IM 1008 Pt 5 ~ Deathly: The Forgetown Joining Ceremony

[Sire Halfblack]

Deathly IM 1008: The Forgetown Joining Ceremony

We have Nobles that do pretty much as they please,
With a word or a gesture you’re forced to your knees.
Do not do what they do, but just what they said –
Else they’ll cause an explosion to blow out you head...

Horrid, bone coloured shrubs stood about the village that lay but a mile from the re-established border with Eartholme and now therefore Deci once again. It was bitterly cold and it had been a long, long walk for the Baron Throttle who’s well tailored city boots were already falling apart. The Deci Hunt had not risen to accompany him for they hunted in the city only, and even the terrible evil of the Sleek seemed reduced in the wilds. They were a terror in Deci but out here they were as out of their element as a salamander in the harbour of Scarlene.

So it was in a foul mood that Talath came to the village and pushed his way into the palisade that surrounded it, sharp eyes taking in everything. The village stood upon a natural rise that gave a good view over the mostly flat terrain. A spring ran down to join the swollen cut for the diminutive River Fry. Even that thin stream seemed enough to give some life to the immediate land before it fell to the dusty ruin that then ran ever northwards. The Sleek fanned out, long knives slipped into hands. The villagers looked down and one even cried out when caught up about the throat so that the strangers laughed when he was released to stumble and fall flat on the seat of his britches. The people shuddered as their chins were forced up, one began to weep. Brangorn of Eartholme had come here months before and they had thought themselves at last out of the grip of Deci and the malign actions of people forced to cross so far over so stark a land without a decent roof to be had one night to the next.

Goats roamed the hillsides and ate the thorny blooms. Pigs rooted in the ground and seemed to have free range in a village that was six inches deep in mud. They at least did not seen concerned, unlike Talath who picked his way through the filth with a look of disgust on his face. “You, name?”

Atherberry Goat looked up. They were not going to fight such men and women as these. Not with troll slings and goat prods. House Hail owned this land and if they were used to Jerakel Hail then now they saw as they had ever suspected that that reasonable man was not typical of the Blood of Deci. Mostly Master Hail stopped here to listen to disputes and then check on the places within a few miles of concern to the House. Not that Goat knew much of them. They kept themselves to themselves and House Hail seemed to make sure the ghouls in the area did not trouble Fryers Held. Hail or the posts set up by a druid, or on the instruction anyway, of a druid they had been told was called ‘Andvari’. Their goats did not cross those markers. The ghouls likewise. All that the Baron Throttle saw in the man’s thoughts. That and a deep fear that was only matched but its resignation.

“Pitiful.”

“Lord, I...”

“You are a disgrace! All of you! Why you live in filth and you think to stand against Deci?” He shook his head as if saddened, but the gesture was rather too theatrical to be taken seriously. “You are serfs. You do as you are told. Now get your stinking swine and your filthy goats to the city. The proper city. Deci.”

Atherberry Goat nodded quickly, he made to rise but some force pushed him down again. The Sleek walking along the rows of villagers they had made to kneel down in the mud, giggled. One of the peasants though stood up, but got a knife pricking his throat for his trouble. The Baron Throttle raised an eyebrow. It had been many years since he had been to a farm and he had no idea where it lay now since Uncle Dalron had taken him there with a sack over his head.

“Do we have one of spirit? Release him.”

The Sleek did so and pleased, the man – one of the larger in the village, straightened himself. “You cannot treats us like this... the Dragon will protect us!”

“He will? You mean the one the colour of effluence?”

“What?” The man blinked. His head blew apart so suddenly that bits of it were still hitting the mud when Talath answered.

“A good point well made.” Throttle looked around the village. No earthquakes shook the ground. No vengeful army of gnomes rose up to battle them. He counted to ten. He held up a finger. “Seemingly not. Now then Master Goat, no more misbehaving.” He added a tut-tut and then went along the lines of peasants to see which had boots that would fit him.

Oh, all the hard times in old Deci...
In old Deci these very hard times.

~

Now bold, bad King Blackjack he did fight and fight well,
His arm it was mighty and his britches did swell.
And if we fought beside him then now we’ll not tell
But now he is gone, which is perhaps just as well...

The stink was terrible and even those hardened to city and, Cheapside in particular, found the smell all but overpowering. The Quarter was several foot deep in water in places and where alleys narrowed or slopes met buildings great rafts of bloated bodies had built up. Before the clear space where the final stand had been made a hill of bodies remained and smoked gently in the spitting rain. Cheapside being Cheapside people paddled about on upturned tables and doors, and those streets that had barricaded themselves in continued all the more so to do but now as flood walls rather than means by which to keep others out. In the rooftops and upper floors sheets of tin had been hammered to make roofs and a goodly proportion of the Quarter now dwelt there above the streets.

It had taken moments for the gangs to fall back into place but that surprised none of those that stared at the devastation now they came to stare at it at all. The Cheapside gangs were not just bodies of youths looking to brag about how well their filled their ragged britches. The gangs were streets or lanes, squares or former Guilds. Families not always related long used to banding together, to raid for food or fuel. They might have dropped the names for fear of being crushed by Blackjack but that had not mean they had gone away. Gangs were a part of their souls and mostly why they lived when so many others had died.

And they were increasing because as Sire Berry muttered quietly, so many of those thought lost or dead had actually hidden or left. Hundreds driven back up from the old city, hundreds more that had hunkered down in the wilds and away from the specific glares of the scribes. Not that the city had much in the way of scribes it seemed. First Argoth, then Blackjack and but days from the Deathly those that had survived were creeping back home.

Cheapside was tough. And the Cheapsiders were survivors. Not as a single body but in their gangs and if the Empire had seen fit to crush them then still they were here. Most were surprised that the Templars and the Bannercrows had been ordered out. Most had assumed an army of occupation.

“Blackabites.” Lady Flay read the badly formed letters. There were a lot of new scrawls on the walls, and since near no one could actually read or write mostly it was symbolic. “What pray are they?”

The stout goblin with the thrusting belly and the immense hat scowled. “Folk wot still think ‘is nibs was the biscuit.” He explained.

Isabella blinked, thanked the goblin profusely and asked the same question again and this time of Moregil in the hope that he could answer the question in clear Labrynthian.

“Rebels, ma’am. Those still loyal to that evil Orc.”

She smiled winningly. Even she was aware that for someone now dead his legend was very much alive. They had even heard some commoner singing a song about ‘Brave Black Jack’ as if he had been some murdered folk hero! “But you are the King are you not, King Troy?”

That was certainly the aim of their coming here. The Earl Majius stood at the forefront of a group hedged on each side by Moregil’s Guard from the North Quarter. A Guard who felt shamed by having been taken by surprise at the outermost gate, an opinion of themselves that Troy did not share. He would indeed have been surprised had they not been taken by... surprise. Those streetfighting scum of any skill that had fought hereabouts had known the streets, the timing and the very smell of Cheapside. It would have been like a shining band of clattering horsemen being upset that when they chased experienced rangers into the forest they had been ambushed.

Drake had been silent ever since they had come to Quarter. “They’re clapping you at least highness.” He said now.

Troy spared him a sharp sort of glance. It was true, but if those on the rooftop over were banging their hands together it was very slowly. Harley, assuming that the sound was for his benefit was offering them little bows. Troy pursed his lips. There had been any number of rulers in Deci over the centuries and most with names more suitable for some sort of theatre but few had ever thought themselves loved, or their rule absolute. “I don’t suppose anyone’s got a boat?”

“Knock dahn price.” Sire Berry grinned evilly. “Not too far ‘way an’ all. Old bastards meet dere each week.” He tapped the side of his long nose with a finger thick with grease, dirt and iron sprinkles.

Drake nodded. “That’s my house, son.”

“Split yer fifty sixty, Gov’nor.”

“You live in a boat?” Isabella tuned the force of her smile on the Governor. “How marvellous!” She clapped her hands together. There was salt water in her veins and certainly knew of the great Palace Ships of old Scarlene. Sweeping sails of gold, plentiful servants and evenings of rarities as they sailed the high seas of trade. “Where is it?”

