The Corpse-Rat King

necessary to the trader’s only mission – to make as much money in as quick a time as possible. Everything is streamlined, cut back, minimalist, functional. This was not the case within the walls of the captain’s cabin. The moment Marius stepped through the door his feet left bare wood. The cabin was floored with mosaic tiles, patterned so that he stood upon the lower paw of a puissant lion, whose roaring head poked out from under the oak four-poster bed underneath the starboard window. Heavy velvet drapes were parted to allow sunlight in, where they fell directly across the captain’s desk, a slab of black wood so large the cabin must have been built around it, rather than try and fit the thing through the door. The captain himself was sitting in a high backed chair that looked like a replica of the throne of Lenthus XIV, the so called Moon-King of Ureen. Marius hoped it was a replica – its cost would be merely breath-taking, instead of impossible to comprehend. Massive gold-framed paintings adorned the walls. Marius counted at least two Fermenis, and one Cabdur that, if genuine, was probably worth as much as the rest of the boat added up. Tables abounded, and shelves, piled high with ornaments collected from around the five oceans. Marius frowned. How could any of this survive even the most moderate sea, never mind the massive swells such as those he had experienced crossing the lower equator? Either everything was glued down with the strongest glue known to man, or this captain must have a boy solely employed to pack and unpack the room depending on sailing conditions. Marius caught movement in the shadows of the far side of the room. As if in answer to his thoughts a young lad emerged, no more than eight or nine years old, polishing a small picture frame and replacing it on a low shelf by the door to the captain’s wash room. He looked up at Marius and nodded a greeting. Marius returned it, and took a small step to the side, positioning himself so he stood in front of a small table that bowed under a field of velvet-mounted brooches and pins. He stood with his hands behind his back, and willed his torso to stillness. The captain looked up from a spread of parchment, and raised his eyebrows.

“And you are?”

“Marius Helles.” Marius gave the captain a good looking over. He was tall, thin, with a nose like a flamingo’s beak and a chin to match. His hair was tied back in the style favoured by certain Scorban nobles who had the sense to know exactly how long their family was, and wished for it to continue. His uniform, while certainly conforming to the standards of the Scorban Trading Guild in cut and style, looked to have been hand-sewn by merchants who wished to keep all their fingers, and knew exactly which material would be most costly for the job. Almost every trader Marius had ever met dressed for comfort first, warmth and dryness second, and protocol last. This man looked as if none of these attributes rated quite as highly as dancing. He drew up a pince-nez on a chain, and stared down at Marius from a mental distance of many miles.

“And just what do you think you’re doing on my ship, Mister Helles?”

“Spone sent me up.”

“And?”

“I’m your passenger. My companion left a deposit to secure a cabin.”

“Ah. Yes.” The captain leaned back in his chair and folded long hands over his stomach. “Your strump… companion.”

“Is there a problem?”

The captain stared at Marius for several seconds, taking in the hood pulled over his face, the guarded stance, the motley combination of mismatched clothing. He smiled, a tight little thing worn by anyone who negotiates from a position of complete strength, and who has made their final assumption long before the voices have run out.

“A small one,” he said. “The amount she left with us. It was, shall we say–”

“A deposit.”

“Yes. Quite so. Passage itself will take rather more remuneration, I’m afraid. A passenger takes up considerable space, particularly one who will contribute nothing to our trading mission.”

“How much?” Marius had been expecting this sort of tactic. After all, when everyone can see the barrel, it’s only the one stretched across it who has to worry about its size.

“Let me see…” The captain counted off on his fingers, silently staring at the ceiling. “Another eighty riner should cover our expenses. That is,” he added as Marius became even stiller, “unless there’s a problem.”

“No.” Marius sucked his teeth. He needed this man. “Not a problem. Eighty riner, food and board in a private cabin from here to your destination. You are travelling to the Faraway Isles?”

“Port Moubard, actually. Will that suffice?” The amusement in the captain’s voice could have strangled a parrot. Marius resisted the temptation to think of the captain as a parrot.

“I’m not fussy.”

“Evidently not.” The captain indicated the desk. “Payment in advance, naturally.”

“When do you sail?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“When do you sail?”

The captain stared at Marius. Marius stared back. Faced with the darkness under his unmoving hood, the captain blinked and made busy with his parchment.

“First tide tomorrow morning. I’ll be battening up three hours before first light.”

“You’ll have your money by dusk.”

“Good.” The captain waved towards the door – Marius was dismissed. “Be here by then, with my money, and I’ll have a space cleared for you among the men.”

“I said a private cabin.”

“That’s not possible, I’m afraid. We simply do not have the room to–”

“Ninety five riner, for a room above decks.”

“Fine, fine.” The captain returned to his parchment. “Let it not be said that Ethamanel Bomthe was not an understanding man.”

“Bomthe?”

The captain looked up.

“You’re aware of me?”

“Not a bit.” Marius swung about and pushed through the doors, leaving the captain blinking behind him.

Ninety-five riner in just over fifteen hours. One thing was certain – Marius wasn’t going to make that kind of money from honest work. Neither was he going to be able to pick enough purses. That left few options. Marius strolled down the gangway, deep in thought, dodging the stream of navvies still loading the Minerva with wares. At the bottom, the man called Spone gave him a distracted wave.

“All right for the off, then?”

Marius waved back. “Just getting my stuff.”

“Right you are. See you for embarkation. Don’t get in any trouble.”

Trouble, Marius thought as he headed off down the docks. That’s just what I intend to get into.

ELEVEN

North of the river, Borgho City takes on a different aspect. Whereas the south quadrants are closed in, warrens of alleyways and tenements, and progress is often marked as much by who decides to block off which alley mouth with their stall as by a traveller’s memory of the streets, the northern quadrants are more spacious. The streets are wider, the guards who patrol them – and guards actually do patrol them, which is another distinct difference – are cleaner, and once you crest the first line of foothills and move onto the slopes of Varius’ Folly, the hill that dominates this end of town, the houses begin to resemble small palaces rather than apartments, separated from each other by orchards and fences of ornate metalwork. There is good reason for this. Back when Borgho City was the centre of its own little fiefdom – before King Nandus disappeared on his disastrous campaign against the ocean, and the Prince of the House of Scorby had swept down at the front of ten thousand men and announced that Borgho was now part of the new Kingdom of Scorby, much to the citizens’ indifference – the hillside had been occupied by whatever nobles the King had anointed each week. Even Littleboots had lived there, towards the top, in gold-plated stables that stretched for half an acre, with his own liveried servants and a field of finest grass, imported from Feen. The gold-plating had lasted less than twenty-four hours after the servants realised their equine master wasn’t coming back. But the stables still stood, as well as the warren of escape