, Krupps pulled out the knife and struggled to his feet, breathing hard. He looked at Friedrik, who stared back, unmoved.
‘As I said, there’s only one vacancy.’
Friedrik didn’t look her way, but Rag knew what he meant.
She backed away as Krupps turned towards her. He was still breathing hard, but his face was determined. All they’d been through, all his kind words and playful winks, meant absolutely nothing.
He was going to kill her.
She turned and ran, getting to the door before anyone else could move. As she grabbed the handle Rag hoped against hope no one had locked it, feeling blind relief when it opened. The waning light of evening lanced in, filling her with hope as she sped out into the alleyway and ran for her life.
She splashed through a puddle, almost falling, a glance over her shoulder revealing Krupps on her heels. His face didn’t look angry though; he wasn’t raging or slavering at the mouth. He was calm, almost businesslike – as though chasing down girls and murdering them were a daily pastime. It made him even more terrifying.
The alley turned one way, then another. She needed to find another living soul, anyone. An ‘innocent’ girl, chased by a knife-wielding maniac. It would take one heartless bastard not to help her.
Another bend in the alley and she almost ran straight into a wall.
Fucking dead end!
She looked round desperately, seeing a rotted plank of wood and picking it up. Krupps was on the way, she could hear his footfalls splashing through the puddles. As he turned the corner she swung at him, the wood hitting his face, shattering into rotten splinters and sending him sprawling.
The knife spun away into the dirt and she went for it, reaching out, feeling her heart racing, her fingers ready to close around the hilt. But Krupps’ fingers closed around her ankle first.
She was pulled off her feet, splashing into the wet. The knife was there, so close, but she couldn’t reach it. Krupps pulled her to him, moving on top of her, crushing her under his weight. He planted a fist in her face, the shock of it knocking out her breath and any words that she might have said. Another punch and she’d gone dizzy, the alleyway spinning, Krupps’ face moving in circles.
‘Sorry, Sweets,’ he said, that handsome face looking down at her with no emotion. ‘I didn’t want it to end like this.’ He reached past her, picking up the knife, mud-smeared but still keen.
Rag wanted to say something, wanted to beg for her life like Coles had done, but it hadn’t done him no good, and it wouldn’t do her none neither. She could only hope it wouldn’t hurt too much.
A flash of green.
Krupps looked up, and she could see those impassive features turn to panic. Something hit him. Hit him hard enough that he fell off her, splashing into a puddle.
There was a commotion, and blokes in green all over them. One of them was going at Krupps like he was born for it, hitting him, smashing him, fist pumping up and down like he wasn’t ever going to stop.
Someone put his arms round her and lifted her up. Her head was still spinning and all of a sudden she got groggier, like she was tired out. Her clothes were wet and something was dribbling down her face.
‘You’re okay,’ said a deep voice. ‘You’re safe now.’
Rag couldn’t place the fella, but she was sure she’d seen him before. And even though she couldn’t remember where she knew him from, when he said she was safe, she knew he meant it.
H
e was drunk again, but that was nothing out of the ordinary. As Merrick staggered down the street he almost slipped on the oily cobbles. He’d barely had a chance to curse the whalers and their carelessness before he threw up on the dock. Someone, most likely some hairy-arsed sailor, was laughing at him as he heaved, but Merrick paid him no heed.
He felt a lot better when he’d finished, though his head still spun. He looked around with a satisfied grin, pleased to see the looks of disgust on the faces of passers-by. As he wiped his mouth he looked out over the dock. The sun was shining and it was a mild afternoon for the time of year. Sooner or later, most likely sooner, it would start to get cold, the harsh sea winds blowing up from the Midral and whipping through Steelhaven’s streets like a howling devil. It was nothing compared to what was coming from the north though, but with any luck he’d be leagues across the sea by the time the Khurtas arrived. If they even got here.
