by Max Anthony
“Higher!” screamed Skulks, shaking with thrill, almost falling into a swoon as a Fourteen Queen’s Delight was revealed to the watching crowd.
“Well done, citizen,” muttered the man, sliding over five Slivers into Skulks’ eager grasp.
Knowing he was being milked, the magician’s heart fell when he heard Skulks yell “Again! Again!” as he slapped down one of his newly-won Slivers.
Five minutes and a further twenty-five Slivers richer, Tan Skulks headed off to find a drink. It was now well into the afternoon - the perfect time to moisten one’s throat with a jug of ale from the local breweries. He passed three taverns before he came upon an establishment which he judged worthy: The King’s Giblets. Hardened had a long and proud tradition of resistance to monarchy. In fact, it had fought many wars in the past to reject the yoke of those looking to impose such rule upon it. Therefore, it was no surprise to find countless taverns had adopted names describing the unpleasant tortures to be inflicted upon those who would be king.
Inside the tavern there were no obvious signs of giblets, but there were chickens, roasting on a spit over the fireplace. Purchasing one, Skulks took it to the bar, where he asked the bar keep for a mug of Pig’s Knockers, which he knew to be thick, dark and strong. He tucked into his chicken, turning it over in his hands as he took bites from the poor bird. Sated, he cast the sorry carcass on the floor, wiped his hands on his trousers and took a deep swig of his ale. Burping, he proclaimed it to be excellent and ordered another.
Knowing bar keeps to be a gold mine of rumour, Skulks engaged him in conversation. The bar keep was an agreeable fellow and a natural gossip.
“Say,” said Skulks, “it’s a long time since I was in Hardened. My ship’s moored at the Downriver Docks. Got a load of cheese and horse manure we’re taking over to Treads in the morning. Anything a man should know about the latest news around here?”
“Same old, same old,” said the bar keep, a natural cynic. “There’s a new tax on pigs that’s going to hit us hard. The Chamber Council says there’re too many of them and the price of beef is too high because the pigs is taking all the grazing land.”
Skulks shook his head in a mixture of disbelief and consolation. “And to think I was going to take a bag of trotters back for me old mother,” he said.
“You can forget that. Not unless you want to pay an extra four Slivers a dozen. Then there’re the strikes in Million Trees Forest. Not getting paid enough, the woodmen say. It’s hard enough to get wood for the fire without them lot going on strike every five minutes.”
“It’s always the same,” said Skulks.
“Yeah, there’re plenty of people in Hardened would like a pay rise too, but it never happens.”
Next to him at the bar, one of the locals was becoming interested in the talk. He was advancing in years; grizzled and broad. A labourer, Skulks guessed.
“Them bloody woodmen! It’s not like they have to go hunting for the trees or anything. Just hit ‘em till they fall over and then take the profit! My house has been cold for days because I can’t afford the new prices of firewood! The stuff I can afford is smuggled in over the river and it won’t burn because it’s wet!”
“Aye, it sounds like they’ve got it easy. I bet they’ve never done a proper day’s work in their lives. Letting people go cold. It’s just not good enough!” There was nodding around him at the bar. Skulks knew that the best way to keep things flowing was to agree with everything. A second bar-prop added his own snippet:
“And the bargemen have seen fit to join them as well! Been weeks now! They’ve stopped all traffic up and down the river! The price of food will go up as sure as cows is cows!”
This elicited from Skulks further mutterings on the state of the world. The first patron, not to be outdone, volunteered yet more information from the streets of Hardened:
“I hear Old Jon Klibe hasn’t been seen for a few days. His sister reckons he’ll be off drunk somewhere, but says he’d normally be back by now, begging her for a few Slivers.”
The barman nodded sagely “Gracie Pigswell hasn’t seen her son for a week either.”
“Little Alfie Pigswell?” snorted the first patron. “He’s a bloody thief he is. Probably off on the steal somewhere with them filthy little friends of his.”
“Kids these days, eh?” prompted Skulks.
“Just the other week, him and his little gang of tearaways knocked over one of my plant pots they did. He’s better off missing I say!” Warming to their task, the locals were in full flow now.
