Hammer and Bolter 13

by Christian Dunn

  ‘As certain as one can be in these – hmm – these matters,’ Signor Franco Fiducci said, shoving his spectacles further up the bridge of his beak of a nose. ‘Necromancy is not as exact a science as we would wish, hmm?’ The little Tilean bared blackened teeth in a half-hearted smile. ‘But Kemmler made careful records, and the ritual itself is not so far out of the bounds of this sort of thing, eh?’ He waggled worm-pale fingers. ‘A prick of the thumb and something wicked will surely come, as they say.’

  Eyll grunted and eyed the necromancer. Fiducci came highly recommended, having performed certain services for certain people under certain conditions that could, at best, be characterised as stressful. He looked like a crow, dressed all in black and bobbing his head alarmingly as he spoke. But he was dangerous for all that. ‘It’s not his coming that worries me... it’s what he intends to do once he gets here.’

  ‘Ah, just so, yes, eh?’ Fiducci waggled his fingers again. ‘No matter. The captain is old and hard and wild like the sea itself, but Franco Fiducci is an artist of the bones, eh?’ He made a tight fist, his knuckles popping unpleasantly. ‘We will trim his sails back, have no fear.’

  ‘But his powers,’ Eyll said. ‘My grandfather said he was a sorcerer as well as...’ he trailed off and swallowed thickly, his mind shying away from the thought.

  ‘Yes. His kind are notorious for their sorcerous abilities. He likely possesses a far greater grasp of the winds of magic than my humble self,’ Fiducci said. His lips quirked in what might have been a grimace. One spidery hand splayed out possessively across a tumble of books, one of several that were stacked sloppily on the desk in haphazard piles. ‘But I am a quick study, eh?’

  ‘You’d better be, for the price I’m paying you sorcerer!’ Eyll said and lunged, slamming his knuckles down on the desk hard enough to cause Fiducci to jump. ‘I hired you to protect me from that – that thing and I expect you to do it!’

  ‘Of course,’ Fiducci said. ‘Let it never be said that Franco Fiducci does not have his employer’s best interests at heart.’

  Eyll glared at him for a moment longer, and then looked away. ‘Stromfels take me,’ he muttered, shoulders slumping.

  ‘I have no doubt he will, Signor Eyll. He, or one very much like him, takes us all in the end. Except for your captain, of course,’ Fiducci said, stacking the books neatly. ‘But I will see to that, I think, provided you get for me that which I require.’

  Eyll made a face. ‘I’ll have them this afternoon. Tassenberg drove a hard bargain, blasted flesh-peddler,’ he grunted.

  ‘But you got them? Twelve of them?’

  ‘Twelve of them, yes.’ Eyll looked away.

  ‘And pure?’ Fiducci pressed, leering.

  ‘Tassenberg said they would be, damn you,’ Eyll growled.

  ‘Oh no, Signor Eyll. Damn you, in fact, if they are not. Only twelve pure souls can save yours, one for each generation the captain has prowled the seas, making you and yours rich.’ Fiducci smiled nastily, displaying his black teeth again. ‘Your ancestor employed him as a privateer, sinking the ships of his competitors until his coffers swelled. And eleven generations since have reaped the benefits of that bargain. Now you want to weasel out of it, like a good merchant. Well, just so, Franco Fiducci will help you.’ He rubbed a thumb and forefinger together. ‘And then you will help Fiducci, eh?’

  ‘Yes,’ Eyll said quietly.

  ‘Good.’ The necromancer rose to his feet. ‘I must go and prepare. And you must gather our materials.’

  Eyll watched Fiducci leave, his fingertips tracing the patterns carved into the handle of his pistol. Like everything else in his possession, it was a hand-me-down from better times. He imagined putting a bullet in the little necromancer’s back, and then just as quickly dismissed the thought. Like pity, petty satisfaction was something he could ill afford at the moment.

  Striding to the bell-rope dangling in the corner near the door, he gave it a yank, summoning a servant.

  It was time to collect the captain’s due.

  ‘Don’t move,’ Erkhart Dubnitz growled. Water trickled from the docks above and ran down the piscine designs engraved on his sea-green armour. Sword in hand, he reached for the back of the priestess’s green robe. ‘Just... don’t... move.’

