The Marching Dead

by Lee Battersby

  For the first time, doubt managed to get its fingertips into Toshy’s attention span.

  “You’re taking the piss. That’s a made-up name.”

  “Oh, is it, Toshy Tesnuk?”

  Toshy considered. “Yeah, fair do’s.”

  “Thank you. Now,” Marius indicated his undershirt. “Get yourself in that, and lie on the bed. Turn your face to the wall and pretend to be asleep. I’ll be back for you as soon as I’ve sorted everything out, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Not a sound now.”

  “Okay.”

  “Got me?”

  “Got you.” Doubts banished, Toshy gave Marius two thumbs up. Marius tried to return the gesture, gave up, and settled for a little wave.

  “Not a sound,” he warned again, and turned his attention back to the door. Behind him he heard a short scuffle, then a thud, as if something large and stupid had fallen over trying to get its trousers on.

  “I’m all right.”

  Marius hung his head. “That’s nice.” Before he could bear witness to any other acts of Assistant Special Envoyness he braced himself against the door, turned the handle with minute slowness, and slid it open far enough to press an eye against the gap.

  The room beyond was dark, almost consumed by shadows. To his right, a pair of entrance doors shone dully against the darkness, their edges illuminated by a light shining through the gaps from behind. The exit to the outside world, Marius guessed, which meant the main desk would be somewhere off to the left. He shifted his weight, squeezing hard against the wall to get a glimpse in the other direction. Behind him, Toshy scrambled onto the bed shelf, cursing as he slipped and cracked something then shhhing himself only slightly less noisily than an invading army. Marius winced. He could see the edge of the desk, bathed in a soft, flickering glow. He pushed his face harder into the gap. There. A wall sconce, its light falling down upon a fat guardsman with a moustache like a privet hedge. He sat with his back against the wall, a large hat tilted down over his eyes and massive, booted feet perched on the desk. Obviously the duty sergeant: everybody else would be patrolling the streets. The edge of the hat fluttered in a regular rhythm. Marius counted to three between ripples. Asleep. Perfect. He slid the door open another inch, paused, then another. Slowly, it opened enough that he could slide his head and upper body through. A quick check of the surroundings and he slipped through the door completely, stepping to the side so he was lost within the deep shadow by the wall. Nobody moved.

  Marius took a moment to centre himself, to think shadowy thoughts. The room remained still. Unbelievably still. If not for the sleeping sergeant, Marius might almost believe the guardhouse had been abandoned. There was none of the constant activity that marked a gaol at even the most sluggish of times. No passage of guardsmen in and out; no protests from prisoners hauled off to the waiting cells; no dull thuds or muffled cries from the miscellaneous staff and hangers-on that any establishment of this size attracted – clerks, cooks, cleaners, whores, dips, low-lifes, fathers, mothers, blackbirders, street vendors, kids, dogs, you name it. Even the ghosts had given up and shot off for the night. Marius had never seen a guardhouse so utterly serene. It was unnatural. He was almost set on breaking cover and approaching the desk out of sheer curiosity when the front door banged back on its hinges. Two guards barrelled through, deep in argument. Marius released a silent sigh of satisfaction, and settled deeper into the shadow to watch.

  “…not right!” the taller of the two was saying. His shorter, more heavy-set companion waved both his hands in a gesture of frustration.

  “What does it matter?” He stopped in the middle of the empty room and gestured at the silence around them. “You don’t like this? No little bastards underfoot. No whining women – ‘Wah, wah, he’s a good man officer, he don’t mean no harm…’” His voice took on the shrill, nasal tone of a backwoods wife.

  “It’s not that. You know it isn’t.” The tall one leaned over as if shielding his words from the door behind them. “It gives me the creeps, that’s all. And it should you.”

  “What creeps?” snapped the shorter one. “What creeps?”

  Behind the guards, the sergeant’s feet were quietly being drawn back behind the desk. A hand came off his chest and tilted his hat back, revealing a face that had learned the hard way the difference between boot and stick and fist and wall. As silent as death, he leaned forward, placed his elbows on the desk, rested his massive cliff of a head on his fists and waited to be noticed. Marius could have laughed himself sick, but his desire to see what came next kept him silent.

