CHAPTER FOUR
All three Black Caps stood in the hold of the Altena, staring at the urn. “There can’t be anything alive in there,” Holismus insisted. “It was sealed tight, you said so yourself.”
“But I heard a noise when I broke the seal. It sounded like breathing,” Belladonna insisted. “We have to open all these urns, see what’s inside.” She looked to Silenti for his opinion. He shrugged, before nodding his agreement.
“All right,” Holismus said, glancing at the square of sky visible through the cargo hatch overhead. “Whatever we’re doing, we’d best get on with it. The sun’s setting and I don’t want to be in here after dark. The tide’s close to turning. Once this boat comes free of Riddra, it could sink like a stone.”
Belladonna offered her stiletto to the others. “You want to finish what I started?” Both men shook their heads, Holismus fearful and Silenti rueful. “Fine,” she sighed. “You want a job done properly, you’re better off doing it yourself.” She stabbed the stiletto into the remnants of the seal and twisted the blade. The urn’s lid ground itself against the edge of her knife, before popping free.
Holismus closed his fingers round the lip of the lid. “Ready?” he asked.
Belladonna drew back her knife, while Silenti held his leather jack ready.
“Here goes,” Holismus said. He lifted the lid away, and the air around them was once more choked by the stench of death. The trio coughed and gasped, but took less time to recover than before, having got used to the acrid aroma. They peered inside the urn.
“Sweet Shallya,” Belladonna whispered. Holismus turned away to vomit. Silenti’s face went white, and he whispered a quiet prayer to himself.
Inside the urn was a crumpled human body. It had been stuffed into the pottery container without care or compassion, shoved inside with brute force. Bones had been snapped into pieces to ensure the corpse fitted into the urn, jagged white shards stabbing out through punctured flaps of skin. A broken hand was splayed across a screaming face, while one knee jutted up from below with a foot beside it. The scraps of clothing visible on the corpse suggested this was one of the crewmen, but the horror on his face was unlike anything the Black Caps had seen before. The mangled remains were sat in a jelly of congealing blood, and other unknown substances. Maggots were already crawling across the dead man’s wretched face. It was an atrocity packed in pottery.
Once the shock of seeing the body had passed, Belladonna leaned closer. As a girl she had studied with priests of Morr, learning what they knew about death and the effect it had on corpses. Most people in Marienburg did their best to avoid such encounters, but facing death held little fear for Belladonna. She knew she would perish one day, as would they all. Since that could not be avoided or altered, she had accepted it and moved on.
Her equanimity in the face of death and fascination for its many causes was one of the reasons she had never married, nor become the kept lover of a married man. Besides, Belladonna had other ambitions beyond the bedroom or bearing children. In Marienburg, that made her an outsider, a freak. Even the other Black Caps were never quite sure what to make of her passion for clues and evidence. They lacked her imagination, the gift for seeing what had happened from what was left behind.
“He was still alive when they put him into the urn,” she observed.
Holismus wiped the spittle from his bristle-covered chin. “How can you tell?”
“The terror and pain in his face, for a start,” Belladonna said. “It needed at least two people to shove him into this tiny space, even if he wasn’t fighting back. The broken bones happened before death. You can tell by how much blood escaped the ruptures to his skin. And there are scratch marks inside the urn, where he tried to claw his way out.”
“He was alive when the urn lid was sealed?” Silenti asked, disbelief in his voice.
Belladonna pointed at the interior of the urn lid, where more scratches were visible, along with a few broken fragments of fingernail embedded in the pottery.
Silenti swallowed, hard.
Holismus had recovered enough to look round the hold. There were five more urns, all similar in shape and size to that containing the crumpled crewman. “We’d better check the others. The whole crew could be down here.” But the turning tide had other ideas. The trio had managed to open three more urns, each jar with a dead sailor stuffed inside, when the timbers of the Altena creaked and groaned. The boat jerked backwards, away from Riddra, and the sea water splashing against their boots was up to ankle height.
