the Deadhouse – and then there's the proprietor-'
'What about him?'
'Related, it's rumoured, to the old dead Emperor himself – that place used to be Kellanved's, you know.'
'The Emperor owned a tavern?'
'He did, partnered with Dancer. And there was a serving wench, named Surly-'
She shook him. 'Just because I asked questions don't mean I wanted answers, especially not those kinda answers, so be quiet!'
'Sorry.'
'One drink, then we go back to the ships and take a swim-'
'A what?'
'Easy. Ain't no drowned spiders in this bay.'
'No, just blood-sucking eels! Like the one dangling from behind your ear. It's already sucked all the blood from half of your face. Tell me, is your scalp getting numb on one side?'
She glared at him. 'I never gave you no permission to ask questions.
That's my task. Remember that.' Then she shook her head. Something long and bloated bumped against her neck. Hellian reached up and grasped the eel. She yanked it off. 'Ow!' Glared at the writhing creature in her hand, then dropped it and crushed it under a heel.
Black goo spattered out to the sides. 'See that, Banaschar? Give me trouble and you get the same treatment.'
'If I hang from your ear? Really, Sergeant, this is ridiculous-'
They turned at murmuring sounds from the street behind them. Thirty or forty locals came into view, heading for Front Street. Some of them were now carrying bows, and canisters of burning pitch swinging from straps. 'What are they about?' Hellian asked.
'They think the fleet's rotten with plague,' the ex-priest said. 'I expect they mean to set a few transports on fire.'
'Plague? There ain't no plague-'
'I know that and you know that. Now, there's another problem,' he added as the mob saw them and a half- dozen thugs split away, then slowly, ominously approached. 'Those weals all over you, Sergeant – easily mistaken for signs of plague.'
'What? Gods below, let's get into that tavern.'
They hurried forward, pushed through the doors.
Inside, inky gloom broken only by a few tallow candles on blackened tabletops. There was but one other customer, seated near the back wall. The ceiling was low, the floor underfoot littered with rubbish.
The thick air reminded Hellian of a cheese-sock.
From the right appeared the proprietor, a pike-thin Dal Honese of indeterminate age, each eye looking in a different direction – neither one fixing on Hellian or Banaschar as he smiled unctuously, hands wringing.
'Ah, most sweet tryst, yes? Come! I have a table, yes! Reserved for such as you!'
'Close that ugly mouth or I'll sew it up myself,' Hellian said. 'Jus' show us the damned table then get us a pitcher of anything you got that won't come back up through our noses.'
Head bobbing, the man hobbled over to a table and, reaching out multiple times he finally grasped hold of the chairs and made a show of dragging them back through the filth.
Banaschar made to sit, then he recoiled. 'Gods below, that candle-'
'Oh yes!' said the Dal Honese gleefully, 'the few wax witches left are most generous with Smiley's. It's the history, yes?'
Sudden loud voices outside the entrance and the proprietor winced. '
Uninvited guests. A moment whilst I send them on their way.' He headed off.
Hellian finally released her grip on the ex-priest and slumped down in the chair opposite. 'Don't try nothing,' she said in a growl. 'I ain't in the mood.'
Behind her the door was pulled back by the owner. A few quiet words, then louder threats.
Hellian saw Banaschar's gaze flick past her – he had a good view of what was going on out front – and then he bolted back in his chair, eyes widening – as shrieks erupted from the mob, followed by the sounds of panicked flight.
Scowling, Hellian twisted round in her chair.
The proprietor was gone, and in the man's place stood a demon, its back to them, big enough to fill the entire doorway. A thrashing victim was in its huge hands and, as the sergeant watched, the demon tore off the screaming man's head, leaned through the doorway and threw it after the fleeing citizens. Then it flung the headless corpse in the same direction.
A strange blurring, and a sweet, spicy scent drifted back into the tavern, and then the demon was gone, in its place the old Dal Honese, brushing clean his hands, then the front of his grimy tunic. He turned about and walked back to the table.
Another smile beneath skewed eyes. 'Finest ale, then, a pitcher, coming right up!'
Hellian swung back round in her chair. Her gaze flicked over to the other customer at the back wall. A woman, a whore. The sergeant grunted, then called to her, 'You! Get much business?'
A snort in reply, then, 'Who cares?'
'Well, you got a point there, you do.'
'Both of you be quiet!' Banaschar shouted, his voice sounding halfstrangled. 'That was a Kenryll'ah demon!'
'He's not so bad,' said the whore, 'once you get to know 'im.'
From behind the bar came the sound of crashing crockery, then a curse.
In clumps, in bands, in ragged troops, the crowds began reappearing along the Centre Docks harbourfront. More weapons among them now, and here and there bows. Torches flared in the dark, and voices rose, delivering commands.
Leaning against the prow of the Silanda – moored just behind the longboat the Red Blades had used – Koryk watched the proceedings on the front street for a time, then he turned about and made his way back down to the mid deck.
'Sergeant Balm.'
'What?'
'We could be in for some trouble soon.'
'Typical,' Balm hissed, rising to begin pacing. 'Fid vanishes. Gesler vanishes. Leaving just me, and I ain't got no whistle, do I?
Deadsmell, get up'n'over, talk to Fist Keneb. See what they want us to do about it.'
The corporal shrugged, then made his way to the boarding ladder.
Tarr was climbing into his armour. 'Sergeant,' he said, 'we got Fid's crate of munitions below-'
'Hood's balls, you're right! Cuttle, get down there. Sharpers and burners, all you can lay hands on. Throatslitter – what are you doing there?'
'Was thinking of sneaking into that crowd,' the man said from the rail, where he'd thrown one leg over and was about to climb down into the murky water. 'It doesn't sound right, does it? There's ringleaders up there – Claws, maybe, and you know how I like killing those. I could make things more confused, like they should be-'
'You'll get torn to pieces, you idiot. No, you stay here, we're undermanned enough as it is.'
Koryk crouched down near Tarr and Smiles. 'Fid keeps doing this, doesn't he?'
'Relax,' Tarr said. 'If need be, me and Gesler's heavies will hold the jetty.'
'You're looking forward to that!' Smiles accused.
'Why not? Since when did the Wickans deserve all this hate? That mob's hungry for the Fourteenth, fine, why disappoint them?'
''Cause we was ordered to stay aboard here,' Smiles said.
'Easier holding the jetty than letting the bastards jump down onto this deck.'