  “How can you mean, what creeps?” The taller guard pointed back towards the outside. “You know there’s something not right about those blood-robed…”

  “Ssh, ssh.” His companion glanced uneasily at the door. “You want them to hear you.”

  “See? You know what I’m talking about.”

  “I…” The little man stiffened. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Yes you do. You know exactly what I mean.”

  “And exactly what,” the sergeant said gently, “do you mean?”

  It was as if someone had dropped a little bomb under the guards’ feet. They leapt in separate directions, quivering to attention, eyes pinned to a spot a perfect three inches below the juncture of wall and ceiling. The sergeant smiled, like a snake deciding which mouse to eat first, and repeated his question. The taller guard, obviously finding the prospect of verbal evisceration less creepy than whatever it was he had experienced on the street, found his voice. It was an octave higher than the one he had been using, but at least he found it.

  “The Central Gaol, sir.”

  “Don’t ‘sir’ me, Pyoc. I work for a living.”

  Marius couldn’t help thinking “Oh, really?” at this, but kept his own counsel. Something interesting was unfolding. He had the feeling he was about to learn something of great value.

  “Yes, sir. Sorry, uh, Sergeant.”

  “Now, am I to understand that you, despite long-standing orders to the contrary, are not performing your duties to the standard I expect from the lovely lads I’ve taken under my wing?”

  “No, si– Sergeant. It’s just…” Pyoc glanced over to his fellow guardsman for some sign of brotherhood. His brother guard, knowing exactly where the gravy for his bread came from, remained traitorously uninvolved. Pyoc decided to jump and save the hangman the trouble of tightening the noose around his neck. “I just… I still don’t like it, sir. We drop ’em off, and then we never sees ’em again, you know? It’s like…”

  “Like what, guardsman?”

  Animals in the wild can sense an oncoming storm. Their highly developed survival instinct prompts them to run away, to find logs to hide under and burrows to slither down, all the better to wait out the ensuing hail of destruction and danger. Pyoc seemed to have left his survival instinct in his other uniform. “It’s like they just disappear, innit? I mean, it’s okay for the bad ones, I mean, like, fair enough and all, but Missus Tumbletee went in three weeks ago, sir, and we only nicked her coz she didn’t make payment for her best girl, and we normally let ’em out after a clip and a reminder, and…” he faltered, momentum dissipating in the face of the Sergeant’s unruffled calm, “and, and, it don’t seem right. Somehow. Sir. Sergeant. Sir.”

  He wound down and shuffled his feet, not daring to look at the immobile figure behind the desk. Animals in the wild would already be under a fallen log three forests away, counting their offspring and hoping the lightning didn’t come too close.

  “I see.” The sergeant turned his attention to the statue at Pyoc’s side. “And what about you, Mister Figmin? Do you have any revolutionary thoughts on the nature of our assigned duties? Anything you’d like to share with your dear old sergeant?”

  “Sergeant, no Sergeant!” Figmin’s stance, delivery, and obedience were parade-ground perfect. Figmin, Marius decided, was a crawler.

  “I see.” The sergeant inhaled dee
ply through his nose. Wild animals would have been praying to wild animal gods, and promising utter obeisance if only they survived the coming onslaught. Marius allowed himself a small smile.

  “Mister Figmin.”

  “Sergeant, yes Sergeant!”

  “Be a good lad.” The sergeant indicated the door. “Fuck off and leave me and young Pyoc alone for half an hour, would you?”

  “Sergeant, ye– What?”

  “You heard me, Figmin.”

  “I…” Figmin looked from Pyoc to the sergeant and back again. “Uh, yep. Sure, Sarge.” He hit the door at a flat scurry and was swallowed up by the night. The sergeant leaned back in his chair and swung his boots back onto the desk.

  “Stupid boy,” he said softly. “Get over here.”

  “Sergeant?”

