The Corpse-Rat King

by Lee Battersby

  It is said that the dead are infinitely patient, although it is usually said by the living, and how would they know? Perhaps they are, but only if they have nowhere to be, and nothing to be running from. Marius knew how to be patient. It was part of his craft. Even so, the hours chafed. It was mid-morning when he took his seat. By the time those passing him drew lunches from capes and carts and settled in to eat, his eyes were itching. Still he sat, eyes fixed upon the gate ahead. Carts arrived, arguments took place, and tolls were handed over. Marius paid no attention to them. What was important to him came afterwards, once each supplicant had passed through the gate and the guards were left with whatever bounty they had taken. He watched as lunch came and went, and the afternoon was spent one trudging step after another, one petulant transaction upon the next. The sun began its lazy descent behind the spires and towers of the city, and still he did not move. Shadows became puddles of black, then pools, then one large ocean that stretched from city to hill and up into the sky. The city bells rang for day’s end, then final prayer. Torches were lit along the final approach to the city and over each gate along the wall, and still Marius sat unmoving. On the road around him, groups of travellers, deciding that one more night could stand between them and the attempt to find lodgings, drew their carts to the edge of the road and climbed inside, or nestled in whatever hollow they could find in the gloom, and drew cloaks over their faces. Marius watched a final few enter the city, and then, though the gates still stood open to receive guests, he watched the guards make ready for the long, empty hours of the night. Only then, when it was clear to him what the men at the gates prized most dearly, did he allow himself a small laugh. He stood and listened to the mumbling crowd along the road. Then he set off into the deep darkness, away from the campfires, to make ready.

  It is commonly believed that an army marches on its stomach, like some million-headed snail. Marius had been in an army, once, for about six weeks. Long enough to learn the whereabouts of the regimental pay supplies, and separate them from those who expected to be paid. He had learned many things during that time, chief among them being how far into the mountains he needed to run before he was safe from execution. But he also knew that it is not the stomach which is the most important aspect of a soldier’s existence. Any spear carrier with decent enough cunning and a sympathetic sergeant can find a meal. What a soldier truly prizes, and considers the greatest skill to be acquired, is sleep. Not sleep as you and I understand it, in a bed, perhaps even in our own homestead, with a cuddly wife or acrobatic mistress besides us. But sleep in the rain, sleep on a mountain pass with hateful foreigners in the rocks above and a two hundred foot fall below, sleep while the legs still march and the ears still hear orders. Sleep, standing at an open gate with a rich, under-defended city at your back. Sleep, undiscovered.

  A sergeant may be sympathetic to many things, but sleeping on duty will never be one of them.

  An hour after Marius left his position on the hillock above the final approach he shuffled the last few steps to the mouth of the city gate.

  “Hello, lads.”

  Twenty minutes amongst sleeping travellers had transformed him. Calfskin gloves covered his hands, and the worn-out shoes he had been wearing since the turn of the year were gone, replaced by a pair of sturdy leather hiking boots that looked as if they had only just embarked upon their first journey. His travel-worn clothes, and more importantly, the nature of his features, lay hidden deep in the folds of a hooded oilskin cape. A thick knobkerrie completed the ensemble, and Marius leant upon it as if it were a cane, surveying the hooded eyes of the guards. He suppressed a smile. Nobody likes being disturbed from dozing, particularly if they’re being disturbed in order to work.

  “Gate’s closed for the evening.”

  “Looks open to me,” Behind the guards, two wooden doors, twice the height of a man, thick and unadorned and of rough construction, stood open. A corridor the thickness of the wall above, perhaps ten feet in all, led into a short square. Marius could see an open hole in the roof of the corridor. Breach the doors, and the pot that undoubtedly stood above them could pour boiling oil directly onto you before you made the open plaza. Nasty stuff, but a city will do whatever it can to protect the dignity of its Gods-fearing mothers and pure virgin daughters, even if nobody can remember having met one. He tilted his head to indicate the open passage, grunting slightly as he did so, and leaned further onto his support, shuffling forward a step in the process.

  “I said it’s closed, old man.” The guards looked at each other over the top of Marius’ head. “That is, unless you can pay the toll.”

  This time, Marius couldn’t help but grin. “Oh, yes. And what that might be?”

  “Well,” the older, heavier guard said, resting his hands on his hips and squaring himself up between Marius and the doorway. “That all depends on what you’ve got, doesn’t it?”

  Some things never fail, Marius thought. The old teach the young all the mistakes they’ve spent years perfecting, the strong never stop to look closely at the weak, and the prepared always vanquish the stupid.

  “Got?” he replied, cheerily. “Oh, lads, I haven’t got a blessed thing.”

  “Oh, dear,” the older guard said. “Oh, dear, oh dear. You hear that Jeltho? Not a thing, he says.”

  “Yeah, Ej, not a thing.” The younger fellow laughed, a thick, hopeful sound.

  “I find that hard to believe, don’t you, Jeltho?”

  “Yeah, Ej, yeah.”

