by Max Anthony
If the Rat God Plumpus disapproved of Skulks stealing from his flock, he didn’t show it and Skulks was able to exit the square without being struck down from above or being suddenly visited by a localised plague of vermin. This was fortunate, as it might have drawn attention to the fact that he was following the Prophet Incurious Spelk.
Spelk headed off down a wider street, leading towards one of the more affluent districts of Hardened. He had a small group of the devoted gathered about him: those who had been reluctant for the sermon to end and hoped to hear a few more of his words. The street was too loud for Skulks to hear, but he could imagine what the conversations entailed.
“Please tell us oh wise Prophet what would the Rat God have us do? What more can we do to show our love for his greatness?” So went his imagination, and were he able to have overheard, he would have found his imagination closely reflected by reality.
After only a few minutes, Spelk reached his destination – the Hotel of Wines. It was well chosen: plush enough for comfort, yet not so expensive that it would alienate his growing flock. Skulks was expecting one of the younger and more attractive disciples to be invited into the hotel, but Spelk piously dismissed them and vanished inside. They milled outside for a few minutes, looking bereft, before they dispersed into the surrounding alleyways.
Chapter Seven
Tan Skulks spent the next two or three hours wandering the streets, waiting for full darkness to fall. Hardened was rarely boring. He watched jugglers, a dance troupe and a man swallowing a sword. He bought and ate a half-loaf sandwich full of mixed meats and dripping with juices. He sat in a small square as children played out past their bed times, laughing and running with boundless energy. The vibrant life of Hardened pleased him.
Skulks prided himself on his efficiency; even as he judged it dark enough for the task at hand, he was already at his destination. The Chamber Building gardens were still teeming with people and Skulks flitted through them. The main building itself was locked and sealed to the public in the early evening of each day, though the most zealous of staff remained to work late. Skulks expected there to be a contingent of guards as well, in case someone such as he were to gain entry.
He sized things up. The front door would be easiest, but with it so exposed it would mean waiting for someone to leave and open it for him. The lowest window was ten feet off the ground, but again, he couldn’t rule out someone noticing it being opened. His eyes searched further up. The walls were smooth, offering little purchase, and there was a wide overhang near the top. An impossible climb.
Four minutes later, he was standing on the roof, stretching. He was a Wielder! No mere Chamber Building wall could defeat him!
In fact, it had been quite a challenge. The more eyes there were, the harder it was for him to fool them into not seeing him. He couldn’t walk through a thronging market in broad daylight undetected, for example, nor could he tap-dance in a library without being overheard. Added to this, it had been quite a tough climb that took even more focus from his Wielding. All-in-all, he was quite pleased with himself.
Every roof has a hatchway or a door, he knew. How else could they have built the roof if they couldn’t get up and down? While his logic was false, he was correct that the Chamber Building roof had a door. There was a small, square construction on the roof, with a door in it. This door was a dull iron, the green paintwork blistered and flaking, allowing the surface of the door to rust. It was chained and padlocked on the inside. The padlock weighed nearly as much as a full-sized cow dung, made of unrusted steel. It had been constructed by a locksmith of competence and was designed with seven pick-breakers in the mechanism to keep out thieves. The key was kept in a box in a crate long since forgotten in the labyrinthine depths of the basement. Added to this, the hinges had been designed to screech when opened, foiling any attempt at clandestine entry.
Using his Wielding, Skulks reached through the door and put a gentle arm around the metaphorical shoulder of the padlock and asked it nicely if it would open for him. It was old, grouchy and reluctant. With some nudging and cajoling he persuaded the mechanism to rotate into position. With a little bit of persuasion, the shackle popped open, leaving the padlock chain dangling. He pushed gently at the door, telling the hinges that they didn’t really need to make a noise when they opened. The quiet calm of the night was so peaceful after all. With that, he was inside.
