The taproom was dark and smoky, the way the customers liked it, and Warble began to relax in the convivial atmosphere. He wove his way through a forest of legs to Gil’s usual table and hoisted a couple of tankards onto it. The watchman took the nearest one, and drank deeply, while Warble clambered laboriously onto the bench opposite.
“Thanks, Sam.” He belched. “Long time no see. What have you been up to?”
“Nothing I want you to know about, captain.”
He laughed.
“Nothing changes. What are you after, then?”
“I just thought it was time to see my old friend, and express a bit of gratitude for the fine job you and your lads are doing in making the city safe for honest folk.”
“Yeah, right.” He drank again. “Seriously, Sam, if you’re in trouble…”
“Nothing I can’t handle,” Warble said, remembering the fat man and his friend. “At least I think so.” His hand went reflexively to the hilt of his dagger. Gil noticed the movement, but said nothing, faint lines appearing between his eyebrows. His florid face moved smoothly forward, his body, clad in the well worn leather jerkin of his trade, tilting with it across the tabletop. The hilt of his sword clanked quietly against the battered wood, and his voice dropped.
“What is it, then?”
“I just want a little information,” Warble said. “Something’s going on…”
“Something I should know about?”
“I don’t know. Maybe you can tell me.” Gil began to relax. He knew he wasn’t going to get the whole story, but he wasn’t stupid. He’d work it out for himself, given the time and a reason to.
“I’ve been hired to find some stolen property,” Warble told him. “But the story doesn’t quite hang together. And someone else is after the… item.” Gil nodded, without interruption, and Warble began to see why he was so good at his job. “I just need to know if there’s been any trouble at the Flying Swan recently.”
“The Swan?” He shook his head. “You’d have to be crazy to steal from there.”
“I know. Every latcher in Marienburg knows.” Warble paused. “But the other interested parties in this are from out of town. Perhaps our putative thief was too.”
“We haven’t found anyone floating in the harbour recently.” Gil looked reflective, having answered the obvious question without it needing to be asked.
“And no one’s left town since the fog started.”
That went without saying. The watch had closed the gates as a matter of course, and there wasn’t a skipper alive willing to put to sea or set off upriver in those conditions. Warble nodded.
“And you’ve heard nothing about any trouble at the Swan.”
“That’s right. I’ve heard nothing.” The emphasis on the penultimate word was so faint it was almost lost, and all the more eloquent because of it. He finished his drink in a single swallow.
“What about a fat man? Well dressed, well off, might have a child or a halfling in tow.”
“Nothing springs to mind.” Gil shrugged. “But it’s a big city, Sam. We can’t be everywhere.” He hesitated. “Try to remember that.”
After talking to the official face of law and order, the obvious thing to do was spin the coin. So half an hour later Warble found himself standing in the back room of a leather merchant in the prosperous commercial district close to the southern docks. The smell of tanned hides was everywhere, permeating the brickwork rising from piles of hides and the racks full of the finished products.
He picked up a jacket, soft as the fog, black as a goblin’s soul.
“Try it on, Sam. It’s your size.”
He put it down slowly and turned.
“Way too expensive,” he said.
Lisette smiled, her teeth a white crescent in the shadows, and slipped her stiletto back up her sleeve. She favoured black, matching her hair, and blending her into the corners of a room.
“What brings you here?” she asked. Her eyes flashed orange in the dim light, hard and predatory. There were stories about her on the streets too, but no one ever repeated them.
“Information,” Warble said. She stepped forward, eyes narrowed, looking down at him.
“Buying or selling?”
“Maybe trade,” he said. Lisette settled slowly onto a bale of cowhide, her right ankle resting on a leather-clad knee, and leaned forward, bringing her face level with his.
“I’m listening,” she said at last.
“There’s something going on I don’t like.”
“That’s your problem.” Her voice was neutral, devoid of inflection. Talking to Lisette always gave Warble the shivers. He tried to match her tone, but halflings aren’t really equipped for it.
