Husk: A Maresman Tale (25 page)

“Shog!” Jeb said. “Trouble.”

Mortis leaned over his shoulder, and Jeb had to step aside before he retched. “Really?”

“The goons that…” Jeb was going to say “that captured me,” but that would require a whole new round of explanations, and he wanted Mortis to know even less about how he’d escaped the second time. “Boss’s men—the big fish I pissed off.”

“I see,” Mortis said. He crossed to the half-open door.

“No, wait,” Jeb said. “There’s something about these two. They’re…”

“Husks?” Mortis rolled his head, as if sniffing the air.

“Something else,” Jeb said. “I don’t know. Strange, maybe just crazy.”

“Humans, then,” Mortis said, and he pushed the door all the way open.

Clovis stumbled back, surprise writ large across his face. Bones pulled up farther back, appraising the situation, eyes finding Jeb behind Mortis.

“Looking for someone?” Mortis said. The affability in his voice was so at odds with his appearance that it chilled Jeb to the bone. Clovis took a step away from the green mist spilling from the leather mask with each word. “Sheriff, perhaps?”

“Him.” Bones pointed a dagger at Jeb. His gaze strayed to the gun holstered at Mortis’s hip, and he hefted his shield to cover as much of himself as possible.

“Boss not happy,” Clovis said. His eyes had that glassy look again, and he suddenly seemed unconcerned with Mortis’s sickly breath. “Not happy at all.” He drew himself up to his full height and squared his shoulders.

Mortis started to pull off his right glove, one finger at a time. “I see. Well, that can’t be good. This man”—he flicked his head toward Jeb—“has caused me a lot of trouble, too. He’s something of a maverick.” The glove came off, and Jeb gasped. Mortis’s hand was a blistered mess, black-veined and writhing with maggots. Quick as a striking serpent, he thrust it out and gripped Clovis by the forearm as if he were shaking in the warrior fashion.

Bones must not have seen the rot; he lowered his shield, and a thin-lipped smile cut his face in two. Clovis, though, stared down at the handshake and his eyes bulged grotesquely. Pus was oozing from the sockets, and at the same time, pustules erupted all over his face. Black tendrils webbed beneath the skin of his forearm and very quickly appeared above his shirt collar, working their way up his neck and under his cheeks.

That’s when Bones saw it. He cursed and charged as Clovis dropped like a stone and lay convulsing on the ground. Jeb started to reach for the flintlock, but recalled he hadn’t reloaded it.

Mortis’s gun came up, smooth as you like. It bucked and roared. Bones cried out. The bullet pinged off his shield, but spun him half off his feet anyway. As he reoriented himself and lunged with his dagger, he froze and watched dumbly as the arm wielding it flopped to the ground. He’d not seen Mortis draw his sword, and neither had Jeb.

Quicker than Jeb could blink, Mortis slashed again, and Bones’s other arm was off.

Bones stood there white as a sheet, glancing with horror from one gushing stump to the other. It was probably just as well, as he was distracted from the third strike coming down on top of his head, splitting him in two all the way to the collarbone.

Mortis ripped his sword free, and Bones toppled backwards, hitting the ground like a pillar of stone. Clovis had already stopped moving and was rapidly dissolving into a puddle of pus.

Jeb licked his lips and tried to steady his pounding heart. He was fast, but not that fast; and whatever Mortis had done to Clovis… He stared at the bubbling mess, trying to make sense of it. They called Mortis the plague demon, but he was a husk hunter, not a full-blood husk. Not only that, he was the best of the hunters, the most deadly, and the most zealous. Surely he wouldn’t have accessed his husk nature to that extent. Surely that would go against all he stood for, maybe even make him a target for the others.

Mortis holstered his gun and sheathed his sword. When he turned back to face Jeb, he studied him for a while and then let his gaze fall on what was left of Clovis.

“In the right hands,” Mortis said, “our husk nature can be a powerful tool. But only in the right hands. Before you even think about it, you need knowledge, and control, and something you sorely lack: discipline.”

Jeb sucked in a deep breath, heard the whistle in his lungs. He moved back into the office and laid his flintlock on the sheriff’s desk so he could reload it. He tried to avoid looking at Davy Fana’s still-warm corpse staring blankly up at the ceiling. Had the lad really been a half-husk, still waiting for the latency to show itself? Seemed to fit with what little Jeb knew about Davy’s sister. The thought of her brought a wry smile to his lips. If there was any truth to the rumors of what she’d done to her father for hurting Davy, what was she likely to do to the man who’d murdered him?

