Death''s Angels

  He rode a little further. Traffic was thicker now. Lots of carters that had borne produce into town for Solace appeared to be sticking around. Doubtless they were going to sign on with the army once the campaign started. His steed whinnied as it caught the scent of wyrm just a few minutes before Sardec sensed its presence. He backed his destrier away down the street as the bridgeback lumbered into view. Its columnar legs were still wet, and its paws covered in reddish mud. Doubtless it has just waded across the river.

  Looking up, he could see a palanquin on its back. Inside was a spectacularly beautiful Terrarch woman and her bodyguards. A white monkey on a gold chain capered along the outside of the howdah. Sardec raised his hat to her. She responded with a languid wave of her fan. Annoyance surged through him.

  There was no law against a Terrarch bringing their wyrms into the city. It was just usually not done when the streets were likely to be crowded. That could cause a panic among beasts, livestock and humans, and one did have a responsibility about such things, after all.

  It was only after a few moments that he realised a pair of humans were staring at him, most uncouthly. He did not like being the object of their idle curiosity. These men looked particularly unsavoury, wearing the garb of one of the barbarian hill-tribes.

  “Be off with you,” he shouted, placing his hand on the hilt of his sword for emphasis. They glared at him almost defiantly for a moment before scooting into the mouth of an alley. It was funny but he could have sworn there was something like hatred in their eyes. There was something about the pattern of the plaid cloaks and headscarves they wore that nagged at him. It took only a few moments for him to realise what it was. They were of the same colour and design as those worn by many of the hill-men he had fought against so recently.

  What were they doing here in town now, he wondered?

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Rik walked back into the brothel. Weasel and the Barbarian were still there, feet on the table, wine bottles in front of them. The Barbarian had a plump wench on his knee and was whispering something in her ear. Weasel played patience with a pack of cards. His knife lay unsheathed on the table in front of him, stuck in a massive wedge of cheese.

  “Glad you made it back, Halfbreed” he said. “I was wondering where you were.”

  “Anything come up?” Rik asked.

  “One or two things. We need to have a little chat. Girl, go get us all something to drink, would you?” He tossed Rena another coin. Rik half expected her to protest, but it was obvious she was used to this behaviour and probably a lot worse from the men who frequented the house. As she departed, Weasel took Rik aside, ignoring Leon’s sharp look.

  “I have a meeting with Bertragh set up for this evening,” he said. “He wants to see the books.”

  “They are back at the camp.”

  “We can use a sample.” Weasel considered for a moment. “I want you there. You know about these things. You can tell how serious he is and what he’s likely to pay.”

  “I don’t like it. What if this factor just decides to take the book? He’ll have muscle close by. They always do.”

  “There’s three of us, and one of them is him,” said Weasel, pointing to the Barbarian. “We’re none of us soft touches.”

  “We might still be outnumbered.”

  “Then we’ll fight or we’ll give it to him, and you’ll pay him a little visit later. Depends on the numbers.”

  “I am touched by your confidence but we don’t know anything about this fellow. Factor’s mansions are like fortresses. Take my word for it. They live in them. They use them as warehouses. The place would not be any less secure if one of the First lived there.”

  “Maybe you should scout it out then. It’s down by the river in the warehouse district. Sign of the moon and lion. And anyway we will still have the rest of the books.”

  “I still don’t like it.”

  “I am starting to think you don’t want to go ahead with this, Rik.”

  “I want us to get our money and not our throats cut.”

  “You’ll get no disagreements from me.”

  “Where is the meeting?”

  “Supposed to be at the mansion.”

  “Change it.”

  “Already tried that. The guy wants it at his house. Doesn’t want to bring money, where he doesn’t know it will be protected. Can’t say as I blame him?”

  Rik tried to look at the thing from all angles. A thought struck him.

  “Doesn’t matter then. Might be best to get a look inside anyway. Just in case.”

  “I like that. You really think the books could be worth much?”

