IM 1005 Pt 5 ~ Octuar: The Day of the Dead

[Sire Halfblack]

Octuar IM 1005

Carts wove through the streets of the city, each one draped in old pennants everyone lead by a jumble of men and women in what passed for their best in Deci. Blue light from the lanterns made for previous celebrations lit the city to some extent, tinting the natural darkness of the settlement. Torches guttered dirtily in the fetid air, the smoke from such rising to mingle with the smog from the city’s foundries and old industries. The Guilds were having a parade through those streets wide enough to take the carts. Guilds who bore once more the city charter and Guilds that had not been since Cerus Amora had broken the old Hundred on his return from the Long Ride. He had used them and then destroyed them, realising that they were too old and too powerful to exist in his fresh, new Empire.

Many of the Guilds were scarce remembered at all. Some were made up only of older men and women. Others enjoyed the attention of the children of those formerly so elevated. Indeed, as the procession advanced it was slowed as those amongst the crowds joined in. Some remembered and then more. Many enjoyed memories that that could have seen since being babes or children. Of family, and old Halls. Halls now battered and taken for housing or other businesses. Indeed, streets and squares, tenements and slums in which most all there had once been part of one Guild or another.

Many had grown in the ‘safety’ of Cheapside. There Cerus had never extended his own will and to there many had fled. Even when grown and returned to the wider city they’d often found their way back to the old places. The old Guilds. And amongst them all waked the grinning Kallah. Beggars with jugs of sweet tasting wine, ale and even broth They fed the people and giggled as old images returned.

Some few shouted at the Kallah. These were typically richer men and women, those who had done well out of the Empire. They bellowed at the others to remember. The Guilds fought, there had been no Council or Governor, just a series of Kings under different names. Mocker Lords and Robber Barons. Thief Princes and Mother Gutters. Kings who ruled at their whim. They demanded that others remembered hw something as simple as the Grull had turned the city from a pot of seething evil into something that worked. These were beaten down. Often by their own Skinners.

It was the Hundred Days Feast and high above it all, on a ledge that ridged the Citadel, a dapper little man with silver eyes laughed, and laughed and laughed.

The procession did not enter the vertical rise of Hightown, where most lanes went down and were ill suited to such a crowd, or even Cheapside. For in the poorest and most dangerous Quarter of the city war had broken out! Gangs were pulled into a meaty soup of violence. Some spark had ignited the ever-bubbling mass of people and rather than join the celebrations they fought. And died. It was not so much a fly in ones healing balm as perhaps some sort of six-foot snake.

Perhaps related to this, the city’s alchemists were found strung up along the route of the procession. Whether market tincture makers, homely brewers or more orderly keepers of small shops it seemed none had been spared. The more powerful evaded such attacks, even if they any were directed at them but the common mixers and pounders were found in the most obvious of places. Many of the citizens knew the shape of a kill and it was plain to those that the fellows had been stabbed or poisoned first. But dead was, after all, dead. Whatever its flavour. By the time the celebrations had infected the settlement to their most grandiose extent there was not one small shop, stall or mill that was not broken, savaged and depleted of skilled hands.

What Jander thought of it all was anyone’s guess. He had been seen entering the city and people behaved in their normal way for a good dozen yards or so in a sphere about him. He said nothing, ignoring the usual ruin the city liked to bring to itself. He did not emerge again for a day or two, not until the procession had gained its slovenly momentum. He did not take part, just went from Guild to workshop, from Gather to foundry. About his waist there hung now a heavy apron of cinder-spotted hide. His sword remained sheathed despite the nonsense that perpetuated beyond the reach of his shadows. A shadow cast by the fierce light of one forge or another.

There were many such places to be had in the city. After all, the settlement had more metal than it really knew what to do with and increasingly over the last year the Guilds had used metal where elsewhere wood or even stone would have used. The structures thrown up by their traditions and observances required constant upkeep and there was now hardly a structure of note that wasn’t patched, riveted or even roofed in the various metals that the city through out with alarming immensity.

It did not take a man like Jander to pronounce his message through the ranting screams of the preacher. He hammered a spar, blade or bracket. He heated the iron peg for a cartwheel or smelted the tin. copper and other metals into unions of bronze and others that made them stronger.

Everywhere he went, he spoke.

“Trust in the City,” he declared. “Gods might be Gods. Dragons might be Dragons. Priest come and go. But the City will always remain. Remember that always and give thanks to the City that made you. Nurtured you.” He held up a blade made yellow by the heat of bellows and charcoal. “Forged you. Trust in the city and give it your thanks.”

Sitting nearby, Master Gannet was looking worried. “Are you feeing well, y’honour?”

“I am strong in the heat of the forge.”

“Only…” the peddler looked out and into the twisting, filthy street beyond. “…only, there’s evil in the air. Rats are leaving the ship,”

“The city is rotten, Gannet. Rotten. Like a blade unkept it is weak. It must be forged anew. To reforge you need a fire, Gannet. Fire, heat and a strong arm to beat the use into it once again. If a soul is rotten then the process is the same.”

“But they’re dark hearted bastards, y’honour!”

“Then they need the rule of law. Children need discipline. A good blade needs a keen edge but it also needs a strong shank and most importantly it must be flexible. I have places to be. Have you considered my offer?”

“I have guided the wagons as you wished, y’honour. But I‘m not staying in the city. If the rats have fled then so will I. Look in the streets, y’honour. You see anybody from outside?”

The Forge grunted. “I see the people arrayed about me. Dulled sparks all.”

