IM 1007 Pt 1 ~ Deathly: Da Grate Fire of Cheapside

[Sire Halfblack]

Deathly IM 1007: Da Grate Fire of Cheapside

The Season drew in harsh and cold and terrible. Snow fell thickly and in the city, dirtily. Few could remember so bad a Deathly Season but given the nature of its primal significance this was not entirely unreasonable. Still though those that had to walk the open streets did so bundled and frozen. Though heavy in the city, the ashen snow did not reach everywhere. So much of the city overhung itself, so many alleys were narrow and lanes sheltered that there is was just cold. But such cold!

In the Poison Quarter it was windier than elsewhere. With each passing night it howled more forcefully until towards the end of the month the sound of the wind took on the manner of tortured voices. Ghosts waked the streets. Some of those that owed certain allegiances to… certain faiths… were actually found dead from the terror. Their hair and hides turned white, their eyes wide and bulging. It was said by some that thousand murdered souls were to heard - even to be seen in the twilight times.

That such a Guild could stand in Deci at all spoke volumes for its power. Gold called to the hearts of some in a manner that far outstripped its worth. Certainly in a city whose mines and foundries, its smelters and its industry shrouded the city in a black pall of filth. It stood as part of the rock that stood about the chasm that together made up Hightown, beside other Guilds and yet more lordly structures. It was fatter than other Guilds, the description entirely apt for it bulged out from the rock upon which it clung and sat like a greedy man’s stomach. Its walls were rounded and the turrets and towers of the guild were plump and domed. Bands of gold, both shiny yellow and black cross the Guild in bulging lines and it was lit with lamps that burned with a bright, yellow flame. Even the door was round and it opened without a sound to Twirl’s knock.

He was shown by a surprisingly thin man though corridors as taut and curved as the rest of the Guild. There were no portraits or tapestries here. Decoration came in the form of the material that the Guild took as its symbol. And it was a symbol, for the function of the order was not merely to shape raw material into beauty. They were related to the greater alchemists on at least one level, in allegory at least.

Sire Portmandew was a cheery looking man. He was of a shape with his Guild and sat behind a richly dressed desk now covered in a cloth stained by his meal. Plates and bowls held rich samples of a feast. There was not one dish there that was a meal in and of itself, each was a side dish, or a starter, or a pudding. His neat little beard almost defined a chin that was no longer visible. His long hair was oiled and curled. His little eyes sparkled. He smiled like a cat.

“Cavern oyster, dear boy?” He offered up a bowl of testes in a pink, spotted sauce.

“Alas, I have just eaten.” Said Twirl. “If I might speak to you in privacy? I would be most grateful.”

The Guild Sire clapped his hands. The door to his chamber shut quietly behind his visitor.

*

Cheapside was burning.

There had been fires for the last month but the ancient Quarter had been burned before and built on, and burned, ransacked, and then burned once more. What had last for centuries was solid stone and timber as thick and hard as an iron-dipped orc. Newer building succumbed and they roared, but the fire did not spread well. A skilled or insane man might know the where and how of skillfull arson but that man would want stealth of at least a chance of moving away. The fire starters here had no such compunction, no such cares. They loitered about and every so often tossed someone else onto the fires they had started.

The Quarter burned, but sullenly.

Sire Berry scratched himself. He was an important man… goblin… in town. Indeed, he was the Big Goblin in Deci. But he was not the King. And the King of Cheapside was Blackjack. And Blackjack wanted to burn Cheapside down. Even Marmalade had only been able to mollify the orc a little for Blackjack was a King with a mission.

“It ain’t going up like I wanted.” The King complained.

Sire Berry commiserated. But he was an inquisitive soul and after a few days of watching Blackjack’s lads and lasses drag out another family that ‘weren’t doing what they should’ even he had to ask what the King thought he was doing?

“Dis ain’t Cheapside. Dere’s another one. Dis is all built on. See?”

“Sort of.” Sire Berry knew this was to some degree true. The Quarter was the old city, there was another under it and sometimes the higher parts were found under fresher building work. But these were the tops of old towers or Guilds. Much of the really old city lay under their feet. Literally built on. More people lived in Cheapside than anywhere else in the city and a lot of them could actually be perceived by the scribes with their funny scrolls. They lived in slums and garrets that had been other buildings, and yet older buildings before that. Fire and fear, and history and monarchy had forged the bones of the Quarter into a lump that was about as likely to burn as a lake. Still though there were fires.

Especially one in the old Prince Square. That one was roaring and its flames roared higher than the goblin could throw a knife. People fed the fire for Blackjack was taking no chances. It was better to rule a hundred loyal peasants than two hundred plotting ones. He did not mind there being gangs, as long as they were all his. Sire Berry wondered what it was about the brave and the powerful in Deci that made them want to kill everybody?

“Not ‘im.” Berry pointed to a panicking man that was being dragged to the fire.

“Why?” Blackjack growled.

“E’s alright. An’ I need ‘im for me business.”

“Fair ‘nuff.” The King shouted at his lads and the captive was left to run away. Blackjack did not count well at all. If he had then he might have noticed that so far more than two hundred people were vital to Sire Berry. “Lotsa people work for yer, dunt dey?”

