4 City of Strife (4 page)

“Monsters in the Maze?”

“There’s a beast there. It kills men and rips out their hearts. Sorry if that put you off your eating.”

“Surely not?”

“Every full moon or so they say. I blame the Krugmans. They’ve always worked magic. It’s most likely something they’ve let loose as part of their war with the Oldbergs. It’s all bad for business.”

“Bad for business?”

“Bad for everything. It’s getting so bad, I’ve said to my old woman that if this keeps up we’re leaving the city. These days all it takes is for one of those bloody kids to decide your sympathies lies with the other side, and your house gets a visit from the leg-breakers or you find yourself pushed about in the street or into the river. Not something you want in this weather.”

“Surely the City Watch will do something about it.”

“They would if it was anybody but the Oldbergs or the Krugmans. They’re too big and too rich. They own this city no matter what the bloody Prelate or the rest of the bloody patricians think.”

“And the Prelate’s not doing anything about it?”

“What can that poor old man do? He’s on his death bed.”

“In his youth he would have sorted them though, wouldn’t he?”

“Aye, he was a right holy terror back then. We need more of that spirit these days. Show these merchant dogs what for, and I say this, mark you, as a member of the merchant class myself. Somebody needs to knock a few heads together and sort things out. Those bastards will burn the city to the ground before they are done. You mark my words.”

Kormak nodded and kept eating. He could see a few warriors in the tabards of the City Watch. They looked nervous and greatly outnumbered by the armed men about them. Kormak began to understand the situation he had walked into the previous day a bit better.

He thanked the sausage vendor and moved on, stopping to watch some puppeteers acting out a play while their cohorts played wooden whistles and collected small coins in jester’s caps. The play involved demonic rats trying to take over the city and being driven off by good magicians in the pay of the Krugman family.

A bunch of children and not a few adults watched entranced although Kormak could hear muttering from the people around about him. Someone said, not too loudly, that the Krugmans had brought the rats and not got rid of them, and that everybody knew it was the Church and their allies the Oldbergs who had got rid of them.

A bunch of clowns dressed as pot-bellied warriors and long tailed demons acted out a play in which very foolish demons made war on even more foolish humans. There was a lot of bumping into each other and tripping up and slapping with inflated pig’s bladders.

Amid all the jollity and the still falling snow, merchants went about their business, selling wine and cloth and spices. Buyers with the accents of distant towns and countries made deals with nasal-voiced Vermstadters. A beggar tugged at Kormak’s sleeve and asked for money. Kormak shook his head, knowing that paying one would simply attract a crowd of others and he would have difficulty getting anywhere. Instead he made his face hard and strode on.

Later, he thought. He would give alms later. He noticed someone was pointing at him. The hand he was using to do so was bandaged. After a moment Kormak recognised Bors, with some of his cronies, talking with a large armoured man. The expression of neither was friendly.

Some men with silver tabards were already moving towards him. He stepped into an alley and increased his pace as soon as he was out of sight.

Kormak glanced back over his shoulder. The men still followed him. He ducked down another alley and found himself in a small courtyard with a well in the centre and a group of poor-looking shops around the edge. The exit on the far side had been bricked up, sealing the space. There was no way out, the whole court was enclosed by tenements.

He moved over to the door of one of the buildings and tried it. It was locked. A vendor looked at him suspiciously and he realised that taking refuge in one of the buildings would not help. The locals would simply point out where he had gone to his pursuers. Even as that thought occurred to him, the first of the grey-tabarded men entered the court yard. He smiled, put his fingers into his mouth, let out a long whistle and shouted, “He’s here.”

Snow crunched as more men ran down the alley; one or two of them came to a skidding stop of the slippery ground. They spread out in a half circle. Bors entered, looking cocky. A big, brutal looking man was at his side, wearing armour and holding a mace. Kormak could see there was a family resemblance between him and Bors.

“That’s him,” said Bors, “that’s the bastard who almost crippled me, Uncle Dren.”

