Tales of the Old World (26 page)

Lorenzo looked and wished he hadn’t. Beneath the melting flesh there were
flashes of bone, the cuts on it still fresh and yellow.

“Look at the way they stripped him of his fat,” Florin said, using his dagger
to brush a cluster of squirming maggots from the corpse. “See the way they’ve
eaten between his sinews? And look, they’ve eaten his lights but left his heart
intact.”

He prodded the horribly swollen organ that remained within the pink bars of
the ribcage. It was as grey and bloated as some poisonous fungus, and the
surface glistened with slime. Florin’s brow furrowed as he examined it. It burst
suddenly, and Florin and Lorenzo jumped back from the spray of black liquid.

“I think we’ve seen enough,” Florin said, his voice level. Lorenzo was
already half way to the door, so Florin picked up the lantern and followed him.
Something popped as he did so, and there was a squelch as the rotting remains
settled further.

Couraine was waiting for them in the corridor outside. He was holding his
ledger in front of him, twisting at the corners nervously.

“The summer’s no time to be killed. It’s only been two days and your friend
in there looks like spare ribs in jelly.” Florin winked.

“Oh, he wasn’t my friend.” Couraine shook his head. “I didn’t know him at
all, in fact.”

“I know. I was just… never mind. Just tell me, do you know why was he called
Nine Bellies?”

Couraine’s mouth fell open.

“I didn’t know. He was fat, but I didn’t think that he really had nine
bellies.” The clerk lowered his voice and looked suspiciously around. “Does that
make him a mutant?”

“No,” Lorenzo cut in. “It makes you an idiot.”

“Don’t worry about him,” Florin said, clapping Couraine’s bony shoulder.
“He’s just being friendly. Now, where exactly was it that Monsieur Flangei was
slaughtered?”

The clerk opened his book and, with a nervous look at Lorenzo, he started
shuffling through the pages.

“Here it is,” he muttered, and began to read: “Monsieur Flangei, a commoner
of some substance, was devoured by diverse monstrosities on the day of the
seventh quarter moon. The place of his misfortune was the pier which extends
from his warehouse, commonly called the Dragon Wharf. Several commoners
witnessed his misfortune, none of whom are worthy of note. Reward posted—none
as yet.”

Florin frowned.

“I know where the Dragon Wharf is. But what about the people who saw the
attack. Who were they?”

“Peasants,” Couraine said. “Not worthy of note.”

Lorenzo opened his mouth to say something, but Florin gestured him to
silence. “Why were they unworthy of note?”

Couraine shrugged helplessly.

“It is the way the page has to be filled in. Only knights are worthy of
note.”

“But Flangei wasn’t a knight, and you have his name down there.” Florin
pointed to the spidery scrawl of the unfortunate merchant’s epitaph.

“Yes, but that’s different. We have to know who his family are.”

“So they can give him a burial,” Florin nodded.

“So they can pay for expenses incurred. In fact, his wife is due to collect
him later. Somebody said she was quite upset. She saw the whole thing,
apparently.”

Lorenzo opened his mouth to say something else, Florin nudged him into
silence.

“And where does the poor woman live?” Florin asked.

“Oh no.” Couraine’s narrow features twisted into a look of fresh anxiety.
“She’s not too poor, is she? Only if she can’t pay, she can’t have the body, and
when that happens my master always makes me deal with them. It’s terrible.
People don’t seem to understand that good accountancy practices are vital to the
lifeblood of the city’s trade. In fact, the last widow even tried to hit me when
I was trying to explain that to her.”

This time Lorenzo didn’t say anything. Instead he just rolled his eyes.
Florin tried not to smile.

“I’m sure she’ll be fine. In fact, if you remind me where Madame Flangei
lives, I’ll explain it to her for you.”

Couraine’s face lit up.

“I think she lives over her husband’s warehouse. Although I suppose it’s her
warehouse now. You will explain to her, won’t you? I mean, it’s the same for
everybody.”

“Relax,” Florin told him with an easy grin. “We’ll do just that.”

And with a bow that was barely sarcastic, he left Couraine to his relief, and
led off into the thickening crowds.

By the time Florin and Lorenzo had reached the district which ended at the
Dragon Wharf the morning mist was long gone. It had been burned away by the
blinding sun, and already Bordeleaux was roasting.

