Merrick suddenly began to feel uncomfortable. He had come here to size up Garret for a bribe, to see if this proud man, one he’d known since he was a child, would take money to allow him to deal in slaves.
It was obvious Garret would never do such a thing.
‘It’s clear you have much to do, old friend, so I’ll be on my way. Thanks for the tea.’
He had to go, had to get away from this place. This had been a stupid mistake. Garret reminded him too much of a past he’d left behind, a past he’d gambled away and would never get back.
Before he could leave, the captain laid a hand on Merrick’s and smiled.
‘What is it, lad? You wouldn’t just come here out of the blue for nothing. If there’s a problem, you can tell me. I promised your father and mother—’
‘I know,’ said Merrick, suddenly feeling panicked. He didn’t deserve this. If Garret knew what he was up to he wouldn’t just be furious, he’d be deeply ashamed. ‘You don’t have to feel like you owe me anything. There’s been a lot of water under the bridge since then. I’m not a child any more, Garret.’
The old soldier laughed. ‘I know that, lad. That’s why, if you’re ever struggling, you can come to me. If you ever need help, or a job, I’ll be here. There’s a place for you in the Sentinels. We could always use a man of your talents.’
His fucking talents! Why was everyone always interested in his talents? Why did no one want him just for the pleasure of his company?
‘Thanks for the offer.’ Merrick stood, desperate to get out, though he managed not to set off like the place was on fire. ‘But I’ve already got a job.’
Wasn’t that the truth? A job that might see him dead at any moment.
Without another word they nodded their goodbyes, no long platitudes, no warm embraces.
Merrick found himself out on the street again, breathing heavily, his head swimming, the sick feeling back in his gut.
What a stupid fucking idea. What an idiot he’d been to try to come here, to think he could sway old Garret, make him betray his city and his king. If Merrick Ryder had never thought himself a treacherous bastard before, then now was the time to start.
Clearly it was time for another drink.
TWENTY
It was at its worst when he was left alone with his thoughts. That face seemed to haunt him, taunting him in his dreams at night and sitting behind him during the day, just out of sight.
The Liber Conflagrantia was vast, but to Waylian it seemed like a coffin in which he was trapped … trapped with a corpse that stared with glassy eyes, reproachful, vengeful, crying out for a justice Waylian could never provide.
Magistra Gelredida had, in recent days, turned her attention solely to the hunt and capture of the killer loose in the city, so much so that Waylian’s lessons were seldom and brief. She did spare enough time to allot him a task every day, each of which demanded he spend endless hours in the Grand Library. He had little time for anything else, and as a consequence was becoming more and more reclusive – the last thing he needed right now.
Every time he tried to turn his attention to his studies all he could see was a dead man’s face staring back from the page of the dusty tome. Every night he spent in the dark, forcing himself to think of something else, all he could see were those cold, dead eyes. On occasion he would manage to picture the blonde girl he had admired from afar – Gladdis? Gemmy? – but it wouldn’t be long before she too paled, her skin turning waxy, the light from her eyes extinguishing to resemble those of a rotting fish.
And it wasn’t as though he didn’t have other things to worry about. For one, he still had to work out what in the hells Jotun meant. Despite all that had happened, despite all she had on her mind, Gelredida still insisted on using that as his name and giving him demeaning, menial tasks to perform until he could decipher it. This time, though, Waylian was convinced he almost had it.
He had rounded it down to Golgarthan origin – the stem tun meaning faeces – but from there he was stuck. He had studied most of the clan dialects and only had one more to go – the Kharna Khel – a fierce northern tribe who were perpetually locked in a battle with the reivers of the Blood Isles and the foul beasts of the Morathi Ice Holds. It was only a matter of time before he stumbled on the right word, but his task was made all the more difficult by the shadow of a dead man following him everywhere he went, his face manifesting on the page of every book.
‘Bet you even read in your sleep, eh Grimm?’
Waylian turned so sharply he felt a twinge in his neck. Bram was sitting on the desk behind him with that easy smile on his face, hair flopping down over one eye the way the girls liked so much.
