Husk: A Maresman Tale

by Prior, D. P.

“Yeah, well I don’t see a husk taking that on, do you? Especially not a stygian.”

  Marlec resumed his earlier poise and leaned in slightly. “Except we both know the stygian’s not the one doing the killings. You’re right, Jeb, there is another husk, and yes, it’s the husk that killed three of your Maresmen. It would have killed Gilkrieth and Neumal, too, if not for me.”

  The discomfiting feeling that had been gnawing away at the back of Jeb’s skull grew to a pounding in his ribcage. “And now I’m next?”

  “Neumal thinks you may have a chance.”

  “On account of what?”

  “On account of your nature.” Marlec’s eyes strayed back to where Dame Consilia was raking in a stack of coins and looking far too pleased for a woman who was about to lose everything she’d brought to the table. “You have a certain… influence over the ladies, he said. By all accounts, the husk has a similar power over men. It may be you’ll be immune to her—its—charms, or perhaps it will succumb to yours.”

  “That what Neumal thinks, is it?”

  “Not just him.” Marlec wiped his hand over his mouth. It was a gesture that had Jeb wondering. Was he covering a smirk? Holding something in? Or was he just rubbing water from his lips? “The others of your… sect are apparently in agreement.” He was smirking this time, a curling of one side of his mouth that gave his face a cruel cast. It was gone in an instant, like he’d realized and clamped down on it. He muttered something inaudible to himself and made the same sign he’d made earlier, touching his forehead, chest, and shoulders. “They are scared, Jeb. That’s why they sent you.”

  “Sent me?” Jeb bounced against the back of his chair. “I picked up the blood trail. That’s what makes this husk mine. That’s how it works.”

  “After Gilkrieth and Neumal,” Marlec said, “I followed four others out of Malfen. All turned back before they got too close. I’d say they were spooked by the three that had been killed, not to mention the two that had gone missing since. They knew they were being lured, and they chose to face the consequences of their failure rather than pursue this particular husk.”

  “So, let poor, dumb Jebediah Skayne pick up the trail and go blindly after it, all in the vain hope his prowess with the women will save the day? Come on, Marlec, there’s something else, isn’t there? Something you’re not telling me. If this husk is so dangerous the other Maresmen are soiling their britches, why not send Mortis? I’m guessing you’ve heard of him.”

  Marlec shrugged and sipped his water.

  That’s what Jeb would’ve done, if he’d had any say in the matter. Mortis the Plague was more than a match for any husk Jeb had met. With one noxious breath, he’d have it writhing in agony till it died. Failing that, he’d blow its head off with that gun of his, or slice it into pieces with his twin blades.

  “You telling me Mortis is afraid as well?” Jeb said. The idea was ridiculous, but he needed Marlec to tell him the whole truth. “When were you planning on warning me, like I’m guessing you did Gilkrieth and Neumal?”

  “Isn’t that what I’m doing now?” Marlec said.

  “Beating around the bush is what you’re doing,” Jeb said.

  “It’s no simple matter.” Marlec held his head in his hands. “Perhaps there is more I could tell you, but maybe some things are best left unspoken.”

  “Not when my life’s on the line they’re not,” Jeb said. “So, tell me, otherwise there’s a card game waiting, and a woman who can’t keep her eyes off me.” He raised a finger to acknowledge Dame Consilia, whose interest in the game seemed to have dwindled along with her stack of coins. “Because the way I see it, you can hold your secrets till your dying breath, but I’m not gonna lose any sleep over them. I picked up a blood trail, and I’ve found me a husk—over at Boss’s place. Reckon that’s my duty done, don’t you? One trail, one husk.”

  Marlec frowned. “But they’ll know.”

  “Mortis and the others? That would mean admitting they set me up, wouldn’t it?”

  “So, you’ll kill the stygian and leave Portis?” Marlec asked. His focus turned inward, like he was working out all the permutations.

  “That what you want?”

