Herald of the Storm s-1

by Richard Ford

  Bathed in gloom, Merrick immediately began to feel nervous. He hadn’t often had to entrust himself to strangers, especially when they looked as if they might stick him full of curved blade and steal his boots at any minute, but what choice did he have? It was this or go against the Guild, and doing that was as good as chopping his own fruits off.

  They moved through the contradiction of architecture that was the Warehouse District. Ancient stone storehouses stood beside crumbling timber granaries, with basalt gargoyles leering over rooftops, flanked by loose slates and rotting wooden eaves. In the days of the Sword Kings, when Steelhaven had been a hub of commerce throughout the Midral Sea, traders from across five provinces had used the district to store grain, livestock and slaves before bartering them off to merchant barons from three continents. Since those golden days had ended, treaties had been forgotten and friendships between kingdoms soured, and most of the warehouses stood empty. Nowadays the lion’s share of trade involved the stink of fish or whores down the docks. Merrick knew it wouldn’t be long, though, before one of those ancient traditions would be revived. Some time soon, in one of these dilapidated buildings, cold, shivering and scared half to death, a group of men, women and children would be bound for distant shores and the horrors of enslavement to savage foreigners.

  And Merrick Ryder was the one who got to arrange it all.

  Oh, how his mother would be proud, Arlor rest her soul.

  Eventually Rat Face stopped outside one of the crumbling old buildings, looking left and right as though they might be being followed. Merrick did likewise, at any moment expecting an angry detachment of Greencoats to jump out and arrest them — but there was nobody there.

  Rat Face knocked against a small studded iron door: three quick raps and two slow ones. Then he waited.

  Merrick could feel his heart beating faster as he stared at the back of Rat Face’s head, wondering what might happen if he just turned tail and ran. If he managed to get to the docks he could probably board a ship for Equ’un or Dravhistan, maybe even to Han-Shar, paying for his passage with hard work on a long haul freighter. He’d be leaner by the time he got there, and have a tan. Those rich merchants’ wives at Tarr Vanau would go wild for a handsome westerner.

  Before thought could turn to action, the iron door opened. Rat Face stepped over the threshold, disappearing into the dark within.

  Merrick thought about it one last time. If he followed, that would be it; he would be tied into this endeavour, tied to the man it would make him — an evil, slaver bastard. If he ran, he would always be running, never safe, and eventually the Guild would find him, no matter how far he went.

  There was nothing to think on, was there.

  Clenching his fists, he followed his guide inside.

  The iron door closed behind him, and he stood there for a spell, waiting for his eyes to adjust, all the while expecting a club or a blade to come swinging in from the shadows. Nothing came at him, but by the time he could see through the gloom he noted that he was surrounded by big burly bastards.

  Rat Face stood to one side of the room, waiting patiently. Merrick moved forward, squeezing past the towering bodyguards, as his guide led him towards the only source of light which was down an adjoining passageway.

  Merrick moved as quick as he could without looking as if he was running, finding it hard to ignore the scary individuals that were following him. He also had a hard time ignoring the stink of this place — stale, damp, with an insistent odour of the great unwashed.

  The corridor came out into a dimly lit room. Lanterns lined the walls, their red-tinted glass giving off an eerie glow. More hulking figures stood waiting, the lantern light playing off their faces making them look almost daemonic.

  In their midst stood a giant, his skin black in the red light, his head topped with a huge headscarf and his hand resting on the pommel of a massive falchion. Scars criss-crossed his arms and bare chest, and his top lip had been sliced to the nose and crudely stitched back together.

  This must be the man Merrick had come to see — Bolo the Slaver.

  He stepped forward, planting his feet, raising his chin and staring the giant right in his furious eyes. It wouldn’t do to look weak, even though this beast could most likely snap his neck without thinking.

  ‘I’m Merrick Ryder. I assume you’re the man I’m here to see?’

  The giant simply stared back at him, but some of the other pirates sniggered behind him, one of them guffawing like a donkey.

  Not a great start.