“Maybe not. You know some people with an… interest in the Flying Swan, don’t you?”
“I never discuss my business arrangements.” He knew that already. He didn’t even know for sure if she was a member of the guild, let alone as high up in it as he suspected, but he did know from past experience that anything he told her would get back to them.
“I hear one of their guests was turned over the other day.” That scored a hit; her eyes narrowed, just a fraction.
“Who told you that?”
“The guest. I’ve been hired to recover the missing item.”
“I’ll ask about it. What else?”
“A fat man. Also after the item. Hangs out with a child or a halfling, I’m told. One of your… contacts?”
“No.” A faint shake of the head left highlights rippling in her hair. Warble hadn’t been expecting a straight answer, and was left floundering for a moment; he’d never seen her so agitated before. That alone was enough to convince him she was telling the truth, and that none of this had anything to do with the guild.
That should have made him feel better, but it didn’t. He just kept wondering who could be stupid enough, or powerful enough, not to care about antagonizing them.
* * *
Warble had just turned the corner into Tanner’s Alley when the fat man loomed up out of the fog, like a ship in full sail. The halfling spun on his heel, just in time to see a small figure with a big knife slip into the alley behind him. It wore a large floppy hat with a long feather, which effectively hid its face, and a velvet suit sprouting lace in strange directions. It took him a stunned moment to realize the hat was roughly level with his chest, before pulling his own weapon and backing against the nearest wall.
“All right,” he said. “Who’s first? The monkey or the organ grinder?”
To his astonishment the fat man laughed, in a loud, reverberating gurgle, like someone pouring a gallon of syrup into the harbour.
“By all the powers, Mr. Warble, you are a fellow of mettle and no mistake. Your reputation seems less than exaggerated, indeed it does. Har har har.”
“Glad to hear it,” he said, keeping the blade up. The little figure to the right chimed in with a nervous, high-pitched giggle, and Warble shifted his weight ready for a kick to the chin. If he took him fast enough…
“Leppo, my dear fellow, please put that away.” The fat man har-hared again, and patted him on the head. “You’re quite spoiling Mr. Warble’s digestion, and we really can’t have that.”
The little figure nodded vigorously, giggled to itself again, and sheathed the knife. Warble hesitated for a moment, then put his own away, sure he could take these clowns if he had to.
“That’s much better, har har.” The fat man extended a hand wrapped in a velvet glove, and Warble shook it carefully. It felt like a small, furtive cushion. “Allow me to introduce myself. Erasmus Ferrara, antiquarian of note, if not notoriety, har har har. My associate and I have been most keen to make your acquaintance.”
“Likewise,” he said. Ferrara nodded, and poured out more treacle.
“Of course, my dear fellow, of course. A man of your sagacity and resource must have become aware of our own interest in the rodent very early on. Almost from the moment of our arrival, perhaps.”
“Perhaps,” Warble said. He didn’t like the man; an air of almost palpable decadence hung around him, from his elaborately coiffured hair to the exquisitely worked embroidery of his overstrained shirt. “And perhaps you’d like to come to the point?”
That was a mistake. He had to ride out another paroxysm of gurgling laughter, echoed for the most part by the tittering of the fat man’s tiny companion.
“By Sigmar’s hammer, sir, you’re a sharp one and no mistake. A man of business, sir, a man after my own heart. No beating about the bush for you, Mr. Warble, but straight to the point, sir, straight to the point. Har har har.” Warble began to think about getting him to the point of his dagger. “The point, Mr. Warble, is that we’d like to engage your services.”
“I’ve already got a client,” he said. Ferrara nodded.
“Of course, my dear fellow, of course you have. The lovely Astra, no doubt. And no doubt she spun you a fine yarn.”
“I can’t discuss my clients, or their business,” Warble said. Ferrara chortled for a while, like a pot preparing to boil over.