  Big Ej stepped forward, looming over Marius. “I wonder if you’re not trying to hold out on us, old man. I wonder if I’d not be better off searching you for contraband, and see just what you’re hiding.”

  “Is Sergeant Olling still patrol master of these gates?” Marius asked softly. Ej stopped, and glanced at his young offsider. “Only, I remember him being patrol master when I was in the guard.”

  Ej leaned back, and narrowed his gaze. “What about it?”

  Marius waved his hand airily. “Oh, it’s nothing, really. It’s just, I can’t believe old Olling would be in charge and tolerate any, well, tithing, shall we say?”

  The two soldiers shared another glance, and Marius pressed harder into the silence. “Does he know about the Maria Hole yet?”

  “What?”

  “Oh, you know, the Maria Hole. Down the wall there, twenty feet or so? Base of the wall, hole like the shape of old Maria Fellaini’s front entrance? I don’t suppose you remember old Maria. Too young, you are. But oh, when she danced the peekaboo, a strong man would have to see the doctor, get a salve to help with the bruises, you know what I mean, hey?” Marius chuckled. “But I can’t believe old Olling’s in charge, and one of you isn’t down there having a kip, out of sight, in the warm. Must be someone else, now.”

  The silence between the two men deepened. Marius waited, head tilted, watching their uncertainty with a smile. Slowly, without talking, the guards reached the right decision, as he knew they would.

  “You served?” Ej asked.

  “Oh, yes. Was here for the Whores Uprising. That was a weekend, let me tell you.”

  Ej nodded. “What’s your name, brother?”

  It was all Marius could do not to cackle. “Ebbel. Ebbel Samming. Sorry I don’t have anything to offer a former brother in arms. Should have known better. You have a good night, lads.” He turned his back to the gate, began to take a shuffling step away.

  “Wait on, now.”

  “Sorry?”

  There was a hurried exchange of whispers. When Marius turned back, young Jeltho was absent, but the sound of rapidly moving footsteps could be heard, heading off down the outside of the wall.

  “No charge for a brother in arms,’” Ej said. “You go on in. You’ve earned the right.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Of course,” Ej said. “Only… if you do catch up with the patrol master….”

  “When did he last stand at a gate, hey?” Marius shuffled forward, leaned into Ej so that they
stood, shoulder pressed to shoulder. He patted the bigger man on the arm. “I’m not one to rat out a brother guardsman, my friend. You have a good night.”

  “You too, Ebbel.” They parted and Marius limped through the gateway. When he was ten feet or so past the gate, Ej called out.

  “Oh, Ebbel.”

  Marius froze. He turned slowly, every muscle in his body preparing for flight. “Yes?”

  “Try the Mandrake Root. Tell Dettsie I sent you. They’ll have a room for you.”

  Marius waved the knobkerrie in salutation. “Thank you, friend. Thank you.”

  He shuffled away as fast as his charade would allow. As soon as he rounded the first corner he dispensed with the knobkerrie and the limp, and began to stride down through a maze of interconnecting alleyways away from the gate. He had spent a time in the Borgho City guard, or at least, as their prisoner. And there was a hole down the wall from the southern gate, but it neither resembled nor smelled like anyone’s front entrance. It was, however, the reason he wasn’t still under the guard’s stewardship. It had taken him three months to become trustee of the gaolers’ toilets, and another week to tunnel through the accumulated shit of the city’s sump holes. There wasn’t a bath strong enough to help those two guards tonight.

  And, he thought, patting his breeches pocket, Gods help ‘brother’ Ej if he mentioned to anyone that he’d just been speaking to his old companion Ebbel Samming. At least, God help him if he mentioned it to anyone who knew how to curse in Feltish. There are worse insults, but it takes one man to mouth them and another to mime the actions.

  An open doorway beckoned, and Marius ducked into it, taking a moment to transfer Ej’s coin purse from his breeches to a hidden pocket sewn into the lining of his jerkin. At least three Riner in ‘tolls’, judging by the weight. Enough to start the evening.

  Out in the street again, Marius took a moment to get his bearings, before choosing a side lane and setting off at a quick clip. The Mandrake’s Root was a soldier’s haunt, a sturdy old building in the backstreets of the merchant’s quarter: close enough to the food stalls and the prostitutes to be convenient but far enough from the foot traffic for a bit of peace and quiet, so that no casual passerby would interrupt the soldiers in their drinking, and no local would make the detour because they knew better. It was the perfect place for a former soldier to rest, have a tankard or two, and catch up on the gossip and rumours that made up the majority of a serviceman’s conversational skill set. From where he was, Marius estimated it to be no more than a dozen streets to the east. He set his back towards it and headed towards the docks.