  ‘I believe I am the man you’re here to see,’ said one of the pirates, walking to the front of the group. He was tall and swarthy, his skin washed dark by the sun and sea spray, his eyes a piercing blue, his hair falling about his handsome face in shiny black curls. The silken shirt he wore hung open to the navel, revealing a well-defined chest; his right hand rested easy on the jewelled pommel of his cutlass.

  If Merrick had been expecting some monster who preyed on children and babies this man certainly wasn’t it. Bolo appeared every inch the pirate lord of legend.

  ‘Kneel before the great Bolo Pavitas,’ said the giant in a voice as deep as Merrick had ever heard. ‘Slavelord of the Four Seas. Prince of Keidro Bay. High Admiral of the Silken Fleet and Seventh Lord of the Serpent Road.’

  Now here was a conundrum. It wouldn’t do to start these proceedings from a position of weakness, and bending the knee like a lapdog would certainly accomplish that. Merrick tried to think quickly, but surrounded as he was by hulking brutes, no ideas were readily presenting themselves. If he showed a lack of strength he’d command no respect. If he showed impertinence he might leave in several pieces.

  Luckily Bolo, stepping forward past his enormous bodyguard, made the decision for him.

  ‘Enough, Lago. This man is our guest,’ he said, and the huge scarred man bowed his head and moved aside obediently. ‘I must apologise. Lago takes the responsibilities of his position most seriously.’

  ‘Think nothing of it,’ Merrick replied.

  ‘So you’re the man Bastian and Friedrik sent to smooth our arrangement and see the deal done aright?’

  Well, I’m not the local cockle-seller. ‘I am.’

  ‘Excellent.’ Bolo smiled and his eyes shone. Merrick recognised that smile — it was a smile he’d flashed a thousand times to win the confidence of a thousand rich fools.

  He didn’t know whether to hate this Bolo or invite him out for a drink.

  ‘I trust your credentials are all in order?’ said the pirate.

  Merrick frowned. ‘If you mean have I done this kind of thing before, then yes; I’ve brokered one or two deals in my time. If you mean have I sold people to foreign slavers, then no; this would be my first time.’

  He realised he’d said too much as soon as the words were out but he hadn’t been able to stop himself, and he certainly couldn’t take them back now. This was a shit deal for all involved — the slaves particularly, him especially — but he had to get over it. Showing remorse in front of this callous bastard was likely to get him killed.

  Bolo merely smiled and took Merrick by the arm, guiding him towards the rear of the chamber where a passage led deeper into the gloomy interior of the building.

  ‘You should not concern yourself, Ryder. It’s only natural that you should harbour pangs of doubt. Do you think I am not without regret at what I do?’ I think you sleep like a fucking baby. ‘But I have come to realise I am merely part of a commercial enterprise, just one link in a larger network, and if not me, someone else would be carrying out this task — perhaps someone with less compassion, someone who might treat his charges with cruelty and malice. Besides, if you look at it closely, the only alternative for the poor souls we will be transporting is a life of misery.’

  They had come out into a huge, dark storehouse. Merrick could smell the stale odour he had experienced on first entering through the iron door. It was the musk of unwashed bodies mixed with the stink of stale piss.

&nb
sp; ‘The Elharim warlord has already crossed your northern borders. Thousands flee before his wrath and where do you think they’ll be headed?’ Merrick could make a pretty good guess but he held his tongue; it wouldn’t do to interrupt Bolo while he was in full flow. ‘They’ll be headed right here. Thousands of souls crammed within these walls, no food, no shelter, spreading their disease, rioting in the streets. I am merely … relieving the congestion. These lost souls won’t suffer; they’ll be well cared for. The Dravhistani treat their slaves very well — almost like they’re part of the family. And what’s the alternative for them? Do you think the Khurtas will offer them anything better?’ Merrick doubted it. ‘Of course not. So you see, if you look at it in practical terms, we’re saving lives … and making a pretty penny into the bargain.’ Bolo accentuated his sentence by rubbing the fingers of one hand against his thumb.

  Merrick almost bought into his explanation. Almost convinced himself that Bolo was making sense; that somehow he was helping the people they would be transporting on their slave ships. Keeping them safe from the horrors of war and beyond the reach of the Khurtas.

