by Max Anthony
“No, it sounds like you’re off to High Domes,” replied the Weft. There was a pop and the contract documentation appeared in his hand, which he unfurled and read from:
…the scope of the contract being to assist with matters magical and the apprehension or destruction of persons or entities as agreed between all parties previously mentioned, notwithstanding reasonable scope for extension of persons or entities requiring apprehension or destruction within the jurisdiction of the Ko-Chak city of Hardened…
“So you see, this contract only covers you for our services rendered within this particular city,” said the Weft, the earlier traces of childishness now gone.
“And we have fulfilled our side of the contract by assisting in the destruction of this entity here,” said the Warp, pointing at a demonic leg on the floor.
“Therefore you have a period of exactly seven days in which to tender unto us the exact sum of three thousand Solids, after which you will suffer the pain of death, six kicks to the scrotum and have your spleen removed by...”
Waving them to silence, Skulks gave the matter some thought, wondering if he should request an extension of their services, though this would mean another trip to Mink Dewdrop to draw up a second contract or arbitrate in a dispute over this one. He needed to go to High Domes as soon as possible so couldn’t risk spending time arguing over the details of a new contract, even though he felt slightly conned. Finally, Skulks had to accept that this battle was lost and that the Warp and the Weft had in fact provided a valuable service in assisting with the death of the Grotbeam demon. He told them that he accepted that their part of the contract had been fulfilled and signed an acceptance to that effect.
As he didn’t want to have his spleen removed by a hooked stick shoved up his back passage, Skulks totted up the monies he would be able to hand over immediately. He had a little over seventeen hundred Solids, he reckoned, purloined from a safe in Lisan Flamuscrax’s chamber. The goods he’d trousered alongside them would make the total up to more than three thousand four hundred Solids, even at below black-market rates, but he didn’t really want to spend the time trying to locate a reliable fence to dispose of his variety of silver goblets, cutlery, plates and so forth.
It appeared that the Warp and the Weft were desperate for finance and eager to make a deal. He wondered if they’d started gambling again and used this to leverage an acceptance from them that the stolen goods were of a higher market value than they really were. With both sides now in agreement over an equitable financial settlement, they set about the task of cleaning out the transportable valuables of Tiopan Lunder. The dividing of the spoils was described in a standard ‘first come first served’ clause in the contract, with Warp and Weft forbidden from employing a magical disc of carrying in order to balance out the fact that four hands can grab quicker than two and that each could only carry approximately one third the amount that Skulks could manage.
For all his wealth, Tiopan Lunder didn’t go in for baubles. Skulks was first to a leather pouch containing sixty-five Solids, whilst the Warp wrapped her arms around a tome of incantations that might provide her with some light bedtime reading. Other than that, the spoils were disappointing. There was a diamond-encrusted letter opener with a surprisingly sharp blade that might fetch a couple of hundred Solids. There was also a golden compass on the table next to the map. Skulks took a liking to it for it was a long time since he’d owned a compass and slipped it into a pocket.
The Warp and the Weft looked glum and were reduced to hauling out larger items which they’d normally disdain, such as the blood-splattered map, a few ivory-topped staves and the crystal ball.
Before he left, Skulks freed the monkey from its cage, which immediately fled next door to Number 23, where it would spend the next eight months hiding in the walls, making untraceable scratching noises and stealing any unattended food.
Chapter Twenty
There were still several hours to go until daylight. Skulks took the Warp and the Weft to the Filigreed Whore, where final payment on account was made to the satisfaction of all. He bade them farewell, cursing that Dewdrop had included a specific clause in their contract that Tan Skulks was not allowed to steal from the Warp and the Weft either while the contract was active or for a period of twenty days thereafter, for he was now almost destitute. On the other hand, stealing from other Wielders was never a good idea and it was unlikely to end in a positive outcome. Besides, he did genuinely like the Warp and the Weft.