“But not many people from outside? You know what they’re saying beyond the hills? Only a fool goes to Deci when they’re celebrating. Only a fool, y’honour. I’ve been around. I’m older than I look and I’m not staying. Bad things happen in bad places y’honour, and this city is about as bad as it gets. I will see you out in the wild places.”

With a stern glare, the Forge watched the Peddler pick up his pack and slip out. “From the most base of materials are the best things forged!” Jander shouted after him. Then picking up his tools he went on to another task, another great work.


A Stab In The Back
The little shop was easy to find. Despite the celebrations that rammed the chaotic street beyond those within were remarkably calm. High seats lined one wall, each facing a polished bronze mirror so that they could watch as the hairy-faced workers trimmed hoods, tidied tunics and sewed belts about the patrons. All to facilitate the hanging of a knife, dagger, stiletto, poniard or indeed anything sharp and less than two feet in length.

Fade settled himself down in a spare chair and waved away the offer of a bandolier. The rat that now hovered behind him asked his needs. In return Fade pointed to where a throwing knife was tucked just at the height of his shoulder. “Catches sometimes.”

The rat nodded and twitched at the hood. “A little off the back, keep the collar nice and short? We’ve got a new line of twitch-blades?”

Fade nodded and waited for the rat to return and with scissors, needle and thread began to work on his new customers appearance. Perhaps half the people here were being worked upon, the rest just seemed to be hanging around gossiping. Children played quietly in the corner with a dying mouse. A goblin wearing the city’s largest hat stood hunched over a decorative box in the company of the city’s ugliest woman, a title for which there was much stiff competition.

“Anything else, Master?” The rat asked, holding up another bronze mirror to show Fade how the dagger now hung upon his back. It looked damn nice, the Councillor had to admit.

“Perhaps a little information?” He explained his need. Before he had finished the goblin was at his side. Though small in the manner of his kind he was dressed like the grandest of Merchant. His hat, of course, demanded instant respect. Fade did not know why he felt sudden respect for the creature, goblins being slightly lower than dung in the cities social hierarchy but it was clear everyone was watching the exchange with a certain professional interest.

“Yer ‘eard about poor Mistress Bagly’s place?” Master Berry asked.

Fade admitted to the goblin that he had indeed. It was in fact two doors over and despite the area was a rather fine place. He had himself taken cake there on several occasions. Bloody awful cake but a really nice place to eat it. He remembered the brass beams and the bowed, green windows that must have been rubbed with some of Tamary’s Finest Wise Oil, for the precious panes had never been broken.

“Ting is, she’s old see?” Master Berry admitted. “Prone ter ther weakness of der ‘eart. I knows where ther old dear keeps ‘er lease from thee kind old Lord wot owns it. Good twelve year left an’all. P’raps I could see me way ter makin sure yer knew where it was?”

“That would be helpful?”

“Berry, sir. Master T. Berry. We ‘ave met. Pretty certain as ‘ow the property is, like, soon ter be free. Now, I wouldn’t fink ter ask yer good self fer treasure…”

“I am rich you know.” Fade remembered all the dead alchemists and mill workers. “Was rich. By the way, who killed all the brewers in the city?”

“Give yer that one fer free, sir. Seein’ as’ow yer such a nasty gent. I ‘eard from a rat as ‘ow it was a new Guild. They ‘ired stabbers and ticklers ter get rid of ther competition. Nah then, ther shop over ther way?”

The hideous witch sidled over and whispered in Master Berry’s huge flapping ears.

“Ayuh! Yes dear, I’ll h’ask. We can get this luverly shops fer yer, sturdy, good location like, lotsa rooms, used ter be a Guild, sir, if yer could ‘elp us.”

Favour was currency in Deci. It would hardly work the markets but when one got to a certain level it was twice as pricey. It was also the treasure used by those of decent rank. “Go on.” Fade agreed with an evil smile.

“Me and ther missus, ere, say ‘ello ducks.” The goblin said and his foul wife crouched down to respectfully lick Fade’s toes. “Needs ter speak with ther Silversmith’s. Nah then, if yer was ter send word ter expect us h’on a matter of consultation then it would ‘elp us out no end.”

Fade thought about it. If the goblin was up to anything against the city the Silversmith’s would probably kill him and give him to the Toymakers for spare parts. “Shouldn’t be a problem. Now then, the shop?” He remembered how it was part of a larger building. He had assumed in the past that it was occupied by others but if the shop was actually all part of it, and if it came as part of the deal… and ownership of the lease scroll would save him hundreds. If not more. The Nobles were a clever lot and they’d probably want a favour more than treasure and favours took time. “Is the good lady baker dead?”

“Thatchwit! Ther lady carped it yet?” One of the rats went off to look. “One of me stepsons, sir. Fambly business this.” Master Berry then waited patiently. Fade waited in turn. The stepson rat ran back and nodded. Master Berry removed his hat and held it over his chest for the count of ‘many’. “Is a cryin’ shame. Ther yer goes boss.” He sighed and dug out a long, creamy scroll wrapped in a black ribbon and sealed with a scribe mark. “All yours.”

Patting the goblin on the head, Fade went out into the street once again, this time whistling. Then he remembered that some bastard Guild had killed all his workers. Then he remembered that Guilds didn’t build themselves. People ordered them built. He hoped it hadn’t been the Don.

In the shop Thatchwit asked if they were going to leave with the more normal rats. Trundleberry clipped him around the ear and sent him to put the kettle on the fire.