  It wasn’t until he saw what awaited him in the gloom that he realised it had been nothing but foolish whimsy.

  Row after row of steel cages filled the storehouse. In each one sat a barely human figure, dead eyes staring at nothing, faces wan from lack of food, what clothes they had hanging from shoulders barely broad enough to keep them on. Everything Bolo had just told him faded into insignificance to be replaced by a rising anger.

  Who was this bastard trying to kid? They weren’t helping these people; they were condemning them to a life of misery and bondage. And what kind of businessman was this cunt anyway? How was he going to get a decent price at market if his ‘goods’ were half dead?

  ‘Now,’ Bolo said, with a toothy grin, ‘let’s talk about price.’

  Merrick suddenly had to ball his fists. ‘The price has been negotiated and finalised already,’ he replied, barely able to speak through a clenched jaw.

  ‘Yes, of course you’re right. But as you can see, the livestock is not all it could be …’

  If there hadn’t been so many of Bolo’s men standing around with their curved swords and the muscle to use them, Merrick might have strangled him then and there.

  ‘That’s not my problem!’ His voice echoed within the storehouse. ‘The price is fucking fixed!’ Bolo’s smile slid from his handsome face. ‘If you want to make more money on your livestock, fucking feed them!’

  Bolo’s eyes shifted to his men. Merrick knew he had overstepped the mark, berating Bolo in front of his subordinates, but there was little he could do now. He had to follow through, had to show his mettle or he would more than likely end up in a steel cage of his own.

  ‘Don’t look at them!’ Merrick said, and Bolo’s eyes shifted back to him. But Merrick could still hear the brutes shuffling uncomfortably behind him. One word from Bolo and he was done for. ‘Don’t think they’ll help you. If anything happens to me, the Guild will have a hundred men here cutting you to slop before you can wipe your backside. You do know who I mean by the Guild, don’t you? The organisation that’s been running this city for two hundred years. That has eyes and ears in a score of ports. That has more money than any of you and your pirate friends. The organisation that, should you dick with this deal, will follow you all across your Four fucking Seas and back to Keidro Bay where they’ll fuck you in your arse while your men watch!’

  Bolo looked on impassively, and for a moment Merrick thought he’d finally spoken his last words.

  Then the pirate smiled.

  ‘Of course,’ he said, patting Merrick on the arm as if they were old friends. ‘No hard feelings — the price is the price — I get it.’

  Merrick nodded, feeling relief wash over him. ‘The price is the price.’

  ‘And just to show there’s no hard feelings, how about sampling some of the merchandise?’

  Before Merrick could answer, Bolo’s thugs had ushered forward three gaunt figures. The girls looked young, the youngest barely old enough to have had her blood yet. Each had a face that might have been pretty once, but was now marred by dirt, eyes haunted as though having seen horrors no one so young should have to look upon … or experience. Their hair was lank, their dresses soiled, but still they stood with chins raised, still brave, still with a seam of hope … of defiance.

  Merrick felt the rage rising once more, but he had danced on the edge of his luck enough for one day and managed to bite his tongue, unable to tell Bolo exactly what he thought of his offer.

  ‘I have boys if you’d prefer?’ said the slaver after several moments of silence.

  ‘Not interested,’ Merrick managed to say, dragging his eyes from the girls and moving back to the red-lit chamber and away from the storehouse and its pitiful inhabitants.

  ‘I am led to believe you can facilitate my needs,’ said Bolo as he followed Merrick from the storehouse.

  ‘I can. You won’t have a problem with the Greencoats or any of the harbour workers. Just tell me how much more … livestock you need and we’ll see it’s brought to you. I trust you have enough room for them?’

  ‘Of course. I am having more cages brought as we speak.’

  Merrick felt a little bile rise in his throat. ‘Then I think we’re done here, for now.’

  ‘Not quite.’ Bolo gestured to one of the men standing behind Merrick, and he turned, half expecting to be set upon by a knife-wielding maniac.

