Husk: A Maresman Tale (8 page)

Davy squealed from within, then Jeb heard him crawl toward the stern, sniffling and whimpering. It took a deep breath for Jeb to compose himself and try a gentler tack.

“Davy,” he said, putting his face to the gap.

The stench made him recoil. Guessed he was right about Davy living there. Seemed he didn’t place much stock in hygiene.

The whimpering picked up some, turned frantic. Next thing Jeb knew, Davy was snarling like a wolf. Thought struck Jeb the lad could’ve become infected during the wolf pack’s incursion, and he half drew his saber. Reason told him that couldn’t have been the case, though. What he’d heard, everyone bitten back then had been slaughtered, whether they showed symptoms or not. That left only two options: either he was a shifter, or he was just plain scared. Had to go with the latter; a shifter would give off a blood trail—more than the trace of husk Davy had about him—and he’d seen no dampening amulet on the lad. No, Davy was pure frightened out of his wits.

Jeb let the saber drop back into its scabbard and held his breath so he could peer through the gap.

“Davy—”

A rock hit the wood beside Jeb’s head. He fell back away from the boat and landed heavily on his arse. Pain reawakened in every spot Sweet had hit him, and he cried out. Then Davy Fana was on him like a terrier, biting, clawing, spitting. Jeb shifted his weight under the lad and cuffed him on the cheek. Davy went down with a thud, and Jeb took hold of him by the collar and yanked him real close. The lad’s eyes were wild, his limbs taut, body coiled like a spring. He hissed through his teeth, gathered himself to strike, but Jeb got in first with a clean punch to the jaw. Davy grunted, spittle flew, and he pitched to the ground, rubbing his head and yawning, like he’d just woken from sleep.

“I’m looking for the sheriff, boy,” Jeb said. “That’s all I want with you.”

Davy tuned a blank gaze on him, shook his head vigorously, and blinked his eyes into focus.

“Ain’t no sheriff here.” He indicated the boat.

“I know that,” Jeb said. “Why’s his office locked up? Ain’t he got no deputies?”

Davy sat up and started to rock back and forth, arms wrapped about his chest. “Just the sheriff, normally.”

“What you mean ‘normally’?”

Davy’s eyes widened, the pupils swelling to black pits. “Don’t mean nothing by it, no, sir. Just that things ain’t normal now. Not since you came, sir, that’s what’s being said.”

“Who by? The sheriff?”

“That’s all I know.” Davy covered his mouth with a hand. The dirt beneath the nails was so thick, you could’ve grown turnips in it.

Jeb rubbed his jaw, thinking, but his mind refused to focus. All he got was flashes of Sweet punching and snarling, and the surge of blood that accompanied the images was like fire in his veins. He knew he was glaring murder at the lad; he could see it in Davy’s eyes. The realization made him clamp down on his roiling emotions, wrench his eyes away to look off over the shacks piled up round the cove. When he spoke, it was to the foaming waters breaking on the rocks that studded the shoreline.

“Tell him I got news. I’m staying at the Sea Bed.”

Davy’s expression was a mix of awe and trepidation. “Sea Bed, sir. I’ll tell him, if I see him.”

With that, he got onto his hands and knees and crawled back inside the hull.

14

J
EB TOOK THE
long way back to the Sea Bed on the off-chance of running into the sheriff. The suns were already doing their erratic dance, rising and falling, rising and falling, till they found the window of stability that marked mid-morning. It was shaping up to be a clear day, and the heat was likely to be relentless away from the shade of the buildings. There was a strange hush over the streets, though, and the few people he passed looked the other way and kept to themselves. Even the high street was subdued. Tizzy Graybank was standing outside her store with a bag of pastries in each hand, as if she were wondering where her customers had gone. Jeb caught her eye, but she merely spat in the gutter and went back inside.

It was a different thing at the Sea Bed, mind. The lounge bar was buzzing with talk of a couple of killings, and it was livelier than he’d have expected for a respectable establishment so early in the day. Course, there was no evidence it was respectable, save for the facade, the suggestion of a once grand interior, and the porcelain.

The bar was a lot more revealing of the Sea Bed’s true nature, to Jeb’s mind. On a low stage tucked away in one corner, a pair of scalawags were barking out a bawdy shanty, one strumming a mandolin, the other pumping a squeeze box. Either they were pirates, or their attire was part of the act: gold loops dangling from their ears, tricorn hats, and salt-stained leather coats that looked like they’d seen their share of storms at sea. Round tables were dotted about the hardwood floor, patrons seated at them on barrel chairs and rickety stools. Most were deep in their ales already, and many were even deeper in furtive conversations. Smoke plumed and coiled about the room from weedsticks and the bowls of clay pipes. It collected beneath the ceiling, weighty, oppressive, like a blanket of cloud on an overcast day.

From where Jeb sat by the window, he glimpsed a fair bit of coin exchange hands, mostly over the table, sometimes under. A flash of red drew his eyes to where Dame Consilia was holding court with a clutch of middle-aged men, all seemingly vying for her favor. Her two stooges were seated either side of her, chins resting on hands, looking sullenly in opposite directions. A couple of men were setting up a card table close by, and Dame Consilia studied their activity with more than a little eagerness. Jeb recognized them from the Crawfish: the old man, Farly—the one with a nose for the truth—and his stoat-faced accomplice. Looked to Jeb like Dame Consilia had her hopes set on some winnings, and the two hustlers had seen her coming.