‘I wish I could,’ Waylian replied, glad of the distraction. ‘It’s not like there are enough hours in the day.’
‘Still having problems?’
‘Always.’
Rembram Thule laughed, a little too loud. One of the library’s scholars looked over with a furrowed brow but Bram ignored him. ‘You work too hard, Grimm. Maybe that’s your problem. Sometimes it’s just best to step away from the work for a bit. Do something to relax. If I’ve got a problem I just try and think of something else – more often than not the solution will just come to me out of the ether.’
‘That’s great, I’m so pleased for you.’
Bram patted Waylian on the arm. ‘Come on. It’s not that bad. Word is the Red Witch has something else taking up her time now. That means you’re left alone by all accounts. How can that be a bad thing?’
‘It’s bad because she’s left me with so much work it feels like I’m drowning in a sea of bloody books. If that weren’t bad enough, if I can’t work out her new pet name for me, I’ll soon be drowning in a sea of shit when I have to muck out the latrines.’
‘Yes, I can see that being something of a quandary.’ Bram’s tone was solemn, yet he still couldn’t avoid a sly smile. ‘So what’s she calling you this week?’
‘Jotun. I’ve managed to round it down to a few Golgarthan texts, and the end stem means “shit”, but I can’t get any further.’
Bram’s grin widened. ‘It’s fish roe, Grimm.’
‘No, it can’t be. Tun means shit, it definitely does.’
‘Trust me, Grimm. The ancient Golgarthan mariners used to think roe was fish shit and threw it away, long before they decided to dispense with their superstitions and start eating it. You must be growing on the old girl – she’s just likened you to a Golgarthan delicacy.’
Waylian was stunned. ‘I guess that’s an improvement: I’m now as much use as something in a fish’s guts, rather than what’s dangling between a goat’s legs.’
‘She’ll be proposing marriage before you know it.’
Just the thought appalled Waylian.
‘Yes, can’t wait to see what she comes up with next.’
‘It won’t be anything Golgarthan, that’s for sure.’ Bram idly picked up one of the thick leather-bound histories Waylian had been poring over. ‘Which is a shame. For a savage race they have a lot to say that makes sense.’
‘You think so?’ All Waylian had read about were their endless wars. There were certainly no great thinkers or scholars amongst them – unless you liked reading endless verses about how to disembowel your enemies and set their hill forts ablaze.
‘Absolutely. The Golgarthan skarls and wytchworkers were the first in the West to regard magick as an art. The ancient Teutonians stole everything they know from them, making alliances with their disparate tribes, then betraying them in the War of the Red Snows. They took our words of power with hearts of black stone the northmen used to say.’
Waylian had heard of that war, though with a slightly different slant. The ancient Sword Kings had fought an invading force from Golgartha, defending their borders against a rampaging horde of bearded savages. There was nothing in the library’s texts about betrayal.
‘If they hadn’t fought that war, we’d all be running around in loincloths smashing each other ov
er the head with stone axes, by all accounts.’ At least Waylian had remembered that much from his studies.
‘Don’t underestimate the Golgarthans. They were from a time when magick was untamed. Before the Archmasters forbade its use outside the Caste. And we’re still persecuting rogues today.’
‘It just so happens we’ve got a rogue on the loose in the city.’ Waylian knew he shouldn’t have mentioned it, but it was only Bram.
‘Really? What did they do – turn some farmer’s wife into a frog?’
‘Not quite. They gutted some poor wretch, after nailing him to the floor.’ And I’ve been seeing that poor wretch’s tormented face ever since.
‘That’s no evidence, is it? People get cut up in this city every day.’
‘Not like this. There were sigils on the walls, foul things: I felt sick even looking at them. The Magistra had to purge the chamber and she says there’ll be more killing before it’s over.’
‘So, the witch-hunt is on? Wonder how many poor buggers they’ll burn at the stake this time, before they find the right culprit.’
‘The Magistra knows what she’s looking for. She won’t make a mistake.’