“Ma’am, it’s kinda fixed in place.”

Sire Berry coughed. “Yuhs, about that Drakey old son...”

Oh, all the hard times in old Deci...
In old Deci these very hard times.

~

It’s said all the problems can be laid half full well,
At the feet of a Vizier who’d happily ‘do that for a grull’.
Who creeps round the city, a halfblackened lurk –
But we’ll say no more then of Anath who keeps us in work.

The Hitchin’ Post was being painted again by grumbling men whilst the ground behind it and for a good hundred yards had been cleared. From every camp and every home smoke curled from baking for the enterprise of the traders seemingly knew no bounds. And considering how few had liked Deci much in recent years an awful lot of them seemed to have gathered in Forgetown in recent weeks. Wagons large and carts small had trundled in to flower the earth with oxen dung and to churn the mud to still greater heights, yet considering that the territory was suffering a not unseasonal spread and squal of rain and even a little sleet, here the town seemed to have been blessed. It might not be what people elsewhere in the Empire considered good weather, but hereabouts it was nearly singlet and breechclout time.

Rolled tents, spreads of pan and skillet, sacks of flour, barrels of apples, rolls of coloured ribbon, linen shirts, jars of pickles, hardy fish steaks, salted meat, cages of chickens, pipes, boots, hats and then more stranger things were on display in the greatest market without a city wall that anyone could remember. Most it had to be said not from Deci where the local manufactured goods were of excellent quality and fetched a commensurate price. People noticed what was happening in Forgetown and anyone with wit and cart had loaded up and come here to make themselves comfortably rich for the coming season. Prices might not have seemed enormously extravagant when each article was taken on its own merit, but when put together as a cart load and, well...

“Sir, are you all right?” Neve was not long in the town and concerned for her friend’s wedding did not want any unhappiness. “Excuse me, there, what seems to be wrong?”

A mournful face looked up. This is seemed was Big Anath.

“Sir?”

“Have you seen the prices?”

Neve nodded. A bundle of tents in the city had set her back fifty centuries but here she had tripled that in two days. She said as much, asking if Big Anath had not thought to bring him own supplies?

“Just ten wagon loads...” He sighed.

“Well! You’ve done all right then?”

“Just ten!” Prices here were triple that in the city. Triple.

Oh, all the hard times in old Deci...
In old Deci these very hard times.

~

And now we have ague, and pox and disease,
And soon we’ll have Flashblade’s, and who then needs these?
Search for them in your wardrobes and under your bed,
But don’t kill them at all, or two will jump up instead.

People still looked at him even after he had shut the gates and locked them with the complex key, itself a foot long and resembling nothing so much as some demons intricately barbed quarrel. Here and the poison smog of the city curled about the courtyard, a sloping thing of round stone slabs grouted in lead. Two streets ran above before coming to the entrance of the Spire that topped the Quarter, but many more wound below and so Christopher had ridden about the streets going upwards until he had come to the house and now he tied up his donkey before approaching the door. It was not much of a donkey with its weeping eye and overlarge ears but still people looked at it. Two now, bakers assistants returning from another house.

This house was one of many that lay above a certain point in Hightown and so these many were all owned or leased to people of a certain status. The Nobility, Guild Masters of the Hundred or just plain those that had done well for themselves. It faced the abyss that ran ever downwards to the drow slums, that mostly hidden by the streets and lane that criss-crossed it so that briefly they might become bridges. He coughed a little, unused to the thick fog that ever hung over Deci and used the key again to open one side of the double doors before him.

It was rather a fine house, if not, compared perhaps to those in Halgar, especially large. The front courtyard was of a decent size and the roof projected out further than the walls, itself forming the base of the street above. Whatever the stone had once been it was soot black now and like the cobbles lined in lead. The doors and windows were all pointed at the top, the glass old but unstained despite the state of the stone. The door of heavy wood opened without a creak and Christopher it seemed was home.

The house was dark and bitterly cold. Outside it was already feeling like the Deathly though those hereabouts would have scoffed at the very idea. They were in the north of the Empire and had proper weather, not like the soft stuff the Heartlanders enjoyed. But the house had not been lived in for some time and so the stone sucked the heat even from the man as he stumbled about, found a candlestick and with only a little fumbling filled it, lit it, and held it to one side of his head.

Snakes slithered away with a sound like crushed velvet sheets. The bloody things were everywhere in the city and Christopher had never thought he might miss rats and mice. Of the latter it was said there remained some in parts of Cheapside but this tomb-like house boasted only snakes and many of them too. The vermin of the city, Christopher kicked away those too slow or too uncaring to move from his path. He was in a hallway whose walls were papered in the fashion of ten or so years ago. Thick, heavy sheets that in places were peeling to show damp walls beneath. The floor was of heavy wood, wood being more of a sign of affluence in Deci than common shiny metal. But apart from the damp and the snakes there was no sign of actual rot. Like every building older than two decades in Deci it had been built in the old way, with hand and broad back and skill that did not rely on Imperial tradition or observance. Fortunate perhaps else the whole quarter would have slid into the abyss long ago.

Pausing by one wall, Christopher saw where pictures and most likely portraits had once been hung by the rectangles of darker damp on the papered walls. He tried several doors, finding a study that lead to a tiny yard in which pots of earth now only boasted a lively variety of mushroom. He discovered a small drawing room, a larger dining hall with a chequer boarded floor to enable dancing, though even this room was no more than twenty good paces across. The ceilings were high though and judging by the draught, the fireplaces good.

Upstairs and he discovered six bedrooms of various sizes, the largest boasting a concealed balcony that was hidden to the side of the house and one he had not spied from without.

Lastly and back downstairs again he returned to the kitchens through whose door he had only spared a peek at ten minutes before. He was surprised that the kitchens were of a size with the dining room. Two large ovens of carved stone, a door that led to a cold store and a fireplace in which one might have roasted a whole sheep had one the patience. A further door and a further yard in which surrounded by buildings on all sides he found a dank, dark hole as wide as would he be long if he laid down. A honey shoot that doubtless joined others to emerge the Dragons only knew where. And rusted to lumps and little mounds that would no longer move chains were moored about the edges.

It was a house, and for Deci not a bad one at all. His house, if Jack cared to allow it.

Oh, all the hard times in old Deci...
In old Deci these very hard times.

~

And out in the mud now the people they marry,
In order in bedchambers they might strump and then tarry.
A licence for begetting, oh now - have we been lax?
We’re surprised one and all that there is not a tax...

“The notices, Strawberry? Are they affixed to tree and post?”

The thief agreed that he had done just that. Already they were being brought into Forgetown by people interested in what they said, seeing as how no one could read. Tirack frowned but that just meant more people and early estimates as to just how many people were seeking his service seemed to have been somewhere on the side of wrong. It was many, many more. Indeed the only solution seemed to be some sort of mass service. Brides had dragged grooms across the territory and grooms had carried brides away in the dead of night. Chests had been dug up. Caches uncovered. Tins wrenched from under heathstones. Grulls that in some cases went back to the first days of Empire were being produced. And that was just the cash. Traders were taking crafts, homebrew, leather, anything. A colossal amount of treasure was passing through Forgetown which was only a shame since so much of it would go right on thereafter as certainly the traders, peddlers and carters were not looking to go to Deci. Certainly not to pay taxes. The city might have sent out a small army to collect it if it had had one, which it did not, and then still been outnumbered.

“You have to wear the hat.” Strawberry pointed out. On a stand nearby a broad, flat brimmed affair in black stood ready for the preacher man. People had views on what preachers looked like, and they liked ‘em sombre. In dress at least. Vocally they liked ‘em loud and they liked ‘em thunderous, with lots of talk of damnation. The faith of Shaehan was not especially strong on the finer points of where devils inserted what but with the help of Strawberry and the horde of wives that attended to the temples needs Tirack was ready. “And Gideon? He hasn’t run off?”

“No. I’ve got a message from him too.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, sorry about this. Look over there please.”

