by Max Anthony
The body itself was that of a woman. The head had been detached roughly from the shoulders and placed next to the body, facing the back wall of the room. There was blood, but not in enormous quantities, showing itself as a dark and sticky outline upon the severed head and unoccupied neck.
“Do we know who she was?” Skulks asked.
“No. She’s not been reported missing, but we’re trying to find out.”
“People are starting to talk,” he said, referring to the tavern gossip he’d been party to the previous evening. “There was nothing when I arrived in the city, but now there is.”
“Talking isn’t the same as knowing.”
“True,” he admitted. “But it won’t be long.”
“That’s what you’re here for.”
Skulks crouched down at the body. He made a number of ‘Umm’ and ‘Ahh’ noises as he poked and prodded. He rifled through clothing and inspected the wounds closely. He picked the head up by the hair, looked at the face and stuck a finger in the mouth as it spun slowly in his hand. Standing up, he announced himself content and made to walk back the way he’d come, with a surprised Heathen Spout hurrying after him.
Several minutes later, during which he fended off all questions, they were back in Spout’s office, the door closed. With a pastry in one hand he advised her that he needed to go back there immediately, this time alone.
Chapter Five
The guards outside Spout’s room noted how her door drifted ajar, as if not properly closed during the previous transit. One of them scratched his head, before shrugging and pulling the door quietly shut so as not to arouse questions from Chamber Member Spout. It would be another hour until he realised that his water pouch had gone missing.
Skulks headed off back towards the basement, with his thirst slaked. Had he a bit more time on his hands he might have considered a look in some of the rooms to see what they held. Perhaps he would have levered off one or two crate lids to confirm or deny his earlier musings over their contents. It would have to wait for now; he wanted to get back to the basement before the trail went cold. He might yet be too late.
It didn’t take him long. The guards were still there, complaining as members of certain professions are wont to do when in the company of another of the same profession.
“It’s bloody cold down here.”
“What do you reckon of that new feller with Spout?”
“He’s been made captain, I hear.”
“Never seen him before and didn’t like the look of him.”
“Can you hear that? It might be a rat.”
“I wish it was lunch time.”
Their unfocused chatter washed over him as he shifted by. He hadn’t wanted to talk to Spout down here, realising that the guards would hear it all and the details of their conversation would soon be known in the furthest taverns of Hardened’s furthest districts.
Standing next to the body again, he knew that it would be heavy and even with rigor mortis, a great encumbrance for a single person. He therefore considered its placement to be the work of more than one man or woman. Sure enough, his practised eye detected the signs. Here was where the body had been laid down at first, before being dragged three feet along the floor to the crates, leaving tiny scuffs. There was no blood on the floor, so it had been carried on, or in, something; probably a thick tarpaulin.
Tuning out the guards, he listened carefully. One of Skulks’ many Wielder talents was an ability to hear sounds from the past. He could skim his way back through time to hunt for secrets or, in this case, evidence. It was not always exact and took an extreme concentration to enact. He soon found what he wanted, about six hours ago. There were muffled voices in the side room, grunting and muttering. A thump and a scrape followed, then the distant echo of footsteps, sharp on the floor. Making haste, Skulks skirted the guards undetected and followed the footsteps. There were two people and they were in a hurry. They no longer spoke. He assumed they knew where they were going.
Skulks couldn’t move as fast as he liked when listening to the past. If he wasn’t careful, he would lose his focus and would have to spend time gathering it again. The further back in time he went, the quieter the echoes became and more difficult to follow, until eventually the trail would go cold. The footstep sounds took him deeper into the basement, this area of which was unlit by torch or oil lamp. Skulks didn’t need light to make his way about and soon found himself where the footsteps concluded: a brick wall. He looked at it; it was plain and dirty red, with nothing to distinguish it from any other section of wall one might find oneself studying.
As a skilled practitioner of the thiefly arts, Skulks took only seconds to locate the hidden switch which was pretending to be a brick. He pressed it and a slight rumbling, scraping sound foretold his success as a hidden door opened before him. He took a few moments to study the door: it was old wood, with a thin veneer of brick covering the surface. The hidden switch operated a latch, allowing the door to open.
There was a passage behind the door. It wended along, veering left and right for reasons unfathomable. As if digging a tunnel in a straight line wasn’t hard enough work, those tasked with the hollowing of this one had crafted it in a way that made it take longer than necessary to reach its destination. There were stone steps also, though these were of the straight up and down variety. Skulks could detect signs of heavy cloth being bumped down them, leaving tiny traces of thread where the treads had not been carved smoothly.
Eventually the passage came to an end at a second hidden door, though the term was relative, for on this side of the door it was not hidden at all. Skulks lifted the latch and the door clicked open. He knew that hidden doors invariably opened onto a room of some sort, often containing nice things for him to put into his pockets. On this occasion he was disappointed, for the door opened into a privy, currently empty. A buoyant log bobbed helpfully in the pan, having defied attempts to flush it and informing him with its presence that this privy was still in daily operation.
