Those with only a few guilders could have loved ones incinerated at one of the Doodkanaal crematoria, where chimneys belched black fumes and ash into the sky day and night. The rest took their chances, getting dumped into the nearest canal by sallow-faced creatures that called themselves undertakers. Grieving families considered it a kind of burial at sea. Most didn’t want to think what happened to the bodies beneath the water. Confronting mortality was never comforting, no matter how strong your faith.
Belladonna volunteered to stay at the wreck, eager to search through the wreckage for any clues why the Altena rammed into Riddra. Kurt told Holismus and Silenti to remain with her. “I don’t need protecting,” she protested.
“I want your report by sundown,” he said. “I’ve got a meeting of all the watch captains tonight, and the commander will be asking questions about what happened here.”
“What makes you certain I’ll find any answers?”
Kurt smiled, despite himself. “You see things others don’t, make the connections they can’t. You’ve a gift, Belladonna—and you’d be wasting it at the River Watch.”
“How did you—” She stopped herself.
“I see the way Damphoost looks at you,” Kurt whispered in her right ear. “He’s been wooing you for months. He wants what you can do. You’re his ticket to the top.”
Belladonna blushed. “I haven’t given him an answer yet. If you asked me to—”
Kurt shook his head. “I can’t make this decision for you. Do what you think best.” He strode away, taking the other Black Caps with him. Holismus and Silenti were already looking round the Altena, but Scheusal paused beside Belladonna.
“He’s too proud to say it,” the sergeant told her. “But things won’t be the same if you leave Three Penny Bridge. If you do go, make sure it’s for the right reasons.”
Gerta was still manning the desk sergeant’s post when Bescheiden returned from the temple, his eyes puffy and bloodshot. “You missed all the excitement,” she said.
“What happened?”
“Some lunatic rammed a cargo ship into Riddra, collapsed half a dozen homes. Then Kramer started a brawl with the River Watch. To top it all off, a pitched battle with looters left half of Damphoost’s men dancing with Morr. Leastways, that’s the official story.” The heavy-set woman tapped the side of her nose.
“What really happened?”
Gerta leaned across the desk, her ample bosom disrupting the inkwells and logbooks. “Ratmen. An army of them, all leaving Suiddock.”
Bescheiden paled, taking a step back. A year ago he’d had a ratman blade held to his throat, been that close to death. Now the monsters were on the move again —why? Before he could ponder that, the other Black Caps returned to the station, led by Kurt.
“Taal’s teeth, the ceremony!” The captain shook his head. “I forgot all about it.”
“It’s done,” Bescheiden said. “Sergeant Woxholt and the others are at peace.” The weasel-faced watchman wished he could say the same of himself.
Kurt clapped him on the shoulder. “Good. They deserved no less.” The captain looked at the distraught Black Cap. “Was there something else, Bescheiden?”
“Yes, captain. It’s about how Woxholt died. I—”
But Bescheiden never finished his confession. A messenger ran into the station, calling for Kurt. The captain acknowledged his name. “You’re from the commander’s office, aren’t you? I’m seeing him tonight. What’s so urgent it couldn’t wait until then?”
“You’re to come back to headquarters with me,” the messenger gasped.
“Now?”
“Immediately!”
“Very well. Give me a moment,” Kurt said, before turning to Scheusal.
“Must have heard what happened on Riddra,” the sergeant speculated.
“Maybe,” Kurt conceded. “You’re in charge until I get back. If I get back.” The captain nodded to Bescheiden on his way out. “Sorry, whatever you wanted to tell me will have to wait.”
Belladonna studied the crashed boat from every angle before boarding it, wanting to be certain she didn’t miss any clues. She even commandeered a river taxi to take her round the vessel, the better to check for any signs that the Altena had been shunted into the island. But there was nothing, no evidence beyond that to be expected from the impact. More curious was the absence of gulls around the wreckage. Normally they bedevilled any sailor or ship near Marienburg, their constant cries grating at the nerves. But the wreck was curiously bereft of gulls, or any other sea birds.
