Post by Sire Halfblack on Aug 5, 2014 15:34:46 GMT
Juon IM 1005
It would be difficult for the outsider to be sure whom in the city had been murdered by knife and whom pestilence had claimed. In truth the latter left the bodies more scarred but both left corpses with looks of horror on their faces. For the pestilence in the city came like a spirit to the bodies of the dead, rising them up to seek and spread the disease. In the city the season was seen amongst the walking flesh of its dead. If it were far from good then of course it could have been much, much worse. There had been thousands more vessels for the cities pestilence to come to scant months before but these now had been sent away to where they would remain merely bloated, rotting things, food for fishes and the more disturbing of river goblins.
People kept themselves very much to themselves in Deci. Crime had always been a cultural in the settlement, founded as it had been in the free philosophy of wolfshead and brigand. But with the more material manifestation of pestilence in Deci, as with most other cities, it was at least something that could be fought. Indeed, though the first month had seen the pestilence carriers shudder down alleyways and in through the shuttered windows of others as the weeks passed the effect of the disease lessened. For though the carriers were already dead, they could clearly be slain once more. It was curious twist to the city’s woes that their greatest woe was seeming now to combat the second. Those few who actually noticed such wondered if the two forces were actually competing with one another in some sort of eerie civic war but that was more often thought to be more typical of paranoid adventurer logic.
Nonetheless the people of Deci weren’t stupid. They might be religious, they might be less concerned with tomorrow than a mayfly, but they weren’t actually stupid. The gangs of Cheapside actually cleared out their Quarter of pestilence by the simple expedient of competing with one another to see who could get the most ‘pestilence heads’. Disease had come to Deci but without the bodies, the raw material, that had been so prevalent until late, it ended up in a losing battle against a people always ready to protect themselves from pestilence with a sharp knife.
The carnival in the Poison Quarter seemed to grow larger. Indeed, more wagons had rattled into the city in the latter weeks of the previous month and people paid their grull to see the angel that glared at the onlookers from amongst its silver chains. A wood woman was made to dance under threat of fire and a cluster of goblins in iron boots herded two trolls to wrestle with one another with such ferocity that even the gruesome citizens of Deci cheered on each ripped arm, torn face and broken chest. Blood was on the streets, it was Deci, and entertainment such as the carnival offered suited the dark mood of the people nicely.
Those that remained. In fact those that remained were seeming to be increasingly lean, hungry looking men and women. Their dark hair lank and their sallow skin pasty though they were, there weren’t many fat people in the city, there weren’t indeed any victims left and the scribes sensed that murder seemed to be dropping. Mainly because, they presumed, it was actually becoming bastard hard for one person to murder another. There was not much chaff left in the cities basket. Murder was becoming intent and attempt, victims were in short supply.
Perhaps, the Silversmith’s were said to have opined, Governor Troy should import some?
Armand might well have agreed. He had loved every minute of his return to Deci for the very stinking air of the settlement was ripe like rotten fruit to the very essence of murder. There were still those that walked in fear of his master but if there was one orc in his pie it was that it was actually becoming harder to actually kill anyone. Oh he still managed of course, but randomness was difficult. People in Deci were ingrained in the principle of ganghood and once more they were banding together. Families slept all in one room, in many places this had always been so, and most everyone went armed. Indeed, in recent weeks swords had been dragged from hiding and gutting knives of suspicious length had replaced the more elegantly hidden stickers of earlier days. Murder wasn’t all about fighting, it was about senseless killing without profit. There was no real fighting the streets as nearly everyone wanted to do a stranger from behind. But every strange was doing the same thing and few backs were now to be found.
But the intent was there and that Armand could sup like a fine wine.
The Guild Chambers
The Guild Chambers were looking decidedly down at heel for the upkeep was slipping on them. Nonetheless the wider chambers were filled with representatives of all the Guilds along with Merchants, traders and other luminaries. Placed in the centre of the Chambers formerly polished table was a stack of grulls all tied up in century or ten century, or hundred century wraps. Many eyes looked at Anath. He had initially intended to do a little foot-stamping but he was enough of a judge of any financial situation to note that the money was very much on the table. He doubted not that it amounted to the cities Upkeep for the month gone. In cold, hard treasure.
“Gentlemen, I for one never doubted your commitment to the city and its future.” He beamed.
Leaning against the double doors Jander found himself suffering a brief bout of the awkward coughs.