“Time we got out of here,” Silenti urged.
“There’s only two more urns left to open,” Belladonna said.
“It doesn’t matter. Whatever’s inside them can’t be alive.”
“But we should still check,” she insisted. “We owe them that much.” The vessel lurched again, woodwork protesting at the undercurrents tugging it away from Riddra.
“Silenti’s right,” Holismus insisted. “This crew is dead already. We can’t make any difference to their fate, but I don’t want to drown in here with them—do you?”
Belladonna did not fear death, but she’d no wish to experience it any time soon. “Let’s get back to dry land while we still can,” she agreed.
Kurt waited in the antechamber, trying not to contemplate what fresh nightmare the commander of Marienburg’s City Watch had in store for him. Little more than a year ago Kurt had been summoned to this building and made a captain in the Black Caps—but that promotion came with all manner of strings attached. He was handed the poison chalice of reopening the watch station on Three Penny Bridge, in a district notorious for being the criminal stronghold of Marienburg. The commander gave Kurt twelve months to change all of that, but expected the new captain to fail within twelve days—if not twelve hours.
That Kurt succeeded in what should have been an impossible mission earned him no plaudits or congratulations. His promotion was made permanent, and braver members of the watch from other districts were now asking for transfers to Three Penny Bridge, a sure sign Kurt’s efforts to re-establish it as a beacon for law and order in Suiddock were working. But the new captain had been left waiting for the other shoe to drop, always expecting the commander to stamp upon him and his band of maverick Black Caps.
Now this summons, little more than an hour before Kurt was due to attend a regular meeting of every captain in the city, chaired by the commander. Why? What fresh stricture was the commander planning, what new knife would he twist in Kurt’s back? The doors leading to the commander’s office swung open, and an adjutant summoned Kurt forwards. Come into my chamber said the spider to the fly, Kurt thought to himself.
The commander sat behind his desk on its raised dais, glaring down at the new arrival. Leader of all the Black Caps in Marienburg, the commander had a piercing gaze that could make the bravest of men quail, and a perturbing grimace tugged at his saturnine features. Thinning hair swept back from a broad forehead, while a serpentine tongue moistened narrow lips. This was not a man to be crossed without weapons or company.
There was a fresh-faced figure standing to one side of the desk, a young man of no more than twenty winters, his hands clasped together like a nervous bride. Kurt ignored the stranger, knowing it was best to focus all his attention on the man in charge.
“Captain Schnell, thank you for coming so quickly,” the commander said, his voice a rasping wheeze of superciliousness. Kurt nodded, keeping his own counsel. But he could not keep the surprise from his features at what came next. “I need to ask you a personal favour, and I’d be greatly indebted if you agreed to undertake it.”
Kurt felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise, a sure sign of imminent danger.
The commander gestured at the young man. “This is my nephew, Erasmus Potts—my sister’s boy. He’s hoping to sit in this chair one day, as I’m sure you are too.” When Kurt still didn’t reply, the commander smirked. “Very good, Schnell. I see my faith in your cunning and intelligence was not misplaced.
Truly, you are your father’s son.”
Kurt couldn’t suppress a frown at this sly comment. His father was Erwin Schnell, one of Altdorf’s most legendary generals, best known by the nickname Old Ironbeard. But Kurt had not seen his father for years. Their parting was so acrimonious, so fraught with guilt and trauma, that the mere mention of his father made Kurt’s blood boil.
“Erasmus has led too sheltered a life up to now,” the commander continued. “He needs to learn about life on the streets, passageways and canals of Marienburg. I did try placing him with another captain in a more salubrious part of the city, but that proved… incompatible. So I’m posting my nephew to your station instead. A few months in Suiddock will certainly open his eyes, don’t you agree?”
It sounded like a question, but Kurt knew better than to voice his true opinion. Twice before he had clashed with the commander and it was Kurt’s men who suffered, even died, as a consequence. This scheming, snide, sneering toad of a man held the power of life and death over every Black Cap in Marienburg. “Absolutely,” Kurt said in answer to the commander’s rhetorical query. “Visitors to Three Penny Bridge always leave with memories that last them a lifetime.”
