by Luke Webster
“For the moment. I’m going to get a drink, I don’t expect you to have any trouble with the little cock. If he plays up I’m going to kill him.”
“I’m sure Geoffrey would have something to say about that,” she defied.
Oktave slapped her across a whiskered face.
“You call him lord or master, slag.” He swung back his hand so that she was caught with it a second time, the back of his knuckles wrapping across her other cheek.
“Yes sir,” she uttered, submitted to the head watchman. Oktave left her, still vent up with aggression and hoping to meet more negligent servants to rail on. The fat woman looked down at Fredrick, angered by her own treatment.
“Get up child,” she said, slapping him on the side of the leg. He didn’t move until she pinched one of his testicles between her fingers, his body rising up in pain. “Stand up and be still,” she warned him, letting go of his genitals. They were small and shrunken from the cold and too sensitive for his likes. He tried to rub the pain out of them while Miranda dried him with a rough towel.
“You’d best do what you’re told boy,” she wheezed while rubbing his body, her sagging breasts bouncing around under her dress. “That Animal Oktave would like nothing more than to cut your sweet little pecker out of its holding pen.” She said it while grasping at his genitals again, taking a quick grope before Fredrick could pull away. She smiled at him, flashing black and grey teeth.
“It’ll be the last chance you get to bed a woman,” she grinned. “I don’t mind if you want to stick it in the Old Slag.”
Fredrick was too weak to fight her, instead picking up his clothes and dressing himself. Miranda laughed at him, a thick, rancid breath passing his crushed nose.
Fredrick was taken under armed escort to the Noble’s Court, a marble building set in the middle of the Lord’s Quarter. The courthouse was surrounded by various administerial structures and mining corporation headquarters. Inside the marble courthouse much of the furnishing were constructed of Yellow Oakwood, the rich material imported from the Imperial counties a century before. Fredrick stood in the dock, a guard stationed behind him, a shockprod weighing at his belt. The guard had made it clear to Fredrick when they arrived that he would have enjoyed sodomizing the child with the weapon. In his current state, still battered from Oktave’s beating, the thought of causing trouble had not entered Fredrick’s mind.
The Jury came into the courtroom and sat four to either side of the presiding judge, each one wearing a ceremonial sash of purple silk. The Judge wore a red sash and heavy cape, a golden crown of tymenut leaf placed around his brow.
Through one half-closed eye Fredrick noted the faces of the jury, entertaining no hopes when he recognised both Geoffrey Goldshore and his surviving son Ramond. Fredrick also recognised Senior Longshore sitting on the council with several other important noble heads. The few faces that he did not recognise were of little importance, he knew. The jury had been decided by its own members, the most influential of them having the right to say.
A lawyer for the prosecution and defence team arrived, a symbolic gesture for the boy whose fate had already been set. The lawyers talked amongst themselves for a moment before approaching the judge, saying few words then returning to their seats. Fredrick’s lawyer did not once acknowledge or look at him, keeping a steady eye forward.
“I address the members of the jury to say that Fredrick Themmond, charge of Ivan Steward and accused of the murder of Harmond Goldshore, be brought before us. I have it on faith from Master Themmond’s representative that the child is aware of his actions and has put in a plea of guilt,” said the judge.
Fredrick turned to stare at the man they called his lawyer, a mailed hand wrapping over his shoulder from behind and squeezing him to stillness.
“Under a plea of guilt Master Themmond is subject to serve a punishment of entrailment. How does the jury vote to this?”
One by one each member rose, announcing their support towards the punishment.
“Under a decision of eight to nothing, Master Themmond is to be taken to Ritcave Prison for his preparation of departure. In a period of no less than thirty two days is he to undergo the ritual of entrailment. Under this plot the meat from his arms and legs are to be removed with tempered pinchers, the open wounds to be filled with smelted lead. He is then ordered to have his organs removed from his body and burnt before him, his body to be filled with smelted lead. If he has not succumbed totally to the ritual he is said to be forgiven by the Manati and may still walk with him in the afterworld. To end his life and take this path Master Themmond must stand of his own will and light the pyres of department. If he is able then his sins will be forgiven and he will walk with the builder and destroyer.”
