Herald of the Storm, Page 5

  Merrick thought for a moment and then gingerly rose to his feet. ‘Just one thing.’ Bastian scowled as though Merrick had just left a shit on the floor behind him. ‘Any chance you can lend me a sword?’

  FOUR

  Eastgate Market was the oldest in the city. Not the largest, certainly not the cleanest and it definitely didn’t display the richest wares; but it had a long history. It dated back to the Age of the Sword Kings, when the river barons had brought their goods down the Storway from the foot of the Kriega Mountains.

  How Rag knew this she couldn’t remember – it was just one of those useless pieces of information you picked up. She did know other things, however, that weren’t quite so useless. Things like where Harol the Fishmonger kept his stash of crowns and when it would be at its fullest. Things like which hand Carser the Butcher wielded his cleaver with so she could avoid it if he got too close. Things like what the fastest routes out of the market were for when things got too hot. Things like when the lads in the Greencoats would be patrolling and what time they took a break for dice and a swift jar of ale.

  The Greencoats were the least of her worries. Well, maybe not the least, but they were way down the list. They didn’t bother much about a lone street urchin. Some of them were even fairly sympathetic at times and turned a blind eye, either too lazy or too preoccupied to pay attention to young wastrels stealing morsels from the market stalls.

  No, it was the Guild that was the worst.

  They’d have someone wandering around now, sizing up the best punters for the catch, signalling to their pickers, pinchers and cutters so they knew which marks to go for. It was organised, disciplined, and so they took the richest pickings. If Rag got in the way, distracted a picker or drew undue attention, she’d get more than a hiding; she’d be lucky if she’d be left with her eyes. Then it’d be a life on the corners of Dockside or worse, the Rafts, and she’d have no choice but to beg with the rest of the cripples, if she were lucky. If she weren’t lucky she’d be whored out for scraps, a freak, treated like an animal until someone ended her short life for her. Rag had seen it happen, and she was determined it weren’t a fate she’d share. Yes, the Guild controlled this market, and thieving here without their say so was dangerous indeed.

  Nevertheless, a gal had to eat, and Rag was mighty hungry.

  The smell of Gunta’s bread stall was wafting her way, almost as though the fat baker was just asking her to take one of his plump, brown loaves. She’d robbed him before, more than once, and it was likely he’d be looking out for her, but Rag had a knack for going unnoticed. For some children, normal children with parents who bought them food and clothes and kept a roof over them, lack of attention might have been a problem. Not so for Rag. Her talent for being ignored suited her just fine.

  Across the market the Guild lookout was busy marking a punter for his pincher, so there’d be no trouble there. The three lads in the Greencoats were laughing and joking with two well-dressed girls who looked well out of their league, so no trouble there neither.

  Fat Gunta was busy chatting to two equally fat women, who by the looks of them needed to skip a few meals. It was almost as if the baker was begging her to help rid him of his wares.

  Rag walked up all casual. She matched the pace of a passing merchant, allowing his bulk to shield her, and for a split second thought of cutting his purse, but she knew it wasn’t worth it. Loaves was of no interest to the Guild. Purses was quite different.

  As the merchant passed the end of Gunta’s stall, Rag stopped walking and let him move on, never looking up, never locking her eyes on the mark lest he glance round and see her, or those fat ladies spot her and give the game away. Most times if you didn’t look at someone they wouldn’t look at you, wouldn’t even notice you were there. She was right next to the stall now, within arm’s reach of a nice crusty loaf. It weren’t nothing just to take one, and it was in her hand before anyone noticed; not so fast as to attract attention, not so slow as to take all day. In less time than it took to suck up a breath, her coat was open and the loaf aiming for the inside of it, when someone banged into her. Rag stumbled, the bread spilling from her grip and cracking on the cobbles right in front of the stall, crust breaking to bits like a shattered mirror, and making not much less noise.

  ‘Oi!’ screamed Gunta, ladies forgotten and his face all twisted in rage. ‘You little bastard! Come here!’