Having been born and grown up in the city, Belladonna had long since learned to ignore the airborne pests. But she was finding their absence more than a little perturbing. Despairing of finding any clues, she climbed on board the cargo boat where an impatient Holismus was waiting for her.
“Where’s Silenti?” she asked. “Isn’t he meant to be here with us?”
Holismus rolled his eyes and pointed beyond a tumble of broken pottery and crates nearby. A pair of boots jutted from behind the mess. Belladonna walked round the wreckage to find Silenti on the deck, cap pulled down to shield his face from the late afternoon sun. She kicked him in the ankles. “Wake up!”
The watchman edged his cap upwards with a single finger. “You finished wasting your time out on the water?”
“I was checking for evidence that would help explain the crash. There’s too many unanswered questions here.”
“Maybe, but the biggest question is here on this boat.”
“And what’s that?”
Silenti lowered his cap back down over his face. “What happened to the crew?”
Belladonna resisted the urge to kick him again, knowing he was right. She glared at Holismus instead. “How many should have been on board a ship this size?”
He shrugged. “At least seven, including the captain. An eyewitness to the crash said she only saw one man on deck before it hit.”
“So where are the others?”
“Could have jumped ship before the crash.”
“Maybe.” Something was troubling Belladonna, nagging at the back of her mind. She breathed in and caught a whiff of decay in the air—rotting fruit and ragged flesh. “Nobody’s looked in the cargo hold yet, have they?”
It needed both Holismus and Silenti to shift aside the heavy wooden cover that hid the hold from view. The moment it moved a rancid scent billowed upwards, choking all three of the Black Caps. They staggered away, gagging in horror at the foetid odour. Belladonna clamped a sleeve over her nose and mouth to blot out the worst of the stench. The other two followed her example, coughing and gasping as they finished pulling the cover aside, the smell from below engulfing them.
Belladonna peered into the darkness below. The hold was strewn with more Lustrian pottery, particularly jugs and huge pots, many with ceramic lids. There was no obvious reason for the stench still wafting upwards. “We need to get down there,” Belladonna said. Holismus fetched a rope ladder and fixed it to the side of the hatch. But he was hesitant to venture into the darkness, and Silenti made no move either. Sighing, the female Black Cap lit a lantern and clambered down into the hold, trying as much as possible to breathe through her mouth, not her nose.
The ladder didn’t quite reach the floor, so she had to let go and fall the last few feet. Belladonna landed awkwardly, her ankle threatening to turn over. She spat out a curse crude enough to have made the ship’s crew blush, if they were still alive. Liquid splashed round her boots, thick with the tangy aroma of iron and urine, its colour impossible to see in the darkness of the hold. It would be sundown soon, and Belladonna had no urge to stay on this death boat any longer than she needed. But the captain wanted answers and she was determined to find them. She looked round, using the lantern’s meagre glow to light her surroundings.
“What can you see?” Holismus shouted down.
“Some barrels, and enough Lustrian pottery to open my own market.” Belladonna tried the wooden barrels first, the lids coming away
easily to reveal a variety of exotic spices—some black, some bright red, each with a distinct aroma that penetrated even the stench of rotting flesh that suffused the hold. The big pottery urns were not so eager to surrender their contents, the lids having been sealed with what looked like red wax. They were the same height as her waist, and wide as Belladonna’s hips before tapering to a narrower, circular lid. Belladonna retrieved a stiletto from a sheath sewn inside her left boot and used its tip to dig into the seal. The waxy substance resisted her efforts at first, but gradually it softened, giving way beneath the sharp, insistent blade.
“Nearly there,” she called up to the other Black Caps. “It seems to be—”
A spray of crimson across her face stopped any more words. Blood was spurting from the point where the stiletto had penetrated the seal. Belladonna backed off, spitting out the liquid that had splashed her mouth, hands struggling to wipe away the excess from her face. As the spurts slowed to a steady trickle, a noise escaped from the pottery urn. Belladonna stopped and listened. It sounded as if somebody inside the urn was breathing.