Hightown
The Heights, or Hightown, both rose high above the city and plunged deep below its bowels. The crack that ran about the Quarter made it a very narrow one, a place where buildings went upwards rather than outwards. Hand on shaky wooden railings, a sure sign of some sort of wealth in the area, The Minister picked his way passed odd little shops and narrow, many floored houses. His relationship with the Nobility had meant that The Minister had been her before of course, but then he had been higher up. He was hardly in the depths now, above ground indeed, but most of the people hereabouts were either from the more powerful Guilds or catered to the same.
It was at the end of the row that The Minister finally paused. The building jutted over the dark depths below and actually stood apart from the upwards mass so that to reach the doorway The Minister had to walk along a narrow gantry or more old wood. He looked at the house, at its shambolic architecture and the curious nature of its location. It bore a simple board over the door that announced, in neatly painted priestly runes, that this was indeed the establishment of Gravid, Nasty and Screw.
A rather short fellow showed The Minister in, and bustled away once he had taken the visitor to a musty little room, his bad head reflfecting the light from the tallow candle he had carried. Nearly in total darkness now, The Minister was more aware smells than sights. It was a mix of cheap soap and incense.
“Ye’essss?” A rich, meaty sort of voice said after the door opened once again. The voice was followed by an indistinct figure in frayed coat, shirt and scarf of black. Like the servant he was also seemingly hairless but in his case he towered over The Minister. The visitor explained who he was and the nature of his call, enquiring thereafter as to whom he was speaking.
“I am Mr. Screw. I disagreeociate Mr. Gravid is presently consulting with several Nightsoil as to the nature of their memorial. A service that had seen considerable interest of late.”
“Mr. Nasty? I confess I only learnt of such a person when viewing your sign?”
“Alas Mr. Nasty is gone from us.”
“Sadly dead?”
“For the moment, indeed. I am honoured to receive you Minister. Might I offer some refreshment?”
The Minister waved away the offer. “Thank you, no. It is to the matter of Guilds that I come. I was given your name in connection with such. I have heard of the of the city’s Guilds of course, broken though they were by Amora they are being restored. I also believe that yourself and your associate Mr. Screw were part of one such thing. The Embalmers? Or was it the Tenders? Or even the Strewn? There seem to have been many names.”
“It was called such at various times. The first grew too influential and was… removed by the Mercers. The second was broken by Amora. The third merely fell away as the city no longer funded it and the members became artisans.”
“The Mercers?”
“This is a cold city in the deathly season. The Mercers had great power. Might I ask as to whether you were thinking of re-establishing the old Guild?”
“I might. But am unsure as to whether this would be a good thing. With the Nightsoil about now to perform the tasks once the Guild would need more wastrel folk for it might be possible. Certainly there are bodies enough, though few are dealt with. At last effectively.” The Minister frowned. “It seems to me that an effective Guild would even fight disease if local stories are to be believed. An effective way of dealing with the dead.”
“In the manner most given to the clients’ faith.”
“Of course. Always. Apart from the Cult of Rapture Aflame.”
“Naturally. Having ones mortal remains raised as a member of the walking dead, given a ritual sword and set off…”
“… to ‘take unto thee as many of the heathen as thou can’. Indeed so. It seems we are of one mind?”
“I…” Mr. Gravid seemed to frown. “…am only concerned as to where the other Guilds would allow us to grow. We have rather a lot of influence if allowed to expand. Perhaps we might start with a Society? With Noble patronage we might then be more than a simple Gather? Then we might see what the other Guilds say?”
Privately, The Minister thought that any Guild that could fight pestilence at the source would be hard put to run fast enough before having walls and a spiffy charter thrust upon it. But for now he kept such to himself. “I think we have made gains enough. I have much to do, the Nobles do not patronise without help. If you could then perhaps seek out others of our kind and have them ready for either a larger meeting or perhaps even membership of the Society.” Or Guild.
“That seems entirely equitable Minister.”
“Lovely.”
Cheapside
Cheapside was eagerly cleansing its own Pestilence. On every corner of every lane, alley and twisted little pathway at least one head was to be found stuffed on a post, pole or anything else that might similarly serve. More than a few continued to hiss, groan or otherwise cajole each passer by and some of the gangs had taken to stitching the mouths and eyes shut with rough and freshly made strings of gut. Twice Fade had been surrounded by one lean, evil looking gang or another and both times he had satisfied them that he wasn’t about to lurch towards them in a sporadic fashion. Only once did he have to break a head from an eager youngster that had wanted to ‘make sure’.
So intent were the gangs that the market that ran through Cheapside’s only real street was surprisingly empty. The traders sold their stock to local mongers and these watched their wares with the aid of a shortened bill or heavy cleaver. Not for the first time Fade pitied anyone who might seek to invade the city. Not that he could see why anyone would. To some Deci’s streets might be paved with gold and in time that might well be true. It was damn sight cheaper than stone right now. Well it wasn’t at all in market terms but it was certainly more plentiful.
