To Steal from a Demon (A Wielders Novel Book 2)

by Max Anthony

  “I see my servants have been most remiss in looking after your comforts,” said Meugh. He clapped his hands together, the noise so perfectly crisp that he must have practised it at length.

  “Bring forth food and drink!”

  The door from the kitchen was opened and a noise that could only be described as scurrying reached the ears of the present guests. Servants came through, carrying jugs and plates which were laid upon the table. Another servant arrived with a silver tray, upon which were tiny green jellied eggs, these being a pungent local delicacy. Those watching couldn’t make out quite what happened, but as this servant walked past Tan Skulks’ chair, the guest’s body suffered a sudden spasm and an arm caught the tray, knocking it upon the floor and ruining all of the eggs.

  “Oh dear! I am most humbly and terribly sorry!” exclaimed the distraught Skulks as he saw the mess. “It’s a twitch I’ve had from birth and I am unable to control it!”

  Sitting next to him, Heathen Spout patted Skulks gently upon the arm. If King Meugh was angered, it may have been visible upon his features for only the tiniest of moments before he spoke.

  “Think nothing of it, my friend. The servant should have been better balanced with the tray! It’s only a shame that you are now unable to sample the unique taste of the hundred-and-one-year egg.”

  Skulks thought it no shame, for he had stolen and eaten one from the kitchen earlier and found it to be oddly unpleasant and it had repeated on him for the next two hours. This was prior to him observing the eggs being injected with a slow-acting toxin that would have killed them all within weeks of their return to Hardened. King Meugh wasn’t very subtle.

  With the tray of delicacies no more, other plates were fetched. At this particular feast the guests would be encouraged to pick and choose those items which most appealed to their palate while civilised conversation was conducted. Skulks knew what was coming already. The meats, cheeses and pastries were fine, though he’d noted that one tray of pork had been left out in the kitchen and flies had settled upon it. There was also a tray of Hairyfish in a rich dressing. This fish was thusly named not in celebration of it having a beard. Rather it was named the Hairyfish because its skeleton was made up from hundreds and hundreds of thin bones which made it a bugger to fillet and an extreme hazard to the unwary diner. There was a good chance that anyone eating it would choke to death or at the very least encounter minor asphyxiation. For this reason, it was rarely eaten, though it was known to be delicious. Skulks immediately helped himself to an enormous portion of it, so enormous that it left practically none for the other diners. At the end of the meal, the serving staff would find it left cold and untouched on his plate.

  In addition to the hazardous fish, there was a jug of wine to be concerned with, for Skulks had watched an unknown powder being sprinkled into it, doubtless a concoction to loosen their tongues and have them speak in greater detail than they intended. Leaning rudely over the table he poured himself a large glass of it while the other guests were busy helping themselves to food. Having enquired as to its vintage, Skulks allowed a frown to appear on his face as he sniffed deeply of its bouquet.

  “Is there a problem with the wine?” enquired King Meugh.

  “Yes, I think there may be,” replied Skulks. “Whoever has sold you this vintage has given you a corked batch. Air has clearly found its way into the bottle some time before it was opened!”

  “Ploot, you must make enquiries as to why we are serving corked wines to our guests and please find the man who sold this to the royal cellar and have him given ten lashes!”

  “Yes, Sire,” said Ploot.

  “Discard this corked affront immediately!” shouted King Meugh at a nearby serving man, who removed it from the table at once.

  Taking advantage of the situation, Heathen Spout brought the subject around to trade. “I see here a fine kingdom which is being held back by a local shortage in many goods. A problem which I believe Hardened is well-placed to solve, for we have access to the best that Ko-Chak can offer.”

  “I do believe you are correct, Lady Spout and my kingdom is eager to form mutually-beneficial relationships with cities we would like to call allies. However, I hear it said that Hardened itself has recently had its own stability put in doubt and I am looking for trade that is both agreeable and sustainable.”

  Heathen Spout looked surprised. “Hardened’s stability is not in doubt. True, we have recently suffered some insignificant strikes, but these have been small, poorly-organised and ineffective. The organisers proved to be dullards and simpletons.”