There’d been rumours they were heading straight for the city. Merrick thought it unlikely – there were hundreds of miles between Steelhaven and the horde. They’d hopefully likely get bored with raping and pillaging and fuck off back to where they came from before the week was out. Still, better safe than sorry. No point hanging around and waiting to be gutted by some savage when he could be sailing off to sunnier climes. He looked good with a tan, and the exotic ladies of Jal Nassan would most likely go wild for a handsome, foreign stranger with tales of … well, whatever he decided to make up.
The prospect of freedom made him more eager than ever to have this whole foul business concluded. He could leave this stinking city and its Guild behind him. And he could leave that mad bitch Kaira behind him too – that would be a blessing in itself.
What had got into her head anyway? He’d only touched her hand, only moved in like he had a thousand times before with a thousand other women. Merrick was no stranger to being rebuffed, no stranger to a slapped face, but there was no need for her to flatten him in the middle of the bar and make him look a prize cock.
Clearly she was frustrated – most likely all those years stuck in the Temple of Autumn with no men to unleash her pent-up desires on.
So far he’d managed to avoid her, but he knew sooner or later they’d have to meet up. His business with Bolo was almost concluded, and he wanted her by his side for that one last meeting in case things turned to shit. If Bolo tried to pull a fast one, Merrick was quite happy to unleash Kaira and all her pent-up aggression on him. It would be like throwing a terrier into a nest of rats – just sit back and watch the carnage.
The thought brought a grin to his face.
He walked down to the harbour and fished in his pocket, feeling the satisfaction as his hand closed around the pewter flask. It was cool in his hand, almost inviting, as he unscrewed the cap and placed it to his lips. Despite the cold of the flask, the liquor was warm and sweet in his mouth and he swilled the last of the vomit from his teeth before swallowing it down. Never failed to settle a poorly stomach.
With one hand on the pommel of his sword and the other grasping his flask, Merrick swaggered down towards the vast crescent-shaped bay. All was well; he had nothing to worry about. Just broker the sale of the merchandise and all debts paid. Then he was free to roam the high seas until doomsday.
The bay was busy. Either people were taking the threat from the north seriously and clearing out by sea, or it was a particularly good time for commerce. The wood and stone jetties were abuzz with dockworkers and seamen, foreign merchants and brokers. It was clear business was not halted by the threat of war. Indeed, it was clear business thrived on war, and sea-trade best of all.
Perhaps that was something he should branch into. Once this was all over he could start his own business trading throughout the Midral Sea. He could buy his own little merchantman, nothing too extravagant, at least not to start. Another swig from his flask and Merrick had almost convinced himself he was ready to be a merchant baron, master of the high seas, favoured by lords and kings in ten nations.
What was there to stop him?
As he strolled along the harbour, his dreams of future riches stirred up by the sea breeze, he saw someone who caught his eye. The man wasn’t from Steelhaven, that much was clear, but he wasn’t out of place amongst the flood of overseas traders. What made him stand out to Merrick was that he’d seen him somewhere before.
Moored at the jetty was a caravel, its crew hard at work with sail and rope. If Merrick had any aspiration for a life at sea, he should really work out what all those ropes and pulleys did. Or maybe he’d just pay someone else to do all that – that’s what sailors were for, anyway. Why have a dog and bark yourself?
The man was obviously waiting to board his ship and Merrick made his way closer, racking his brain all the while until, when he was within arm’s length of him, he remembered. This was the exotic foreigner who had sought an audience with Palien days earlier. Whatever business they’d had was clearly concluded, and the man now awaited his boat home. By the way he gripped his shoulder bag and stared pensively out to sea, it was a journey that couldn’t come soon enough.
Merrick should have left things there, should have let the man go about his business, but he’d always been a nosy bastard. It had got him into trouble so often – why break old habits now?
‘A beautiful day,’ Merrick said.
The man turned, looking surprised but instantly hiding it behind a smile.
Shrewd. Merrick recognised a man used to masking his true feelings.