Tirack did so.

Oh, all the hard times in old Deci...
In old Deci these very hard times.

~

We wonder perhaps how many Nobles it takes,
To beggar the city with their tithes for their cakes.
But give them a sniff of some fine upstanding land –
And they’re up there like weasels from hencoops just banned.

A thin man had come out to meet the traveller, at first somewhat hostile in his manner but warming in his attitude the more the Baron Scathe poured his vocal oil over the conversation. Nearby and the farm buildings spread out over several acres and all facing inwards so that they made an effective fort against outsiders and almost in the Heartlands style that Isaac recognised. Well built, the stone did not look at all local but had enough grime and cracked plaster to show that none of it was new.

The farm gates were not those of a castle and neither were they shut. The thin fellow with his long moustaches and braided beard wore heavy leather, mail and a good sword on his hip. He blew those moustaches from his face before every sentence. People passed by and nodded but did not pause to listen to the conversation, entirely unconcerned by it indeed. They had thin cows to see to, or cheese to churn or butter to pat. For Deci folk, as they were, they were better fed than most and looked quite cheerful. The land was not the best and grass grew in patches in what seemed to be a circuit about the surrounding miles so that they drove their herds from place to place ‘following the green’ as they called it here. That green was browner now and had been touched by frost. Compared to much of the Empire the land indeed was far from impressive, far worse than Isaac’s own estate. But for Deci it was a veritable oasis!

“Are you master Coley, then?” Isaac heard his voice drop into the thick local brogue.

“Nay, man. Just here to make sure villains don’t come too close.” Moustaches explained. He was clearly some sort of adventurer, even if a little older than most. The local farmer was some sort of combination squire, magistrate and employer all bundled into one. Farmer Coley’s reputation was not that of an unfair man but he accepted no Lord. Indeed, in the Spire Isaac had heard that his father had been that now late Lord Claugh, but that he had been born on the wrong side of the sheets. Nonetheless Farmer Coley seemed to own the land, Anath had even suggested legally and the very fact that Deci had hardly visited him at all had increased his loyalty to a city where his grandfather had once ruled. Eartholme had visited with him some months before, even arranging a meeting with Fidgit, offers had been suggested but Coley had returned when the city had lost interest.

Isaac watched the people go about their lives as he followed the old adventurer through the gates and across the first of several yards, then up well maintained stairs to where a hall awaited them. There were a couple of hundred commoners here he estimated, and all seemed to live inside the enclosed farm with its three yards and old slate roofs. Though Deci had established a few structures here they were entirely overshadowed by those of Farmer Coley himself. He had seen no sign of a priest or even druid and Isaac had picked up that they ‘respected all gods here’. There was no marriage unless by old tradition the maiden’s first night was spent with Farmer Coley. Since neither they nor, to be fair, he had much interest in this religion had dwindled as a formal idea even before it had ever taken hold. It seemed that during the year they all gathered to talk of the gods old and new and in Harvest Season they made masks and acted as any god they had heard of. The gifts they left for the faeries were not due to faith but purely because that way the local wee folk made sure the grass grew and the milk did not sour. Folklore, and therefore probably true. Isaac saw those masks now left in rows in the hall.

A stout man within turned about at their entrance. Seeing his guest he raised an eyebrow but listened to what the Baron Scathe had to say. Isaac being finely educated in the art of diplomacy spoke to Master Coley as an equal. Ends and means, he thought, the one that justified the other.

He had spoken with more force in the Cathedral of the Serpent as they there had to know that they were a cult that was to remember who ruled the city. The Black Church did too, they had no political ambitions and certainly did not seek to form some heaven on earth. Indeed, though a church based on elemental power they felt the exercise of civic dominion to be entirely without the remit of faith. Isaac of course had agreed and though they had admitted they possessed a Grimoire of rites gathered over the years, all to do with snakes, naturally, that was holy to them, such as anything could be. Since it was they that had learned of a certain Tower to a certain magic they had suggested that when that was established it would be more seemly to talk of such matters.

So the Barton Scathe had undertaken the long journey and now he spoke to the considerably more amenable Farmer Coley, Master of that farm of the same name.

Oh, all the hard times in old Deci...
In old Deci these very hard times.

~

But out there they have a new preacher I’m told,
Telling you of love, and your soul to be bold.
And if you do evil you’ll go to a hell without compare –
I just can’t help thinking it’s going to be crowded down there...

Pushing the lump down on the back of his head Tirack was late to the gathering in the Golden Hole. It took a little spiritual power to keep his hat on after he had suddenly been taken faint and woken up to find the lump to which he had only now managed to attend. Here though were gathered his companions, all about a table spread in a yellow cloth. The lamps were low, the ornaments golden and the fire high. Rough men with spit slicked hair were tossing dice all watched over by a gaunt fellow whose head bobbed with every throw. His dark robes were finely made. Isabella would arrive in time for the nuptials but for now the fort was being held down by her henchman, Scrip.

Gideon looked rather uncomfortable in his new outfit of smartly homespun cream and towering, pointy topped hat. He grinned when he noticed Tirack. Seated at Gideon’s side was Fleetwood who looked less impressed when he had been informed that traditionally his duties included fighting off the family of the bride who would ceremonially attack them at some point to carry her back home. Hardened warriors that they were Fleetwood was making damn sure that he did not go anywhere alone. It was not that he feared for his own life so much that if he killed anyone there would either be a blood debt to pay or he would be hung on the morrow. The law hereabouts was not so present as direct. People more or less sorted it out themselves and everyone liked a good hanging before breakfast, it was good for the digestion.

Leaning against the bar a stout man in green tights and with excellent hair smiled at them with a handsome array of teeth. In the case of the last he was almost unique for several hundred miles.

“Drink!” Roared Tirack.

Bottles appeared. A crisp new pack of pasteboard cards was placed in the centre of the table. Gideon removed his hat. The man by the bar winked at him. Back in his workshop he had treated every bird that the locals could catch so as to resemble doves, a bird not seen much outside of Scarlene. It had not been easy to dye a vulture, but by all that was wizardly if anyone could so do it, it had been Gideon. As indeed he had.

Fleetwood fetched up the deck as Strawberry joined them, a thumb up to Gideon and for some reason paint on his fingertips. “The game is ratfink, gentlemen.” Fleetwood announced. “Empresses are high, Guilds are low, cards with you on them trump a triple handshake, and two Anath’s only beat a Haruld if your back is to the door! Jander’s beat a Blackjack and goblins are wild. It’s four table taps to one empty glass and please, gentlemen, I’ve seen all the scams so if you want to play like priests go home now.”

“How are we playing Black Knights?”

“Tops dragons but only when played when behind in the bid. Right, who’ll be the alchemist?”

Gideon blinked. He rather thought it ought to be him. He raised his hand. Strawberry cursed, one Quarter down already and no hands dealt. He hated this game.

Oh, all the hard times in old Deci...
In old Deci these very hard times.

~

Now Drake is our Governor and we know he means well,
But if it’s enough then time only will tell.
And if he is grumpy and takes us as he finds –
Then at least he left that bastard Kei-Ry behind...

The atmosphere was bad, the stink of the dead aside. Never would the hard freeze of the Deathly be so welcome in the days to come else disease would run rampant about Cheapside and then spread as people went to the Guilds or Foundries all throughout the city. He did not look forward then to the Pestilence Season for it looked to live up to his name. The water had hardly lowered at all from what he could see, half of this most westerly Quarter deep enough for the upper part of his house to meander tightly along the larger streets only banging off the stone of the buildings every minute or so.

The atmosphere was bad because people glared at them as they went by with hateful eyes. No few shouted out abuse and Drake saw then in the stark cold of the day that there were no good people, nor bad, just people. The hard villains sucked into Blackjack’s web may well be dead for the most part but many of those that had fought had done so simply because it was Cheapside and armies were something never welcomed. In Cheapside Jander’s name was already synonymous with the contents of a chamber pot of an evening, even amongst some that worked in the foundries but lived here.

“Hell... ”

“Guv’nor?”

