Husk: A Maresman Tale (2 page)

“Business you got in Portis, Maresman?” the sheriff drawled round the stub of his weedstick. “Folk see you all dressed up in black and hovering like a vulture over a carcass, they gonna be itching to leave afore something bad goes down.”

Maresman
. It’s what folk called his kind in the Outlands—Nightmares Men, given the nature of their work. Jeb liked it better than husk hunter, which was on account of the ‘shells’, the demon-kind that were spawned in Qlippoth. Liked it a good bit, actually; darned sight more’n he liked the sheriff’s tone.

“Blood trail, sheriff. You got a husk smack in the middle of town, by my reckoning.”

The sheriff chewed on his weedstick, bit off the end and spat it out. “That a fact?” He flicked the rest of the weedstick to the ground and trod it underfoot. “Don’t see no blood. Maybe you made a mistake.”

Jeb tugged down his hat, gave a wry smile. It wasn’t named on account of what you could see. Few, very few, knew how to follow a blood trail, and animals could sometimes scent it, but it was called ‘blood’ by virtue of its potential, rather than its constitution.

“Don’t make that kind of mistake.”

“Kind of husk is it, then?” the sheriff asked. He took another weedstick from his pocket, popped it in his mouth without bothering to light it. “Wolf-man? Dead-walker?” Those were the common ones, and everyone knew Portis had seen its share of wolf-men in the past. “Stygian?” he added a little more pensively.

Jeb shook his head. “Something else.”

“What, then?”

“That’s what I aim to find out.” Jeb flicked the reins. “Evening to you, Sheriff.”

Like Jeb knew he would, the sheriff moved aside as he led Tubal past. Wasn’t just considered bad luck to interfere with a husk hunter’s work; there were some would’ve called it stupid. It was all well and good the provincials trying to act tough and independent, but no one wanted to cross the senate of New Jerusalem, and they were the ones that paid to have the incursions dealt with. Most folk were none the wiser they’d ever taken place, and the senate aimed to keep it that way.

“Heard you lost another Maresman out near Arnk,” the sheriff said. “Make that three in as many months.”

A chill ran up Jeb’s spine, made him stiffen in the saddle. He pulled on the reins and looked back over his shoulder. “Heard that, too.” Three dead, that was. Killed trailing the husk that had put paid to dozens of Outlanders. Torn to shreds, they’d been. Bloody gouges between their legs, and severed manhoods right where the sheriff had his weedstick.

Two more hunters had been missing for weeks—Gilkrieth and Neumal, good men, the both of them, if a bit soft. It was only a matter of time before their mutilated bodies showed up. But the sheriff didn’t need to know any more than he already did. It was bad enough the Maresmen were spooked, without others knowing it.

“They say it’s a husk, a rogue that hunts the hunters.”

“That’s what they say,” Jeb said.

The sheriff gave a theatrical shudder, puffed his cheeks out. “Got to have you wondering. I mean, if it happened to the others—all three of ’em seasoned hunters, they say…”

Jeb shook his head and spurred Tubal onto the bridge. “Don’t plan on losing no sleep over it, Sheriff. You rest easy now.”

“Evening, Maresman.” The sheriff shut one eye and pointed. “I’m watching you. Don’t want no trouble, hear?”

It was the same everywhere. Folk always thought the slaughter followed on the heels of the Maresmen, not the other way round. They didn’t get that the husk was there ahead of the hunter, and they were never thankful Jeb and his kind arrived just in the nick of time. That last incursion into Portis, they hadn’t been so lucky. Pack of wolf-men came over the Farfalls in a feeding frenzy. Time the hunters got there, the streets were canals of blood.

Jeb stopped and looked back at him. “You already got it, Sheriff.”

2

R
APHOE, LAST OF
the three moons to rise, was already up when Jeb found stabling for his horse. It hung there, big as a mountain, shedding milky light down the deserted high street as he paid the stable-master. Charos was higher up, smaller by far. Jeb had a theory it was on account of distance, rather than size, but what did he know? Enoi was even smaller, scarcely bigger than a star.

“You’ll be wanting a bed, ’less I’m mistook,” the stable-master said. “Best chance you’ll have’s the Crawfish. Don’t see none of them highfalutin hostels taking you in. Not to be disrespectful or nothing, but folks get uneasy at sight of a Maresman.”

“Sheriff said as much. This Crawfish on the high street?”

