Scourge

by Gail Z. Martin

  Kell pulled off his cap and ran his fingers through his long blond hair, enjoying the breeze, breathing the fresh, salty air. In the crowded streets of the market, food vendors hawked sausages, bean patties, and spiced ale. Smoke from the cooks’ wood fires rose in the air, joining the fug from the blacksmiths’ furnaces. The scents mingled into a heady miasma that Kell would always associate with home.

  Sunlight glittered on the water of the bay, spreading out in a shimmering pathway that called Kell to follow it. Maybe someday, he thought with a sigh, as he shouldered his pack.

  He thought of Betan’s comment about maintaining the Balance. Everyone talks about it, but no one knows what it is. Do they mean a birth for every death? A win for every loss? Are the gods keeping tally? Somehow, I doubt it works like that.

  Kell kept to the backs of the rooftops, out of sight of the busy main market street, as he leaped from roof to roof on his way home. When he felt like he’d put enough distance between himself and the market, he climbed back down to the ground.

  His rooftop route had taken him across the invisible boundaries of several of Ravenwood’s neighborhoods—from the bustling shops of Market and into Wrighton, where the tradespeople of the city worked and lived. He tipped his hat to the cobbler on his way and spoke to the tailor, hurrying past the potter’s workshop and wrinkling his nose as he passed the brewery at the tell-tale smell of a fresh batch of mash.

  At the edge of Wrighton stood a large stone arch celebrating the one hundredth anniversary of the Bakaran League, the economic heart of the Kingdom of Darkhurst. The ten supporting pillars represented the League’s ten city-states, of which Ravenwood—the walled city itself and the lands beyond its gates—was one. A Crown Prince ruled each city-state for the King, and beneath him were Merchant Princes who saw to the management of the lands and raw materials. Guild Masters in each city-state oversaw the trades. But the real power as far as Ravenwood’s residents were concerned lay with the Lord Mayor, who brokered the trade agreements on which their livelihoods depended and who commanded the guards who wielded the power of life and death.

  The cobblestone road that fronted the harbor and wound through the marketplace became hard-trod dirt a few blocks into Wrighton; the shopkeepers and tradespeople were located near the front of the neighborhood, convenient to patrons and customers. Kell’s family’s business was in the back, where people could forget it existed. When necessity forced them to look for the Valmonde brothers, they would come.

  Kell ducked through the back door of the workshop, grabbing a few pieces of firewood on the way. He climbed the stairs to their living quarters over the shop, shrugged out of his pack, and stoked the fire, fanning it until the embers glowed. A bucket of water sat where he’d left it, drawn from the pump before his trip to the marketplace. He set the iron cauldron over the flames, then dusted off his hands and turned to the treasures in his pack.

  One fresh fish, courtesy of Betan. A chicken for the pot and a loaf of bread. Six potatoes, an onion, and two heads of cabbage.

  Kell snatched down the worn, stained apron from a peg by the door and tied it around his waist, then took a knife from the drawer, gave it a few licks on the whetstone, and took out his frustrations on the vegetables. He would never admit it to his two older brothers, but the apron gave him comfort. It had belonged to their mother. Even now, memories of her made his eyes tear in a way that had nothing to do with the onion he was chopping. Bittersweet as the memories were, Kell hoped they didn’t fade, like his recollection of their father. Sometimes Corran and Rigan told him stories about Papa, but Kell had been so young when he’d been killed that he only remembered bits and pieces—a glimpse of a face, a man’s voice, the smell of the oil he used in his hair. Every year, those grew fainter; soon, they’d be gone.

  Kell began to whistle, trying to lift his mood. He diced the onion, cubed the potatoes and sliced the cabbage thin, tossing the vegetables into the simmering water. He reached up to the bundles of dried herbs hanging from the rafters and crumbled a few stalks in his palms, dumping the powder into the cauldron along with some salt.

  He did his best to get all the pinfeathers off the chicken, and checked that the butcher had properly gutted the bird, then washed the cavity clean. He had neglected to do that once, and his brothers still teased him about the night they’d eaten ‘shit stew’ for dinner; once was enough, especially when food was so dear and money so short. Many of those who died in the city lacked funds for anything more than a basic burial, and some could not afford even that. Undertakers were guaranteed steady business, but not always sufficient pay.