“Holismus, Silenti, get down here! Now!”
* * *
In a city full of thieves and a district notorious for its criminal elements, Massimo liked to think of himself as Suiddock’s most accomplished cutpurse. He had stolen from the great and good of Marienburg without any of them realising who was the culprit. Massimo had once removed the wheels from the watch commander’s coach while the leader of law enforcement for the city was busy berating the Black Caps of Three Penny Bridge. The thief had even dared to pick the pocket of Lea-Jan Cobbius, master of the Stevedores’ and Teamsters’ Guild, the most powerful man on the docks. But Massimo’s finest feat of legerdemain was relieving Henschmann himself of a purse heavy with a hundred pieces of gold during a visit to the Marienburg Gentleman’s Club.
None had managed such an achievement and lived to brag about it. Massimo’s only sadness was that he dared not share his exploits with anyone else, knowing all too well the fatal consequences that would result from such a boast. So he kept his own counsel, and his exploits remained unknown, and uncelebrated. Such was the cutpurse’s caution he never let alcohol pass his lips for fear of saying too much in the wrong company. Nor could he spend more than a fraction of his ill-gotten gains, for fear of alerting others to the success of his egregious endeavours. His fellow thieves considered Massimo rather dull and nondescript; too shy with words and far too parsimonious when it came to opening his money pouch. He expected to die alone and unmourned, but had learned to live with this. He was the best and that was what mattered, not acclaim.
Massimo was dawdling home from a fruitful day preying on travellers as they crossed the Niederbrug Bridge that linked Luydenhoek to the smallest and northernmost part of Suiddock, High Tower Isle. Foolish thieves plied their trade on the Hoogbrug, a magnificent bridge that stretched from High Tower Isle over the Rijksweg to Paleisbuurt. The Hoogbrug was the sole bridge connecting Marienburg’s northern and southern districts, and thus attracted far too much attention from the Black Caps in Massimo’s opinion. But the smaller Niederbrug span was just as busy and far less well policed. Suiddock’s overworked watchmen all but ignored Hightower Isle as so little crime happened there, especially in comparison to lively islands like Riddra and Stoessel. That made Niederbrug Bridge the perfect hunting ground for a crafty cutpurse like Massimo. He prided himself on never stealing less in one day there than the average stevedore could earn in a week from working on the docks.
Massimo didn’t need to pick the pocket of the drunken sailor he saw lurching about outside the Temple of Morr on Stoessel. It wasn’t greed that drove him to approach the swaying figure. Massimo was a compulsive thief—he simply couldn’t resist it.
“Are you all right, friend? You don’t look that steady on your feet.”
The sailor twitched and staggered a step, but didn’t respond.
“I know how you feel,” Massimo sympathised. “Found myself at the wrong end of a Bretonnian brandy bottle once or twice, too.” He studied the swaying, unsteady figure. There was something wrong with this one. Most drunks reeked of whatever alcohol they’d been imbibing, but this mariner reeked of something else, something the cutpurse couldn’t quite put his finger on. The sailor’s clothes were well made, suggesting he had attained the rank of first mate, or even captain on some vessel.
Massimo moved a step closer after a quick glance round to make sure they weren’t being observed. The narrow street was quiet, that wonderful hour when most people were home having their evening meal or drowning their sorrows in an alehouse. The thief delighted in this time of day, as it made his job so much easier. Streets should be bustling or deserted, anything in between was trouble. Right now, this part of Stoessel was deserted; all the better for what Massimo had in mind. He slid a supportive arm round his target’s shoulders. “Why don’t I help you find a place to rest?”
A gurgling sound crept from the sailor’s throat.
“No need to thank me, it’s what any decent soul would do for a fine sailor like yourself. You maritime men are the life blood of this city, you know.”
