The Hero's Tomb

by Conrad Mason

  It scared him.

  Lortt’s eyes grew wide, as though he could sense what was going on in Joseph’s head. Obviously it scared him too.

  ‘All right, keep yer breeches on. Me and Jeb, we ain’t friends. Matter o’ fact, the bilge crawler cheated me out o’ half my pay for bringing him across the ocean. So I’ll help you out, and in return you can get off my ship. That clear?’

  Joseph nodded, lowering the cutlass with shaking hands. ‘Tell me where he is.’

  ‘He said he had business here with the Grey Brotherhood. They got a place called the Whale, on Seagull Alley off Butcher’s Cross.’ He hesitated. ‘Just don’t tell ’im I sent yer, understand? The Snitch don’t like being crossed.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Joseph. ‘And, er … I’m sorry about your foot. I hope you—’

  ‘Just get off my ship.’

  Two minutes later, Joseph was dripping and shivering as he hurried over the cobblestones. Lortt had promised not to hurt him, but he didn’t exactly trust the hobgoblin, and he trusted his sailors even less – which meant he’d had no choice but to wriggle out of the cabin window and go plunging into the sea. It had been freezing cold and brimming with slimy seaweed, but that didn’t matter.

  He had a lead. A real, solid lead.

  Joseph had heard tales of the Grey Brothers, back in the Legless Mermaid. They were goblins – underground fighters who hit back at the League, ripping down their banners, rescuing prisoners from their gaols and robbing rich League merchants to buy bread for families who hadn’t any of their own. They were heroes.

  It was hard to imagine good folk like that doing business with Jeb the Snitch. But then, Jeb had a knack for making people trust him, only to betray them later. Joseph knew that all too well.

  The most vicious, treacherous crook in all the Old World. And he’s the one person who can help me find the truth.

  But first he had to find Butcher’s Cross, and that turned out to be trickier than he’d thought. He asked directions from a dockhand who sent him one way, then a revenue man who sent him the other. A gang of kids threw stones at him, and one managed to grab hold of Clagg’s waterlogged coat, forcing him to shrug it off and dart down a side street.

  After that people wouldn’t stop giving him funny looks. Some shouted mongrel, and worse. He began hurrying through the shadows, avoiding eye contact with anyone.

  It wasn’t long before his feet were sore and his belly was rumbling. He used some of Clagg’s coins to buy a greasy fish pie, then ducked into a dark alleyway to wolf it down, keeping a lookout for butchers as he ate.

  Whatever happened, he wasn’t going to give up. He was going to find Jeb the Snitch. The goblin’s face had haunted Joseph’s dreams every night since the Battle of Illon. Those cold, pale eyes. That smirking mouth and sharp goblin teeth. The ludicrous outfits, so brightly coloured it almost hurt to look at them. The last time Joseph had seen Jeb, the goblin had been levelling a pistol at him, howling threats of death – and worse.

  He brushed the last of the pastry from his face, trying not to imagine what Tabitha would say if she were here. You’re crazy. That goblin would slit your throat for half a ducat. He cheats and lies for a living. It was all true. But still, Joseph had to find him.

  He set out again, striding faster this time and tipping his hat down low, now that he had no outsized coat to disguise what he was.

  At last, as the sun had set and his clothes had dried stiff with salt, Joseph found Butcher’s Cross. It was a narrow avenue running into the heart of Azurmouth, lined with stalls and shop fronts that stank of meat on the verge of going bad.

  Joseph hurried along it, dodging the occasional passing carriage, weaving in and out of the crowds. A group of whitecoats were playing dice on upturned crates by the side of the road, and Joseph hurried past, head down. He couldn’t bear the thought of being picked up by the League’s soldiers when he was so close.

  At least it’s dark now. So long as I stick to the shadows, I—

  He froze, sensing that someone was watching him. But when he looked up he saw that it was only a horse, loitering under a shop’s awning in the glow of a lantern, as though waiting for its owner to come out. A dappled beast, with a silvery mane that flopped over its eyes and gave it a faintly comical look. It blinked at him.

  Definitely not a whitecoat. For the first time that day, Joseph allowed himself a smile.