  Kell cleaned and seasoned the fish, an unexpected bounty, and put it in a covered iron pan, which he shoved among the hot coals. He could not be certain what tomorrow’s dinner might be, but tonight, they feasted.

  They also had plenty of ale. Kell had brokered an agreement with Prendicott, the tavernmaster at the Lame Dragon; a bonus in return for tending to any who passed on his premises, no questions asked and no tales told.

  He cut a loaf of bread into chunks and sniffed at the butter to make sure it hadn’t gone rancid before he put it on the table. Then he filled a pitcher with ale from the barrel, set out a bowl of pickles from the crock, and laid three battered tin plates and cups at their places. Kell glanced at the cauldron, checking on the stew.

  “Will the swill be ready soon?”

  Corran’s voice made him jump. “About a candlemark, unless you like your chicken raw. There’s fish, too, from Betan. He said to put it against his bill.”

  “Too bad the tailor’s family is in good health. I could use a new pair of pants,” Corran said, smiling at his own grim joke.

  “You want me to bake him some of that mushroom tart that gave you visions?” Kell said. “The old man might have a weak heart after all.” He smiled, recalling an unfortunate meal some months ago. Since that time, Kell had steered clear of the mushroom vendor in the marketplace.

  “Nah. Things aren’t that tight—yet.” At twenty summers old, Corran had inherited the family business and responsibility for his two younger siblings. Kell knew his brother felt that burden keenly; he rarely saw glimpses of the good-natured humor he remembered. “If I thought we were that desperate, I’d have you give the recipe to Prendicott at the Dragon.” He managed a tired smile.

  “Trouble at the market?” Corran asked, gesturing to a fresh graze on the back of his brother’s hand.

  Kell shrugged. “No more than usual. Old Wrigley thought it sport to call me a thief for refusing to pay his ridiculous prices. Good thing the guards are fat and the market was crowded.”

  “Didn’t I tell you not to buy from him? You know what the guards might have done if they’d have caught you.”

  Kell bristled. “Yeah, well, they didn’t catch me. And I know all about Wrigley, but he’s got the best cabbage in the market.”

  “I don’t give a damn about the cabbage. I forbid you to buy from him.”

  Kell flipped Corran a rude gesture. “I looked at the other farmers’ cabbages before I went to Wrigley. Theirs had worms.” “Then we do without.”

  Kell turned away and rolled his eyes so that Corran couldn’t see him. “Let me remind you of that when you’re hungry.”

  Corran grabbed him by the shoulder and spun him around. “You think this is a joke?” he said, color rising in his cheeks.

  Kell and Corran glared at each other. Kell shook off his brother’s hold. “I can take care of myself, Corran. Been doing it long enough.”

  “Stop it. Both of you.” Rigan had come up the stairs while the two brothers were arguing. Now, he stood with his hands on his hips, glaring at them, and something about the tilt of his head and the way his dark hair hung in his eyes reminded Kell so strongly of their mother that he had to look away rather than let his brothers see the tears in his eyes.

  “Wrigley set the guards after Kell,” Corran said.

  “Corran’s worrying about nothing,” Kell retorted.

  Riga
n looked from one to the other. “Really? With all the work there is to do around here, you’ve got time to fight?”

  Rigan took after their mother, slender and dark-haired with fine, angular features. Corran and Kell took after their father, or so Kell had been told. They had the same blond hair that fell in loose curls and similar broad features. Corran stood half a head taller than Rigan, with a more muscular build. Kell hoped that he would catch up in height and bulk, but he might have to wait a few more years at least.

  “He started it,” Kell muttered.

  “You’re the one who bought cabbage from that ornery son of a bitch,” Corran snapped.

  “Enough!” Rigan yelled. He paused and sniffed the air. “Fish— and chicken?”

  “Betan gave me a fish toward his debt,” Kell replied. “It won’t keep, so I’m cooking it. I’d already bought the chicken.”