  ‘Why?’ Esme Goodweather, novice of the temple of Manann, said from between suddenly clenched teeth. Young and slim, she was a striking physical contrast to the bluff, broad knight reaching for the hood of her robe. Above her head, she could hear the clatter of iron-shod wheels and the babble of voices as Marienburg went about its business, unaware of what went on below their feet on the unterdock.

  The unterdock was an open secret... an artificial world beneath the massive docklands that occupied Marienburg’s northern coast. Built in an ad hoc fashion by generations of smugglers, merchants, pirates and beggars, the rickety wooden walkways spread like a massive spider’s web beneath the docklands, cutting between the shallows and the surface. Stairs, ladders, fishing nets and overturned dinghies occupied the spaces between wooden planks, and formed natural landmarks. The air was muggy and thick with sea-salt. Barnacles clustered in patches like moss and things moved beneath the water. Things Goodweather didn’t particularly like to think about.

  ‘Because it’s watching you,’ Dubnitz said.

  ‘What’s watching me?’ Goodweather gulped.

  ‘Don’t worry about it. Go limp,’ Dubnitz said. He grabbed a handful of her robe and yanked her backwards. Something sprang out of the shadows that collected beneath the dock and Dubnitz sent the priestess tumbling unchivalrously to the soggy wood of the unterdock as he lunged forward to meet it. It was an ugly something, all iridescent scales and teeth, like a cross between a frog, alligator and shark. Dubnitz bellowed out a bawdy hymn to Manann as his sword sliced through the gaping mouth, shattering teeth and spraying the water with stinking blood. The creature squealed and crashed into a tangled bed of flotsam and fishing net. It twisted and leapt onto Dubnitz, its claws scrabbling at his armour. Roaring, Dubnitz head-butted it and the bulbous bearded metal face of Manann that served as his visor sank into the malformed flesh, causing the beast to flop backwards into the dark water. It croaked and tried to rise. Dubnitz pinned it in place a moment later with an awkward two-handed thrust.

  Giving the sword a vicious twist, he jerked it free and kicked the spasming creature into the water. ‘Back to Manann, you blubbery fiend,’ he grunted, lifting his visor to watch it sink.

  ‘What was that?’ Goodweather snarled, clutching the trident icon that hung from her neck. ‘What was that thing?’

  ‘One of Stromfel’s children,’ Dubnitz said. He grabbed a handful of the priestess’s sleeve and cleaned his sword. ‘The Chaos-things breed like roaches down here and no two of them are the same, besides the teeth and the bad attitudes. Incidentally, that’s why you’re here, isn’t it, to ward these buggers off?’

  Goodweather jerked her sleeve free of Dubnitz’ grip and grimaced as the barb struck home. ‘Yes. It just surprised me.’ She hesitated. ‘I’ve – ah –I’ve never seen one of them before.’

  ‘Well, now you have,’ Dubnitz grinned. ‘Who did you annoy to get sent down here on this little expedition then?’

  ‘No one,’ she said, looking around suspiciously as if waiting to see what else might leap out.

  ‘It must have been someone.’ Dubnitz scraped blood off of his cuirass and flung it aside. ‘No matter, I suppose. You’ll get used to the Shallows soon enough...’ He looked past her at the motley gang of sewerjacks clustered behind them. Made up of condemned prisoners, mercenaries and disgraced watchmen, the sewerjacks patrolled the unterdock as well as the sewers and under-canals of Marienburg. These looked particularly shamefaced as Dubnitz glared at them. ‘You lot, on the other hand should already be bloody used to them!’ he snarled and several of the ’jacks flinched and edged back from the big knight. ‘By Manann’s scaly nether-regions, are you professionals or mewling infants? How did you miss that t
hing?’

  ‘Nobody talks to Big Pudge like that!’ one of the ’jacks growled. Big and bald, Pudge shoved his way through his compatriots, nearly knocking one or two of them off into the water as he forced his way nose-to-nose with Dubnitz. ‘Nobody calls Pudge a baby!’

  ‘Right. Noted. In fact, you’re far too ugly to be a baby. Maybe you’re an orc instead, eh?’ Dubnitz barked, his beard bristling. A fist the size of a cooked ham swung out, but Dubnitz ducked his head and the blow caromed off of his helmet. Pudge yelped and stepped back. Dubnitz stomped on his instep and shoved him off the wooden walkway into the grimy water. The man howled and thrashed in the water.

  ‘Stop screaming. It’ll only attract more of the beasties,’ Dubnitz said, sinking awkwardly to his haunches. He cast a glare at the other ’jacks. ‘I hope someone thought to bring a rope. Otherwise I’m leaving him.’