Cheapside
It had started a week before. The celebrations had been widely heralded and certainly in Cheapside any excuse for a blow out was well regarded. But within the turfs of Blackjack and Marler things had been brewing up. Both had been increasing their gutterboys as the fight grew more likely. Marler’s people had been more driven. They’d been defending their homes after all. Blackjack’s core of followers had been swollen by those who had been bullied, threatened and ordered to join in the coming fight. Secretly Marmalade, Blackjack’s henchman, had suspected that they’d run when things started but they might have made things look scarier for the enemy. Marmalade wished that his gutterjack had recruited more to the core of the gang but that was not his decision. In fact Blackjack had brought another few under his wing, and they bad lads alright, but what Marmalade would have preferred were… but such thoughts he had banished.

Two days previously Blackjack had sent a message to Marler, calling him out to fight in the shadow of the old tarring mill but no one expected this to happen. Blackjack was a murdering bastard whose word meant nothing even amongst the thin sort of thieves honour that could be found in the Quarter. Everyone knew it to be a trap, everyone knew that Blackjack would come against Marler in his own turf so why walk into the jaws of madness?

This was not at all what Blackjack had planned. He had shouted at Marmalade as if it were his fault, demanding to know why Marler had not blithely walked into a place of Blackjack’s choosing without scouting it out first and without seeing how Blackjack’s gang were cunningly waiting in alleyways all about it ready to charge. No one had dared to say what they thought, that an enemy rarely does what he is expected to do. At the very least, to do what the plan demands.

Early amongst the dirty light of dawn, Blackjack’s mood had been made no better when he had awoken to sounds of fighting. Roaring out of his lonely slumber, his missus having been sent away, the orc burst into the street in time to see three of his gang twitching on the broken ground. Left with painful, ultimately fatal stomach wounds and with their noses cut free they had been left as a sign.

Marmalade had piled out with the rest of the gang, hoisting his patched britches up about his waist with one hand, a gutting knife in the other.

“They’re attackin’ us.” Blackjack shouted. “’Ow dare they! Dey was meant ter walk inter me trap!”

Marmalade pushed through the small crowd and snatched up an urchin before the lad was able to escape. “You know Kipper Lane?”

“’Course! Gerrof me!”

“Take this.” He pushed a notched stick into the boy’s hands and explained to where.

“I’ll kill ‘em all” Blackjack was still shouting.

*

Seated on the uppermost edge of the Citadel, the silver-eyed man dug into a blackened box and helped himself to a special blend of his own making. His nose twitched, but he did not sneeze. For a moment he remained alone and then seated in perfect calm beside him the Don asked after his health?

“I remain hearty, Argoth. Yourself?”

“I remain likewise, Ullis. Is this a bad time for us to talk?”

“No, no - I have an hour or so yet. In what way might I be of service before my departure?”

The Don frowned. “I think perhaps you ought to start be explaining what you meant by that?”

In the darkness of the upper rooftops of the city of Deci, Ulis Tamary smiled with his neat, even little teeth.


The Mercantile Quarter
In the company of a dark figure in black, Anath rubbed his hands together in glee. He was having to restrain himself from hopping from one foot to the other in his eagerness, noting as several of the carts rumbled past the tattered banners that others flew. It was not that the celebrations were going so well as to how cheap they were proving to be. A few centuries to have the scribes spread the word and then very little else. He was gratified that his grasping nature ensured the every grull he had put aside was counted because his plans had not actually cost a great deal. Once the Guilds had been told they let their own members know their wishes. The thousands of centuries he had pegged for the parade and resultant cheer mostly remained close to hand because Anath had found very little to actually spend them on. It was not as if there were wagon loads of food and drink to be had if the price was right…

…or rather there probably were normally but such smuggling as he wished to encourage had dried up. For though the festival was excitingly delightful the one thing he had not counted on was the reputation that Deci had gained during its feast days. Traders still came but were not waiting around, they had flooded the markets early then left before the first Guild had raised a soggy pennant.

“A good, local sort of celebration?” His companion pointed out.

“The Empire has a great many travelling groups.” Anath pointed out. “Whole families that go from city to city. Adventuring bands. Carnivals and mummers. Great swathes of former peasants that know the Guilds and the Nobility are always looking for strong hands to carry loads or work estates. People used to travelling between the cities as season and celebration dictate.”

“Where are they?”

“It is possible that they have not come because our city has a…”

“Certain propensity for killing people in the name of anyone that cares to throw a party?”

“Indeed. I had foreseen this.”

“Had you?”

“Of course.” Anath lied. Ultimately it did not matter as such scum as roamed the land without paying their taxes, Halfblack shuddered, were a very minor part of the plan. He had half desired to bribe them to settle into the city’s Guilds, something that he had found out from his factor that Keys had been doing for a year now. At least a year. “But the growth of our city is secondary to the glorification of its name. And you will see that such is being admirably achieved?”

Within his hood, the other man shrugged. Civic pride was certainly flooding the city, it sang in the smoggy darkness of the night and would doubtless be found littering the streets come the hated morning. Doubtless the Guild Masters themselves would be deep in Hightown by then for in that place night lasted much longer.

“Might I now engage you in the matter for which I have come?”

Sparing his guest a sharp look, Anath nodded and turned away for now from the streets. He could taste the heady joy in the hearts of the people. They were recalling a glorious past that, he suspected, had never really existed. For Anath was not entirely convinced that the city had ever had anything that could be called the ‘Good Old Days’. But if the future was made up of pieces of the past, a wise man would take time to select such pieces carefully.


Hightown
High above the celebrants and hunched near unseen amongst the swathing cloaks of greys and black, the masked membership of the Deci Hunt watched calmly.