“Son, I ain’t impressed.”

Thinking that Drake was referring to the boat on which they now bobbed Sire Berry tried to explain that he had not actually broken it. Even if the skills of his nimble rats had released it. It was not even the size of a sloop but boasted a foc’sle and rising bridge so it looked like a toy cog. Troy stood in the bow, one leg on the low railing as they toured his Kingdom in this miniature ship’o’war. Trundleberry thought irony was something he made Dagger-waggers out of so the imagery escaped him. “Best done, guv.”

Drake shook his head. He had fooled himself that they would come here and help the innocent, hunt down the criminals and get back to normal thereafter. There was no criminal class damn well anywhere in the Empire and less so here. Those that slaved in the foundries or did all the grunt work for the Guilds did not do so out of some civic pride. If they came from familial Guild lines then their old establishments had yet to be reborn and the work they did was filthy, often dangerous and always never something in which one might take pride. They did it because they had to and because they had just enough pride of their own to squander on the fact that an independent man did not rob his neighbour to feed himself. Especially not his neighbour in fact. What had he expected, Drake scolded himself, parades and backrubs?

They had to use a pair of rusted pikes Sire Berry had caught on to in order to push aside a nest of corpses that was preventing their advance and then soon thereafter the house boat grounded and leant a little to one side. It seemed that to enter the square they would walk, and still it would probably sit to their waist so with this in mind Drake actually managed a nod of gratitude when Sire Berry darted into the water and returned a moment later with a flat bottomed boat. Raft, really but no one there asked him how he had gotten hold of it so swiftly.

“There will still by rebels, Lord.” Moregil opined.

“Reckon so? I reckon they’re all just poor bloody bastards and what we get ain’t coming from some sorta bloody politics.” Drake spat a shred of unlit cigar over the side.

“Nonetheless, Lord. Miscreants. Up north we know the type.”

Moregil probably did too, Drake thought. It was easy up there. The Quarter was occupied by those that wanted none of this, no matter their private hearts. Honest people and cowards Moregil protected in what was already a little village, surrounded by empty streets. Drake truly wished him well but Cheapside was Deci and astonishing as it was all those many returning to the city still came here though the North Quarter was relatively dry, mostly safe and almost entirely empty. Still when they returned, they did so to Cheapside. It was what they knew. Houses in which they had been born. Home.

“Feck it.” Drake jumped over the side and rightly as he had seen to his waist in the water. He paused only to pick up a mulch of blackened parchment scraps, like so many others bobbing in the water. Grulls he saw, thousands of them burnt and sodden, useless. Anath would have appreciated the symbolism but Anath of course was not here. Halfblack was the only man without dirt under his fingernails in several hundred miles. “See this?”

Helping Isabella down, Sire Berry had and considered from where such had come. He sucked air in through his teeth. He did not think they would be attacked. Not now, Not yet at least. Everything that had been Blackjack had started with the orc at the top. Like some keystone in a bridge once that simple stoner was gone the whole lot fell over. Blackjack’s gangs had scattered or just tossed away the sign of what Dirk might have called the Digitus Imperious. The gang haunts were just buildings. The children were already their own gang. The brothels had split into independents no longer having to pay tithes to the King. It had fallen apart moments after Blackjack had died. He had been the King and without the King there was no Kingdom.

Drake waded to the hill where Blackjack had burned away. The Orc’s shadow remained scorched into the fat, swollen corpses on which he had made his last stand but there was no body. The area for yards about caused the hairs in Drake’s nose to bristle. Blackjack had been so heavy in Entropy it had been a wonder that he hadn’t charged at them on flippers. Entropy that had of course meant that if lightning had been about to strike anywhere, then...

Drake was not here to wear a tin hat or wear a fur trimmed robe. He had ever thought himself here for the people and the people right now hated them all. That was all right, Drake had been loved and look where that had ended up? He took hold of the first body and pulled it aside. Then the next. Poor bloody bastards. Poor, bloody, bastards.

“Should we..?” Isabella whispered. Not help of course. Not get off the raft and join in. But something.

“Leave ‘im, miss.” Sire Berry said. “Jus’ leave ‘im be, alright?”

Oh, all the hard times in old Deci...
In old Deci these very hard times.

~

But cheer up with a cheer for at least we have Dirk!
Who shines like a nugget in this city deep murk.
But what’s this? He is absent? We have Loxley instead?
Lock up your daughters he’s not right in the head...

“In old Deci, these very hard times!” Fingers made supple from long days counting his treasure, Big Anath tickled the keys of the pianola and reached for his glass, only to find that a newcomer had swiped it without asking. The tune had been in his head since just before leaving the city, sung by a street bard for spare grulls. He stared at the wine thief. “Which Majius are you?” He ventured a guess.

Loxley, legs widely spread and one hand on hip tipped back his head and laughed heartily. He actually slapped his thigh before returning the glass, but took the bottle. He introduced himself, resting a foot on Anath’s stool and gifting the Vizier with a view that would take some time to fade. “Damn good sup, what is it?”

“Wine. D’Amorphus. We have plenty of ale though? We make it from tar.”

Loxley guffawed, but finding out to who he was speaking clapped the smaller fellow on the shoulder. “I’m in the market forra gel.” He winked. “Sent’a message of thanks to that dear old Lady Duff but she ain’t arrived?”

“Ah yes, did you actually send it marked for ‘dear old Lady Duff’?”

“’Course, ‘course. Kindly old stick what fetched us up with the old hearth and hovel for me estate. Doubtless a creaky old gel but what-what, never hurt to appreciate experience, eh?”

Anath flexed his fingers and for a minute or two ran a jumpy tune up and about the Cart and Hammer. “You do know that Lady Eliana is quite young, reputedly beautiful, now somewhat rich and said to be the most likely person to inherit the lands and titles of House Duff?”

“Duff?”

“You know. The Earl? Grand Mennihfat of the Hall of Keys. Merchant. First ever Governor of Deci. Richer even than,” Anath tried to think of someone very wealthy to illustrate the point, “me?”

“Rich you say...”

“Old too, according to you.”

“Well’a she don’t need’a to know that, eh?” He winked.

Anath smiled gently and turned back to his pianola. He shook his head but did not have the heart to spool back the conversation just in order to point out the error in how it ended. It had been a busy day for Anath. Helpfully walking about with a bag of blank tallysticks and a sharp knife he had hastily had to revise down his intent to offer everyone getting married a dowry of thirty centuries right down to five. Then an afternoon buying booze from traders at an inflated price in order to sell it back to them by pint and bottle for somewhat more. They did not call him Oily Anath The Snake for nothing. Or indeed, at all. It probably would not take too long however.

Oh, all the hard times in old Deci...
In old Deci these very hard times.

~

Our rebellion was crushed by Gold Jander’s brave Guilds,
The lads with the knowing who do all the builds.
And Jander called in the Empire to help with his war,
With all that arse kissing his lips must be sore...

The axe he took from the new charcoal and held it up, spitting on the blade and listening to the sizzle. Satisfied he set it upon the heaviest of the anvils. From a box he selected a variety of stamps and with a small hammer began to decorate the blade. Swirls and markings that slowly took on the beginnings of birds and fish. Every so often he reached for another stamp and then the sound changed a little amongst the patter of rain on the roof of the open sided forge.

He needed to work. He needed to rid himself of the rage that still had not been quenched. A blade left too long in the fire went bad and the fire of his soul was smouldering still. At times like this he would have liked to talk to Bull. Good men were hard to find and his Helds needed Masters. Jander could not lead them all. The best had been taken from the Guilds to rebuild his ranks but the Guildsmen by dint of being replacements at all were not best suited to the honour. The dead might have passed on their boots but the new lads had some growing to do to fill them. If he had not been so tied to Guild and craft Jander might not have considered how such things knocked on. It would take a few months for the city and indeed the Guilds, now he had picked at them, to settle. If he took his restored Helds out of the city the Guilds they came from would be crippled whilst they still learned to fill the ranks. The apprentices were still that.

