Dark Practices: Book Four of the Phantom Badgers

by RW Krpoun

  “Of course. Is there anything else we could do to ease the shock of this change?”

  “Be careful in what you promise; if these children, most of whom are world-wise beyond their years, are not given inflated expectations, then they will adapt quickly and with less pain. Do not be surprised at a certain quantity of homesickness and general unhappiness amongst these children, but they will spring back quickly, especially given the new sights and experiences.”

  “Thank you for your time, Dame Vinke; we plan to leave Teasau three days from now, most likely at first light. We’ll have the date and time fixed when we come tomorrow. Is there anything else we can do to show our thanks?”

  The tall woman thoughtfully tapped the spine of the ledger against her thigh three times in carefully measured strokes, her gray eyes looking into an unseen distance; her chin descended once in a short, crisp nod as certain as the swing of an executioner’s axe as she fixed her dragon’s gaze upon the two Badgers. “Yes, there is: I need advice on the resolution of a dilemma which lies quite outside the realms of my experience and education, but which may fall within, or close to, yours. As you know, I concern myself with the abandoned and unwanted children of this area, and over the last few years I have noticed a slow but steady rate of disappearance amongst the street waifs; even though we cannot house them all, we do make a dedicated effort to feed, clothe, and educate these children, and thus have both an effective idea of their numbers and names, and also a system of contacts and, for lack of a better word, informers amongst their ranks. There is a certain attrition in their number due to the conditions they are forced to live under, and I have factored that into the equation with the expertise built upon years of experience, but I am still left with the fact that each year between fourteen and seventeen healthy street-children disappear, never to be seen again. This is all the more perplexing because these children tend to stay in groups for safety and companionship, and for one to abruptly leave the group is rare. I have discovered these disappearances and reported them to the Brotherhood of the Trident, but they continue. I am a competent woman within my own field, but this is far outside any of my previous experience and training, and my staff, however dedicated, is made up of women of similar backgrounds. Can you suggest what I could do to discover what has been going on, as the Brotherhood’s investigations have failed?”

  Arian grinned. “You’re luckier than you think, Keeper Vinke: I am a Brother-Effector in the Order of the Fiery Staff, cult-hunters in the service of Beythar, and my companion Serjeant Maidenwalk is a retired Silver Eagle of the same faith. I would be very happy to conduct some inquires in this matter for you.”

  The Head Keeper shifted uncomfortably. “I am afraid that the Hospice’s pay may well be less than what you are accustomed to...”

  “Money will not a required,” Arian interrupted firmly. “I hunted cultists for nine years without any pay but my Temple stipend, and I’ll not need any pay now. I’ll nose around and let you know what I find; should I uncover anything actionable, the Brotherhood of the Trident will be glad to tend to the matter. Now, I will need to get a considerable amount of background material from you...”

  “So, what do you think?” Janna asked as they headed for the tailor’s district after leaving the hospice.

  “I don’t know, exactly; on the one hand, street-children disappear all the time, along with beggars and whores, all for any manner of reasons, and no one keeps track of them. Dame Vinke has names, dates, and descriptions, as well as a very serviceable intelligence network amongst these street kids, so I am going to be slow to discount her claims on the basis of over-emotion.”

  “Somehow, being over-emotional is not something I would attribute to Dame Vinke,” Janna observed. “She makes me look like a wild woman by comparison.”

  “You’ve been wild on occasion,” Arian leered as he grabbed the Silver Eagle in a quick sideways hug. “But I suspect she reserves her passion for her charges. As I was saying, she has a very useful intelligence network amongst her children that has come up with a blank; that suggests to me that these missing children have been taken out of the picture quickly and completely, without trace. That smacks of professionals.”

  “Cultists?”

  “I would say slavers are more likely; we’re only a hundred-odd miles from the Ward and not much further to the Thunderpeaks and the Cave Goblin keibas there. A healthy slave-child could fetch a good price with Orcs or Goblins, and are easier to control than adults.”

  Janna shook her head. “I can’t believe there are those who make their living in such an obscene fashion.”