“Been a few street preachers popping up as well in the last couple of months.” This from the bar keep. “Telling us the Rat God is coming back. Coming back, they say! Like he’s ever been here, let alone able to come back. Nutcases the lot of them.”
“Never trust a preacher is what me old mam always told me,” said Skulks.
“The preachers always pull a crowd, because people got to have something to believe in,” said the second patron, betraying himself as a potential convert to the Rat God’s cause. “Makes sense. If you don’t believe in something, then what else do you have left?”
Skulks nodded acceptance as if he’d found a kindred spirit with whom he shared all his dearest beliefs. The chatter continued for some time, during which he introduced himself as Gzrag M’Boart from High Domes and learned that the first patron had a persistent itch in his nether regions, the bar keep was attracted to goats and the second patron was running a small, yet successful gambling ring. Skulks resolved to seek out this gambling ring later, once his business was finished.
As afternoon became evening and evening became late evening, Skulks headed back to his room at the Filigreed Whore. In one hand dangled a second chicken, held precariously by a half-eaten drumstick. His second hand held the first patron’s personalised drinking mug that Skulks had taken a shine to and had stolen when the former had gone to apply apothecary’s cream to his undergarments. He felt the contented buzz of a man who has consumed one mug too many of Pig’s Knockers and who will regret his excess in the morning.
As it happens, Skulks was to regret his excess rather sooner than the morning, for his Knockers-addled senses were dulled to a threat which was shortly to make itself known to his person. Having stumbled a few hundred paces from the King’s Giblets, Skulks was surprised to find a pack of four mangy hounds appear from out of nowhere in the street before him, accompanied by a popping noise as they materialised. These dogs took a moment to get their bearings before launching themselves at the closest person, who happened to be Tan Skulks.
“So much for Hardened’s reputation as a safe city!” thought Skulks, clocking the first hound with his stolen ale mug as it leapt for his chicken. Yiping, it spun in the air as the forceful blow hurled it backwards. Skulks threw the chicken after it.
A second hound was already worrying at his boot, making a snarling sound as it pulled his leg this way and that. Luckily for Skulks, his boots were well-constructed from a thick, yet supple leather, which provided a safe barrier between teeth and ankle. The third and fourth hounds were gathering themselves for the purpose of leaping at Skulks’ unprotected and juicy-looking throat, when they were surprised to hear a whooshing sound and a thump. This whoosh and thump plucked Skulks off his feet and twenty feet into the air with boot-attached dog still in tow, as the two hounds below watched with interest. As he careened, Skulks saw a purple-robed figure lurking treacherously in a doorway, waving its hands and mumbling.
“Gods, I hate wizards,” said Skulks to himself as his body hit the nearest wall with a thud. It was a credit to him that he managed to land nimbly on the mug-struck hound as he descended to the street, breaking its back. The scrawny beast fastened to his footwear was jarred free by the force of the impact, but discovered to its short-lived displeasure Skulks’ boot pressing down upon its skull, fracturing it and dislocating the life from its body.
As the two remaining dogs re-joined the fray, the wizard confirmed himself to be as craven a
s all of his magic-dabbling ilk by hurling forth a spurt of flame from wildly flapping hands, which Skulks ducked beneath, just in time to find saliva-dripping jaws snapping eagerly for his face. In the end, the jaws found not the tasty nose of a Wielder, but a forehead, crashing down upon them in an enthusiastic head-butt. At the same time, the lily-livered wizard was not alert enough to avoid an ale mug travelling at speed as it bounced off the side of his head.
“Oof, you bastard!” said a woman’s voice in the vernacular, correcting Skulks’ assumption that the wizard was a man. The figure stumbled, before righting itself and prepared to cast a new spell, doubtless one intended for Skulks’ detriment.
Though the ale mug was no longer in Skulks’ hand to provide assistance, it had been replaced by a dagger-sword, drawn from a hidden sheath at his belt. This dagger-sword located the throat of the fourth dog, cutting through it with an ease that belied the apparent dullness of the blade. The remaining dog attempted a snarl, finding it harder than normal as it had lost several teeth down the back of its throat. The snarl became a whimper as the beast flipped over onto its back, choked by its own blood and fangs.
