There was a small vestibule, low-lit by wall-sconce candles which revealed hooks for coats and racks for other belongings. An elderly Granavian woman seated behind a high desk bowed to him from the waist as he pushed open the inner door. Perfumed warmth enveloped him, and on all sides were gauzy veils, silky curtains, a whiff of alcohol among the fragrance, low murmurs and quiet laughter. Pyke smiled sardonically at invitations from this or that unseen observer, shook his head and sought out the exit to the stairs. The steps were narrow and wooden, and the small space seemed to amplify every knock and creak as he descended.
Stepping out into the stuffy, beery bar, he immediately felt the echo of memories from the great many other drinking holes he’d sampled down the years. Some bars were just anonymous pits dedicated to taking money and turning sober patrons into blitzed and bladdered meatsacks fit only to be shown the door. Others, though, served as waypoint of meeting and debate and the sealing of friendships, bargains and plots, thereby lending them a certain atmosphere. The Hawk and Hammer was decidedly of the latter type. This early, it was only about a third full but there were noisy conversations going on, especially in the low, beam-ceilinged room off to the right, where Klane and T’Moy were occupying a square table and drawing useful attention. Pyke smiled and headed smoothly to the left.
His eyes picked up details as he walked past the middle room; the flags, most of which still bore streaks of blood and mud while their tears and rips had been meticulously repaired; an old scroll-style tapestry on display across the upper part of one of the rear walls; a few paintings of this or that officer in full dress; and what appeared to be a full set of armour, painted in rainbow colours and scattered around the walls. And mounted over one of the serving counters was a large double-bitted axe, its haft scarred and worn and its blades notched to hell but clearly polished and cared for. Pyke wondered how many generations of soldiers had drunk and gambled and puked and whored their way through this establishment on the road from barracks to battlefield and back.
Pyke smiled and shook his head. Odd thought to have, considering this whole place is just a part of the Legacy’s simulation, designed to give this appearance and impression. Credit where credit is due, though, this is all superbly done.
Reaching the left-side lounge room, Pyke saw a table with a solitary townsman sipping from a jack of ale. He bought a similar jack of something called Peculiar Old Valiant then went over and sat at the man’s table, taking out a fold of paper and a pencil. He sipped his beer.
“G’morning, citizen,” he began. “My name is Brand, er, Brand Pierce, and I am a scribe for the Worroth Herald, and I’m writing a report, an accolade about the 25th Brigade. Do you know anything about its history, its battle honours, that kind of … thing.”
The townsman was fairly innocuous looking, had greying hair and a salt-and-pepper beard, and he was chewing inexpressively on a chunk of bread while Pyke introduced himself. When Pyke’s words ran dry, the man raised a hand and snapped his fingers. At once, two beefy bald types (who may as well have had the words “heavy team” stamped on their foreheads) moved in with their own stools to sit on either side, glowering at Pyke.
“He interrupting your breakfast, boss?” said one, who was missing a couple of his front teeth.
“We can help him on his way, boss,” said the other, who was an ear short. “So you can enjoy your vittles in peace.”
“Very considerate of you, boys, but I get the feeling that our guest is a newcomer to our fine establishment.”
“Huh,” said Gappy. “Another one.”
“Don’t like nosey new faces,” said One-Ear.
The boss laughed a little. “Well, not strictly true—new customers means new revenue …” He reached for Pyke’s tankard, sniffed it, nodded approvingly. “The Valiant, a good brew. Be sure to try the Oxskull and one of our pies during your stay, Mr, erm …”
“Pierce, Brand Pierce. And by any chance am I speaking to the manager of this unrivalled tavern?”
“Owner and manager. Jevander Gosk’s the name.” They shook hands. “Now, Mr. Pierce, why the interest in the 25th?”
“Well, Mr. Gosk, the people are always interested in tales of military life,” Pyke said, smile affixed. “My contact at the Worroth Herald was very taken by my idea of a series of portraits of the empire’s greatest regiments, so here I am commencing with the 25th. Am I right in thinking that the Hawk and Hammer is favoured by 25th troopers?”