  “Oh, you would be surprised how some people make their living,” Arian nodded bleakly. “But for now we need to order suitable garments for our night of dance and festive dining, and I need a new ledger-book for taking notes. Nothing starts an investigation out as well as a fresh ledger book with crisp clean pages and a new stylus, I always say.”

  It had been years since he had practiced his investigating trade, but Arian was gratified at how quickly it all came back to him; being nearer to thirty-five than thirty-four sometimes made him painfully sensitive to the fact that he didn’t have all the moves he had taken for granted a decade earlier, but some things hadn’t been lost. Besides buying writing materials (and taking the time to compile all the information the Keeper had given him into an orderly form) he had changed a couple Marks into small change and loaded Janna down with a jug of ale and a basket of fried chicken. Years ago he had found food to be a great ice-breaker with street people.

  Two hours, a Mark in coins and two baskets of chicken later it was fully dark and Janna was clearly losing interest, but the monk knew from long experience that that was why so many mysteries stayed mysteries: slow results translated into boredom. He had made good progress in his opinion, locating many of Vinke’s contacts and using them to give him the names of other, more knowledgeable sources.

  The next contact he located on a street corner near the docks, a ragged youth in his teens sitting on a broken hogshead with a half-dozen younger followers lounging nearby. “Chlodwig?” The monk asked of the shadowy figure.

  “Call me ‘Wing’,” the boy advised him, idly tossing a lead sling bullet from hand to hand. “You’re the one what has been talking for the Lady, Dame Vinke.” It wasn’t a question.

  “Yes, I am. Word travels fast, it seems.”

  “In some ways, yeah. The Lady fed me for better part a’ ten years, taught me sums and letters too; I don’t hang around there anymore, but I ain’t forgot her, neither. Old Brass Jaw, we called her sometimes.”

  “If you know who I am, then you know what I’m looking into.”

  “Yeah, the vanishings. See Patch about it, or Patch’s girl Helga if the rumor’s true and Patch crossed the river; he’s involved somehow.”

  The monk was taken aback by the directness of the reply, glancing uneasily at Janna, who was passing out chicken and ale to Wing’s followers before replying. “You know, no one else I’ve talked to has had any idea of what is going on, except that children were vanishing; Dame Vinke said she had inquired through her street contacts and came up with nothing.”

  “So you figger I’m selling you a parcel, eh?” The boy, who Arian now saw was nearly fifteen, grinned widely, exposing as much gap as teeth. “I’ve known all along about Patch, so’ve a few others, but there’s no point in telling the Lady; she would tell the Trident, and like as not they wouldn’t get anywhere with it, and then Herself would come down here with her chin in the air and likely get a smile carved beneath it for her troubles. The Lady’s got brass cods when it comes to taking up for us street rats, but no smarts for the likes she would cross down here. You and your lady friend, now, you’re fish of a different scale, you might say.”

  “So what does Patch do with the kids?”

  “I ain’t sure it’s Patch taking the kids, see, just that he’s involved. Not much goes on in the street we don’t know about, not with so many of us movin’ aroun
d and gettin’ ignored by everybody, but the rats vanishin’ here and there, that goes on like magic, and we don’t like it one bit. Ya never know who’s next, so there’s no way to shave the odds. Anyway, Patch runs girls, not many, not a few, but a smart lad he is. We see him talkin’ to the Butler, which is what we call the guy, a real posh bastard, no hair, acts like a butler on his day off; he’s selling girls to Butler, young ones, and not for rent, for good. Nobody sees any of ‘em again. We hear Patch might be settin’ Butler up with younger rats, too, fresh off the street. Anyway, Patch is flashing money, way more than his stable should be bringing in, and braggin’ how he’s gonna be somebody big soon, not that there ain’t a stable-puller who don’t, but he’s talkin’ more’n usual, see ? I hear maybe he’s dead, but I haven't checked on it.”

  Arian felt in his pouch. “Where can I find this Patch?”

  “Give the coin to the Lady; she needs it more’n us. Check the Happy Kitten, three streets up and four down to the left; Patch’s only got one eye, everybody knows him. You might as well leave the birds and drink with us, sport, they won’t do you any good at the Kitten.”