  As the ’jacks hauled their fellow up, Dubnitz joined Goodweather. ‘Every day is an adventure,’ he said, smiling.

  ‘I’ll take your word for it,’ Goodweather said, pulling her robes tighter about herself. ‘I hate this.’

  ‘Probably shouldn’t have gotten yourself sent down here then, eh?’

  ‘It wasn’t my fault!’ she snapped. ‘And besides, you’re one to talk you great oaf!’ She glared at him. ‘Aren’t you down here because of that stunt you pulled with an uncooked octopus and a drunken goat?’

  ‘Lies and calumny,’ Dubnitz said, flushing. ‘That goat was hardly drunk.’ He hesitated. ‘You – ah – you heard about that then?’

  ‘The whole temple district heard about it! Ogg makes enough noise for three men twice his size!’ Goodweather said, her distaste evident in her tone.

  Dubnitz couldn’t find the heart to fault her for it. Grand Master Ogg, leader of the Order of Manann, was an acquired taste. The bad-tempered, trident-handed Ogg was famous in Marienburg both for his bull-headed bravery and his political paranoia. His knights were fast becoming figures of familiarity in the households of the mighty of the city; he rented his warriors out as advisors, bodyguards and celebratory decorations alike, and it was said that whatever they heard, so too did he.

  Granted, not everyone approved of Ogg’s expansionism. Dubnitz had no feelings either way. He chuckled. ‘He did, didn’t he? I’m hardly old Oggie’s favourite fish at the moment, eh?’

  Goodweather snorted and looked away. ‘You deserve to be down here with these cut-throats,’ she said, gesturing surreptitiously towards the sewerjacks as they took turns kicking the water out of Big Pudge’s lungs.

  ‘And you don’t?’

  ‘No,’ she muttered.

  ‘Ha!’ Dubnitz shook his head. ‘Girl, you wouldn’t be down here if you didn’t deserve it for some reason. For now though, lets concentrate on why we’re here... where are they?’

  Goodweather sank smoothly onto her haunches and pulled a handful of seashells and shark’s teeth out of one of the pouches dangling from her harness. Like all members of the Order of the Albatross she wore a tarjack’s harness over her robes, with dozens of pouches and reliquaries tied to it, as well as a hooked knife carved from the tooth of some unpleasant deep-sea leviathan and a handful of silver bells. She scattered the shells and teeth across the dock. All of the teeth pointed in the same direction. ‘soutch dock,’ she said, looking up.

  ‘Hmp. The Eel’s territory,’ Dubnitz said, stroking his beard. ‘He’s a touchy one is Prince Eyll. We’ll have to tread lightly.’

  ‘Surely our remit extends past his,’ Goodweather said, collecting her shells and stuffing them back in her pouch.

  Dubnitz looked at her and grunted. ‘In theory.’ He sighed. ‘In practice, on the other hand...’ He clapped his hands together, the metal of his gauntlets clattering loudly. ‘Well, nothing for it but to do it. Form up you pack of half-drowned rats!’ he said, directing the latter towards the ’jacks. ‘On your feet Pudge, you orc-stain. All of you, get to trotting. soutch dock! On the double!’

  The group moved quickly and quietly, save for the creaking of hauberks and the rattle of weapons. The ’jacks, for all their slovenliness, were professionals and they knew their job. At the moment, that happened to be the interception of a shipment of human chattel being delivered by Uli Tassenberg’s men to a buyer on the docklands. Tassenberg was the boldest purveyor of human flesh in Marienburg, taking captives to the water wherever it flowed. They said he could get any hue of flesh or size or build, guaranteed. It was one of the current Lord Justicar’s pet-peeves. Aloysious Ambrosius, the Marsh-Warden and supreme judicial champion of Marienburg, had few bees in his bonnet, but slavery was one of them. The one-eyed former knight hated the practice with a loathing most people reserved for mutants or orcs.

  Dubnitz was against slavery as well, in a general sort of way. He had never been one and had no intention of becoming one, but felt that it was a relatively simple state of affairs to change, man or woman, if you really wanted to do so. Simply kill the bugger holding the other end of the chain. No man, no problem. In this case, the man was Tassenberg.

