The Iron Ship (10 page)

“The god?” said Trassan impatiently. “I wanted to see the god!”

“Oh, yes, goodfellow. The god, sir. He finishes early on Karsday, at fourth bell. He is no longer here today.”

Trassan frowned. “We paid full admission! It is the only exhibit I wished to view.”

“It states plainly, goodfellow, if I might be so bold, on the signs without. The god finishes at four.”

“We shouldn’t have had that third drink,” said Garten. “We can always come back tomorrow,” he added placatingly.

“No,” muttered Trassan. “No.”

“If it pleases you, goodfellows,” said the servant, “the divinity likes to take his drink in the Off Parade, he’ll be there all night, in one of the public houses. If you wish, I can give you the names of those he favours. He will not be too hard to find.”

They waited for the information. The man looked at them expectantly and cleared his throat politely. Trassan grudgingly reached for his purse.

The Parade was Karsa’s grandest road, a recent avenue driven right through the heart of the old city by royal decree, linking the palace and the rebuilt Halls of the Three Houses. Palatial apartment buildings and townhouses in the Maceriyan revivalist style lined the way. All was vibrantly new. Vulgar, they say, but time will change that. The trees that would one day make the parade a tunnel of leaves were but saplings in nurseries of iron. New stone sparkled, elegant women and men walked arm in arm down the street, shining dog-drawn carriages and glimmer cars clattered along the flawless, tarred and gravelled surface. None of the cobbles or sets one finds in the older grand areas, no, but Erecion Gandamyn’s fine creation. No expense had been spared.

Off Parade was a different matter. The rebuilding of the city to Prince Alfra’s grand design had not yet progressed more than three streets back from the Parade, and there the warrens of the unimproved Karsa reasserted themselves. Cramped and sometimes dangerous, there was a feverish atmosphere to the area, as if the inhabitants and buildings were aware that soon all would be razed to make way for Alfra’s vision, and were spurred to greater revelries.

Trassan and Garten pushed their way into the widest of these narrow streets, leading directly off the Delian Way, itself emanating from the Parade. You know it? They did too. This was a familiar haunt; Off Parade is a place where rich and poor mingled with something approaching parity. The delights to be found there are manifold, attracting men of all classes and tastes. You’re here, after all, and only some of you are scum.

Hooting charabancs tottered on spiderlegs, glimmer stacks glowing, steam belching, their drivers shouting at the throng to part lest they be crushed. By the side of the road, a ten-strong dray team barked and howled, eager to be away, as barrels were rolled out the tailgate of their wagon and into the cellar of a salt merchant. The shouts of hustlers, streetmerchants, barbers and more blared out, amplified by phonograph. Dogs barked, rakes whistled, whores shouted. Faces swam in and out of gaslight, indistinct, suddenly revealed in the harder light of glimmerlamps, only to be snatched away by the next shadow. Such is the face of our modern world.

They went to three public houses named by the museum drudge. The god was not in any of them, because he was in the Nelly Bold, of course. Indeed, from what Trassan had heard of the size of Eliturion, he doubted the god would have fit through the doors of any of them. They were dark, noisy places, not fitting for a divinity in his or Garten’s opinion. The Nelly Bold was where the god was famous for being, he reasoned. But Trassan insisted on inspecting all.

“They are, after all, on the way,” he said, ordering beer at every one.

It was on exiting the third such establishment that Trassan was robbed. A hand went for his pocket watch. He fell for the feint and instinctively reached for it, only to be relieved of his wallet by a second hand.

There was a flurry of movement at his feet, and a youth burst up from the ground, pushing hard into the crowd. Trassan had the presence of mind to trip him, and he stumbled. “Stop thief!” he bellowed.

The crowd, turning toward the commotion, inadvertently parted. With a desperate, terrified glance backward, the boy regained his feet and lunged heedlessly forward, flattening bystanders, Trassan in hot pursuit. His cry of “Stop thief!” had been taken up, and echoed off the tightly packed buildings. Trassan charged after the boy, upsetting a stack of linen as he blundered into a stall. Ignoring the holder’s angry shouts, he forced his way on, following the wake of flapping arms and outrage the boy left as he pushed deeper into the Off Parade. Trassan caromed off a man, sending him sprawling, went round a corner into a threatening alleyway, and then was unexpectedly into a space in the crowd. In the centre of this clearing, fenced by faces, two men of the watch had the boy pinned to the ground. He wriggled and shouted, but was held fast. A third watchman kept back the gawpers. Trassan lunged for the boy. “My wallet! Give it back!”