Fredrick snorted, the simple act causing a searing pain through his swollen face, he knew there was no chance of surviving the ritual. He had heard of the impossible repentances that were common among the noble’s and church’s punishment. He had no care of them either way, he worshipped Imperial gods and there were no such claims that could save him. His guard dragged him from the court, a black, iron-caged coach waiting for him at the rear, ready to escort him to a waiting rail cart. A masked figure guided him into the cage and climbed aboard, lashing two donkeys chained to the coach. They were headed for Old Bond Station where a waiting steamer was ready to take him to Ritcave Prison, set far south in the Notorious Clefts.
46
Thomas tightened his knuckles around the hilt, the blade still resting in its sheathe. The icy rain that hammered his steel plate hid the fact he was sweating. Thomas had spent the morning in a state of nauseam, much of it sitting on a toilet, trying to control his rapid breathing and calm the beat of his heart. Throughout the many hours he had spent training in platemail it never felt so awkward as it did that moment, the tailored set feeling wrong on his tense shoulders.
From across the street stood a well-guarded carriage, his father watching from the shelter of a heated chamber. The chief watchman approached the shifting boy.
“Our men are in position my lord,” he yelled over the rain pinging off tin roofs. Thomas did not turn, keeping an eye locked on the front door of the apartment. He checked the two muskets secured under his weather cloak.
“I guess it’s time,” his whisper lost in the dirge.
Thomas turned to his escort, Tylor and Brian, two hardened veterans with more scars than years, noting their readiness. It was an easy job for them, assist in the murder of two unarmed men and share the glory, they were eager to begin. Tylor, the elder of the two, smiled at the young noble, sensing his nervousness through a poorly conceived poker face.
“Don’t worry about it lad, first time for me was the same.” He clapped him on the shoulder, giving a slight push. It helped steady the boy. Thomas raised his hand and dropped it, giving the signal. A nearby worker slapped a donkey’s arse, causing it to bolt. A chain tightened as the bridle caught and the front door was wrenched off.
The apartment was an ill-lit, two-story affair. The entry room pooled with stagnant water caught in the lip of the front step. The three men waded through, splashing their iron boots. Under cover Thomas drew his pistols, his escorts doing likewise.
“Remember, I take the kills,” he informed them. “Don’t get involved unless I’m in danger.” His fear had waned, replaced by a new emotion. He wanted to seek out his victims, to become a man in his eyes and those of his father.
“It’s not thunder,” came a voice upstairs. “I swear I heard something down there.”
A man stood at the top of the steps, peering into the dark depths. Thomas did not speak, relying on his right hand to steady the musket. With a yank of the trigger he felt the force of the shot, the lead ball flying upwards. It cracked the man in the leg, glancing off the thighbone and travelling up into the groin. The victim let out a bizarre moan, sounding like an off-pitch singer. He limped backwards, stunned by the shot.
“Take your time and aim,” Tylor warned him. Thoma
s had practiced his shot little in the yards, preferring to dedicate his time with a sword. The advice sunk in. Switching hands to the loaded pistol Thomas started up the stairs, steadying his aim. The man he had shot leaned against a far wall trying unsuccessfully to prop himself up. With a second crack the man’s head imploded, the force of the bullet tearing through the skull and sucking it back in on itself. Thomas stared at the remains for a moment, emotions stirring inside a sea of conflicting thoughts. As he reached the top of the stairs Thomas grasped the stair rail, his boots slipping in the blood pumping from the corpse’s leg.
