Stalking the Shadows

  But there were tracks here! By the foot of the tree there were fresh prints, the earth slowly oozing itself back into shape as he looked on, and Puss didn’t need his well-trained eye to know that his quarry had stood right here only moments ago and, by the looks of it, had turned back to look his way! They went off into the water and were very fresh - another minute and they’d have been swallowed up again completely by the spongy turf. He was close - he must be really close, but verdomme, where had he gone? Staring out across the knee-high lake there was sight nor sound of no one.

  Now he had a decision to make - Puss knew he needed to close him down fast, before his markers ran out; otherwise he would either have to give up the chase, which he was loathe to do, especially being so close, or else push on regardless and trust his ability to negotiate the marshes until he came back onto his pegs again. That was risky. Good as Puss was, the Borgersveldt was notoriously dangerous - and it was vast, stretching for miles all the way back up to the mountains.

  Narrowing his eyes in the fast-approaching darkness, he made his decision and stepped down into the calf deep, brackish water, into a clump of rushes which stretched up like clasping, skeletal fingers grasping desperately for air. Under the murky water his foot brushed up against something soft in the mud, possibly a fallen branch or a log, rotten through. As he began to step over the obstruction though, there was an explosion of water directly beneath him, accompanied by an evil, blood-chilling squeal.

  Erupting from the shallow lake came a violent blur of movement and it took Joshua a second or two to realise a knife had been driven up through the inside of his upper thigh, slicing through the major blood vessels there and sending wild jets of blood spurting out in all directions. He was stabbed again as he fell, three times with lightning speed, before his body splashed headlong into the muddy waters of the swamp.

  His vision darkened almost instantaneously as he went into shock, just prior to bleeding to death. As his eyes began to fade completely and the pain finally cut through the adrenalin and burst agonisingly into his system, he saw a hideous rat’s face leaning over him, dripping wet from where it had lain hidden beneath the brackish waters, and made all the more grotesque by its sheer size.

  He took in the figure as his life ebbed away, from the vermillion ovoid eyes within the depths of its sodden hood to the two inch incisors jutting out at a terrifying angle from its over-sized mouth. The thing stood a little over four feet tall, although it had a natural stoop, so it was probably a bit bigger stood straight up. It was sleek and muscular all the way down and was covered in slick, wet fur. Its horribly pink and hairless tail was repulsive, as thick as an arm at its root, but was mercifully submerged beneath the waters which still churned with the sudden violence of the attack.

  The last things he saw were the chittering monstrosity stooping down closer to him, the spittle from its mouth mingling with the swamp water that dripped from its muzzle, and also the two foot tube which the creature had been breathing through, which he had mistakenly assumed to have been just another reed. And he saw a wickedly serrated knife, already stained up to the hilt with his blood.

  The rat-man, an abhorrent perversion of all that was natural, took him by the hair and ripped his throat open with one final vicious slash and let him drop. It then stalked off, back in the direction they had both come, leaving Joshua Puss bobbing and floating on the surface, bleeding out into the green-tinged lake.

  *

  Standing, dripping still with rank swamp water, the rat-like figure sniffed the air. Catching the scent he was after, he set off, pausing only occasionally to make sure he was still on the right track. He could have followed the human’s trail of stakes and flags, but this way was more direct.

  He had been good, for a human. No match for a Vit-vit Brood Brother though and especially not one as proficient as Seequar. Always the eyes with humans; sometimes the ears when they could be bothered to remember they had them, but almost never the nose, and that was a big failing.

  Nevertheless, he had been forced to lure the human to an ambush site and lie under the water, breathing through his blowpipe stuck out from the middle of a clump of reeds. He had cut him down easily enough - he was far too fast for a clumsy human, even without the element of surprise - but the crossbow had made him extra cautious. To avoid the chances of a lucky shot had meant taking time; time that could have been better spent getting back into the human settlement and observing. Seeing how the humans responded was vital in determining how he was going to finish the job.

