The Corpse-Rat King

it into his mouth. “Look what you made me do.” He looked up at Marius, letting his gaze travel his entire body before settling somewhere around the arc of jaw visible beneath the cloak’s overhanging hood. “Are you in need of a genuine relic of the rich history of our city, friend? I can see you have a keen appreciation–”

“Your mouth.”

Paschar raised a hand to his lips. “My mouth? What about it?”

“Close it.”

“Hey, now friend. I’m a friendly fellow, but–”

Marius reached down with one hand, and grabbed Paschar’s shoulder. He hauled the trader to his feet and slammed him against the wall in one strong, fluid movement. Paschar gasped, then began choking.

“My snout…” he managed.” Swallowed… God….”

Marius waited, effortlessly maintaining his grip. Paschar eventually subsided, drawing his breath in a heavy wheeze, his eyes streaming tears. When he was at last able to breathe without hacking gobs of tobacco-flecked spit onto the ground, Marius used his free hand to pull back his hood.

“Remember me?” he said, in a friendly tone that wouldn’t have fooled a child. Paschar stared at his pallid, cracking face for several seconds. He made one attempt to swallow, then another. Finally, he gathered enough saliva into his mouth to attempt speech.

“Helles?”

“In the rotting flesh.”

“What on Earth happ… you’re looking…. How are you?” Paschar smiled, a weak attempt that gave up and died instantly.

“You know something? I’ve been better.”

“Shame.” Paschar nodded in sympathy, stopping when it became apparent that if he didn’t intervene now, he’d probably not be able to stop it for at least several minutes. “I’ve always wished the best for you, Helles, you know that. Always felt–”

“Shush, now.” Marius shook him gently, so that only his teeth rattled, and not his whole skeleton. Paschar shushed. “I’m glad you feel that way, Remmitt. I really am. Because I’ve got a way for you to prove it.”

“I’d love to, Helles, really I would.” Paschar found enough courage to reach up in an attempt to prise Marius’ fingers from his shoulder. Marius clenched. The fingers found flesh, and Paschar quickly gave it up as a bad idea. “It’s just, I’ve got these kids to feed, see–?”

“You have two children, Remmitt. They live with their mother in Jarsik Way, you’re allowed to see them once a month as long as you’re accompanied by a special constable, and last I heard, the oldest one is training for the priesthood because he heard you’re allergic to churches.”

“Well, you know kids. Always playing tricks on their old man…”

“I need information, Remmitt.” Marius reached into his pocket, and removed a tuppenny piece, which he held before Paschar’s eyes.

“Ah, well, I’m sure I don’t know anything about it, Guv.”

“You don’t know what I want to know about yet.”

“Yes, well,” Paschar looked from the coin to Marius’ face, swallowed, and decided it was better to focus on the coin. “I’m pretty sure I don’t know anything. Not for that price, you know what I mean?” He devoted the last of his courage to another smile. It wasn’t quite enough. Marius refrained from sighing. He drew out another penny.

“That’s enough.”

“I’m not sure–”

“It wasn’t a question.”

“Ah. Yes. Well, that’ll do nicely.” Paschar reached up and took possession of the coins. “How may I assist your enquiry?”

“The Minerva.”

“Oh, yes. That’s a lovely pub, that is. Other side of the city, I think you’ll find. Next to an undertakers, not that I’m recommending–”

“It’s a ship, Remmitt. A very big ship.”

“Oh, that Minerva. Right.” Paschar swallowed. “Got you.”

“Fifty thousand tonnes. Must have lots of crew. I’m sure some of them would have been interested in a genuine sliver from the Tidy. I bet some of them would even like to talk to the fellow that sold it to them. I bet they’d like to ask just how big the Tidy was to hold so many genuine slivers.”

“Hey now, I offer only authentic… north west docks, over by Meanside,” Remmitt squawked as Marius tightened his grip. Marius smiled, and let go. Paschar slumped to the ground. He shrank away, pressing the back of his head hard against the wall. Marius crouched in front of him and leaned forward so that their faces were inches apart.

“I’ll remember how helpful you were, Remmitt,” he said softly. “If you were helpful enough, I won’t have to find you again, will I?”

Paschar nodded, shook his head, nodded again, and finally settled for remaining perfectly still.

“I’d say goodbye,” Marius patted him on his shoulder. Paschar did his best not to wince as Marius’ stone-hard hand struck. “But you ain’t seen me, right?” He rose, and stepped quickly past the mussel fryer, who had resolutely faced streetward during the entire exchange. Only once he could no longer see Marius in his peripheral vision did Paschar draw a single, painful inhalation, and begin to curse his tormentor.

Half an hour later, as he was in the process of reluctantly parting with Severn Magnassity’s very own sextant, just so his poor children could eat some real meat for the first time in months, Paschar stopped and stared into the distance. All of a sudden, a realisation had hit him. At no time during his encounter with Marius – not when he was talking, not when he was holding him against the wall, not even when he leaned down and shoved his awful, awful face into his – could Paschar recall his assailant breathing. As his discerning client began to protest, Remmitt stepped away from his stall and slowly walked, then jogged, and finally ran up the Pipe Barrel towards a bag he kept under a loose floorboard in a rented room of the Lodger’s Rest Hotel. Within a week he was knocking on the door of a monastery in the heart of Taslingham, begging for sanctuary.

TEN

Meanside was a good half hour’s walk from the southern bank of the river. Marius set off at a fast stride, slipping through the crowds without bothering to watch the unfolding life around him. He knew his way around Meanside like blood knows its way through veins, and he barely had time to plan his progress before he was climbing the road that led onto the Magister, the oldest, largest, and most famous of Borgho’s “thousand bridges”. The mad King Nandus had built his palace here, and parts of the walls had been preserved along the walkways at either side of the busy thoroughfare. Marius had been little more than a teen when he’d stood side by side with soldiers, street mongers and wharfies and defended the span from the forces of Tarem Bridge, a half mile down the water, the year the river froze over and the Battles of the Blade Gangs broke out. Ninety steps towards the far side the broken remnants of Nandus’ Wizard Tower… Marius stopped, and leaned against the bridge wall, staring down into the muddy swirl of water flowing underneath.

“Hey there, Mischa,” he said softly, “It’s me.”

The water flowed past, unheeding. Marius watched it, seeing patterns in the churn. He needed to get to the Minerva, but there was time enough for memories.

She had been crossing the bridge from the offices of the dock manager towards the villas of the richer merchants when the fighting had welled up along the river, and she was caught at the foot of the Wizard Tower. Marius was already there, crouched against the bricks, trying to squeeze himself into the cracks.

“What’s happening?” She threw herself to the ground as a volley of crossbow bolts flew over the wall from below. “What’s going on?”