The Corpse-Rat King

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Marius stared at the spot where she had been for countless seconds. Then, slowly, he reached out and gathered the key. He stood, took the food from the table, and sidled towards the staircase at the back of the room.

At the top of the stairs, a short mezzanine led into a dark, sweaty-smelling corridor that ran the length of the building. Sconces lined the walls between anonymous, un-numbered doors. Most of them bore scorch marks above, from where drunken tenants had stumbled and spat, or worse, upon them. Sailors, especially drunk ones, aren’t picky about their surroundings. A pillow to rest their head and a pot to piss in on the floor as all they generally required, and as long as they stayed sober enough to tell the difference, they were happy. Marius had seen worse dockside rents – at least these had their doors on. Anyone who cared to complain about the dirt and the generally seedy air was either a stranger or still sober.

There was one exception. At the far end, directly facing him, a white-painted door with lit sconces at either side stood out like a princess in workhouse. A garland of dried flowers hung from a nail, and a circle of spotlessness surrounded it where the walls had been washed and the wooden floor swept free of dirt and dead insects. Marius snorted in recognition and strode towards it. The key fit on the first attempt, and he noted the absence of scratch marks around the hole. Whatever else may be said about them, the clientele of the Hauled Keel had obviously paid attention when warned to leave this room alone. The door swung inwards on oiled hinges, and Marius stepped through.

Inside, the room was clean, but little more. Marius closed the door behind him, made his way across to the dim outline of the bed, and found a lamp sitting upon a table next to it, a pack of lucifers at its base. He lit the lamp, then picked it up and used it to light three others at strategic points around the room. Once a modicum of visibility had been established he made his way to the single chair beneath the window, moved the neatly folded clothes onto the bed, and sat, throwing back his hood and running his fingers through his hair in relief. Only then did he take the time to thoroughly examine his surroundings.

Keth had tried, Marius could see that. Somewhere along the line, for whatever reason, she had decided to really try to make a home here. Nothing around him was new. The single bed sagged in the middle and the wood frame was bowed and warped from years, maybe decades, of water-rich air. But she had piled pillows and blankets upon it, and perhaps the thickness of the padding made up for the shape. Those blankets, and the clothes he had moved from the chair, were clean. Perhaps not freshly laundered, but certainly more recently than the once-a- fortnight swish through a bathtub of cold water that most bedding received in an establishment like the Hauled Keel. The trunk at the bed’s end had been old and battered when Marius had given it to her, but the clasp and hinges were new, and the designs she had painted upon it, flowers and berries on a vine, had been carefully applied. The tiny table and mirror she used as a dresser were uneven, one leg straightened up with a piece of wood, and the mirror itself had a long stain down one side where the silvered backing had tarnished. But everything was neat and orderly, and such toiletries that lay alongside the metal trough in the corner were newly purchased. More dried flowers, siblings to the bunch on the front door, were nailed to the walls, and from somewhere, the Gods only knew where, she had found a small painting of the Berries Veldt and hung it above the bed head. The overall impression was of care, and a determination to feel at home, and the whole thing saddened Marius more than he cared to admit. He felt out of place in his stolen cape and rotting skin, like leaves blown onto a freshly swept floor, just waiting for someone to notice and push him back out into the gutter. He got up, placed the tankard and spiced roll on the lid of the trunk, and returned to his seat to wait.

Taverns like the Hauled Keel never really close. At best, there is a short gap between one shift of clients reeling away to their beds or the street, and the next lot coming in from their boats or shift at the workhouses and piers to eat, drink, and raise the right level of noise to help forget their lives. The serving girls work long hours, longer than their customers can drink. Then they have to clean up afterwards, sweep away the butt ends and pipe tailings, mop up the spilled beer and vomit, push the last complaining drunkard out the door and point him in the direction of wherever he’s calling home that day. Only then can the takings be tallied, wages apportioned, and each girl find her own way to bed. Keth was luckier than most – a flight of stairs is a short journey compared to many. Even so, when she pushed the door open and slipped inside, the lines of her body were heavy with fatigue. Marius watched as she slipped off her slippers and knelt to splash water over her face. She glanced at him and he, taking the hint, vacated the chair.

“I spoke to a fellow just in off a trader,” she said, settling into the chair and sighing. “It looks like the very job for you. Be a love.” She pointed to the food on the trunk. Marius retrieved it and passed it over. She bit into the roll, followed it with a sip of Krehmlager, and sighed. “Fresh.”

“What did he say?”

“He’s serving on a fifty ton barque called the Minerva. They’ve been docked three days, taking on supplies for a run to the Faraway Islands. Reckons they’ll be out three, maybe four months, then as many back, trading iron and cloth for the usual stuff. They’re waiting for the right tides, but he’s due back on board in the morning so he thinks they’ll be off in no more than two days. They’ve got cabins.”

“What type?”

“Are you fussy, now?”

Marius shrugged, abashed. “No, of course not. Just so long as they’re private.”

“They will be. As private as you’ll get on a working boat.” She bit into the roll again and swallowed. “When did you last eat?”

“I don’t need to eat.”

She looked at him for several seconds. “I don’t need to cuddle, but it’s still nice every now and again. Have some.” She offered the tankard and roll. Marius hesitated, and she shook them slightly. “To be polite, if nothing else.”

Marius took them, bit into the roll and followed it with a mouthful of the lager. They tasted… nice. He blinked, swallowed, and took another bite and drink.

“Hey! Save some for a worker.”

Marius twitched, then handed them back. “Sorry. I… I don’t understand. I could taste them.”

“Don’t look at me. It’s your story.” Keth eyed him up and down. “It’s done you the world of good. You look better. Not, you know, you, but better.”

Marius snuck a glance in the mirror. Keth was right. He did look better. Not himself, no, not alive, but less… deadish. A hint of animation around the eyes, maybe. A touch of colour at the edges of his lips. “I don’t understand this at all. Gerd said…”

“Gerd?”

“A… companion. Guard dog, more like.”

“And is he dead?”

Marius smiled. The face in the mirror drew its lips up into a rictus. “We’re everywhere, don’t you know?” He grabbed the tankard from Keth, took a swallow, handed it back. “So what now?”

“Well it’s only a one person bed.”

“That never bothered you before.”

“You were a person.”

He snorted. “Fair point. I don’t need to sleep…” He caught himself. “Or cuddle.”

Keth laughed, then levered herself out of the chair. “Well, I need to wash and lie down. You can go out into the hallway for five minutes or you can promise not to look. What will it be?”

Marius placed his hand over the still skin of his heart. “I promise.”

“Liar.” She smiled and knelt down in front of the pail. “Go on. Turn around.”

Marius turned and faced the simple drapes over the window. There was a slither of clothing, and then splashing as Keth performed her ablutions. Marius resisted peeking, and tried not to remember how she looked naked. Not that such thoughts would do him any good now, anyway, he thought. Better to stay away from them. He did not need to add a lack of reaction to a naked woman to all the other signs of his continuing death.

“Tell me about this place,” he said in order to give himself something else to think about. “Why all the effort?”

“It’s mine.”