Steelhaven 02 - The Shattered Crown

by Richard Ford

  Three of the apprentices were withered and stooped, peering over their labours in a parody of the old men they would one day become. They would end up looking much like their master sooner rather than later. Only one of them still looked his real age. He was young, broad of shoulder, wide of jaw.

  ‘Josiah?’ Sequeous said, and the largest apprentice looked up from his parchment, quill appearing tiny in his huge hand. The boy gave no answer, just sat with a blank expression on his face. ‘This is a messenger from the Tower of Magisters. You are to go with him.’

  Josiah nodded obediently and walked over. Waylian noted how tall he was, how broad. It was a physique more suited to a squire of the knightly orders, where such burgeoning strength would be trained and honed, rather than wasted in an old man’s study.

  ‘Hello,’ said Waylian.

  The boy only stared back as though he’d just been asked some tricky riddle.

  ‘Off you go, Josiah. You shouldn’t keep the magisters waiting.’

  The boy complied obediently, and Waylian turned and led him to the front door like a cow gone to milking.

  When Sequeous had slammed the door behind them, Waylian turned to Josiah. ‘Nothing to worry about,’ he said, trying his best to reassure the young lad. ‘I think they need scribes at the Tower, that’s all. They’ll just be trying you out. It’s an excellent opportunity, by all accounts. Though if you’d prefer to stay here with Master Sequeous I’m sure they’ll understand.’

  But Waylian wasn’t taking Josiah to the Tower. Gelredida had given him strict instructions to take the boy to another address in the city.

  Josiah just regarded Waylian with his deep-set eyes. They no longer looked vacuous, and instead were regarding him with keen scrutiny. Waylian had to admit – it unnerved him a bit.

  The Tower of Magisters was roughly north-east of the Trades Quarter, but Waylian took them south. The boy seemed placid enough at first, but any hope Waylian might have had that Josiah would come along quietly were soon dashed.

  ‘Where are we going?’ the boy asked suddenly.

  ‘Just a slight detour,’ Waylian replied. ‘Nothing to worry about.’

  ‘That’s the second time you’ve said that.’

  ‘Said what?’

  ‘“Nothing to worry about.” You’ve said it twice now. That kind of makes me think I do have something to worry about.’

  ‘Well …’

  ‘What’s going on here?’ Josiah’s voice rose. He seemed to become more threatening. Waylian was acutely aware of the size difference between them – Josiah could easily thump Waylian into the ground.

  ‘I’ve just got to make a quick stop off. Won’t take long.’

  Josiah stared at him, as though searching for any sign of deception in Waylian’s face. All Waylian could do was look back until finally, the big lad seemed satisfied.

  ‘All right then,’ Josiah said, calm once more. ‘Let’s go.’

  They carried on walking until they reached the north end of Dockside. The sea air was chill there, a cold wind blowing in from the Midral Sea, twisting its way through the alleys of the district. As surreptitiously as he could, Waylian checked the slip of paper in his hand and the address written on it, hoping he would find the second address more easily than the first. Too much dawdling might reveal the fact he had no idea where in the bloody hells he was going.

  Fortunately, the streets of Dockside were easier to navigate than the Trades Quarter, and Waylian soon found the address. He fumbled in his pocket for the key to the little house and let them both in.

  Inside the air was fusty, and the cobwebs draped over the furniture were thick as lace and it was obvious no one had been here for weeks. Gelredida had told him to bring Josiah and wait for her to meet them, but how long would that be? How was he supposed to force this giant of a boy to stay if he didn’t want to?

  ‘Just take a seat,’ said Waylian, dusting off a chair with his hand. ‘Won’t be long.’

  He was relieved when Josiah did as he asked, but then wondered what in the hells he was going to do next.

  Perhaps some scintillating conversation, Grimmy. You know – the sort you use to charm the ladies into your bed and the birds from the trees.

  ‘So, a scribe?’ said Waylian, with no idea what else he should talk about. ‘Must be an interesting line of work.’

  ‘Not particularly,’ Josiah replied, glancing around the room as though it were daubed with shit. Waylian could understand that – calling this place a hovel would have been overstating it. ‘It’s pretty boring really.’