“Stand back, master engineer! You obstruct us in our duties.” The watchman shoved at him without restraint. A thick-faced man, his eyes lacking the vital spark of humanity. He was the kind of man to be wary of, but Trassan was angry.

“That boy,” panted Trassan, “took my wallet.”

“How do we prove that?” said the watchman kneeling on the boy’s back.

“It’s a difficulty, goodfellow,” said the first watchman without regret.

Of course, thought Trassan. The thieftakers would divide his money among themselves, “owner unknown” they commonly said. He was having none of that.

“Ask him,” said Trassan.

The watchmen’s faces soured.

“Go ahead,” said Trassan. “Do your duty, as you say you should. Ask the boy if it was me he robbed. He has no reason to lie now he has been caught.”

The watchman nodded. “Right you are, goodfellow,” he said sourly, but Trassan was of high birth and the crowd was paying close attention to their exchange. Trassan got a glimpse of a defiant, foreign face as the watchmen barked questions at him.

“He says it was you, goodfellow, but he is a thief, and what worth is the word of a thief?”

“And it was me. I am no thief; do you doubt the worth of my word, the word of a goodfellow and master engineer?”

For a moment the watchman stared into Trassan’s eyes. Trassan tensed.

“I believe you have something of mine,” he said levelly. “Hand it over.”

The watchman looked down suddenly, some internal calculation returning unfavourable results. “Yes sir, here you are, sir.”

He held out Trassan’s wallet. Trassan snatched it. It was noticeably lighter than it had been.

“Thank you,” Trassan said. “Now I will go about my business. You go about yours.”

The watch hauled the boy upright roughly, landing blows on him as they hustled him back onto the main way. Trassan supposed he should feel glad for it. After all, the boy had robbed him. But the boy was pinched-looking, and Trassan was sickened by it, and wished he had not spoken.

Garten’s hand caught his elbow.

“I lost you there, brother.” He had his sword out in his other hand, its length was pointed downward, but the gleam of naked steel bought them some space in the crammed alley. “They caught him?”

“They did,” said Trassan. By now the street was returning to normal.

“You should file a report.”

Trassan grimaced. “I have no stomach for that. Let’s go before the watch return and insist that I do.”

Trassan and his brother pushed their way back out of the alleyway, braving a crossing of the open sewer at its centre to get out the quicker. They went back into the more genteel area of Off Parade, where there were signs of new construction and preliminary explorations for the building of Allian’s sewers, towards the Nelly Bold.

Ah, the Nelly Bold! A name worthy of legend. She stood at the intersection of three streets which were undergoing modernisation. Much of the square had been repaved with the hard black rock of Karsa’s cliffs, the streets lined by new kerbstones. A triangular seating area had been fenced off by gleaming rails. Three saplings, sickly from filthy air, were caged at each point. To the north side of the square an entire block had been flattened. Gaps in the roofline further back toward the Parade indicated that this area was next to suffer the attentions of the architects. The surveys for the sewers were being conducted in a most direct manner. More buildings would fall later to provide space for a new boulevard.

Not the Nelly Bold. Somehow, she had been saved when countless other buildings of note had not. Is it her indomitable skirts of stone, or her impressive height? Five storeys, higher by far than the slums about her. Is it the venerable history of the place, standing as she had there for three hundred years, when this was nothing but a wind-blasted heath, and the sea could still be spied from her topmost windows? Is it my presence here, for it is my favourite hole? Or was it, perhaps, good Ellany’s strategic application of monies and other favours? Who knows? Perhaps it is unimportant. The Nelly Bold would remain, and that is that. She was wearing a fresh coat of paint in anticipation of new suitors. Modern glimmer light shone from the tall windows and from lamps upon her front. Her sign was bright and new. The brothers paused outside. Another tremor rocked the Earth. Neither the crowds or the pub paid it notice. Of more annoyance was the rain sweeping in from the sea, chill and thick.

