“Not in politics, it don’t.”
The two old men scowled at each other, then Dully nudged Kreege and said to Emancipor, “So, Mancy, looking for work again, eh?” Both dockmen grinned. “Had yourself a run of Lad’s Luck with your employers, it seems. Lady fend the poor sod fool enough to take you on-not that you ain’t reliable, of course.”
Kreege’s grin broadened, further displaying his uneven, rotting teeth. “Maybe Hood’s made you his Herald,” he said. “Ever thought of that? It happens, you know. Not many diviners cracking the Deck these days, meaning there’s no way to tell, really. The Lord of Death picks his own, don’t he, and there ain’t a damned thing to be done for it.”
“Kreege’s made a point there, he has,” Dully said. “How did your first employer go? Drowned in bed, I heard. Lungs full of water and a hand print over the mouth. Hood’s Breath, what a way to go-”
Emancipor grunted, staring down at his tankard. “Sergeant Guld nailed the truth down, Kreege. ’Twas assassination. Luksor was playing the wrong game with the wrong people. Guld found the killer quick enough, and the bastard slid on his hook for days before spillin’ the hand at the other end of his strings.” He drank deep, in Luksor’s cursed name.
Dully leaned forward, his bloodshot eyes glittering. “But what about the next one, Mancy? The cutter said his heart exploded. Imagine that, and him being young enough to be your son, too.”
“And fat enough to tip a carriage if he didn’t sit in the middle,” Emancipor growled back. “I should know-I used to wedge him in and out. Your life’s what you make it, I always say.” He downed the last of his ale, in the name of poor fat Septryl.
“And now Merchant Baltro,” Kreege said. “Someone took his guts, I heard, and his tongue so the questioners couldn’t make the spirit talk. Word is, the King’s own magus was down there, sniffing around Guld’s heels.”
His head swimming, Emancipor looked up and blinked at Kreege. “The King’s own? Really?”
Dully asked, his eyebrows lifting, “Not nervous now, are you?”
“Baltro was of the blood,” Kreege said. He shivered. “What was done between his legs-”
“Shut up,” Emancipor snapped. “He was a good man in his way. It don’t fair the wind to spit in the sea, remember that.”
“Another round?” Dully asked by way of mollification.
Emancipor scowled. “Where d’you get alla coin, anyway?”
Dully smiled, picking at his teeth. “Disposing the bodies,” he explained, pausing to belch. “No souls, right? No trails of where they went, either. Like they was never there in the first place. So, just meat, the priests keep saying. No rites, no honouring, don’t matter what the family’s paid for beforehand, neither. Them priests won’t touch them bodies, plain and simple.”
“It’s our job,” Kreege said, “taking ’em out to the strand.” He clacked his teeth. “Keeping the crabs fat, and tasty.”
Emancipor stared. “You’re trapping the crabs! Selling them!”
“Why not? Ain’t taste any different now, do they? Three emolls to the pound-we been doing all right.”
“That’s… horrible.”
“That’s business,” Dully said. “And you’re drinking on the coin, Mancy.”
“Ain’t you just,” Kreege added.
Emancipor rubbed at his face, which was getting numb. “Yeah, well, I’m in mourning.”
“Hey!” Dully said, straightening. “I seen a posting in the square. Someone looking for a manservant. If you can walk straight, you might want to head down there.”
“Wait-” Kreege began with troubled look, but Dully jabbed his elbow into the man’s side.
“It’s an idea,” Dully resumed. “That wife of yours don’t like you unemployed, does she? Don’t mean to pry, of course. Just being helpful, is all.”
“On the centre post?”
“Yeah.”
Hood’s Breath, I’m an object of pity to these two crabmongers. “A manservant, eh?” He frowned. Driving carriages was good work. He liked horses better than most people. Manservant though-that meant bowing and scraping all day long. Even so… “Pour me another, in Baltro’s name, then I’ll head down for a look.”
Dully grinned. “That’s the spirit… uh…” his face reddened. “No reflection on Baltro’s, of course.”