Gappy and One-Ear seemed nonplussed by Pyke’s apparent indifference to their big fists and the promise of violent pummelling that smouldered in their piggy little eyes, so they looked round at Gosk for whatever came next. The tavern owner rocked his head from side to side with a judicious expression.
“It has been known,” he said. “From time to time, when the Brigade is back from a tour of duty.”
Pyke saw an amused twinkle in the man’s eyes and knew there was a whole lot of ironic understatement going on.
“Of course, I am in fact a veteran of the 25th myself,” Gosk went on. “How about yourself? Have you had a spell in uniform, Mr. Pierce?”
Pyke adopted a faraway look and was about to lie outrageously when the weight of a hand suddenly came down on his shoulder.
“Most opportune moment meeting you again like this, Mr. Pazzyk. Might we have a word in private? Outside?”
He only needed to turn his head a little to see the flinty-eyed visage of the Chamberlain smiling unpleasantly down at him. The Brute was at his side, eyes full of cold, raw hate. Pyke glanced quickly back at Mr. Gosk and the other customers, mostly men past youth and heading for middle age. He looked the Chamberlain straight in the eye and in a clear voice said;
“If you think I’m telling you where Magni is, you can think again!”
The mood in the room changed immediately—Pyke could feel the attention of many eyes pressing in on him. Then Gosk cleared his throat.
“Doesn’t seem that this gentleman is inclined to accompany you,” the tavern owner said. “Perhaps you should withdraw your invitation.”
“This is a private matter,” said the Chamberlain. “And none of your business.”
Gosk’s smile was thin and dangerous. “Hardly none—you barge into my tavern, accost one of my customers, interrupt a very promising conversation, and annoy me with your bad manners. You can still leave on your feet—simply cease your harassing and go.”
The Chamberlain was unyielding. Pyke could feel those spidery fingers digging into his shoulder, and began glancing about for anything that might be useful in a bar fight.
“I am acting on behalf of important and powerful people,” the Chamberlain said with dry, sharp syllables. “You would do well not to obstruct me in the pursuit of my aims.”
For a moment no one spoke or moved. Then One-Ear, who sat on Pyke’s left, turned to Gosk.
“Shall I obstruct him, boss?”
“Why not?”
Violence erupted. Both One-Ear and Gappy were up from their stools and lunging towards Pyke’s erstwhile ambushers in an eyeblink. Pyke felt the Chamberlain’s grip vanish from his shoulder, which was all the excuse he needed to roll sideways off his own seat and onto the floor. From that vantage point he saw that the Chamberlain had actually stepped smartly backwards, allowing two of his own hirelings, a couple of street toughs, to move forward. Fists made meaty impacts as burly bruisers collided.
But the Chamberlain and the Brute had been tracking his progress despite all this, and here they came, short cudgels in hand. It looked as if the Brute was going to reach him first and as Pyke, still sprawled on the floor, backed away, his hand encountered something heavy and wooden—the tipped-over stool that One-Ear had been squatting on. Without hesitation he grabbed one of its legs and swung it round to meet his oncoming attacker. Pyke felt cool air brush the side of his face as the Brute’s cudgel swept past. Then there was a satisfying jarring in his wrist as the stool smashed the Brute full in the face. There was a grunt, then growling and cursin
g, accompanied by sprays of blood. The Brute went down snarling with pain and Pyke, still gripping the stool, managed to regain his feet—just as the Chamberlain was knocked back on top of the Brute by one of the barmen, a squat Shylan with fists like big misshapen clumps of muscle studded with knuckles.
The Brute, face spattered with blood, had found a tankard on the floor and now hurled it at the barman; there was a clank as it glanced off his head and a deep, rising roar of rage as he rushed across the taproom. Pyke was about to join in when he felt hands grab his arm and pull him sideways. He hauled back with the stool as he turned, and froze when he saw that it was Tiselio Flett, the seamstress. Impatiently, she dragged him off into the crowd that had gathered to watch the fighting and the gouging.