“That it is. Den of salty dogs, but they’s hardworking, honest folk, in the main. Keep your head down, and you’ll get no trouble.”

Jeb tilted his hat and set off at a stroll.

The night air was cool on his face; felt real good after the merciless suns above the mesa. Trek like that’s about as rugged as you could get, and he was ready for a long bath and strong liquor to unclog his throat of trail dust. That’d get him right for the other kind of comfort, assuming they had clean whores in a dump like Portis. Smell coming off the Chalice Sea, had to wonder if all they got was stinking, fat fishwives.

A figure lurched from the shadows of a shop’s awning. Jeb tensed, closed his fingers round his saber hilt.

“Spare a copper for some broth, Mister?”

He was a gangly lad, no more’n fifteen or sixteen. Talked weird, though, kind of like his tongue was too big for his mouth.

Jeb gave him a hard look and picked up his pace, but the lad shuffled along behind him.

Ants crawled over Jeb’s nerves. He turned, gave the lad the once over, sniffed the air. It weren’t him, he was sure of it, but there was something… some residue, like he’d been in the proximity of a husk.

“You on the streets a lot, boy?” Jeb said. “You seen anything strange?”

Chances are he wouldn’t have. If the husk was gonna show itself, there’d have been blood already. Wolf-men would’ve torn the town apart same as they did last time. No, this was something different. He’d known from the start, when he first picked up the trail; no footprints, no spoor; nothing tangible that’d tell there’d been an incursion. Whatever it was, this husk promised a steaming pile of mischief.

“No, sir, nothing strange, if it’s odd you mean.” The lad had his focus on the ground, like he was ashamed to look a man in the eye. “Can I have a copper now?”

Jeb stepped up close, took a whiff of his neck and clothes. Nothing but stale sweat and urine. “You here when the wolf pack came, son?”

“Ten years, six months, two days ago, sir, by my count. I’d say they was odd. Say a lot of things changed then, hmm.”

“Well, something’s coming; something’s already here.”

The lad flinched, like he thought Jeb was going to hit him. He wouldn’t meet Jeb’s gaze, just stood there, fidgeting with his fingers.

“Got something to tell me, boy?” Jeb said.

There was a long pause before he answered, like the cogs of his brain were rusted together and taking their sweet time to get moving. His mouth worked silently for a moment, but then he simply shook his head.

“Just keep ’em peeled, then,” Jeb said. “See anything unusual, come find me, got it?”

“Promise you I will, sir. Sure could use some broth, though. Ol’ Tizzy Graybank said I could get some, if I paid a copper, and the nights are real cold right now.”

Jeb took a coin from his purse, held it up between thumb and forefinger. “I’ll give you this copper, boy, if you just keep your word to me. Deal?”

“Deal.” A lopsided smile lit up the lad’s face, and he took the coin, clutching it over his heart as he scurried away.

“I’m headed for the Crawfish,” Jeb called out to his retreating back.

“Yes, sir, Crawfish. Anything strange, I’ll come tell you.”

3

S
PIT AND SAWDUST
was too good a term for the Crawfish. Shit-hole was a step in the right direction. Whole place stank of fish. It wasn’t clear how much of the smell came from the kitchens and how much was from the patrons. Bunch of them still had their oilskins on, salt-stained from the spray. A few came in with their own clutches of cod, handed them over to be cooked. Couldn’t get fresher than that, Jeb supposed, but what did you expect? It was a fishing town, after all.

Blood trail had gone colder than a moldering corpse. Save for the hint he’d got talking to the beggar, there’d been nothing. Maybe the husk had sensed him following and found some way to outrun him. It had happened before, once or twice, but those times the trail had still lingered, albeit faintly. This time, it had just died. Told Jeb one of two things: Either the husk had already been taken out, or it had found some way to throw him off the scent. That’d be a new one, but not beyond the bounds of belief. Kind of made him uneasy, though. Husk like that, able to elude his senses, could be right under his nose, maybe even turn the tables on him.

Course, a third possibility presented itself, like it always did. Jeb had learned the hard way it was seldom just one thing or the other, but often the last thought to occur to him was the one he didn’t want to dwell on. If the husk could screen itself from his senses, who was to say it hadn’t deliberately let him pick up the trail in the first place? He shook his head at his growing paranoia—must have got that from his father, not that he’d ever met him. What if the husk was luring him? What if he was the one being hunted?