With her conjured minions disposed of, the wizard tried her hand at electricity, hoping to shock some sense into Skulks, or at the very least kill him painfully. Blue sparks flickered from her hands, lighting up her face, though it was no-one that Skulks was familiar with. Having been denied the opportunity to introduce himself, he was nevertheless treated to the jolly greeting of a high-powered zap in the chest, leaving a smoking hole in his tunic which he’d have to sew up in the morning. Had Skulks not been a Wielder, this zap might have seen him off, but he was made of sterner stuff than the wizard had anticipated. As his opponent prepared a new spell, Skulks took the momentary lull to leap into a side street. Once out of sight of the mage he was able to become unseen, leaving her nonplussed as she emerged from her doorway to peek into the alleyway. There was another whumping sound as she projected a second wave of invisible force outwards, in the vain hope of tripping up a retreating Skulks.
As it happens, Skulks had not retreated and appeared behind his doorway-skulking assailant, whereupon he thrust a dagger-sword into her back. Her protective wards provided no defence at all against the blade and with a sigh she collapsed onto the pavement.
In this late hour there had been no-one to witness the confrontation and no-one to witness Skulks extract a paltry eight Slivers from a pocket in the mage’s robes. There was no other form of identification about her person, though she didn’t seem local to Hardened, having a darker hue to her skin.
“Let that be a lesson to you!” he said into the empty street. “Magic doesn’t pay!”
Another lesson which it was too late for her to learn was that a stumbling Wielder doesn’t necessarily make an easy target.
Completing the journey back to his lodgings, there was a parcel waiting for him, tightly wrapped in cloth, which the establishment’s owner handed over to him silently. Skulks could see that the wrappings had been tugged at, as the curious proprietor of the Filigreed Whore had attempted unsuccessfully to pry within.
Stumbling up to his room with the parcel, Skulks opened the locked door with his free hand, eschewing the use of his key, which besides was still sitting on the table next to his bed. His room at the Filigreed Whore was not grand, but nor was it a flea-ridden cesspool. The mattress contained wool rather than straw and the sheets were only slightly stained. He had a window, though it looked out upon the adjacent building a mere three feet away. There was also a chamber pot, into which he relieved himself noisily, the darkness of the Pig’s Knockers magically converted into a clear fluid by the workings of his body.
Unwrapping the parcel, he found it contained documents pertaining to his recent elevation to the position of Captain T Skulks of the guard. There was also a collection of standard-issue armour, upon which a shoulder tassel provided visual evidence of the wearer’s seniority. He shoved the documents inside his tunic, pushed the armour under the bed and fell backwards atop his mattress where he fell asleep almost instantly, a thin tendril of drool seeking out his pillow.
Chapter Four
Skulks was usually fortunate, and so it was that the next dead body did him the favour of evading discovery until late the following morning, whereupon a runner was dispatched to raise him from his slumber. A loud and insistent knocking on the door dragged Skulks grunting from his pit, though his bladder insisted he empty it before answering the impatient pounding. With the chamber pot half full, he opened the door, blinking at the man in front of him.
“A letter for you,” spoke the runner, thrusting forth a hand containing a white envelope.
Skulks took the letter without thanks and opened it. After scanning the contents, he looked up; the runner was still there.
“I’m to assist you to the Chamber Building,” said the man. “To ensure you don’t get lost on the way.”
Skulks couldn’t complain, knowing that he had to make haste. “Very well,” he agreed. “But make sure you address me as ‘Captain Skulks’ from now on!” As if to underline this point, he fished out the shoulder tassel from under the bed and attached it to the wrong side of his tunic.
Outside, the morning was uncommonly hot and Captain T Skulks was feeling somewhat shabby. The heat found its way mercilessly down the narrow openings between Hardened’s close-packed buildings to the street where he and his escort walked. Skulks was fervently wishing he’d stopped for a mug of water before leaving the Filigreed Whore. He did, however, manage to snatch a few quick mouthfuls from a public drinking fountain and also stole a roasted snout sausage from a street stall that he accidentally collided with in passing. As a consequence, he was already feeling much better when he arrived at the Chamber Building.