  Despite the hour, the streets were packed. Like all harbor cities, Borgho never really closed down. Come the night, it merely swapped one set of merchants for another, one form of trade for the next, one class of clientele for the lower. There may be less velvet in the clothing, and the manners may be easier to understand, but the transactions were no less urgent than those conducted in daylight, and the streets no less vibrant with the movements of a big city at work. The streets themselves changed character. Where Marius had entered, they were reasonably broad – enough room to turn a cart, at least – and the buildings that flanked them were white-painted and open-fronted, a hearty “hello” to the travellers who entered. But turn left and start moving down the hill towards the docks and the true nature of the city exerted itself. The streets became narrower, more winding; the buildings leaned in more, cutting the sunlight off before it could illuminate the dirt and graffiti that made up the city’s natural colouring. Signs were smaller, the writing upon them more crabbed, the spelling simpler and more often incorrect. Even the language changed. Up high, the Scorban was clear cut and elegant, and words of as many as four syllables could be heard through poured-glass windows by anyone who crouched outside them at night. Down here, though, all languages intertwined in a dance of commerce and aggression, a patois that welcomed all comers and gave each one the opportunity to be dunned in the pidgin of their choice. The world was a darker, dirtier, more openly dishonest place. Marius felt perfectly at home.

  He moved along the cobbles with the grace of one who had been born to the streets. In truth, he had spent so long plying his trade among the night crawlers of cities from the Bone Coast to the Western Spires that it was part of his nature now. It was the daylight hours where he needed to remind himself of the mores and rituals. Only during the day could he not afford the luxury of relaxing as he walked, and merely taking in the sights, the smells and the sounds of the city. Here, surrounded by the filth of window-emptied chamber pots, with darkened faces peering out of equally dark alleyways, and with the press of unwashed bodies nudging him and hustling him off his natural stride, he was as relaxed as he had been since before the Jezel Valley had called to him, and Marius Helles had become Marius the Dead. At the thought of his current predicament he shook his head, and lengthened his stride. He had things to do. There would be time for sightseeing later.

  It was no more than fifteen minutes’ walk, to someone who knew the back streets and cut-throughs as intimately as Marius, between the Southern Gate and the Hauled Keel, nestled between a dozen identical taverns at the drinking end of the Borgho docks. Sailors resemble guardsmen in any number of ways, except that they don’t give a damn who else drinks in their pubs, and their gossip has less to do with who’s rumpling whose bed sheets and more to do with who has the run of the waves, and who went out and never came back. In that time, Marius’ pockets were dipped no less than eight occasions, for a net loss of a dozen rivets, six flat stones, and two small bags of what he hoped were toy knucklebones. Sightseeing he may have been, but only with one eye. Thanks to those same dippers, however, he arrived at the tavern somewhere in the region of nine riner to the good. It would have been more, but dipping a dipper is tricky enough without the impediment of gloves, or dead fingers. Anyone can make a living in the big city, assuming you’re quick enough. The only way to make a living in Borgho City is not to get caught, or if you’re going to get caught, to only get caught by the right type of people.

  Marius heard the taverns long before he saw them. The docks are a noisy, twenty-four hours-in-the-day area. But the taverns seem to find an extra hour, and an extra layer of noise, as if those who work outside desire, rather than seek respite from the endless walls of sound around them; something to block the sounds out. Fights are rare in these pubs – the men have spent all day proving how hard they are. They’ve no need to do it in their down time, and besides, there are better ways to go about it than something that might result in spilled booze. The Hauled Keel’s Krehmlager is one of the best. Hard men drink Krehmlager. The suicidal drink two.

  Marius pushed open the door and found a booth towards the back of the smoky, badly lit room, just as it was being emptied of drunken, snoozing bodies. He slid in, and signalled to a passing serving girl.

  “A tankard of Krehmlager, a spice roll, and something for your break.” He laid a tenpenny on the table. “If there’s any left, save it for your old age.” Serving girls may not make the world go round, but they give it a much more interesting shape. The girl smiled her thanks and left to fill his order. The beer would come from the heavy end of the barrel, and the roll would be fresh.

  She returned in short order and laid his repast before him. Marius placed another coin on the table. “Is Keth in tonight?”

  The serving girl eyed him warily, taking in his gloves, the cape and hood that covered all features. “You been away, sir?”

  “Why?”

  “She, uh…” the girl looked over her shoulder. “She doesn’t do that anymore.”

  Marius snorted. “I know. Just tell her… tell her Marius is here, could you?” He pushed the coin forward. The girl took it, and hurried away. Marius stared at his beer until he felt a body slip into the booth opposite him.

  “You wanted to speak to me, sir?” Marius closed his eyes for a moment. Keth’s voice was as warm as he remembered it: mulled wine, with just a hint of a massage l
ater in the evening. He kept his head bowed, and indicated the tankard.

  “I want to drink it, but I’m afraid of what’ll happen.”

  Keth laughed, and it felt like a long, slow swallow of something wonderful on a cold evening. “You might be right, Mister. Krehmlager isn’t for the foolhardy. I’ve seen bigger men than you made into crying children after a couple of tankards of that stuff, no offence.”

  That was an understatement. The Hauled Keel’s special brew had a reputation that far exceeded that of the city’s heroes, and every awestruck whisper of it was deserved. Marius had seen grizzled veterans swearing they could see the Gods, and not the right ones, after no more than three tankards. He himself could usually manage no more than half a draught before he either fell asleep or ran for the nearest exit to be violently sick. He stared at the mug in front of him.