  He turned into a smaller, darker street where the buildings overhung most of the cobblestones. Seagull Alley proclaimed a rotten board propped on the street corner. Halfway down was a building with a black studded door, in the shadow of a whale.

  Joseph hesitated. It really was a whale – a small one, but big enough to cause some serious discomfort to anyone who might be underneath if it fell. It was suspended like a tavern sign by a pair of chains wrapped around each end, and the carcass was half rotten and turned some indeterminate colour by weather and age and Thalin knew what else. A gull perched on the whale’s head, glaring at Joseph.

  His pockets were still full – the pocket watch in one, and the wooden spoon in the other. If Jeb the Snitch was in there, he’d have to use the spoon.

  If I can even make it work. Hal said you don’t have to be a magician, but he didn’t say it would be easy.

  He ran through the magician’s explanation one last time, his stomach twisting with nerves. Then he took a deep breath, strode up to the door and knocked.

  It swung open at once, and a pair of dark goblin eyes blinked out at him. ‘Come for the fight?’

  ‘Er …’

  ‘Well, don’t just stand there.’

  Bony fingers clamped down on his shoulders and pulled him inside.

  ‘Soon you will be dead. You and all your kind.’ Morgan makes no reply. He sits, still and silent in the corner of the study, dressed in League livery, as a draughtsman sketches him in charcoal at an easel. The artist is capturing every detail of the ogre’s anatomy. The jutting jaw. Piggy eyes and tapered ears. A twisted parody of a human.

  A burst of laughter sounds from the floor below, voices raised in drunken song. The lords of the League have been feasting for hours now, ever since they arrived at the House of Light. The Duke had almost forgotten how much he despises them.

  He leans forward from his own seat at the draughtsman’s side. In this room there is no sound but the scratch of the draughtsman’s charcoal, the crackle of the fire and the ticking of the clock. ‘Are you afraid?’ he asks the ogre softly. ‘I am only curious.’

  Morgan’s brow creases, as though he has been asked to perform some complicated arithmetic. He seems troubled, but does not speak.

  Does the creature feel anything at all? Did he ever? Perhaps the years of servitude have worn him down. Or perhaps he has always been this way, his thoughts no more complex than a dog’s.

  The Duke cannot tear his eyes from the misshapen monster in white. It has always been like this for him, with demonspawn. They revolt him even as they draw him in.

  He knows he is not alone. Morgan has been in his service for years now, and still the other footmen spurn him, talk of him behind his back and play tricks on him. They are fascinated. They cannot understand why the Duke has brought him here among them.

  Another clamour from downstairs, as the lords hoot and stamp their feet. Soft, rich and well-fed, they have forgotten what demonspawn really are. How base. How foul.

  The Duke knows how easy it is to forget. To stray from the Way of the Light. He knows it all too well. Every day, Morgan’s silent presence reminds him. Morgan is the curse he must endure until his work is finally done.

  ‘Finished, your grace.’ The draughtsman hands him the sketch.

  ‘Very good.’ The Duke has already chosen a spot for it on the wall of the study, along with the other drawings. Diagrams of goblin skulls. Dissections of impish ears. Comparisons of the elf’s anatomy at different ages. They will make a valuable historical record once the Old World is free from the blight of demonspawn.
/>   He smooths out the sketch, admiring the draughtsman’s accuracy. To get inside the mind of such a creature … What must it feel like? To be so corrupted by evil? If only he could experience it for himself – just once.

  Perhaps it is better that he does not.

  The artist hurries out with his easel, almost colliding with Major Turnbull as she enters. She comes to attention smartly.

  ‘Your task is accomplished?’ asks the Duke.

  ‘Yes, your grace. I have set men to guard it night and day. It will not be found.’

  ‘Very good.’

  ‘Your grace, I wished to ask you. I—’ She shoots a glance at Morgan, still sitting like a stone statue in his chair.

  ‘Whatever you have to say, you may say it in front of Morgan.’

  ‘The other lords – have you informed them of your plans? They will not like it if you act without their blessing.’