  Weak. Weak, inadequate creatures making up a puny, substandard race. They were no match for the Vit-vit, but were just too capable to be ignored, and too numerous to be confronted head on, not that that was ever the Vit-vit way of doing things. Seequar’s kind preferred to remain hidden, subtle, effecting changes unnoticed from the shadows.

  In Humanity, the Vit-vit saw a race that, whilst being inferior to them in every way, was nevertheless curious and intelligent enough to become a problem if they were allowed to continue their progress unhindered - or unguided, as the Masters of the Four Ages had decided centuries ago - and so it was that they had set out to manipulate the direction the troublesome surface dwellers’ society was headed through a number of wildly-differing methods. This Brood Brother’s activities in Werpenstad was just one of those ways.

  Seequar was furious, and his blood red eyes glowered with a barely repressed venom in the misty twilight. They would suffer now, those from his nest, he chittered to himself as his nose honed in on the tiny hillock he had been aiming for. His heightened senses had made him dodge the falling effluvia unconsciously, but on this occasion it had happened at the exact same moment he had taken the shot!

  Normally such a tremendous boon, his lightning reflexes, this time it would have been better to have been soaked. Then his dart would have spiked the fat, fleshy neck of the treacherous, ungrateful human and the poison would have done its work. As it was he was soaked anyway, only now he had to go back and finish things off! With extras, he snarled with absolute, vengeful hatred.

  He had missed, and Seequar had not missed in a long, long time. He was a Brood Brother - a seven-scar Brood Brother - and it was not expected of him to fail in such simple tasks. The Vit-vit word for his organisation was Tzeen-tek, which in the multi-layered language of the rodent race could be translated as the Shapers of Days, Dealers of Death, the Cowled Manipulators, and so much more. They were a branch of the elite, the highest level of the strictly structured society the Vit-vit lived by, and Seequar had been given the task of overseeing this area of human habitation and seeing that events played out in the way the Masters had decreed.

  And he had missed.

  He had not waited around to take a second shot. Although it would have taken only a second or two, the Lore Knots of his order stated very clearly this was invariably a mistake. The Tzeen-tek had centuries of experience in the arts of skilful assassination and had found that overall it was better to withdraw immediately, and then return to strike again later. A Brood Brother was an investment of a lot of time and a lot of skills, and this was the way that best ensured the operative’s survival. Needless sacrifice was frowned upon as a waste of precious resources, and was therefore never encouraged. Whatever difficulties arose from delaying the action could be assessed and dealt with just as long as the Brother was alive.

  How much time to leave it depended upon too many variables to be the same in every instance, but it was generally recommended that another opportunity should be looked for some time within the next sun-cycle. There would always be added complications of course, but in most cases it had been found that shock could still be depended on as an ally during this period, and although the defences were usually raised, a breach could be found by an astute and diligent Brother.

  Of course it was far better not to miss in the first place, but mistakes were sometimes made, that was inevitable, and as long as the task of the Tzeen-tek was carried out then no harm was done. Perhaps e
ven lessons could be learned for future generations.

  Dipping an arm into the muddy waters around the small island, his clawed fingers closed around the bundle he had secreted there during the chase. Removing the waterproof pouches from the soaking rag they were wrapped in, Seequar affixed them in their customary positions about his body. Then, marking out a stylised rat’s head in the pulpy earth, he gave his thanks to the Half Tail and set off again - back in the direction of Werpenstad.

  *

  It was the morning of the second day after the attack. The sun had risen slowly over the rooftops of Werpenstad, as if not wanting to shed its light on the deeply troubled town. The Council was seated again around the large, pine table that dominated the room. Karl Kreigel sat with his set of notes in front of him.

  “No one heard or saw anything,” he said.

  “Well what a surprise,” sneered Councillor Schtomm volubly. “You amaze me!”

  “Indeed,” Kreigel conceded, “that does always seem to be the case, but on this occasion I actually believe it to be true.”