He turned, a barrel pointed at his face. Before he could react a trigger was pulled, the clasp snapping shut to the handle. There was a resounding click and a surprised look of fear. A deft hand had removed the flint piece from the clasp earlier, making the weapon useless. Thomas drew his sword, while the other man struggled to produce a footknife, named for its length. Thomas swung in a controlled arc, his blade catching on the side of a plastered wall before it could complete the turn. The opponent saw the opening, lunging forth and bringing up the blade. It scraped along the front of his plate, searching for a nook to bury in. Thomas reacted fast, dropping his sword and hugging the man’s arms, locking them in place. Although not fully grown, Thomas was a match for the thin man, used to sneaking rather than brawling. They pushed at each other, neither able to break free. Together they slipped in the blood and fell. The other man fell on Thomas, his weight pushing down on the blade. It sheared through the plate, digging into the thick mail links beneath.
“Help,” Thomas cried, fearing a wound. Tylor complied, charging behind the knifeman and dragging him into a headlock. Thomas lay, checking himself. When he realised it had not passed through he stood, taking his sword back up.
“You bastard,” he yelled, pulling back and releasing in a stab. Tylor jumped out of the way in time to avoid the blade as it exited the victim’s back, sliding through gut. The victim moaned as Thomas twisted then wrenched the blade free.
“It was meant to be lethal,” Brian hissed, watching the wounded man squirm in a foetal position.
Adrenalin surged in Thomas as he stabbed a second time, this time the sword striking the man’s neck, entering between the jugular and spine and passing out the other side. He struck the voice box, an alien grating sound coming from the man as he continued to writhe. Thomas watched him, convinced that he had killed the man.
“Strike again,” Tylor huffed, surprised at the victim’s resilience. This time Thomas swung down instead of stabbing, an uncomfortable arc due to the narrow hall, the blade hitting the back of the neck and opening the flesh, revealing a puckered slice.
“That’s not lethal either,” Brian moaned. “Strike an artery.”
“I’m trying,” Thomas spat back, frustrated.
Brian grasped the knife handle protruding from Thomas’ breast plate and yanked it out, handing it to the boy.
“Use this and be precise,” he ordered. With more control over the smaller blade Thomas was able to open an artery on the still writhing man, flicking the tip into the already open neck and guiding it across, ending his life in a splay of blood.
“That shouldn’t have been so difficult,” Brian admonished.
“Give him a break… the boy’s a hero now,” Tylor grinned. “Let’s go rescue the lady.”
Thomas stared at the sagging corpse, disappointed with himself. He was meant to have killed both men with a single bullet, kills designed to raise no questions. Instead he had shot the first man twice and butchered the second. It might raise suspicions if an investigation were called. Looking down he could see the shimmering footknife still in his shaking hand. He exchanged it for his sword, wiping the blood clean and taking a set of keys off the victim.
“This one,” Brian noted, standing next to an iron door with a thick padlock. With only two keys to choose from Thomas had an easy job unlocking the door. On the other side sat a figure, hooded and dirty. She wore dark leather pants and a stained linen shirt. As Thomas stepped closer he noted the blood near the hem of the shirt.
“Ammba,” he called, sensing her tenseness. “It’s Thomas.”
He stepped closer, sliding the hood off with care. Ammba recoiled when it slipped away, dim light stinging her eyes. Thomas sought her bonds, cutting away the cord that tied her down.
“I’m here to rescue you,” he assured her. She did not answer, bringing slender arms around, rubbing the numbness out of them. “Are you okay? Can you stand?”
She managed a nod and took Thomas’ arm, attempting to stand. She could not, her weak legs struggling with the minimal weight.
“Carry her out,” Brian instructed. Tylor grabbed a thick woollen blanket from a bed.
“Wrap her in this, she’ll freeze out there.”
Thomas agreed, placing the rug over her shoulders with care, trying to be gentle with the girl despite his mailed fists.
“How did you find me?” She whispered, tears now rolling down her cheeks.
“My father… well, one of his agents.”
“Why didn’t my father’s men come?” she asked, looking up into his blood specked face as he navigated the precarious stairs. Thomas did not reply. Instead he feigned ignorance, whispering for her not to worry.
