by Prior, D. P.
“No, sir, nothing strange, if it’s odd you mean.” The lad had his focus on the ground, like he was ashamed to look a man in the eye. “Can I have a copper now?”
Jeb stepped up close, took a whiff of his neck and clothes. Nothing but stale sweat and urine. “You here when the wolf pack came, son?”
“Ten years, six months, two days ago, sir, by my count. I’d say they was odd. Say a lot of things changed then, hmm.”
“Well, something’s coming; something’s already here.”
The lad flinched, like he thought Jeb was going to hit him. He wouldn’t meet Jeb’s gaze, just stood there, fidgeting with his fingers.
“Got something to tell me, boy?” Jeb said.
There was a long pause before he answered, like the cogs of his brain were rusted together and taking their sweet time to get moving. His mouth worked silently for a moment, but then he simply shook his head.
“Just keep ’em peeled, then,” Jeb said. “See anything unusual, come find me, got it?”
“Promise you I will, sir. Sure could use some broth, though. Ol’ Tizzy Graybank said I could get some, if I paid a copper, and the nights are real cold right now.”
Jeb took a coin from his purse, held it up between thumb and forefinger. “I’ll give you this copper, boy, if you just keep your word to me. Deal?”
“Deal.” A lopsided smile lit up the lad’s face, and he took the coin, clutching it over his heart as he scurried away.
“I’m headed for the Crawfish,” Jeb called out to his retreating back.
“Yes, sir, Crawfish. Anything strange, I’ll come tell you.”
3
SPIT AND SAWDUST was too good a term for the Crawfish. Shit-hole was a step in the right direction. Whole place stank of fish. It wasn’t clear how much of the smell came from the kitchens and how much was from the patrons. Bunch of them still had their oilskins on, salt-stained from the spray. A few came in with their own clutches of cod, handed them over to be cooked. Couldn’t get fresher than that, Jeb supposed, but what did you expect? It was a fishing town, after all.
Blood trail had gone colder than a moldering corpse. Save for the hint he’d got talking to the beggar, there’d been nothing. Maybe the husk had sensed him following and found some way to outrun him. It had happened before, once or twice, but those times the trail had still lingered, albeit faintly. This time, it had just died. Told Jeb one of two things: Either the husk had already been taken out, or it had found some way to throw him off the scent. That’d be a new one, but not beyond the bounds of belief. Kind of made him uneasy, though. Husk like that, able to elude his senses, could be right under his nose, maybe even turn the tables on him.
Course, a third possibility presented itself, like it always did. Jeb had learned the hard way it was seldom just one thing or the other, but often the last thought to occur to him was the one he didn’t want to dwell on. If the husk could screen itself from his senses, who was to say it hadn’t deliberately let him pick up the trail in the first place? He shook his head at his growing paranoia—must have got that from his father, not that he’d ever met him. What if the husk was luring him? What if he was the one being hunted?
The sheriff’s words served to highlight the fear that had overcome most of the other Maresmen. It was a hard turn of events to realize you weren’t the only one doing the hunting. Had to wonder what kind of husk had the gall for such a thing, let alone the power. By all accounts, there’d been no commotion, no discharges of magic, no sightings of anything out of the ordinary, and certainly no warning. The three dead hunters looked to have been caught with their britches down—literally. Mind, in Rang Lurin’s case, it would’ve been a surprise to find that lecherous bastard with them up. Not that Jeb was one to talk.
He rapped his empty glass on the bar, caught the landlady’s eye.
She weren’t a looker, that was for sure: hair dyed a couple of shades unnatural, teeth crooked like she’d had a life of brawling. She winked at him and showed more flaccid cleavage than he cared to see; then she hobbled over and topped him up. Label on the bottle was coated with oil and grime, but least the whiskey burned the way he liked it.
Course, the serving wench was another matter. Jeb swiveled on his stool to track her arse as she took an order from a table by the window. Big bloke sat with a group of sailor types caught him looking and glared daggers. Jeb let his eyes rove round the rest of the punters, playing it innocent. Filly like that was ripe for fooling with, but she weren’t worth causing no trouble over.