Jander held up the axe he worked on once again. They were but days from the Deathly and so the chance of his moving the craftsmen was remote. Fortunately. A few months left to do both their duties and their new responsibilities, and all would be well again. Even a troll took a little time to grow a new arm.

Setting the axe down Jander fetched up a small ingot of gold that he massaged slowly between his fingers until he had a rough sheet of foil. This he laid over the axe. The dead that had fallen within sight of the gate had been fetched back. Their pale, stinking and gas enlarged bodies found by the upturned carts or even further outside the gate. Those further in had not been found, having been swept elsewhere and those that remained, and those that were now joining the Helds had not remained long in Cheapside. Many even had not made it much past the gates before being sworn at, spat at and when the rocks had started to fly Jander had recalled them. The last thing he needed was an accident, so many had died in his name that confidence amongst the new intake was very low for the moment. It was not a time to walk Cheapside bearing the mark of Jander, nor even Warsmith. Time would sooth the wounds, hopefully but for now it would pay Jander to stay out of the Quarter.

In any case, there was still the Slurries to see too. It had become clear to Jander that it needed his personal stamp but like any Quarter, one did not just declare it one’s own. Even those mighty landed Nobles: Saldana, Stoneheart and Claugh to name but three in other cities had had to start small and build up to the point that their possession of a Quarter was a result of rather than an expansion of their demesne. Argoth had not decided one day that the Slurries were the Poison, it had been a gambling den at first. Blackjack had had a small turf. And though he felt the foundries and smelteries were his, they were not. They were the city’s and even the land itself was owned by one or probably many of the Nobles. It was powerful stuff ruling a city quarter, certainly one’s demense and probably one’s only at that in many cases.

“I’m not noticing you.” Jander, satisfied with the axe, placed it on a smaller anvil where when he turned away it vanished to appear in the temple in Forgetown.

Untouched by the rain those he had killed in the weeks so recently passed stared at him with their cold, dead eyes.

Oh, all the hard times in old Deci...
In old Deci these very hard times.

~

Our shops they are empty or markets are poor,
But the storehouses are full of the wonders they store.
The traders they trade where the ground is sticky and brown,
Nowadays they never get further than flash new Forgetown...

Gideon could not decide what to do first. Fetch a potion for his head or a chamber pot for his bladder. Since the first would necessitate the second he made a dash for both and made it just in time to heave a sigh of relief, pouring the one in his mouth so that which came out the other sparkled with a little apothecary magic. So seated he felt almost instantly better when Neve coughed and asked him why he was sitting on the ceremonial helmet of the high priest of the Forge?

There indeed and on the altar was very nice axe. With some dignity Gideon rose. The helmet he pushed slowly under an altar cloth of beaten bronze. The axe he picked up in both hands and marvelled at the workmanship. He wish he knew more dwarves. A night out was not complete for them unless they woke up with a new axe. “Tell me I’m getting married today. I’m not sure I’ll survive much longer.”

“You are and you probably won’t, indeed.” Neve answered both questions in turn. “And Tirack is leading a grand procession of hundreds of people up and down the filthy main drag. He looks very grand.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. Why by the way is his donkey pink and sparkly?”

Gideon chuckled evilly.

Oh, all the hard times in old Deci...
In old Deci these very hard times.

~

It’s been many years since Siren drove off our brigands,
Now the Sleek if they found them would cut off their hands.
And if they come back we send out our warbands –
Who can fight any bastard but think with a gland...

The orcs scattered and ran, and all much to Alendari’s surprise. They were less than a day out of Forgetown as a man might walk, well off trails and tracks already so that the ground was stark, dotted with hardy scrub and dotted with frozen puddles. Having run at an easy pace since morning they had covered the ground much quicker so that they had come across the raider camp before lunch. There a good twenty orcs had been camped out under stretched hide, twice as many goblins yawning and farting about a huddled herd of cattle whose legs were now hobbled with ratty old rope.

The goblins had been nervous, as goblins typically were not so much for attack as there was no one else out here and the city never patrolled but for what would happen to them if they were caught sleeping. There was not even a troll within a league of the depression that the camp had been set within, but still the goblins had jumped up as Alendari’s jaeger had hurried down the slope and set up such a cry that the orcs had leapt to their feet, taken one look at the spearmen and fled!

“Bloody...” But Alendari did not finish the curse because he needed every breath. They were in a chase now with his Held stringing out as the faster men and women outdistanced the slower. One man even threw his war spear but not made for such it turned in the air to stick butt up only a few yards further on. One of the orcs actually stopped when he saw the number coming at them and called out to others so that a few more halted and snatched up crudely made blades from fur sheaths. They howled angrily but the spears fell on them and the remainder carried on running. The goblins had already fled in other directions or gone to ground, either way Alendari took the opportunity to shout at and even cuff a man or two, and let the rest of the orcs escape. They were already splitting up and pursuit was hard, or even dangerous if some larger hird lay ahead.

His spears grinned, even as they bent over to catch at a great lungful of cold air. Despite the chill Alendari pulled a light scarf more open about his throat. Several spears spat, one making a show of it with a great, hawking motion and quite an impressive display of phlegm.

The orcs had been raiders rather than a war hird. Personal weapons only, but a little loot that Alendri allowed his followers to pick through. The cattle had moved only a short distance away, hobbled as they had been and now looked at the returning held with doleful eyes, when they looked at the men and women at all.

“We showed ‘em, eh Master?” The youngest spearman there, a girl called Muffet, grinned to show where three front teeth were missing.

“Indeed.” It had hardly been a battle to end all battles but a victory was a victory and no shame was to be had there. They were lights, jaeger, picking and choosing their fights was pretty much what they did. “Anyone used to be a drover?”

No one had, but how hard could it be to move a bunch of cows back to Forgetown?

In the end it took them three days. Three days of going ‘cush cush’ and even prodding the cattle with spear points. Three days of the herds wandering in the wrong direction and men and women discovering just how much a bloody cow weighed when it wanted to go one way and the herder wanted it in another. But they had returned, and even Forge Town looked like a mighty city after all the stark, stony ground and not one sighting of a tree. Somewhere to get food again that was not bread that tasted of stones or dried meat that resembled in every way their belts.

Forgetown where even now Alendari could see the odd fight breaking out. They fought dirty here but strangely within that never used a weapon. It was lawless in that it had no one drunk enough to wear a tin badge. But it was not Deci. There were no gangs or criminal masterminds and mostly what they did was smuggle, as the scribes would see it, as half the loads that came here certainly did not go to the city. There was theft, of course, and drinking but people mostly sorted that out themselves.

They managed over the course of an hour to get the cattle to the town limits and there Alendari threw his hands in the air, fed up with the stupid, obstinate beasts. “Anyone know where we can sell this lot?” He asked without hope, his spears.

“I couldn’t help overhearing you, sir?” Anath was standing behind Alendari. The held jumped a little. “Let me help with a little,” he licked his lips. “traaaaaade. ”

Oh, all the hard times in old Deci...
In old Deci these very hard times.

~

And now our one King is the big chap, King Troy.
In a city of men, he’s Deci’s best boy.
Insult him, oppose him, try and do him in -
But in fairness to Troy, he’ll just take it on the chin...

“Wolf mark.”

One of those from the Spire that had been keeping a quieter eye on the group handed the totem to the King. Plucked from a simple staff driven deep into a crack in the rock, the chain of teeth, irregular, rotten but man teeth unmistakeably made no sound at all when it hit and then sunk into the water where Troy cast it. They stood now on the bare foundations facing the clearing where the last fight had come about and where knowingly or by accident the obvious squad had brought the enemy to the a point where certain matters could be decided. “We paid their damn geld.” He said angrily.

The man from the spire did not look so convinced. Indeed whilst he was here others were scattered about the most likely places where a crossbow might get the clearest shot at the King. “All of them, Lord King? Or just those that agreed to such.”

