ARC: The Corpse-Rat King (12 page)

He was just taking the weight off for five minutes, sitting on an upturned crate in the space at the back of a mussel-fryer’s stall, trying to light a fresh snout from the butt of a dead one, when Marius slid past the stall and stood over him.

“Hello, Remmitt.”

“Ach!” Paschar leaped backwards off the crate, banged the back of his head on the wall behind him, and fell back to Earth. “God damn it.” He scrabbled across the grimy cobbles until he recovered the bent snout and jammed it into his mouth. “Look what you made me do.” He looked up at Marius, letting his gaze travel his entire body before settling somewhere around the arc of jaw visible beneath the cloak’s overhanging hood. “Are you in need of a genuine relic of the rich history of our city, friend? I can see you have a keen appreciation–”

“Your mouth.”

Paschar raised a hand to his lips. “My mouth? What about it?”

“Close it.”

“Hey, now friend. I’m a friendly fellow, but–”

Marius reached down with one hand, and grabbed Paschar’s shoulder. He hauled the trader to his feet and slammed him against the wall in one strong, fluid movement. Paschar gasped, then began choking.

“My snout…” he managed.” Swallowed… God….”

Marius waited, effortlessly maintaining his grip. Paschar eventually subsided, drawing his breath in a heavy wheeze, his eyes streaming tears. When he was at last able to breathe without hacking gobs of tobacco-flecked spit onto the ground, Marius used his free hand to pull back his hood.

“Remember me?” he said, in a friendly tone that wouldn’t have fooled a child. Paschar stared at his pallid, cracking face for several seconds. He made one attempt to swallow, then another. Finally, he gathered enough saliva into his mouth to attempt speech.

“Helles?”

“In the rotting flesh.”

“What on Earth happ… you’re looking…. How are you?” Paschar smiled, a weak attempt that gave up and died instantly.

“You know something? I’ve been better.”

“Shame.” Paschar nodded in sympathy, stopping when it became apparent that if he didn’t intervene now, he’d probably not be able to stop it for at least several minutes. “I’ve always wished the best for you, Helles, you know that. Always felt–”

“Shush, now.” Marius shook him gently, so that only his teeth rattled, and not his whole skeleton. Paschar shushed. “I’m glad you feel that way, Remmitt. I really am. Because I’ve got a way for you to prove it.”

“I’d love to, Helles, really I would.” Paschar found enough courage to reach up in an attempt to prise Marius’ fingers from his shoulder. Marius clenched. The fingers found flesh, and Paschar quickly gave it up as a bad idea. “It’s just, I’ve got these kids to feed, see–?”

“You have two children, Remmitt. They live with their mother in Jarsik Way, you’re allowed to see them once a month as long as you’re accompanied by a special constable, and last I heard, the oldest one is training for the priesthood because he heard you’re allergic to churches.”

“Well, you know kids. Always playing tricks on their old man…”

“I need information, Remmitt.” Marius reached into his pocket, and removed a tuppenny piece, which he held before Paschar’s eyes.

“Ah, well, I’m sure I don’t know anything about it, Guv.”

“You don’t know what I want to know about yet.”

“Yes, well,” Paschar looked from the coin to Marius’ face, swallowed, and decided it was better to focus on the coin. “I’m pretty sure I don’t know anything. Not for that price, you know what I mean?” He devoted the last of his courage to another smile. It wasn’t quite enough. Marius refrained from sighing. He drew out another penny.

“That’s enough.”

“I’m not sure–”

“It wasn’t a question.”

“Ah. Yes. Well, that’ll do nicely.” Paschar reached up and took possession of the coins. “How may I assist your enquiry?”

“The
Minerva
.”

“Oh, yes. That’s a lovely pub, that is. Other side of the city, I think you’ll find. Next to an undertakers, not that I’m recommending–”

“It’s a ship, Remmitt. A very big ship.”

“Oh,
that
Minerva
. Right.” Paschar swallowed. “Got you.”

“Fifty thousand tonnes. Must have lots of crew. I’m sure some of them would have been interested in a genuine sliver from the
Tidy
. I bet some of them would even like to talk to the fellow that sold it to them. I bet they’d like to ask just how big the
Tidy
was to hold so many genuine slivers.”