  ‘But old Master Sequeous seems nice enough.’

  ‘He’s a cantankerous, doddery old fool, and the sooner he keels over and dies the better.’

  ‘But it must be better working for a scribe than making arrows for some slave driver.’ Waylian couldn’t help feeling a pang of regret as he remembered those helpless orphans in the Northgate slum.

  ‘I suppose,’ said Josiah. ‘But only marginally.’

  And now Waylian was stumped. It was clear Josiah didn’t give a toss about Sequeous, or about how lucky he’d been to escape the squalor of Fletcher’s orphanage.

  He glanced at the door, willing Gelredida to arrive. The moments seemed to spread out, growing ever more uncomfortable. With every passing breath Josiah seemed to get more fidgety until he could contain himself no longer.

  ‘Look,’ he said, rising from his chair. ‘I’m not waiting round here all day.’ The confines of the small room emphasised how much he towered above Waylian.

  ‘But … it won’t be much longer,’ Waylian replied, his fear of failing Gelredida still outweighing his fear of Josiah.

  ‘Not really my problem. Give my regards to the magisters, won’t you.’

  He moved towards the door, but Waylian moved to block his way. The ridiculousness of Waylian trying to stop his huge adversary was not lost on him.

  ‘Maybe we could talk some more,’ he said, desperate to delay Josiah. ‘What was life like back in the slums? Must have been difficult for you.’

  Josiah’s brow furrowed. ‘It was just about as shit as you’d imagine. But what I’m bothered about is how you know where I came from? Who told you I was from the slums? Who told you I used to be one of Fletcher’s boys? If you’re just looking for apprentice scribes how do you know about my past? And why are you so interested in me?’

  All very good questions, Josiah. Wish I could answer them.

  ‘It’s … erm …’

  ‘Get out of my way.’

  Josiah looked determined. Waylian was going to blow it again.

  ‘No. You can’t leave yet.’ He tried to muster all the power and authority becoming of a magister. He most likely sounded like a petulant toddler. ‘We have to wait here for someone. Then all your questions will be answered.’

  ‘Fuck that,’ Josiah replied, reaching past Waylian for the door handle.

  Without thinking, Waylian grabbed his wrist. It was thick, and he could hardly get his hand around it, but that didn’t seem particularly important as Josiah regarded him with fury.

  A hand snapped forward and grabbed Waylian by the throat, slamming him up against the door.

  ‘You going to stop me then?’ growled Josiah. ‘What are you going to do?’

  Waylian wanted to be both defiant, and apologetic. Unfortunately, neither option was possible with his throat constricted as it was.

  Rage and humiliation welled inside and, for a fleeting moment, he thought he was about to manifest some kind of power – that power he’d felt in the Chapel of Ghouls, and when Nero and Ferenz had come to his chamber to intimidate him.

  Before that could happen, Josiah threw him out of the way. Waylian landed hard, hitting his head against the wall. Real anger bubbled to the surface. Not magickal, not infused with power, just cold hard rage.

  ‘I said no!’ he screamed, as Josiah grabbed the door handle again. With a strength that surprised him, Waylian rose to his feet then flung himself across the room. H
is arms wrapped around Josiah’s neck and he hung there, his feet dangling as the big lad tried to shake him free.

  He held on as Josiah staggered across the room making a pathetic choking sound. Josiah’s big hands worked to pull Waylian off, but to no avail. There was no way Josiah would escape, no way Waylian was going to disappoint his mistress again.

  Josiah stumbled, then toppled over, falling on a broken chair, which shattered into pieces beneath them. The air was punched from Waylian’s lungs, forcing him to release his victim.

  He flailed his arms, vainly trying to grab Josiah’s shirt, but the big lad had already rolled away and risen to his feet. Waylian stared into those murderous eyes as Josiah looked down.

  ‘I’ll fucking kill you,’ Josiah growled.

  Waylian’s hand scrabbled around beneath him until it closed on something hard. As Josiah came forwards Waylian rose to his feet, swiping what turned out to be a chair leg across Josiah’s head. The big lad went down like he’d been shot with an arrow.