“What are you doing here?” he said. “I mean, how did you …”
“Get from Inox & Throm to my shop?” She glared at him. “Yes, a good question we can go into later—right now, why are you here? I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw you sit down at the boss’s table and start babbling away.”
“Just following Sergeant Dalyak’s clues,” Pyke said.
“Clues from that book?” Tiselio said. “You got it back, then.”
“Heh, no, not yet …”
“So how can you have any clues to follow?”
He grinned. “It was something that you said which pointed us in the right direction.”
She gave him a narrow look. “Magni,” she said.
“So you know about the 25th’s mascot, then.”
“I should do—I’ve stitched the ugly beast back together several times now …”
Before Pyke could respond, someone barged into him from behind. He and Tiselio were standing by the tavern’s rear wall almost at the mid-point, from which they would have had a clear view of the middle door were it not for the noisy, jostling press of drinkers and onlookers. Which was who he at first thought had lurched into him—until he felt the stool wrenched from his grasp. A cap-wearing tough shoved him from the side and he felt something sharp jab into his lower back. Tiselio had a look of terror on her face as a second lout pressed up against her from behind, no doubt with a similar dagger held at her back. Then a third man came forward, dressed in formal black clothing, just as Tiselio described, a man with a rough complexion and merry eyes: Dachour from Inox & Throm. Pyke kept his own face composed—this was the man who had hired Hidalio then murdered him.
“Ah, Mistress Flett, the very person to aid us in our purpose,” Dachour said, voice raised to cut through the noise of the fighting which was still going on. “Let us remove ourselves to that alcove, shall we?”
The rear wall sported two alcoves with softer seating and the warm light of oil lamps; they flanked a doorway that led to the kitchens and rearward parts of the tavern. As Pyke and Tiselio were hustled into the left-hand one, he felt a rising sense of trapped panic.
Dammit, where is Vrass? This is not looking good! Time to call for backup …
He breathed in deep but before he could yell out the codephrase, he heard T’Moy suddenly bawl out above the babble of the crowd. “Fire in the hole!”—which was immediately followed by the crash of splintering wood and an excited roar from the tavern crowd (which certainly seemed to have swelled since he and the others had first arrived). Dachour gave Pyke a contemptuous look, then levelled a finger at Tiselio.
“I asked you about Magni when I visited your shop not so long ago,” he said. “Since when I have had the opportunity to gain knowledge of some interesting details about the 25th Brigade, its haunts and those known to be camp followers, after a fashion. So, I want Magni and who else should I ask but the Brigade’s favourite stitchy girl? I would recommend full and frank answers, my dear—my companions are quite capable of cutting you in ways too upsetting to contemplate.”
“I know nothing of what you speak,” Tiselio began, then let out a stifled cry as the lout twisted her arm.
“Wrong answers are such a waste of my time, Mistress,” said Dachour. “Honesty is your only friend …”
“Lies are her only friend, you kackmonger,” said Pyke.
Dachour looked at Pyke with his lip curled. “Do away with this trash, Breza, upstairs and out the back …”
Pyke could feel the tough’s grip on his arms start to ease, however, and the dagger point pull away. A sideways glance revealed Vrass at his shoulder, grinning widely as he thrust a long knife into Pyke’s hand. Vrass clearly had Breza in his power with a hidden dagger of his own, but when they looked back round it was to see Dachour holding Tiselio against his chest, with a short silvery dagger glinting at her neck. His remaining tough stood by his side, knife in hand.
“Now let’s all be sensible about this,” said Dachour. “All I want is the cursed mascot—one of you get it for me and the lady goes free and unspoiled.” He tightened his grip and pressed the dagger into the pale skin of her throat. A bead of blood welled.
“All right,” snarled Pyke. “Where should I look?”
“It’s not on display, so try the back rooms and offices. Hurry now …”
Just then a stooped, grey-haired old man with a stick pushed his way into the alcove, muttering to himself. Dachour stared at him with unconcealed loathing.
“Hey—out! This is a private meeting!”
“Just looking for m’baccy,” the oldster whined. “I knows I left it hereabouts …”
“Look, you doddering sack of shit, remove yourself or be removed!”