The little shop was unchanged from the last time he had come here, but Fade had expected nothing else. It had been a busy few days for him chasing down worried black wizards and forcing them to accept a potion in gratitude but at last that task done he was able to turn to more celebratory matters.
“Good evening, Fade.” The little alchemist was outside his shop. Fade had somehow missed that. In shirtsleeves and wearing a neat black apron fastened to the second button of his shirt the shops owner was brushing some compound or other on his many pained windows.
“Yes, hello Ulis. Might we talk?”
“Of course, of course. I have some rather special cake. Might I tempt you to a slice?”
Fade nodded and followed his host inside.
*
The two tribesmen had not been in the city very long but already they had learnt its ways. They were an odd pair, one terribly skinny and other somewhat plump about the middle but in their old furs, toe rags, bracelets and bearing stubby cleavers they were unmistakable. Not that so many people actually saw them other than when that was clearly their intent and on many occasions those that had decided to hunt them had instead found only shadows and silence.
Now both sat on a rooftop, the taller of them shaking his head at the shoddy construction work that had put the edifice together. Below them, lurking outside a Cheapside drinking hole, were the beasts they had both tracked. They did not look like beasts, in fact they looked like a young woman and man of such starting similarity that they must have been brother and sister. But the hunters knew them for what they were and had taken pains to equip themselves accordingly.
“Silver knife.” The leader handed the object to his associate.
“I could dropth them from here?”
“You need silver.”
“I could u’th the Guild. That workth thilver. Thurely that’d work?”
The leader thought about it for a moment before shaking his head it seemed that his follower had been speaking to other members of the tribe. “Best stick to the plan.”
They’d trailed their prey for two days just in case they either were, or know, people to be feared. But it seemed that neither was the case. Both worked the same stall in the nearest market, purveying restored hides and rolls of leather cord. It was a meagre sort of business, little more than fur tinkering, but it enabled them to buy food and that was all most of the citizens aspired to. Actually most of the citizens aspired to much more, but food, for now, was normally enough.
The tribesmen let themselves down the building, walked softly up to their beasts and dragged them off with little effort.
It took a while for them to drag the pair across the city and having made sure that the occupant was absent the few people about were chased off without any more effort. The taller of the two unhitched a bundle from one shoulder and unrolled it for the inspection of the other. Within the leather roll were perhaps two-dozen tools, mostly blades but with a smattering of hooks and bone clippers. Their captives struggled but were cut with silver till they passed out and that done they were firmly pinned to the outside of the ramshackle little building.
“Skin knife and peeling spike.”
The taller of the two nodded and selected each, breathing on one after the other and then giving the tool a brief polish on a furry sleeve. His leader got to work, delicately cutting, turn and bending back once his associate had gagged the victims with wooden blocks and dabbed a potion about their noses that would prevent them from passing on too quickly.
“Rib cutters and lever hook.”
“Thertainly. Blade clasp?”
The leader gave the matter a little thought before concurring and accepting the proffered tool. They worked quickly and with finesse, opening the ribs and exposing the innards which despite what had happened continued to beat and function, albeit stressfully. It wasn’t like they’d die from all this, and if they were weak then the potion would keep them for a little while longer.
A last hook and a paired clamp enabled the entrails to be tugged out and for an entertaining few minutes the two tribesmen got to have fun spelling out words on the ground. Enough though was finally enough and each stood up, picked up their silver weapons and leant forward to make the more decisive cut.
“I hope you’re watching this?” The shorter of the two pointed out to the heavens and killed the werewolf nearest to him.
“Drink?” His companion asked as if there were not two twitching bodies no more than a foot away from either of them.
“I think I can stretch to that. Bit easy all this wasn’t it?”
“Pieth of pith.” The other tribal nodded and after packing up followed his master away and into the further city.
The Braided Fox
It had not been an entirely comfortable meeting. Despite his new titles, the Governor had been forced to formerly ask for the hand of Lord Hadensford’s daughter and combined with the recurrent dreams that had been wrecking each and every night for a week he had gone into the Spire more nervous than when he had last hunted the wilds as a common adventurer.
So Troy was almost relieved to find himself in the Braided Fox and away from the pertinent questions of his now future relation and sitting opposite a dirty little woman. Clearly more used to the lands beyond than to the confines of the city her clothing and wargear did marked her clearly as an outsider. There was no attempt at style, only in layers of rags that hid both her shape, the studded armour beneath and her more subtle movements. A heavy sword crossed her back, an axe sat on the table and a crossbow leant against the nearest wall. She had also not stopped eating since Troy had joined her.
