by James Evans
Where Catshed had been a town - small and provincial - Vensille was a city, proud and mighty. Over the last couple of miles, the banks of the river had grown steadily busier with jetties, wharfs, houses and other small buildings. A huge slum of rough wooden shacks filled the banks, right up to the walls of the city.
Tall towers sat on either bank, topped with crenellations and flying pennants and flags proclaiming the city’s independence and heritage. The walls curved out from the towers to sweep along the bank to where a second pair of towers, even larger and taller than the first, looked down at the river and out towards the northern hills.
Sloped stone jetties stuck out from the base of the bankside towers towards a third tower, broader than both its neighbours, that stood in the middle of the river itself. Ships and barges were slowly funnelled along the river through these artificially narrowed and regularly dredged channels. Every vessel that entered or left the city at the River Gate could be stopped, boarded and inspected by the city authorities.
Marrinek scanned the towers, looking for weaknesses that might be exploited by an invading force. Then he shook his head to remind himself that this city wasn’t a target, that his former life was over, that he had to find a new way to live.
It was clear that this was no provincial town but instead a major city with the wealth, determination and ability to defend itself. The city’s fortifications were formidable and Marrinek could see no obvious points of attack for a conventional force. Even Imperial Shock Troops armed with powered weapons and charmed armour would find it difficult to assault and breach the walls, especially if the towers were manned by experienced troops.
And it wasn’t just the size of the walls and the placement of the towers that gave the fortifications their strength - the stone itself had been dressed and worked so that the structures were as strong as possible. The stones weren’t simply mortared together as they would have been in a normal wall. Instead they flowed seamlessly from base to turret, as if the towers had simply grown from the bedrock, pushing their way through clay and soil to form a continuous chain of defence around the city.
The technique, stone-flowing, was easy enough if you had the right tools, enough power, plenty of time and an affinity with stone. The stone masons would build the walls as normal - large outer blocks with a core of rubble and muck and timber - but they would use no mortar between the stones.
The outer face of each block might only be roughly shaped but the touching faces would have been cut to fit as closely as possible with their neighbours. Once in position, a Stone Mage would use a broad crafting tool to focus power on the stone, causing the surfaces to shift and flow and melt before settling into the required shape. Stone, with its relatively simple crystalline structure, was much easier to shape than wood but work like this still took a great deal of time and power.
Marrinek shook his head in wonder at the amount of effort that had gone into the construction of these towers and walls. It truly was an exceptional piece of work.
And they hadn’t stopped at the surface joins. Running his hands over the stone of the jetty as the barge waited in line for inspection, he could tell that each stone had been completely joined to its neighbours. There was no mortar anywhere in the structure and there were no gaps between the blocks. In a very real sense, the jetties, towers and walls were a single piece of stone.
Marrinek whistled under his breath as he calculated the time that might be required to encircle the city with even a simple wall - a decade at least, even with several teams of masons and mages working flat out - and this was far from a simple design.
The walls were twenty yards high if they were an inch and topped with hoardings to shelter fighting men from a besieging force. Tall towers sprang from the wall every hundred paces or so and the gatehouses were taller still, with overhanging parapets and murder holes.
Low walls ran along the jetties and the stone mages had taken the simple structures and enhanced them, opening windows and gates, hardening the surfaces of the stone against frost and roots and attack. They had created gutters and gargoyles and shaped elegant windows. Even the platforms that supported the roofs and hoardings were made from shaped stone, called forth from the walls and finished with a beautiful attention to detail.
The tower in the centre of the river had been made the same way with great buttresses to withstand the flow of the river. It was a reminder, if one was needed, that the skills to shape rock and stone existed outside the Empire, as well as within. Marrinek had heard descriptions of the walls of Vensille but he’d never believed them. Now, he stared in awed wonder at the scale of the works.
As the barge drew level with the customs post Marrinek slid his staff behind the rail at the edge of the roof where he was sitting; he didn’t want to attract too much attention and a power-formed staff could easily invite unwelcome questions. A bored customs official in a shiny breastplate and carrying the embossed warrant baton of his office came aboard as the crew tied up at the inspection jetty.
“Good afternoon, Master Trant,” said the official, shaking hands with the master as he stepped onto the deck, “what are you carrying today?”
“Sergeant Durk, as I live and breathe. How are you?”
The two men shook hands as the sergeant stepped onto the barge.
“What is it today, Trant? Weevil-infested flour again?”
Trant looked insulted.
“Sergeant, that was just the once and you know it was good when I loaded it. No, today I have dried meat from Catshed - their speciality spiced goat sausages - and planks of cedar for the Duke’s new ballroom; would you like to see?”
Durk seemed dubious but he dutifully looked at the stack of wood to which the master pointed.
“For the Duke, you say? Got any paperwork?”
“Certainly,” said the master, producing a leather folio from a cupboard in the wheelhouse and fishing out an order, “six hundred planks, twelve foot by one, to be delivered in four batches, first batch of one hundred and fifty due tomorrow. I’m to deliver them to Hopkins, who’ll take them to the Palace.”