  The Duke smiles. ‘Tomorrow is Corin’s Day, Major Turnbull, yet my fellow lords can talk of nothing but the Contest of Blades. Whether Lucky Leo will triumph again. The proper technique for a lunge. They are not worthy to know.’

  ‘But surely—’

  ‘It is time to open their eyes, Major. Our great ancestor showed us the Way of the Light, and I intend to follow in his footsteps. Corin the Bold shall walk again.’

  She frowns at that. ‘Those words … I’ve heard them before, somewhere.’

  ‘A figure of speech. You heard it when you were a child, no doubt. You may leave.’

  After she is gone, the Duke lays a hand on Morgan’s shoulder. Even to touch such a creature sends a jolt of horror through his body.

  ‘You have been my burden for many a year, Morgan,’ he says softly. ‘Like a whetstone to a blade you have kept me determined. Do not think you will go unrewarded.’ He bends down to whisper in the ogre’s ear.

  ‘When the Light comes … when it shines into every dark corner of the Old World, burning away every last trace of evil … you shall be the first to die.’

  Chapter Four

  Captain Newton crept through the darkened corridors of the Academy, rubbing at the red marks on his wrists. He’d sworn he’d never return to the Old World. Sworn it on the lives of his mother, his father and his grandfather. Sworn it on the scars that marked his wrists and had never healed. Yet here he was, back in the Old World.

  Worse still – in Azurmouth.

  ‘Where are we going, mister?’ asked Ty sleepily. The fairy was riding on his shoulder, and had barely woken up.

  ‘Keep it down,’ Newton murmured.

  There was something sinister about the Academy at night. The way the shadows gathered in crevices and stretched across the flagstones, and the deathly silence – no sound but his own footsteps, and not a soul to see him pass by. So much the better. He had work to do.

  Ever since the Battle of Illon, a terrible weight had settled in the pit of Newton’s gut. It wasn’t just Joseph that bothered him. That was a worry, of course. No – there was something more. Something that had taken his appetite away and brought him from his bed tonight. If he could just lay it to rest, then he could concentrate on finding Joseph before—

  A shadow stirred, and a figure stepped into a pool of moonlight ahead, blocking his path.

  ‘Found you,’ said Tabitha.

  Newton cursed under his breath. Should have been more careful. ‘Go back to bed.’

  ‘Not until you tell me where you’re going.’ She was scowling, hands on hips. ‘I couldn’t sleep, then I heard you sneaking out with Ty. Do you have any idea what time it is?’

  He had spoken those same words to her when she was a little girl, and had crept downstairs to raid the larder of fresh pies at Bootles’ Pie Shop. He gave the same answer she had given him then. ‘Time for you to be asleep.’

  Tabitha shook her head. ‘Why can’t you tell me what’s going on? You’re not the only one in the Watch, you know.’

  ‘I’m going to the Academy library.’

  ‘I don’t think we’re going to find Joseph in a library.’

  ‘I said I’m going. And this isn’t about Joseph.’

  ‘Then what is it about?’

  ‘And what’s a library?’ added Ty.

  ‘Never you mind,’ said Newton. ‘Just go back to bed, right now.’ Tabs didn’t need to know about this. None of the watchmen did.

  But instead of leaving, Tabitha crossed her arms and glared at him. ‘We should be out there looking for Joseph.’

  ‘First thing tomorrow, Tabs – that’s what we agreed. Right now the city will be crawling with whitecoats.’

  ‘That’s exactly why we should start looking!’

  Her voice was rising in anger, and Newton laid a finger on her lips. ‘That’s not what I meant,’ he said, as gently as he could. ‘Joseph’s not reckless. He’s quick on his feet, and he’s a sight less conspicuous than us. Besides, he chose to come here. So we have to trust that he knows what he’s doing. We’ll start looking for him at the crack of dawn – I promise.’

  Tabitha didn’t breathe a word, but the fierce set of her jaw made it clear what she thought of his plan.

  Maybe she’s right. Maybe we should be scouring the streets of Azurmouth right now … Lately it seemed like Newton was always questioning his own decisions. It never used to be that way. But then, Tabitha didn’t know what he knew. She didn’t know about the other reason they’d come to Azurmouth.

  ‘Bed. I won’t ask you again.’