  “Do you want the whole bloody city to hear? Get over here. Now.” He beckoned Pyoc closer. The young guard shuffled over. Marius closed both eyes, then opened one in a squint. As Pyoc reached the desk the sergeant slammed his feet on the floor, loud enough to make even Marius jump.

  “What the fucking hell do you think you’re doing, discussing my orders in the middle of the fucking street?”

  “But…”

  “Don’t you ‘but’ me, boy!” The sergeant’s fist hit the desk like a cannonball. “Who do you think you are to talk about my orders where the public can hear you? Are you fucking stupid or just completely fucking stupid?”

  “But…” Pyoc was on the verge of tears. This wasn’t going to take long at all.

  “Do you think you get a breastplate and boots because you’re smart enough to think, boy? You don’t think when I give you orders. You follow my fucking orders and do what you’re fucking told!”

  Pyoc was taking huge gulps of air now. Even “But…” was escaping him. He flapped his mouth a couple of times, his whole body quivering. Marius hadn’t seen a guard turn to custard this quickly since his days in the Tallian Brigades. He might even have enjoyed it, if not for the memory of what else he’d seen in the Tallian days. He was contemplating ways to make it to the door unobserved, when the sergeant’s tone changed, and things suddenly became very interesting indeed.

  “All right,” the sergeant said. “That should see him off.”

  “Are you sure?” Pyoc was all business, fear and custard banished in an instant. The sergeant raised a hand, and they both listened.

  “Yep, no doubt. The door’s not so muted in the wind. He’s gone.”

  “Okay.”

  “So. What have you found out?”

  Pyoc shook his head. “Nothing new. The place is tied up tighter than my grandmother’s arse. Nobody outside a Fellipan uniform gets past the front desk, and nobody in a Fellipan uniform is talking. I’m not convinced the foot soldiers know anything, anyway. It’s the others we need to get to, the ones at the back of the house. But…” He shrugged.

  “Fuck’s sake. It’s been three months.”

  “I know, boss. I’m trying. But all I’ve got is what I’m getting from the street patrols. Anyone who goes in doesn’t seem to be coming out. And not just strangers. They took Durlie Haver in last week on a drunk and disorderly, and nobody’s seen him since.”

  “Haver! But he’s the only thing between us and the Rat Gangs! The streets’ll be running with blood!”

  “That’s the funny thing. Nobody’s seen half the Rat Gangs, either. I’m sorry, boss. Unless I can get someone past the front desks, I don’t know what else I can do.”

  If there was one thing Marius had come to recognise after thirty years in the con game, it was an entrance line. He stepped from the shadows as if on cue, clomping his expensive new boots on the wooden floor.

  “Gentlemen,” he said in his best Master of Ceremonies voice. “Let’s talk!”

  FIVE

  “Who the holy roaring fuck are you?”

  Pyoc and the sergeant were quicker than Marius had expected. He had barely swept his arms back in an entrance gesture before they were on him, swords held at his throat and gut. He smiled and reached out to push the blades away, but the points held firm. Strong wrists, Marius thought, and quickly gave them his friendliest grin.

  “Me? I’m the answer to your problem, Sergeant.”

  “It’s not me with the problem, laddie.” The old guard’s sword slid forward a half inch. Marius felt it pin back the skin of his throat. He raised an eyebrow, and met the sergeant’s eyes.

  “Do you always kill your prisoners? Or do you let Mistress Fellipan do it for you?”

  The Sergeant said nothing, but he and Pyoc exchanged a lightning-quick glance. The pressure at Marius’ throat and stomach eased slightly.

  “What have you heard?”

  “Enough to know you don’t like what’s going on in your town.” Marius stepped back and to the side, away from the swords. “Enough to know that you and I might just be wanting answers to the same question.”

  “Oh? And what might they be, Tesnuk?”

  “Huh?” Marius looked down at his jerkin. “Ah, yes.” He shrugged, and smiled. “Where do you bury your dead?”

  “In the graveyard, of course.”

  “And where is that?”

  Pyoc tilted his chin towards the door. “Out past the Southern Quarter, back of the Debtor’s Gate.”

  “Close to the main gaol house?”

  “Middling.”

  “But closer to the main gaol than any of the other guardhouses.”