“Work?” No, a lot of people were customers, Sire Berry thought to himself. “Thing is… thing is, see… if yer kill everyone. ‘Ow is dey gonna pay taxes ter yer?”

Blackjack scowled. This was typical goblin thinking. They were always coming up with ways to complicate things. “Do wot?”

“You’se der King. Dat means dey gives yer treasure. Lots.”

“Lots?” In truth he had probably killed enough people. Hundreds so far according to Marmalade. Whatever that meant. “Treasure? I just takes it when dey is dead.”

“But… dey can make more.” Sire Berry tried to explain basic economic theory. There had been some attempt the other day for the Deci Thugs and the like to stop what was going on in Cheapside but they had all died from a sudden case of, pointy, iron poisoning. There had also been a sneaky band speaking out against the Council and Troy. Another King. They had suffered the same thing. Tricky stuff disease. Contagious too.

*

The Guild was about as dull as it was functional. Heavy squared beams crossed precisely about levelled boards over his head and perfectly neat flagstones made up the floor. Anath might have been in any one of a score of rooms in the Conveyers, for they were pretty much the same.

The man that entered the chamber was not as thick set as most of those he had seen going about his business here. He was dressed differently too, though he had no mark or bearing upon him that suggested he was either Master or Sire here.

“Master Halfblack?” Baralan Arch asked, though clearly he knew whom his visitor was. His voice had the same mocking tone to it of all the local Nobility. Though he was no longer that. He was of the Blood but there was no House Cruven any more. Amora had seen to that. Baralan had been a young man when his father had sided with the Silver Weavers and though his life had been spared he was reduced to an outcast over the Dissolution of the Nobility. He had been taken in by the Guild and did the minimum required to serve it. Mostly he was a fellow used to meet or deal with other Guilds. Anath had found this out and wondered why Troy had not mentioned it. He must surely have known that House Cruven no longer existed.

“You are a man without means.”

“You come here to mock me? How quaint.” The former Nobleman answered without rancour.

“No estates? No land?”

“Only a Noble might hold land. I am not that.”

“You are of the Blood however?”

“I am. And I almost returned once more. The old Lord Majius was kind enough to ensure that I still attended certain functions. I am grateful still to the current Lord for that. If you seek action against Troy then sadly I must refuse. I am his man, you see.”

Loyalty? How precious, how unusual. In fact Anath had discovered all of this. Just as he had heard that Baralan had been about to marry the daughter of Lord Claugh before that Nobleman forbade such a union. Now the young lady was in Sellaville had would have little to do with her father unless ordered to. Neither of them had partaken of even a casual lover since. Anath knew all this because he listened. He asked the right questions. Sometimes he honestly could not help it. He had sought a man with land, a Noble House. Troy had suggested Arch, Anath had spoken with him briefly at the wedding to assure this meeting.

He had come here after a week of dealing with jewellery and the like. Ornaments and trinkets of curious design but clear worth. It had been a lengthy task for the very point of it had been to find the right buyers, to use the one to buy something else to make up a set, to get what one man wanted to allow him to sell a piece to another for a greater price. It had been a week of little sleep and dealing with people of many stripes. It had been a great deal of fun. “I understand that, and I commiserate with you.” It was true. Some would say that love had no price. Anath disagreed, it very much did but often it involved investment. “You still write to her? You even met with her in Eartholme last year. Charming.”

“Very astute of you. If I was like other Noble’s I might kill you with a poisoned blade for that.”

“But.” Anath shook his head. “You are not. On the other hand you could push me through a stone wall a yard thick or break my bones with your hands. You do not look to be a strong man compared to those in your Guild. But you have… inner strength? Yes. Indeed. Now then, your lose tongue at the wedding did mention… Pitchpike?”

*

There were concerns in the city amongst some of the more important Guilds. The impression that Deci was a wretched place filled only with devious little men that wished rebellion for the sake of it was an illusion. The city had prospered in recent years. It had gained from the Empire in ways that most people could hardly comprehend. And at the heart of this were the Conveyers, the Shapers, the Fendamentors and the Diviners. They were Guilds with strong links to other cities, they were Guilds that had risen and which were important to any city. And they did not like what was going on presently. Their Governor had stood up to Argoth and was a man of some determination – though even he had declared himself King.

And a King was not a Governor, a King ruled. And that meant there were three Kings in Deci. And they were did not like that number.

Contrary to popular belief the four foundation Guilds were not part of the hundred. They attended chambers, they worked with the others but they were as aware that they had not the same twist and history as their peers. As aware indeed as the Hundred were of they.

The year had turned and new Sires had been acclaimed for the foundation Guilds were the most traditional in their tastes, and each Guild was supposed to take a new Master each year. So they had been the first and together they did not hide their feelings. They came together in the Guild chambers to speak to their brethren.

There was a seat for each Guild. In the very centre of them remained the seat for the Silver Weavers. It was the only one empty but no one, even the foundation Guilds, would be so presumptuous as to have it removed.