  Rag didn’t need further encouragement to head off through the crowd, but before she could take a step someone had grabbed her coat by the collar. She struggled in vain – he had her. She glanced back to see who it was, hoping it weren’t a Greencoat, terrified it might be someone from the Guild, but it was just an ordinary bloke, going about his business.

  She struggled and squirmed her best, even trying to stamp on the wanker’s foot, but he was immovable, and Gunta was coming from behind that bread counter, his face all puffy and red. She was going to get a right beating for this and no mistake.

  Rag let her body go slack, bending her knees and dropping out of her coat, just before Gunta was able to grab her. Then she was off and running, through the crowd and all the hubbub. She’d had that coat for years, and it pained her to leave it behind, but better a coat gone than maybe some fingers, she reckoned.

  Gunta was coming on behind, screaming his head off and stirring up the whole marketplace, but Rag, concentrating on escape, only thought to get to the nearest alley and disappear.

  Before she could make it, she caught sight of a figure moving fast and purposeful towards her through the crowd. A Greencoat – young and eager, unlike most of the others, and definitely in better shape than Gunta. He had the determined look of a man with something to prove, and catching Rag was his way of doing it.

  Ducking a swipe of his arm, she dodged sideways into one of the narrow streets that led from the market. Her bare feet mashed the shit of the alley as she increased her pace, but the Greencoat continued his pursuit, helmet rattling and crossbow slapping against his back. Rag sped through the tight labyrinthine alleyways with practised ease, but her pursuer was matching her pace with sheer power. For a brief second she considered her knife – pulling it on her pursuer might make him wonder whether catching her was worth being cut – though she hadn’t used a blade in anger for years. Truth was she’d never been convincing with a shiv. She remembered how Gus the Puller had just taken it off her once and put a stripe down her cheek for her trouble. After that she never bothered again.

  Rag realised she wasn’t going to outrun the lad so she would just have to disappear. As she turned another corner she jumped, planting her bare foot against a narrow windowsill and propelling herself upwards, catching hold of the lintel and dragging her body up above head height. Within two breaths the Greencoat turned the corner, splashing through the puddles and heaving air into his lungs. Thinking Rag had gone, he stopped, cursing loudly and slapping his thigh in anger. All the while she watched from above him, holding her breath, but this Greencoat obviously wasn’t a clever one; he never even bothered to look up.

  When he was gone Rag climbed down from the sill, with neither food nor coat. All in all it hadn’t been a good day’s work, but the day wasn’t over yet – something else might come along.

  With the market too hot to return to, she headed for Slip Street where she usually bedded down. Slip Street was on the edge of Dockside, not the worst place in that district, but certainly worse than anywhere in Eastgate. It was generally filled with drunks looking for a good time, and expecting to find it there. Aside from the alehouses that lined the street, almost every spare doorway housed a whore of one type or another. Rag would have felt uncomfortable here, vulnerable even, but this was where she’d grown up; her face was known to most of the girls and boys who plied their trade, but for the most part she was ignored. But then that had always been her talent.

  She climbed the rickety stairs at the side of the Silent Bull inn, her filthy feet padding lithely across the cracked and broken wood. Her weight mad
e the whole staircase creak violently, but it held beneath her. A full grown man using those stairs might have made them collapse; he’d certainly have made a hell of a racket climbing them. It was the kind of early warning that kept Rag alive in the foul and dangerous streets. Rag and her fellas.

  As she made her way up, past the third storey and onto the roof, Tidge was there waiting for her as usual. His big sad eyes stared hopefully from his dirty, podgy face.

  ‘Didn’t get nothing, mate,’ Rag said, walking past him towards the rickety shack that sat on the flat roof of the inn.

  ‘Where’s your coat?’ Tidge asked.

  ‘I had to lose it, but don’t you worry, I’ll find another before the cold nights come.’

  She stooped below the broken lintel of the makeshift shack that sat in the centre of the roof and climbed inside. The previous night’s fire had burned down to embers, which smoked feebly in the bottom of the rusted old shield that made do as a fire pit. On the bench opposite were Migs and Chirpy, sitting close enough to be hugging, as they usually were.