“We have returned in time it seems.” One of the figures said in a thin, whispering sort of voice.

“How considerate of us.”

In their midst two of the figures held hands but had until now had not said anything. Sensing that the others had said all they were likely to for now, the larger of the two fetched a leather satchel from under his cloak and handed it to the nearest of his masked fellows. “The funds we spoke of.”

“Oh?”

“The land?”

“Ah, yes. Here.” In return the first was handed a scroll wrapped up in iron bands. The parchment was so bound about a central core made up of a short rod whose end showed that it was in two parts lengthways. “Now tell me, what will be your Hall?”

Sensing that everyone’s attention was now on him the masked figure cleared his throat. “I had as not considered. You have all? All of you?”

It seemed they had.

The Deci Hunt looked once more down at the streets where a snarl up had occurred due to the appearance of a dozen or more mercenaries. Either drunk or stupid they were demanding that the procession go about them. The crowd was turning nasty when Nichal pushed his way to the front.

“This should be interesting.” One of the masks opined.

*

Gang fought gang in Cheapside. The Quarter squabbled with some regularity but as the conflict between Blackjack and Marler spread the scraps and ambushes had drawn in increasing numbers of otherwise neutral parties as turfs were encroached and insult taken. None of the really notorious gangs had taken to the streets, the five most famous indeed contenting themselves with the celebrations that still raged in the city beyond.

His mace bloody with the smear of the dead, Marler had called to his gods to aid him but nothing that resembled holy fire had fallen from the heavens. His own gang swollen by members of the Fell Brethren and a band of hooded women whose touch slew more swiftly than a knife, Blackjack was himself bloody but elated. His trap forgotten the fighting came in fits and starts as he roamed, attacking Marler’s people but never quire drawing close to the man himself.

It was even as the festival beyond wound down that, exhausted, he found himself hunched over the body of a dead puppy with Marmalade. Food was where you found it and both orc and man picked at the body with some relish.

“Ther dark gods is answerin’ me.” The orc said about a tasty leg.

“’Course they are, boss. Marler’s still going but we’ll hunt him down, eh?”

“Right! He was too chicken was all.”

“Slimy, gobby girl is all he is, boss. We gonna go in and get him? Dig him out of his stinking turf?”

Blackjack opened his mouth to answer but stopped when he felt rain upon his head. All about the street a light shower began to patter, spreading over the city. He looked more closely for even in the gloom something looked wrong. The rain was too dark, even for Deci, and clung too persistently.

It was blood. Over the city of Deci and from amongst the smog of its Guilds and foundries a rain of blood had come to wash the city and mark it anew.

*

It was the Day of the Dead.

The river ran with the blood rain and in truth it was hard to tell what came from the skies and which came from the veins of the people. There had been various edicts from the Guilds that their members were to adhere to the commands of the High Priest of Bhaal in the matter and to be fair many did. It was said that Fade had ordered everyone that the Festival was not about killing and that murder was not to be considered part of the celebrations. Indeed, it now became clear that though the Church of Bhaal was to do with the worship of the God of Murder the city and the faith would really rather prefer it if people didn’t. Murder was apparently some sort of abstract concept, something a bit naughty. Well, not naughty – tell someone from Deci that they were ‘being a bit naughty’ and that would only encourage them. Still, some of the commoner priests reinforced the message at street level.

Because Bhaal wasn’t about killing people.

It was perhaps just as well then that something else was. Certainly there were a lot of weapons on the streets. The Warsmiths had been churning out absolutely anything that wasn’t a knife but could kill. The result was that quite large numbers of people were shooting each other with crossbows, hacking ineffectually at strangers with swords and thumping their friends with unwitting mace work. The Warsmith’s would not say who had paid them a huge stack of grulls to produce so many instruments of lethal wounding. Even in the Guild Chambers they had remained silent on the matter other than to say that ‘My Wyvern would eat them if they said. ’ His was balanced by every stall, every shop and every back-alley blade peddler making it damn clear that the Don was handing out the weapons and the people should think of him when they were being used.

With the Church of Bhaal taking its ‘killing is wrong’ stance it probably good for the moral decay of the city that Argoth had not said anything about the killing. Since over recent weeks the bubble had burst anyway, most people now knowing that Argoth actually was Bhaal, most of the more dedicated killers and the criminally minded took it as a good sign to stab a few people anyway. The thinking amongst the lowest classes was that Bhaal outranked his High Priest so it was alright to get killing. Curiously, the exact opposite opinion was held by those higher up the social ladder with the Guildsmen and their leaders firmly of the opinion that a High Priest spoke for his god. Besides, Fade’s social standing was considerably higher than Bhaal’s. Bhaal wasn’t even in a Guild, let alone possessed of a social title. He probably didn’t even pay his taxes. People of standing always paid at least a proportion on their city tithe.

Why, the Don had offered much better prices to the traders in the city and there were already heaps of fine things cramming the Poison Quarter. Ready it seemed for the grand conclusion to the Day of the Dead for in the Cub it was be the ‘Death Night’. Fun, games, food and wine enough for everyone.

News that traders had been ambushed by trees south of Deci was a little disturbing, even if the reason seemed to be that wood was the load most ‘set free’ by the arboreal bandits. None of the traders had died but they’d been humiliated by the wildlife south of the city and had complained loudly to Anath that if he was going to ‘allow Eartholme, its brown wizards and their druid chummies’ to attack traders then perhaps their loads would be more appreciated elsewhere.

