01 - The Burning Shore (3 page)

Hungry, but free.

He bolted the heavy door shut behind him, dropped the dead weight of his
purse onto the table, and collapsed into the beaten up sofa that had been drawn
up to the window. Putting his feet upon the sill he leant back, stretching as
luxuriously as a cat.

As the first pink hint of dawn crept across the slate of Bordeleaux’s
rooftops and spires and distant ramparts Florin breakfasted on half a loaf of stale bread, which he washed down with a few mouthfuls of sour
wine.

Tomorrow, he decided, he would eat properly. For the first time in what
seemed like an age he’d be able to afford to. Perhaps he’d buy some fat pork
sausages from the Empire, or maybe find a Tilean cookshop where the fish was
smothered in one of their delicious cream sauces. He’d even heard that a new
halfling restaurant had opened near the docks. That might do.

But for now he was content to sit and gnaw his week-old bread and watch the
city wake. The citizens grew as loud and raucous as the flocks of sparrows that
flitted above their heads. The cries of the costermongers and beggars rose up
from the streets below in a ragged chorus that would last all day.

Meanwhile, to the east, the red ball of the autumnal sun rose up behind the
great central column of the Lady’s temple. She stood silhouetted in eye-watering
sunlight, a vision of beauty in gold and pure white marble.

The spire upon which she perched rose out of the merchants’ quarter like a
sword hilt out of the stomach of an enemy. It had been raised at the expense of
one of Bordeleaux’s most celebrated grail knights, the martyr needing something
to buy with the hoard of the dragon he’d slain.

Not that “martyr” was the word the merchants used to describe the late St.
Gilles. It was rare to find any of their class that showed anything but derision
for their aristocratic masters. How many times had Florin’s own family equipped
their protectors at usurious rates, or sold them warhorses with weak lungs and
strained fetlocks?

“Idiots,” Florin muttered, without conviction. He’d never been able to muster
the hard shell of contempt that the merchant families of Bordeleaux showed
towards their supposed betters.

The sun climbed higher as he dozed. It was almost midday before a bang on his
door jolted him out of his sleep. He turned just in time to see it crash open
and a figure stumble through.

It was the dealer.

He looked no better in daylight than he had in lamplight. In fact, he looked
a lot worse. The network of scars that marred his face was as pale as death
against the red brick of his complexion, and the broken angle of his nose looked
more predatory than comical. It resembled a vulture’s beak that arced out over a
grin of broken teeth.

“Good morning, boss,” he nodded towards Florin, his beady eyes slipping past
him to rest on the stained leather of the purse.

“Good morning to you, Lorenzo,” Florin greeted him, and relaxed back into his
chair. “What took you so long?”

“I didn’t want to be followed,” Lorenzo replied, closing the door behind him
and pulling up a chair. “You’ll be shocked to hear this, but a couple of those
fellows last night weren’t quite gentleman.”

“You don’t say?” Florin raised his eyebrows and passed the wine across to his
old retainer.

“No,” Lorenzo took a deep, gurgling pull of wine before continuing. “No. They
expected me to help them cheat you.”

The two men, servant and master, peasant and gentleman, old and young, turned
their eyes to the purse that lay between them.

And suddenly they were wracked with laughter. Tears streamed down their
cheeks and their heads were thrown back as they howled at the sun like confused
wolves.

“Well, gentlemen or not, they came just in time,” Florin said, recovering
first. “Mordicio wanted his money two days ago.”

“Ah, my boy, there you are!” Mordicio exclaimed happily as Florin was led
into his office.

“Yes. I’m sorry that I’m a couple of days late, but…”

“Nonsense!” Mordicio waved away the apology. He rose arthritically from
behind his desk and hobbled over to embrace his guest. Before Florin could
react, Mordicio’s liver-spotted hands had descended upon his shoulders and he
was clasped to the old man’s bony chest.

An onlooker could have been forgiven for thinking that this was a favourite
nephew returned from some long and dangerous voyage, rather than a defaulting
debtor. And at another time he might have been right. With Mordicio, loan
sharking and family weren’t mutually exclusive.