“Did he now,” said the big man. Kormak studied him seeing a premonition of what Bors would look like if he lived another twenty years. His nose had been broken. His features were larded with fat. There were a few broken veins in his cheeks. His gut was enormous. He looked strong though and he looked competent, and those with him looked like they would follow his lead.

Kill him first, Kormak thought, if it comes to it.

The big man moved closer, somewhat slowed by the snow underfoot. His smile revealed yellow teeth but there was no humour in his eyes. “What you got to say for yourself, stranger?”

A group of warriors blocked the entrance to the courtyard. The rest moved to encircle Kormak. The merchants were already diving for cover, pulling down shutters, closing doors. They clearly knew how such things could get out of hand. Kormak could see faces looking down from the windows above. Some folks were closing their shutters up there too. Most simply looked curious.

“There’s no need for trouble,” Kormak said.

“That’s what he said when he sided with that cat-eating bastard Jan,” said Bors. “Then he almost killed two of us. Be careful with him, he’s a tricky bastard.”

“It’ll take more than tricks to get the better of a dozen men,” said Dren. Kormak noticed there were rats skittering along the walls above them. They seemed to be everywhere in Vermstadt. He looked at the bricked off exit to the courtyard again. With a run he might be able to pull himself up over it but that would mean turning his back on this gang of armed men, and that was not a thing he was prepared to do under the circumstances.

“What? You planning on killing me for stopping a gang of thugs picking on a kid?” Kormak asked.

“Can’t allow disrespect to the Krugman banner,” said Dren. “Can’t allow a nephew of mine almost have his fingers broken either. Not without doing something about it. How about I just break your fingers and we call it quits?”

“Which hand?”

“Does it matter?”

“My right hand is my sword hand.”

“That’s the hand he stood on,” said Bors. “Stomp it.”

The men with Dren looked as if they were getting restless. They wanted to have some fun. This was not a situation that was going to be contained, Kormak thought. It was a pity.

“What can I say?” said Dren. “You picked the wrong hand to step on.”

“I can offer you an alternative,” Kormak said.

“And what would that be?”

“If you let me pass without any bother, I won’t kill you.”

A few of the Krugman thugs made whooping noises. Some laughed. One of them urged Dren not to take any lip. Dren paused. Clearly he was a man who had some experience of violence. He was close enough to read the expression in Kormak’s eyes. He saw death there.

“You made a mistake,” Kormak said.

“What’s that?” Dren asked.

“You got within reach of my sword.”

“You’re that good, huh? You can draw it and kill me before my boys get you.”

“I’ll kill a few of them as well, to teach them better manners,” Kormak said. Some of the others moved forward. Dren held up his hand. He laughed and muttered, “To teach them better manners, huh.”

The gang milled around now, confused by what was happening.

“Let him go, boys,” Dren said. “We don’t want any trouble.”

He backed carefully away, his face pale. He did not look relaxed until he had got a few of his men between him and Kormak.

“Uncle Dren, you really going to let him get away with this?” Bors asked. “You’ll be a laughing stock.”

“And who is going to laugh at me, Bors? You?”

“Screw this,” said one of the men. “I’m not scared of this bastard.”

He stepped forward, raising his sword; two of his friends came with him. One of them brandished a mace. Kormak’s sword came clear of its scabbard. The swordsman’s hand left his wrist in a spurt of blood. His weapon hit the ground as its bearer screamed and fell. Kormak took another step and split the second man’s mace, taking off the metal head. The other scrambled away as quickly as he came. Kormak brought his blade up to touch Bors’s throat. The razor edge drew a little blood.

The men had stopped laughing now. They looked shocked. They had been expecting blood, just not from one of their own. All of them were looking at the fallen man imagining it could be them.

“Better a laughing stock than dead,” Kormak said. He turned and looked at the gang. “You’d better take care of your friend’s stump. I wouldn’t want him to bleed to death.”

It was time to get to the Cathedral. He had business that he had put off long enough. He needed to find the man he had been sent to contact.