  The chair leg felt unbelievably heavy in Waylian’s hand and all he could do was stand there and stare at the body in front of him.

  Shit, what have you done? You’ve fucking killed him. Gelredida’s going to skin you alive for this.

  He dropped the chair leg to the floor, and quickly squatted down beside Josiah. The lad’s head was bleeding and he was out like a snuffed candle. Waylian moved closer, relief washing over him as he felt Josiah’s breath on his face.

  Before he could even begin to think his way out of the predicament, the door to the little house opened.

  Gelredida walked in and casually closed the door behind her. She regarded Waylian, kneeling as he was over the body of Josiah Klumm, with curiosity.

  ‘What do we have here?’ she asked.

  ‘It’s … er … not what it looks like?’

  ‘Really?’ She raised one white eyebrow. ‘Because it looks as though you’ve killed the boy I sent you to fetch.’

  ‘He’s not dead, Magistra. He’s just … er …’

  ‘Having a nap?’

  ‘He tried to leave. We fought and I … hit him with a chair leg.’

  ‘How very resourceful, Waylian.’

  ‘I didn’t mean to. It just—’

  ‘Never mind.’ She pulled out a length of rope from inside her robes. ‘It’s saved me a job anyway. Tie him up and put him in the cellar.’ She flung the rope to Waylian. ‘Make sure he’s gagged. We don’t want him screaming the place down when we leave.’

  Waylian stared at her for a second, then at the rope. ‘You mean we were going to keep him prisoner here all along?’

  Gelredida smiled. ‘I wasn’t going to ask him nicely. By all accounts he’s quite a stubborn, wilful jackass. Just like his father.’

  ‘Who’s his—?’

  ‘Enough questions, Waylian. Rope. Cellar. Chop chop.’ She punctuated her last two words with a swift clap of her gloved hands.

  Waylian put his mind to the task and tied Josiah as tightly as he could. As he flipped the door to the cellar open and peered down into the dark he did wonder what the lad had done to deserve such a fate. Was it his place to ask? Gelredida seemed in no mood to answer questions, though she’d taken Josiah’s unconscious condition better than he expected.

  Just do as you’re told, Grimmy. It’s probably best if you don’t know. You don’t want to end up the one in the cellar, do you?

  As Gelredida watched impatiently, Waylian dragged Josiah’s unconscious form into the darkness.

  Maybe he’d ask her all about it later.

  Maybe he’d just keep his mouth shut.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  As she got to the top end of Slip Street, Rag couldn’t work out whether she’d missed this place or not – the filthy streets, the ramshackle houses, the girls calling for punters. It was weird – there were the same faces, the same sights and sounds, but now it somehow felt different. Or maybe it wasn’t different; maybe it was exactly the same and it was her who had changed.

  You don’t belong here no more. You should never have come. Never look back – it only leads to pain. Why don’t you just turn around and go back to the Guild? That’s your family now. That’s where you belong.

  But Rag didn’t turn around. How could she?

  She carried on walking down the street, a sack thrown over one shoulder, tramping through the mud like she’d never left this place. When she saw the Bull ahead of her she got a heavy feeling in the pit of her stomach. Her pace slowed and she came to a stop, just staring up at that roof.

  What if they hated her for leaving? What if they threw things and spat at her for deserting them?

  What if they didn’t?

  Only one way to find out what they’d do, and she hadn’t walked all the way here for the good of her health. Tightening her grip on the sack, Rag crossed the street and made her way up those rickety stairs, the wood creaking like it was gonna give way beneath her. She’d done it a thousand times before, but she’d never been so scared as she was now.

  When she made it up over the lip of the roof she expected them to be waiting, arms folded, evil looks in their eyes. But despite the noise she’d made on the way up, there weren’t no one waiting. Just that little shack made of planks sitting on the flat roof.

  Rag walked across the rooftop, taking no pains to be quiet. As she got close to the shack she could hear voices talking, fast and low.

  ‘Getting fucking colder,’ said one.