This is perhaps the least of Anath’s concerns not worries. Master Halfblack did not have worries. But he did have concerns. The Guilds had done as he asked and those worthy citizens had decided to do what they were damn well told by the city. The Toy Stalkers had agreed to make fascinating puppets of The Don for the city’s children and Anath had to assume that these were being played with quietly for there were certainly a lot less children on the streets nowadays.

Plenty of pie filling through.

The Silversmith’s had agreed to make for Fade an instrument of correction and persuasion. That pleased Anath immensely. He had scribes all over the Citadel just in case anyone testy and bald was seen stalking about with hooky hands and murder in his eyes. There had been a few as it happened, but none of them had been Fade.

Deci was therefore divided in its manner of celebration. There was more fighting in Cheapside. The Poison Quarter stalked itself. Elsewhere things were more in keeping with the new Bhaalist manifesto.

“Master Mole.” Anath turned and selected his most ingratiating smile. “All is well?”

“Not really, Master Anath, no.”

“I am sorrowed to hear such words from you, Master Mole. The work goes apace?”

“Yes. We have attended to the Spire, such as is needed for the Kingdom. But whilst undertaking this last affair the Kallah have been troubling us. They won’t stop telling my people to worship Murder. We said ‘Bhaal’? They said ‘No, murder’. Then some attacked us and they were chased away by a wretched man who stepped from nowhere. He in turn assured us that the Don would not want anything to happen to us. I then received a message that my services were required again. I am frankly appalled Master Halfblack! Appalled! This is not the only time I have been accosted since coming here. I have been approached by a messenger from Eartholme and one from Scarlene requesting I go there next! I was under the distinct impression that I had made clear my intentions not to perform like some convenient goblin for all and sundry!”

Already Anath’s eyes had narrowed. “I assure you that this was none of my doing.”

“Well someone knew I would be here. I can only presume that if it were not you then you told others and one of them has a big, flappy mouth. Nonetheless, you have clearly managed to put some sort of sheen on this appalling festival. I notice with relief that those possessed of wit are not murdering their grandmothers.”

Mole was furious. Anath shared his feelings. It was fortunate that he had secured rooms for Mole’s Craftband in the Guilds most suited to them. There they had been treated like visiting Nobility and Sly Kanath had assured the councillor that there were eminently happy when they were not working. With the Assassins Guild warned away from them it meant that the whole ‘band had been safe since their arrival. If he was going to get told off by Ignatius Mole then Anath was happier that it be about social approach than the loss of his people.

Besides, all reports said that the work was extremely fine. The Spire indeed had gone up in less than three days. Kanath had suggested that even the Guilds would have needed a week. It was therefore a little bit tricky to raise the matter of the Poison Club.

“The Don is rather keen on a little project of his, whilst you are here?”

“Oh, is he? We had a deal Halfblack. I do not expect to be treated like some damn city retainer.”

“Please Master Mole. I assure you that if it is a matter of price?”

“The Don will view you unfavourably?” Mole snapped. Anath did not answer. “Fine, fine! Half a million. There you are, two hundred and fifty thousand and we’ll do it.”

Anath throttled his choke down into a growl. “…Grulls. . ?”

“Centuries Halfblack! Borrow if off Keys, or the Empire or something. Have the city cough up.”

*

Though the door opened quickly still the Lord Majius was through it and into the Watch House before it hit the shaky wall beyond. The Watchmen jumped from where they hid behind the table but otherwise tried to remain as unseen as they could. Troy ignored them anyway and assumed that his orders for the Watch to be ready were being obeyed. In fact there was not the slightest chance that the Deci Watch were going to do anything without their Captain there to lead them. Even then they’d probably run away. The Watch in Deci were without doubt the worst in the Empire. Badly led, terrified for their lives if they had any real talent in fighting or a real desire to fight crime they’d either find other work or, in the case of the latter, move somewhere else.

“Berina!” Troy shouted and from the empty holding hole the trembling shape of his beloved was brought out. A blanket over her shoulders, a protective arm about her shoulder, she had said nothing after shouting at her rescuer to get her to her betrothed. Nichal shook his head but Troy was having none of that, this was not the time for modesty and he owed the man a great deal. “Berina! Are you well?”

The woman continued to tremble. She had retreated inside herself, away from the terror of her kidnapping. She collapsed into Troy’s arms but said nothing at all. When he managed to raise her chin he saw only terror in her eyes. She shook some more and the Governor threw aside the blanket, replacing it with his own heavy cloak.

“Any clues, Ogder?”

Nichal shook his head. “Sorry Governor. I stayed with Lady Berina in case they came back. Laws not my thing.” He cast a baleful glance at the Watchmen nearby. “Nor theirs I think. They only had one person in the holding hole and he was so old he couldn’t remember who he was. His release was ordered by the Watch Captain along with all such prisoners.”

Troy turned about, Berina mostly hidden under his arm. The Nobility were gathering at the new Spire to speak with him but for the most part they going to attend Argoth in the Poison Club later that night. He had asked them with some venom who exactly it was that was in charge of the city? One of them had dryly confessed that at the moment it was Ulis Tamary.

Of them all only the visiting Lord Refrain had shown any backbone. The cold, somewhat soulless Nobleman waited outside the Watchhouse even now and soon he and the spearmen he had brought with him had Majius and his beloved surrounded. They walked quickly, keeping to the streets as the roofs had become dangerous for the Nobility. Nichal brought up the rear having roused the somewhat odd militia up for the occasion. The city militia did not for most part carry spear, shield or stand on walls. They killed invaders and as such were now lurking about in case outsiders thought to interfere with the lower key celebrations. In this they were ideal, especially if such trouble came at the end of a spear. Then seeing that all seemed to be in hand the Commisent headed back to his duties.