Instead, he broke into the room of the Filigreed Whore’s proprietor, knowing that the establishment’s owner would be there with his wife. Skulks was not intruding to admire the beauty of this wife, for it was non-existent, but to help himself to her grooming products. As the couple snored away, blissfully unaware of his presence, Skulks helped himself to a concoction of Jing-Jing berries from a cupboard in their bathroom. Back in his room, he applied berry paste liberally over his hair, waited for a period of twenty minutes and rinsed it clear in the communal bathing room. He looked at himself in the mirror, now with his hair a luxurious shade of blond. It was common knowledge amongst those people who regularly dyed their hair, that one must follow the Jing-Jing berries with a further paste of ground Frizzle Beetles at a cost of six Slivers, for these were known to be essential in maintaining the new shade. Had Skulks been told this, he would have looked temporarily baffled, before sweeping the advice from his mind, considering himself to have better things to spend his stolen Slivers on.
As he let himself out onto the street, light was just starting to creep up on the horizon, so Skulks made haste to the Avenue of Bounteous Tapestries, where all things cloth were made and sold. There was a large number of shops, for this was a popular street where one could become the gentleman or lady about town for the simple exchange of a few dozen Slivers. Or more, if the gentleman desired a garment cut to take account of which side he dressed, or the lady wished to lower her décolletage in order to woo those who took notice of such things. This latter would be approximately half of the population of Hardened.
Dressed as he was in his favoured and comfortable clothing, being a dark tunic, trousers and boots, Tan Skulks was not looking for fashion, though he would not have known style even had a large pile of voguish clothing materialised above his head and fallen upon him, with signs sewn into the lapels proclaiming “I am a fashionable garment”. Had such an event taken place, he would likely have brushed the clothing aside before walking into the nearest shop and coming out with a pair of bright green dungarees. What Skulks was looking for was a purveyor of periwigs and he was spoiled for choice. Did he want to break into Pawk’s Brows and Wigs, Grimshaw’s Real Hair Replacements or the unamusingly titled Wiggle It?
Thinking to himself that Grimshaw’s Real Hair Replacements put forth the most quality and traditional impression of the trio, he decided to look in there first. It was on the second floor and one gained access via a rug shop, through which Skulks trod before gaining entry into the wig shop. It appeared that Jemima Grimshaw was most definitely at the quality end of the wig market, her clientele in no way perturbed by having to walk through a rug shop in order to view her fine collection of head coverings, all of which were made of genuine human hair, ethically sourced via the exchange of a fair quantity of Slivers paid directly to the owner themselves, thereby cutting out the middle-man.
Skulks counted himself fortunate to still have a fine head of hair, which even after several hundred years showed no signs of thinning. However, it was not a wig he had come here to steal, but a moustache. In the ever-changing world of Hardened high fashion, the moustache flip-flopped from being a desired lip ornament to an object of pity and target of furtive mirth when strutting one’s stuff in the city’s tavern hot spots. The dictates of fashion vacillated with such frequency that it was impossible for the human lip to grow hair quickly enough to keep up with the cycle of on-off-on, therefore it was not uncommon for a gentleman to possess a large collection of false moustaches in a variety o
f sizes, colours and styles. The phrase he’s a good tasher had started out as a compliment for a refined man with an impressive collection of false moustaches, but had now been corrupted and was widely used to refer to anyone who was seen as a general good egg, with few people now aware of the phrase’s origins. Is Loopy Jenkins coming tonight? He’s a good tasher he is.
Where style was concerned, Skulks was definitely not a good tasher, more of an outright buffoon. Thus, it was no shock that he felt himself drawn towards a large Cow’s Skirt moustache, so-called because it hung straight and limp like a cheap cut of beef. He helped himself to a stack of reusable sticky pads made for the adherence of moustachery and plopped his new hair happily onto his upper lip, admiring himself in a nearby mirror. Content and secretly pleased with his new look, he made good his escape. The proprietor of the shop would not notice the missing moustache for six weeks and even then she would feel a slight relief that it had been stolen for it was taking up valuable display space in her shop. It was probably children, she would tell herself. Maybe they intended to stick it on a farmyard animal as a practical joke or something, though even the stupidest chicken wouldn’t have dared leave the coop wearing it.
