The Corpse-Rat King

back. In that time, Marius’ pockets were dipped no less than eight occasions, for a net loss of a dozen rivets, six flat stones, and two small bags of what he hoped were toy knucklebones. Sightseeing he may have been, but only with one eye. Thanks to those same dippers, however, he arrived at the tavern somewhere in the region of nine riner to the good. It would have been more, but dipping a dipper is tricky enough without the impediment of gloves, or dead fingers. Anyone can make a living in the big city, assuming you’re quick enough. The only way to make a living in Borgho City is not to get caught, or if you’re going to get caught, to only get caught by the right type of people.

Marius heard the taverns long before he saw them. The docks are a noisy, twenty-four hours-in-the-day area. But the taverns seem to find an extra hour, and an extra layer of noise, as if those who work outside desire, rather than seek respite from the endless walls of sound around them; something to block the sounds out. Fights are rare in these pubs – the men have spent all day proving how hard they are. They’ve no need to do it in their down time, and besides, there are better ways to go about it than something that might result in spilled booze. The Hauled Keel’s Krehmlager is one of the best. Hard men drink Krehmlager. The suicidal drink two.

Marius pushed open the door and found a booth towards the back of the smoky, badly lit room, just as it was being emptied of drunken, snoozing bodies. He slid in, and signalled to a passing serving girl.

“A tankard of Krehmlager, a spice roll, and something for your break.” He laid a tenpenny on the table. “If there’s any left, save it for your old age.” Serving girls may not make the world go round, but they give it a much more interesting shape. The girl smiled her thanks and left to fill his order. The beer would come from the heavy end of the barrel, and the roll would be fresh.

She returned in short order and laid his repast before him. Marius placed another coin on the table. “Is Keth in tonight?”

The serving girl eyed him warily, taking in his gloves, the cape and hood that covered all features. “You been away, sir?”

“Why?”

“She, uh…” the girl looked over her shoulder. “She doesn’t do that anymore.”

Marius snorted. “I know. Just tell her… tell her Marius is here, could you?” He pushed the coin forward. The girl took it, and hurried away. Marius stared at his beer until he felt a body slip into the booth opposite him.

“You wanted to speak to me, sir?” Marius closed his eyes for a moment. Keth’s voice was as warm as he remembered it: mulled wine, with just a hint of a massage later in the evening. He kept his head bowed, and indicated the tankard.

“I want to drink it, but I’m afraid of what’ll happen.”

Keth laughed, and it felt like a long, slow swallow of something wonderful on a cold evening. “You might be right, Mister. Krehmlager isn’t for the foolhardy. I’ve seen bigger men than you made into crying children after a couple of tankards of that stuff, no offence.”

That was an understatement. The Hauled Keel’s special brew had a reputation that far exceeded that of the city’s heroes, and every awestruck whisper of it was deserved. Marius had seen grizzled veterans swearing they could see the Gods, and not the right ones, after no more than three tankards. He himself could usually manage no more than half a draught before he either fell asleep or ran for the nearest exit to be violently sick. He stared at the mug in front of him.

“I’m worried about what’ll happen. If it’ll have any effect. If I’ll even taste it. What’ll I do if it doesn’t, Keth? What if I don’t?”

A tiny line of puzzlement dragged down the inside corners of Keth’s eyebrows.

“There’s only one way to find out, Mister. If you’ll excuse me, I thought Senni mentioned an old friend’s name, but I think she was…”

“It’s me, Keth.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Me. Marius. It’s me.”

Keth stared at him, doubt in every angle. “You’re Marius?”

Marius nodded. “Back of the left knee, about half an inch up, never fails.”

“Oh, God.” Keth sank into her seat, stretched out her arms across the table. Marius reached out gloved hands, and she squeezed them between her strong, warm fingers. “Marius. What happened?”

“You don’t want to see the worst of it, Keth. I’m in real trouble this time.”

“What is it, sweetheart? Is it fire? I’ve seen men after fires. Pox? Spear wounds? Come on, sweetie, I’ve seen it all. You can show me.” With a quick movement she slipped the fingers of her left hand down to the end of his glove and tensed. Marius, realizing what she was about to do, pulled away. It was too late. His arm came backwards. The glove stayed where it was. He and Keth stared down at his exposed hand. Keth swallowed.

“Pull your hood back, sweetheart, won’t you?”

“Keth…”

“Just do it, Marius. Please?”

Slowly, Marius reached up and touched the hem of his cloak.

“Please, Keth. I don’t want you to scream, or be frightened. I don’t want you see this.”

“I’ll be fine, Marius. Please. I have to see it.”

Marius pulled back his hood. Keth didn’t scream, or faint, or beg him to stop. She simply took in his features, her face a mask of blankness, for five or six heartbeats. When she spoke, her voice was very careful, and calm, and very neutral, as if she were speaking to an intruder with a knife.

“Okay, then. Perhaps you’d better put it back over yourself, love. Just in case. Best not scare the customers.”

Marius replaced his hood and sank further into his seat. They sat that way for long moments. Marius peered at Keth from the safety of the hood’s depths. She stared at him, her teeth working hard against her upper lip, then her lower, and back to her upper. Finally she reached across, pulled the tankard towards her, and took a moderate sized pull.

“So,” she said when she had recovered her breath.

“So.”

“This is why you haven’t come back before now?” She giggled, then cut it off quickly. They could both hear the panic.

“I almost had it,” Marius said, his gaze falling to the table. “One more time, maybe two.” He shrugged, stared at the table. “Maybe three. Then I’d have enough, and I’d be back, and we’d have enough, and it would all be…” he trailed off, waved his hand limply at nowhere in particular.

“No, you wouldn’t.” Keth smiled sadly. “That’s not you, is it? We’ve learned that.”

“No. I guess not.”

“It’s bad, though, isn’t it? Really bad.”

“Keth.” Marius held up his hand, turned it so she could see both sides. “I think I’m dead.” He picked up the glove and put it back on. “I need to get away.”

“Sweetheart, how can you be dead? You’re walking, and talking, and…” she stared at him, stared at his chest. “Oh, God. You’re not breathing, are you?”

“I need passage, Keth. On a boat, a good sized one, headed to the Far Isles. Something big enough that I can rent a cabin with some privacy.”

“But…”

“You know who’s in and who’s going out. You can find me one. Here.” He reached into his pockets, pulled out his remaining coins. “Take it. That’ll be enough to reserve the cabin. Get a price. I’ll have the rest by the time we ship.”

“Shit.” Keth swept the money into her skirt, fumbled about under the table for a moment, then stood, the money nowhere in sight. “What are you trying to do, waving money about like that? Trying to get us both…” She stopped, raised her hand to her mouth. “I’ll… I’ll try.” She turned away from him, took a step, turned back. “Have you a place?”

“No. Not yet. I…”

“I’m on the second floor. At the end.” She fumbled in her apron, withdrew a key and tossed it on the table. “I’ll be off in a couple of hours.” She nodded at the tankard and the roll. “Take those. No sense in letting them go to waste. I’ve got… I’ve got to go.” She backed away, and pushed through the crowd. In a moment, she was lost to