The official inspected then handed back the paper.
“Fine, you know the way,” said Durk, waving him through, “usual charge.”
The master paid from his belt purse.
“Thanks, we’ll be on our way,” he said, turning to the crew, “cast off, head for Hopkins’ Wharf.”
As the barge nudged along the inspection channel and back onto the river Marrinek stared again at the towers. The island in the middle of the river supported a second tower a hundred yards downstream, beyond which the real city began. There were matching towers on either bank and high walls linked these towers and their upstream neighbours.
Together, these six towers controlled access to the city and saw everything that came down the river. Someone had gone to a lot of trouble to devise a system of defences that might withstand a river-borne attack. To Marrinek, that suggested a certain paranoia on the part of the Duke and his advisors.
The city itself slid into view as the barge moved past the second set of towers and the walls themselves. Both banks were lined with wharves and jetties and Marrinek looked around with sudden interest. Tall warehouses flanked the river on both sides, fighting for space with pubs and manufactories. Between the buildings were the dry docks and slipways of boat builders and the poles and walks of rope makers.
Dozens of river barges were docked or manoeuvring around the wharves. Scores of smaller boats traversed the river carrying passengers and goods across the slow-moving waters or from shore to vessel. Ahead, leaping over the wide river in long, elegant arches, was a tall bridge that separated the seaport from the river wharves.
Where the buildings of Catshed had squatted low and wooden, Vensille was stretched tall and much of it was built from brick and stone with slate or tile roofs. All the buildings along the eastern bank, where the barge finally tied up at a jetty between a pair of short-masted northern trading ships, stood five
or more stories tall, great towers of timber and brick.
The embanked wharves swarmed with people and animals. The noise and smell, after a peaceful river voyage and months of solitary confinement, were overwhelming. Marrinek stood watching the bustle from the roof of the barge, taking it all in. Then he grinned. This was definitely the city for him. He collected his staff and pack and walked over to the master.
“Four shillings we said,” said Marrinek, handing over the money, “and can you recommend an inn? I need to sleep in a bed again and eat hot food.”
“Try The Jewel of Vensille - it’s just behind this warehouse,” said Trant, pointing at a large building of dark stone, “and has a naked woman on a sign over the door. Ask for Phyllis - she’ll look after you.”
“Thanks, I’ll do that. Any idea where I might get some work? Life’s going to be tough if I can’t find my brother.”
Trant narrowed his eyes and looked thoughtful for a moment.
“I’ve got some ideas, a few contacts I can try, if you don’t mind using that staff of yours. I’ll talk to people, see what’s around, send a message to you at The Jewel.”
“Thanks, appreciate it. Good luck, Trant.”
Marrinek nodded to the master then stepped up onto the rail of the barge, jumped down onto the wharf and threaded his way through the crowds, heading for The Jewel.
Marrinek found The Jewel of Vensille just as Trant had said he would but, to his mind, it was a jewel that had seen better days. Or possibly better decades. He stood for a moment on the street, watching the front of the building. There were a few patrons sitting on benches outside the pub and a couple of toughs lounging next to the door and looking over everyone who went in or out. Marrinek strolled up, nodded at the thugs and pushed open the door. It opened straight into the main lounge, a large, noisy, smoke-filled room of rough furniture and rougher patrons, where serving girls scuttled quickly between the hatchway and the tables.
Marrinek stood in the doorway for a few seconds, taking in the scene, then walked over to the counter and smiled at the woman standing behind it.
“Are you Phyllis? Master Trant suggested I try The Jewel for a room.”
The woman looked him up and down.
“That old rogue Trant sent you, did he? Yes, I’m Phyllis. I have a room on the top floor under the eaves. You might need to watch your head on the rafters but it ought to do. How long will you stay?”
“Not sure. A few days, a week maybe. We’ll see how things go. Which way?”
“Hold on. You’ll need to pay in advance - it’s sixpence a day plus tuppence for food, if you want it.”
Marrinek flipped some coins onto the counter.
“That ought to cover it. I’ll take whatever you’ve got in the pot if you send up a plate to the room, plus a loaf of bread.”
Phyllis scooped up the coins and pointed across the bar.
“Stairs are over there, just keep climbing till they run out Mr…?” She left the question dangling until Marrinek caught the hint.
“Bay. Call me Bay.”
“Right. Well, there’s only one door at the top and that’s your room, Mr Bay. I’ll send up some food. Let me know if there’s anything else you need.” Marrinek shifted his pack on his shoulder and nodded his thanks.
The room, when he reached it after climbing five flights of stairs, was large but, as Phyllis had said, low. It was also dark and it had an unpleasant organic smell that grew stronger towards the rafters; pigeons, Marrinek hoped.
A single bed took up most of one wall opposite a locked door. A bench and table were the only other furnishings. A shuttered window let in a little light but opening the shutters didn’t improve the look of the room. It would do for a few days but nobody would want to live here for long, if they could avoid it.