He looked over his shoulder at Mortis. “Who else? Who else has control of their husk nature?”

“That’s not for you to know.”

Silence built between them.

Jeb pushed the lead shot down the barrel with the ramrod, then blew the black powder he’d spilled from the desktop before sighting and holstering the flintlock.

Why was it all right for some to access their power and not others? Was it to give them an edge? To keep control? He felt a boast welling up in his guts; wanted to tell Mortis he’d done it, too, tapped into his husk nature, but he knew that wouldn’t end well. And in any case, he still wasn’t sure how he’d done it, and he had no idea if he could ever do it again. No, it was best to play dumb and get to live a little longer. Who knows, maybe with time and practice, he’d be in a position to hold his own. He shook his head at that. Not after what he’d just seen. Mortis was too strong.

“How long have you known?” Jeb said.

Mortis turned his palms up and shrugged.

“You knew this husk was my mother all along, didn’t you? Why’d you let me go after her?”

“Others tried, Jebediah,” Mortis said. “But they lacked your… resistance.”

“Fat lot of good that’s done me,” Jeb said. He snatched off his hat, raked his fingers through his hair. “And anyway, what makes you think I could take her? She’s fast, Mortis. Faster even than you, perhaps.”

“No,” Mortis said. “You keep telling yourself that, but that’s not the reason she’s still alive. We both know why you won’t kill her.”

Jeb took his time resituating his hat on his head. He pulled the brim down before he looked Mortis in the eye. “You think so? What if I told you you’re wrong? She abandoned me as a child, Mortis. That makes her less than nothing to me.”

“You’re either lying to me or lying to yourself,” Mortis said. “She didn’t leave you; I drove her off. So, what’s the real reason she’s not gone the same way as the stygian? You tell me.”

He had Jeb there. It was a question he’d been asking himself over and over. She was a succubus, a demon. She was a parasite that incited lust in men then murdered them. Could he really call such a thing his mother? Could such a creature even have a child in the normal sense? Wasn’t he just the result of her perverse nature, the sorry consequences of what she did to others?

He steepled his hands around his nose. That’s not what she’d said. If there was even one iota of truth in her words, her whole purpose in life was to have children, and now she was barren—whatever that meant for a being with no substance of its own. That made Jeb the center of her universe. Was that why he couldn’t kill her? Because she needed him. Because he was her fingerhold on reality? No, more than that. It was what she did for him. The way she regarded him, the way he was everything to her went some way to shoring up the void at the center of his own life, the abyss of despair that was forever threatening to swallow him up. He made her real; she made him whole.

“So?” Mortis asked. “What is it? Blood thicker than water? Or is it that you think she can teach you to access your nature? You have spoken, right? I can’t believe you’ve been in her proximity so long and not run in to each other.”

Jeb was about to own up to speaking with her, but then he suddenly remembered: “Marlec!”

“The Wayist? He’s here?”

“He’s the one that told me you’d set me up,”—
to kill my own mother or be killed by her
—“and he’s in danger.”

He pushed past Mortis to get to the doorway, the pulsing amulet already in hand.

Mortis made to follow, but Jeb said, “No. Give me more time. I can do this. I have to do this.”

Mortis studied him for a moment before replying, “Very well. I’ll give you a head start; but if I have to do the job for you, there will be consequences.”

Jeb drew in a deep breath. “I know,” he said, then hurried out into the square, the amulet in his palm winking brighter as he headed for the high street.

28

A
CROWD OF
surly-looking fishermen was waiting outside the Crawfish. Must’ve been upward of thirty, all wielding something sharp and dangerous: knives for gutting and filleting, billhooks, rakes, and scythes. One man even brandished a rusty harpoon like it was a pike, and in amongst the workers there was a scattering of rogues with daggers, hatchets, and clubs.

Jeb bit down his anger as he recognized Farly and Buttershy watching him expectantly. Had to admit, though, he was surprised to see them there; there was no profit in it. No doubt they were hoping to capitalize on the post-hunt celebrations. Nothing like a bit of danger to get men boozing; and nothing so easy as a drunk man to fleece at seven-card. He should know.

The minute Jeb came into view, someone hollered, and Terabin Sweet pushed his way to the front. “What took you so long?”