“Now this is more like it,” said Trassan, and reached from the door handle.

“I hope he’s in there,” said Garten, shivering.

I see from your faces that you anticipate what’s coming, as you should, for the place I describe is this the very one where I sit now telling you this tale and the brothers are outside this very moment. Now, look to the door. It opens.

In they come.

CHAPTER SIX

The Nelly Bold

F
UGGY AIR AS
thick as bricks walled the threshold of the Nelly Bold. But although the Nelly Bold appeared a down at heel establishment, it was, for a large part, sham. Doormen appeared silently, taking the brothers’ coats and hats in exchange for garderobe copper chits, and the two brothers found themselves not so uncomfortable after all.

To go from the dark and cold to a noisy house discloses to a man the true state of his mind. Outside, the brothers had felt sober as Guiders. Inside, their drunkenness was revealed to them entire.

“The god is here!” shouted Trassan. “I’m getting a drink, then I’m buttonholing the bastard.”

“Cider, I’m sick of beer. Why that face?” he said to his brother’s expression of distaste. “You come to The Nelly Bold to appreciate the rougher side of life. Cider! And, and food!” he yelled after his brother, who although only three paces away had been swallowed by the crowd. “I’m starving!”

Trassan emerged back through the press, and grabbed Garten.

“Eh?”

“Look who I’ve found,” he said, dragging his brother after him. Scowls followed them as Trassan jostled arms and elbows.

“Look!” Trassan pointed to a man sitting in a booth, all alone. He was shorter than either of them, more slender, with long pale hair arrayed on a large lace collar. He wore a broad-brimmed hat, even indoors, and was nursing a glass of wine.

“Guis? Guis!” shouted Garten. “Where have you been?”

The two brothers were obliged to shout together to attract Guis’s attention. The scowl he wore at the disturbance melted into a fragile smile when he saw who addressed him.

“Trassan? Garten!”

The two younger Kressinds forced their way to their brother’s table.

“What a fine bit of luck!” said Garten.

“Can we join you?” said Trassan.

Guis shrugged amiably. “It’s not like I have company.”

The brothers exchanged hugs and took their seats. Trassan waved frantically at a harassed looking serving girl. He held up three fingers, she nodded wearily.

“Cider, ale and...?”

“Wine,” said Guis. “A bottle.”

“Wine!” shouted Trassan.

The girl waved at her ears, then pointed.

“She can’t hear me,” said Trassan.

“Are you surprised?” said Guis. “This is a rowdy night.”

“Ah, she’s coming back,” said Trassan.

“The god is over there then,” said Garten, craning his neck. Back off the main room was a large booth, almost a room in itself. At the very back a giant sat, a caricature of a rambunctious rural goodfellow, all good cheer, rosy cheeks and loud laughs.

“He is,” said Guis.

“Terrifying,” said Garten sincerely. He had never seen the god out of his case.

The god looked Garten right in the eye, winked and pressed one enormous finger against his nose. Faces about his table turned to look at the brothers. They raised their tankards and shouted salutations that were lost in the hubbub of the crowd.

“Why are they looking at us?” said Garten.

“He’s been expecting you, he’s been talking about you.”

“What?”

“You’ve never been in an alehouse with the god?” said Guis. “Why Garten, you are duller than you look. It is his habit to tell stories.” Guis patted at his shoulder where something stirred in his hair. “It is his habit to embarrass at least one of his listeners while doing so.”

“God of wine and drama,” said Trassan, pleased to have been anticipated.

Garten was dismayed. “It is no small thing to draw the eye of a god.”

“Don’t worry about it,” said Guis. “He does it to everyone. To be frank, he can be a bit of a cock. He enjoys disturbing people.”

“Where is that girl?” said Trassan. He fidgeted in his seat, craning his neck this way and that.

“Where have you been, brother?” asked Garten. “We’ve missed you.”

“Away up north, in Stoncastrum. I’ve been there for seven weeks or so,” said Guis.

“Have you moved?” said Garten incredulously. “Why didn’t you tell us. You should have written, sent a message, anything.”

“It’s just a short stay. I’ve been busy. I have a play on. I would have sent notice but, you know.” He smiled, but sadly.

“You should not keep your movements to yourself so. Does mother know you are back?”