“Of course not, my dear sir. You’re a fellow of principle, and I admire that in a man, indeed I do. But perhaps our interests coincide. Did she tell you what the rodent was worth?”
“A great deal to her,” Warble said. “They must have known that much already.” Ferrara nodded.
“And suppose I were to offer you an equal share, should the creature fall into your hands before dear Astra seeks you out again?”
“What would I want with half a brass statue?” he asked. The fat man shook his head, tears of laughter squeezing themselves from between his eyelids.
“Brass, my dear fellow. She really told you it was made of brass?” Then he choked on his own hilarity, and couldn’t speak again for what seemed like forever.
“Perhaps you’d like to share the joke,” Warble snapped, feeling heartily sick of the pair of them. “What do you think it’s made of?”
“Why, gold, my dear sir, solid gold.” Ferrara finally managed to get himself under control. “The figure is worth an absolute fortune.”
Suddenly a lot of things started to make sense.
“Tell me about it.”
“Gladly, my dear sir. Gladly.” Ferrara paused for breath. “But I can only offer you a third of the spoils. Poor Leppo would be most put out.”
The tiny figure bared its teeth and hissed its agreement. Warble nodded.
“Fair enough.”
“The statue was found in the Blighted Marshes of Tilea, close to the city of Miragliano, about four hundred years ago. Unfortunately, before its origins could be determined, the creature was stolen by unknown miscreants. Its whereabouts remained a mystery for centuries.”
“Until now.”
“Quite, my dear sir, quite. About fifteen years ago, in fact, when I stumbled across a reference to it in some old records in Tobaro. I won’t bore you with the details, har har, but suffice it to say that I have been energetically pursuing it ever since, from city to city across the face of the known world. And now, it seems, the rat has gone to ground here, in Marienburg.”
“Fascinating,” Warble said. “And where does Astra fit in to all this?”
“Why, my dear fellow, precisely where you would expect her to.” Ferrara chuckled again. “My young friend and I are by no means the only ones searching for this reclusive rodent. By now the city would be crawling with our rivals, were it not for this fortuitous fog.”
“I see.” Warble nodded slowly.
“Indeed you do, my dear sir, indeed you do. It’s apparent we’ve given you much to think about. Har har.” Ferrara turned, and took his tiny companion by the hand. “We’ll speak again, sir, when you’ve had time to consider where your best interests lie. Come, Leppo. Time, I think, to fortify the inner man.”
They vanished as quickly as they’d appeared, leaving a trail of turbulence in the muffling fog. A moment later a faint burst of oleagenous laughter erupted briefly, before fading away towards the Shoemaker’s Square.
Warble turned slowly, and made his way thoughtfully back to the Apron.
Entering the familiar taproom felt like coming home. In a way it was; he’d spent a lot of time there over the years, and knew every pattern of grain in the tabletops. Warble sank into his usual seat with a deep sigh of contentment; simply being able to sit down at a table with his feet still touching the floor, and see over it without asking for a cushion, were luxuries most folk could never fully appreciate. He waved a weary hand for the menu.
“You are looking I think for the rat statue, yah?”
Warble leapt to his feet, twisting aside, and sent the chair flying. The clatter seemed to fill the room in the sudden silence, and he had a brief, embarrassed glimpse of all the faces staring in his direction before his eyes reached the belt buckle of the blond giant standing behind him. After a moment the conversations resumed.
“Sorry. Did I startle you?”
“Just a bit,” Warble said, tucking his dagger away. It wasn’t a giant at all, now he came to look at him properly, just a very big human. His build and accent marked him out as a Norse, probably from one of the merchant ships in the harbour. “What do you know about the rat?”
“I know who has it.” He grinned. “And who wants it. Tell the lady to meet me tonight, at the sandbar. She knows where.”
“I see.” Warble nodded slowly. “And that’s it? No demands? No threats?”