Now the floor was held by the Sire’s Trial, Asel, Rod and Root respectively. It was the Diviner Root that spoke for them all, not entirely unexpectedly. “Brothers and Sisters, we come here to speak for sanity. We are all aware of opinion and rumour. We have all heard that certain demands upon our city from the Senate. Though how one destroys what we have built,” he chuckled, “I do not know.” The other politely followed suit with their own laughter. Root beamed. “I think we are all aware of what the Empire has done for us. I fear the opinion in certain, minority, quarters that says we are destined to leave the Empire. Even, to go to war! This is foolishness. There will be dissent in even our own Guilds. Our treasure, our centuries will lose value alarmingly. Faith will spiral, there will be conflict. We know our city will once become a mire of internecine killings. Hundreds, thousands will die.”

“You should be very careful what you say,” Sire Trickle of the Poisoners warned. He sat like so many in the shadows. One of the Masters of the Guild with him. “Very careful.”

“I should? You would do without our Guilds then? We are not of your poxed little boys club, your ‘Hundred’. Who will maintain the stone and wood, the material of your Guilds then? For we are Imperial Guilds, of the city but also of the Empire. I do not doubt, Trickle, that death and chaos would suit you very well. It is hardly much of a secret who your patron is. Our city will incur Entropy and will be unable to wash it away. We shall no longer by part of the Empresses Grace and our city will fall to the wilds. We shall become a place where the filth of the Empire are cast too, and yes, you may think that funny, but such wolfsheads do not work for us. They will prey, and prey on you.”

“Or spend their grulls with me.” Trickle whispered, a little too loudly to have been intended to be secret.

“But worse, what will the Empress do? She will not move against part of her Empire, we all know this. But to a threat, within its borders? A threat like us? We shall be forced to pay extravagant tribute. At least, you will be. For we shall not be here.”

*

The Spire was empty after the wedding as so many of the local Nobility had gone to Halgar almost immediately afterwards. Some on their own initiative some from Troy’s urging and others due to the demands of Hall. Nigh on the whole of the Deci Nobility were members of the Hall of Scrolls, a Hall they effectively possessed the tithing block for and so needed to be present to enforce that.

Troy, Lord Majius and King of Deci stood on one of the many balconies that allowed the members to both look out over their city and to enter and leave using their specific preferences. With him were Lady Rath and Isil Claugh. The young wife of Lord Rath was standing in his stead here for they had taken to expanding their rural estate, whilst Isil had simply not wished to accompany his father to Halgar. He did not like the capital and his father had the tithing rights for his whole House in any case.

He had spoken to many of his peers before their departure but now Troy stood nearly alone. In his hands he held the old crown, running it through his fingers, round and round as he spoke to those that had joined him here.

Lady Rath was attractive in a pale, skinny, Deci sort of way. Her dark hair was cut short about her ears and she wore a lot of old jewellery. Isil in contrast was as ugly as he was cheerful, and he was a very happy young man. He dressed down, indeed the servants were more smartly turned out than he, for he spent a lot of time in the city and his business did not include standing out amongst the crowds. Troy poured then a glass of wine and apologised for his wife’s absence. She was feeling unwell and was sequestered in the most private of apartments the Spire had to offer.

The servants closed the pointed arches of the doors behind him and at last they were able to speak without others prying into the affairs of the Nobility.

*

It was bad in the rural lands. Long made dead by the centuries of mining, the stripping of its trees and the rocky soil itself it was never an attractive territory at the best of times. Within a league or two of the city the snow was dirty from the clouds it had to fall though and double that distance that which settled was pocked and marked like a wormy cheese from the sparks and embers that came even so distant as that.

Most of the territory stood hidden under the drifts of snow that gathered there and in many ways it made the land more attractive. It hid the scared land. But the improved appearance was only cosmetic. Cracks were hidden and gullies covered by bridges and lids of hard ice. Travel was treacherous away from the enchanted trade road and it was cold. The fine looks were only appreciated with distance. Expensive paint on a cheap slattern. A slattern with a knife.

The cold was a killer and the ruler folk stayed in their old settlings. Villages used by the centuries to the season sealed themselves in their guarded warmth. Few travelled. Only the immense oxen of the traders and caravans ignored the freeze, just as they ignored most everything.

Little moved. Little could be seen at any distance for though the winds were not savage the snow was whipped up into softly turning clouds that obscured sight. It was the Deathly Season and here Primus was more terrible than even he that might be called the Murder.

Far from the city several figures trudged to where the ice covering a stream had been broken. They crouched and one pulled away the leather mask he wore against the cold. He touched the ice with a hand made bulky by goatskin mittens. One of the others took off her pack and carefully lifted out a thick bundle of straw. In its heart was a covered copper kettle holding smouldering coals. Another placed a skillet on its sealed top and snow was melted, warmed and then boiled on the iron pan. Suet, herbs and goose fat were stirred in before it was divided up amongst four wooden mugs. Wood because it would warm the hands, which only came free from the mittens then, and never when touching metal.

*

He wallowed in the mud pool.

It bubbled softly and the steam it made vaporised the snow a good hands-breadth above his wallow. It was cold enough to turn his nose blue but since it and the head above was the only thing exposed Stirge was comfortable enough. Many thought orcs were naturally resilient to the freezing months. Tales abounded of roving, raiding tribes that crossed the icy fields and snowy drifts. That fell upon lonely hamlets or silent villages, to set fire to the huts and hovels, to pillage and to butcher.