“Precisely.” The commander nodded to his nephew. “Erasmus, why don’t you wait for Captain Schnell in my antechamber, there’s a good lad.” The young man smiled to his uncle and nodded to Kurt before hurrying out. Once the door was closed, all trace of warmth was vanquished from the commander’s features. “He’s next to useless and as liable to get your men killed as he is himself slaughtered. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“Yes, commander,” Kurt agreed. “How long will he be assigned to my station?”
“A few months, a few years—as long as it takes.”
“Of course.” Kurt cursed inwardly, but his face betrayed none of this frustration.
“Your job is to make sure he stays alive and unharmed, no matter what happens. I trust you don’t need me to spell out what will befall you if Erasmus dies?”
“No, commander.”
“Good. Then we understand each other.” A distant chiming was heard, getting the commander’s attention. “Ahh, the captains’ meeting is upon us. Perhaps it would be useful for Erasmus to observe the gathering, get a sense of what life is like in the upper echelons of the City Watch. You never know, it might convince the young fool he’s better suited to the priesthood, or some other waste of time.”
The eerie fog rolled over the city at sunset, falling like a shroud upon the cobbles and canals. The mist brought with it tiny droplets of moisture that hung in the air, making everything they touched damp and moist. Marienburg stood at the mouth of the Reik, so it was not unusual for fogs to drift in off the Manannspoort Sea and settle over the city. But this cloud was unlike any other that had troubled the settlement.
Most fogs were pale white, perhaps tinted by any nearby naked flames or lanterns. But this fog was as yellow as it was black, greasy on the tongue when breathed in. It chilled to the bone, penetrating cloak and cloth like some icy embrace, like a haunt of winter less than a month after the summer solstice festival of Sonnstill. Those walking through it without covering their nose and mouth soon felt a queasiness gripping them, twisting their bowels and churning their stomachs. Visibility shrank to an arm’s length, until those still heading home after nightfall had to grope their way along the walls and passageways. More than a few took a wrong turning and fell into a canal.
The fog was thin over the north of Marienburg, but south of the Rijksweg it became denser and more dangerous. All the fumes and ash belching from the ever-burning chimneys in Doodkanaal district were adding to it, thickening the shroud-like gloom. Most fogs deadened noise in the city, throwing a hush across the streets and cobbles, but this was different. Strange new noises appeared from the mist, bouncing off walls and the low eaves of thatched roofs. Merchants and fishermen, traders and truants who got home told tales of hisses and muttered curses, whispers and moans issuing from the mist, terrifying and bleak murmurs spat from the all-encompassing cloud.
Belladonna, Holismus and Silenti escaped the Altena mere minutes before the sea claimed the splintered ship, sucking it down into the churning, restless waters north of Riddra. The Black Caps started back to the station so Belladonna could report her findings to Kurt, such as they were. But the rolling fog overtook them long before they reached the span between Riddra and Stoessel, the mist turning familiar streets and passages into a foreign land. Passers-by loomed out of nowhere, and buildings seemed to have rearranged themselves in the gloaming.
It was Belladonna who suggested they stop and seek help, but Holismus refused to contemplate such an embarrassment. “I’ve patrolled these streets for more than a year, I know them like the back of my hand,” he insisted.
“Maybe, but I can’t even see the back of my hand,” she replied, fast losing her patience with the other Black Caps. “Why can’t men ever swallow their pride and ask a stranger for directions? Is it that important nobody ever realises you’re lost?”
“We’re not lost,” Holismus snapped. “We’re just not sure where we are.”
“That’s the same thing.”
“No, it’s not!” he shouted, his angry words echoing back and forth between the glistening walls of stone. Holismus kept hearing his words long after they’d been said.
“Taal’s teeth, stop shouting!” Belladonna bellowed back at him.