Marrinek sighed and put his pack on the table, ruing his lost fortune. There had been a time, not that long ago, when he wouldn’t have dreamed of staying in a place like this. For a moment he lost focus, dreaming of times gone by, then he clamped down on the thought and pushed it away, snarling. Those days were gone and he had work to do.
He sat down on the bed and eased off his boots so he could massage his feet while he planned his next steps. Money, that was key. He had enough for a couple more days of frugal living but nowhere near enough to get him home.
And once he’d thought about home he realised he was going to have to go back to Khemucasterill, sooner or later. He had no idea how that might be done but it was going to take plenty of money and a host of friends or allies. Would anyone be prepared to admit friendship with him before he had squared things with Tentalus? Would they even talk to him?
His thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door, which opened to admit a grubby street boy.
“Phyllis sent me up. Old Ned wants to see you. You’re to follow me.”
Marrinek stared at him in surprise.
“Who the hell is Old Ned and why would I want to see him?”
The boy blinked at him.
“Old Ned at the Crown,” he said, as if that explained anything, “by the river. It’s a pub.”
“Right. Thanks. Great.” Marrinek sighed and rubbed his temples. This must be one of Trant’s contacts so maybe it’s an opportunity. He had hoped to eat and sleep before doing anything else but an early start might be better.
He pulled his boots back on and stamped them down, then he picked up staff and checked his knife. He looked at the sword then decided against taking it. Without knowing the local rules, carrying a long weapon was just too risky. He left it on the table with his pack.
“Right, let’s go.” As they tramped back down the stairs, they met a girl coming up with a tray of food.
“Is that for me?” asked Marrinek, “Leave it in my room but give me that loaf of bread - I’ll eat as I walk.”
Outside, the boy wove between the buildings and around stalls, heading back toward the wharves and then along the riverfront. Marrinek strode along behind, his staff rapping on the cobbles as he chewed his way through the loaf.
When they reached The Crown, the boy pointed to a table in the far corner.
“Ned’s over there,” he said, before disappearing into the crowd.
Marrinek made his way through the crowds of drinkers and when he reached the table there was a man sitting alone, a strange sight in the otherwise crowded room. It looked like he’d been there a long time.
“Old Ned, I presume?” said Marrinek, “My name is Bay. What can you do for me?”
“Well ain’t you the voice of authority?” said Old Ned, looking him up and down, “Just you sit yourself down there, lad, and we’ll see what’s to be done.” Marrinek took the seat opposite Old Ned, turning slightly so that his back was to the wall and he could see the whole of the common room. He rested his staff against the edge of the table.
“I hear from Trant that you might know how to use that stick. True?”
Marrinek gave him a sideways look, face blank.
“What of it? You looking for muscle?”
“Maybe, maybe. Or maybe I know a man who appreciates fighting skills, if you get my meaning. Someone who might be able to make use of a man of your talents. Interested?”
Marrinek sat back to buy himself time to think. His plans, always fluid, had not included falling in with a gang of thugs but, given his current status as an outlaw, maybe he should have thought of it sooner. And here was this old man just offering to introduce him to the sorts of low people he might be able to use. How useful. Marrinek gave a slight smile and nodded.
“I’m interested, if the offer’s right. I’m between work at the moment, new to the town and I could use the money. But you already knew that. What did you have in mind?”
“I’ll talk to a friend. You’re staying at the Jewel?” Marrinek nodded again.
“I’ll send word tomorrow,” said Old Ned.
CHAPTER EIGHT
LORD RUDSTON STERIK, Governor of the prison island of Ankeron West, liked to b
elieve that escape was impossible. He prided himself on the brilliance of the design, on the training of his staff and on the procedures he had implemented. Above all, he had faith in his own ability to manage and control the Empire’s most dangerous prisoners within the Empire’s most sophisticated prison.
Built to hold people that were too dangerous to be allowed to roam free but too talented simply to kill outright, the prison island of Ankeron West was the final resting place for those that the Empire wanted to forget. It was to this high, rocky island that the Empire sent noble traitors, those men and women who, from their high offices in Imperial society, had sought to climb still further and in so doing had become a threat to the Emperor himself.
Political manoeuvring and plotting were rife amongst the Empire’s noble houses and they competed fiercely, but discretely, for rank and favour. This competition was actively encouraged by the Emperor because it occupied those involved and dissuaded them from pursuing more radical objectives, like a change of government.
Indeed, the Emperor himself was an avid player of the game, dispensing or revoking privileges to stifle an aggressive House, raise a new favourite or cool the ardour of others. By these methods, the nobles were prevented from growing too strong and the ambitions of their Houses were checked before they became dangerous. In this the Emperor was supported by various branches of Government, principally the Order of Kareeth, who answered only to him and were rumoured to go to great lengths to protect his interests.
Ankeron West, thirty miles off shore at the western edge of the Empire, was where the strongly talented ended up if they plotted against the Emperor or his Governors and lost. A forlorn island far from the capital, the chances of escape, rescue or reprieve were slim to non-existent. The grim and dusty road from the port to the prison was likely to be the last glimpse of the outside world that prisoners of Ankeron West would ever get.