Wise even beyond his many years, Skulks chose not to listen for the past sounds of activity in this particular room, knowing what he would find. He felt it likely that this manifestation of his Wielding had reached the end of its usefulness for the time being.
Opening the door, he noted that the latrine occupied its own small room, meant for a single occupant, rather than being a more public convenience, where comings and goings would be harder to conceal. It exited onto a nondescript corridor which he didn’t recognize from his limited recent experience of the Chamber Building. Picking a direction at random, he followed it until it eventually disgorged him back at the reception area.
He left the building for now. He needed to wait until night time for his next visit.
Chapter Six
Tugging his captain’s tassel free and stowing it in his pocket, Tan Skulks headed back into the city. He had time to fill and unfortunately he’d not be able to fill it with ale. The first thing to address was his loudly grumbling stomach, which pecked away viciously at his insides and caused his mouth to water at the slightest smell of edibles. Wielding made him hungry and he craved the grease which he hoped the nearby Three Balls tavern would be able to serve him. Having ordered their largest offering of fried meats and (regrettably) a non-alcoholic mug of fruit juice, he sat himself down at a table away from the smattering of other afternoon patrons. The Three Balls proclaimed itself to serve a good meal for a fair price and Skulks was not disappointed with his twelve Slivers worth.
The young serving lady smiled as she put the plates down in front of him. There were seven slices of crispy pig belly, four fat beef sausages with skins straining, a pile of fried potato, seasoned with pepper, a large bloody horse steak, a cake of offal, pink and grey, as well as half a pig snout. All of it fried in a healthy quantity of lard. A second plate held a tall stack of bread slices, fresh from the baker this morning. A third plate had salted butter, not long churned and as creamy as it looked.
With the appe
tite of a man who has not eaten for several days, Skulks shoved the food in his mouth, not caring for his manner at the table. Some ten minutes later as he mopped up the last dregs of lard with the final slice of bread, he beckoned the serving lady over. Not wanting to appear a total slob in front of this much younger, pretty waitress he had the good grace to swallow his food before talking. He managed to speak thusly without propelling any shreds of food onto her apron:
“Do you know where I might see one of the Rat God’s preachers?” He kept his tones neutral, not yet knowing whether these preachers were favoured by the populace.
“Yes, sir,” she promised, eyes shining. “The Prophet Incurious Spelk speaks to us every afternoon at five down by the Chancery Fountain. I’d hoped to make it there today myself, but alas I must work till seven.” Then she looked downcast at the thought of missing out on the wisdom bestowed by the Prophet Incurious Spelk.
“Don’t be disheartened, my child,” spoke Skulks. “I’m sure the Great Prophet’s message will make its way to your heart when you pray this evening.”
“Oh, sir! Are you a believer too?”
“Of course, my child. The Rat God moves among us all, promising us glory and casting his great light upon us. I am come from Qol-Wert in the south to visit my brethren in thrall to the Rat God’s joy.” He was laying it on thick, beginning to get caught up in his imagined persona.
The young lady looked overjoyed at this message of hope. “Sir, it makes me so happy to hear there are others as fervent in service to the Rat God as I!”
Giving her a shoulder comforting squeeze, Skulks told her, “Bless you my child.” Then he made a quick exit from the Three Balls before she could ask him any difficult questions about his faith to the Rat God.
It was a little gone four, so he mooched and meandered, occasionally asking directions to the Chancery Fountain. Hardened was truly a marvel, with sights, sounds and colours surrounding him. Even in the early hours he knew some districts would still be a hive of activity with bakers, tanners, smiths and many other trades often working until after sun down and beginning again before sun up. Some of those workers would still be inebriated from the night before, or at least nursing thick heads and fat tongues.
His path eventually took him to the Chancery Fountain, nearly thirty minutes before five. It was poorly-named for there was no Chancery, but the fountain itself stood at the centre of a square and was therefore an ideal place for people to gather. The fountain was round, with a thick marble wall as its base, about four feet tall. The marble was pitted and cracked, so even when wet there was sufficient purchase for a suitably-clad foot to walk around the circumference, with little risk of an embarrassing fall. Since the fountain had not worked for many years, the footing was secure during most of the year, for Hardened saw little rainfall.
Even now a small crowd was beginning to gather, hubbubing quietly to itself. Assuming the centre of the gathering to be where Prophet Incurious Spelk would address his throng, Skulks took it upon himself to shoulder his way through as close to the front as he could manage. He looked about and noticed that the flock was made up from young, old, rich and poor alike. Many of them had the same shining eyes that he’d noticed in the tavern girl just a few minutes ago. The conversation rippled out predictably.
“I hope the Prophet will cast his gaze upon me today!”
“Did you see how unhappy he was yesterday when the collection jugs were returned to him? We must give more!”
“When do you think the Rat God will return to us?”
“Will he make my foot better?”
“Where do you think he got his robes from?”
And so it continued. The Rat God, if he existed, must have been quivering his whiskers in disapproval at the quality of his newly-found converts. Still, thought Skulks, from these small beginnings cities and more had been known to fall.