“Come, sit down, sit down,” the old gangster smiled happily, his eyes as warm
as honey beneath the snow-white bushels of his eyebrows. “Would you like a
drink?”

“Well, perhaps a little wine,” Florin said politely, and pulled up a chair.

“Brioch, wine for my guest,” the old man, arthritis forgotten, snapped his
fingers. Florin heard the shaven-headed thug who’d escorted him into this inner
sanctum amble wordlessly off into the carpeted distance.

“Ah, Florin, Florin, Florin. It’s been too long.” Mordicio stumbled around
the corner of his desk, paused briefly to rub his stooped back, then folded back
into his chair with a sigh.

“Yes, I know. I’m sorry about that, it’s just that…”

“Please, no apologies. Why apologise? You’re here now, shouldn’t that be
enough for a poor old man like me?”

Florin bit his lip, and tried not to look at the gilded books and jewelled
trinkets that lined the old man’s shelves. He tried to ignore the silver
astrolabe and the thick Arabyan carpets. In fact the only thing that looked poor
in the whole room was its owner. Mordicio never wasted money on new clothes or
jewellery.

Or barbers. The unruly bush of a beard that softened the bony angles of his
face might have belonged to a dwarf, if a dwarf could ever have grown so tall
and lank. Mordicio’s fingers burrowed into its depths to scratch his chin as he
regarded his guest.

“No, my boy, no apologies. I’m just an old man glad to see an old friend’s
boy. Of course, if you have my money…”

“Right here,” Florin told him. He unhooked his purse and, without further
ado, started to count the coins out onto the scuffed leather surface of the old
man’s desk.

“Oh, well, if you have the money on you—” Mordicio watched the coins piling
up with the feigned indifference of a letch eying a low-cut dress.

“There you go,” said Florin, putting out the last coin. “One hundred crowns.”

“Very good. And don’t worry about the interest.”

“The interest?”

“Yes, for the last two days.”

Florin paused. There’d been no mention of extra interest for being two days
late. But then, there’d been no mention of being late, either.

“How much?” Florin asked warily, but Mordicio just smiled.

“To you my friend, nothing. On the house.” His eyes twinkled, as his smile
grew as wide as a shark’s. “Gratis.”

“Really?”

“Of course, of course. I always liked you. I liked your father too, gods rest
him, even though he never put so much business my way. Ah, here’s our wine.”

The secretary had returned, as quietly as he had gone. He handed Florin a
goblet of spiced wine, and his master a clay pot of water.

“Your health!” said Mordicio, drinking deeply.

“Your health!” Florin tested his wine. It was as fine as it smelled, and
although it seemed a waste to gulp it down he did anyway. He wanted to get out
of here before the subject of interest came up again.

“Thank you, it was excellent,” he said, wiping his mouth and setting the goblet
down. “But now I really must be going.”

“Ah, busy, busy, busy, hey?” Mordicio nodded approvingly. “I was the same at
your age. But a man must have pleasures as well as business. Like music, for
example. Or gambling.”

“Well, yes…” Florin trailed off.

“Or women.” Mordicio’s smile suddenly seemed to be a lot more mocking than
avuncular.

“Yes, women. Or should I say girls? Girls like the Comtesse Grisolde Angelou.
A hideous name, but a beautiful girl. At least,” he chuckled mirthlessly, “her
father thinks so. But then the magistrate isn’t alone in that, is he?”

Florin sat back down.

“What do you want?”

“What do J want, he asks me. As though we were traders haggling in the market
and not two old friends!” Mordicio’s voice quivered with outrage, and his hands
tugged at his beard as though in grief. “What do I want? Me, who knew you when
you were a child. I’m almost insulted.”

“That was never my intention.”

“I know, my boy, I know. But when you get to my age you like to talk to
youngsters. To be reminded of what it’s like to be young and in love. Or, if not
in love then…” He punched his thumb through the ring of his fingers in an
obscene gesture and laughed.

