Herald of the Storm by Richard Ford
‘Handle things how? I’m not gonna be part of no murder or nothing.’
Krupps laughed, joined soon after by Burney, but Rag noted Steraglio hadn’t even cracked a smile.
‘Oh, Rag. We’re not in the murder business – we’re in the taking-what’s-not-ours business. Do we look like assassins? Do I look like the kind of bloke who steals into someone’s house in the middle of the night and slits their throat?’ In all honesty, Rag wasn’t reassured. ‘The house we’re breaking into … sorry, you’re breaking into, is owned by a rich merchant – a greedy fucking merchant – but he won’t even be home. So, empty house, easy pickings. Sound good?’
Rag had to admit it was sounding better and better. Her nod of assent was greeted by a big smile from Krupps and a firm slap on the shoulder from Burney.
‘Varson! Break out the good stuff,’ Krupps called across to the bar. Within moments, the greasy barman had placed a dusty bottle on the table with four relatively clean glasses. Krupps filled them – and Rag picked hers up, staring at the murky-looking liquid inside.
‘Here’s to other people’s money,’ said Krupps, raising his glass with a wide grin. Rag couldn’t help but be charmed by that smile, raising her own glass with the rest and swigging its contents in a single slug before slamming it back to the table. The taste was hot and sour, burning her throat and making her nose sting. It was all she could do to hold it down, but to Rag’s dismay, Krupps was already filling her glass up again.
‘To our new friend,’ said Burney, his baritone voice resonating through the interior of The Black Hart.
‘To Rag!’ said Krupps, lifting the second glass to his lips.
In for a penny, Rag thought, taking a swig. But this time the thick alcohol made her snort and, without warning, she was spewing the stinging liquid out of her nose and all over Krupps’ lap.
A sudden silence. Then the rest of them, Steraglio included, began to laugh hysterically.
Wiping sour-tasting snot from her nose, Rag had to admit that, despite just having ruined a man’s britches, things were looking up.
THIRTEEN
Another day, another book filled with indecipherable nonsense. This one apparently detailed the metaphysical aspects of healing through the Primary Art of Divination; but all Waylian could appreciate was the weave of the book’s binding and the craftsmanship of its embossed cover. He’d always admired the work of skilled artisans, their attention to detail and the years of practice it took to produce a work of supreme artistry. Writers of complex treatises on the ins and outs of the magickal arts, however, he did not appreciate so much.
He was losing patience with the whole thing. What was the point? The frustration at his lack of understanding was manifesting as a distinctly short attention span, and he often found himself daydreaming both in and out of Gelredida’s lessons. At least here in the Grand Library he wouldn’t be reprimanded for his inattention.
Waylian glanced out across the rows of desks, flanked by the seemingly endless line of bookshelves. They seemed to taunt him with their mystery, looming over him like impassable mountains, laughing at his ignorance and jealously guarding the knowledge they would never impart to him. He guessed he wouldn’t have to suffer this indignity for much longer. The Red Witch would doubtless see him expelled quite soon.
Casually glancing across the room his eyes settled on one of the other students. That girl, with blonde hair falling in curly locks about her face. She smiled at him, but before Waylian had a chance to smile back she turned back to her studies.
What was her bloody name? Gael? Glorie? Balls, what was wrong with his memory these days! Whatever her name was she was the prettiest thing he had seen in a while … and she’d just smiled at him.
Not that it would have meant anything, just a friendly smile across the library – nothing to get excited about, Waylian. You won’t be here long enough to do anything about it anyway.
Then again, it wouldn’t hurt to have something nice to focus on while he was here.
He glanced towards her again, hoping she might look up, but before that had any chance of happening a cold shadow fell over him.
‘Hard at work again I see, Jotun?’
Waylian jumped at the voice. He didn’t know if he was more annoyed or scared – Jotun was her new name for him … and he was nowhere close to working out what it meant.
‘Erm, yes, Magistra,’ Waylian replied, looking up sheepishly to see Gelredida staring down at him with her usual haughty disdain. ‘I was just … er …’
‘Yes, I can see what you were doing.’ The Red Witch raised an eyebrow and peered over to where the blonde girl was sitting. Waylian could see her watching as he was humiliated by his stern tutor.
Great first impression, Waylian. Just great.
‘Jotun, you’ll be pleased to know I require your assistance.’
‘My … ?’
‘Assistance, yes. I’m sure it comes as a surprise considering your uselessness in all other matters, but I’m heading out into the city and it wouldn’t do for me to be seen traipsing the streets without my faithful apprentice, now would it.’
‘Well, I …’
‘Yes, I’m sure you are, Jotun. Now take your books back to your chambers and meet me in the entrance hall as soon as you’re done.’
With that she stalked from the library.
Waylian gathered up his books as quickly as he could, not daring to glance over towards the blonde girl lest she be laughing at his humiliation, and rushed from the library.