  ‘All right, Rag?’ Chirpy asked with his usual smile. Migs was silent as ever, looking out from beneath the long fringe that fell down almost to his nose.

  ‘Yeah,’ Rag answered, but she knew she wasn’t. Another failed day in the market meant they had another night with nothing to eat. She could only hope that Fender would bring them something later – if he decided to come back at all.

  Tidge climbed into the shack and sat beside her, resting his head on her arm. She hugged him close, looking through the cracks in the wall of the shack and out across the city.

  Below, from the streets surrounding the inn, came the sound of the corner girls plying their trade, their sweet voices full of promise and allure. Rag felt both disgust and envy. She resented them for giving their bodies away so easily, degrading themselves for a few coins, but deep down she knew they only did it to survive; if they had an alternative they’d take it. She was jealous too – jealous that she’d been born so pig ugly, so awkward and unsightly. There was no way she’d make any money on the street corner even if she could lower herself enough to try. Not that she ever would.

  Back in the dim past, Rag’s mother had been a corner whore – and a beautiful one too. They had lived in a room back then. Not a big room, and it was none too clean, but they had a roof and walls and it was warm. There’d been food on the table and all Rag had to do was make herself scarce while her mother did the business. She’d been called Morag then, Morag Rounsey; a real name for a real girl. That had all changed after her mother met the man from Silverwall. He wore fancy clothes, had a sweet smell about him and flashed his pennies around like he was someone that mattered. Rag’s mother had told her she was going off with the man, back to Silverwall to be with him, but she’d return soon enough to take Morag with her. Then they’d both move to Silverwall to live with the fancy bloke in his fancy house.

  Rag had stayed in that room for days – she couldn’t remember how many. After a while the landlord come to turf her out; she didn’t have any coin and where her mother was weren’t none of his problem, any road. She’d hung round the building for weeks after, always waiting, begging for scraps, selling what little she had left for food. It was a while before she realised her mother weren’t ever coming back.

  And so she’d become Rag, a thief and a beggar. She’d learned harsh lessons – who were your friends and who weren’t, where to go and where not, who to thieve from and who to avoid – and now here she was with a crew of her own, for what they were worth. Orphans all, and none of them any good at stealing, apart from Fender of course, but they were her crew, and they loved each other in their own way. She felt like they were family and she’d do what she could to look after them for as long as she was able.

  A sudden noise made her jump up. Tidge gave a squeal as he fell sideways, and Chirpy and Migs grabbed each other even tighter.

  Rag moved to the doorway and peered out. Relief washed over her as she saw Markus walking across the roof. He gave a wave and a smile.

  Markus entered their shack with a jolly ‘hello’, sitting on the little woodpile and looking round as if he was one of them, as if he belonged. It was obvious to anyone with half an eye that he didn’t. The boy was clean for a start … well certainly cleaner than any of the street kids he was sitting with. His clothes had no holes and had been washed within the past week and his hands weren’t grimed with filth, the nails white, not black from scrabbling through garbage for food. He’d been hanging round with them for weeks, and Rag hadn’t seen the harm in it. He wasn’t an orphan; he lived with his father in the Trades Quarter, but Rag had found him wandering the streets, sad and alone like a lost puppy. Of course she’d taken him under her wing – that’s what she did – but he didn’t thieve and he didn’t beg. No use but no harm, so what was the danger?

  ‘You all right?’ Rag asked, when Markus didn’t speak.

  He shrugged back. ‘Good as ever,’ he said.

  Rag hadn’t asked, and Markus hadn’t told, but she reckoned on the boy’s father being a bit of a bastard, which was why he had taken to wandering the streets so far from home and hanging round with the urchins. It weren’t none of her affair so she didn’t pry. Everyone had their own private business, she reckoned.

  ‘Might be cold tonight,’ said Chirpy. ‘We should maybe think about getting the fire going again.’

  ‘Don’t talk wet,’ Tidge replied. ‘Ain’t been cold for ages. I reckons we should save the wood for another night.’

  Rag smiled at his good sense. For his age he had a solid head on his shoulders. He might even be clever enough to leave this shit life when he was old enough.