Massimo gave the sailor a nudge, sending him staggering sideways. The cutpurse grabbed his quarry by the arm with one hand, the other hand sliding inside the sailor’s pocket. Yes, there was definitely something inside. It felt soft and leathery, like a narrow kind of purse. Massimo gave the object a squeeze to determine how many guilders might be inside. But instead of the reassuring, welcome shape of coins, the object oozed wetness over the thief’s fingers. What in the name of Manann? Massimo withdrew his hand from the pocket and looked at his fingers. They were covered in tacky crimson, the colour and consistency of congealing red wine gravy. It was blood.
A white maggot crawled out from inside the cutpurse’s sleeve and along the back of his hand. He gasped, shaking his hand to get the tiny creature off him, but that only shook more maggots from inside his sleeve. The sailor twisted round towards Massimo, neck bones cracking and snapping against the effort. For the first time the thief looked into the eyes of his victim and saw only empty sockets, maggots twisting and crawling and feasting on the fresh blood there. The sailor reached a hand into the same pocket where Massimo had been delving, and pulled out the leathery flap, but it was no purse. It was a severed human tongue.
Massimo staggered backwards, suddenly unable to breathe in, gasping and gasping without letting his already full lungs expel. The thief tripped over his own feet and tumbled to the cobbles with a heavy thump. The dead thing that had been Captain Haaland offered the tongue to Massimo, as if in payment for some unknown debt.
The cutpurse shook his head, waving away the grisly trophy. “No, you keep it!”
Haaland’s blotched and bloody face twisted in an eerie attempt at a smile, the mouth flapping open to let thousands more maggots fall out. The dead sailor pushed the tongue into the mouth, but it would not stay there. All the while Massimo stared at this walking, shuffling atrocity, this corpse on legs, too terrified to run. Instead he crawled away, paying no heed to the cobbles shredding the skin from his knees and hands, ignoring the pain he was causing himself. All he knew was he had to get away from that thing, that monster, before it made him the same. Only when he was out of sight from Haaland did Massimo scramble to his feet, panting for breath, certain he must be trapped in some kind of nightmare yet knowing what he’d seen was all too real.
Then he heard the dead man’s moaning, a low lament of unworldly horror, speaking out loud a single word that resounded like the keening of a mother over their child’s broken, lifeless body: “Haaland.” The word bounced off narrow passageways and close walls, getting louder and louder, penetrating and impossible to keep out. Massimo clamped both hands over his ears, but couldn’t block the cacophony of torment. The cutpurse screamed, bellowing against the noise. And then it stopped. The thief peered round the corner and witnessed something that should have been impossible.
Outside the Te
mple of Morr, Haaland fell face-first on to the cobbles. But the captain’s body had ceased to be a thing of flesh and blood anymore. As it hit the cobbles, the corpse broke apart into a thousand tendrils of eldritch energy. These leapt into the air a moment, hanging like fireflies above where the body had disintegrated. Then they flew apart, some darting between gaps in the stonework of the nearby mausoleum, others crawling along walls and ceilings, insinuating themselves into homes and workshops. The rest of the tendrils sunk into the cobbles or found their way down drains and channels into the waterways around Suiddock. They were all gone by the time Otto emerged from his temple, perturbed by a noise he’d never heard before. “Is anyone there?” he asked, but got no reply. Massimo was already running towards Three Penny Bridge, determined to confess every crime he’d ever committed, every sin he’d been responsible for. He had to cleanse himself before the end came. He’d looked on the face of eternity and been found wanting.
* * *
On the water beyond Rijker’s Isle, the fog came alive. The sickly yellow mist had remained out on the Manannspoort Sea, as if waiting for something. The moment Haaland’s corpse transmuted into tendrils, the cloud rolled towards Marienburg. The fog became denser, heavier and ever more brooding as it crept past the prison island, paying no heed to those who had locked themselves within the forbidding stone structure, inmate and warder alike. The mist slid by, billowing onwards despite the absence of any breeze. Deep within the fog, something smiled.
[Marienburg 02] - A Massacre in Marienburg Page 5