  Marlec looked momentarily befuddled, before he replied, “What I want—what the Lord wants—is looking more and more impossible.” His shoulders sagged, and he muttered into his chest without a shred of conviction, “But for God all things are…”

  Jeb let the unspoken word hang in the air between them. He used the silence to dredge clear thought from the murky depths, but the task was beyond him. It was too much at one time. First the blood trail drying up; then that business with Sweet, the discovery of Boss’s somnificus trade, and his harboring of a husk that might very well have been the wrong side of the Farfalls for years, using its narcotic lore and arcane arts to bolster Boss’s fortunes in return for… for what? Protection? A place to stay? Maybe, but not very likely. A stygian with the power to dampen the blood trail didn’t need help from the likes of Boss. Yes, Cawlison was a big fish in a little pond, but outside of Portis, he was a nobody. No, the stygian had purposes of its own, and the sooner it was taken out, the less likelihood there was of them coming to fruition, because you could bet your bottom denarii they spelled nothing but suffering for the people of Portis, and beyond.

  Marlec seemed to be chewing over some heavy thoughts, the way he cocked his head side to side and flicked looks between his fingertips and Jeb. “Perhaps if I came with you, spoke with this stygian… prayed…”

  “You’d die, and the last thing I want’s a burden on my conscience.”

  Marlec gave a quiet laugh, did his best to smile. “So, you do have a conscience.”

  “Not when I can help it.”

  “And the same applies to this other husk, the one doing the killings?”

  “I’ve no intention of walking into a trap, and less of taking you with me.”

  “That’s what the others said, Neumal and Gilkrieth. And yet there’s no other way I can get close enough without—”

  “Without what? Without losing your virginity, and then getting ripped to shreds? You really think a creature capable of such things is ‘ripe’ for salvation?” Jeb held up a finger to forestall Marlec from uttering those words again. “Had you considered that nothing’s impossible for this god of yours, but only if he chooses to do it? You think you know what he wants, but how? How do you really know?”

  Marlec made a grab for the satchel containing his book, but Jeb reached across the table and stopped him.

  “You Wayists believe in a judgment for the soul, don’t you?”

  “Well, yes, but I don’t know what that’s—”

  “You got to be realistic, Marlec, or you’ll end up in the mud, like those three Maresmen; like the two men found near Carey’s Hostelry. And don’t go thinking that precious book of yours will spare you from what’ll happen before you die. Most of the women drawn to me are appalled by what they do under the influence of unnatural passion. Lines are crossed, families are broken, and it’s not like they want or need anything from me. It’s a madness, the way they describe it afterwards. Like they get a scent of something that fires the blood and won’t let go till they find release. You’re no different, and you surely don’t want that on your soul when you stand before your god now, do you?”

  Marlec hung his head. “But if I don’t make the attempt, if more people die as a result of my inaction…”

  Jeb stood and straightened out the ruffles in his shirt. “I reckon that’s the sheriff’s problem, not yours. Gotta use the right tools for the job, Marlec. Trust me, that ain’t you, and I ain’t inclined to think it’s me.”

  If Mortis and the other Maresmen knew about the threat, knew and kept it from him, why the Abyss should Jeb go blindly on like a lamb to the slaughter. Yeah, he might have a chance, like Neumal thought, but it was a slim hope to hang your life on, especially when there was no need. No, he’d go after the stygian before it caused any more trouble, and fe
ign ignorance about the second husk. They’d be pissed, sure, but they’d find it hard to justify killing him on account of it.

  “Don’t you want to know why it’s killing Maresmen?” Marlec asked.

  “Pre-emptive strike,” Jeb said. “Knows we’ll hunt it down if it doesn’t do the same to us first.”

  Marlec shook his head with vigor. “No, that’s not it. It’s vengeful, Jeb. It’s after revenge.”

  “For what?”

  Marlec pinched the bridge of his nose and sucked in a sharp breath. He lifted his eyes to Jeb’s, silently pleading for something, but it wasn’t clear what.

  “You got more to say, then say it,” Jeb said. “I’m running out of patience.”

  Marlec rubbed his hand over his shaven head. “Help me get close to it, or failing that, walk away. Don’t worry about the other hunters. I can and will hide you.”

  With a tilt of his hat, Jeb said, “Thanks again for breakfast,” and headed over to the card table.

  He tuned out Marlec’s protests the same way he tuned out the pleas of the women who begged him not to leave them. One night of passion was enough for him. He was at least honest about that. The need in him was as strong as the need he aroused in them, but it wasn’t lingering. Get a woman to give her all in one sitting, and what was there left to go back for?