Stirge knew better. They ran as they roved because it was bloody cold. They set villages ablaze because to an orc a hut was just a ready made fire that dispensed with all that gathering of wood. Orcs knew you that the season was a spirit, a beast and if there was something that orcs did better than killin’, it was runnin’. Orcs never actually ran from a fight. Though sometimes they ran from a boring one where they were getting hurt to a much better one. Somewhere else.

But he did not need to set fire to anything because he had his wallow. And it was warm. Ritually warm. He lay in the mud and watched the sluggish Spittle as it drifted by. It was a broad river, the banks of smooth rock like a stone washed on a Port Miere shore. It came from the Braekens, and there the freeze was even fiercer so the river was sluggish, unhurried. Uneven blocks of ice bobbed in the flow. Stirge knew if the river just ran a bit faster it could keep ahead of the ice. Stupid river.

He had risen from the mud every time a barge had come by but for the most part they had pressed on by. One had even shot him with a crossbow. Stirge couldn’t work it out. The traders and bargees must have seen him jumping up and down. Covered in mud. Waving grulls at them. Asking them what they carried…

Stirge would probably be the first to admit that he was not the most charismatic or convincing person. He was no worse than most, but he was no Matrim. He scratched behind his ear. A piece of skin flaked off. He hated Entropy. The first time he had seen a barge he had stood up, slipped on his own mud and cracked his head on the rocky shore. He did not bleed much, or long, and where he came from a bloody face was a sign of worth. A pity then that the bargees were not Tunnel Rats.

When he saw a sloop round the bend he made the effort to slick some of the mud from his face before it froze. He could summon stuff that looked like him. Perhaps that was it? Perhaps all the travellers saw was an elemental with a spear, waving grulls. He hoped he would not get shot again. His skin was like rock but a quarrel just got in the way when it stuck from one’s chest. He supposed it did not engender confidence either.

“Oy!” He shouted once more. “Oy! Mate! Got lotsa grulls, ‘ere? Yer want some?”

*

He was buggered if he knew how it had happened.

Marmalade had blathered on about time and the conspiracy of events. The Final Dawn, someone called Sammy Haymaker, Argoth, Troy and the importance of King’s. He had told Blackjack that triumvirates were powerful, that they had a resonance in Deci. Blackjack had ordered ‘dat dose trying-vira-rats’ were to be killed. Marmalade had agreed, diplomatically, but pointed out that Blackjack was one of them. Three Kings in Deci.

“I is three Kings?” It was all moving too fast for Blackjack. In truth he didn’t have a clue what was going on. That did not really bother him for Blackjack never had any idea what was going. That was what goblins were for. “Oy! Trundelberry!”

“Wot, yer Kingliness?”

“Wot’s going on, den?”

“We’re in my place, great wun. I’s looking at my presents.”

Presents! That much Blackjack could understand. He was King of Cheapside. He was a bit at a loss of what to do now. Even he thought it was probably a bad idea to spread further. For now. The Poison Quarter was to the south but that was Argoth’s turf and if Blackjack was stupid, then even he wasn’t that stupid. He could raid the rest of the city like a proper orc did, there being all these storehouse full of shinies but Troy and Anath, and all the rest might not like it. And they did know where he lived. Which was more than he did most days. “Wot presents ‘ave I got?”

Sire Berry opened his mouth to protest. He had a number of trinkets scattered about his worktable. In the next room a lot of people were lurking about and buying knives, gossiping and just hanging out. Which was what A Stab In The Back was all about. There was talk of adventurers being arrested, even escaping.

“Wot we got, den?” Blackjack demanded again.

‘We’? Thought Sire Berry.

*

It was filthy cold in the city. People stumbled about in the streets in layers, cloaks over coats over rags over shirts and more. Hats and hoods fell low over faces wrapped against the snow that in places could exposed flesh. There were bodies frozen in the half melted slurry. Ghouls fled when the young Nobleman came near for rats were braver but now there were no rats and the snakes of Deci were too sluggish in the Season to do what was meant of them.

About the foundries people had come, and stood or sat in huddled lumps for by the structures it was much warmer than elsewhere. Fires burned sullenly, lighting the drawn faces of the people.

He had come to find the Mocker’s Kingdom and that was not easy. For it was not a stately Guild or even a row of captive houses. It was many things. Many places. And never the same from month to month. No catapult could aim at it. No outsider could knock on its door. It was the arterial, invisible blood of Deci. The Kallah were easy to find for they were ones with the best spots by the foundry. The wanderer moved up to them and stamped his feet against the cold. His fine boots had been ruined by the snow, but he had many fine boots.

“I need to see the Lord.” He said. The Kallah looked at him with flat, emotionless eyes.

“Spire?” Suggested one.

“No you fool, the Mocker.”

They moved in on him so swiftly that he hardly had time to draw breath to order them not to. The crowd saw but did notice. The closest moved up into the warm alcove now vacant. One picked up the black satin cap he found there. Still warm, only slightly damp. One careful owner.