Sometimes one needed to have a brick wall hit with an uprooted tree until the bricks were reduced to motes of dust, for which work Jake the Headcracker would be ideally suited. Sometimes one needed to shatter the magic-woven gates of an errant wizard’s keep as he capered madly on his balcony. For that, the requirements might favour a Ten Hands or the Warp and the Weft. Occasionally a person might require a fine tactician, who could stride up and down the front lines, inspiring a small and badly trained army of farmers to overcome the elephant-riding elite guard of an invading king. There was Lucy Amber for that. However, if a document needed pilfering from a concealed pocket in a foreign king’s underpants or a signet ring was to be stolen from the finger of a noblewoman in the heights of passion on her wedding night, for that there was Tan Skulks.
Descending the few stairs to the landing below, he barely rustled the air behind him. A few oil-lamps were still lit on this, the top floor. It could have taken him a good amount of wandering to find his target. He could have found guard patrols forever in his path, or side doors opening at random, as late-night employees of the Chamber Council hurried about their business. None of this happened, for the room he sought was only three doors along the corridor from where he’d made his stealthy entrance.
“Clerk Souter” said the sign on the door. It was locked, but Skulks barely noticed as he let himself in, closing the door silently behind him. As it happens, he wasn’t sure what he was looking for or even if he was on the right track, but the footstep echoes his Wielding had heard in the basement next to the dead body had a similar ‘clack-clack’ to them as the shoes worn by Clerk Souter on the day of Skulks’ arrival. It seemed odd that he wouldn’t be dressed for stealth when disposing of a body, but not every criminal was an expert in their field.
Souter’s room was modest, befitting his status as a minor wheel in the governing machine. The walls were painted rather than tiled or clad. The carpet looked like it had been fitted before the building was finished and there were no decorations to make it feel like a home from home. There were no paintings, plants, favourite vase, nor even a cup inscribed with the words ‘Most Loved Father’. There was a large cupboard and a desk which was of adequate size and scrupulously arranged. Parchments were stacked carefully and weighted at each corner to prevent unwanted curling at the edges. A pair of shoes was under the desk: black leather with hard soles. They were well enough made but not expensive enough to arouse any suspicions that Souter was a criminal mastermind.
Skulks flipped idly through the top half dozen parchments on the desk. There was an itinerary for Chamber Member Harman Granulis, an inventory of cheese at a dockside warehouse, a list of plaintiffs granted access to the Chamber Building over the coming week. There was nothing out of the ordinary. Skulks made sure to shuffle the parchments slightly out of order, which gave him an inexplicable sense of childish happiness.
The desk contained three drawers. The top one had quills and a pot of ink for scribing. The middle drawer hosted a small tin of Ko-Chak hotleaf and a smaller tin of sniffing tobacco. The bottom drawer was locked. Skulks shook his head at the quality of the security, or the lack thereof. Why did anyone even bother to lock desk drawers, he wondered, when a blind dog with a pin could open one? His disdain proved true on this occasion and he slid the drawer open, finding what every detective would hope to find: a diary!
Skulks leafed through it. It was early in the Ko-Chak calendar, so there were only a few dozen entries:
First of Anchor’s Morn. Sandwiches for lunch. Pie for dinner.
Second of Anchor’s Noon. Sandwiches for lunch. Sausa
ges for dinner.
Third of Anchor’s Eve. Bad stomach. Sandwiches for lunch. Sandwiches for dinner.
Fourth of Anchor’s Moon. Found hole in sock. Sandwiches for lunch. Stew for dinner.
... And so it continued. Clerk Souter appeared to be a man of great brevity and low expectations. Replacing the diary, Skulks was ready to start rifling through the cupboard, when his Thief’s Senses (in his imagination, the words began with capital letters) picked something up. “A-ha!” he said to the empty room. There was a false bottom to the drawer. When he pressed the wood just so, it hinged up to reveal a small sheaf of papers.
Confident he had found signed confessions to everything, or at least something containing names tallied with crimes committed, Skulks eagerly scanned through the papers. It appeared that Clerk Souter had indeed been keeping secrets, though they weren’t the secrets Skulks had hoped to find. The papers were a list of accounts, fastidiously maintained. The ins and outs of Souter’s gambling activities were carefully scribed in all their gory details. From the list of financial drawings, Souter appeared to be both a very poor gambler and a very dedicated one. His outgoings were far in excess of a clerk’s salary.