“The wolves, we paid the wolves.” But were they one pack? The shaman like creature they had paid off might well have kept his word but had the Straw Dog? Troy struggled to remember. And even then those amongst them? Charming Billy had been running with Berek and it was no secret that they had returned some old King of their own. It was not so far from here that they had raided the Straw Dogs home in the Taken Regard and killed most of them. But not all, and had that geld been for that? Troy looked about the rooftops and though there were many people there most looked to be feeding rotten little fires or just watching them without any particular emotion. At times an insult was called out.

As if sensing something behind Troy’s insouciance Moregil nodded to his Guard who in turn closed up a little. Those with crossbows tested the setting of their bolts. “Who are these wolves?”

“Just dogs that think themselves men.”

“King Majius, if we need to know this thing..?”

Werewolves that lurked in the city, Troy explained. City beasts that had at times been strong but in recent decades less than vermin. “They claim I heard that Deci was theirs to start with but that is an old legend and has no basis in reality.” Even if true, it meant nothing. How many scores of different people and groups had owned Deci over the centuries? At least the wolves did not strop around like the tribes over Keys of late. The wolves did not claim Deci as their birthright. They just liked to fight. The hell of it was that if the Empire had remained here then the wolves, however few of them there were now, would have been fighting against such a perceived invader anyway. No, Charming Billy was just still in a war that unlike the great and mighty of Deci he had decided had yet to be put to bed. He was a popular young man amongst the rabble. But it was easy to be popular when you just agreed with people’s grumblings. Running a city was a little more difficult. Troy turned to the man from the Spire. “Are there many more like them?”

“Aye, my Lord King. We’ve seen totems and wolf marks all over the edges of Cheapside.”

“Well not here. We’ve had quite enough of many Kings. Just one now and here we are settled and sorted.” Troy beamed.

The man from the Spire nodded. “For the moment, Lord King.”

“Now, now...” Troy waggled his finger in a light reproach. “Just because our tradition is that rulers rise and fall like,” he looked around, “a dead body in a captive flood, that does not mean it will happen again. I’m the King, and there is an end to it.”

“As you say, Sire.”

“I damn well do.” Troy snapped, then louder. “And that goes for the rest of you. You’ve had your fun but it’s time you learn what’s what.” He cupped his hands about his mouth. “I’m the King, this is my city. Sire Berry is my right hand here and if you have a problem with that you can damn well take it up with him.” The King had the very man for the job spreading this about but it never hurt to blow his own trumpet once in a while.

Personally Troy would be happier if he never had to enter this stinking, wretched Quarter again. Back in the Mercantile and Hightown they knew him for what he was, were looking forward to a proper crowning and a few Kingly acts at the Final Dawn. A few titles given out, a Barony for each Quarter, some just executions and a few merciful pardons. Kingly stuff indeed and more than one Guild Master or Sire was resigned to the fact that their wives and daughters would be treated to the royal sceptre. They expected him to act damn regal and once he was out of this blasted place that was exactly what he would be. With a court and justice given out as the highest law in the land. Troy was not sure about the quirks and the occasional madness but it seemed traditional. If they had a King then for those that had supported him they wished him to be extremely Kingly.

Less than a half bowshot away Drake had almost finished pulling apart Blackjack’s hill of skulls.

“The beggars support you, Sire.” Moregil said when it seemed no one else wished to break the silence.

“Do they? Do they damn well indeed?”

Moregil blinked. “Yes, sire. They are no longer divided, or will not be once the year passes. The Mocker...” He chose not to use the word ‘King’ in that context when he realised what a scene it might create. “...he has told them that it is time the city healed at least.”

“Up in the North Quarter?”

“Maybe.” Moregil admitted.

“Settling in there nicely are we?”

They were at that. He had not yet discerned who the Kallah Lord of the city was and was rather now of the opinion that there was more than one, their own Council that took its orders from the Mocker. But each was a Kallah Lord, not just a servant of such, one for each Quarter. Despite being prepared to fight in the month so recently gone that particular twig had not snapped. The Hanot, far less prevalent in this city than perhaps elsewhere, had stood right aside at the prospect and the Kallah most easily divided in their hostile intent between Cheapside and Mercantile had not after all taken that one step too far. Thankfully. Indeed their numbers were not enormous anywhere, the Mocker it seemed preferred quality over quantity but if numbers were an issue then more and more were defecting to the North Quarter.

The Kallah were not all haunting killers, though they had that ability. It was hardly fashionable to admit it but most of the Kallah were like the people in the North, they just wanted to get by and charity towards them was strongest about Star Set Square. There some semblance of law was possible, proper law, not the murder of the Sleek. Cheapside was somewhat different, indeed, entirely so. See someone robbing another or setting light to a building simply because half the time they did not really understand why a ruin was different to a fireplace and a man that sought to stop them would find himself in the middle of a gang war. And woe betide him if he did not have a gang. It was early days yet but Moregil got the distinct impression that if his Guard came here too regularly then they’d slowly end up dead. They would have to patrol in force faced with the unenviable situation that any good they did would be seen as ill and with the constant risk of a small riot or worse growing up about them. There was not one chance in a hundred that any of his spears were coming here other than in decent array and ready for the strong possibility for a fight.

He still found it near incomprehensible how stark the differences between two Quarters could be. About the Star Set they wanted simple lives, a little worship to the ‘Serpent’ and a safe street to get into the Mercantile as they sought work each day. In truth they wished they did not have to do that. To find employ of their own, work to be had raised about them. Some sort of industry that could take them all in. As long as it was not foundry or similar. If they wanted to do that they would go to the Slurries where already they asked a mystical Forge for his aid in the smelting of ore to ingot. If that meant that they were a town of their own and never had to go to the rest of Deci, then so be it. They would still pay their taxes. Or rather in some cases maybe even start.

“People just want to be safe, Lord King.” Moregil answered at length. “They don’t need to be rich and they don’t want to be important. They just want lives and a little happiness but they will accept that the last is fleeting.”

Troy shook his head. Sounded like a bunch of damn elves to him. He nodded. There. Enough. It was time for new boots and a decent wine and the clean poison air of a proper Deci smog rather than this stinking decay. At least no necromancer had turned up on some sort of jolly. A zombie plague was about all they needed.

Oh, all the hard times in old Deci...
In old Deci these very hard times.

~

Oh bloody hell, is it Loxley again?
He’s everywhere at the moment like mud in a fen.
How many Majius can there possibly be?
Dalron to women must have been honey to a bee...

The young man glowered at Loxley who was moving through the dense crowd arrayed about the Hitchin’ House. At the forefront Gideon was knelt with Minnow before Tirack, Fleetwood stood on one side and Neve the other. For some time now Tirack had been blessing the union and that of all those there. He had produced a ceremony that used a lot of local flavour as well as the words of his own faith and since people expected it, a speech about what happened in the life thereafter should they squander the love the gods themselves had seen to bless them with.

“Good afternoon, my dear.” The Majius In Tights smirked in a lopsided manner at one girl. In his hand he carried a glass he had borrowed from the Inn – probably indeed the only one it boasted. In the other a yellow rose he would have bought at ruinous expense had he wished to part with the treasure. “What brings’a you here..?”

“S’gettin’ married, sir.”

“Married? I say, who is the’a lucky feller?”

The glowering youth grunted, trying to listen to what Tirack was saying but not wanting to miss what the dandy was talking about either. He blew a strand of floppy hair from his beardless face and the knuckles of his big, peasant hands whitened perceptively. His wife to be blushed, a waif of a girl who had run away with the charcoal burner soon after being seduced by the glamour of a life of reducing wood. “He is, sir.” Her big eyes took in the ripe tunic and the green tights.

“But m’dear gel, your’a radiant beauty breaks me contemplation like a sdoft’a rain shower on a clear mill pond under – I say – under starlight!” He offered the rose, twitching it back once her fingers touched the stem. He only had the one after all. “Would but I could’a sweep you’away from all this? I am after all a Majius...”

The girl giggled. Loxley did not ask her name. He would never remember it. Placing the rose between his teeth he patted her hand and pulled her gently away. He bent to whisper. “Just trot along m’dear and the love of the gods’a themselves shall visit us! Wagon over there, by the’a bench. Take a number, eh gel?” She drifted off in a daze to where others like her were already seated.