  “They might be. All right! Tell him we’ll be there.” Rik looked at the wine bottle. Maybe it was clouding Weasel’s thinking. “Though we might well end up dead.”

  “Makes life interesting,” Weasel said eventually.

  “We’ve already maybe got the hill-men after us. Life is interesting enough.”

  Weasel grinned. “Thing’s done. It’s too late to worry about it now.”

  “It’s never too late to worry.”

  “Well, it’s too late to do anything about it,” said Weasel.

  “We’ve got some time to kill then.”

  “That we do. Got any plans?”

  “I’ll take a walk down by the river,” Rik said. “Won’t do any harm to scope things out.”

  That evening, as they approached Bertragh’s mansion, Rik stopped short and began to draw his pistol.

  “What is it?” Weasel asked, a knife appearing as if by magic in his hands. The Barbarian had his sword out in one swift flickering motion. They glared around them like wary wolves. The linkboy, palpably nervous, appeared to be deciding whether to make a run for it. Rik restrained him with a hand on his shoulder.

  “Thought I heard something,” Rik said. If there had been somebody there, he was gone now. Rik wished that Leon was there to watch their back-trail but this was not something he could be let in on.

  They waited but nothing happened. Rik looked at the others. They seemed a little spooked. He gazed up at the mansion. It was still the same combination of warehouse, palace and fortress he had inspected earlier in the day. The factor and his people lived at the front. The warehouse opened out on the river and a side street where goods were loaded. The walls were thick and the roofline was encrusted with gargoyles. A lot of money had been spent on this old place. The sign of the Moon and Lion was illuminated by a lantern above it.

  “I say we go in,” said Barbarian. “I am not scared of some wizened old merchant.”

  “It’s his bodyguards I am worried about,” said Rik. “And any Terrarchs he may report us to.”

  “Are you in or out, Rik? I am going in.” Weasel sounded determined.

  It was obvious that whatever he said, Weasel and the Barbarian would go ahead. That being the case, he had best join them. There was no telling what nonsense the pair might get up to otherwise.

  “In.”

  “Good.” Weasel strode forward and banged on the side door, the trade entrance to the warehouse area, not the living quarters. It was not long before they heard footsteps approaching. A viewing slot slid aside, and eyes peered out at them.

  “Who’s there?” asked a voice. It did not sound like one that belonged to a querulous old merchant.

  “We’ve something for Bertragh. A book he’s interested in.”

  There was a sound of locks being undone and bolts being slipped aside. A lantern showed from within. A large burly man held it. He looked and sounded local, not like a hill-man, Rik was pleased to note. Behind him were half a dozen other bruisers. A couple of them held loaded pistols. It was obvious that trust was in short supply around here, and no one was taking any chances.

  “You can put the guns away, boys,” said Weasel. “We don’t want any trouble.” Suiting action to words, Weasel returned his knife to its wrist sheathe. The Barbarian and Rik only started putting back their weapons once the bodyguards did the same wit
h theirs.

  The door closed. Bolts and locks clinked into place. Trepidation surged through Rik. Even the whole company of Foragers would not be able to get through that. Not without a keg of gunpowder or a battering ram. It was too late now to do anything about it, he told himself. They were committed. The leader of the bodyguards gestured towards a distant light.

  “The boss is in the counting house.” He led the way and assumed they would follow. A couple of the bodyguards fell in behind them. The others remained by the door. The warehouse area was huge, with a high ceiling; shafts of moonlight filtered in through high narrow skylights. It smelled damp and he could hear the river gurgling by outside. Piles of sacks layered high formed small hills. Aisles led between them, all as regularly laid-out as the streets of the Terrarch Quarter. Barrels lined the walls. Some smelled of salt meat, others of vinegar, others of booze. The warehouse seemed well-filled, most likely with the sort of things that would supply the army. Somebody around here was going to profit from the coming war.

