tunnels the King had built underneath, for Littleboots to use in the case of revolution. The whole thing had been claimed by the horse’s neighbour, a duke of some renown who swapped killing foreigners for importing their artwork, and the stables now stood as a magnificent folly at the bottom of his extended gardens. Whether the Duke knew of the tunnels beneath the stables was a matter of conjecture. His son did, and addicted to gambling as he was, it provided the perfect locale for a gaming hall of no little grandeur and quite a lot of bankruptcies.
All Marius needed was a stake, and a table to join.
The stake was no problem. Marius had had very little opportunity to be thankful for the deadness of his flesh, but the gewgaws he had lifted from Captain Bomthe’s side table made no impression on his pain receptors, even as the motion of walking caused them to dig into his back and buttocks. With a definite destination in mind, and a time frame to match, he wasted little time in extricating himself from the docks and striding through the peacock- coloured frontages of the fashion houses and lending men towards the gentle rise that marked the end of the commercial quarters and the beginning of their residential area. No aspiring merchants here – the owners of these double and triple storied keeps, surrounded by as many square feet of lawn as could be placed between their bedrooms and the press of humanity beyond the stone walls and elaborate metal gates, were the unofficial rulers of Borgho City. The King of Scorby may be sovereign of every stone in the ground and man or woman who walked across them, but just try ruling the citizenry without first feeding them, or clothing them, or at the very least, letting them watch pretty women take their clothes off while getting smashed on a Saturday night. The higher up the slope, the larger the lawn, and the more powerful the resident. At the top, well, Marius had been close, and the men and women who lived there were as far removed from the ordinary citizens of the city as Marius was from his birthright, and with as little concern for it. Right now, however, as he did his best to saunter as unobtrusively as possible along the well-lit promenades, and avoid the attentions of the fit and alert guardsmen who strolled along in pairs, he had a residence of only middling intimidatory presence on his mind.
The fifth Duke of Milness had been, in his early youth, a powerful figure amongst the nobility of Borgho City. He was handsome, dashing, an astute commander in the tiny conflicts the Borghans had called wars in order to justify the cost of minting medals, and an even cleverer general of his family’s money on the trading floors. A popular figure amongst the matriarchs of the nobility, they saw in him a fine match for their daughters and weren’t above sampling the merchandise just to make sure. But a fall from his horse while playing a spirited round of whack-the-prisoner on his thirtieth birthday had changed all that. The duke had become withdrawn, reclusive, even – it was whispered amongst other nobles as they passed each other in the corridor on the way to swapping bedrooms – rather smelly. He withdrew to his estate halfway up the hillside, and it was presumed that only the endless procession of tradesmen who passed through the gates in the daylight hours could vouch for his wellbeing. Even so, after he was found dead on the floor of his bedroom one morning by a plumber who had dared approach his living quarters in pursuit of an overdue payment, his funeral procession was attended by hundreds of well- wishers who remembered his early days, and wanted a final glimpse of a man of such notable lunacy, and
In short, water closets. One for every room of the house, one behind every oak in the gardens, one on either side of every bed in all seventeen of the bedrooms. One inside each bath. All of them linked. None of them functional. The sixth duke opened every door and window in the place, and moved into an apartment in the centre of the city for over a year. When at last he could enter the building without his eyes watering, he brought several labourers with sledgehammers and wrenches, who proceeded to demolish every toilette in the place. Which is when they discovered the tunnels that the pipes all linked to, and following them, found themselves in the stables of that most noble and exalted member of the senate, Littleboots.
Unkind gossips speculated that perhaps the fifth Duke of Milness hadn’t been so celibate after all. Downright vicious gossips wondered whether his isolation had been the result of being knocked back by the horse in question. The young duke simply filled in the pipes, sold the estate to an olive oil trader, and moved back to Scorby. Had he realised how quickly the trader would re-open the tunnels, and how often he would use them to enter the never- ending gambling saloon that had grown up under Littleboots’ stables, he would have asked a higher price.
Things had evolved little since Marius had last visited the area. Merchants, as a rule, abhor change, unless they can control its value, and their domestic surroundings reflect this. The frontages that Marius passed looked as they had since he was a child – the trees were taller, and the vines that clambered along walls and dripped out onto the road were more established, longer in their reach. But they were the same trees, the same creepers. The gate he pushed through and the lawns he walked past were those originally put in by the fifth Duke of Milness, and the door he knocked on had a history only slightly shorter than that of his family. It swung open on the eleventh knock. A swarthy, middle-aged man emerged, dressed in nothing more than an expensive silk robe which hung loose, exposing everything to view, at least, those parts not covered by the white hand of the woman hanging from his shoulder. He stared at Marius with ill-concealed impatience.
“Well?” he demanded. Marius coughed, and stared over the other man’s shoulder, deliberately ignoring the long, slow movements of the woman’s hand.
“I’ve come for the game.”
“Wrong house, friend.”
“Marius Helles told me to ask for Vimineth Sangk.” He reached into his jerkin and removed the trinkets he had accumulated on the ship. “The entrance fee is fifteen per cent of the stake, he said.”
Sangk smiled, and held the door open. “Helles? Why didn’t you say?” He relieved Marius of his burden and eyed them speculatively. “Three riner.”
The gold frame alone was worth that much, but Marius said nothing. He’d been gifted something greater. Sangk didn’t recognise him, and that gave him an advantage. When it comes to gambling of any kind, you take whatever assistance you can find.
“Where is it?” he asked, stepping inside and turning towards the double doors at his right.
“Not that way,” his host replied. He removed his lady’s hand and drew his robe closed. “Go take a bath.” She slid away from him and shimmied down the hallway. Marius watched her go. When he looked back, Sangk was grinning at him like an Endtown pimp. “She moves like that all the time, friend. All the time.” He grinned wider, revealing a mouth full of gold teeth. “Let’s go.”
He turned and made his way towards the rear of the house. Marius followed in his wake, doing his best to look like a gormless newcomer, even tripping over the dip in the floor he had made with a brass bust after a particularly drunken misadventure. He could have found his way in the dark, with his eyes closed and his legs tied together. But Sangk’s ignorance was his greatest weapon, and he was happy to trail along behind him.
They reached the kitchen that ran the length of the house’s rear. Sangk beckoned him over to a ceiling-high larder door, and swung it open with a flourish.
“It’s a toilet.”
“Appearances deceive, friend.” Sangk reached in and pulled a hidden lever. The rear wall swung open, revealing a tunnel.
“They certainly do,” Marius agreed, and followed him into the dark.
TWELVE
The central ballroom of the duke’s underground tunnel system would be counted one of the eleven wonders of the world, were anybody counting such things. They weren’t, and as a consequence only gamblers, addicts and the desperate were aware of the place. Hewn from solid rock, it lay over forty feet from end to end, with a vaulted ceiling twenty feet high. Bas reliefs of great moments of Milness family history had been carved into its smooth walls, and if there were perhaps a few dozen extra enemies being smote, or the mountain lion being bested bare- handed was several touches larger than the mouldering skin in the upper library, who could argue with someone capable of commissioning such a place? Perhaps the most remarkable aspect of the giant cavern was its colour – every surface was a bright retina-damaging pink. Tapers placed at head height filled the roof with a dingy black smoke which did little to dispel the feeling that the visitor had somehow managed to burrow his way through to the centre of a giant, petrified marshmallow. At the entrance, a fat man in greasy coveralls lounged on a chaise longue with a massive tray of fried entrails perched on his stomach. At Sangk and Marius’ approach, he levered himself into