  The Happy Kitten was a snug little tavern tucked in between two warehouses, a quiet establishment that seemed to cater to affluent street-dealers and rogues. Janna got a seat at an empty table and ordered a mug of ale from a thinly-clad serving girl while Arian went to speak with the tavern-keeper. The Silver Eagle kept an eye on the other patrons and on the monk’s progress down the bar mainly out of habit, for although everyone but the serving girls were obviously armed and several had bodyguards near to hand the atmosphere of the place was a relaxed one; obviously the Kitten was neutral ground where various elements of the underworld could come together and conduct business.

  After a few minutes a woman detached herself from the bar and came over to Janna’s table, reversing one of chairs and straddling it, a glass mug of red wine in her hand and a measuring look in her eye; she was of average height and solid build, a plain-faced woman whose left cheek and neck was a single puckered red-yellow scar, the swirling blemish pulling at the rest of her face, elongating her nostrils and twisting the corner of her mouth into a permanent smirk. The woman wore tight moleskin trousers and a loose cotton shirt of wide red and white stripes worn unlaced and held closed only by the narrow leather belt that supported a dirk lying across her stomach; the gaping shirt exposed a great deal of cleavage and a double-looped necklace made of five-Mark pieces bound together with gold wire. A red and white silk scarf pulled walnut-brown hair thickly shot with white off of the scarred face, exposing the six narrow gold hoops in each ear. Janna estimated the woman’s age to be in her late twenties, and her chances of surviving any sort of fight with the Silver Eagle as none.

  “Keela,” the woman jerked her chin towards the Badger Serjeant cheerfully. “How’d you get yours?’

  “Janna.” She paused for a moment, then realization dawned. “Black Dwarf’s axe, in some ruins north of the Ward.”

  “Axe, eh; that must have hurt.” Keela examined the scar with frank eyes that were a bit darker than her hair. “Mine was a mix of lantern oil and pitch, followed by a lit candle: a wee slap in the face for a bad girl.”

  “Were you a good girl afterwards?”

  “So he thought,” she shrugged. “Then one afternoon he didn’t wake up.” The chin pointed at Janna’s bracer. “Sell-sword, aren't you? We don't see many here in the Kitten.”

  “My friend is looking for someone.”

  “Yes, well, I could find him someone, and another for you if you like,” Keela winked. “That’s the trade I’m in these days, in the procuring and dealing, rather than the doing, if you catch my drift.” She took a pull of wine and regarded the Silver Eagle with merry eyes. “Ever consider a change in trade? A woman like you, with those eyes and that scar, could make quite a tidy sum for herself; plenty of men would like to try and melt the ice in your eyes, and there’s others always looking for a woman with steel in her voice to make them behave. I’d start you out as an inn-girl, move you up once you learned the ropes.”

  It made the room swim for a moment; she had been propositioned by men and women before, and to commit murder, kidnapping, and arson, but never to prostitution. “I think not.”

  “That’s a shame: good help is hard to come by; these days all I get are empty-headed sluts who either try to short me or fall in love and run off with some wandering tradesman. What I need is women who can take care of themselves and use their imagination; the money’s not gotten by just lying on your back.” The scarred-woman shrugged and glanced over to where Arian was talking to a heavy-set man in an Opatian-style coat. “Do you let your man wander very far?”

  “No.” She heard herself saying it too fast, too sharp, and considered planting her dirk into the creamy skin exposed by the yawning shirt-front.

  “Too bad,” she winked at Janna. “He’s got pretty eyes. And a lively interest, it seems.”

  “He’s looking for a man called Patch.”

  “Then he’s a bit of a wait; old Patch got himself a new smile right here,” a red-painted nail described a line across her throat; Janna noted that the other fingernails were alternatingly red and white. “Last week, in fact.”

  “That’s a pity.”

  “Yes and no, depending on your point of view. Patch was a bastard, and he’d been flashing far too much money lately, much too much. Someone took him aside and tickled his jewels with a hot poker ‘till he told them what they wanted to hear, which most likely was where he kept all his cash, and then ssshlikt,” the nail crossed her throat again. “No more bragging.”

  “It’s a hard world,” Janna nodded. “What about his girls? I understand Patch was a broker of delights.”