“Wolves, Majius.” Refrain said. The words seemed to leave ice on the air between them. “The werewolves of Deci. You know of them?”

“Something.”

“You should speak with the Silversmiths. They know the most I am sure, presuming they are as they were before Cerus came here and crushed the Guilds? They are part of the city, do not seek your Spirits aid in this. Faced with a conflict of interest he will either do nothing, assist both or interfere with either equally.”

“You know Ulis?”

“I met him when I was a boy. He made my father a Lord when he, Ulis, was the Grand Duke Tamarre of Halgar. He is powerful. I will not cross him for his reach is soft and clever.” All about them the black-cloaked spearmen looked outward. A further eighty were camped outside the city. Berina still trembled and despite Troy’s further urging continued to say nothing.

“Wolves? Why?”

“Your city slew their pups. Doubtless they have been gathering their numbers. There are a number of them who are fell, no doubt. I will aid you against them if I can.”

“You know the city?”

“I knew the city best a few years gone. But enough. They have already knocked the confidence of your Nobles.”

It was true. Troy knew that the power of the Deci Hunt was in confidence. They ruled the city above and below. They did what they wished ad took whom they chose. Then four creatures had ripped through them like they had hardly been there at all and new they were unwilling to Hunt again for the moment. He remembered something the lord-before-last had said about wolves. “There was a woman, a midwife in Cheapside. Nana Slagwitch. She came to the estate once to tend to an unwanted… it matters not. But she stank and when Dalron complained the then-Lord told him ‘all wolves smell, boy’. I might have to pay her a visit.”

It was agreed that that would have to postpone such for now. Entering Cheapside was not exactly easy at the moment and they were expected elsewhere. Hoods up against the pitter-patter of the red rain, the knot of Nobles and spearmen hurried on.


The Silversmiths
Taken through narrow corridors, Master Berry held his hat nervously in both hands. The brim was becoming frayed as it was passed through the sweaty, grasping fingers and the goblin had not dared blink for approaching fifteen minutes now. The whole Guildhall was worrying him. It was too tall, too narrow and everything seemed to be far too pointy. Nothing at all was symmetrical and no two doors seemed alike. Mirrors hung on walls and reflected what was not there. Bells sounded discordantly and from imperceptible distances. The colours were all wrong. Not that there were colours. Everything seemed to be tinted a hundred shades of grey yet nothing was entirely black and nothing completely white.

He did not like it here.

Even the redoubtable Mrs. Berry seemed withdrawn. Her horrible face stood half-hidden by her pondweed hair, her heavy boots walked quietly on polished boards of diverse wood. The man leading them had said nothing since they had come to the Guild’s main door, merely beckoned for them to follow. His face hidden behind a silver mask that reflected those who looked the Guildsman was impossible to read.

At length they came to a heavy door or grey silver. Crossing its surface were nine metallic dragons and after a moment these seemed to move, slither and side towards the doors central boss. Then noiselessly the portal opened and they were waved into the gloom inside.

“I’ll wait ‘ere then,” Master Berry whispered.

“Prolly best, ducks.” His wife agreed and entered alone. The door sealed itself once more. The goblin breathed out nearby a door stood ajar. It probably wouldn’t hurt to have a little look after all…


The Majius Estates
Harvest season did not mean much out in the rural lands of Deci. Between the horseshoe barrier of the Forgotten Hills and the depths of the Shedeff Forest the land was hard, stony and forbidding. This was a land of ore and tough little woodlands. It was not made for people and even the tribes were sparse here.

Nonetheless it was home.

Like so much of the Empire the land might all be owned by the Nobility but little of it was settled any longer. The Magiarchal Wars might have killed nine out of every eleven people in the land-now-Empire, either during or more commonly in the wake of the Magiarch’s but this has in turn freed the peasants. There were simply not enough to work the land any more. It had been better in the Deci territories as little conflict had actually come here comparatively but still it had never been easy land.

To the west of the city, some days journey along the trade road and the River Gremlin was reached. Here were found the Majius lands. They stretched for some leagues north and south and those that had once held the family were entirely river centred. Horrible forest land lurked for miles along the river banks, dotted with dozens of badly made charcoal fires. Charcoal was always worthwhile as the Guilds needed it, especially in a city where so much ore was to be had. Furnaces, foundries and smithies all had to have charcoal and it was indeed the major cottage industry of the villages.

Talath Majius walked along the old river track. Not so far away the families manor house was to be found and there he hoped to find shelter. He shuddered when he remembered the nasty, haunted home. For a manor house it more closely resembled a tumbledown fort. Crumbing walls and half a dozen pointed towers rose upwards. This was not a land where raiders were given an easy ride.

The younger brother of Lord Majius had already passed Widows Wail, Throttle and Nearly Low. The three villages had been there since before the land had formerly been a Noble estate. Along with River Sickly and Woe they made up the five centres of population in the Majius lands. Strictly speaking Throttle was a Barony, part of the Majius House Estates but a Barony nonetheless. Theoretically Troy could gift the title of Baron to any of his siblings. Time would tell though if he would - or just keep the title ‘Baron Throttle’ for himself.

Further inland and the family’s mines were to be found. They hadn’t been worked for years but once Majius Well, Arthen Hole and Dire Dwel had produced ore for market. Beyond them and the land had grown wild. Mostly forested the Majius Thorn was a forest of impressive size and in which they had all been forced to hunt troll as children. Now he had heard witches had chased out men and so though it was part of the large Majius estate it was doubtful if this meant anything other than a mark on some distant tallystick.