  Instead, the giant henchman Lago stepped forward with something in his hands. At first Merrick thought it was a rope until it suddenly moved of its own accord, one end whipping and curling and casting weird shadows on the wall. It was a serpent, and by the careful way the dark-skinned henchman held it, Merrick could only assume it was venomous.

  Lago stretched it between his muscular arms as another man walked forward and slashed the creature across the belly. Blood poured out in slimy rivulets and the henchman filled two goblets, offering one to Merrick, who took it before he could even think to refuse, and the other to Bolo, who grasped it with a gleeful smile.

  ‘Ka’i dellan,’ Bolo toasted in his native tongue, raising his goblet to Merrick before swallowing the liquid down with gusto.

  Merrick watched some of the sticky red goo run from Bolo’s lips and down his chin.

  There would be no getting out of this.

  ‘Here’s to making coin.’ And living long enough to fucking spend it.

  Merrick swallowed down the blood as quick as he could. It went down like a gob of someone else’s warm snot.

  ‘Indeed,’ said Bolo. ‘This has been a pleasure.’ I’m sure it fucking has. ‘My men will escort you back.’

  ‘No need, I can make my own way. Until the next time.’ With that Merrick handed his goblet back to the henchman, turned and walked back into the dark, feeling his stomach churning, trying his best not to run like fuck.

  As the iron door opened ahead of him, seemingly of its own accord, he could hear Bolo laughing in his chamber, quickly joined by the gruff braying of his sycophantic henchmen.

  When Merrick was sure he was far enough away from the warehouse not to be seen or heard, he bent over, grasped his knees and heaved red snake’s blood onto the cobbled path.

  That went well, he thought, moving off as quickly as his trembling legs would allow.

  But no matter how he tried to make light of it, to tell himself he had done all right, he still couldn’t get the image of three sickly-looking girls out of his head, or what might happen to them as he left them to their fate.

  FIFTEEN

  In the end she had gone for something modest. In fact the only thing that could have been considered daring about her dress was the lacing in the bodice. It was in the Valdoran style — long billowing sleeves, high and tight in the neck, cut from a thick slab of blue floral velvet that was already beginning to chafe at the waist and armpits. How did those northerners stand it?

  Right no
w though, the cut of her dress was the least of Janessa’s problems. Right now she was fighting the urge to vomit, waiting in the vestibule, about to be announced to the crowd and paraded like the prize heifer.

  At her side was Odaka, her ever-present shadow. He stood in silence, his stern, lean features fixed on the archway ahead from which flooded the sound of music and merriment. There was a big crowd, that much was obvious. All the great and good of the Free States come to Skyhelm to gawp and preen and fawn, while their nation was under threat of invasion, its king far to the north facing who knew what kind of danger.

  The Feast of Arlor was traditionally held at the Autumn Equinox, and the streets of Steelhaven had already been filled with revellers celebrating the victory of their ancient hero of legend. For the great and good of the Free States, though, it was different: Arlor forbid that they observe their rites on the same day as the peasants. Consequently, a banquet was held at Skyhelm several days after the rest of the Free States, where the nobility could gather without having to feel they were on a level with the thronging masses. The arrogance of it sickened Janessa. She would much rather have been celebrating in the streets with everyone else.

  Nevertheless, she had her duty to perform. She would have to walk out and smile and greet them all with the proper airs and graces. She could do with a friend by her side right now, but she had no idea where in the hells Graye was.

  An old stentor, ready to announce her to the world, approached from beyond the archway. He was an ancient man, his thinning white hair swept to one side of his head, his back crooked, but still he looked impressive in his official regalia of red and gold. The old man gave a nod to Odaka.

  ‘It’s time,’ said the regent, not deigning to look at her.

  Janessa felt her stomach churning, the blood draining from her face. Odaka took a step forward but she was rooted to the spot. When the regent had reached the edge of the archway and realised she was not at his shoulder he turned to glare at her. The old stentor glanced towards her too.

  The crowd would be expecting her. All ready to look and judge, to snigger and laugh in their little conspiratorial factions. It was as though she was condemned to the gallows and the crowd was waiting with rotting cabbages, their mouths full of phlegm to spit on her as she passed. Who would help her? Who would come and save her from this?