  “Nice term, nice term indeed. Yes, old Patch did his bit to keep Teasau a happy place, and his staff still does, under new management. I acquired about half of them, and the rest went to various others. It doesn't do to let them brood upon their loss, you see; bad for the complexion, and for fostering unhealthy ideas.”

  “They might become ‘bad girls’?” Janna inquired innocently.

  Hot blood colored Keela’s face for a moment, and the dark eyes shot fire, but her voice remained merry. “That they might.”

  “Did you end up with Helga, Patch’s main girl, by any chance?”

  “As a point of fact, I did.”

  “We would like to speak with her, my friend and I.”

  “And what would you like to, ah, talk about?’ Keela leered. “Certain conversations cost more than others.”

  “We would like to ask her about Patch,” Janna kept her face blank, easy to do because of the scar. “And we know that time is money.”

  “That it is. Still, good advice is free: take your pretty-eyed friend and have some fun, maybe rent a couple of my staff and learn a few things. You’re a long ways from home, and probably digging in things you have no real interest in.”

  “Thank you, but we would still like to see Helga.”

  “You know, for five Marks you can hire three good bully-boys for a simple job,” Keela remarked, idly fingering her necklace.

  “You know, for five Marks you can get three good bully-boys killed,” Janna smiled back, stroking Rosemist’s black steel pommel.

  The dark eyes never left her face as the scarred whore-mistress took a long sip of wine. Planting one hand on the chair, Keela started to push herself to her feet. “It was nice meeting you, Janna. If you change your mind about the job, let me know.”

  The Silver Eagle’s hand moved like an arrow shot from a long bow; Keela’s rise came to a jerking stop halfway to standing as the Badger Serjeant’s fingers closed around the dangling necklace. “I would like to talk to Helga,” Janna smiled. “And I would like to see your head roll off your shoulders. You’re in the business of giving pleasure: make me happy.”

  Conversations had stopped around them as the two women stared at each other; at the bar, Arian stepped away from the Opatian and faced
a slender young man who had also stepped away from the bar towards the two. After a long pause Keela slowly sat down and rested both hands on the table; after Janna released the heavy necklace, the dark-eyed woman gave a short jerk of her head, and the young swordsman reluctantly stepped back to the bar.

  Arian joined the two as the whore-mistress shrugged. “If you want, then, you can talk to Helga. It’ll cost, of course.”

  “Of course,” Janna nodded. “That’s fair. We might like to talk to your other girls, too.” That last was a shot in the dark, but she figured it couldn’t hurt.

  “Why not?” Keela shrugged affably. “They’re in the business of making money. I’ve five walkers and three inn-girls, plus Helga and Sheeny who’re roomers.” Catching their expressions she explained. “A walker walks about, picks up a likely lad and takes him back to her room; an inn-girl sits in a inn’s common room and gets her trade from the customers, it’s better than walking. And a roomer or room-girl stays in her room and takes care of regular clients and customers her handler sends her way, or goes to the client’s house; they’re the best-paid of all. It’ll be two Marks to talk to the roomers, ten shillings to an inn-girl. and a shilling for the walkers.”

  “Is Sheeny one of Patch’s girls?” Janna was surprised at the different levels of classification of prostitutes.

  “No, she’s been mine for a while now.”

  Arian laid two gold Marks in front of Keela. “Let’s go talk to Helga.”

  The two Badgers trudged home, each carrying a torch they had purchased from a street-waif. “Two Marks to see her and another to loosen her up, and all we got was a better description of Butler and the news that he didn’t have anything to do with Patch’s death.” Arian side-stepped a patch of ice, his breath billowing out in the cold night air. “What a waste of time, not to mention money.”

  “Where should we go from here?”

  “To bed.” The monk parried Janna’s torch-blow with an easy flick of his wrist. “I’m not sure. I feel that Keela knows about the vanishings but isn’t sure who’s doing it; Patch certainly didn’t know who Butler was working for. Neither would want strangers prowling around asking questions, though: too many secrets that might come back to haunt them. Slavers still look the best to me, but there still isn’t enough facts open to us to really say so for sure.”