  Rigan grinned. “Keep bringing home bounty like that, little brother, and I’ll be on your side in any argument.”

  “Don’t encourage him,” Corran grumbled.

  “I’ll check the pot,” Kell said, eager to get away from Corran. Rigan drew Corran over to one side. They spoke in low tones, but Kell could make out some of the conversation.

  “—too hard on him.”

  “—you’ve seen the bodies.”

  “—not a child.”

  “—live long enough to grow up.”

  Despite the argument, Kell smiled as another memory came to mind. He’d seen his mother take Corran to task more than once for disobeying her, when worry fueled her anger. Much as Corran grated on him, he understood his brother’s anxiety. In their business, they saw firsthand what happened to the ones who got caught. The Lord Mayor could hide details from the public, but not from the undertakers. Few secrets went to the grave, and fewer still escaped the confessions of the dead.

  A candlemark later, they sat down to eat. The chicken was scrawny, but the fish surpassed their usual fare, testament to Betan’s gratitude. There had been hungry nights before and there would be hungry nights again, but tonight was not one of them.

  “More edible than usual,” Rigan said, wiping his mouth. “I think Kell’s cooking is improving.”

  “That would be a pity. I thought of hiring him out to send us more customers from the people who’d eat his food,” Corran replied, but his tone took the sting from his words.

  Kell rolled his eyes. “Burn one cabbage, and no one ever lets you forget it.”

  Rigan raised an eyebrow. “The house smelled like burned peelings for a week. And we still had to eat the damned stuff. And don’t forget the ‘shit stew’—”

  “Any time the two of you want to take over the cooking—and standing in line at the market—be my guest,” Kell retorted.

  He realized their comments were mostly in jest. They knew as well as he did that without Kell to do the cooking and haggle with the sellers in the marketplace, Rigan and Corran wouldn’t be able to get enough bodies buried to keep a roof over their heads and pay off the guards, the Guild and the taxes. And although he expected to help with the family business when he got older, Kell was in no hurry.

  Corran laughed, then turned serious, laying a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “When you’re finished in the kitchen, make the rounds and see if you can drum up some more business,” Corran said, pausing before he headed down the steps. “We’re behind for the month, and the guards will be by for their due in a few days.”

  After dinner, Corran and Rigan headed back to their work. Kell stripped off his apron and scrambled down the rickety wooden stairs. He paused in the alley behind the shop and looked up at the afternoon sun. If I hurry, I can make the rounds of the taverns, surgeons, and rooming houses, hunt up Widgem, and get back before curfew. Just in case, he had slipped a large knife in his pack.

  Kell took up the handles on the cart and set off. Many things might get stolen, but the body wagon figured low on thieves’ list of desirables. He maneuvered the cart down the alley and out to the main street, wishing yet again that they could afford a mule. Passersby hurried out of his way as he approached, averting their eyes and drawing their skirts and cloaks toward themselves, as if death might rub off.

  Finding dead bodies in Ravenwood wasn’t a problem. The challenge lay in finding people willing and able to pay for the proper preparation of their recently departed, and for a grave to be dug in blessed ground. Kell cleared his throat and called out, “Bring me your dead! Valmonde Brothers bury them right!”

  Agatha, the old weaver, stopped him before he had gone far. “Boy! Over here. I’ve got a body for you.” Kell pulled the wagon up beside her shop. Age stooped Agatha’s back, but her nimble hands still flew across her loom, and her sharp eyes never erred in tracking the complex patterns she wove.

  “Brissy died in his sleep,” Agatha said. “Not surprised. He’d been coughing something fierce and off his food. Found him last night in the kitchen, still at the table. I’ve already said my prayers and bid him goodbye. What will you charge me to take him and give him a proper burial?”

  Kell quoted her an amount, dropping it a little because he liked the old woman. Agatha grimaced, then dug in her purse and pulled out a handful of coins. “Here. Now help me carry him—I can’t move him by myself.”

  Kell had no idea what the customs were in other city-states, but in Ravenwood, most people mourned their dead in private. Family and friends gathered to bless the departed and say their farewells before the undertaker took the body. No one but the priests and the gravediggers went to see the body interred.