  ‘I grew up with him, you know,’ he said out loud. Goodweather, following behind him, looked up.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Tassenberg the Slaver. I grew up with him. Fat little bastard, even then. Hard too. We boiled horse-hide and made leather and glue like the other orphans in the Tannery.’ Marienburg was like an apple riddled with brown patches, and of those patches the Tannery was one of the worst. Located in the maze of streets that played host to the city’s tanneries, it was a squalid, foul-smelling territory and the gangs of mule-skinners and cat’s meat-men who made it their home were as dangerous as any dock-tough or river-rat. And now that he was powerful, Tassenberg made it his fortress. ‘Me and Uli and Ferkheimer the Mad and Otto Schelp, the Sewer-Wolf. Gods yes, got out as quick as I could too.’

  ‘I thought you to be of noble birth to be a knight,’ Goodweather said.

  ‘Who says I’m not?’ Dubnitz said. ‘Maybe I was switched at birth, eh?’ She looked at him, not quite knowing how to respond. Dubnitz gave a belly-rattling guffaw of laughter and clapped his hands. ‘Or maybe Ogg, bless his crusty little heart, wanted fighters first and fops second. He was no nobleman himself. Just a merchant seaman with a love of politics and esoteric Tilean pornography.’

  ‘What?’ Goodweather said again, her eyes widening in disgust.

  ‘Of course one has little to do with the other,’ Dubnitz went on, swinging an arm out. ‘At least in Ogg’s case. No, he picked the roughest, toughest, saltiest rogues he could find to form the core of the most holy and violent Order of Manann. And isn’t that what knighthood is about, really? Hitting people so hard that blood comes out of their ears? Of course it is!’

  Out in the darkness of the unterdock, something shrieked. Dubnitz roared back. Silence fell. Goodweather scrabbled for the net of bells that hung from her hip and raised it, giving it a shake. There was the sound of something heavy splashing in the darkness of the Shallows. Then it faded.

  ‘Handy,’ Dubnitz said.

  ‘Shouldn’t you try to be more quiet, perhaps?’ Goodweather said, lowering the bells. Several of the sewerjacks made noises of agreement.

  ‘Being quiet only attracts ’em, the buggers,’ Dubnitz said. ‘They equate creeping with weakness, so I’d hurry up the pace if I were you.’ He strode on, one hand on his sword. The group followed at a slightly increased pace.

  Behind him, Eyll sensed his bodyguards shifting. One of them tapped him on the shoulder and murmured, ‘They’re here, my lord.’ The two men were the best money could buy. Both were professional killers, skilled with the rapier and the dirk and honed to the peak of excellence in a hundred street-brawls and duels. He touched his pistol where it rested in his sash reflexively, reminding himself that he wasn’t helpless himself. He looked and saw a skiff sliding through the debris of the Shallows towards the unterdock, a hooded lantern marking its dim path through the thick, corpse-white mist.

  Seeing the mist, Eyll felt
a clammy chill squeeze his backbone with tender fingers. It had permeated the docklands, curling around ships and buildings alike, seeping into the canals and into cellars and hidden jetties. Despite the cool, he felt beads of sweat pop to life on his face. Somewhere out there, in the mist, a daemon waited to take his soul. A daemon with red eyes and teeth like knives and... fiercely, he shook himself.

  Fiducci had assured him that he could bind the captain. Bind and break him. It. And once that was done, what? Eyll, like any man of his position, had a mind like quicksilver when it came to ambition. Once bound, what could a monster like the captain be turned to? Maybe his ancestor had had the right idea, to use the daemon to break and batter the fleets of his rivals. That was how the Eylls had made the soutch dock the power that it was today. But what could it become in the future?

  ‘Let them know we’re here,’ he said, fear momentarily buried beneath eagerness. One of his men held up a lantern and twisted the shutter-cap, sending the signal. The skiff approached and an anchor chain was looped around a wooden post. Five men climbed up onto the dock. One of them, a rangy Norscan, waved cheerily.

  ‘Hello Eel,’ he rumbled. ‘We brought your wares.’

  Eyll ignored the nickname and looked at the skiff. A number of huddled forms occupied the centre of the boat, chained together, their heads obscured by burlap sacks. ‘Where did you get them from?’ Eyll said, trying to ignore the stifled sobs. It was harder than he’d thought.

  ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘Would I have asked otherwise?’ he said. It didn’t really matter. But he felt he needed to know, for some indefinable reason. If he was spilling their blood to save his own, he owed it to them to at least know where they had come from.