  ‘Good, because I’m not going.’ She tensed, as though he might try to drag her back to Master Gurney’s rooms.

  Which is tempting … except she’d wake up the whole Watch, not to mention half the Academy.

  It wasn’t much of a choice.

  ‘Keep quiet, then. And stick with me.’

  She nodded, still scowling. Only the glint in her eye betrayed her excitement, as she followed him to the end of the corridor.

  Above the entrance to the library was a wooden plaque inscribed with the Academy motto in gold: To LEARN is to DO. The words didn’t make much sense to Newton, but that was magicians for you. He pushed open the doors.

  The sight beyond took even Tabitha’s breath away.

  ‘Blimey,’ said Ty. ‘I think I like libraries.’

  The Library of Magical Arts was one of Hal’s favourite subjects of conversation – and Newton could see why. The shelves reached up like cliffs, hundreds of feet high, extending so far into the distance that the library seemed to go on for ever, like some vast, shadowy maze of books. Craning his neck, Newton could make out the ceiling – a glass dome through which the dark sky could just be seen.

  The only sounds were the scratching of quills and the gentle buzzing of fairies’ wings as they flitted around the shelves, retrieving books for the few black-robed magicians studying late into the night at heavy wooden desks. The only light came from the soft glow of the fairies, and the iron lanterns of the magicians.

  ‘Can I help you?’ It was a slight woman in a magician’s robes, with long, straggly grey hair and a kindly face. She was carrying a pile of books, which must have been almost as heavy as she was.

  Newton cast a glance at Tabitha. She was busy watching a pair of fairies struggle with a hefty volume of an encyclopaedia, before dumping it in a shower of dust onto the desk of a surprised elderly magician.

  ‘Aye,’ he said, in a low voice. ‘I’m looking for books about Corin the Bold.’

  The librarian raised an eyebrow. ‘I see.’ She nodded at a sweep of shelves disappearing into the distance. ‘That section is for books about Corin’s battle strategies. Over there’ – she indicated another set of shelves – ‘you will find a selection of studies on the nutrition of Corin’s army.’ She smiled. ‘Perhaps you could be a little more specific?’

  Tabitha was chatting to the fairies now, completely oblivious to Newton’s conversation.

  ‘I want to know about the Sword of Corin.’

  The librarian’s eyes widened. Then she set do
wn her load of books and led Newton and Ty across the floor of the library. It was carpeted so thickly that their feet barely made a sound. All the same, Newton caught more than one magician shoot them an irritated glance.

  ‘Reckon we’re breathing too loud,’ whispered Ty.

  ‘Shhh!’ said a nearby magician.

  Ty waited till they were round a corner, then made a face. ‘Why are you so bothered about this sword, anyway?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m just interested.’

  It wasn’t a lie. He was interested. Very interested. But he wasn’t about to explain why, even to his own fairy.

  ‘Here,’ said the librarian. She handed Newton a pair of black velvet gloves with a golden sun stitched onto them. ‘Wear these at all times when handling the books. I’ll send you a lantern and a fairy to fetch them down. You’ll find a private reading room through that doorway, where no one will disturb you.’

  Newton looked up at the wall of leather-bound tomes: The Sword of Corin – A History; A Hero’s Sword; The Metallurgy of Corin’s Blade. He felt suddenly weary.

  This was going to take a while.

  Half an hour later, he’d flicked through every single one, his head hurt and he was none the wiser.

  ‘What are you looking for?’ asked Tabitha. Newton glanced up from his desk to see her leaning against the doorway to the reading room, arms folded, frowning.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said.

  She rolled her eyes. ‘You must have some idea. What are these books about?’

  Reluctantly he held up the final tome: Blades of the Dark Age: The Sword of Corin. They’d all started to blur into one. Endless speculation about how the blade was forged, the details of its engravings and the battles it was used in – and none of it was remotely helpful.

  Before he could stop her, Tabitha stepped outside, cupped her hands and shouted down the length of the library, ‘Hey!’

  There was a distant chorus of tutting and shushing, then the slim grey-haired woman came hurrying towards them, one finger against her lips. ‘Please,’ she said. ‘The magicians are studying!’