As the hour approached five, he estimated that there might be three or four hundred people clustered around Chancery Fountain. Quite a turnout, all things considered. Suddenly a hush fell upon them, interspersed by a few bold whispers.
“Here he comes!”
“That’s him! There!”
“Shush, shush, look!”
A man was walking through the crowd, the people parting to let him pass. Skulks hadn’t noticed which direction this man arrived in the square from, but could make out the top of his head. The man ascended the fountain wall with the help of a wooden step carried by an assistant who had preceded him. The man was dressed in drab green robes which were cinched about the waist and he was wearing a hood. Slowly, deliberately, he turned to face his audience, raising his hand to the hood and gradually drawing it back from his face. He was not a handsome man, nor an ugly one. His face was clean shaven and broad, with a wide mouth and piercing blue eyes. He stared out over the throng, silent, already playing them like a fiddle. The crowd stared back, rapt.
“My friends!” he boomed. “My friends! Have you come to hear the words of the Rat God Plumpus as spoken by me, his humble servant Incurious Spelk?”
Skulks observed that the man didn’t refer to himself as ‘Prophet’. He was sure to have planted the seed though and tended it carefully until it took root. The crowd murmured, with a few brave souls speaking the words “Aye,” or “Yes we’ve come.” Evidently dissatisfied with the timid response, Spelk repeated:
“My friends! Have you come to hear the words of the Rat God Plumpus?”
This time the response was more vocal, with many of the crowd shouting their affirmation. Their excitement was already starting to build. Spelk swept his arm slowly from left to right, as if to encompass everyone before him.
“For many weeks now, I and my fellow preachers have spoken to you in Hardened! We have told you of the Rat God’s wisdom and how he wishes to visit himself upon us in order that he can judge us worthy or unworthy of the peace and prosperity that he offers!”
His voice dropped lower, becoming a hoarse whisper that nevertheless carried clearly to the waiting ears.
“But the Rat God Plumpus has spoken to me. And he is not pleased!”
There were cries of dismay from the audience and Skulks heard at least one person spontaneously burst into tears.
“What is wrong?”
“What have we done?”
“What can we do?”
Spelk resumed, this time louder. “The Rat God is not pleased because you have failed him!”
More cries of woe and beggings for forgiveness emanated from the crowd.
“Hardened is a city of a million people and the Rat God sees only a few hundred at his sermons. Yet, you few are his most valued worshippers!”
There were more rustlings from the crowd at this. Eyes were wiped dry, looking upwards in hope. They were the first and Spelk had just called them the most valued.
“But you have not done well at converting the non-believers! Where are the thousands? The tens, nay the hundreds of thousands to hear the words of Plumpus?” He paused for dramatic effect and to allow his words to sink in.
“When today’s sermon is over, I want you to go out amongst your friends, your neighbours, aye, and your enemies! Bring to them the word of Plumpus and his promises of peace, prosperity and happiness for those who believe in him!”
Skulks had heard the same sermon in dozens of different cities, given by dozens of different preachers, each with a different god. There was Hik-Wert the Sixteen-Eyed Snake, Trembo the Merciless Dog of Marrow and even Poultix the Crippled Chicken. The gods came and the gods went. There might occasionally be a small uprising to overthrow the incumbent god, but generally it was all quite harmless. In time, the new would become the old and the victorious god would be replaced by new gods and new believers with fire in their eyes.
As it happened, Hardened wasn’t particularly fertile ground for the gods to sow their seeds. Economic success, along with a stoic suspicion of anything they couldn’t physically grasp meant that most citizens disdained the pantheon of otherwor
ldly beings they were often urged to take unto their bosoms. Still, that didn’t stop an army of preachers descending upon the city every year, chests pumped up with their fervent zeal, each determined that they would be the one to convert the city and each finding the same hard-faced unwilling-to-believers more likely to cast forth rotten cabbages and tomatoes upon the preacher, than hard-earned Slivers.
Skulks’ ears pricked up at the next utterances from Spelk.
“I hear it said that the Chamber Council have dismissed the wisdom of Plumpus! That they want to stop his word from spreading!” He paused, permitting himself a self-indulgent chuckle. “As if they can deny the gods with an edict.”
The crowd also laughed at this one, a few nervous chuckles rippling through the people.
“Well I say we ignore their lies! What has the Chamber Council ever done for us?”
And so it went on, slipping briefly into sedition before reaching its conclusion. Every sermon Skulks had ever been to ended in the same fashion, and this one was no exception.
“My friends, the Rat God Plumpus needs coin. He is already wealthy beyond any mortal imagination, but he needs to see you give freely as a sign of your faith in him, that we may build monuments in his honour and continue to bring his message to the non-believers!”
Several large jugs were already in circulation amongst the crowd, as the adulating masses dug deep into their pockets in order to garner favour from the all-seeing Plumpus. Skulks had prepared for this by thoroughly rifling the pockets of those around him, so he felt little upset at dropping a small handful of their Slivers into a jug. At the same time, he passed his gaze judgmentally and tutted over those nearby who were searching their pockets fruitlessly for their now missing coins.