  “I have heard that they were very well executed and almost brought your city to its knees. Perhaps my sources are lacking.” King Meugh waved a hand dismissively at this before continuing. “Of more concern is the news I hear about the overthrow of the Chamber Council itself. We could not give our best trade terms to a city in the throes of revolution!”

  Spout permitted herself to choke on the glass of wine she was sipping at. “Revolution? Sire, you have been very poorly informed. There has been a small gang of cut-throats and vagabonds outside our walls, whom Captain Honey flushed out with ease and a very minor plot within our walls, which was so feeble that we had rooted out the culprits within hours. Whoever was organising these unnoticeable attempts at destabilization was extremely inept and incompetent. Rest assured that when we find out who this person was, Hardened will destroy them utterly.” Spout looked serene as she spoke this last sentence, apparently failing to notice that King Meugh was struggling to maintain composure. He smiled thinly.

  “A city can’t be ruled properly without a king. Where there is opposition it must be crushed, but only a king has the authority to do this! I do not allow dissent against my rule! We wish to trade with you, but I do not agree with your method of government.”

  “Nor we with yours,” said Spout. “But that does not mean we can’t trade and remain on amicable terms.”

  “Indeed it does not!” said Meugh, the smile returning to his face. “But I would like you to witness what happens to those in Casks who break my laws. Tomorrow morning, the criminal Lula Grindy will be put to death in Hangman’s Square as an example to the people. Perhaps you could learn something from it.”

  “Perhaps we could,” agreed Spout noncommittally, knowing full well that the spectacle of a public death would teach her nothing.

  After that, the conversation moved on to the specifics of trade, with Ferty Slipper producing a writing stick and a logbook in which to take notes. After business was discussed for an acceptable time, they talked about inconsequentials, during which Spout heard Skulks speak.

  “Excuse me, I must go to the privy.” Less than half a second after this utterance there was an almighty crash, for a two-feet square block of stone had crushed the chair which Skulks had just vacated.

  “Phew! It was a good job I wasn’t sitting there when that landed!” he said.

  King Meugh made a pretence of looking up to the ceiling, where a hole could be seen.

  “Ploot, have the builders whipped in the morning.”

  “Yes, Sire.”

  Eleven

  With the Rhultian feast over, Skulks reflected on what a let-down it had been. Perhaps demons lacked imagination, for he’d been hoping to see at least another three or four attempts at doing them harm.

  “Really,” he asked himself, “how much effort does it take to saw halfway through a couple of chair legs or have one of the guards run amok?”

  His thoughts were interrupted by his arrival at his destination, though in this case there had been no specific destination planned beyond the goal of arriving where he was going when he got there. Having arranged the spare sheets in his room into an acceptable mockery of his sleeping form, Skulks had left the palace. There were several things he hoped to accomplish tonight to ensure that international relations were kept in tip-top condition.

  The first destination was that at which he had currently arrived and was a sullen-looking tavern known
as The Hearty Meugh. It didn’t take much effort to make out that the previous name of the tavern had been The Smuggler’s Pride, which had been roughly scraped out and painted over with the new name. The fact that the owner couldn’t afford a new sign told Skulks that this tavern would be a sleazy pit of scum-guzzling low-lifes and in this he was inaccurate, for as he entered the place he discovered that the further attributes of filthy, wretched and miserable should have been applied. In spite of this, it was just what he wanted, filled as it was with a couple of dozen potential fonts of information. With his shabby clothing marking him out as a lord amongst these men, he headed to the bar, reaching into his pocket for the handful of Scroats he’d been provided for expenses.

  The bar keep looked up with a deliberate slowness. He spat on the bar in front of Skulks, a thick green wedge of phlegm that he must have trawled up from his lungs for just this very moment. Giving it a wipe with his cloth he asked:

  “What can I get you?”

  Slipping into the local dialect, Skulks looked along the bar. “Meugh’s Bitter, Meugh’s Black Ale, The King’s Stout? Can’t a man get a good, honest mug of Sailor’s Tar these days?” He shook his head in disgust.