“Siron?” He asked.
The woman chuckled. She was an ugly sort of brute, her face scared down one side and her hair was cut short and patchy with something no more artful than a dagger. “No.” Her accent too was hardly local.
“Might I speak to Siron?”
“No.” She said again and reached for a bowl of thickened gruel nearby. Troy caught her wrist whilst his other hand palmed a thick knife from his tunic. He was in no mood for being played with by some bloody hireling. “Move the hand or lose the hand.”
“Stop playing games or run very fast.”
The woman squinted at the Governor before laughing again. She waved her sthingy in what might have been a conciliatory gesture and Troy let her go. “Peace, peace.” She said.
“Where is your master?”
“Gone. Work done.”
“But you’re still here?”
“Few of us, aye. Enough to nail a few idiots to trees. She got our pardons. She did didn’t she? Don’t care meself but others will?”
“I’m sure it was all done.”
“There then. All square. Siron got called home. It’s been fun but the Waldgraf found out where she’d been hiding and told her to get back and do some proper work. Foe want a stuffing, see?”
“Let’s pretend for one moment that I do. Where then might I find her?”
“Schtoy? Probably further south now. Gressen? Lots of people in Gressen now. Playtimes other, see?”
Troy stood and left a few grulls to pay for the food. He swept out of the door and in his wake three others left what they had been doing and followed him. None of them were exactly unseen, sweeping about as they were in black cloaks and half masks but with the city the way it was the Hunt was looking after its own. “Good of you to join me.” Troy grunted. Claugh inclined his head.
“Bit messy the city at the moment.”
“Well yes. But it’s never what you might call neat and tidy.” Claugh opined. “You want a nicely oiled little settlement then you can move to Keys. This…” He raised his gloved hands, “…is delicious. We didn’t ask to be part of their Empire. Sooner they remember that we’re scum town and start sending us their criminals the better.”
“We don’t want more do we?”
“Don’t we? It’s all meat for the grinder, Governor. It’s all meat for the grinder. I heard that we might brand our own outcasts. I don’t see why the Empire doesn’t brand it’s own bad little tykes so that they can go nowhere but here. They’ll buckle down or die. Or rise and then be useful.”
Troy smiled. The really successful criminals ended up fitting in, running Guilds, competing. His smile reversed when he thought about the state of the city. It all came down to treasure and the city was terribly bad at paying that. They’d been so long in debt that the Guilds were becoming annoyed, the tax houses probably weren’t even manned for all he knew. He’d have asked the Watch but he’d not seen any of them for quite a while now. “Do you really think the other cities would send their criminals to us?”
“Once you know, before we were part of the new Empire, Halgar used to pay us to take them. We’d go and collect them and after that it didn’t matter what we did with them. It was quite a good threat after all. We’d have to invest the Watch to patrol, herd and pen in the first couple of years worth but its easier to find rogues to bully and beat in this city than try and stop people robbing off on another.”
“Tricky, but…” The Governor mused.
Stakes Mount
The city’s storehouses actually had hardy food enough in them to have some sent to the Brothers Finedelve but the city’s wagons were already being loaded and none of the wagoneers were free to do the Commisents work. All were engaged on the Craftenguilder’s business. The last Ogder had heard was that the dwarfs were fighting in the mines but reports were hardly common and such tended to rely on more personal messengers, Certainly the promising mines were not ready to be worked.
Ogder had more pressing, and personal, matters to attend to. For two days he had sought for Maclirn Below and though it was clear that the fellow dwelt in the catacombs beneath the city and which, to a certain degree, emerged in the depths of Hightown no one had a good word to say about him. At times he could be spotted digging in honey wagons or lurking in Cheapside swearing at anyone that came to close but otherwise no one knew where he lived. If anywhere at all.
Deciding that on the morrow he would enter the crumbing depths of the city, Ogder returned to his latest haunt, just a place where he laid his head in the day to sleep. He returned though to find two bodies tied and nailed to the outside wall of his den. Both had been killed and butchered, quite literally. Their ribs had been cracked and parted and he smelt silver about the wounds at their throats. Their entrails trailed about the broken cobbles and mud and in rough notation they spelt out ‘respect your betters’. Ogder snarled and readied himself for an attack but moments passed and none came. Realising that he had space at least to think the Commisent stalked off for a more private place and there laid his head to sleep.
By Alan Morgan (CI7V5)