In the alleyways that the two lizard hunters pushed through the air was thick
with the perfume of stale sweat and raw sewage. Fortunately the merchants and
tradesmen that lined every street in this quarter seemed immune to the
heat-greased stench. They shouted and cajoled and lied as eagerly as ever,
seemingly oblivious to the sweat which dripped from them.

Even the courtesans who idled on the balconies above were sodden with
perspiration. Runnels of sweat cut through their powder and paint, leaving them
as striped as barracuda as they eyed the throng below.

Hardly any surprise then, Florin thought as he elbowed his way past a cluster
of longshoremen, that tempers were already starting to fray. Screams and curses
floated through the usual hubbub, and he’d stepped over two bleeding bodies in
as many minutes.

Another fight was just breaking out ahead. Resisting the urge to watch he
skirted the knot of spectators and emerged onto the Dragon Wharf. The wet slap
of sea air was like a cool hand on a fevered brow, and even the smell of
stagnant brine was a relief after the vaporous interior of the city. Florin
wiped his brow with relief and marched forward.

“Which one is Flangei’s warehouse?” Lorenzo asked as the two men walked along
the wharf. Cobbles and earth had given way to the wooden platform of its
construction, and their boot heels joined in with a hundred others to beat a
constant tattoo on the stained timber. To one side the waters of Bordeleaux’s
harbour oozed, the turgid waters forested by the masts of countless ships. On
the other side the warehouses squatted. Their brick walls were blind of any
windows and their wide doors were guarded by listless groups of watchmen.

“I can’t remember which one was his,” Florin answered, his eyes sliding over
the shingles that hung outside most of the warehouses, “but I’m sure these
gentlemen can help us. Good morning, monsieurs.”

The two men he had addressed were dressed in the same sea boots and tabards
as most of the men here. Cudgels hung at their belts, and they were leaning on
the iron-banded door of their master’s warehouse.

“Monsieurs, is it?” one of them asked with a sneer.

“Yes,” Florin replied. “It is.”

He stepped closer to the guard and smiled with the warm good humour of a lion
who has cornered a wolf. For a moment the guard held his gaze. Then he looked
away and shuffled his feet. Florin, telling himself that he wasn’t disappointed
by the lack of challenge, produced a coin.

“We’re looking for the warehouse of Nine Bellies Flangei,” he said, turning
his smile onto the second guard. “Do you know where it is?”

“Just down there,” the man said cautiously, and pointed down the wharf. “It’s
got a shingle with some candles on it.”

“Thank you,” Florin said and handed him the coin. “Monsieurs.”

The guards nodded and watched as Florin and Lorenzo prowled down the wharf.
When they were out of earshot the first guard regained his voice.

“He’s lucky,” he told his mate, gesturing towards the lizard hunters. “If it
wasn’t so damned hot I’d have given him a bloody nose. Cheeky sod.”

The other man grunted noncommittally and pocketed the coin. It was, after
all, too hot to argue.

They found the widow Flangei busy with a delivery. A barque had tied up
outside her late husband’s warehouse, and a stream of porters were carrying
barrels from the vessel’s hold to the store. Despite the sweat that plastered
their rags to their gaunt frames the men moved with the eagerness of worker
ants, their bony bodies bent double beneath their loads.

Lorenzo didn’t blame them. Under the stern gaze of their mistress, he would
have worked with the same diligence.

Madame Flangei stood on a handcart, watching her little empire with sharp
blue eyes. The fact that her face looked like a well-used hatchet did nothing to
compliment her figure. She was a robust woman, and whatever charms she might
have had were concealed beneath a functional canvas shift. The cleaver that she
wore on her belt didn’t add much to her feminine appeal either. The weapon was,
after all, hardly the latest in Bordeleauxan fashion.

Only her hair showed any trace of vanity. It was as red as copper, and she
had bound it into a coiffure that looked tight enough to serve as a helmet.

In fact, Lorenzo decided, she looked so formidable that the quartet of guards
who stood behind her seemed almost superfluous. Their hands rested easily on
their cudgels, but their eyes were everywhere. They had noticed Florin and
Lorenzo as soon as the pair had paused to watch their mistress’ goods being
unloaded, and now one of them pointed the two men out to her.