With misappropriated hair perched contentedly upon face, a disguised Tan Skulks headed towards the Upriver Docks, slightly inland from the Bridge of Clarts over which he’d crossed several days before. When Skulks had picked up Lunder’s voice after killing the Grotbeam demon, the wizard had used the term ‘upriver’, which seemed an odd word to use if one planned to travel overland to High Domes. As it happened, the river-bound trip was a good three days shorter than the overland one so it would make sense for Lunder to take his cargo along the Ten Dams River to his destination. Although the lands around Hardened were gentle, a few days inland saw the edges of the God’s Spine Mountains which came right down to the river. On the other side the Million Trees Forest lay, its vast expanse dwarfed in height by the colossal peaks. There were other, more circuitous routes one could take between High Domes and Hardened, but they added days, if not weeks, to the travel time. Consequently, almost all of the commerce between the two cities (and those even further upriver) came by barge and it was for this reason that the strikes were so injurious. The Chamber Council was wise in that it kept stores of essentials in reserve, but they could only last so long.
On a normal day, the Upriver Docks would have been teeming with activity, with ten, twenty or sometimes even thirty barges docked or waiting to dock. Teams of handlers would hover nearby, hoping to be picked, jostling for the most advantageous positions and to get the most paid work. The goods would be carried onto a variety of carts and hauled into the city. Occasionally the owner would collect their cargo by hand if they were waiting for something small or particularly valuable. So, one would often find carriages standing in line with anxious merchants peering out, looking to see if their barge was approaching.
Today, it was mostly deserted. A few teams of men kicked their feet about near the water’s edge, bored but with nothing else to do. It was part of the dockmaster’s duties to ensure there was always labour available, even where it was not needed. The dockmaster was also required to ensure the docksides were kept free of excrement and other animal detritus and so there was a group of three men and one woman propped against the wall of her office with an array of wide-bladed shovels and brushes lined up next to them. The cobbles were treacherous enough when wet, let alone having the additional burden of trying to keep one’s balance after treading ankle-deep into a horse’s dung while holding the heavy end of a three-thousand Solid grand piano as the owner fluttered about in terror that it might be damaged.
The dockmaster was a woman by the name of Doris Grumps, who had ruled both Upriver and Downriver Docks with an iron fist for the best part of thirty years. A doughty lady, she had survived at least half a dozen assassination attempts and many more efforts at intimidation from criminal gangs who would have preferred to be in control of the monies changing hands for the transportation of cargoes. Skulks had heard that she was an expert in the arts of Dirty Dirty Combat. This was a fighting style feared by proponents of mere Dirty Combat. While the Dirty combatant might throw sand in their opponent’s eyes, hit them in the side of the head with a knuckle duster and then kick them repeatedly in the face when they were unconscious, the Dirty Dirty combatant would additionally bite both of their foe’s ears and nose off and throw vinegar in the wounds before finishing it off with a good sandpapering. If the recipient ever woke up, they might find their ears and nose had been sewn onto their forehead as a warning not to be so stupid again.
So, Doris Grumps was generally recognized as an essential part of life at the docks where violence was not uncommon and the only way to keep it in check was the threat of even greater violence. This did not, however, interfere with the long standing tradition which preceded Grumps’ reign by several hundred years, of naming one’s dockside tavern after a misfortune which had happened to the dockmaster. The names changed frequently to keep up with current affairs. After all, they had a captive market and didn’t need to rely on consistency to get custom. Consequently, Skulks walked past The Dockmaster’s Withered Baps, Doris’s Hairy Chin and The Dockmaster’s Ripped Pants, before he decided to venture into The Incompetent Dockmaster.