“I’m not shouting,” Holismus said, making his voice as quiet as possible.
“Then why can I still—” Belladonna reached out of the mist, her hands finding his face, feeling the contours of his lips. “I can still hear you shouting in my head, but your mouth is shut.” She pulled away from Holismus. “What’s going on?”
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “Maybe we should ask someone for help. Silenti, what do you think? Silenti?” But there was no reply.
“Silenti?” Belladonna joined in, calling out the other watchman’s name. It echoed back at her, but there was no response. Nothing.
“This is wrong, this is all wrong,” Holismus muttered. “He was right beside me. I would have heard if he walked away Unless something took him.”
“We lost track of him, that’s all,” Belladonna said, but her words sounded hollow and unconvincing. A new sound crept out of the greasy mist, a noise like bloody meat dragging itself across the nearby cobbles. “What’s that?”
“I don’t know, but it’s coming towards us,” Holismus whispered.
Belladonna found a hand and took hold of it. “We’ll be all right so long as we stick together. I’ve got you.”
“What do you mean?”
“Your hand, I’m holding your hand.” She squeezed it. His fingers were frozen.
“I don’t know whose hand you’re holding, but it’s not mine,” Holismus replied.
Belladonna didn’t want to turn her head and see who—or what—was next to her, but she couldn’t help herself. It was impossible not to look. She felt her head twisting round, her eyes searching the thick, choking mist. A face loomed forwards out of the fog, black and purple, blotched and bloody. It was the face of the dead sailor she’d found inside the pottery urn. The corpse puckered its lips, forming them into a grotesque parody of a lover seeking a kiss. Belladonna screamed.
The captains’ meeting had been civilised enough at first, but degenerated into accusations and anger after Georges Sandler bragged about another reduction of the crime rate in his district, Goudberg. Normally it was Kurt who clashed with the golden boy of the City Watch, but this time Bram Quist was the chief antagonist. Captain for the northern district of Noordmuur, Quist had little time for the pampered Sandler.
The two men could not have been less alike. Quist was a grizzled veteran of twenty years spent on the streets, defending the citizens of Marienburg. He’d earned his rank through hard work and stoic belligerence, as proven by the vicious scar that disfigured Quist’s face. By comparison Sandler was handsome, verging on beautiful. H
is thick mane of brown hair was swept back from a high aristocratic brow, while his jowls and bulging waistline hinted at a life of luxury and ease. It was common knowledge that Sandler’s wealthy parents had bought his commission. Besides, keeping the peace in Goudberg took no great effort. The district was full of rich merchant families, all of whom employed private militia to protect their valuable property.
Quist pointed this out once Sandler had finished boasting, and hinted darkly at other reasons for the lack of crime in Goudberg. “It’s amazing how few lawbreakers you’ll find in a district that’s got a puritanical vigilante force stalking the streets at night.”
Normally Sandler laughed off the accusations of others, but this made the flabby-faced captain see red. He shot to his feet, slamming a fist down on the circular meeting table. “The Knights of Purity were driven out of Goudberg months ago! I saw off those scoundrels myself. Besides, we all know they prefer to go hunting in Doodkanaal.”
“So you always tell us,” Quist sneered. “I think you protest too much.”
“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” the watch commander interrupted. “Much as I enjoy the parry and thrust of these discussions, we’ve more pressing matters at hand. Firstly, I want an explanation for the incident at Riddra earlier today. Secondly, there’s been a request for an increase in watchmen for the district of Goudberg.” He smiled at Kurt. “Captain Schnell, perhaps you’d like to deal with the former, since you’re in charge of Suiddock.”
That brought a laugh from the others. No captain of the Watch could ever hope to control Suiddock. It was an impossible task, akin to catching eels inside a barrel of oil. Kurt ignored the implied jibe, all too aware of the watch commander’s gaze and the presence of Potts behind him. He cleared his throat, allowing a moment for his anger at the implied insult to subside before answering.
[Marienburg 02] - A Massacre in Marienburg Page 6