*

Away from the hard freeze on the surface it was becoming uncomfortably warm within the rock that made up Hightown. Sometime in the past a great chasm had cracked across Deci so that the Quarter stood on a pinnacle of rock joined to the rest of the city with so many bridges that in places the abyss was hardly visible at all. The ant farm of Deci had populated those bridges, widened them, and made of them streets. The elevation offered by the up thrust of the rock had in more recent times led to the curiously vertical Quarter becoming the prime estate in Deci. Streets lay literally atop one another in broad spirals that in places actually hung out over the crack and in other followed natural ledges for the rock was not a smooth pillar but a jumbled and solid mass of stone that was near entirely hidden by the Guilds and even curious estates that covered it.

But few had ever thought to go into the rock. Indeed, few even knew that there were tunnels that did so. This was not in itself surprising as such passageways were extremely rare for unlike the endless catacombs that threaded night on the whole of the Empire the rock of Hightown was almost entirely solid.

It was no great secret that Cheapside had been endlessly built up upon itself. Destruction, ritual flare and the fires that cleansed it every thirty years or so meant that that which survived made a sturdy foundation for what was built over it. Deci was ever a city to discard the lame for the new and it was easier to build over than restore. But that was Cheapside and this was Hightown and in the world where fish were kept in kettles the two were very different.

Hightown had become so important, such a place of note as even before the crack had sundered the land about the city for then Cheapside had been the city and some stories said that the abyss was the result of a rite deflected about what had then been Deci, it had been a place popular with its rulers.

And inside the rock it was growing hot. Too little air, ad away from the sight and touch of the Season and the traveller had to discard first his cloak and then his heavy jerkin. He knew that the rulers of the city past had made their demesne on the rock. The various Thief Princes, Robber Barons, Mouse Lords and more outlandish titles. The people still liked such theatrical posing and there had been more rulers of Deci surely than any kingdom in the Exostance. Some had lasted a year or more, the briefest the twelve-second rule of Lord Harlot the Stabbed back in the third century, Second Age. They never lasted, they always squabbled. Deci’s biggest enemy had always been Deci. Deci’s biggest fools those that opposed rather than used such.

And things, it seemed, certainly had not changed so very much.

It had never been a very ritual sort of place. It had never been a Magiocracy. The Blood of its Nobles was mingled with the former rulers and even now the only real ritualist of note that one could suppose was in the city was Don Argoth. Deci had never really suffered great ritual strife, the crack perhaps excepting, because it had never been a focus for the political machinations of Prince, Lord or Magiarch. It had possessed ore and willingly traded it. But it had never been a threat, and the land was the poorest in the Empire.

He came to plug in the craggy passageway and raised his torch high. The light turned the red rusted doorway to a shifting dark orange. His fingers ran over the surface until he found a certain raised point.

He pushed.

*

No one had sought to prevent his progress. It was true that there was a blockade on the borders of the city, but one that existed to prevent caravans not travellers. The only passage possible through the Forgotten Hills, as opposed to where river passed or the hills ended more southerly, had been guarded by a fearsome band of quite the largest orcs Mo had seen in quite some time. They had been uncaring of the cold or the Season as was typical of their kind. What had been less usual was the polite nods he had received as he passed through them.

He had come upon several hundred citizens dying slowly in the ruins of a town no more than a league from Deci. They were city folk that had fled the recent outrageous murder perpetrated by King Blackjack in the Cheapside. They were starving slowly and had suffered injuries in their escape. A matter Mo had tended to as best as he could, though he had not had any food to give them. What they had they gained from blockade running traders, ones that might normally have gone to the city but whom had been persuaded not to in some Inn called the ‘Fare Thee Well’. They sold food to these refugees though, even if it was nowhere near enough. But Mo had healed and stayed with them and another group like it before reaching the city.

He had been born here and if he had returned but recently still the smell, the taste and the foulness of Deci almost made him gag. Certainly he gasped. Hard frozen the streets were mostly empty as people huddled in their homes. They were also nervous for war, they sensed, was close. There was the matter of the Empire’s threats of course but most did not even think of themselves as being part of that nation. It was an internecine sort of settlement and lines were being drawn. Three Kings, no matter what they called themselves, three Kings.

The difference in the Spire was stark. No place was higher in the city than the ornate confection of stone and ore that rose to and through the black cloud of filth that covered Deci from its industry. Within and the great and mighty languished in idle luxury. Most had returned but recently from the tithe of the Halls. They had spoken, been heard and their influence felt. Now they sat in the dark warmth. They listened to the strings, they drank good wine, they sprawled with doxy and molly of such quality that unlike near all of the city none boasted the sort of scars from knife and ague common amongst the people below.

In one set of chambers now Mo sat beside a bed that could have slept a quarter Held of spearmen at a push. Indeed, it was said that it had been used for that very purpose when it had been made three centuries ago on the orders of Bad Count Batty.

“She is afflicted,” Troy said. It was not a question. It was a fear. The injuries she had suffered from her beating at the hands of Sammy Haymaker had long healed but still Berina Majius, Lady of the House of that name, was suffering.

“Has she perchance always been safe? Has she in the past been taken by an enemy?”

“What are you suggesting!” Troy snapped. If he had one weakness, if there was a part of him that was good, and bright and loving, it was Berina. “She came to our bed a maiden.”