  He followed Agatha past the loom and through to a small kitchen. Brissy, her manservant, lay slumped across the table. He was likely older than Agatha, Kell thought, and he marveled that the man had not died years ago. His body had gone cold and stiff, making it hard to wrestle him from his seat. “Mind you don’t knock over the table,” Agatha warned as they struggled with the corpse out to the cart.

  “You won’t have to bury him that way, will you?” she asked. Brissy was still in a seated position.

  “We’ll work with it,” Kell assured her. Together, they hoisted the corpse onto the wagon.

  “You have any more of those amulets?” Agatha asked. “Like the one you sold my neighbor? I feel a need for a bit of protection, what with a death in the house.”

  Kell dug into his bag and withdrew a charm made of bone, pottery and bits of colored twine. “It’s protection against ill fortune,” he said in his most serious tone. “Made by The Ones Below,” he added, not needing to say more.

  “How much?”

  Kell named his price, and Agatha dug into her purse for the coins. “You’re sure it works?” she asked, eyes narrowing.

  Kell held up a hand in pledge. “I have it on the best authority. You know what everyone says about… Them.” He did not have to mention either the legendary witches or the the tunnels of Below.

  Agatha nodded conspiratorially. “Aye. It’s a dodgy business, selling these, Kell Valmonde, but I reckon it does good.”

  “Let’s keep it our little secret,” Kell whispered, collecting his money. “Some folks wouldn’t understand,” he added, and they both knew he meant the guards and the Guild. And neither would my brothers, if they ever found out about my ‘side business.’

  Agatha touched the tip of her nose to let him know she got his point. Kell put the coins away and took up the handles to the cart.

  “Brissy’ll have a grave out in the Oak Field, if you care,” Kell added. “Don’t you worry, we’ll do right by him.”

  Agatha shook her head. “I’m not of a mind to visit the dead. I figure the Balance is kept more by what you do for the living, than by dwelling on those who have passed. But I appreciate you taking good care of him. He was good company, for a long time.”

  “You can count on us,” Kell replied. Agatha’s neighbors gathered for a look at the corpse, peering out their windows or coming out on their stoops. Kell gave them all a wave. “Anyone else got a body for me?�
� he called out in a chipper voice.

  The neighbors shook their heads and gradually disappeared back into their shops and houses. Kell picked up the shafts of his cart and went on his way.

  “Kell!” Kell turned to see a boy running toward him; he figured Tek might be eight years old, though he had been aged by life on the streets. “There’s been an accident over where they’re building the new wall on Trundle Street. You can be the first undertaker on the scene if you get a move on. I’ll take you, for a bronze.”

  Kell grinned, and flipped a bronze coin to the boy. He had spent time cultivating a network of informants and lookouts; his eyes and ears in the back streets. Kell paid for information, and on occasion dished out sweet biscuits—which often won more loyalty among the urchins than the coin. “What do you hear?” Kell asked as he hauled the cart alongside Tek.

  Tek glanced around to make sure no one else could hear him. “Old man Janus nearly cut off one of his fingers yesterday, down at the butcher shop. He let me see the cut, after Mistress Sally stitched it up for him.”

  “Exciting,” Kell replied in a voice that suggested the opposite.

  “They hanged a couple of pirates down by the harbor day before yesterday.”

  “No interest to me. Constable doesn’t pay the undertaker for hanged men. Just cuts them down and throws them in a pit at the dump.”

  “Arcad took a beating from the Mayor’s guards last night. Roughed him up good before they hauled him to the jail. No one’s seen him since.”

  “Oh, yeah?” It was wise in Ravenwood to keep track of who the Mayor’s men were beating and for what. “What did they say he did?”

  “Fought monsters.”

  Kell turned to look at him. “Really?”

  Tek nodded vigorously. “That’s what the Mayor’s guard says, anyhow. Caught him out at night with weapons.”

  Kell thought of the big knife in his pack, and shifted its weight on his shoulders. “You think he was? Fighting monsters, I mean.”