Florin sighed.

“No, I’m just interested, just interested.” The gangster’s voice faded off
and for a moment he sat and regarded his guest, enjoying his discomfort.

“As for me, I’m too old for that kind of thing. Well, almost. But I do enjoy a
little bet from time to time. A little flutter.”

“Oh yes?” Florin asked, waiting.

“Yes. Even if it’s just on the toss of a coin.” With an exaggerated wince of
arthritic pain Mordicio reached across the desk and selected a single coin from
the pile. He turned it between his fingers and examined both sides.

“An emperor and a griffin. Let’s call the emperor heads, shall we? What do
you choose?”

“Me? Well, I don’t gamble. I, well, I…”

“Very wise, very wise. But there are worse vices, you know. Can you imagine
what the magistrate would do if he found out what you have been doing to his
daughter?”

“What are we betting on?”

“Your debt. Let’s call it double or quits, shall we?”

Florin knew that he should refuse. His brother would have complained for
months about having to give him one hundred, but two?

Anyway, Mordicio might be bluffing. And if he wasn’t, why would the
magistrate believe him? Especially if Grisolde kept her mouth shut.

Florin leant forward, pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and
forefinger, and squeezed.

“I’ll call heads. The emperor,” he decided, sitting back up.

“Well then, here we go. I’ll throw it. Isn’t this exciting my boy? Doesn’t it
set the heart aflutter?”

“Yes,” Florin groaned miserably. “It does.”

Mordicio spun the coin high into the air with a practiced flick of the thumb.
It glittered in the afternoon sunlight before falling back to the desk and
bouncing on the aged leather, pirouetting around like a golden ballerina. It
slowly wobbled to a drunken halt and finally collapsed onto the desk.

Florin, hardly daring to look, leaned forward. Then, although he fought it, a
smirk spread across his face.

“Who won?” the old man asked. “My old eyes aren’t what they were.”

“Me,” Florin said smugly. “Look.”

“I’ll take your word for it. Ah well, you win some you lose some. So now I
owe you a hundred.”

The younger man tried not to look too triumphant as he started to shovel the
coins back into his purse.

“Well, no hurry. Whenever you can.”

“No, no,” Mordicio spread his hands. “I’m a man who pays his debts. Unless…
Well, how about another spin of the coin? Double or quits?”

“No, I really must be going,” Florin shook off the temptation. With this
money he could buy some decent rooms, a decent wardrobe, maybe a necklace for
Grisolde… No, not that. Grisolde wasn’t really worth it anymore. Maybe
Claudia.

“Well, if you won’t humour an old man…” Mordicio broke his train of
thought. “By the way, would you ask Grisolde to tell her father I need to speak to him? I think it’s better he hears the news of her
engagement from an old friend of the family, don’t you?”

“What!”

“No, no, don’t thank me. I’ll be happy to oblige.”

Now it was Mordicio who smirked.

Florin, defeated, selected a coin and resisted the urge to punch the old man.
Behind him stood Brioch, and behind Brioch a mansion full of locked doors and
professional thugs.

So he didn’t punch Mordicio. Instead he said, “Double or quits, you say?”

Mordicio, a genuine smile creasing his face, nodded.

He couldn’t remember the last time he had been so close to tears. Perhaps not
since his father’s funeral, four years ago. Even then the Hanged Peasant’s best
wine hadn’t tasted so sour, nor had the obscenely painted walls of the back
terrace seemed so dull.

“Don’t worry about it, boss,” Lorenzo told him unhappily, pouring him another
glass of wine. “Bastien will pay. Doesn’t he always?”

“Used to,” Florin agreed miserably. “But this time? Three hundred crowns.
That’s probably more than he’s got in the warehouse.”

“Still, blood is thicker than water.”

“Yes, that’s what I said last time. And the time before that. But every time I
say it Bastien looks a little more doubtful. I don’t blame him, either,” Florin
admitted unhappily. “Maybe we should just run.”