  15

  DAME CONSILIA SAW Jeb approaching and leaned back in her chair, feigning nonchalance. Her stooges were now fixated on the game, exchanging worried glances. The dame’s money pile was hardly worthy of the name anymore, but it looked to Jeb like he’d provided her with a distraction from whatever woes that spelled. Maybe she was the same for him, his means of forgetting about the husk that was probably stalking him, about the stygian, and Maisie, and Sweet, and lose himself in his mother’s nature for an hour or two. Course, that side of him extended to liquor, as well, so he made a detour to the bar. He’d barely given his order, when someone grabbed his arm. In a flash, he knew it wasn’t Marlec; the grip was stronger than he’d have credited the Wayist with.

  The face that confronted him when he turned was so pitted it resembled a sponge—a desiccated, grimy sponge that had shriveled up from too much exposure to the suns. The man’s nose was bulbous and webbed with purple veins. His eyes were too close together, coated with a milky film. Shaggy, graying hair fell back from a widow’s peak in greasy ringlets, and an angry boil poked out of the thick stubble on his chin.

  “Nice piece you got there,” he said in a grating voice that was a cross between a growl and a whisper. He let go Jeb’s arm and indicated the flintlock with a nod.

  Jeb’s covered it with his hand. “What’s it to you?”

  Rheumy eyes met his, blinked a couple of times, then roved about the room. “Nothing.”

  That’s where Jeb wanted to leave the conversation, so he turned back to the bar and called out for the wench to hurry it up with his whiskey.

  “Used to have one just like it,” the man said close to his ear. The stench of weedstick on his breath made Jeb angle his head away, and he fought down the impulse to cough. “Must be commoner than I thought.”

  “Must be,” Jeb said, accepting his drink and pushing past the man on his way to the card table.

  “It loaded?”

  Jeb stopped in his tracks. The number of people who would’ve recognized an artifact like that must’ve been countable on the fingers of one hand. With a half-turn, he gave a curt nod.

  “Careful you don’t shoot yourself in the foot.” The man hobbled up alongside him, left leg dragging, and pointed at his boot. “Reckon I learned the hard way.” He peered at the flintlock for a long moment, then let his eyes travel up to meet Jeb’s. There was steel behind the milky film, and a glint of something dangerous.

  “Sorry to hear that,” Jeb said. He held the man’s stare for a moment, then tugged down his hat and cut a path for Dame Consilia.

  “Don’t leave it loaded too long, mind,” the man said from behind him. “Powder’ll corrode the barrel.”

  The music stopped suddenly, punctuating that last word with silence. Must have been all of a second before someone coughed, and the hubbub of voices resumed. As the duo struck up a new song, Dame Consilia shooed away one of her stooges, the plump one—Malvin, Jeb thought it was—and patted his seat. Jeb lowered himself into it with a grunt. His ribs still felt sore from the beating, and a dull ache had started in his lower back.

  “You in pain, dear?” Dame Consilia asked. She rubbed his thigh soothingly under the table.

  “Nope.” Jeb knocked back his whiskey and wished he’d ordered another.

  Dame Consilia gave him a knowing look and snapped her fingers. “Malvin, darling, make yourself useful and get Mr. Skayne here another drink. Whiskey, is it?”

  Jeb nodded, then cast his eyes around the table. The thin stooge—Garth—on Dame Consilia’s left leaned in closer to her, apparently pleased his rival had been relegated to a dogsbody.

  The stoat-faced man from the Crawfish peeked from around a fan of cards and said, “You in?”

  Jeb nodded and looked to Farly for a reaction, but the old man’s face may as well have been cast from stone. There was a mustached man beside him in a threadbare tunic that would’ve once been considered finery. His slicked back gray hair had stray strands sticking up, and all the hallmarks of an unkempt muss being hurriedly made respectable for the purpose of appearances. He acknowledged Jeb with a bob of his head, and reached across the table to shake hands.

  “Sendal Slythe,” he said, taking in the state of Jeb’s bruised face with a wary look. There was a slight quiver to his chin when he spoke. His grip was limp, and when he withdrew his hand, it shook. Slythe seemed aware of it and clamped his other hand over the top and brought it to his lap.