He could still feel the big man’s eyes boring into him. Must’ve been one of those sad bastards obsessing about what he couldn’t afford, coz there was no way she’d have lain with a lummox like him.
Truth be told, the staring was starting to get his blood up, more than the wench already had. Jeb cocked his head and looked the man in the eye, held his gaze sure and steady. He was mountainous, head and a half taller than the sailors at his table, square-jawed and bullish, but even so, he blinked first and looked away, picked up his ale and took a long pull. They always did. Saw something in Jeb’s eyes, something not quite human. Owed that to his mother, may she rot in the Abyss.
The big man was seething, you could see that. Veins on his neck stood out, and his purple cheeks likely didn’t come from the drink. Jeb knew he’d better tread careful. He already had enough on his plate, rooting out the husk. Last thing he needed was trouble with the locals. Always said his eye for the ladies would be his undoing. Owed that to his mother, too. Not women, exactly, though that wouldn’t have surprised him none, what he’d heard; it was the call of the flesh, the urge for taking pleasure, same as the urge for killing.
He forced himself to relax, let a wry smile curl his lips long enough for Mountain Man to notice, then switched his focus to the card game in the corner.
“That’s me out,” a fat man said. More’n fat: he was rounder’n a ball, with jowls so droopy, it looked like his face had melted into his chin.
He flicked Jeb a look that turned into a frown. Sweat glistened from a forehead that had his hairline in full retreat. His white robe was stained with mustard or some such, the hem under the table frayed and spattered with mud. He pushed himself upright on stubby legs and cocked a thumb toward a door at the back. A couple of louts watching from the neighboring table stood and went with him. Both sized Jeb up as they passed the bar. One of them had a string of drool hanging off his chin, and eyes like frost-coated windows.
“P’raps I shouldn’t play no more,” an old man with a fleecy beard said from the card table, eyes darting between the fat man’s retreating buttocks and a stoat-faced beggar sat opposite him.
“Don’t worry about Boss, none, Farly. He’s just a sore loser. Reckon I’d be, too, if we didn’t have an arrangement.”
Stoat-face leaned over and raked Farly’s stack of coins toward him.
If he was bothered, the old man didn’t show it; merely snatched up a whiskey and knocked it back in one.
Someone hawked and spat close by Jeb’s ear.
“You play seven-card, lovey?” the landlady asked, working away at a stain on the bar.
“Time to time,” Jeb said. Actual fact, he was sick of the game. His hand strayed beneath his coat, to where the flintlock he’d won outside of Malfen was holstered.
He’d agreed to Jankson Brau wagering it instead of a purse of golden denarii. Shogging wizard said it was an artifact brought from Earth by the first colonists of New Jerusalem, those kidnapped by the Technocrat, Sektis Gandaw. Told Jeb it was a powerful weapon—magic, even—that could bring a man down with a crack of thunder.
Got him thinking of Mortis, the masked hunter that had come for him as a boy. He had something similar that he called a gun. It had a revolving drum and held more shot. That, and it actually worked. Brau’s flintlock, by way of contrast, was a piece of shogging crap. Face full of soot was all Jeb’d got when he first fired it. Made him wonder if that’s why the wizard’s cheeks and nose were all bur
ned up, like they were made of red wax. Course, clientele of The Grinning Skull—the tavern Brau owned—had other theories as to that, but they only dared discuss them in whispers.
After that first shot, Jeb spent days on end cleaning the barrel, only to find on the next occasion the flintlock had a range of no more’n twenty yards and took longer than a crossbow to reload. Coupled with having to keep the black powder that’d come with it dry, thing weren’t worth spit. So, he was off seven-card, for the moment.
“Well, if you do, watch that one.” She jabbed a yellow-stained finger at Farly. “Got the gift, he has. Always knows when you’re bluffing. Always knows when you tell a lie, too.”
She blushed when Jeb gave her an enquiring look, then abandoned the bar stain and rubbed at a glass with the same dirty rag.
“Don’t believe I seen you here before.”—A husky voice with a bit of a twang.
Jeb studied his drink but angled a look out the corner of his eye.