Loxley sighed, waved a little and turned to find the young charcoal burner so far into his face he might have been a mask. “That’s me girl, you damn well stole ‘er!”

Horrified at such a base accusation the dandy took a step back, his face a picture of abject innocence. “Me? Come’a here on this happy day? To overwhelm the peasant gels? In full daylight? Lord Loxley? With my reputation?”

“Loxley, eh..?” The youth seemed to be thinking. “That your real name?”

The soon-to-be landed Lord coughed and then adopting a more contrite manner seemed to deflate. “Alas, y’have me.”

“Majius you said – you have the build I’ll grant yer...”

“Call me Isaac, my dear boy.” Loxley offered, and then because it what was what a cad had to do he turned and ran.

Oh, all the hard times in old Deci...
In old Deci these very hard times.

~

But let out a cheer for the great Sire Berry!
Raise up your tankard and best safe to make merry.
No citizen more handsome, no goblin more clout –
So we’ll say nothing bad as he’ll only find out...

They had been digging in the ruins for an hour, rats spread out over the area and pushing away onlookers or those who just came too close. The only rats in the city indeed that anyone knew of and those walked on two legs and were to a furry bundle of nervous energy all Sire Berry’s adopted stepsons. If any of them had stopped to think about the talent required to burn something down in Cheapside they might have been more impressed, but it was cold and wet and the floor was a yard deep in destroyed old iron wood and hard stone cracked by the intensity of what had visited here.

Blackjack was a myth now, already indeed a legend whose reality bore almost nothing to the tales and songs now doing the rounds. But in that he was hardly alone. The people of Deci, especially hereabouts, liked their Kings and liked them to do impressive things and then come to some ignominious end. Back when he had been but a goblin cub Trundleberry had known of tribes that had a Chief for a year who ruled absolutely and then was sacrificed after a term where he was denied nothing. It was much the same here, save that the Kings, Proud Prince’s of Ruins, Mocker Dandy’s, Mouse Lords and dozens more tended to do it to themselves or fall at the hands of a rival. Deci humour.

Harley brought a brazier he had found closer to where a wild eyed man was digging in the ashen rubble. The iron work was bubbled in places from the incredible destruction visited to the palace not so long ago but was serviceable enough and he had found plenty of tinder that he fed from the sacks he had dragged from some miraculously sheltered place. “So this was King Blackjack’s court?”

“Aye.” Storm answered, not liking the funny little man at all but gruffly admitting to himself that the work was easier when lit. He had at first thought to venture into the old, older city under the streets but it was not so much flooded as entirely under the water that still remained above the streets. The skiff that had bumped into the city gates he had taken for himself, for though mastless it had served them well enough. The river was spread now well into the city and still it rained, and still it rose slightly each day. The myth and legend of bold King Blackjack, now bright in song and but ashes otherwise. All that Blackjack had been and ruled lay with him and with him gone, it was again no more. But perhaps, but perhaps...

Harley emptied the first sack into the fire and started on the second. Seeing that the goblin in the damn spiffy hat was similarly in shadow the jester kicked over the brazier and just tossed the paper he had found on the blaze to make a bonfire.

Not so far away and Sire Berry batted at the embers that now drifted and in some case landed on him. His nose twitched. It was a corner of some scroll he picked up. The word ‘grull’ on it. With a shriek he jumped up and ran over to the bonfire. “Nah, nah, nah!” He screamed. He tried to stamp on the fire but it was too high and only succeeded in setting light to the stitching in his boot. His face screwed up in a colossal rage he spun to where Harley had been standing, only now all that remained was an empty sack in thin air that finding itself unheld, fell.

“Storm...”

“Aye..?”

“Never mind.” Sire Berry took out a number-three gutting knife and started to strop its already hair-thin blade to something beyond sharp. He looked up when another entered, a lean man with green hair spiked with lime and a carpet bag slung over one shoulder. Both frowned at one another though the goblin nodded him over to tell him of what had happened.

Oh, all the hard times in old Deci...
In old Deci these very hard times.

~

We’re plagued by the wolves with their teeth and their claws,
With their hairy old faces we’re told are not flaws.
Drunkards unhappy and so hard to please –
Between you and I, it is clearly the fleas...

“Ulis? He’s fecked off.” They were walking the rooftop roads and if people shied away from the silent, hooded figure that followed the pair to stop once in a while and stare out over the city they crept forwards when Billy called to them by name. A popular figure, everyone knew Charming Billy and if their progress was not therefore exactly secret that probably could not be helped. “S’alright Mrs. Peardrop, this is the Mighty Lawmaster of the Empire!” He laughed when the young woman shuddered back into the shelter built upon the slates and shingles.

“Listen, boy...”

“Oh, lighten up Berek!” The younger man crossed his eyes and stuck out his tongue. He laughed again. He was home. Dear old dirty Deci. The padfoot wolves of Deci had even gotten used to the smog. It was part of the city after all and so were they. Trees, earth and green things were all very nice and when drunk they would sing songs of the wild plains and crisp hunter’s air but it took a lot of drink. If wolves were free hunters of nature with a noble brow and a love for the silver maiden of the moon then the Deci wolves mostly liked drinking, fighting and the odd prank. The city having gotten rid of its more murderous elements had gone all so very dull. There were quite a few wolves in Deci, compared to say any other city but they were a tiny fraction of even this reduced population.

“What yer doin’, boy?”

“Having a laugh. You remember that, fun?”

“Serious times, Billy son.” Berek pointed over his shoulder to the King.

Billy rolled his eyes. “Don’t remind me. And really, ta for that!”

But Berek was not to be swayed. Cheapside was old Deci and the King was returned. Billy conversely knew enough of the city to know exactly what it involved to run such a place and had made no bones about wanting none of it. The King had said almost nothing since arriving but come the moon of the dying year and that would doubtless change. They kept on the move of course out of habit and just in case Jander wanted to slaughter some more of his Guild in Cheapside. Ritual and especially the more mystical curses of the city they could laugh at. If in Deci they did not wish to be found, then quite simple they would not. “The totems are out?”

“’Ello Dan Throttler!” Billy ignored the question to exchange a joke with a goblin with hands about twice the size his body would have suggested. Berek did not like goblins and said so. Billy shook his head. Danny was alright and did good work throttling the dying and informing for the city. Nonetheless and though doubtless so far inside Sire Berry’s pocket as to be mistaken on a dark night for his todger the goblin waved back cheerfully. The young wolf might be a villain to the bosses and therefore an enemy of the goblin but, well, it was Billy.

“Nasty day, Mr. Charmin’!”

“Nasty times, Danny. You off to tell Dingleberry about us?”

“Sure am, Mr. Charmin’!”

“Be lucky.” Billy caught Berek’s arm as his bow twitched up. The goblin ran across the roof to vanish over the far side. “E’s alright, Berek. Got ter make an ‘onest wage.” The young wolf sniffed and wiped a runny nose on his sleeve. “Still, best go somewhere else, eh, you ‘ave that ‘talk to me’ look about you?”

The old wolf grunted. It was a lot easier in his wonderful wilds where the young wolf jumped at every shadow and moaned about meat being cold and runny as nature intended.

Oh, all the hard times in old Deci...
In old Deci these very hard times.

~

So cheer up old Cheapside our time has returned,
Though our children are dead and our homes mostly burned.
We are free once again to fight and be poor –
Remind me again what it was we fought for?

“You want some help, friends?” The foremost of the little group stood with one foot on a fallen arch and the other on a lump from the same so that he was no longer standing in the water. Here such was not so bad yet still it was several inches deep and as cold and unpleasant as any flooded graveyard had a right to be. Not so far away stone and upturned wagons blocked the entrance to where three garrets leaned together like drunken friends making their way back from a free ale festival. Like most of Cheapside the wood was as hard as stone, the stone as hard as iron. It had been burned back by Blackjack and the sprawl that remained was a Deci older than anyone that lived there now, if not as old as the now entirely submerged old, old city below their feet.