Even at this early hour, there was a modicum of bustle. There wasn’t much in the way of coin flowing through the docks these days, but some of the men managed to get a bit of work here and there, occasionally poaching a job or two at the Downriver Docks by the Deeping Sea, before they were caught and driven off. Seaborne traffic was still arriving after all and it was this which kept the city ticking over. Anyway, knew Skulks, it was accepted wisdom that men always found the coin to buy ale.
He plonked himself down on a stool at the bar. The bar keep did a double-take, before realising that the new customer was indeed sporting that moustache. Skulks ordered a mug of Wharbler’s Whet Whistle, fifteen slices of crispy bacon and a side order of liver, paying up front. As he waited for his food, Skulks engaged the bar keep in conversation:
“Things looking a bit grim around here,” he said.
“Yup,” said the bar keep, more of a listener than a talker.
“Any news of when this’ll all be over?”
“Nope.”
“I’ve got some paid work. Anyone in particular I should speak to?”
“Yup. Over there.” The bar keep pointed at a table of four men in the far corner.
The four men could wait, but his plate of meats could not. Skulks had exerted himself severely over the last few days and he felt constantly hungry. Finding his new moustache to be something of an obstacle between food and mouth, Skulks tipped his head this way and that as he sought the best angle to allow him to push food into his face as quickly as possible without his Cow’s Skirt getting in the way.
With the plate clean, Skulks picked up his mug and sauntered over to the four men whom the bar keep had indicated. They were all broad and strong-looking. Perhaps slightly disreputable in appearance, but certainly no more so than any other of their peers. The bargemen weren’t known for being the most upstanding members of the community, but generally they worked hard and were honest. Being a bargeman was actually somewhat of a privilege and they knew that if they double-crossed their customers it wouldn’t be long before they’d be on the dockside, jockeying for position to earn a few Slivers for unloading cargo.
“Good morning fellows,” Skulks said. “I’ve got some paid work that needs doing. Mind if I sit here?” He was already upon a chair by the time one of the bargemen opened his mouth to speak.
“Help yerself. What sort of paid work have you got?” They were interested already - very interested.
“Well,” said Skulks, leaning forward, “I need a barge. But not just any old barge. I need a fast barge.”
The four men looked blankly back at him. “There’s no such thing as a fast barge,” one of them said. “We punt it up river and then we get to wher
e we’re going.”
“Besides,” said a second man, “we’re on strike.”
“Yeah. There’re no fast barges and we’re on strike.”
“Yes,” said Skulks. “I hear you are all on strike when it comes to goods. I just want passage for myself, you see.”
Brows furrowed. They didn’t normally take passengers. Wood, metal bars, sacks of grain, the occasional box of perfumed candies or caged animal. But not passengers. Why would anyone want to ride on a cargo barge? As it happened, there were such things as dedicated passenger barges, but Skulks had little desire to be crowded in with two dozen other people weighing things down as they meandered slowly upriver. He cast glances anxiously left and right, dropping his voice into a hoarse whisper.
“My great grandmother has run away with my father-in-law on a barge,” he said. “And she’s going to High Domes to marry him.” The four men looked puzzled.
“And if she gets there and marries him, I’ll lose out on my inheritance!” They started to look more attentive now. One of them asked:
“So…you want to hire a barge. Sorry a fast barge to kidnap your great grandmother in order to get your inheritance?”
“Yes, that’s it,” said Skulks.
“But won’t she just escape again and marry your father-in-law anyway?” asked the fourth bargeman, showing himself to have greater powers of deductive reasoning than his colleagues.
“Aha, you’d think so, wouldn’t you? In fact, my great grandmother, hideous old crone that she is, is a little bit addled. If I can only get her back from the clutches of my wicked father-in-law I’m certain I can convince her of her folly!”
Raising a hand, the first bargeman counted off on his fingers.
“One, you hire a very fast barge, I mean our very fast barge. Two, we catch up with your father-in-law and hideous old great grandmother. Three, we…we…” He was stuttering now as he tried to keep up.