“What is the need for them?” The grin stretched. “Either she buys, or the fat man does. An honest trade, yah?”
“Yah,” Warble said.
To his immense lack of surprise, Astra’s room at the Swan showed no signs at all of recent burglary. Like all of them, it was clean, spacious and well-furnished; Warble could have lived for a week on what they charged for a night’s lodging. Astra greeted him with a show of fluttering nervousness that might have taken him in the night before, but which seemed to him now to be an obvious and shallow charade.
“Well,” she asked breathlessly. “Have you got it?”
“Not yet.” Warble hesitated. “But I may have a line on who does.”
“Who?” She grabbed his arm, her fingers digging painfully into the muscle fibres. Warble twisted free, and stepped back a pace.
“In a minute,” he said. “First I want some answers.”
“About what?” She regained her self control with a visible effort, and sat down on the bed. Her eyes, level with Warble’s now, were wide and ingenuous. “Look I’m sorry I got excited. But you know how important it is to me…”
“And to a lot of other people,” Warble said. “I’ve been talking to the fat man.”
Her lips drew back from her teeth and she hissed like an angry cat. The halfling stepped back another pace, feeling his blood chill.
“What did he tell you?”
“That the statue’s solid gold,” he said. He was in too deep to back out now. “And that you never had your hands on it either.”
“He’s lying. Surely you can see that.” She was forcing herself to remain calm. Her voice was conciliatory, but her fingers were twitching as though they were already embedded in his guts.
“That had crossed my mind,” he admitted. “But so are you. This inn’s protected; nobody steals from it. But you wouldn’t have known that, would you?”
“No. You’re right,” Astra hesitated. “The truth is, the rat is valuable. Not as valuable as Ferrara said, but worth a lot to a collector. Both of us have contacts back in Tilea who’d pay through the nose to get their hands on it.”
“Go on,” Warble said. “You still haven’t explained why you came to me.”
“It turned up in Norsca, about six months ago. The owner agreed to meet both of us in Marienburg, and sell to the highest bidder.”
“Let me guess. He just happened to have a fatal accident on the way.” Astra nodded.
“A perfectly genuine one, believe it or not. But the statue disappeared; the ship’s captain thoug
ht it was worthless and let one of the crew take it when he signed off.”
Warble considered the story. It made perfect sense and he still didn’t believe a word of it. He nodded, slowly.
“Suppose I’d gone back to Ferrara?”
“Once he’d got his hands on it, you’d never have made it out of the door.”
That much he did believe. The only thing he was sure of by now was that he wanted nothing more to do with the whole business.
“I’ve got a message from your sailor,” he said at last. Astra tensed, her eyes fixed on his face.
“I’m listening.”
“Not so fast,” Warble said. “I don’t work for nothing, remember?”
“All right.” Her voice made the frost outside seem positively cosy. “Let’s negotiate. How much do you want?”
“Eight crowns. I told you, I charge for expenses.”
An interesting range of expressions flickered across her face, ending in what looked like genuine amusement.
“Eight crowns.” She excavated them from her purse, like an indulgent adult distributing sweets. “You’re an intriguing fellow, Sam. Why not try to cut yourself in?”
“We had an agreement,” he said.
At least he thought they did. His sense of wellbeing, not unmixed with relief at the thought of never seeing any of these people again, lasted no longer than the walk back to the Apron.
He’d barely set foot in the place when Harald leapt up from a table by the door, intercepting him neatly on his way to the bar.
“Is this your idea of a joke? Cheating a poor, harmless old man?” He waved something under the halfling’s nose, spluttering incoherently. Warble grabbed it on the third or fourth pass.
“What are you on about now?” he snapped, then got a good, long look at it. It was one of the coins he’d given the old man that morning, the crisp, yellow surface scarred by a deep, silver nit. Sudden understanding punched him in the gut. “Holy Ranald, that’s lead!”
[Warhammer] - The Laughter of Dark Gods Page 25