Dismissing the runner, he strode confidently towards Heathen Spout’s office. The guards studied him, but let him pass without challenge. Though it was to his advantage, he resolved to have words with them about the matter. They didn’t know his face and they were letting him into the inner workings of the Chamber Building without so much as a ‘Please sir, can I see your documents?’ The guards outside Spout’s offices were slightly more scrupulous and he was required to show them his freshly-signed Signature of Posting before they lowered their swords and let him by.
Without knocking, he pushed the door open and entered Spout’s office. “Skulks,” she said. “We’ve had another one.”
“So I hear. I need to see the body without further delay! Is it close?”
“It is. In fact, it’s within these very walls! Follow me.”
Spout led him off along another series of corridors, with Skulks munching on a pastry. She gave only passing thought as to how he’d managed to steal one off the table when he’d not gone within twenty feet of it. It was what they were paying him twenty thousand Solids for. After a short conversation about potted plants, Skulks remembered what had befallen him on his way home the previous evening.
“A wizard attacked me last night,” he said, before correcting himself. “She was more of an adept than a fully-fledged wizard.”
“Attacked? By an adept?” Spout was incredulous and more than a little ashamed that Skulks had been attacked twice since he arrived in the city.
“I had to kill her before she did me a mischief. Who knows I’m here?”
“No one knows apart from the Chamber Council. At least no one else should know.”
“Oh well. It might make things a bit more exciting.” With that, Skulks dismissed the matter.
Deep within the Chamber Building they went, down a series of steps, along further corridors, down more steps. It was dimly lit here and the walls were only roughly finished, revealing the bare brick that underpinned the beautiful facade. In Skulks’ experience buildings this big were rarely fully occupied. They built them big and then when it came to moving in there was always somewhere that no-one wanted to work, or a space that no one needed. The Chamber Building was very old - perhaps in the pas
t there’d been an army of clerks down here, bustling along with the business of keeping the city ticking over. They passed a number of doorways, some containing doors, some opening into little cubby-like rooms full of boxes. Empty space attracted boxes, Skulks knew. Junk abhorred a vacuum, always finding its way into places it wasn’t wanted. The trouble was that in places like this, it was never catalogued. He wagered to himself that if anyone ever needed to find a document pertaining to Edict 2945.3 (describing the maximum permitted length of a milking hose), or a missive from Chamber Member Todds responding to the carpenters’ demands for a reduction in the tax on nails, they’d never be unearthed.
Spout was leading him to the basement. The basement itself was much larger than the name suggested. It wasn’t a single large room, or even a collection of rooms, such as one might find under the house of a rich merchant. It was, in fact, an entire floor beneath the Chamber Building. Why they’d seen the need to make it so extensive, Skulks didn’t worry himself to ask. It had probably made sense at the time.
As if feeling the need for hush, Spout spoke to him, her voice carrying strongly in a stage whisper no quieter than her normal conversational tone. “It’s down here that we found the body. One of the guards came upon it only an hour or two ago.”
“What was he doing down here?” asked Skulks, adopting the same stage whisper for no particular reason.
Still whispering: “Rats! The building seems to attract vermin. We send the guards down here with traps every so often to try and keep down their numbers.”
He considered asking why they didn’t send a clowder of cats after the rats. With the size of the building perhaps they’d soon become feral, he thought, necessitating the release of dogs. Before they knew it, the building would be overrun.
Some distance into the bowels of the basement, Spout indicated that the body was up ahead. Extra torches had been lit in the area, though Skulks didn’t require additional light. Four guards milled around, bored but edgy. They snapped crisply to attention as they realised it was Spout who approached. One of them pointed towards a side room and there the body was, propped up against a stack of wooden crates. Idly Skulks noted that the crates were unlabelled. They could have been five hundred years old, their contents long since forgotten and deprived of relevance.