Another sheet held details of the people to whom he owed money. There were at least eight different lending-men, with Souter paying off one with the money of another. It wouldn’t be long until it all came tumbling down and the lending-men started blackmailing him to do them ‘favours’.
“Everyone has their secrets,” thought Skulks, “but this man isn’t a murderer.” With that, he put everything back in its place, made his way downstairs and let himself out of the main entrance, not caring if anyone noticed the door opening on his way out.
Chapter Eight
At a temporary dead end, at least until the morning, Skulks decided he needed to find out the latest rumours in circulation. The best place to find loose tongues and opinionated buffoons was, of course, a tavern. Such an establishment would also be a fine place to obtain sustenance and if it were accompanied by a foaming mug of McGivern’s Lunacy, then who was he to complain? He pondered whether he should return to The King’s Giblets, which had provided such an effervescing ejaculation of high-quality conjecture the previous evening. Then he remembered his theft of the patron’s cup and decided that it would be best to avoid any compromising questions.
Having a wealth of choice was a bad thing for the indecisive, though this was not trait Skulks possessed. As such, the door of The Five Humped Goatherd found itself being pushed enthusiastically open from the outside. Full of promise, The Five Humped Goatherd advised the wavering street-side punter that “Song and Much Merriment” was to be found within, as well as “Twenty-Five Local Ales and Spirits”. Entering, Skulks felt immediately at home, even if this was small compliment for Skulks would have felt immediately at home standing next to a barrel of ale in a freshly-manured field.
Upon a raised wooden area to the back of the room, a buxom woman was coming towards the end of a local favourite that she was singing lustily:
…and she gave him back his wooden cock,
And he returned most soft her missing tit,
The love between them sweet again.
As the song ended, Skulks made his way to the bar, still humming the happy refrain to himself and finding his foot tapping of its own volition. True to its word, the bar was studded liberally with wooden-handled ale-taps, offering a bewildering array of local produce. Smiling winningly at the lady of the bar, Skulks asked her to provide him with a cup of whatever she recommended. An enquiry revealed that the tavern also had a selection of pies, available to those with three Slivers or more in their pockets. Scant moments later, Skulks was drinking a cup of Throckmorton’s Toenail, contemplating the two jowl and pickle pies in front of him, their crusts golden and inviting.
The citizens of Hardened were mostly a friendly lot and it wasn’t long before Skulks, with pies consumed, was engaged in talk with a man nearby, who it turned out was a local baker of some repute.
“Now the thing with yer heavy bread,” the man lectured, “is that the dough needs to stand for longer. A good six hours is how we do it.” Skulks nodded, checking off his fingers as if taking careful note.
“And yer sconey cakes need extra butter and sugar. People know when their sconey cake’s got a short measure in it. They like ‘em sweet and dense.”
It wasn’t long before his brow furrowed and he confided in Skulks what was really worrying him.
“But the bargemen are on strike. I won’t get any flour tomorrow. It comes downriver from Nineteen Sailors and the bargemen won’t carry anything. I’ve only got flour for another four days and it’ll take ten days to get it overland. I might have to shut up shop or get black market flour and put up my prices. And of course with these murders, there are fewer people coming out when it’s dark for a dinnertime loaf.”
So there it was - talk of strikes and murders. Soon the city would be buzzing with it. Before Skulks could encourage him further, he felt a tap on his shoulder. Turning around, he found himself looking up at the broad, battered face of a particularly large gentleman, with heavy-lidded eyes indicating he’d made good progress along the twenty-five local ales and spirits. He loomed a good half-foot taller and wider than Skulks. His squashed nose and crumpled ears gave rise to the notion that he liked a fight. A thick, stubby finger with dirt-embedded fingernail made the journey across the intervening space and prodded Skulks in the shoulder.
“You’re standing in my space,” advised the thug. His breath alone would have felled a lesser man.