The sheriff’s words served to highlight the fear that had overcome most of the other Maresmen. It was a hard turn of events to realize you weren’t the only one doing the hunting. Had to wonder what kind of husk had the gall for such a thing, let alone the power. By all accounts, there’d been no commotion, no discharges of magic, no sightings of anything out of the ordinary, and certainly no warning. The three dead hunters looked to have been caught with their britches down—literally. Mind, in Rang Lurin’s case, it would’ve been a surprise to find that lecherous bastard with them up. Not that Jeb was one to talk.

He rapped his empty glass on the bar, caught the landlady’s eye.

She weren’t a looker, that was for sure: hair dyed a couple of shades unnatural, teeth crooked like she’d had a life of brawling. She winked at him and showed more flaccid cleavage than he cared to see; then she hobbled over and topped him up. Label on the bottle was coated with oil and grime, but least the whiskey burned the way he liked it.

Course, the serving wench was another matter. Jeb swiveled on his stool to track her arse as she took an order from a table by the window. Big bloke sat with a group of sailor types caught him looking and glared daggers. Jeb let his eyes rove round the rest of the punters, playing it innocent. Filly like that was ripe for fooling with, but she weren’t worth causing no trouble over.

He could still feel the big man’s eyes boring into him. Must’ve been one of those sad bastards obsessing about what he couldn’t afford, coz there was no way she’d have lain with a lummox like him.

Truth be told, the staring was starting to get his blood up, more than the wench already had. Jeb cocked his head and looked the man in the eye, held his gaze sure and steady. He was mountainous, head and a half taller than the sailors at his table, square-jawed and bullish, but even so, he blinked first and looked away, picked up his ale and took a long pull. They always did. Saw something in Jeb’s eyes, something not quite human. Owed that to his mother, may she rot in the Abyss.

The big man was seething, you could see that. Veins on his neck stood out, and his purple cheeks likely didn’t come from the drink. Jeb knew he’d better tread careful. He already had enough on his plate, rooting out the husk. Last thing he needed was trouble with the locals. Always said his eye for the ladies would be his undoing. Owed that to his mother, too. Not women, exactly, though that wouldn’t have surprised him none, what he’d heard; it was the call of the flesh, the urge for taking pleasure, same as the urge for killing.

He forced himself to relax, let a wry smile curl his lips long enough for Mountain Man to notice, then switched his focus to the card game in the corner.

“That’s me out,” a fat man said. More’n fat: he was rounder’n a ball, with jowls so droopy, it looked like his face had melted into his chin.

He flicked Jeb a look that turned into a frown. Sweat glistened from a forehead that had his hairline in full retreat. His white robe was stained with mustard or some such, the hem under the table frayed and spattered with mud. He pushed himself upright on stubby legs and cocked a thumb toward a door at the back. A couple of louts watching from the neighboring table stood and went with him. Both sized Jeb up as they passed the bar. One of them had a string of drool hanging off his chin, and eyes like frost-coated windows.

“P’raps I shouldn’t play no more,” an old man with a fleecy beard said from the card table, eyes darting between the fat man’s retreating buttocks and a stoat-faced beggar sat opposite him.

“Don’t worry about Boss, none, Farly. He’s just a sore loser. Reckon I’d be, too, if we didn’t have an arrangement.”

Stoat-face leaned over and raked Farly’s stack of coins toward him.

If he was bothered, the old man didn’t show it; merely snatched up a whiskey and knocked it back in one.

Someone hawked and spat close by Jeb’s ear.

“You play seven-card, lovey?” the landlady asked, working away at a stain on the bar.

“Time to time,” Jeb said. Actual fact, he was sick of the game. His hand strayed beneath his coat, to where the flintlock he’d won outside of Malfen was holstered.

He’d agreed to Jankson Brau wagering it instead of a purse of golden denarii. Shogging wizard said it was an artifact brought from Earth by the first colonists of New Jerusalem, those kidnapped by the Technocrat, Sektis Gandaw. Told Jeb it was a powerful weapon—magic, even—that could bring a man down with a crack of thunder.

Got him thinking of Mortis, the masked hunter that had come for him as a boy. He had something similar that he called a gun. It had a revolving drum and held more shot. That, and it actually worked. Brau’s flintlock, by way of contrast, was a piece of shogging crap. Face full of soot was all Jeb’d got when he first fired it. Made him wonder if that’s why the wizard’s cheeks and nose were all burned up, like they were made of red wax. Course, clientele of The Grinning Skull—the tavern Brau owned—had other theories as to that, but they only dared discuss them in whispers.