“… my baccy pouch, ’m sure I left it here …”
Growling under his breath, Dachour looked at his hired thug and motioned his head towards the greyhair. Almost simultaneously the old boy cried out, “There it is!” and pounced at something on the floor behind Dachour’s feet. Dachour swore, recoiled in surprise and his dagger jerked away from Tiselio’s throat, just an inch or two. The old fellow (who Pyke now realised was Gosk, the tavern owner) shrieked that Dachour was standing on his pouch, just as the goon grabbed him by the collar.
That was when Gosk’s walking stick came up and delivered a sharp rap to Dachour’s wrist. There was a cry and the dagger fell from nerveless fingers. All at once Tiselio broke free from Dachour’s grasp, whirled and gave him a swift kick in the general groin area—he’d shifted enough, however, to avoid the worst of it but the impact still sent him staggering back to sprawl on his backside. At the same time, Pyke and Vrass dived on the goon who was trying to drag Gosk away—a couple of slaps to the side of the head and a knee to the thigh made him let go as he stumbled away, begging for mercy. Dachour was struggling back to his feet, producing a second dagger, to which Gosk responded by reversing his walking stick, which turned out to be a warhammer. Dachour’s snarl didn’t waver, though his eyes narrowed when Gosk brought the hammer’s business end up close to his face.
But before any of them could make the next move, the middle door of the tavern crashed open and a squad of familiar, squat, body-armoured figures filed in, led by Pyke’s old sparring partner, Drask.
“Hell’s fracking fire!” Pyke growled, moving sideways a little to put taller elements of the crowd between himself and the Shylan Shields.
“Some more friends of yours?” said Gosk.
“Watch,” said Vrass. “That ratbag is getting away! …”
Dachour, caught between adversaries and Imperial officials, had sheathed his long dagger, regained his feet and was slipping off into the crowd. Gosk swore floridly and was about to go after him when Shield-Lance Drask shouted for attention:
“In the name of his Imperial Majesty, we are confining all within this tavern while we search for known enemies of the state. The doors are barred!”
In the uproar, Gosk turned to Tiselio. “Quick, get them out through the kitchens.” He glanced over his shoulder. “I’ll do what I can to delay them.”
Pyke muttered his thanks then he and Vrass followed Tiselio through the packed crowd, a sweaty, squeezing progress prolonged by beer-swilling customers bellowing their outrage at each ot
her, forming a seeming barricade of the oblivious. At last they reached the door to the kitchens which opened only after Tiselio had a brief but brusque exchange through its speaking hole. Once through, with the door barred behind them, she made to rush them through the steamy kitchen to the rear loading entrance, but Pyke slowed and held back.
“What are you doing?” she said. “Gosk will do his best but those Shylans will be through here before too long …”
“I need Magni,” he said. “I need that sodding mascot! Will you help me?”
Tiselio looked at him aghast. “Why is it so important?”
“No time for the whole story, so here’s the basics—Sergeant Dalyak hid a deadly poison inside it the last time he was in Granah …”
“The world is full of poisons.”
“Well, this one is a blood-poison, seemingly designed to infect one man and send him mad, turn him into a murderer.”
She raised a hand to her mouth. “Not … the Emperor.”
“Got it in one, and that’s why we have to get hold of it and destroy it.” He held out a hand to her. “Will you help us?”
She glanced at Vrass who nodded, then at Pyke. “If you’re lying to me I’ll hire someone to do terrible things to you with a bodkin. This way.”
She dashed off into the kitchen, forcing them to hurry after her. Pyke considered asking what a bodkin was but instead asked where they were going.
“The attic,” she said over her shoulder. “Gosk told me to hide it up there earlier, said there were some dodgy types asking around for it. It’s three floors up and more—I hope you’ve got the lungs for it.”
“I’ll be fine.…” Then he heard Vrass clear his throat.
“I think I should hang back, Captain—maybe sneak back into the tavern and see if the others need a hand, eh?”
“Okay, all right, but try and avoid getting snatched by those gougers, y’hear?”
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