A Clatter of Chains

by A Van Wyck

  “Please…” he tried again but a hand gripping his throat drew the encroaching blackness around the edges of his vision closer with every beat of his heart, “stop...”

  The callused hand swept across his face. He heard the sound of the fleshy impact but his body was past processing any more pain. He collapsed back to earth, aware of a tugging at the rope belt of his breeches.

  It had nothing at all to do with him. His head tilted back. The narrow strip of night sky peeking between the roofs overhead looked so tranquil, stars swimming like lily pads in a fountain. So pretty. So peaceful.

  As he watched, a red petal broke from the ceiling of the world and drifted gently down towards him. His eyes moved to track its progress.

  Sunny landed on the seamed man’s back, clawing for the man’s eyes and trying to sink her uneven teeth into his broad shoulder. The man grunted in surprise as she fell onto him but the impact did her more damage than it did him. He staggered upright, jerking his head away from her questing fingers and screaming mouth. Reaching up, he grabbed a handful of hair and heaved. She was ripped from his back and went spinning. She careened across the alley cobbles, rolling half a dozen times before leaping to her feet. From the scattered scaffold wreckage she scooped up a length of wood, brandishing it like a club. She hissed at the seamed man.

  No!

  “Need some help there?” the reedy voice sniggered.

  She had to run! She had to get away now!

  “Shut up.”

  He had to get up. He had to help. But he couldn’t make his body move.

  “Really? You sure? Looks like you got your hands full.”

  Desperately he tried to will his limbs to obey but the message got lost somewhere between his brain and body. His legs twitched fitfully. He managed to half-raise his head before it was dragged back down under its own immense weight.

  “Will have soon,” the seamed man promised, eyeing Sunny.

  Run! Run now!

  She charged at the man.

  No!

  The seamed man didn’t even bother to avoid her ineffectual swing. The wood clunked dully off his arm. The other swung upwards, bulging with muscle. The movement seemed unnecessarily slow.

  No!

  It caught Sunny flush under the chin.

  No!

  There was a wet snap. The blow lifted her off her feet, stick limbs flailing. She hit the wall like a wet rag. The dull impact of skull against brick was the loudest thing he’d ever heard. As he watched, unable to move, she crumpled. The wall dumped her in a jumble atop a refuse heap. Her blank eyes stared off to one side, an expression of shock frozen on her face.

  No…

  The blackness creeping at the corners of his eyes threatened to steal the sight of her. He let it.

  Sound dropped away, coming to him in snatches from unimaginably far away.

  “… over did … no value … careless…”

  “… still warm … matters … shut …”

  “… fine … quick … go…”

  It didn’t matter anymore.

  Somewhere in the distance, there was a furious metallic clanging, jangled and distorted. Bells maybe. The watch.

  Nothing for them to do here anymore…

  The seamed man growled from far above him.

  Growling carried the world away.

  * * *

  He was having trouble not running but the constable seemed disinclined to travel at anything more urgent than a fast walk. The sleepy novice sent to fetch him down to the gate had found him still awake, restlessly pacing the night away. In truth he’d just about made up his mind to go out again and rejoin the search, his efforts at sleep having proven fruitless. Whenever he’d dared close his eyes, his only thought had been of prayer, not sleep. He’d had his heavy over robe half-on when the knock came. A watch escort awaited him at the Little Gate, courtesy of Commander Grayston.

  “You’ve found him?” had been his first words to the stoic watchman.

  “Yes sir,” the man had acknowledged, unperturbed by Justin’s lack of formality.

  He’d hesitated, dreading the next question as much as he dreaded the answer.

  “Alive?” he’d choked, hoping against hope and praying hard.

  “Far as I know, sir.”

  The air had gusted out of him and he’d closed his eyes, breathing deeply to compose himself. But there was no loosening of the tension knotting his stomach and he knew why. There were many things worse than death that could find a boy alone in this city at night.

  “Commander said to bring you on over to the scene.”