‘Indeed it is,’ replied the foreigner. ‘I am sad to be leaving this place. Your city is truly beautiful, er …’
‘Ryder. Merrick Ryder,’ Merrick replied, believing none of the man’s assessment of his city. A dumb, blind, noseless crone could tell the place was a dump.
‘Greetings, Ryder. I am Massoum Am Kalhed Las Fahir Am Jadar Abbasi, a poor spice trader come to Steelhaven to broker trade.’
Poor spice trader – that was a new one.
‘And has your visit been as lucrative as you’d hoped?’
‘Indeed it has, Ryder. Indeed it has. But alas I must now return home, for all journeys have their end.’
‘Yes they do.’ Merrick couldn’t have agreed more. The journey he was on right now couldn’t end soon enough. ‘But at least you got to meet some interesting people?’
Massoum smiled. ‘Your city overflows with interesting people. A fascinating blend. If only I could stay longer to experience more. A man could swim forever in this city’s sea of culture.’
All right, enough of the horseshit.
‘I’ll grant you, this city has its share of culture, but let’s not pretend it also hasn’t got its share of scum.’
Massoum nodded knowingly.
‘You are an astute fellow. Of course you’re right, but is that not true of every city in all the world?’
‘This one more than most.’ Though Merrick hadn’t been to most cities in the Free States, let alone the world, he had a pretty good idea that this was among the worst. ‘And forgive me, but you don’t seem the kind of man who’d do well in a place like this for very long. It’s obvious you’re not here for the culture. Or for the spice trade.’
Massoum inclined his head. ‘I see there is little point trying to hide the truth from you, my friend. Let’s just say I am a messenger. Now that my messages are delivered it is time for me to leave this place.’
‘And not a moment too soon, I’ll wager.’ Massoum had no answer to that, so Merrick continued. ‘So, your messages, were they from the mouths of rich and powerful men? Or are you simply here bandying words for merchants and sailors?’
‘I am nothing if not discreet, my friend. Whether I convey the words of kings or beggars I am bound by the laws of my trade never to discuss my employers’ business but with those I am paid to contact.’
‘I see. But tell me one thing – are you happy working for the men you convey these words for?’
Merrick didn’t know why he’d asked that. Was it that pang of guilt crawling up his back again? Was he really interested in what this foreigner had to say? Was he looking for some kind of justification? Or would he find some kind of kinship with this stranger?
‘
Happy
does not come into it, my friend. Whether my work is for tyrant or saint, it matters not. Their words would still be passed on, even if I were not the one doing it.’
And there it was, the justification he’d been fishing for.
‘So even though we work for tyrants, it doesn’t mean we’re …’
‘Tyrants ourselves? Capable of unspeakable evil? Is the shore evil for the ships it wrecks? Is the wolf evil for the lambs it slaughters?’
‘But we’re not wolves, we’re men. We have a choice.’
Massoum nodded at his words. ‘Of course you are right. But should the wolf choose to spare the lamb, there are always other wolves.’
Merrick took another swig from his flask. This conversation wasn’t going at all how he’d expected. All he’d wanted to do was find out what this bastard was doing here, not have a discussion on the rights and wrongs of what he was doing.
‘There are always wolves,’ said Merrick. ‘But then for every wolf there’s a shepherd.’
Where the fuck did that come from?
‘Indeed. And so there is the choice, my friend. The wolf or the shepherd. It is the moral choice every man must one day make. I have found it pays more to take the wolf’s path. Although doubtless the shepherd sleeps sounder in his bed.’
‘Doubtless he does,’ said Merrick, with another swig from his flask.
There was a shout from aboard the caravel signalling that they were ready to go. Massoum turned to Merrick and bowed, touching a hand to forehead and lips.
‘It has been a pleasure talking with you,’ he said. ‘But I must leave. May the Desert Wind guide your path, Merrick Ryder.’