  The counting house was a small, square area, roofed and walled off. Inside were tall stools and long high desks containing inkstands and quills. Massive ledgers lay atop each. In the corner was a massive strongbox. Rik recognised the type. It was bound with locks both magical and mechanical. Difficult but not impossible to bust, he judged.

  It looked like the clerks had gone home for the night, all except the chief clerk, a small wizened man who sat behind the lowest of the desks in a stuffed armchair, his face underlit by an open topped lantern. The man’s pince-nez glasses caught the light. The fringe of white hair around his head, his rosy cheeks, and small neatly trimmed spade beard gave him an air of gnomish good cheer. His twinkling smile added to his benevolent appearance. It was a few moments before Rik realised that this small, conservatively dressed man was Bertragh, the factor himself.

  “You brought the sample?” he said. His voice was surprisingly deep and pleasant, with the cultured accent of a priest or a well-schooled actor.

  “Aye,” said Weasel. Rik noticed that the richer and better educated the company, the more peasant-like Weasel became. He supposed it helped put them off-guard, if they thought they were dealing with a bumpkin.

  “That will be all, Malek. You can wait outside. I will call you if I need you.”

  Malek nodded and gave his employer a grin. Rik filed that away. Bertragh was obviously a man who inspired loyalty. He was not lacking in self-confidence either, since he had no fear of being left alone with the three of them. Or maybe he was just letting them know that he was dealing with them above board. Give trust to get it. Subtle bastard, Rik thought. He supposed Bertragh had to be. Nobody got to be the factor of one of the Great Houses otherwise.

  From inside his tattered green tunic, Weasel produced one of the volumes they had collected in the mine. It looked unimpressive enough in its leather binding. A slight disparaging smile quirked Bertragh’s lips. “Is this it?” he asked.

  “There’s more,” said Rik. “This is just a sample.”

  Weasel nodded his support. He was out of his depth here though, Rik thought, since he had no idea what the books contained. No doubt Bertragh sensed this. He shook his head ever so slightly, adjusted the wick of the oil lamp and sat himself down at his desk. He pushed the book away slightly as if he had already decided it was not worthy of his attention. Either he was a very good dray-trader, Rik thought, or it really wasn’t. Under the circumstances, it seemed better to assume the former.

  “Take a look,” said Weasel encouragingly, obviously determined to play the game as well as his handicaps would allow. Rik decided not to support him. The merchant rejecting the books suited him fine.

  “Do you know what these contain?” Bertragh asked. He obviously doubted it. He’s fishing for information, Rik decided. He wants to know exactly how much they know.

  “They are grimoires,” said Weasel confidently and convincingly. You did not get to be as good a card player as he was without some ability at bluffing. “They belonged to a sorcerer.”

  “And may one ask how they fell into your hands?” asked the merchant. His tone was pleasant but his gaze raked pointedly over their uniforms.

  “One may not.” Weasel responded in an amiable tone that mocked Bertragh’s accent. The factor gave him a sharp look.

  “If you are not interested,” Rik suggested, “perhaps, we should seek out someone who is.”

  “I will glance over them,” said the merchant. His tone was that of a man doing a favour for a friend. He adjusted his glasses on his nose, glanced up and smiled at them avuncularly and then opened the volume. The effect was not what Rik had expected. His face paled, and his eyes went wide. He flipped the leaves over quickly and leaned forward. His breathing was fast and panting. He kept turning the pages, moving quickly towards the end of the volume, and then closed it with a snap.

  Got you, thought Rik, not entirely happy with the way things were going but caught up in the deal making in spite of himself.

  Bertragh pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and began mopping sweat from his forehead. He tried for his smooth and confident smile again but he was fooling nobody. A ghastly rictus contorted his face, and a near religious look of exaltation was in his eyes. At that moment, he looked like Gunther delivering one of his messages from the Prophets, although he tried very hard to hide it. What could possibly have such an effect on a man as smooth as this merchant, Rik wondered. Any doubts he had ever had about keeping the books vanished. He wanted desperately to know what was in them. Now all he had to do was find a way of keeping his hands on them.