  His eyes had popped open.

  “Scene?”

  “Crime scene, sir.”

  He couldn’t chase the constable ahead of him fast enough. The man didn’t share his urgency, which was frustrating in the extreme. He tried to tell himself it was a good thing he sensed no distress from the man but he knew better. Indifference was a cure to many distressing things and a useful tool for a watchman. He tried to repress his haste. Whatever had happened had already happened. Arriving a little sooner – and out of breath – would benefit no one. He sought anything to distract himself, casting his eyes around the semi deserted street.

  A city as big as Tellar never truly slept. The mishmash of human cogs could be disconnected for a time. But, come morning, they would lock their teeth and drive the great mill again. Regardless, the river ran on. The lamp men, with their patchwork cloaks and long poles, had been by. The streets were brightly lit, the lily lamps aglow. The towering, flower shaped lanterns marched down the street in orderly rows. Their fragile appearance belied their true glass construction. They’d been shaped to survive Tellar’s infrequent hail storms.

  Most of the stores here were closed, the majority of their higher middleclass patrons preferring to sleep at night, as evinced by the darkened windows all around. Some of their more disaffected children would probably be out at the buzzing night market or looking for adventure in the all night taverns near the docks. Normally, Justin enjoyed the early morning bells, when a city’s worth of buzzing emotions faded into sleep. It was as close to silence as the inside of his head ever got. But there was nothing enjoyable about the silence tonight.

  They left the streetlamps behind as they exited the residential sector. The constable unshuttered his heavy watch lantern, continuing to lead the way. There was a noticeable increase in the number of ox and mule drawn carts. They rattled by, their mounted lanterns bobbing away into the dark like obese fireflies.

  “Get on home, you two,” the constable cautioned two loud drunkards. The stumbling singers leaned heavily on each other’s shoulders as they tried to bring the watchman into focus. It was well past midnight bell and most local alehouses were likely closed. Justin gritted his teeth, hoping the watchman wouldn’t delay on account of two lost layabouts. The pair appeared to be considering rebellion. Then the watchman’s raised lantern illuminated the hem of Justin’s robes. The pair ducked their heads in startled guilt and staggered hurriedly away. Their drunken song started up again before they’d rounded the corner. The frivolity sat askew on his extra sense. There was no room for laughter in his head right now.

  He felt sweat slick his lower back as the constable led them deeper into the increasingly unsavory neighborhood. This was all secondary dockyard, a hodgepodge of warehouses and shops built around the offices of the lesser merchants who owned them. At night it doubled as combination alehouse and whorehouse district for the rough men who worked the docks and yards. And it was a favored haunt of criminals. It was too much to hope that the constable was simply taking them on a shortcut through this disreputable district.

  Finally they slowed.

  It would be erroneous to say that watchmen were standing guard on either side of the alley that was their destination. Watchmen weren’t soldiers, they didn’t possess the same mindset. They spent the majority of their time immersed in the underside of human nature. At best, they could be said to slouch comfortably w
hile keeping a wary eye out. A handful of curious midnight passersby had halted to stare their way, hoping for some entertainment. There were even one or two carts pulled over to the side of the road, their drivers exchanging quiet gossip with the other bystanders.

  Someone had nailed hessian sacking across the mouth of the alley, forming a crude barrier. Tall shadows moved against the lantern lit walls beyond as watchmen occasionally moved back and forth. Commander Grayston ducked into the street from behind the sackcloth curtain, busily wiping his hands on the front of his tunic in an unconscious gesture. That the usually detached commander could feel in any way soiled by what lay beyond the rude hanging did not bode well.

  “Commander,” he called from twenty paces, unable to resist finally drawing ahead of the constable. Grayston looked up, spotted him and waited for him to approach.

  “Is he…” Justin asked as soon as he came near.

  “Unconscious,” the pale eyed commander supplied, nodding Justin’s escort away.

  His eyes strayed to the curtain. The commander caught his arm before he could duck through.