“Hey now, I offer only authentic… north west docks, over by Meanside,” Remmitt squawked as Marius tightened his grip. Marius smiled, and let go. Paschar slumped to the ground. He shrank away, pressing the back of his head hard against the wall. Marius crouched in front of him and leaned forward so that their faces were inches apart.

“I’ll remember how helpful you were, Remmitt,” he said softly. “If you were helpful enough, I won’t have to find you again, will I?”

Paschar nodded, shook his head, nodded again, and finally settled for remaining perfectly still.

“I’d say goodbye,” Marius patted him on his shoulder. Paschar did his best not to wince as Marius’ stone-hard hand struck. “But you ain’t seen me, right?” He rose, and stepped quickly past the mussel fryer, who had resolutely faced streetward during the entire exchange. Only once he could no longer see Marius in his peripheral vision did Paschar draw a single, painful inhalation, and begin to curse his tormentor.

Half an hour later, as he was in the process of reluctantly parting with Severn Magnassity’s very own sextant, just so his poor children could eat some real meat for the first time in months, Paschar stopped and stared into the distance. All of a sudden, a realisation had hit him. At no time during his encounter with Marius – not when he was talking, not when he was holding him against the wall, not even when he leaned down and shoved his awful, awful face into his – could Paschar recall his assailant breathing. As his discerning client began to protest, Remmitt stepped away from his stall and slowly walked, then jogged, and finally
ran
up the Pipe Barrel towards a bag he kept under a loose floorboard in a rented room of the Lodger’s Rest Hotel. Within a week he was knocking on the door of a monastery in the heart of Taslingham, begging for sanctuary.

TEN

Meanside was a good half hour’s walk from the southern bank of the river. Marius set off at a fast stride, slipping through the crowds without bothering to watch the unfolding life around him. He knew his way around Meanside like blood knows its way through veins, and he barely had time to plan his progress before he was climbing the road that led onto the Magister, the oldest, largest, and most famous of Borgho’s “thousand bridges”. The mad King Nandus had built his palace here, and parts of the walls had been preserved along the walkways at either side of the busy thoroughfare. Marius had been little more than a teen when he’d stood side by side with soldiers, street mongers and wharfies and defended the span from the forces of Tarem Bridge, a half mile down the water, the year the river froze over and the Battles of the Blade Gangs broke out. Ninety steps towards the far side the broken remnants of Nandus’ Wizard Tower… Marius stopped, and leaned against the bridge wall, staring down into the muddy swirl of water flowing underneath.

“Hey there, Mischa,” he said softly, “It’s me.”

The water flowed past, unheeding. Marius watched it, seeing patterns in the churn. He needed to get to the
Minerva
, but there was time enough for memories.

She had been crossing the bridge from the offices of the dock manager towards the villas of the richer merchants when the fighting had welled up along the river, and she was caught at the foot of the Wizard Tower. Marius was already there, crouched against the bricks, trying to squeeze himself into the cracks.

“What’s happening?” She threw herself to the ground as a volley of crossbow bolts flew over the wall from below. “What’s going on?”
Marius had said nothing, just peered up at her from between his fingers. He was terrified. Even so, looking up at her, hair falling loose from its bun and framing her long, oval face, her large green eyes wide with alarm, he felt something shift inside him. Without thinking, he peeled himself off the wall and buried his face in her chest, hands gripping her arms with terrified strength.

“Hey, hey.” She lowered herself down next to him, her back to the wall. Carefully, she prised him away and altered her stance so that they sat, huddled together, while combatants tangled about them.

“What’s your name, lad?”

“Marius,” he stuttered. “Marius dos Hellespont.”

“Oh,” she looked surprised. “Raife’s son?”

“You know my father?”

She paused. “I’m aware of him. So what’s all this, Marius? What’s happening?”

Marius pointed further along the wall. “It’s the other bridge, Miss.”

“Call me Mischa.” She smiled, brushed his hair back from his face. “I don’t let just anybody call me that, you know.”

Marius reddened at the sudden familiarity, but it did the trick. His fear forgotten for the moment, his words came out in an unbidden stream. “It’s the Tarem Mob, Mischa. They’re using the ice, skating across it. They can’t get on the bridge at the ends, so this is their chance, see?”

“But why?” Two fighters stumbled against them. Mischa kicked out, and they wheeled away into the crowd.