“Peace, Troy. I neither meant insult or implied such. But the question is of relevance I assure you.”

Troy calmed himself down. He was thinking when another voice answered for him from the doorway.

“She was kidnapped. We think by wolves. We have a certain curse of such in our city.” Talath said simply. The young man stood not close enough to intrude but sufficient nonetheless to add his support. He kicked the door shut from the ears of servants.

*

Hoon was not much of a ritualist. He knew enough to enact the simplest of rites and made a living from clearing the house or Guild of a recalcitrant ghost but on the grand scale of the Magiarch’s he would not have been fit to make the tea. Nonetheless, he had the eye for it that came with the long years of study and so when he came into Leaking Alley he dropped his bag on the cobbles so hard it slid a yard along the already old ice.

He was no stranger to demons, beasts and elementals. He had seen them all in his time. He was after all a citizen of the Empire. Albeit only since bloody Amora had decided that Deci had spent quite long enough chuckling in the sidelines with all its iron and silver. Neither was he a young man. And in all his years and all the nightmares that attended to such one image had stuck closest to the dark horror of his soul.

It had gone. Years back. Before Deci had even been part of the young Empire it had gone. He did not know how or why but it had. He had been there when it had killed Moff, the old lady that again he had seen quite recently stalking the streets with her shears and her nets of babies. It moved without implied stealth yet still silent. It passed by a thief pack without them even seeing it. They were not ritualists. They could not see it.

It was that thing that had been made of what then had not even become the Blood of the Empire. Hoon shook slightly and then wet himself. He was not young and he might be too bookwise to fit the gangs and too fond of his drink to work his rites more grandly. But Hoon was still a Deci kid at heart and he was running for his life before his brain had the sense to suggest it to his legs.

*

There was history to this place. It sat on a hill overlooking the River Gremlin, north west of the city that was only a smudge of dark cloud far away on the distant horizon. The ground was hard frozen but it had not snowed in weeks. There was hardly a cloud in the sky so that the dirty little line to the south and east seemed even stranger after the journey Robert had made from the ‘Rest. With the heavens so open and the land here so empty there was a lot of sky. The Shedeff was too far to the west to be seen. Even the foothills and mountains of the Braekens lay well below the northern limit of sight. It was peaceful here in the crisp early morning and the low sun stretched the shadow of the tower for a hundred yards or more down the far slope.

There was no traffic to be seen on the Gremlin. It flowed by no cities and though people lived along it that was further south. Even they were either tribal, or had adopted such ways in the decades, even centuries gone by. Once, a long time ago now it had been the demesne of Asac Claugh. Unusually for one dwelling in the then ‘free’ lands he had not delighted in the intrigue, murder and other little games of Deci. He had scarcely been aware of his weaver Blood and he had lived like a Marcher Baron. He had fought raiders from the north and even the hostile of the city. No one really knew what had happened to him, for that too was centuries ago. There was still a village a league away called Asac though, named in his honour.

The Michaelian Faith was hardly strong in these lands. Certainly Deci was not a city that followed Michael. Nonetheless here was a Chapter House and by reason of will, history or the actions of adventurers it had either returned or been rediscovered. It was a tall structure, three storeys and square like a tower. It had no openings on the ground floor at all, and even the narrow doorway on the next was reached only by a rickety wooden scaffold that a defender could hack free in minutes. The faint presence of Michael here also made it hard for evil to stomach. Some could not even approach. Even the really dark of heart were uncomfortable in the hereabouts.

No traders came here for the mine that had once produced by Claugh had not been worked in years. There was a lot of scrubby trees whose height did not interfere with the towers view over the land. It was fast growing stuff, trees that were harvested twice yearly like any other crop and thence turned by slow and concerted process into charcoal. For Deci always needed charcoal. It always had. For even if the city had never seen such industry as it did today then still it had ever been the ore basket of the land. That now was split with Eartholme. But then there had not been an Eartholme. No traders came but a peddler, Orakin Mull, had made his little camp down by the riverbank.

Robert stood on the lip of the hill and looked down. The land, as with all land in the Empire, was owned by the Nobility. In this case House Claugh. But for reasons that were hard to fathom the Lord of that House had granted the hill and that land for a league about it on this side of the Gremlin to the Church. It was unusual to say the least from a Deci Noble but it was not something the Church was going to question.

He turned back to the tower and entered it after an hour watching the weak sun of the north and the Deathly slovenly rise into the clear and empty sky.

*

He left his Lord to the problems of marriage. It was not something that a young Nobleman needed to concern himself with and since Troy had named no specific heir it was Talath, the Baron Throttle, who stood in the best position to assume the title and position if anything happened to the King. The Spire was a place of delights and one given specifically to the rather more dedicated Nobles of old Deci. He accepted a glass of wine from a passing servant without really noticing her. He poured a third into the iron pot of a purple-stemmed plant. It would suffice to prevent his suffering another being brought whilst still giving enough of an illusion that he was drinking. He did not take to drink. It befuddled the mind and in all the city there was none perhaps so clear headed as the Baron Throttle.