  The two guards considered for a moment. “Yes,” the sergeant admitted. “Closer. What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “Maybe nothing.” He turned to Pyoc. “Why don’t you tell me what your problem is, and let’s see if ours match, eh?”

  “Sergeant?”

  “Go on, son.” The older man eyed Marius. “I’ve heard rumours about Tesnuk traders. Maybe there’s a reason why this delegation stopped here just when we were investigating something.”

  Not for the first time, Marius was glad to hitch his agenda to somebody else’s reputation. He turned to the young guardsman, avoiding the sergeant’s speculative gaze.

  “How about it?”

  “Well, sir–”

  “Call me Marius.”

  “Well, Marius,” Pyoc’s thin face grew even more grave. “It’s like this…”

  Much of Pyoc’s story was as Marius had suspected. Mayor Benlut had been elected three months ago and had all but retired from public life, only appearing at the odd public ceremony and never for more than a few moments. Edicts were issued via his deputy, the suddenly-promoted Mistress Fellipan. Within a month, stewards of House Fellipan had infiltrated all levels of the town’s government, firstly in concert with those who occupied the role and then, increasingly, in place of the incumbents. Much of the town’s infrastructure now hinged on the Deputy Mayor’s voice. Nobody seemed to notice; or at least, nobody very much objected. Mish was a town built for pleasure, and as long as that pleasure was still liberally applied, nobody cared very much who provided it. But the changes raised concerns amongst some of the older and more cynical of the city’s servants. A number of high-ranking guardsmen had retired suddenly, and been replaced by red-shirted stewards. More and more crimes became punishable by incarceration at the Central Gaol. Once, only the higher-level crimes merited internment in their dungeons and punishment chambers. Now any infraction, no matter how minor, was reason to fear the men in red. The smaller guardhouses, which functioned as a means of keeping minor criminals and drunken idiots off the streets for a few days, became emptier. Crime was the sole province of Mistress Fellipan’s troops.

  Then it was noticed that certain low-level known figures were being picked up and weren’t returning to their usual haunts. Street girls, mainly, and leaders of the smaller youth gangs. Nobody important. Just the local faces that the local guards might bother checking in on if it was a slow night. The gaol houses grew quieter, and the back alleys less populated. More and more people were delivered to the Central Gaol and never seen again.
Then the crimes themselves became more inconsequential. A disorderly drunk might have expected to spend a night in the warm and welcoming confines of the local cells. Now they were hauled off to the foreboding edifice of the Central Gaol, delivered into perdition alongside stabbers and fondlers and the beaters of courtesans. For the last six weeks, orders had come down on a daily basis, detailing the ever more pitiable crimes that resulted in transportation across town. The local cells were left empty and clean and those in charge of them had an ever-increasing list of questions. Questions that nobody in House Fellipan was answering. Even attempting to question orders was beginning to result in officers of the watch leaving their posts at the end of their shift and never coming back.

  “So you decided to find some answers for yourself?”

  “We’ve tried,” Pyoc replied. “Trouble is there’s been such a turnover in guardsmen in the last couple of weeks, men moving between watch houses and new ones turning up. It’s impossible to tell who you can and can’t trust anymore. Nobody’s talking to anyone else because nobody wants to walk out one night and find themselves – well, we don’t know what. A man might be honest as his mother’s life, but if he’s come into your station in the last three weeks…”

  “Like Figmin.”

  “Like Figmin.” The sergeant nodded. “Says he came in from Shivel a month ago looking for work. Had his own sword with him and got lucky at the Rubble Street watch house just as they were looking to replace a leaver. Could be he’s on the line, but…” He shrugged.

  “But he isn’t from Shivel, I can tell you that.”

  Both men eyed Marius warily. “And how do you know that?”

  Marius pointed to the scabbards hanging at their hips. “Shivel men tie their blades backwards on the same side as their sword hand, so they can draw like this…” He swept his hand from front to back, slipping an imaginary sword from its sheath. “Point’s facing you soon as it’s drawn, see? But your friend has his tied in the same cross-body way as you. So…”