staring across the street at each other, and snapping at each other, and in the end all but at war.’
‘You going to come near a point?’ asked Shy.
‘Our feud was getting bad for business. We agreed to settle it according to mining law, which is the only kind out here for the moment, and I can assure you people take it very seriously. We treated the town as a plot with two rival claims, winner takes all.’
‘Winner of what?’ asked Lamb.
‘A fight. Not my choice but Papa Ring manoeuvred me into it. A fight, man against man, bare-fisted, in a Circle marked out in the old amphitheatre.’
‘A fight in the Circle,’ muttered Lamb. ‘To the death, I daresay?’
‘I understand more often than not that’s where these things end up. Master Sweet tells me you may have some experience in that area.’
Lamb looked over at Sweet, then glanced at Shy, then back to the Mayor and grunted, ‘Some.’
There was a time, not all that long ago, Shy would’ve laughed her arse off at the notion of Lamb in a fight to the death. Nothing could’ve been less funny now.
Sweet was chuckling as he put down his empty glass, though. ‘I reckon we can drop the pretence, eh?’
‘What pretence?’ asked Shy.
‘Lamb,’ said Sweet. ‘That’s what. You know what I call a wolf wearing a sheep mask?’
Lamb looked back at him. ‘I’ve a feeling you can’t keep it to yourself.’
‘A wolf.’ The old scout wagged a finger across the room, looking quite decidedly pleased with himself. ‘I’d a crazy guess about you the moment I saw a big nine-fingered Northman kill the hell out o’ two drifters back in Averstock. When I saw you crush Sangeed like a beetle I was sure. I must admit it did occur when I asked you along that you and the Mayor might be the answer to each other’s problems—’
‘Ain’t you a clever little bastard?’ snarled Lamb, eyes burning and the veins suddenly popping from his thick neck. ‘Best be careful when you pull that mask off, fucker, you might not like what’s under there!’
Sweet twitched, Shy flinched, the comfortable room of a sudden feeling balanced on the brink of a great pit and that an awful dangerous place for a chat. Then the Mayor smiled as if this was all a joke between friends, gently took Lamb’s trembling hand and filled his glass, fingers lingering on his just a moment.
‘Papa Ring’s brought in a man to fight for him,’ she carried on, smooth as ever. ‘A Northman by the name of Golden.’
‘Glama Golden?’ Lamb shrank back into his chair like he’d been embarrassed by his own temper.
‘I’ve heard the name,’ said Shy. ‘Heard it’d be a fool who’d bet against him in a fight.’
‘That would depend who he was fighting. None of my men is a match for him, but you…’ She leaned forwards and the sweet whiff of perfume, rare as gold among the reeks of Crease, even got Shy a little warm under the collar. ‘Well, from what Sweet tells me, you’re more than a match for anyone.’
There was a time Shy would have laughed her arse off at that, too. Now, she wasn’t even near a chuckle.
‘Might be my best years are behind me,’ muttered Lamb.
‘Come, now. I don’t think either one of us is over the hill quite yet. I need your help. And I can help you.’ The Mayor looked Lamb in the face and he looked back like no one else was even there. Shy got a worried feeling, then. Like she’d somehow been out-bartered by this woman without prices even being mentioned.
‘What’s to stop us finding the children some other how?’ she snapped, her voice sounding harsh as a graveyard crow’s.
‘Nothing,’ said the Mayor simply. ‘But if you want Cantliss, Papa Ring will put himself in your way. And I’m the only one who can get him out of it. Would you say that’s fair, Dab?’
‘I’d say it’s true,’ said Sweet, still looking a little unnerved. ‘Fair I’ll leave to better judges.’
‘But you needn’t decide now. I’ll arrange a room for you over at Camling’s Hostelry. It’s the closest thing to neutral ground we have here. If you can find your children without my help, go with my blessing. If not…’ And the Mayor gave them one more smile. ‘I’ll be here.’
‘’Til Papa Ring kicks you out of town.’
Her eyes flickered to Shy’s and there was anger there, hot and sharp. Just for a moment, then she shrugged. ‘I’m still hoping to stay.’ And she poured another round of drinks.
Plots
‘It is a plot,’ said Temple.
Majud slowly nodded. ‘Undeniably.’
‘Beyond that,’ said Temple, ‘I would not like to venture.’
Majud slowly shook his head. ‘Nor I. Even as its owner.’
It appeared the amount of gold in Crease had been drastically over-stated, but no one could deny there had been a mud strike here of epic proportions. There was the treacherous slop that constituted the main street and in which everyone was forced to take their wading, cursing, shuffling chances. There was the speckly filth that showered from every wagon-wheel to inconceivable heights when it was raining, sprinkling every house, column, beast and person. There was an insidious, watery muck that worked its way up from the ground, leaching into wood and canvas and blooming forth with moss and mould, leaving black tidemarks on the hems of every dress in town. There was an endless supply of dung, shit, crap and night soil, found in every colour and configuration and often in the most unlikely places. Finally, of course, there was the all-pervasive moral filth.
Majud’s plot was rich in all of these and more.
An indescribably haggard individual stumbled from one of the wretched tents pitched higgledy-piggledy upon it, hawked up at great length and volume, and spat upon the rubbish-strewn mud. Then he turned the most bellicose of expressions towards Majud and Temple, scratched at his infested beard, dragged up his decaying full- body undershirt so it could instantly slump once more, and returned to the unspeakable darkness whence he came.
‘The location is good,’ said Majud.
‘Excellent,’ said Temple.
‘Right on the main street.’ Although Crease was so narrow that it was virtually the only street. Daylight revealed a different side to the thoroughfare: no cleaner, perhaps even less so, but at least the sense of a riot in a madhouse had faded. The flood of intoxicated criminals between the ruined columns had become a more respectable trickle. The whorehouses, gaming pits, husk-shacks and drinking dens were no doubt still taking customers but no longer advertising as if the world would end tomorrow. Premises with less spectacular strategies for fleecing passers-by came to the fore: eateries, money changers, pawnshops, blacksmiths, stables, butchers, combined stables and butchers, ratters and hatters, animal and fur traders, land agents and mineral consultancies, merchants in mining equipment of the most execrable quality, and a postal service whose representative Temple had seen dumping letters in a stream scarcely even out of town. Groups of bleary prospectors slogged miserably back to their claims, probably in hopes of scraping enough gold dust from the freezing stream-beds for another night of madness. Now and again a dishevelled Fellowship came chasing their diverse dreams into town, usually wearing the same expressions of horror and amazement that Majud and Temple had worn when they first arrived.
That was Crease for you. A place where everyone was passing through.
‘I have a sign,’ said Majud, patting it affectionately. It was painted clean white with gilt lettering and proclaimed:
‘I brought it all the way from Adua,’ said Majud.
‘It is a noble sign, and embodies your high achievement in coming so far. All you need now is a building to hang it on.’