It grew dark quickly up north and was nearly there when Talath stepped up to the old brass gates that block entrance to the manor’s courtyard. Taking up the rusted knife that was hung on a chain nearby he banged on the gates until a familiar shape stepped out.

It was Buggers. Buggers had served the family for a long, long time. Gaunt as a calcified leek he wore the faded colours of the House. What hair remained grew no higher than his ears and fell thereafter straight down his back. His fingers had slightly too many joints. Is teeth were shaped like hooks.

“Master Talath.”

“Home for a while, Buggers.”

“Very good, Master Talath.” The gates eased upwards allowing the Nobleman entry. Thereafter he took himself to the kitchens. Large enough to cook for a hundred they had only served a dozen at most in more recent years. Buggers came in and began to cut up a green cheese the size of a cartwheel, and took down a chest-sized loaf of black bread. “Hungry, Master Talath?”

“Actually I’ve got a party to go to, Buggers.”

Long, curled fingers fastened on the younger mans shoulder. Eased him to a chair and placed a slab of food before him. The chair, like the table was ancient, black or red and extremely sturdy. The manor was not some empty shell. It had plenty of furniture, tapestries and portraits. Too many in fact. And ghosts, lots and lots of ghosts. “Well, perhaps just a bite then I really have to return to the city.” Talath agreed.


Cheapside
The fighting had become brutal. Blackjack was not interested in cowards and had already seen enough of his followers die to understand that those at least had been up to scratch. The rabble from the alleys were trash but that was gangs. His core followers though, his Gutterband, were made of hardier stuff ad these had cut trough the enemy over a day of hard ducking, running and stabbing.

It was becoming hard to see at all as the vague day departed. The blood rain still fell and now it had taken to form a fog, crimson and oily to the skin. For now only he, Marmalade and a few others had any idea where each other were. It did not help that Cheapside was fighting anyway, murdering for the Day of the Dead with the blessing of the Don. Or Bhaal, Or Argoth. Or all three. It was hard to tell to be honest and even Blackjack’s followers thought that Bhaal and Argoth were the same thing!

“Bit further, Marmalade.”

The evil man grinned, the red rain running down his face and his features painted by the bloody fog. He had taken his promotion with good grace, though thought ‘general’ was a bit of a grand title. If he’d acted like one he’d have been a Magiocracies war leader with thousand of spears to command and never any risk of having to do any fighting for himself. That clearly was not on the cards for Marmalade. He turned away from the puppies that he’d been nailing to a door and ran over to where Blackjack was already peering into the haze.

Ahead stood several shapes. They were hunched, wary and looked to be armed with maces. This was close enough to Marler’s followers as to make no difference and so the horrible little group ran forward. Blackjack cut the first so deeply that his stumpy sword stuck in his guts. A second was killed when the orc snatched up the falling mace and caved in the gang scum’s head. Two of his lads tussled with three of the enemy until winning over and Marmalade chased after the only one with the wit to make a run for it.

“Where the feck are we, Blackjack?” One of the lads spat.

“Bhaal only knows.” The orc scratched his head. “Dat der old mucky works?”

Marmalade returned with a head in one hand, frowning at what he had only half heard. “That’s miles away.”

“Den where ther feck is we?”

No one knew. The fog, the rain and the constant fighting had robbed them of their direction sense. Taking charge Blackjack went to the nearest door and booted it open with six or seven good kicks. They built them sturdy in Cheapside. Inside a man sat over his dead family.

“She sold me out to Elbereth!” He wailed.

“Wotta pregnant dog.” Blackjack agreed.

“This man came in black and told me! I had to kill her! Elves were coming!”

“Righty-ho fruitcake. Shut der feck up and tell me where we is?”

“Golightly Row.”

Blackjack killed him and ran out. With that information they were able to cut through a series of lanes, ignoring oddness and buildings that had no right being there. Only Marmalade was paying attention and Blackjack didn’t want to know.

“’Ere, I’m not being funny but that last square was burned down years ago!”

“Shuddit slag – killing ter be done.”

“And that Inn, there’s no ‘Amoras Nose’ in Cheapside.” But he was shouted again as the small group barrelled out into a courtyard to see Marler himself railing at a gathering of the faithful. Stupidly outnumbered they charged anyway, surprise and outright bloodshed taking the place of warm bodies initially. Then Marler rallied his congregation and too many hands reached for them. Too many weapons were wetted. Blackjack and Marmalade forged forward but the others were gutted and strung up.

Then Marler seemed to pause. He looked surprised and half turned before falling forward. His head seemed to hang in the air for a moment then it too bounced on the stone steps to land amongst the gangs. Marler’s people dodged aside and then as one turned and fled. Knackered, Blackjack and Marmalade turned to see only one person remaining.

Short hunched and with a big goblin nose beneath his rags, the Mysterious Stranger shared a glance and then was gone.

“Who wuz dat masked goblin?” Blackjack swore.

“Trundelberry.” Marmalade said sharply. Marmalade knew his assassins even if the one mentioned had not been seen in a very long time. Some said he was the affluent and important Master Berry but no one took such rumours seriously. Some said he now ran the scribes in Halgar. That was generally thought to be the more likely.

*

The Temple to Bhaal was solemn indeed.