  “We’re a good, King-loving tavern here,” said the bar keep. “We stock only the King’s ales, we do.”

  “Give me a King’s Stout, then,” said Skulks. He looked at the bar keep. “A man leaves the town of his birth for a few years to earn himself a few Scroats and when he comes back, everyone wants their daughter to marry the King.”

  “Best keep your voice down,” said the bar keep, already being gently influenced by Skulks’ Wielding into trusting him. “No one wants to hear talk against the King. Least of all that man over there on the third table from the right. The King’s Ears are everywhere.”

  Skulks looked surreptitiously across at the indicated table. There was a man sitting there, nursing a mug that probably contained water and which probably hadn’t been refilled all night. He was better dressed than the other patrons, but that was the only reason he stood out as being anything other than utterly average.

  “So who would a man speak to if he wanted some good honest conversation with other men who have no desire to swing by their teeth from the King’s cock? Just to talk about old times, you understand?”

  “A good Casks man eh?” asked the bar keep. “Maybe you’d be at home with Durney and Podge over there. They like a good talk about old times.” The bar keep regurgitated another green excrescence upon the bar without any apparent snorting required. Once more, he gave it a wipe with his cloth before picking up an ale mug and using the same cloth to swab away at the inside of it.

  “I may well go and speak to Durney and Podge. You can’t beat the good old days.” With that, Skulks pushed himself away from the bar and made his way over to the indicated table. The spy in the corner didn’t appear to have noticed Skulks as particularly unusual and in his boredom was staring straight ahead at the wall. Skulks dragged a chair over and sat down with Durney and Podge, one of whom was scruffy, old and balding, whilst the other one was merely scruffy and old.

  “Who are you?” asked the first man.

  “I am nobody at the moment,” replied Skulks. “The same way that we’re all nobodies at the moment.”

  “What are you babbling on about?” came the response.

  “I’m a good Casks man, Casks through and through. Me old da’ smuggled so many kippers that me ma’ could smell him coming ashore from Mulch Lane. She used to put his soiled underpants over her nose to hide the smell because she couldn’t stand fish. When the storms were up, she’d tie our Becky’s hair-band to the door handle to bring him good luck.”

  The two men smiled at this. “Them was the good old days. Not no more though, now that we’re all honest citizens and tradesmen. Aye, you’re right. We’re all nobodies now, we’re just the same as everyone else in every other town and city. We do an honest day’s work and die an honest death.” He hawked and spat on the floor, leaving Skulks to wonder if any part of the tavern remained untouched by sputum. Certainly Skulks’ hand was soon to be touched by it. He watched in fascination as the old man wobbled his neck like a seabird regurgitating a fish and, being satisfied with the amount of debris he’d freed from his throat, gobbed it into the palm of his hand, which he offered to Skulks.

  “The name’s Durney.”

  Determined not to be outdone, Skulks bobbed his head up and down as he too called forth the scrapings from his gullet, which he propelled into his hand, green and brown from ale he’d drunk. He shook the hand.

  “I’m Flacks.”

  The introductions were repeated with the other man, who was, of course, Podge. After indulging them in twenty minutes of reminiscing about the good old days, in which Skulks-Flacks did very little of the talking for once, he guided the conversation towards other matters.

  “So how comes it’s all gone bad? I’ve been gone for near ten years and I’ve hardly caught up with it all.”

  Durney looked over his shoulder carefully. “It’s that blasted King Meugh! Things started going downhill as soon as we got a king, but at least the old one didn’t interfere in the smuggling too much. As long as his taxmen got their bribes. Then he died and we got this new king. We thought he was weak, but now his Ears are on every corner, down every privy to hear if you’re shitting right. If you say the wrong word to the wrong person you get your balls chopped off. Or worse!”

  Podge continued. “And he’s been building up an army. None of the older lads really want to fight, but some of the young’uns don’t remember the old ways. They think it’s a big adventure, sticking a sword in someone. Most of them can’t even tie up a boat, but they’d like to kill people they’ve never met.”