The serving wench had a flush to her cheeks and a big welcoming smile plastered over her face. Seemed to be a twinkle in her eye, too, though it could’ve just been reflected lamplight.
“Ain’t been in here before,” Jeb said, keeping it simple.
Should’ve seen it coming a mile off. Moths to the flame, they were, women. Always the same, no matter where he went. Mortis claimed Jeb’s mother was a succubus, some kind of demon-husk that men couldn’t resist. Guessed he had half of what she did, only it worked on women rather than men. Had to be thankful for small mercies.
The atmosphere in the room chilled like a ton of snow had just been dumped on the roof. Didn’t need to look to know it was the big bloke again, no doubt all green-eyed and steaming from the ears. Jeb pretended to study the bottles above the bar, all the while leaving a trace of a smile to let the woman know he’d noticed.
The scent of her was strong in his nostrils as she bent over the counter, poured herself a shot, and knocked it back. Musk, and something sweet, like honeysuckle. Jeb tried not to breathe for a second or two, case it pushed him past the bounds of decency. But it weren’t just the smell that had him fired up. The way she arched her back and sighed when she turned round and leaned against the bar showed him a sight that was far from flaccid. He raised his eyes to the ceiling and gave a small cough. Peripheral vision told him Mountain Man was half out his chair, but one of the sailors got him to sit with a hand on the shoulder.
“Say, ain’t you one of them Maresmen?” the wench asked, looking at him pointedly.
“Yep,” Jeb said, finishing his drink and standing. He pushed back his coat and made a show of tightening his sword belt.
She must have caught the tension, turned a glare on Mountain Man. “Don’t you go upsetting the customers, Terabin Sweet. I seen you give them black looks of yours.”
She softened it with a blown kiss and a tinkling laugh.
Sweet’s face went a shade redder, but when his mates raised their glasses and gave good-natured jeers, he shook his massive head and forced a bashful smile.
“Good boy,” the wench said. “That’s a man who knows how to get some loving.”
Raucous cheers went up from Sweet’s table, and he joined in with them, but when he took a swig of his ale, it wasn’t hard to see he was still tight as an over-tuned guitar string.
“Maisie, you trollop,” the landlady said. “Them tables ain’t gonna clear themselves.” She rolled her eyes at Jeb.
“Sure thing, Miss Sadie,” Maisie said, as she flounced off, flashing smiles to all and sundry as she got back to work.
“And it’s Madam, not Miss, you little hussy,” the landlady said. “Madam Sadie.” She checked to make sure Jeb had heard, too. “Don’t know what’s got into her. Was always such a shy thing, but lately you’d think her the worst case of gutter trash, rather than a proper lady. You ask me,”—she leaned in close, giving Jeb a whiff of mutton that had him turn his head away—“there’s a man involved, and I don’t mean him.” She gave a nod that was less than subtle Terabin Sweet’s way. “Course, she could also be moonlighting down at Carey’s Hostelry. Wouldn’t be the first barmaid we lost to that whoremonger.”
“Reckon it’s a good thing she has you looking out for her,” Jeb said, his mind fixed on how to avoid giving Sweet further cause to challenge him—not that the brute looked like he needed much of a reason.
Madam Sadie huffed and proffered another refill, but Jeb waved it away.
“Need to be up with the dawn,” he said. If he hadn’t been so travel sore, he’d have started right away. The longer the husks were left, the more brazen they got. “You got that room ready?”
“Maisie!” Madam Sadie hollered. “Didn’t I tell you to make a room up?”
“Yes, ma’am. I’m on it.”
Madam Sadie sucked in a sharp breath. “Won’t take her long, not once she sets to it. Besides, you’re wanted out back.” She inclined her head toward the door the fat man had gone through with his goons.
“Yeah?” Jeb said, raising an eyebrow.
“Boss wants a word. You know how it is.”
Jeb could guess. “He the mayor or something?”
“Sure acts like it.”
“Worried about how my being here is bad for business?”
She shrugged and pursed her lips. “Best not keep him waiting, lovey.”
