Herald of the Storm (25 page)

Back out on the street he began to feel better, his hangover waning. A cup of ale and some kind of unidentifiable meat from a street seller filled the gap in his belly and quenched his thirst. Merrick knew he had a task to finish, though, and that gave him a bellyache that no amount of meat pie could halt.

The coin was in his purse and bribes needed to be paid. It was best for his health if he did the paying before the temptation to spend it all on cheap whores and cheaper wine got too much, and his first stop would be the hardest.

The barracks of the Sentinels stood to the eastern side of Skyhelm. Merrick’s face was well enough known to see him into the Crown District – that was, after all, why the Guild had hired him in the first place.

He was ushered into the barrack block. It was late enough for morning reveille to have finished and in the centre of the paved training square was the man he had come to see.

Captain Garret sat at a small table, on an equally small chair. It was almost funny to see his long legs and bulky torso on that fragile-looking seat. Or it would have been funny if Merrick hadn’t been there with such a distasteful purpose. He had to size Garret up, to see if the incorruptible captain was quite as pious as he made out. The old man wouldn’t need to know exactly what Merrick was up to, but if he could be persuaded to turn a blind eye here or there it would help him no end.

‘Been a long time,’ said Merrick as he strolled across the drill yard adopting his easy smile.

Garret looked up from his sourbread and ham, and smiled back.

‘Too long.’ He stood, offering his hand to Merrick, who was glad to shake it. ‘Sit down,’ he said, gesturing to the second chair opposite his own. ‘Are you hungry? There’s plenty for both of us.’

‘Just tea, if you’re still addicted to that Han-Shar brew you insist on.’

Garret grinned, sitting himself down and pouring Merrick a cup from the pot in the centre of the table.

‘Sorry I don’t have any wine. I know you’re partial to that Braegan filth.’

‘Tea will do for now.’

‘Hah. Rough night? You don’t change, do you, lad?’

You’ve got no idea, Garret
. ‘You know me. But what about you? Still here after all these years – it’s like you enjoy acting the caretaker to the royal palace.’

Garret’s smile lost its humour. ‘It’s a duty. One I’m proud of. Not that I’d expect you to understand that.’

‘I understand it well enough. Just don’t ask me to join up.’

Garret gave a knowing smirk at that one and the men paused to sip from their cups. They were made of porcelain, imported from the East, and each one had an exotic bird painted in blue on the side, a refinement which looked quite ridiculous in Garret’s big hairy hand.

‘So how have you been keeping?’ asked the captain, leaning back in his chair. ‘Because you look like shit.’

‘Thanks. It’s all the fashion in Northgate.’ Merrick thumbed the lapels of his grubby shirt. ‘And you’re the last person to comment on dress. That uniform’s older than I am.’

‘It’s served me well enough, and I’m proud of it. As proud as when I wore it beside your father.’ The mere mention of Merrick’s father made the sweet taste of tea suddenly sour in his mouth. Garret knew he’d said something clumsy. ‘Sorry, lad. I know how you feel about him, but I’m an old soldier, and I served with your father for a lot of years. It was a shame what happened.’

‘A shame, was it? He left us. Left us with nothing. Disappeared without a fucking word, never to be seen again.’ Merrick knew he hadn’t come to whine about his own problems, but the merest mention of his bastard of a father was guaranteed to get him riled.

‘Now that’s not fair, lad, and you know it. No one really knows what happened to him, and he left you and your mother wealthy enough. I did my best to look out for you. It was an awful shame the way things ended up.’

An awful shame?
That was one way of looking at it. After his mother had died from the Sweet Canker, Merrick had been left with a fortune. It had taken him less than two years to piss and gamble it away.

But then what he had lost in untold riches he had gained in friends from the Guild, so it worked out a sweet deal in the end. Psychotic friends who would sooner cut your balls off than look at you were by far the best kind.

‘Anyway, enough of the past,’ said Merrick, keen to get back to business. ‘How are you? Things must be difficult right now. I don’t envy you your lot.’