“Tarem Bridge and Magister. It’s like any other gang. They hate each other.”

“But this? Crossbows? Machetes? People are getting hurt, Marius.”

“I know.” Marius crouched lower. “I never thought this would happen.”

Mischa noticed the red rag tied around his upper arm. “Tarem or Magister?”

“Magister,” he replied, fumbling at the knot. “I only wanted a bit of fun.”

“Don’t we all, lad? Don’t we all?”

They hunkered down and watched the fighting. Mischa shook her head.

“We can’t stay here, Marius. It’s only a matter of time before we’re noticed.” She made to stand. Marius pulled desperately at her arm.

“Don’t. They’ll hurt you.”

She stopped in mid-crouch, and placed her hand on his shoulder. “If we don’t move we definitely
will
get hurt. We have to get to the end of the bridge. It’s the only way to safety. Look.” She reached into her sleeve, and withdrew a small square of lacework, tucking it into his hand. “For protection,” she said, giving him a quick kiss on the cheek. Marius inhaled, smelling the sweet smell of her perfume, feeling the smoothness of her cheek and lips against his skin. He closed his eyes. Something inside him woke up and cried for life.

“Do you trust me?” she asked. Marius opened his eyes and looked straight into hers. He had never swum in a pool so beautiful. He gulped, and nodded.

“Then come on,” she said, pulling him to his feet. Together they ran towards the end of the bridge, hand in hand, dodging combatants as they ran. Twice, someone loomed out of the chaos, and Mischa kicked out. Each time she hit their assailant in the groin, and he doubled over. She kicked them again in the face as she stepped past.

“Steel toes,” she gasped as they ran on. “Every working girl should have them.”

They almost made it. They were in sight of the lower gate house that marked the end of the bridge when the press of the crowd pushed them towards the edge of the walkway. Grappling hooks hung where Tarem combatants had climbed up from the ice below. Marius stumbled, and they fell, landing against the wall.

“Come on,” Mischa said, pushing against the wall to regain her footing. Marius rose, and pulled at her hand. She gathered her legs beneath her, and at that moment, something heavy and dark reared over the wall and dug itself into her shoulder.

Mischa screamed as the two-pronged grappling hook bit deep. She reared up, scrabbling at the wound, letting go of Marius in the process. He leaped towards her, but in that instant, the combatants below them pulled on their rope. Mischa lurched backwards, hit the edge of the wall, and before either of them could do anything, was hauled up and over. Marius slammed into the brickwork, hardly feeling the impact against his nose and cheek. He pulled himself up on rubber legs, and hung over the top, oblivious to the fighting around him, and the snapping retorts of shot and crossbow bolts flying past.

It was thirty feet to the ice. Mischa had struck three of her assailants as she landed. They lay on the ice, broken bodies bent at angles they could not have achieved in life. She had landed on her back, facing upwards, her neck twisted impossibly far. Her eyes were open, and they stared up at him, large and green and beautiful, and quite, quite empty. The rest of her hair had shaken loose from its bun and lay like a halo around her head, stuck tight where the spreading pool of blood glued it to the surface.

“Mischa!” Marius screamed at her, battering his body against the unforgiving bricks. “Mischa!” She did not respond, did not move, simply lay like a discarded marionette. Marius leaned further, gauging the distance, preparing himself to jump down, looking for a safe landing, no idea in his head about what he would do other than that he had to be with her, to touch her one more time, and cradle her head into his chest the way she had done for him.

Then a body hit the wall next to him and tumbled past, and the spell was broken. Marius turned and ran, and fought his way out of the battle.

Somehow he found his way home, avoiding the pockets of fighting that had yet to be quelled by the guard. His father found him in the front courtyard: filthy; bleeding from half a dozen wounds; clutching a lady’s kerchief to his eyes and sobbing a single name into it over and over. He had carried his weeping son into the house and ordered his wife to run a bath. Later, after Marius had bathed and had his wounds dressed, his father persuaded him to remove the scrap of fabric from his clenched fist so that his hand could be wrapped in a fresh bandage. Then he sat before Marius in his study’s deep leather armchair and requested an explanation. His mother came in from the parlour, and settled herself on the couch, her needlework lined up on the cushion next to her. She folded her hands into her lap, waiting. Marius stood before them, twisting the kerchief round and round his fingers, and slowly, hesitantly, told his story.