  “There are more like this one?” Bertragh asked. There was a slightly strangled quality to his voice. Sweat beaded the bald dome of his forehead. His glasses reflected the light of the lamp, giving his face an almost demonic look. Rik shuddered and told himself he was imagining things.

  “Oh yes,” said Weasel. He was grinning broadly now, knowing that he had been dealt a good hand even if he did not understand all the rules of the game. The Barbarian chewed the ends of his moustaches nervously, not understanding what was going at all but sensing the excitement.

  “You have them with you?”

  “No.”

  “Can you bring them to me?”

  “Perhaps. If you are certain you want them.”

  “I might take them off your hands.” Bertragh tried to sound casual but it was obvious he wanted them as desperately as a virgin boy wants his first woman. Weasel shrugged.

  “There are other people who might want them too.” It was the oldest and most obvious of ploys but Bertragh went after it like a fish going for a nice fat maggot on the end of a hook.

  “How much do you want for them?”

  “How much are you offering?” Weasel asked.

  “If the books are all in as good condition as this one there is gold in it for you.”

  “How much gold?” said Weasel.

  “Say one gold piece per volume.”

  “Let’s say five royals per volume,” said Rik. He did not expect the merchant to go for that. One royal was more than most people would see in a year. Bertragh appeared to consider.

  “Very well. I will have to consult with my patron but I think we can work something out. You will leave the volume with me, of course, so that my patron can inspect it.”

  Weasel just stared at him fish-eyed.

  “I will pay you the five gold for it. Consider it a deposit. If you give me a moment I will get the money from my strongbox.” He rose from the desk. There was something desperate and almost inhuman about his appearance.

  Weasel shrugged again. Rik leaned forward and scooped up the book. Weasel and the Barbarian looked at him in surprise. He needed a quick explanation for them.

  “The books are worth more as a complete set,” he said. “If for any reason, this deal falls through, it would be best if we had them all.”

  The Barbarian looked a little shocked at the loss of his gold but Weasel gave a faint smile and an e
ven fainter nod of understanding. Bertragh’s response was once again not what Rik would have expected. The factor looked at him with murder in his eyes. For a moment, Rik was convinced that the merchant was going to call his guards and order them to take the book away from him by force, then with an effort of will, he got himself back under control, and became almost a parody of the urbane man he had been when they entered.

  “As you wish.” He appeared to consider for a moment, and then added hopefully. “We could consider the royals a deposit. I would return the book if you returned the money.”

  “Suppose we were to be robbed on our way home,” said Rik. “We would be unable to repay you. All manner of things can go wrong. Best to let things stand as they are.”

  Bertragh gave what he obviously hoped would be taken as an understanding nod. “You will bring the rest of the volumes tomorrow?”

  “It is Solace,” said Rik.

  “But we can delay the festivities for a while,” added Weasel smoothly. “Perhaps tomorrow evening we shall all have something to celebrate about.”

  “Till tomorrow then, gentlemen.”

  Once they were outside, they looked at each other. Weasel burst into uproarious laughter. The Barbarian joined him.

  “We’re rich,” he said. We’ll see about that, thought Rik, more determined than ever to find out what was in those books. If they could get the sort of response they had from a man like Bertragh they must be worth more even than the merchant was prepared to pay for them.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  “You are sure these were Alzibar’s books?” Zarahel asked, glancing at the merchant. He told himself he should not be too surprised that Bertragh had been approached. In a town the size of Redtower there were very few markets for such texts. As a lodge member of the Brotherhood of the Basilisk, Bertragh was always on the lookout for books of lore, to increase his knowledge and his standing with the other members and to add to the Brotherhood’s store of knowledge. The odds had favoured this when he had told the merchant to put out the word on the off-chance that the right people would hear it. He still was amazed it had worked so well though. Perhaps the Old Gods were with them in this after all. He had started to have his doubts.