  “Aye, and some of Warmont’s men are joining as well, now that he’s emptied his treasury fighting Queen Happy up in Burden. Warmont’s men are all bastards; a lawless bunch of turds these days. There’s been a few of them around Casks, looking for trouble, but they’re protected because they’re in the army.”

  Skulks shook his head in sympathy. Normally he’d be acting the part, but here with these two men he could feel how much it meant to them and he also knew that the demon-Meugh would likely send them all to their deaths if it furthered its cause, whatever that was.

  “Where does King Meugh get all of his money for his fine palace and his fine army?” asked Skulks. “It’s not like we’re rolling in Scroats.”

  “You’d think so to look at the place. But there’re a few rich men in Casks; very rich men. Heads of smuggling dynasties like the Unters, the Gloams and the Brewks. I dunno if they’re happy about it, but I reckon Meugh’s milking them dry.”

  “Is there no-one who has defied King Meugh?” Skulks wondered aloud.

  Durney shook his head bitterly. “There were a lot of voices at first, but one-by-one the louder voices turned up somewhere, unexpectedly dead. Gradually the voices got fewer and quieter. Lula Grindy’s the last of the loud voices, but she’s going to be hanged in the morning.” He paused as if considering whether or not to speak something of great importance. He looked up wistfully. “Got a cracking pair of knockers on her as well.”

  “Where might a man go in order to pay his respects to this inestimable lady?”

  “Inest-imabobble?”

  “Where are they holding Lula Grindy?”

  “Oh. She’s up at the King’s prison. It’s a big old building on the dockside. Meugh set it up there because it made it easier to jail any smugglers his men caught.”

  Skulks wracked his brains and thought he might know which building Durney was referring to.

  “And is old man Gloam still living in that big house up on Clipper Hill?”

  “You mean old Lady Gloam? She’s never lived on Clipper Hill, witch that she is. She’s on the docks as well, same as she’s always been, on account of not being able to walk far with her golden foot. It’s where all the rich ‘uns live these days. Can’t imagine they’re too happy abo
ut being so close to the prison.”

  “Just means they’ve got less distance to walk home when they get released!” said Podge with a wheezing cackle.

  With the information he needed, Skulks made his excuses, being faintly relieved that he wasn’t required to exchange parting gifts of mucus. The evening was getting on, but he hoped he’d have plenty of time to indulge in some international relations.

  At this time of night, the streets of Casks were almost deserted. Had he been in Hardened, it would have still been busy almost everywhere. Here it seemed unseasonably chilly, with the occasional small group of people hurrying to their destination. No-one was travelling alone, except for Tan Skulks, but his Wielding ensured that he was neither seen nor heard as he made his way to the docks.

  The prison didn’t take long to find. It looked like it might have once been an old warehouse of some sort and one which stored important or valuable items, for it was surrounded by a high brick wall. The main building was several stories tall and Skulks could make out iron bars across the windows. He climbed the wall, though climbing wasn’t quite the right term for it, since it took him only three seconds to reach the top, with his Wielder power giving him the ability to ascend almost any surface. A good number of years ago when Skulks had been systematically burgling every wealthy household in Crimson in order to pay for his dagger-swords, he’d been confronted by a wizard’s tower where the door was on the roof and the walls exuded pig grease. He’d managed to climb it eventually, but the effort made him so hungry that it was the wizard’s pantry he stole from, rather than his victim’s security chest. Eventually the sharp-eared wizard had been alerted by the sounds of activity in his larder and had driven Skulks off with his hands empty of valuables.

  There were lights visible inside the Casks prison, but these were few in number and gave Skulks a good idea of where the guards were located, though they certainly didn’t tell him where Lula Grindy was being held. In spite of his background, Skulks wasn’t hugely familiar with the insides of prisons. He’d been arrested a few times, mostly when drunk and asleep in a tavern. Occasionally he’d awoken to find himself in a cell and had been required to let himself out. However, as far as he could recall, he’d never in the past needed to break into a prison.