The rain caught them as they stepped outside, a cheering cohort of Longshore men welcoming them into the street. Soldiers clapped their shields as Thomas crossed the street with Ammba bundled up, her arms around his armoured neck. He lifted his charge into the veiled carriage, the warmth of a coal burner exuding from the space. Thomas raised a hand to his troops in victory, a weary smile flashing through the pour of rain, before he joined the confine of the carriage.
“Miss Steward,” Senior cooed. “I am so sorry to hear of your hardship.”
Thomas settled on the step next to hers, the exhausted girl leaning onto the ruined plate.
“Thankyou,” she spoke softly.
Thomas felt a tug in his belly, feeling that his first impressions of the girl may have been misplaced. He knew she was strong, already the light returning to her eyes
“It was a pleasure my lady,” the lord soothed. “But not the last of your hardship I fear. There has been an accident, your father murdered.”
Ammba gasped, covering her mouth, a sudden sense of despair falling.
“I’m sorry Ammba,” Thomas offered.
Her body contorted as she held in the sobs.
“I need to see my mother.”
“Not possible I’m afraid. I fear that the house of Steward has fallen under a tyranny my lady,” Lord Longshore reached across the burner and placed a hand on her knee. She flinched at the touch. “If you return to the castle then your life will be forfeit.”
“My life?” She could not believe it.
“The regent’s substitute has made it clear that he wants Haylee settled to the regency. The church disagrees, claiming that you are the legal heir. They do not support Haylee. Lord Pierce, your appointed guardian, will have you murdered once found. That is why the regent’s knights were not used just now.”
“So I am to hide while my family grieve?”
“No child. You will be safe under my house. This Pierce would never risk attacking a noble house. You must stay with us until he is deposed.”
“And my family?”
“I am working on extracting them from the citadel. It is not the place you left. The guards have tripled and that again, your siblings locked away in cells,” Senior’s lies came naturally.
Ammba tried to swallow, a struggle through a contracted throat.
“Why do the church or nobles not intervene?”
“They underestimated this tyrant… Everyone did. He has a loyal sect of supporters tied to the army lending him their strength. A direct attack on the castle would be fruitless and few nobles or priests wish to see another war in the city so soon.”
“And what would you do?” The tone had a demanding hint in it, the lord noted with interest. Thom
as had not noticed, listening to his father speak with an eloquence he rarely saw or knew himself. He did not know what was the truth and lies when they were delivered with such execution. Thomas doubted he could ever speak with such a level of grace.
“I have not decided yet. I have an agent in the citadel, a woman. She might prove useful though I am hesitant to test her too hard yet. A murder is not an easy thing to accomplish, especially when I can have no direct hand in the execution. I fear that waiting might be our best option for now.”
“I do not wish to wait sir.” Ammba was angry, Senior sympathising with the girl and calming her.
“You will have free reign on our estate Ammba. I will inform the church of your rescue and they might dispose of this mad dog for us. Until then we must tread with care. I am assigning my son Thomas to watch over you, he is resourceful in a fight, as you must be aware.”
“My blood-soaked warrior,” Ammba nodded. “I’m aware.”
She smiled at Thomas.
“You have blood too,” he stammered. “Are you hurt?”
Ammba’s eyes dropped, only now noticing the blood on her shirt.
“It’s nothing,” she whispered, eyes downcast.
“Are you sure?” he persisted.
“It’s her cycle, Thomas,” Senior told him with a terse voice, passing off a scowl at his child.
Ammba did not respond, watching the stone buildings of Ironwood’s poorest quarter slip away in a crack between the curtains, her mind shifting elsewhere.
47
The inn was a decent sort, frequented by town workers seeking meals or a drink after a long day. At one table sat a pair of off-duty town watch, their batons replaced with sagging coin purses.
O’ryan spat a thick globule into the corner, heady Danick rum drowning his ills.
“This man never existed,” he cursed, taking a deep draught.
“He is a mystery,” Manderley Serravia agreed, sipping at his own cup.
For two weeks they had stumbled through the dark corners of Ironwood in search of Dead. Between them they had questioned each of the crime families with no success and found little forthcoming from the main players of the merchants and nobles alike.