  “A town of nearly sixteen thousand burghers,” the sceptical Schtomm retorted, “and not one of them saw a skulking assassin creeping through the streets? In the early hours of the evening, an armed man in the Quartier Veeldonk? Come on - every street is lit, verdomme!” he swore.

  “Not every street,” Kreigel corrected him, “and besides, I don’t believe he was actually on the streets for all that long.”

  “What?”

  “It is my contention that the villain utilised the sewers, not the streets, to get in and out of Veeldonk - and probably in and out of the Stad itself.”

  A stunned silence greeted Kreigel.

  “Can we assume you have some intelligence to back this up?” Weisselsbloed asked. “Knowing you as I do Karl, I take it this is more than simple guesswork.”

  “Indeed.” Kreigel shuffled the copious stack of papers that lay before him.

  “Ahh, I was wondering about that lot,” the old councillor commented in his dry, cracked voice.

  “Gentlemen, I have thoroughly examined the Burghermeister’s house and the immediate area around it and feel in a position to make several observations regarding the nature of our attacker and certain of his methods.

  “As I was saying, there are portions of Veeldonk which are not lit, but there are lanterns all around the front of Dupont’s house, the frontage looking out onto Amaaz Avenue. On examining these lamps however, my men discovered that two of them had been doused prematurely along with another two streets away.”

  “My, that is clever,” Lucinda Tole commented. “How can they tell?”

  “Their wicks were still lengthy relative to the others along the Avenue and most of the wax - those lamps in Veeldonk not using oil use the very highest quality wax - was still present.” There were nods and murmurs around the table, both impressed and surprised.

  “The most interesting is the one two streets away, on Kleinekaas Straat. You may or may not be aware that Kleinekaas has a culvert half way down its length leading into the sewer system. It is here that our assassin made his entrance and took his leave.”

  “Really,” Councillor Schtomm said, unconvinced.

  “Yes.”

  “He came up through the sewers.”

  “That is how it looks Lars, yes,” Kreigel sighed.

  “And on what basis is this assumption being made?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to tell you man! On the basis that it is the only way he could have got in and out again without being observed! Otherwise somebody must have seen him, as you just said yourself!”

  “I heard that someone was sent down there after him,” Councillor Rood said from down the table, but Sophie Verwarmt spoke over him.

  “The sewers are too small for a person to traverse, surely?”

  “Actually no. They are easily big enough for a person to get around right throughout the Stad, and in Veeldonk they are quite sizeable brickwork tunnels, as they are in Guilderslaan and, to a lesser extent, here in Centrum.”

  “Perhaps you are unaware, Mevrouw,” Weisselsbloed said in an amused tone, looking over at Verwarmt, “that the Stad annually employs somewhere in the region of twenty to twenty five Rat Catchers on a full time basis. I believe they are termed Verminators in the Treasurer’s books - books which, I had thought, fell under your remit...”

  There was a stifled laughter from several of the other councillors around the table. Sophie was a prickly, confrontational old woman who had rubbed all of them up the wrong way at one time or another, so a laugh at her expense was not to be missed.

  “Well yes, of course,” she snapped back, ruffled at the implied slight. “I just assumed those men all operated above ground.”

  “Well that is not the case,” Lord Kreigel cut in, eager to steer the conversation away from pointless bickering. “Even though it cannot be said that all the districts in the Stad benefit from the same quality of facilities as Veeldonk, they are all serviced by the same complex warren of tunnels and shafts which all eventually flow out of the Stad in over a dozen subterranean channels.”

  “There were maps made, years ago,” Weisselsbloed remembered, “although no doubt the sewers have been added to since then, where the maps have not, so I dare say it’s hardly worth digging them out, wherever they’re being kept these days.”

  “But aren’t they grated?” another of the councillors asked. “Blocked off to prevent exactly this sort of thing?”