4
BACK ROOM WAS a windowless box lit by a smoking oil lamp. And that wasn’t the only thing giving off smoke, either. The fat man—Boss, Madam Sadie had called him—was wedged into a high-backed chair with an even fatter weedstick billowing from his mouth. Moisture glistened on his plump lips, and the dark stain of a recent meal was smeared across his chin; either that, or it was a shadow, like most else in the room. The wavering light gave a reddish tint where it touched but left half the place in darkness.
The drooling goon loomed off to one side, staring up at the biggest pair of jaws Jeb had ever seen, mounted over the peeling wallpaper. The other goon was smaller, leaner, but had a sharp look to him, like he knew how to stick a man and had grown accustomed to it.
“Maresman, Maresman,” Boss enthused, wagging his weedstick. His piggy eyes caught Jeb taking in the surroundings, stopped on the massive jaws. “White pointer. Largest shark ever seen in the Chalice Sea.”
Jeb shot him a frown. “Thought it was an inland sea.”
“Is now,” Boss said. “Don’t mean it always was. Some say there’s underground channels that feed it from the Sea of Insanity, but I don’t set much store by that. No telling what would swim through from Qlippoth if that were the case.” His cheeks puffed up to reduce his eyes to slits, then deflated when he laughed. “Couldn’t be having that, now, could we?”
Jeb allowed himself a frosty smile. “No, we couldn’t.”
The drooling goon swiveled his head away from the jaws and said, “Chalice Sea’s fed by the Origo River. Salty, that one. Folk say it widens into an estuary past New Jerusalem. Shark came in that way, if you ask me.”
“Well, I didn’t,” Boss said, “so you just go right back to staring at them jaws, Clovis, and let the grown-ups do the talking, now, you hear?”
“Sorry, Boss,” Clovis said, and resumed his rapture.
The other goon was eyeing Jeb, cold as you like. His fingers twitched by his sides, as if he had some hidden blade to draw and couldn’t wait to draw it.
“This here’s Jones,” Boss said. “Though most folk call him Bones on account of his trade.”
Jeb could guess what that might be. Wariness crept through his muscles, tightened the skin of his face.
“Oh, nothing so bad as you’re likely thinking,” Boss said. “Tell him, Bones. Tell him what you do.”
Other than stabbing people, Jeb thought of saying.
Rather than answer directly, Bones lifted the lamp and guided its light onto the wall opposite the jaws. A gator hung there—a gator big enough to have gone a few rounds with the shark, and maybe even won.
“Stuffed it myself
,” Bones said. “Same as these others.”
He ran the lamplight around the room, picking out mounted birds, the heads of deer and boar.
“Taxidermy,” Boss said. “Bet you ain’t seen much of that before, have you, Maresman? Takes a good eye and a steady hand, which is why Bones works for me. Other kinds of qualities I need are a strong arm and a pliant brain. That’s where Clovis comes in. Pliancy’s about the only thing left of his brain, but that’s good enough for me, ain’t it, Clovis?”
A big dumb smile spread across Clovis’s face as he continued to stare up at the jaws. “Good enough for you, Boss.”
Boss’s demeanor turned suddenly stern. He ground his weedstick into the table; left it crumpled but still pluming a thready string of smoke.
“Sit down, Maresman, and let’s have ourselves a little talk.”
Bones came round the table and pulled out a chair for Jeb, waited till he sat down, then went back to his place at Boss’s shoulder.
“Folk round here call me Boss, but that’s more a description than a name.” He held out a pudgy hand. “Bernid Cawlison. You can call me Boss, if you like, though. I’ve kinda grown used to it.”
“Skayne,” Jeb said. “Jebediah Skayne.”
Boss’s hand felt limp and damp in Jeb’s grip, and it was smoother than a virgin’s thigh.
“Guess I’m the closest thing to a mayor Portis has ever seen; they just ain’t got round to realizing the need for one yet.” Boss let out a raucous belly laugh that had his chins jiggling. He shifted his weight on his seat and squeaked out a fart. “Pardon me. Tizzy Graybank’s haddock pie. Best there is, but comes at a cost. You eaten there yet?”
“Can’t say I have.”