  ‘We’ll wait and see,’ said Rag. ‘Could be a storm coming.’ She nodded through the missing slats in the shack towards the north. A dark cloudbank was gathering on the horizon, an ominous blackness that threatened to consume the clear blue.

  ‘What the fuck’s this, a mothers’ meeting?’

  Rag started at the voice, but as soon as she saw the tall figure framed in the doorway she relaxed.

  Fender climbed inside, his lithe muscular limbs moving with feline grace within the confines of the makeshift shelter.

  ‘What’s the matter? You’ve a face as long as a donkey’s cock.’ He sat down in the middle of the group, with Migs and Chirpy shuffling up to give him room. ‘Looks like you’ve had a shit day at work, Rag? Where’s your coat?’

  ‘I gave it to your mum,’ she replied. ‘She said she was cold sucking cock at night time.’

  Fender smiled back. He’d never known his mother or father, so it weren’t any insult. ‘It’s a good job one of us has been busy, ain’t it?’ He reached in the pocket of his coat and pulled out a tiny bronze vase. The younger boys looked at it with awe, their little faces lighting up at such a flagrant display of wealth.

  Fender tossed the item to Tidge. ‘Go deal this to Boris downstairs. And don’t let the fat bastard sell you short.’

  Tidge didn’t need telling twice and ran out of the shack faster than Rag had ever seen him move. This was good – they might eat tonight. Boris, innkeeper of the Silent Bull, didn’t mind them making a home on the roof as long as they kept providing him with the odd trinket. He’d even give them food and a little grog if the items were valuable enough.

  ‘What the fuck’s he doing here?’ Fender said suddenly, looking daggers at Markus.

  ‘He ain’t doing nothing,’ Rag replied defensively, but she knew it wouldn’t placate Fender – he hated Markus. It was jealousy, pure and simple, and Fender could be a nasty bastard sometimes. Nevertheless, Markus had always taken every slap and insult Fender dished out, and kept coming back for more.

  ‘I’ve had enough of it.’ Fender stood, ducking beneath the low roof of the shack but still towering over the rest of them. ‘If he stays, he pays, like the rest.’

  ‘Sit down, Fen—’

  ‘Fuck off, Rag, I mean it. Get out, rich boy, and don’t fucking come
back until you bring something worthwhile. We all gives a bit for the pot. Time you did the same.’

  Markus had already moved to the door, clearly fearful of Fender and his cold challenge, but he raised his chin defiantly. Rag had to admit she was a bit proud of him for that.

  ‘All right, I will,’ he said in a small voice. Then he ran off across the roof.

  ‘You didn’t have to do that. He’s one of us,’ said Rag.

  ‘Like fuck he is. He’s got family. He don’t need us. Let’s wait for winter, shall we, wait for the biting cold and the hunger to set in? Then we’ll see how many times he comes to stay.’

  Rag didn’t answer. She wanted to tell Fender where to go, wanted to tell him that Markus was a member of her crew and she trusted him, but she couldn’t – because, deep down, she couldn’t help but think that Fender was right, and when the going got tough they would never see Markus again.

  FIVE

  The song of steel was not a pretty tune. It rang out, discordant and loud, hammered in with muscle and sweat and dirt. Nobul Jacks performed the song like an artist, working his anvil as well as any fiddler at his bow, his powerful strokes expert in their precision. His formidable frame struck out the rhythm; hammer smashing white-hot steel, which sparked in quick quick time, filling the smithy with a dirge to rival any orchestra.

  In the darkness of the forge a fierce fire burned, blades protruding like the spokes of a wheel, ready to be struck flat or quenched in water, ready to sing like the strings of a harp. Nearby stood the grinding stone whose voice called out as it sharpened and honed in a perfect falsetto.

  For Nobul this was more than mere craft, more than a living. When working the forge he could forget what his life had become – all that existed was the song, the music of his labours, and it swept him from the world, his nightmares and his grief. Once he had closed the door behind him, he felt safe, deep in the sanctuary of his noisy, dirty, honest work.