  “I need to see that he’s alright with my own eyes,” he argued against the restraint.

  “If he is,” the commander forestalled him calmly, “he’s the only one. The other three are all dead.”

  He went still. The commander let his hand drop away.

  “Dead?”

  The man nodded gravely.

  “Two of my men found this place a bell past. They weren’t sure it was your boy at first. There’s…” the man hesitated, his mouth pulling in distaste, “precious little of his clothing left. And he’s in rough shape. But nothing life threatening,” he assured Justin, who nodded perfunctorily, not really listening. His mind conjured horrible, nightmare scenarios from the snippets of information the commander fed him.

  “Can I see him?”

  The man nodded, turning to lead the way. He paused before the sackcloth barricade.

  “Please be sure to step only where I step,” he instructed. “And Keeper?”

  He jerked his eyes, which had wandered back to the rough hangings, back to the man’s face.

  “Kindly take careful note of everything you see in here. I’d be interested in your thoughts as to what exactly happened.”

  So saying, Grayston disappeared through the curtain. He followed almost on the man’s heels.

  The reason for the commander’s instructions became immediately apparent. The lanterns, spaced irregularly on the cobbled alley floor, lit the area only imperfectly but enough to illuminate the blackening blood trail. It held a confused pattern of scuff marks and footprints. He stayed close by the commander as the man skirted its length.

  Immediately inside the barricade a grey uniformed physician crouched over the shape of a prone man, very obviously dead. The dyed canvas covering the body had been drawn back and the aproned watch physician pawed at the bloodied carcass, working steadily with a set of very long tweezers. His black bag stood open beside him. It clinked when he dipped his gloved hand inside to remove another glass phial, stuffing something inside with the fine tongs.

  “Mender,” the commander addressed the physician.

  “That was fast,” the man answered, not looking away from his delicate work. “Couldn’t find any fresh air, eh?”

  “So what do you think?” the commander queried, choosing to ignore the comment.

  “Oh,” the mender mused drily, “I should have him up and about in no time.”

  There was a beat of silence, punctuated by the commander clearing his throat.

  “Mender, you remember Keeper Justin?”

  The physician glanced up in startlement, peering at Justin’s formal robes through his thick spectacles.

  “Apologies, Keeper,” the man rushed to assure him. “Just a bit of morbid humor. No harm intended. I solemnly swear I have no dealings with necromancy or any of the forbidden arts. Although, getting the dead to answer some questions would certainly make my job–”

  “Mender…” the commander growled warningly.

  Justin nodded, suddenly and irrationally afraid of finding Marco anywhere near this gruesome scene and putting the moment off.

  “What happened to him?” he asked, indicating the body.

  Grateful for the change of topic, the mender looked down at the bloodied cadaver.

  “This one?” he cocked his head to the side. “Snapped spine. Throw in a couple of broken ribs for good measure. Though, from the looks of it,” he ran a glance over the sticky ground, “I’d say direct cause of death was that he bled out. Severed jugular to go with his mostly severed shoulder.”

  The unfortunate man’s shirt had been shredded.

  “What’s all this?” Justin asked, pointing at the lacerated flesh of the man’s back and shoulder, where great hunks of flesh seemed to be missing.

  The mender shot a questioning look at his superior.

  “You want my opinion?”

  The commander nodded his permission.

  “Claw marks,” the mender directed at Justin. “And here,” the bespectacled man indicated the mauled hollow of the neck. “Teeth. I’d stake my reputation on it. Or at least, I would if I had one.”

  “Teeth? As in… dogs?” It wasn’t unheard of for feral packs to roam the destitute districts of the city. There were urban legends that told of them brazenly entering people’s homes and stealing babies from the cradle. But those were only folklore. More people got bitten by donkeys than dogs in this city. Still. He had another look at the drying blood around the body. It had taken some impressions but most were smeared beyond recognition. But there… that might have been a paw print.

  At his question, the mender glanced down at the body again. When he looked back up his eyebrows sat at a skeptical angle.