‘Don’t be so sure, Grimm. It wouldn’t be the first time a magicker’s been persecuted for nothing.’
‘You’ll be telling me rogues aren’t dangerous next.’
Bram laughed. ‘Of course they’re dangerous, Grimm. But we don’t have to hang every hedge witch in the countryside who makes tinctures from mushrooms and pimple remedies from cow pat.’
There was a loud shushing from across the library. The old scholar whose job it was to organise the thousands of books and codices looked sternly from behind a pile of scrolls.
Bram only grinned at him. ‘Come on, Grimm, let’s get out of here. Too much work’ll make you go blind anyway.’
‘I can’t. I’ve still got—’
‘Oh, don’t be a slave to it, man.’ Bram swept Waylian’s books off his desk where they thudded to the wooden floor, the noise echoing up to the library ceiling.
The old scholar looked almost apoplectic with suppressed rage.
Waylian was suddenly gripped with panic as the scholar made his way across the library, weaving clumsily between the rows of desks. Bram was already nearing the massive double doors. If Gelredida found out Waylian had been misbehaving in the Liber Conflagrantia instead of studying, he would be on privy duty until the end of days.
Grabbing his satchel he leapt up and ran after Bram. There was incensed grunting behind him, but the old man would never catch up.
Waylian ran out into the corridor, past the ever vigilant Raven Knights, to see Bram disappearing around a corner. The thrill of the chase was invigorating him, and the knowledge he was misbehaving in the austere Tower of Magisters only spurred him on. The risk that he might be seen by one of the stuffy old sorcerers and punished severely only added to his excitement. The stress of the past couple of days was released, expelled in a rush of wanton defiance.
Bram sped through the empty corridors, his lanky legs powering him along, but Waylian was determined not to be left behind. Skidding around corners, he ran up an ancient stone staircase, taking the weathered steps three at a time. When Waylian finally reached the summit, Bram was waiting for him, a wide grin on his face.
They were at the top of the northern bastion of the Tower of Magisters, the highest point in the city, and Bram was looking out over the Free States. On a clear day the southernmost tip of the Kriega Mountains was just visible to the northeast but today a smattering of cloud concealed them. Steelhaven itself, though, was laid out in all its glory – a vast hive of winding streets and tiled rooftops. To the west the city was cut through by the Storway, dividing the old city from the new, and to the southeast, atop a craggy promontory, stood the statues of Arlor and Vorena, watching for invaders from both land and sea.
Waylian knew that there was nothing approaching from the sea they need fear, but from the north …
‘Look at it, Grimm.’ Bram was barely out of breath, so Waylian tried his best not to pant like an old nag pulling a turnip cart. ‘Makes you feel small, doesn’t it?’
I’ve not really thought about it. ‘Erm, yeah. I suppose it does.’
‘Come on, Grimm, look. Look at how vast the place is, full of the teeming masses. And all they do is fuck and fight and pup more souls to do more fucking and more fighting. That’s all we are, Grimm – animals. That’s why we need to enjoy it while it lasts.’
‘I know what you mean.’ Kind of.
‘Do you? That why you spend all your time in the library? There’s a world out there, Grimm. A world just waiting for us to take it by the scruff. Some things you just can’t learn in books. Some things have to be experienced.’
‘But we’re not here to experience, Bram. We’re here to study. Archmaster Marghil says—’
‘Who gives a shit what that dried up old newt thinks? Don’t try and tell me you believe all that pious, high and mighty bollocks he spouts. I’ve seen you looking at Gerdy.’ So that’s her bloody name! ‘There’s a pleasure you wouldn’t mind experiencing, I’ll bet.’ You don’t know the half of it. ‘Something you can’t learn about in a book.’
‘Well, you can, but—’
‘Exactly! You can, but it’s not the same, is it, Grimm?’
‘It’s irrelevant anyway. Students are forbidden from consorting with one another. So it’s best to just put it out of your mind.’
‘And have you managed to put it out of your mind?’ Bram leaned casually against one of the merlons and grinned.