“Something you boys want?” Madame Flangei asked with a voice like a bullwhip.
She stared down at them with eyes that Lorenzo thought must be the coldest
things in a thousand miles.

But if Florin shared his friend’s uncharitable opinion he gave no sign of it.
Instead he swept off his hat and bowed.

“Yes, thank you, Mademoiselle. We’re looking for the widow Flangei.” He held
his pose as he spoke, although the dark brown intensity of his eyes never left
the blue ice of hers.

And even as she answered Lorenzo was amazed to see that that ice had already
started to melt.

“Why are you looking for her?” the widow asked. Her voice remained a blunt
instrument, but now the fist which had been resting on one hip fluttered up
towards her tightly bound hair to pat at an imaginary stray lock.

“We are looking for Madame Flangei to discuss a matter relating to her late
husband’s death,” Florin told her, his own voice as smooth as honey.

The widow frowned, and her jaw jutted out like the ram of a galley. “I’ll
collect that old fool’s bones tomorrow. As you can see, I’m busy at the moment.”

Florin shook his head and smiled ruefully. “Please, mademoiselle. On another
day I would happily spend all afternoon being mocked by you. It would be a small
price to pay for your presence. But today our business is too important. And
unfortunately it revolves around the widow of an aged merchant, not a lady as
young as yourself. Would that it did!”

Lorenzo watched in amazement as the widow’s mouth fell open, then shut with a
snap. At the same time, a red flush crept up from beneath her collar and she
scowled furiously.

Lorenzo could never understand why Florin had this effect on women. It
couldn’t be what he said, the older man decided, because what he said was
usually complete nonsense. So if it was nothing he said, it must just be the way
he said it.

“Well,
I
am the Widow Flangei.” The widow finally recovered her voice.
By now the blush had reached her hairline, and without any warning her scowl
suddenly collapsed into a delighted smile.

Florin feigned embarrassment.

“Madame Flangei, I am so sorry. I hope you didn’t take any offence. I
certainly meant no disrespect. Can you forgive me?”

The widow silenced his apologies with a giggle that had her men looking at
her in frank astonishment. She remained oblivious to them, though. She was too
busy wishing that she’d worn something a little more flattering than her canvas
shift. She fidgeted with her belt so that it tightened around her waist, but
then Florin approached and she forgot all about even that.

“You are most gracious,” he purred, “although now that I have acted like a
perfect fool, I am almost too embarrassed to introduce myself.

“I am Florin d’Artaud, Hero of Lus… I mean, agent of the Harbour Master. This
is my comrade, Lorenzo.”

So saying he took her hand, which was as calloused as a sailor’s, and
caressed it as he pressed it politely to his lips. He gazed up at her as he did
so, and she sighed.

“Is there somewhere a little more private we can go?” he asked, forgetting to
release her hand. Madame Flangei, forgetting to take her hand back, licked her
lips and nodded.

“Henri,” she said, turning to her nearest henchman. “See that all hundred and
twelve barrels are weighed and tested. All of them, understand? Then you can
send the skipper up for payment. Me and Monsieur d’Artaud are going up to the
backroom to discuss business.”

The henchman, trying not to look too amazed at this transformation of his
mistress, snapped a salute as the widow, leading Florin by the hand, retreated
to the cooler confines of her inherited building.

Lorenzo watched them go, exchanged a bemused look with the guard, then found
a patch of shade and tried to make himself comfortable. He knew Florin well
enough to know that he would be gone for a fair while.

It was afternoon by the time Florin emerged from the warehouse. He nodded
happily to the guards who waited at the gates, then strolled over to Lorenzo
with a friendly smile. But Lorenzo, who had spent the afternoon watching the
heat haze flicker over the rotting stew of the harbour, was in no mood to smile
back.

“What took you so long?” he snapped as Florin gave him a hand up from where
he had been squatting against a wall.

“What?” Florin asked, the smile never leaving his face as he gazed across the
harbour to the sea gates.

“I said, what took you so long?” Lorenzo repeated, and violently dusted
himself down.

“Oh that,” said Florin, and made some vague gesture. “Well, you know how it
is. And the widow Flangei is certainly an incredible woman.”