The Spire was not crowded. It never could be since it was large and the actual membership rather select. Nonetheless there were a number of the great and mighty here. Most had but recently returned from Halgar. Talath frowned when upon entering the Glazed Room he found himself face to face with Eliana Duff. Older than him she was the daughter of the Earl and one most closely associated with Eartholme.

“M’lady.” He offered a jaunty little bow. She strictly speaking outranked him. He was not sure of her titles, but all Nobles had a sense for such things. She was here on a task for her father, was not hiding her presence and otherwise had the sort of giddy head possessed of so many of the silly women that played at the game of Nobility. “You appear to be lost?”

“My House does own considerable land in Deci, Throttle.”

“Indeed, indeed.” He managed a faint smile. “I had merely not expected to see you here. Current difficulties. Eartholme? You understand?”

“That is a matter for the Halls.” She said, sniffed and swept on by him. He watched her go, appreciating the way she walked. The Deci Noblewomen were all as thin as needles and twice as sharp. Eliana actually gave the place some colour.

He continued his entrance to the chamber, its walls stained with layers of the ground crystal sheen that gave it its name. A fire burned with a gentle crackle. A number of his peers stood about. They seemed pleased with themselves and well they might for most of the Nobility to have gone to Halgar had been there either to spend or to be spent upon. It was Lord Marston that caught his eye and so to him Talath went.

Over the next few minutes he explained what it was that he sought.

The south, it seemed, was sewn up. “Several of your scions have taken themselves to Sellaville. Young Claugh indeed presently serves on the Council. Bartholomaw of course owns the most down there across the two territories. Edwige in rural Thimon. Saldana in the city. You will find it a bad time for land, Throttle.”

“Oh?”

“Land makes for influence. Land has been bought and exchanged for the tithes. Your timing is hardly precipitant.”

“There must be somewhere unpopular?”

*

The theatre was old and had seen nothing approaching a production of any worth since Sleek Queen Sleek had ordered members of the old Hundred Guilds to parade for her dressed as courtesans and horses. There was plenty of street theatre, drunken knaves for the most part performing exaggerated follies of the good old days for crumpled grulls, a heel of bread or a discarded pair of britches but entertainment in the city was something staged in the Spire or Guild. People made their own entertainment in the last few decades and given that any large gathering usually resulted in a large amount of stabbing people were unused to such spectacle.

So when the glamour and majesty of Lord White Face came to the old theatre the common folk were at first surprised to see lights in the formerly boarded up old building and then nervously excited about what it might represent. They came slowly, called there by the siren song of gaudily dressed women and the gaily-garbed men. There were barkers calling them to the forced open doors. There were jugglers and performers leading them to the hastily repaired lights. There were sweat meat sellers and stick meat purveyors inside the entrance hall. There were no seats and the theatre smelled of mould and rotten tallow, of rotten wood and dusty drapes but it was exciting. And people came.

For tonight and for many nights to come Lord White Face was reviving that old Deci classic, the Masque of the Three Knives and the Moll Northern. They even hushed when red light flared. They even cheered when from the darkness dispelled Lord White Face seemed to appear. He did not use magic, he did not walk onto the stage. He came to their eye like some toymakers trick to the eye. A patch of shadow, a touch of white and then he was there even as he had been before and all unseen in plain sight.

“Welcome back my friends,” he bowed, “to the show that never ends. I’m so glad you could attend – step inside, step inside.” He raised grull wonders. “Here behind the glass there lies a real blade of grass! Be careful as you pass – step inside, step inside! Come inside, the show’s about to start – step inside – step inside!”

*

By the time the weak sun touched the emptying streets of the Slurries the creatures that fed on the dead were already pulling their grisly bounty away. There were bodies to be found in every city and of course Deci was no different. One sniffed when it found another, but the sun was too close and already the scavenger’s skin was burning. It peered at the body, limp and smeared with the paint of a performer. It had been a good harvest that night, better than normal and so it turned and hurried to where its companions were already vanishing.

*

That Cheapside had survived was not an issue. It was still there as Cheapside always would but still fires burned sullenly. That which could have been burned had been. All the filth that was already being replaced by more filth. The old blackened stone that was old and blackened already in previous fires. There were less people but then it was hard to tell other than by the number that were still dead and frozen and lashed with ice-hard ropes to pillar and post.

King Blackjack chuckled.

A dozen strong men, their mouths still brown with the dried blood from where their tongues had been ripped free, carried his litter through the smoky and evilly lurking streets. People did not throng the streets. People did not go much about their business. Mostly people hid. His litter carried his throne on it King Blackjack sprawled and scratched himself. His crown was slanted nearly over one eye. In one hand he held a fearsome and crooked blade that Marmalade had found for him. In the other he held the hair of his latest captive. Gold covered the floor of his concave litter. He smelt the air of death and horror like it was a fine wine. In fact better, because Blackjack would not have known the difference between fine wine and foul.

“And the Empire marks Argoth as the threat?” Marmalade said from the level of the crooked street.

Blackjack, finding that funny, laughed. He had half expected to face attack from the rest of the city and it’s false King Ma-ji-arse. But that had not come. Deci was rapidly becoming three cities in any case. And Cheapside was his. His Kingdom. And Cheapside was the real Deci in any case. There had been an envoy come from the Guilds to speak with him, to make demands. The orc had been too drunk to really listen but Marmalade had told the envoy that he could ‘such the King’s big, black sock. ’ Or at least it had sounded like something very similar.