THE CATHEDRAL QUARTER reminded Kormak of his youth in the fortress monastery on Mount Aethelas. All around were robed priests and monks. A few nuns walked to market from their segregated cloisters. The snow fell in great, fat flakes. White drifts crunched beneath his boots.

Standing in the doorway of a small temple were two cowled men in the black robes of the Order of Saint Mnemon, scholars dedicated to preserving as much ancient knowledge as they could, as one could tell by the large leather books, chained to their waists.

A man with the completely shaven head of the Order of Penitents walked barefoot through the snow, clad only in a thin white shift. Drops of blood were visible where he scourged himself with his whip. His eyes were ecstatic but whether with holiness or madness it was hard to tell. Two women in the red and gold robes of the Order of Saint Agnetha walked by, one of them looked him up and down with a hot, frankly appraising glance as she passed. Hers was an order where many disobedient young women found themselves put away when they threatened the family honour. It was not famous for its holiness or its chastity. Some of its houses were little better than brothels.

The air smelled of incense and vibrated to the sound of the great gongs calling the faithful to prayer. Somewhere in the distance a choir chanted the Hymn to the Holy Sun. It was incongruous in the winter greyness, to hear folk sing of green fields and the sun’s golden bounty. It sounded more like a desperate prayer that summer would come again rather than a statement of belief.

Pilgrims passed on their way to various shrines. Most of them bore small tokens purchasable from vendors outside and inside the walls. There was a metal rose that indicated a woman had the blessing of Saint Agnetha, supposedly good for fertility. There was a daub of crushed rose paste in the centre of the forehead to indicate that a couple had been praying for the blessing of children.

A soldier went past with his scabbard bound in the black threads that showed he had been at the shrine of Alteres, who had been a soldier himself before being martyred by the Children of the Moon. According to those who sold the thread, a blade drawn from a scabbard so wrapped would never break or lose its edge. It was supposedly as good as any dwarf-forged weapon.

Merchants walked past, fingers playing with strings of gold painted wooden beads that showed they had made offering at the shrine of their patron, Saint Krasus. They were hoping for prosperity in the coming years. It was a reminder too of how often commerce and sanctity met on the roads of the Sunlander kingdoms. Indeed, the selling of blessings, charms, indulgences, and relics was seen by many as a form of commerce in and of itself.

The priestly district occupied its own walled off area within the city precincts. The unfinished Cathedral loomed gigantically over all. Even in the cold men worked away on the scaffolding surrounding it, chipping away at stone angels intended to beautify its exterior. He had been told that it would take a hundred years to build this colossal holy place, and that they were only halfway through the process. Most of the people here would not be alive on the day it was complete. Perhaps only a few of the altar boys and the youngest choristers might live so long. It was a thought at once inspiring and depressing.

Kormak passed inside the Cathedral itself, remembering the last time he had been here, hunting the killers of the dead girls, men who had sought to perform a blasphemous ritual within the holy precincts. He recalled the struggle amid the scaffolding and through the underground cellars. He had killed four men here, on holy ground but what had been the alternative—let them corrupt this place with the power of Shadow?

Of course there were those who would say it was already corrupt. In the huge central space, in the shadow of the colossal painted pillars that supported the vaulted ceiling, priests went about the business of the church, selling indulgences, and relics, and blessed threads and inks and clothes, shards shaved from the bones of the saint which miraculously restored itself every high holy day.

How was it possible that people were so credulous, he wondered? In his heart of hearts, he already knew the answer. They were not. They did not believe so much as want to believe. They hoped that the promises of salvation made to them were true, because what was the alternative?

He told himself not to be so cynical. On many of the faces about him were written wonder and awe and reverence. And they belonged not only to the penitents and pilgrims. They belonged to the fraters and the priests as well. In the alcoves around the walls, men and women knelt in sincere prayer before the statues of saints, and the symbol of the Holy Sun.

At the sight of it, he felt a faint stirring of his old, long-diminished faith, in the idea he had been entrusted with a sacred mission, that he had been sent out into the world to oppose evil and do good, that the oath he had taken still meant something. It was hard to reconcile that with the image of himself taking off a man’s hand in a street brawl.