“Ah!” responded Skulks, his face lighting up in mock recognition. “I’ve been waiting for you!” His voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, clearly audible to everyone present. “Jerry the Ratchet has sent me to speak to you. ‘Look out for him,’ he told me. ‘He’s a big feller and you’ll know him by his handsome face.’” Jerry the Ratchet was a local ruffian, who looked after a minor band of lesser ruffians and whom Skulks had never met.
With his breath almost turning the air green, the thug looked puzzled, “What does Jerry the Ratchet want with me?” before continuing “And why did he ask you to stand in my space?”
It was clear that the thug was either too drunk or too stupid to be dissuaded from combat. Raising his voice further, Skulks responded:
“Jerry the Ratchet told me there’s a bounty on your balls. He’s offered me five Slivers every time I kick you in them. TEN Slivers a kick if I use a steel toe-cap! Aye and the bounty is open to all, he says.” He let the thug digest the words, awaiting the inevitable outcome.
“I’m going to kill you and then I’m going to find Jerry the Ratchet!” bellowed the thug, issuing forward with a surprisingly fast jab towards Skulks’ face, who dodged it easily and ducked under the next.
“I’m not to touch your beautiful face though!” said Skulks, further enraging his opponent, who attempted to clasp him in a meaty bear-hug. A few braver patrons chuckled at this. The man was known to a number of them; he was feared and not at all liked.
Sidestepping, Skulks continued his goading. “A man with such chiselled features must surely have great need of his balls for the army of ladies queuing outside his front door. Five Slivers per kick is cheap!” The patrons in the bar were openly laughing now.
The thug was furiously angry. He was used to intimidating his opponents and enjoyed those moments when he was standing over the prone bodies of his beaten victims as nearby witnesses looked on, mute in the face of his savagery. He dropped low, unleashing his favourite left-right-uppercut flurry and watched as the much smaller man in front of him ducked effortlessly, fully composed.
“The ladies of Hardened would never forgive me if I caused damage to your knee-weakening countenance, so let me instead hit you in the arse!” cried Skulks, punching the man on the nose. The locals roared with laughter, enjoying this immensely. For his part, the thug was unpleasantly surprised to find that Skulks punched with the weight of a far larger man
and this first punch had broken his nose. Two more punches followed the first, rocking the thug back on his heels, dazing him. He was too stupid to know fear and for all his eagerness to fight, he’d lost his fair share of scraps to other large men. The thug picked up a nearby stool and swung it ferociously at his taunting opponent, who deflected it harmlessly with his hand.
“And now, before I cause any damage to this good lady’s fine establishment, I think it’s time I collected my bounty!”
The thug felt a sharp, numbing pain in his balls as Skulks’ foot connected. To his dismay he found that Skulks was indeed wearing steel toe-caps. The pain was great and he knew from experience it would soon feel a thousand times worse as his body caught up with what had happened. This was followed by another pain and another. He found himself wheezing on the floor, clutching at his badly crushed unmentionables.
Turning to face the overjoyed crowd, Skulks told them:
“I’m not a greedy man! Thirty Slivers should be sufficient tonight! Dearest lady, would you be so kind as to serve up thirty Slivers of drinks for the good people of the bar? I know where I can get another thirty when these cups are dry!”
Realising what would be entailed in getting another thirty Slivers, the thug made his way out in a half crawl, half walk, pausing only once to vomit on the floor.
It was the start of an excellent evening, during which Skulks sampled twelve of the local ales and spirits, ate another jowl and pickle pie and enjoyed partaking in several rousing choruses of ‘The Blacksmith’s Randy Horse’, before stumbling back to his room in the early hours.
Chapter Nine
The following morning, at a little after eleven, the most recently appointed captain of the guard strode confidently up the steps leading to the Chamber Building reception. Those with a keen eye would have noted that Captain T Skulks looked perhaps a little pale and ungroomed compared to his more smartly turned out peers. Shabby, one might almost have thought. As if Captain T Skulks was feeling fractionally under the weather, or had been the recipient of some minor bad news that weighed upon him.