  “Big dog,” he commented.

  The commander cast a sideways glance at the keeper.

  “Show us the other one, Blort.”

  The mender heaved himself to his feet, scooping up his bag.

  “This way…” he directed, leading them down the alley. It opened up slightly where the adjoining building had a recessed wall. Further along it had been bricked up. The place smelled predominantly like alley but overlaid with the fresher smell of disturbed dust under the stink of blood. Something that might once have been a workman’s scaffold lay in a ruined heap like an abandoned game of pick-up-sticks.

  Another grey draped silhouette lay roughly in the middle of the space but Justin had no attention to spare. Marco lay off to one side atop a mound of rubbish. Seeing the grey canvas pulled up to the boy’s chin, Justin momentarily feared the worst, despite the commander’s reassurance. He hurried over, unable to help himself and assaulted by guilt at his having delayed this moment. He pressed one hand beneath the boy’s chin. He almost collapsed in relief when he found a pulse. He breathed deeply, only then noticing the lieutenant, from the day before, hovering by the unconscious boy’s side.

  “Thank you,” he said with feeling, meaning all of them. He placed a hand on Marco’s chest, feeling the heartbeat there as well. The boy looked terrible. One entire half of his face was red and angry and his lip was split and bloody. That eye was already swollen shut. What little skin showed through the muck and filth was covered in blood, bruises and the leavings of a savage beating. But he was alive.

  Alive.

  “Sorry about the shroud,” the blockish lieutenant put in. “Didn’t have any blankets.”

  He simply shook his head. It didn’t matter. Marco was alive. Anything less than death, he could fix.

  “A miracle, isn’t it?” the watchwoman added, looking down at Marco’s bruised face. “Honestly, I didn’t think we’d be seeing him again. It’s true, Helia really does look after her own.”

  He could only nod.

  Praise Helia.

  A whispered conversation ensued. His eyes alighted on another watch shroud, higher up the refuse mound against the wall.

  “Yeah,” the lieutenant com
mented, following his gaze, “very sad, that.”

  “Sad?”

  She nodded, taking the half a dozen steps necessary to reach out and twitch the grey covering aside.

  The little girl had been perhaps nine. She would never see ten. Her little face was frozen in an expression of horrified surprise, mouth lolling open and lifeless eyes, dull in death, thrown wide.

  “Back of her head was stove in,” the mender said from behind him. A gloved hand pointed from over his shoulder.

  Gazing up, he tracked the dark runnel of blood up the wall to the starburst spatter where her head must have hit.

  “And the other one?” he jerked his head, indicating the third corpse.

  “The big one? Fairly normal,” the mender reported. “Except for his face having been ripped off. That and a slight case of disembowelment.”

  Justin turned his attention back to Marco. He needed to get the boy away from all this gore and death.

  “I’d like to take him back to the Temple now,” he said over his shoulder.

  “I have no objections,” the commander acquiesced. “I’ve had one of the wagons out front commandeered for you. It’ll be a bumpy ride but you’ll make it in one piece.”

  He nodded his thanks, turning to the physician.

  “Do you have any chrysius emulsion or poppy extract, mender? I would rather he wake up well away from all this, in familiar surroundings.”

  “I might have something that’ll do the trick,” the physician agreed, rummaging in his bag.

  “See to it, if you please, Blort,” the commander instructed. “The keeper and I have one or two more things to discuss.”

  Taking the hint, he followed the commander off to one side, tearing himself away from Marco with difficulty. The steely eyed man turned to him when they were out of earshot, his expression serious. But nothing could bring him down right now. Marco was alive. And it was all going to be alright.

  “I just got word,” the man began. “There was a complaint brought to the Watch House. A shipping clerk was assaulted tonight. Here, it would seem. By two disgruntled dockhands.” He looked toward the grey covered body nearest them. “We’ll have him identify the one who still has a face. Later. But I’m relatively confident these were them.”