Gelredida was standing in wait for him, and it was clear she was less than amused. He had only been a few moments, rushing to his chamber, then straight back down the long winding staircase to the entry hall, but she looked as though he’d kept her waiting an age. She didn’t speak as he appeared, merely set off through the massive double doors as they were pulled open by four towering Raven Knights.
On first arriving in Steelhaven, Waylian had come through Eastgate, a relatively affluent area of the city, and been ushered straight to the Tower of Magisters. Since then he had seen little of the city, beyond what could be spied through one of the Tower’s many windows. As Gelredida led him out through the Tower’s grounds it was clear they were not heading towards an area of affluence.
He followed his mistress north, through streets that became gradually more filthy. Houses of stone and timber soon gave way to twisted shacks of rotting wood and chipped slate; polished cobbles to mud pits swimming with effluent. If Waylian hadn’t been so frightened of the Red Witch he might have asked why they weren’t being accompanied by a Raven Knight or maybe five. However, the ever more insalubrious characters wandering the streets seemed to be giving them a wide berth – as though they knew who Gelredida was and what it would mean to confront her. The pair went ever northward, as if with an aura – an aura that said we are of the Caste, and if you try it on you’ll regret it.
They continued in silence. Waylian was beginning to wonder if they were lost, when he saw something of a commotion up ahead. A crowd had gathered: a mob of bedraggled-looking peasants all barracking one another for a look at something. As they drew closer Waylian could see that two Greencoats were standing vigil at the door of a ramshackle three-storey house, occasionally pushing back anyone getting too close or peering too far through the partially open door.
Gelredida walked up to the back of the crowd, and as Waylian was wondering how they might make their way through, one of the peasants suddenly sensed the Red Witch bearing down on him. He blanched and moved from her path. Like a whisper on the wind, the knowledge of her arrival seemed to sweep through the mob, heads turning, eyes suddenly widening as each caught sight of the stern visage of Waylian’s mistress. A gap big enough for a horse and cart appeared in the crowd and she strode through, Waylian stumbling to keep up with her as he slopped through the muddy thoroughfare.
One of the Greencoats bowed his head in respect as she approached; the other pushed the door fully open to allow her entry to the h
The interior of the house was decrepit, with plaster peeling from the walls and furniture not fit for firewood slung about the place. More Greencoats stood inside, their faces pale, their shoulders slumped. It was then that the smell suddenly hit Waylian. He lifted a hand to his face to block the stench – it was like rotten eggs and dead badger – but to no avail. The stink was in his nose, in his head. No amount of lavender or mint would clear it any time soon.
They took the stairs, which creaked ominously, but somehow managed to bear their weight. The higher they went the worse the smell became. Something was definitely dead in here, and Waylian felt a growing sense of foreboding.
At the top of the landing stood a grim figure, waiting as though expecting the Red Witch. His grey hair was cropped short, a leather patch covering one eye, adjacent a nose that had been broken more than once. His lantern jaw and grim visage gave Waylian pause for a second. As Gelredida reached the top of the stairs the stern Greencoat gave her a nod. It was a gesture of familiarity, which the Red Witch returned in kind.
‘Ben Kilgar, as I live and breathe.’ Though Gelredida’s words were warm, her expression did not soften.
‘It’s Serjeant Kilgar now, Magistra,’ he replied in a deep rumbling brogue. ‘Good to see you. It’s been …’
‘A long time. I’d say too long, but perhaps I’d be wrong about that.’
He nodded in agreement. It was then Waylian noticed he only had one arm, his left one missing at the elbow.
‘If only we were meeting under better circumstances,’ she said. ‘Shall we proceed?’
Serjeant Kilgar didn’t speak, merely leading them along the corridor. Two pale-looking Greencoats at another doorway stood to quick attention as their serjeant approached. He pushed the door open and stepped inside. As he did so, the smell that was plaguing Waylian’s nostrils suddenly intensified, though neither the stern Greencoat serjeant nor Gelredida seemed to notice.
She walked in, and Waylian dutifully followed, though with every step his stomach churned, as much with dread at what he would find as with the increasingly nauseating aroma. Having stepped over the room’s threshold he regretted it immediately.
The room was lit by dim candlelight, the single window having been covered with neatly arranged boarding. In the flickering light he could see strange sigils had been daubed on the walls, though in the dimness it was difficult to tell what with. The symbols seemed to exude a strange miasma that numbed his head and made his eyes water. Indeed, the whole place seemed filled with a thick pall, like strong pollen – only with a sicklier sweetness.
But it was not this that made Waylian baulk. It was not this that made him retch, clamping a hand to his mouth to hold in a stinging uprush of bile. It was not this that made him rush into the corridor to evacuate his stomach contents on the dirty floorboards.
It was the disembowelled corpse nailed down in the centre of the room.
Waylian heaved. He heaved until he could heave no more, evacuating his breakfast of fried bread and black pudding. Nowhere near as nice coming out as it had been going in.
And it wasn’t even the entrails strewn across the floor that got him, but rather the staring blank eyes of the corpse. He couldn’t seem to get that image out of his head, no matter how much he puked.