They came at length to where a smaller figure in a bigger hat waited them. King Blackjack was treated to a low bow, as was his right, and with a shout he had his litter lowered. He farted and scratched himself again. Slowly he got up from his throne and wobbled to where his little-boss waited for him. Blackjack was developing quite a gut. He thought that only right, he had been working bloody hard at making it so.

“Yer ready, den?”

“All is prepared, like, King.” His little-boss winked.

“I ‘ope we don’t ‘ave ter walk too bleedin’ far. Me back’s playin’ me up summat bastard.”

The little-boss bobbed and bowed. “And da royal piss?”

“Like passin’ knives, matey. I’ve gotta new wart too. Right at ther end. Yer wanna see it?” He made to unhitch the royal britches from their chainmail braces but was hastily assured that such was a sight best reserved for the wife. Blackjack nodded. That was wisdom that, right there.

“Dis way, yer Royal nastiness!”

And groaning and farting more, King Blackjack followed.

*

He walked Hightown. He went with squires and heralds and with a guard and if he spoke to the people, which he did, then he did so with those that could be found in this Quarter. Hightown was not like the rest of Deci. Even the meanest servant dressed better than the scum of Cheapside and the smallest shop had a rent higher than a hall or good house in the Slurries. He was King Troy and Hightown was his place. These were his people. The scribes might see the city affluence to the city entire but as Anath had once told him nigh on all of it was concentrated here.

These were his people and those people stopped to pass the time. They always bowed. They even backed away three paces before turning away. Indeed, the fact that they turned away to leave his company when he desired spoke much of his power and influence here. Turning ones back to another in Deci was either an insult against their ability to kill, or an acceptance that ones life was in the hands of a better. Four centuries ago King Wyrmish Fang had demanded that the whole city line his route and turned away. He had been usurped a year later by another that took the same name and since no one remembered what the original had looked like no one had noticed the coup for a further four months.

“What is that place?” He asked a local trader who was gifting the King with a parcel of unseasonal fruits. The recess might have been an alleyway but from the angle at which he stood Troy could see that it only went back a handful of yards. His experienced eye traced the suggested line of a roof apart from others, jutting out below the street set further back and above. Waving his entourage forward with a flick of his fingers, the King led them into the passage to where a sturdy old door barred they way. It’s old carven front quite literally filled what he was already revising from alley to entranceway.

Eagerly the trader dry-washed his hands, head and shoulders bobbing agreeably. “The Boners, your Majesty.”

“Bone hers? Remind me my dear fellow?”

“Boners, Majesty. They were, are, were a Guild. Of the Hundred, Majesty. Strictly speaking the ‘Small Cuts’. From Small Cut street, Majesty. In Cheapside. They… explored… people, Majesty. Peeled them back. Had a look inside.”

Troy nodded. “Chirugeons?”

“In no way, your Majesty. You can still see one or two about. Cadaverous men and women. Hunched. Not open for business now though. No Guild charter either.” Crawly the scribe added when the trader floundered. You wish it bought up? They cannot refuse a fair price?”

“Or I could show my Kingly oats by establishing them elsewhere and therefore allowing them to move, sell up at a small price?”

The entourage blinked. That was a little fair. They were still expecting the King to go mad with power. Kill people. Pass odd pronouncements. Appoint a badger to high office. Marry a horse. Something anyway. They weren’t at all sure about all this wandering about and seeing to the benefit of the people. The people were there to benefit him. They were caught by surprise when Majius abruptly turned about and walked at a good pace down the nearest steps and along to the curiosity shop. They had to run to keep up and got bottle necked at old stone stairs. By the time they disentangled and caught up their Lord and Kingly Master was already within.

It was not unusual for such places to seemingly change hands. Or for those employed by the city to change. Troy could not remember who last had been in the crowded store. It was enough that the present fellow touched a yellowing finger to the square cap he wore over his greasy hair. No matter how large the shops grew they were always crowded. A stuffed wyvern hung from the ceiling and teetering piles of crap stood everywhere and by their presence made avenues through the clutter. Troy sniffed. The scents were all of dried herbs, damp carpets, burnt parchment and cigar ash.

“Name?” He smiled beneficently.

“Pipe, your Majesty.”

“A quiet word, Pipe.”

“Indeed, your Majesty.” The man adopted a whisper. Troy waved for him to approach so that when the King whispered he did not have to bend to do so. Soon a chair was brought out for Troy. A cup of something hot and spicy provided. Something not unlike cake was cut. A daring tale of elvish frolics was smoothed out and placed near to hand. Troy needed to dig about in the clutter. Being a King someone else did it for him. Being a King it seemed there was someone else to do nearly everything for him. He hadn’t had to wipe for a month now.

*

It was bloody cold.

Blackjack opened his eyes to stare at the featureless, dead plains of what he vaguely remembered were the Deci territories. Not that he could remember where Deci was. He had been banished, which seemed very feckin’ unfair.

He screamed to the dark sky and softly, far in the distance, he thought he heard mocking laughter…

By Alan Morgan (CI9V3)