Garret suddenly looked grave. ‘You have no idea, lad. News from the north isn’t good. There’ll be a battle soon, slaughter we haven’t seen since Bakhaus Gate.’ Merrick had heard the tales, though he’d only been a boy at the time. Garret would never have made such a comparison lightly. ‘The future of the entire Free States hangs in the balance and wicked things are afoot here. Word from the Greencoats is there’s a rogue magicker on the loose. The magisters say it’s nothing to be concerned about, but those shady bastards tell two lies for every truth. And the Inquisition lost a lieutenant last week – young Petraeus and two Knights of the Blood, hacked up for sport in a back alley. They were on their way to arrest some spy but they never made it back. Petraeus was a champion fencer, and his two knights seasoned campaigners. They wouldn’t have gone down easy, but there was no sign of anyone else. Petraeus didn’t even get a chance to draw his blade. It’s clear we’ve got some dangerous foreign killer on the loose as well as some murdering caster.’

‘Maybe it’s the same person,’ said Merrick, though he wasn’t really interested in Garret’s woes.

‘Aye, maybe. But we’re not even close to catching him, whoever it is. We just don’t have the men. All the best are in the north, and whether they’ll be back or not is still in the balance. More and more people are coming to the city every day, some from Dreldun, burned out of their homes, others just scared of an invasion and of what that might bring. And if King Cael loses …’ Garret took another sip from his cup. He had clearly said enough, and was unwilling to contemplate the consequences should the king fail to stem the Khurtic tide.

Merrick suddenly began to feel uncomfortable. He had come here to size up Garret for a bribe, to see if this proud man, one he’d known since he was a child, would take money to allow him to deal in slaves.

It was obvious Garret would never do such a thing.

‘It’s clear you have much to do, old friend, so I’ll be on my way. Thanks for the tea.’

He had to go, had to get away from this place. This had been a stupid mistake. Garret reminded him too much of a past he’d left behind, a past he’d gambled away and would never get back.

Before he could leave, the captain laid a hand on Merrick’s and smiled.

‘What is it, lad? You wouldn’t just come here out of the blue for nothing. If there’s a problem, you can tell me. I promised your father and mother—’

‘I know,’ said Merrick, suddenly feeling panicked. He didn’t deserve this. If Garret knew what he was up to he wouldn’t just be furious, he’d be deeply ashamed. ‘You don’t have to feel like you owe me anything. There’s been a lot of water under the bridge since then. I’m not a child any more, Garret.’

The old soldier laughed. ‘I know that, lad. That’s why, if you’re ever struggling, you can come to me. If you ever need help, or a job, I’ll be here. There’s a place for you in the Sentinels. We could always use a man of your talents.’

His fucking talents! Why was everyone always interested in his talents? Why did no one want him just for the pleasure of his company?

‘Thanks for the offer.’ Merrick stood, desperate to get out, though he managed not to set off like the place was on fire. ‘But I’ve already got a job.’

Wasn’t that the truth? A job that might see him dead at any moment.

Without another word they nodded their goodbyes, no long platitudes, no warm embraces.

Merrick found himself out on the street again, breathing heavily, his head swimming, the sick feeling back in his gut.

What a stupid fucking idea. What an idiot he’d been to try to come here, to think he could sway old Garret, make him betray his city and his king. If Merrick Ryder had never thought himself a treacherous bastard before, then now was the time to start.

Clearly it was time for another drink.

I
t was at its worst when he was left alone with his thoughts. That face seemed to haunt him, taunting him in his dreams at night and sitting behind him during the day, just out of sight.

The
Liber Conflagrantia
was vast, but to Waylian it seemed like a coffin in which he was trapped … trapped with a corpse that stared with glassy eyes, reproachful, vengeful, crying out for a justice Waylian could never provide.

Magistra Gelredida had, in recent days, turned her attention solely to the hunt and capture of the killer loose in the city, so much so that Waylian’s lessons were seldom and brief. She did spare enough time to allot him a task every day, each of which demanded he spend endless hours in the Grand Library. He had little time for anything else, and as a consequence was becoming more and more reclusive – the last thing he needed right now.

Every time he tried to turn his attention to his studies all he could see was a dead man’s face staring back from the page of the dusty tome. Every night he spent in the dark, forcing himself to think of something else, all he could see were those cold, dead eyes. On occasion he would manage to picture the blonde girl he had admired from afar – Gladdis? Gemmy? – but it wouldn’t be long before she too paled, her skin turning waxy, the light from her eyes extinguishing to resemble those of a rotting fish.