Those of the cult within the better part of society had gathered. Many who were not in the cult came also just in case their absence was noted and they came up in some sort of obscure death lottery. In fact the Temple did not ring to the butchery of murder at all. It might have seen a little purposeful sacrifice, no one inside was going to say anything, but the scribes would such as assassination anyway, so…

The schism that seemed to be developing in the cult was most cleanly shown here. Not so far away people were indulging in all manner of horror whilst here and in the Guilds things were more peaceable. The service was long, theatrical and solemn. People felt involved. Indeed, there was nothing such folk liked more than to be part of something greater than they and it was very early in the morning before Fade completed what he had set out to do.

It had been a long few days.

Already he had heard that the Mockers Kingdom was being forged. He had passed on the message that the new King was to be aware of just who it was that had caused such a thing to be established but had received no answer from the beggars. They in turn had been spreading the stories about Argoth and Bhaal being basically the same person. He had visited the Silversmiths and left word regarding Master Berry and even left a message asking the head of the Poisoners Guild to meet with him. Since Anath was going to be at the meeting he had since heard that the Guild Chambers would be most suitable for such a… discussion. It was true that the new Guild had caused a large number of Fade’s followers to be murdered but that was surely alright.?

“What did you want to see me about, Fade?” A familiar voice asked. Stripped to the waist, washing the blood from his chest and arms, the High Priest turned about only after he had completed his post-ritual cleansing.

“The Mount is built, the Kingdom is formed! What MORE is there to do?”

Ulis sat on the dark steps that led back into the Temple proper. He was dressed in shadow and his hair now hung long and pale down each shoulder. He looked hungry somehow and there was dirt under his nails. “What are you talking about?”

“All these things I have done for you.”

“Oh please, all these things were done for many reasons. The only city that might compete for Kallah power is now Halgar and their Spirit will not openly oppose me whilst I keep out of his city. Since it is impossible for me to enter his city that is hardly of any concern.” He grinned and his teeth were crooked. “What do you want to me to say? Well done? Well done, Fade. You want a reward?”

Fade shook his head. “You seem unlike yourself, my friend.”

“I do? Perhaps I do. What of it?”

“You are normally so dapper.”

“There seems little point now. As you will see. Anyway I have something for you.” Ulis stood up and from behind his back produced a key. It was four headed and curled about itself like some wizard’s puzzle. “Here, take it.”

“As you say,” the High Priest accepted it warily. “What is it?”

“The key to my shop. Take it, after the Final Dawn it will open once again. It’s yours. You don’t want to meddle with grull-yards when you can have a century-farm. Only thing is, Fade, a warning.”

“Go on.”

“It comes with a certain responsibility to Cheapside. Or the Old City as the shop sees it. It is your choice, Fade. You want the key?”

But already the High Priest had tucked it away into hiding. Turning back he found that he was once more alone.

*

The red mist was lighter within the Poison Quarter. Fires burnt sickly in dozens of iron braziers and the odd streets and twisted lanes were packed with revellers. Rather than kill each other the weaker, the more stupid or the just plain unlucky were brutally picked upon to take part in various games that would only see one of them survive. Murder was thus directed and given form. It still saw people die… but not in the large numbers of the last year. Those in the Poison Quarter did not shudder at the thought of the previous year. Far from it – they’d been the ones doing the killing. If the dead worried then no one listened to them.

The Nobles came in a mass and ignored the masses of food that were being put out. The Don had certainly gone to some extravagant lengths to enjoy himself on this year’s celebration and perhaps in the wake of the Guild Day that was no bad thing. Hey were met in the street by the tall, wide-shouldered shape of Argoth’s trusted follower Mr. Wyvern.

“Gentlemen.”

“Is Argoth about?” One of the hooded Noblemen asked grimly.

“He is everywhere, gentlemen. Doubtless you have felt his presence throughout the city? Such a delicate touch. One trusts you are here for the entertainment. Just as one wishes to remind you all, my lords, that your presence is expected over the coming Final Dawn?”

“Just show us where we need to go, Wyvern.” Troy muttered and glared at the taller man until the way was clear. His younger brother, Talath, made to say something but was hushes by the Lord of his House. They entered through a darkened doorway to find themselves in a wide and richly dressed hall. Already the sounds of fighting could be heard. From cages hanging from the upper darkness, in pits, in cleared areas, pairs and larger numbers fought with knives and stranger devices. Some were partially armoured, some were naked, all fought.

Crowds cheered on the bouts or pounded on the black gilding of the walls as others competed in knife throwing and even running a lethal looking gauntlet.

Standing amongst it all and clearly having the time of his life was Don Argoth. It was almost strange to see him there, in the flesh such as it was, after feeling his influence throughout the city for the past few days. It seemed almost wrong that Argoth walked on legs and crossed arms like anyone else. Seeing his guests, the Don spread wide his and greeted them cheerily.

“The sheep must have their herders! He flock must sometimes be fed!”

“If you say so, Argoth.” Troy said. Berina was not leaving his side but looked about herself in sharp little jerks of her head. Still she had said nothing.

“Come along, Governor.” Argoth pushed a goblet into Troy’s hand. “I insist…”

Lord Majius tossed off the wine quickly. His host had already passed on, this time to greet the terrible looking figure of Ulis Tamary. Standing close to one of the flickering torches the Spirits skin seemed to be sloughing away from his face. He smiled broadly though and his eyes burned with a black fire.

A loud cry came from the nearest cage. A woman had just succeeded in killing a much larger man much to the crowd’s dismay as they had all clearly bet against her. The noise rose and the drink flowed. Blood spilt and over the city the red rain fell through the crimson fog. Outside the club itself people carved at their skin with sharp little knives and danced amongst the rain, the silt food and the odd body.

Live for tonight.

Eat, feast, grope and dance.

For tomorrow you might die…

By Alan Morgan (CI8V1)