  Dame Consilia’s lips brushed Jeb’s ear as she said, “Sendal used to be a senator.”

  Slythe bowed his head, and a flush hit his cheeks. “Thank goodness I didn’t have a lisp,” he said with a forced chuckle. “Can you imagine? Senator Sendal Slythe of the Senate of the City State of New Jerusalem.”

  Jeb could tell he told that joke all the time. Probably, it was the only one he knew. The lack of reaction at the table confirmed him in his theory, and he guessed it wasn’t the first instance of the lisping joke Slythe had told during the game in progress.

  Dame Consilia came to Slythe’s rescue, though, and Jeb reckoned that was a mark in her favor. “Oh, Sendal, you are a wag!” she exclaimed.

  Slythe’s face lit up around a broad grin.

  “What is it you do, Mr. Skayne?” Dame Consilia asked Jeb. “Whatever it is, I’m sure Sendal can help. He still has his old contacts, don’t you, darling?”

  Slythe held his palms up, both hands shaking, and gave an embarrassed shrug.

  “Maresman,” Jeb said, knowing how that would go down with an ex-senator. It was as bad as letting the cat out of the bag about politicians getting into bed with the guilds.

  “What’s that?” Dame Consilia said.

  But Slythe knew. A frown furrowed his face, and he coughed politely into his hand. “Haven’t the foggiest, sweetling,” he said.

  Jeb caught sight of someone watching them from behind Slythe, on the far side of the room. The man immediately turned his head, pretending to look at a marlin mounted on the wall across from him. Bones the taxidermist—Jeb was sure of it. No doubt admiring his own handiwork. Begged the question, though, what he was doing at the Sea Bed. Could be he was meeting his shady contacts, the sort who traded in stuffed husks captured near the Malfen Pass; but another, more worrying, possibility crossed Jeb’s mind. What if Bones had been sent to keep an eye on him? After all, it was inconceivable the guards and the stygian hadn’t said anything about him seeing the somnificus wagon on Boss’s land.

  Jeb relaxed back in his chair, hand stroking the hilt of his saber. He ran his eyes round the room one last time before focusing in on the game, making sure to keep Bones in his peripheral vision.

  His ga
ze was drawn momentarily to the empty chairs at the table he’d broken his fast at. Marlec had left. Hopefully, he wasn’t stupid enough to have gone after the husk by himself. It would be better for everyone if he just took himself back to whatever pious hole he’d crawled out from.

  “Well, if you’re ready,” Stoat-face said. “I mean, it ain’t like we got all day now, is it?”

  “You sure start early,” Jeb said, as Stoat-face dealt him seven cards.

  “Early? Your first time at the Sea Bed, is it?”

  Jeb spread his hands, as if to say, “So?”

  “I have all day,” Slythe said, reaching over to pat Dame Consilia on the elbow.

  Stoat-face ignored him and carried on speaking to Jeb. “Time ain’t got no meaning here. Most these scumbags are on orders from the guilds, and there’s never a lull. That’s why ol’ Black Barlow keeps the bar open night and day. Good for business, the Sea Bed’s and the guilds’, and he has a hand in both. Name’s Buttershy, by the way. Nate Buttershy.” He offered a hand, but Jeb pretended not to notice.

  “Jeb,” he said, making a show of inspecting his cards and reordering them in a fan. Looked good for a flush, depending on what his opponents held, and what they exchanged the next round. He shot Buttershy a quizzical look. “Black Barlow?”

  Farly perked up at that. “He’s the owner. Saves us the regular morning spot, which is when the pickings is—”

  Buttershy pressed a finger to his lips, and Farly clammed up. Probably, the two of them had other games set up across town. Jeb had seen it before, professional gamblers moving from bar to bar, fleecing anyone naive enough to join them for a game.

  Slythe’s cards were all upturned on the table, revealing his shabby hand, but he didn’t seem to notice. He was wittering away to Dame Consilia about the good old days, when she was the world’s greatest actress, in his estimation. She faked a smile, and turned her head away.

  Slythe mistook it for embarrassment, and said, “Don’t be bashful, my dear. It’s the truth, I say.” He tried to take in the others at the table, but no one seemed particularly interested.