  ‘I know it’s getting fucking colder, and there ain’t nothing to be done about it,’ said another.

  ‘We should get a fire going.’

  ‘You fucking get a fire going.’

  They were voices Rag recognised, but something was different about them. They weren’t carefree like they used to be. It weren’t no light-hearted banter. Now there was a hard edge to the squabbling.

  She peered inside. Chirpy, his once smiling face now mournful, sat staring at the empty ashes of a dead fire. Little Tidge had grown; but grown lean, and his face had a wolfishness to it like he’d seen one too many bad things. What concerned her most was the sight of Migs curled up on the floor, his long hair matted to his head.

  ‘What’s going on, shit stains?’ she said, expecting them to turn around and laugh or shout … or something.

  The lads didn’t even flinch, just looked up at her blankly. She could have been anyone – could have been a Greencoat come to turf them off the roof – it was obvious they didn’t care.

  Rag squeezed herself into the shack and took a seat on the makeshift bench. She tried a smile but couldn’t take her eyes from Migs lying on the floor.

  ‘What’s wrong with him?’ she asked, reaching out a hand and touching the clammy skin of his cheek.

  ‘Fuck do you care?’ Tidge replied.

  Chirpy nudged him. ‘He’s got some kind of fever. We don’t know what to do about it. We ain’t got coin for no apothecary.’

  ‘So you’ve just left him lying there – no blanket or nothing?’

  ‘We ain’t got one. What we supposed to do?’ said Chirpy.

  ‘What about Fender?’ Rag asked. ‘Where’s he?’

  Both the boys shrugged.

  ‘Not seen him for weeks,’ said Tidge.

  Rag placed her sack down on the makeshift bench and knelt down beside Migs.

  ‘All right, little mate?’ she asked. ‘How you feeling?’

  He looked up and tried a little smile that turned into a grimace and a cough.

  ‘What’s in the bag?’ asked Tidge as Rag wiped Migs’ clammy forehead.

  ‘Have a look,’ she replied.

  As she wondered what to do about Migs, the other two rummaged through the sack, finding the lukewarm pie and the bread she’d brought. There was a small bottle of ale too, but the lads were too busy crowing over the food to notice it.

  ‘Make sure it’s shared equal,’ Rag said, as she fished around in her shirt pocket. Her hand rested on a gold crown – the only money she had left
– and for a second she wondered if now was the time to use it.

  What are you gonna keep it for? It’s not like you’ve got expensive taste in frigging clothes, is it? Migs is in need. Do the right thing.

  She turned to see Chirpy and Tidge already with full cheeks. For a moment she could have scolded them for their greed, but she’d been the wrong side of starving enough times herself, and knew all too well how it made you forget your manners. Not that these two little buggers had any manners in the first place.

  ‘Listen, and listen good,’ she said. ‘Migs needs medicine, and you’re to get it for him, understood?’ Before either of the lads could protest she held up the gold crown. Both of them gazed at it as though it were all the gold in Queen Janessa’s treasury. ‘This’ll be enough. Don’t let the apothecary scam you. Just tell him Migs has a fever and you’re willing to pay for anything what cures him.’

  Chirpy nodded, but Tidge was still staring at that gold crown. Rag thought it best if she let Chirpy take charge of it, and flicked it to him. He snatched it from the air and had it away up his sleeve in a heartbeat.

  ‘You’re not back to stay then?’ Tidge asked.

  ‘No, I’m not,’ she replied, and felt an unexpected twinge of regret at the words.

  ‘You just left without a word. Didn’t even say goodbye.’

  ‘I know,’ Rag said. ‘But there were things I had to do. Things I had to take care of alone. I thought Fender would be looking out for you, but it looks like he lied about that.’ And not for the first time.

  ‘We can take care of ourselves,’ said Chirpy.

  Rag glanced around the little shack that looked more rotten than ever.

  ‘Yeah, it looks like it.’

  They just sat then, nothing more to say. The lads kept eating – had most of the pie and bread. Rag was pleased when she didn’t need to remind them to save a portion for Migs. When they’d finished she stood up, gave them each a nod, and made her way out of the shack.