Eventually he managed to swallow back what was left in his throat and leaned against the wall, gasping for air. As he wiped his moist nose on his sleeve, Gelredida marched from the room with Kilgar behind.
‘I can assure you, serjeant, it is a hoax.’
‘But the symbols, the murder, it’s—’
‘Your problem, I’m afraid. The symbols are gibberish, the manner of death made to look like some infernal rite, more than likely to divert attention from the real culprit to a member of the Caste. No, Ben, you’re not looking for any warlock. Just a run of the mill sadist.’
‘I’m sorry to have wasted your time.’
‘Not at all. You were right to send for me. One can never be too careful. The last thing we need right now is a rogue magicker wandering loose in the city.’
‘Indeed. Thank you for your time, Magistra. It was good to see you again.’
‘And you, serjeant.’
With that she turned and regarded Waylian like shit on her shoe. ‘Do pull yourself together, Jotun. It won’t be the last corpse you ever see. Better get used to it.’
She strode past him, and Waylian could only follow in her wake. As they traversed the filthy streets in silence, he dared not ask any questions about the murder, and she, clearly, would volunteer no information. When they reached the Tower, Gelredida abandoned him without a word, stalking away into the bowels of the massive building.
Waylian was not sorry to see her go.
Later, lying in his bedchamber, Waylian could think of only one way to erase the image of that blank-eyed corpse from his mind. Squeezing his eyes shut he began to picture Glorie.
Or was it Gael?
Anyway, whatever she was called she was firmly implanted in his psyche, and lying there alone and in the dark he could think of nothing else. Slowly his hand crept down beneath the covers. At first he felt a pang of guilt – what would she think of him if she knew what he was about to do, and while he was thinking of her – thinking of her naked, in his bed, touching him, running her lips up and down his …
Then the guilt was gone. He bit his lower lip, tightening his grip on himself, his head filled with her, imagining what she would look like after he’d had his way with her. That smile, which in the library had been friendly and open, in his dark chamber would be coquettish, filled with promise. Her hair, which fell about her shoulders in those red-gold locks, would be tousled and unkempt. Her complexion, usually pale and smooth, would be rosy red about the cheeks and glowing with the sweat of lovemaking.
Waylian felt himself grow harder as he imagined taking her breast in his hand, drawing it closer to his mouth, taking the nipple between his teeth and …
‘Leave that thing alone, Jotun.’
He almost leapt out of his bed, but had the presence of mind to pull his blanket up to his neck as he saw Gelredida standing over him. She looked even less amused than usual.
‘Get dressed,’ she ordered, raising an eyebrow in displeasure. ‘We have work to do.’
With that she turned and left his chamber, closing the door behind her and leaving him in darkness once more.
Waylian stared at the door for several moments after she’d gone, wishing fervently that he hadn’t just been caught cock in hand, but no amount of staring would turn back time.
He dressed quickly, his cock rapidly growing flaccid as his vision of the girl was shattered and replaced by the memory of Gelredida leering down at him as he frantically abused himself.
The Magistra was waiting for him in the entrance hall, the vast double doors already opened. Waylian couldn’t bear to look her in the eyes as he approached. He was thankful when she turned and walked out into the night without acknowledging his arrival. Thank the gods she hadn’t questioned him further. What excuse would he have dreamt up? I’m sorry, Magistra – it wasn’t what you thought. I was actually just scratching vigorously at a troublesome itch on my thigh.
They made their way through the streets once more, heading from brightly lit, cobbled avenues to filth-strewn alleyways. Waylian would have felt more intimidated at night, walking in the troubled quarters of the city, but he knew from his earlier experience that there would be nothing to fear … at least not while his mistress was present. He didn’t ask where they were going, but even at night, with his limited knowledge of the city’s geography, he could tell they were repeating their previous journey. His suspicions were confirmed as they came again upon the ramshackle house with its eviscerated occupant.
There was only a single Greencoat now, th
As they made their way up the rickety stairs, Waylian couldn’t hold it back any more. He had to know what they were doing – especially if he was going to have to view that hideous corpse again.
‘Why have we come back here, Magistra?’
No answer.
It was probably wishful thinking that she might deign to let him in on why they’d returned.
As she entered the room Waylian paused just outside. He felt his stomach churning in anticipation, the mushroom soup and hard bread he’d eaten for dinner threatening to broil up to the surface, but by a titanic effort of will he managed to keep it down. Clenching his fists to his sides he followed her in.
The body was still there. Waylian could see it was a man in his thirties, a detail he’d failed to notice previously. The guts were still strewn randomly but the blood that surrounded him like a black halo had dried and darkened.
Gelredida held up a single candle as she knelt by the body.
‘What do you notice, Jotun?’
What, other than there’s an eviscerated man on the floor? That he doesn’t look like he’ll be up and about any time soon? ‘Erm … I don’t know what you mean, Magistra.’
‘There’s been a murder. This body has been lying here all day and most of the night. It’s unseasonably warm for this time of year. What is odd?’