  “And to collect any large items of debris, yes,” Kreigel answered, “but I wonder when they were last properly maintained? When was the last time any of my esteemed colleagues has brought up the drains in council? I’ve been a member these last five years and I can’t remember ever having any proper debates on the state of the sewers. In fact I can barely remember even any mention of them in all that time. It may be that they are still blocked off, some of them if not all,” he continued, “but the fact is we just don’t know. We have relied completely on the Catchers to keep things in order underground, and perhaps to the Stad’s detriment. It is certainly something that must be redressed, but at a more appropriate time. For now, as I said, this is how I believe our villain gained ingress and left again.”

  “Didn’t we send somebody else down there?” Rood asked again.

  “Indeed. Immediately upon the alarm being raised I sent for Puss.”

  “The tracker?”

  “Yes. Fortunately he arrived before almost everybody else and with it still being dark, he noticed the blacked-out lanterns and was able to detect a faint trail which took him directly to the culvert in Kleinekaas Straat. He descended immediately.”

  “And?”

  “We received a pigeon from him late last night. The message reads,” he checked a thin strip of parchment pinned to a larger sheaf of paper amongst his notes: “Tracked quarry, edges Borgersveldt, WSW. Single individual. Following.”

  “And since then?”

  “Nothing. However, I believe he only had one bird with him - speed was of the essence at the time and the cages, though small, are quite bulky.”

  “Brilliant!” interjected Schtomm again. “So now we’ll have no idea what he’s found until he shows up again, if he ever does. The Borgersveldt goes on for miles! A man can get lost in there in five minutes and never be seen again!”

  “True,” Kreigel replied, “but we have to trust that a man of Puss’ capabilities would not allow himself to get irretrievably lost; he would turn back before he let that happen.”

  “Of course he may also have caught him!” van Buren suggested hopefully.

  “Yes,” Weisselsbloed agreed. “Remember that the conditions in Borgersveldt are the same for the fox and hounds alike.”

  “Indeed. I have dispatched a ten man team from the militia to head to the fringes of the Borgersveldt following Puss’ heading. They have spare horses in the hope that, should it be the case that he has caught him, they can intercept him on his way back. I am an
ticipating we should hear something within the next two to three days at the very latest.”

  “And in the meantime? There must be something else we can do.”

  “Indeed. From my investigations I have been able to put together a rudimentary profile of the would-be assassin, to give us an idea of the sort of man we should be looking for. If I may...?” The assembled heads nodded and Kreigel consulted his notes and then cleared his throat.

  “I believe our felon to be only a very short man, something under five feet tall. He is both nimble and very athletic with long, powerful fingers and most likely is not from around these parts - a foreigner, or else somebody who has travelled extensively to foreign climes. Not only is he highly intelligent, but also calculating, well able to plan ahead. If he plays the game at all, I would suggest he would be an extremely proficient Kings and Emperors player.”

  Silence filled the hall momentarily.

  “You are joking, surely?” Schtomm guffawed.

  “Most assuredly not, Councillor.”

  “Oh come on! Five feet tall? A foreigner with big hands? Ridiculous!”

  “Powerful fingers I said. If I might be allowed to explain...?”

  “Oh yes, why not? We’ve already wasted most of the Council’s time, why not take the whole day? Please go ahead - tell us all about this acrobatic, foreign dwarf with powerful fingers.” Schtomm threw himself back in his chair and folded his arms, scowling.

  “Will you curb your tongue for just a minute Lars, and let the man speak?” Weisselsbloed reprimanded in an unusually scolding voice. “This is a most extraordinary piece of deduction - if he can back it up it will no doubt help the Militia immeasurably!”

  Kreigel bowed his head in the old man’s direction and sifted through his papers until he found the notes he was looking for. “The Burghermeister was shot at by a handcrafted dart approximately three inches in length, fashioned from some kind of hardwood with a feathered flight at one end. The point was coated in an oily, viscous substance which subsequent tests have proven to be highly toxic.

  “From this alone we can conclude that our assassin was a skilled enough craftsman to be able to put together his own darts and, this being a somewhat exotic method of attack, we can also infer that if not actually foreign then he has at least travelled to foreign parts and brought back some of their practices.”