Nearby and spread about the winding lane were another ten or twenty of the man’s companions. Like he they wore heavy cloaks with flaring shoulders of a kind preferred by carters. Brimmed hats, some pinned to make tricorns covered their heads. They had come here to help and apart from a few stragglers or loners that had run away they had found only wary hostility. The people of Cheapside were not ground down, they had been sat on by Blackjack and now that weight had been lifted they had sprung up again. Indeed, given the state of the Quarter the old gangs had returned as if, or probably because, they had never gone away short of hiding colours, hackles or similar from the former King’s baleful eye. If this had been Scarlene the people would have been willing to do whatever anyone told them in the hope of some stability or just because they had had all the juice milked out of them by faith and law.

Not here.

“Not from you, stranger.” Perched atop the barricade was a young woman dressed like an old one. All shawls and bonnet and fingerless gloves bent to knitting what looked like teased out and furry wire. She sat on a rocking chair and ignored the rain. Sleeping in her lap was a snake as long and about as thick in the middle as a grown man’s arm.

“Come along now, girl, rough times. We can protect you.” The pickeroon winked.

She paused in her knitted to wrap it in a scrap of sailcloth. That she put to one side and hands now free, whistled.

A round dozen figures scrambled up the other side of the barricade. Some wore what looked like quite new and locally made armour. Each had a knife and club, even a rusted half pike. The stranger chuckled, shook his head and spread his arms wide in mock surrender. A stone bounced off his head and he looked up angrily to see a younger man knelt there whilst more, many more ran along the guttering and slates. Mastering his temper the stranger bowed to the woman and led his people away. They barged by three men, two young and one old, coming in the other direction with foundry caps on their heads and empty tin lunch pails in their hands.

Though there were people scattered all over Cheapside it did not seem like those that had come to save people had to fear for someone stepping cleanly into Blackjack’s iron boots. What the orc had done, he had done over time. With a small turf like anyone else and then a lot of fighting and no small amount of cunning. His kingdom had been precisely that, built up and won and then held through example and even a little largesse and, most importantly of all, an enemy outside that could be used to blame everything on. No one was just going to step up and be the new King from nowhere and take on what had been levelled all hale and whole. The Kingdom was gone, its many parts fallen away to what they had been. The Kingdom of Cheapside was not a country whose crown passed smoothly to the next and since the only thing that had pinned people down had been the orc, they no longer were. Most indeed had not fought Jander even if perhaps many had had a little fun. But then Blackjack had not quite, not quite made the Kingdom complete. If he had managed that last, quick step then the whole place would have risen up and judging by the battle things might well have gone the other way.

So the cloaked men and women went about their business to protect who wished it. More of whom would come once the newcomers had shown they were a force to be reckoned with. And Grandfather would protect them.

Oh, all the hard times in old Deci...
In old Deci these very hard times.

~

And from Scarlene of late a new Noble has come,
With a face disapproving that looks down on our fun.
Her name it is ‘Fortune’ and so hardly poor...
Oh bloody hell, and here’s Loxley once more!

The celebrations ran up and down the main drag, across mud and through wagons as hundreds of new couples drank and danced and arriving to see it all Isabella Fortune stepped lightly through the Golden Fortune, passing by on her entrance the strange Halfblack fellow who seemed to rattling out a tune on a pianola that had been mounted on a small wagon. Pipes, fiddles and drums were playing for the dancers for an awful lot of people in Forgetown knew how to knock out a tune, just as she saw they also liked a dirty punch up.

The town was heaving and the gambling also seemed to be remarkably good. She smiled gently until her view was obscured by some half drunken idiot in green tights that handed her a yellow rose. Her favourite colour, she took it though it required a little effort to separate the stem from his fingers.

“M’dear gel,” he declared in what sounded like a rehearsed manner, “your’a radiant beauty breaks me contemplation like a soft’a rain shower on a clear mill pond under – I say – under starlight!” With only a slight stumble the drunkard tried to hand her a slip of parchment marked with the number thirteen.

As politely as she was able, Isabella declined.

Oh, all the hard times in old Deci...
In old Deci these very hard times.

~

In the wake of our King we have now got a fool,
In the toolbox of Deci he’s not the best tool.
And as our song ends then we name him as Harley –
A creature of chaos and so therefore does not rhyme...

It was a damn thing building and if it had not been for all the rubbish filling it then it would have been about perfect. People had peered at him fearfully when first he had broken through the upper windows, or holes with boards over them as they would have been called anywhere else. Still a bit stiff from the last time he had been stabbed in the chest even Harley had felt the time to move on had been upon him when the goblin had witnessed the result of his helpful nature. There had been a certain look about Sire Berry when the little group, having come across a relatively dry room, had called for light and Harley ever being the most helpful of fellows had provided it.

Harley forgot the incident. A creature of the eternal present the past was an uncertain thing of memory and the future ever only a rumour and right now he was picking his way down into what had once been the Screaming Lord Scratch’s theatre.

People slipped away when he reached the still waxy boards. People that had hidden here for a long time in the sure and certain belief that the world had come to an end and now the city was prowled by demons. Therefore they regarded the shape-changing fiend that had come amongst them in yellow with due and just suspicion, not to mention superstition.

“Good day to you!” Harley waved. “And might I say,” he looked at the piles of salvaged cloaks they slept under, the neatly cut bodies that hung from the rafters and the ritual circle inscribed in ink all about his feet, “that I just love what you’ve done to the place. Truly, I’m from Scarlene and abject horror can be a pig to bring off right. Don’t I just know it! Now then, who wants to help me spruce the old place up a bit?”

To Harley’s mind what the city really needed was cheering up. Auntie eaten by an orc? Lives washed out? Caught between warring heroes? Crushed by the Empire? Drowning in fetid and disease ridden lake Cheapside? “You’ve gotta laugh, ain’t you. Eh?” His eyes adjusting to the light Harley now saw that every inch of every wall was cramped with neat script. From the trailing words of a spider like hand to letters a foot high. All in ink at one end and then the browner stains of blood as that had clearly run out.

“Demon!” One tall figure declared.

Harley spun round.

“Demon!” Other voices took up the chant.

Harley gave them the thumbs up. “That’s the ticket!” He congratulated them. “Behhhiiiiind me! Ha!” He nodded. “Brilliant.”

“Demon come to tempt us. Only here protected are we. We know you wear the skin of an idiot to fool us. But we shall peel that hide from you.”

“All numbers and no words,” Harley read the walls to himself, “make scribes a dull boy.” He sighed. “You’re not scribes are you? You are! How dreadful for you. Now then, I was planning to save the performance for a somewhat larger crowd but since you so clearly need a bit of a lift and – frankly – it never hurts to give a bit of a taster to the proles...” They advanced on him slowly. Harley plunged his hands into his robe. They emerged so suddenly that the cultish scribes fell back. He wore gloves. And not just any gloves. These gloves had cloth coloured balls for heads, one in gold and one in black. One with pointy ears and angry eyebrows of teased wool. The other with a piggy snout.

“He has familiars – he is from the Anti Scribe!”

But Harley was not to be put off. He held up his glove puppets one either side of his head so he could speak from an opposite corner of his mouth for each. “Boo hoo – I is a big orc!” He began in a deep voice, answering in one rather more squeaky. “You killed my fwend and now I kill you good!” The scribes cooed in awe. One by one they sat down, legs crossed. Harley was happy again. “And I big orc will kill everyone!” Then. “I is going to make swords and stuff and wee wee on you good!” With the other hand.

They actually started to clap. This had been written off in recent scripture. Moments before indeed, and yet at the same time much longer ago than that.

Hartley continued. If they liked that they would just love what part of him was going to rise up with the Anath puppet on.

And all together now...

Oh, all the hard times in old Deci...
In old Deci these very hard times.

I say, all the hard times in old Deci...
In old Deci,
These,
Very,
Hard...
...Times!

I thank you. Don’t throw insults – grulls are more accurate.[/i]

By Alan Morgan (CI11V1)