The walk down to Fishmonger’s Round told him he’d drunk too much ale. He saw enough straight lines, but had trouble following them. By the time he reached the round, the world was swirling all around him, and when he closed his eyes it was as if his mind was endlessly falling down a dark tunnel. And somewhere in the depths waited Subly-who’d always said she’d follow him through Hood’s gate if his dying left her in debt or otherwise put-upon-he could almost hear her down there, giving the demons an earful. Cursing under his breath, he vowed to keep his eyes open. “Can’t die,” he muttered. “Besides, it’s jus the drink, is all. Not dying, not falling, not yet-a man needs a job, needs the coin, he’s got ’sponsibilities.”
The sun had nearly set, emptying the round as the hawkers and net-menders closed up their stalls, and the pigeons and seagulls walked unmolested through the day’s rubbish. Even Emancipor, leaning against a wall at the edge of the round, could sense the nervous haste among the fishmongers-darkness in Lamentable Moll had found a new terror, and no one was inclined to tarry in the lengthening shadows. He wondered at his own absence of fear. The courage of ale, no doubt; that and Hood’s tread having already come so near to his own life’s path somehow convinced him that nothing ill would claim him this night. “Of course,” he mumbled, “if I get the job then all bets are off. And, I gotta keep them eyes open, I do.”
A city guardsman watched Emancipor weave and stumble his way to the reading post in the round’s centre, near the Fountain of Beru, its trickling beard of briny froth splashing desultorily into a feather-clogged pool. Emancipor waved dismissively at the stone-faced guardsman. “I feel safe!” he shouted. “Hood’s Herald! That’s me, heh heh!” He frowned as the man made a hasty warding sign and backed away. “A joke!” Emancipor called out. “Hood’s truth-I mean, I swear by the Sisters! Health and Plague divvy my plate-I mean, fate-come back here, man! ’Twas a jest!”
Emancipor subsided into muttering. He looked around, and found that he was alone. Not a soul in sight-they’d cleared out uncommonly fast. He shrugged and turned his attention to the tarred wooden post.
The note was on fine linen paper, solitary and nailed at chest-height. Emancipor grunted. “ ’Spensive paper, that. S’prised it’s lasted this long.” Then he saw the ward faintly inked in the lower right-hand corner. Not a minor cantrip, like boils to the family of whoever was foolish enough to steal the note; not even something mildly nasty, like impotence or hair-loss; no, within the circular ward was a skull, deftly drawn. “Beru’s beard,” Emancipor whispered. “Death. This damned note will outlast the post itself.”
Nervous, he stepped closer to study the words. They showed the hand of a hired scribe, and a good one at that. Sober, he could have made inferences from all these details. Drunk as he was-and knew he was-he found the effort of serious consideration too taxing. It was careless, he knew, but when faced with returning to Subly unclothed in the raiment of the employed, he had to take the chance.
One arm on the post, he leaned closer and squinted. Thankfully, the statement was short.
Manservant required. Full time. Travel involved. Wage to be negotiated depending on experience. Call at Sorrowman’s Hostel.
Sorrowman’s… less than a block away. And “travel,” by Hood’s cowl, would mean… well, it’d mean exactly what it meant, meaning… He felt a wide grin stretching his rubbery face, until it ached with sheer delight. Coin for the wife, whilst far far away I go. School for the hairless rats, and far far away I go. Heh. Heh.
His arm slipped from the post and the next thing he knew he was lying on the cobbles, staring up at a cloudless night sky. His nose hurt, but it was a distant pain. He sat up and looked around, feeling woozy. The round was empty except for a half-dozen urchins eyeing him from an alleymouth, all looking disappointed to see him awake.
“That’s what you think,” Emancipor said as he climbed to his feet. “I’m getting me a job, right now.” He wobbled before straightening, then plucked at his coachman’s jacket and breeches-but it was too dark to see the shape they were in. Damp, of course, but that could be expected, given the heavy weave of the stiff-shouldered coat and its long, tight-cuffed sleeves. “ ’Spect they’ll have a uniform, anyways,” he muttered. “Tailored, maybe.” Sorrowman’s. That way.
The journey seemed to take forever, but he eventually made out the sign of the weeping man above the