And it wasn’t as though he didn’t have other things to worry about. For one, he still had to work out what in the hells
Jotun
meant. Despite all that had happened, despite all she had on her mind, Gelredida still insisted on using that as his name and giving him demeaning, menial tasks to perform until he could decipher it. This time, though, Waylian was convinced he almost had it.

He had rounded it down to Golgarthan origin – the stem
tun
meaning faeces – but from there he was stuck. He had studied most of the clan dialects and only had one more to go – the Kharna Khel – a fierce northern tribe who were perpetually locked in a battle with the reivers of the Blood Isles and the foul beasts of the Morathi Ice Holds. It was only a matter of time before he stumbled on the right word, but his task was made all the more difficult by the shadow of a dead man following him everywhere he went, his face manifesting on the page of every book.

‘Bet you even read in your sleep, eh Grimm?’

Waylian turned so sharply he felt a twinge in his neck. Bram was sitting on the desk behind him with that easy smile on his face, hair flopping down over one eye the way the girls liked so much.

‘I wish I could,’ Waylian replied, glad of the distraction. ‘It’s not like there are enough hours in the day.’

‘Still having problems?’

‘Always.’

Rembram Thule laughed, a little too loud. One of the library’s scholars looked over with a furrowed brow but Bram ignored him. ‘You work too hard, Grimm. Maybe that’s your problem. Sometimes it’s just best to step away from the work for a bit. Do something to relax. If I’ve got a problem I just try and think of something else – more often than not the solution will just come to me out of the ether.’

‘That’s great, I’m so pleased for you.’

Bram patted Waylian on the arm. ‘Come on. It’s not that bad. Word is the Red Witch has something else taking up her time now. That means you’re left alone by all accounts. How can that be a bad thing?’

‘It’s bad because she’s left me with so much work it feels like I’m drowning in a sea of bloody books. If that weren’t bad enough, if I can’t work out her new pet name for me, I’ll soon be drowning in a sea of shit when I have to muck out the latrines.’

‘Yes, I can see that being something of a quandary.’ Bram’s tone was solemn, yet he still couldn’t avoid a sly smile. ‘So what’s she calling you this week?’

‘
Jotun
. I’ve managed to round it down to a few Golgarthan texts, and the end stem means “shit”, but I can’t get any further.’

Bram’s grin widened. ‘It’s fish roe, Grimm.’

‘No, it can’t be.
Tun
means shit, it definitely does.’

‘Trust me, Grimm. The ancient Golgarthan mariners used to think roe was fish shit and threw it away, long before they decided to dispense with their superstitions and start eating it. You must be growing on the old girl – she’s just likened you to a Golgarthan delicacy.’

Waylian was stunned. ‘I guess that’s an improvement: I’m now as much use as something in a fish’s guts, rather than what’s dangling between a goat’s legs.’

‘She’ll be proposing marriage before you know it.’

Just the thought appalled Waylian.

‘Yes, can’t wait to see what she comes up with next.’

‘It won’t be anything Golgarthan, that’s for sure.’ Bram idly picked up one of the thick leather-bound histories Waylian had been poring over. ‘Which is a shame. For a savage race they have a lot to say that makes sense.’

‘You think so?’ All Waylian had read about were their endless wars. There were certainly no great thinkers or scholars amongst them – unless you liked reading endless verses about how to disembowel your enemies and set their hill forts ablaze.

‘Absolutely. The Golgarthan skarls and wytchworkers were the first in the West to regard magick as an art. The ancient Teutonians stole everything they know from them, making alliances with their disparate tribes, then betraying them in the War of the Red Snows.
They took our words of power with hearts of black stone
the northmen used to say.’

Waylian had heard of that war, though with a slightly different slant. The ancient Sword Kings had fought an invading force from Golgartha, defending their borders against a rampaging horde of bearded savages. There was nothing in the library’s texts about betrayal.

‘If they hadn’t fought that war, we’d all be running around in loincloths smashing each other over the head with stone axes, by all accounts.’ At least Waylian had remembered that much from his studies.