‘Yes, of course I have.’ Liar, liar, cock’s on fire. You think about her every night whilst stroking yourself silly.
‘You won’t mind if I have a go then?’
‘What?’ Waylian felt a sudden cold chill.
‘If I have a go? She’s pretty enough. Think she’d go for my charms?’ Bram seemed totally confident of the answer. She would most definitely go for his charms – and there was little Waylian could do about it.
‘No I bloody don’t! She’d think you were being wholly inappropriate.’
‘All right, Grimm, keep your hair on. Clearly we have another quandary. The only way to settle it is to ask the girl herself, isn’t it?’
‘She’s not here, is she? So we can’t.’
‘No. But I’ve got a pretty good idea where she’ll be.’
With that, Bram pushed himself off the parapet and moved towards the stairs. Waylian made a grab for him but, as before, Bram was too fast, dodging aside and breaking into a run.
Again they rushed, down into the body of the vast tower, but this time Waylian was more careful as he navigated the stairs. Though his limbs were almost as long as Bram’s, his friend had grace and coordination, whereas Waylian was a gangly clot.
By some miracle they managed to avoid stumbling into any of the magisters before they reached the refectory. Bram, there first, immediately made his way through rows of long trestle tables towards a group of apprentices at the far end. To Waylian’s dismay he saw that one of them, apparently laughing at some joke, was Gerdy. His heart fluttered as he saw her blonde hair and bewitching smile, but he felt sick inside as he saw Bram advancing on her: what might he say? Would he be in the mood to humiliate and demean? Waylian liked Bram but knew his friend could be cruel with his japes – he had so often been the target of them.
Waylian almost fell over himself in his haste to cross the hall. He would never make it to Gerdy before Bram, but the quicker he got there the more he could limit any damage.
Bram was already introducing himself, smiling that smile, not a bead of sweat on his brow despite his recent dash to the refectory. The apprentices, and especially Gerdy, laughed as he joined them. Waylian, though hindered by the intervening tables, was almost there. Bram saw him coming, said something and the other students turned. One smirked, as though Bram’s remark had been vulgar – well no change there then.
Though Waylian was almost at the tabl
e he lost Bram’s next words as the group erupted into laughter.
What had he said? Was it about Waylian’s hair, his stupid thin limbs, his ridiculous backwater accent? Or, gods be merciful, the fact that he wanked over Gerdy every night?
That was it – Bram had told her all about the secret wanking!
‘He’s a bloody liar!’ Waylian yelled.
The laughing of the apprentices stopped.
Throughout the rest of the refectory the buzz of chatter died. All eyes turned to Waylian, standing there, panting and sweating like an old dog left out too long in the sun.
Bram smiled.
Gerdy looked at him as though he’d just vomited all over her lap.
Waylian turned tail, moving back across the great hall as fast as he could short of breaking into a run, winding his way between the trestle tables, trying not to catch anyone’s eye.
He didn’t stop until he got back to his chamber.
It was only later that he realised he was no longer plagued by the image of a disembowelled corpse. The image now haunting him was of a score of laughing, mocking faces.
TWENTY-ONE
They called it the Town. It had borne many names in the past, most of which Nobul didn’t know, ancient names in old languages long dead. Back then it was most likely a group of fishermen’s huts built where the river met the sea; a huddled community fending for itself in the leanest of times. Later it would have been a makeshift fort, with a wooden palisade defending it from the land to the north and with the sea at its back. Over the centuries the wooden buildings had become stone, the palisade of tree trunks a curtain wall. The rickety wooden jetties built by the fishermen of old had been stripped down and rebuilt as a vast harbour, turning an ancient hamlet into a massive port – a hub for trade and commerce with countries from three continents.
With its trade in arms – its artisans crafted the finest weapons and armour in the provinces – and its standing as the most impregnable fortress the Teutonians had ever built, it had taken on the name of Staelhafn in the old tongue – Steelhaven. It was a bright beacon in a time of shadows, a monument to the dawn of a new civilisation.