Jeb glanced at the amulet, held up a hand for quiet as he turned a half circle.

“I’ve filled them in,” Sweet said. Then more softly, “but not about Maisie, you know, being the husk. Didn’t know how to explain it.”

The blinking light brightened when Jeb faced across the street.

“Carey’s Hostelry!” he said out loud.

“Carey’s?” It was Boss’s voice.

Jeb closed his hand over the amulet. Last thing he needed was Cawlison recognizing it as the stygian’s and laying claim to it.

Boss squeezed his way between two men and stood a pace in front of Sweet. His white robe had turned a shade of yellow. It was sweat-drenched and filthy, and the hem was caked in mud. He caught Jeb noticing and forced a grin around the stub of the weedstick he was smoking.

“My activity robe,” he said. “Never been washed; never will be neither. Sweet said there was trouble; said Sheriff Tanner was…” He squinted at Jeb, rolled the weedstick from one corner of his mouth to the other. “… indisposed. Guess that makes me ruler of the roost, for the time being, if I ain’t very much mistook.” His piggy eyes ranged over the crowd to nods of agreement. “Course, we’ll have to discuss who’s footing the bill for all this generous help.”

“Later,” Jeb said. He pointedly switched his gaze to Sweet. “We have to get moving.”

As he started across the street, Boss called out, “Surprised to see you, Maresman. Pleasantly, of course. Last I heard, you were incarcerated.”

Jeb stopped mid-stride and raised his voice so Boss would hear without him having to turn. “Doubt that’s the last you heard, Cawlison, though if you’re waiting for a fresh report from your goons, don’t hold your breath.”

Boss coughed and spluttered from behind.

“Second thought,” Jeb said, “do hold your breath, and keep holding it.”
Till you turn blue and drop dead, you three-chinned, lard-arsed shogger.

He strode ahead, down the lane, and emerged at the side of a verandah overgrown with brambles. He could hear the others following at a distance, mumbling in low voices.

The pungent odor of somnificus rolled off the porch, and as he came round front, Jeb saw two whores bent over a brazier and inhaling deeply. One looked up at him, her eyes glazed and rimmed with red.

“My,” she said, running an appraising look from his face to his crotch.

A flush instantly bloomed atop her breasts, which were plumped up above a laced satin bodice. The flush spread to her cheeks, and she gasped wantonly as she took a step toward Jeb.

“Sorry, not today,” he said, brushing past her and pausing in the open doorway to call back at Sweet, who was taking the weight off his bad leg by leaning on a pitchfork someone must have lent him. Had to credit the man: he didn’t grumble, and there was no hint he even blamed Jeb for the injury. “Wait here. Cover the exits.”

Boss wagged his weedstick and shook his head, perspiration spraying off his jiggling cheeks. “Just you hold on, Maresman. I’m the one in charge, remember?”

Jeb ignored him and went inside. Last thing he heard from the verandah was Boss saying, “Right, everyone, stay here. Cover the exits.”

A wiry man with strands of greasy hair combed over his bald head looked up from the counter in the entrance hall.

“Bit early in the day,” he said with a wink, “but you ain’t the first.” He nodded toward the steep stairs. Patches of frayed carpet clung to the wood of each step, and the handrail was missing a number of balusters.

“A Wayist?” Jeb asked.

“Not for me to say.”

Jeb fished about in his pocket for some money, then remembered he’d given Tharn’s coin purse to Dame Consilia. He half-drew his saber instead.

“You Carey?”

The man nodded and wetted his lips, eyes riveted to the handspan of saber blade visible above the scabbard.

“Well, Carey, let’s start again. You had any Wayists in today?”

“Room seven,” Carey blurted. Then he leaned across the counter and stage-whispered, “Brought his own with him. Who’d have believed it? Maisie from the Crawfish! I’ve half a mind to—”

“Don’t,” Jeb said. “Don’t even go there.” He slammed the saber back in its scabbard and took the stairs two at a time. His leg wound pulled tight, and he felt the dampness of new bleeding, but there was no time to worry about that.

He could hear a man’s voice as he rushed along the landing. Marlec’s voice, saying the same thing over and over, faster and faster: “Lord have mercy on me, a sinner. Lord have mercy on…”

Beneath it was the all-too familiar squeak, squeak, squeak of a bed, rhythmic breathing, the gasp of a woman.