From what he’d overheard already, two men had be found dead, one the night he’d left town following Sweet’s beating, the other yesterday. Word was, it was a whore or her pimp, seeing as both victims had been found with their britches round their ankles in the vicinity of Carey’s Hostelry. Had to be what had Davy Fana so spooked, and the coincidence was too big to ignore, but Jeb couldn’t make the connection with the stygian he’d seen on Boss’s land. Stygians were nasty bastards when it came to killing, but having sexual relations with their victims—and male ones at that… The stygians he’d heard about were in too much of a hurry to eat the still warm flesh of their prey, and by all accounts, they were as sexually active as a castrated Wayist with no hands and feet, and no head to boot. The image would have been ludicrous if it weren’t true. That’s the way the senate of New Jerusalem used to deal with the cultists before the new era of tolerance.

Jeb was half out of his seat, intending to make his way to the bar, where most of the gossip was taking place, when he caught sight of a man watching him from a table by the hearth. He was robed in coarse brown cloth fastened at the waist by a length of rope. The face was mostly shrouded by a drooping cowl. A jug of water was set on the table before him, and as he saw Jeb noticing, he lifted it and topped up his mug. His other hand tapped out a rhythm on an open book he seemed distracted from reading.

“Good morning, Maresman.” His voice carried over the din with ease. “Have you broken your fast already, or will you permit me to order you something? I’m told the eggs and ham are good here, but I’ll never know.” He raised his mug and gave a wry smile. “Water’s my lot till lunch, but not to grumble.”

Truth was, Jeb was starving, but it’d taken the stranger’s offer to realize it.

He eyed the man up and down—what he could see of him; there could have been any number of things concealed beneath the table, but at least his hands were in sight. The way the man kept up the eye-to-eye, Jeb should’ve felt riled, especially with that smile, which had the danger of turning smug but never quite made it. Instead, he felt invisible threads tugging him closer, warming him with the sort of comfort a child might have on coming home. If his home hadn’t been in Malfen; and if he’d had someone to come home to, besides an aunt and uncle who resented him being there. Oh, they’d been as upright as folk could get in the morality-choked hovels of Malfen, but their care of him hadn’t come easy. How could it, when they’d not sired kids of their own, and by all accounts never wanted to?

Jeb lowered himself into a barrel chair, and the man closed his book, placing his hand over the title on the black leather cover. The action drew Jeb’s gaze and elicited a different kind of smile from beneath the cowl: gentle, patient, “all in good time.”

“Marlec,” the man said, with a diffident shrug. “And you are Jebediah Skayne, Maresman, hunter of husks and all things nasty that creep over the mountains from Qlippoth.”

“Word gets around,” Jeb said, playing it casual. Boss knew his name, but other than that, he couldn’t recall giving it to anyone else, not even Maisie. Town like Portis, if Boss or one of his goons let it slip, the name of the visiting Maresman was probably common knowledge by now. Either that, or one of the scumbags in the bar he’d thought familiar felt the same way, and had a better memory than he did. “Marlec, you say? We met before?”

“I regret not,” Marlec said. “And I feel somewhat abashed that mine is the advantage.”

The hood came down to reveal a thin, angular face with tawny eyes that sparkled with some secret joke while betraying a deadly seriousness. Combined, the effect was one of fervor, of the kind of zealotry Jeb had come to expect from this kind; for there was a good deal you could tell from the manner of a man’s clothes, not to mention his shaven head.

“I’m guessing you’re a Wayist,” Jeb said.

“You guess right.”

“Funny that. I was just thinking about your lot.” It struck him as mighty coincidental he should’ve compared the stygian to a dismembered Wayist, and now, here he was confronted with one, albeit one with all his body parts intact. Time and again he’d had a thought or image pop into his head just before it manifested in real life. If only it were consistent, he might find a use for it. Foresight like that could save a man’s skin a hundred times over.

“From New Jerusalem?” Everyone knew the sect had started there, or rather, rekindled itself following the senate lifting the ban on religion after the Technocrat’s demise.

“In a roundabout sort of way,” Marlec said. “The community I hail from is, and shall remain, a well-kept secret.” He was eyeing Jeb all the time, his smile tinged with a hint of sadness or regret.

“What was it they used to call you Wayists? Fish?”

Marlec raised his eyebrows in quiet amusement. He pulled his book across the table and steepled his fingers on top of it. “That was before my arrival. During the time of terror. All in the past now.” He caught the eye of a serving wench and beckoned her over. “Will you allow me?” he asked Jeb.

Marlec ordered eggs, ham, toasted bread, and coffee, checking each was to Jeb’s liking with a wide-eyed nod. He handed the wench his water jug and asked for a refill.

“I’m not proselytizing,” Marlec said, taking the opportunity to slip his book into a satchel hanging from the back of his chair.

He looked at Jeb apologetically, as if he assumed the word would be lost on him, which it would have, if it wasn’t bandied around so much in relation to the Wayists. Since they’d increased in numbers these past few years, there were a lot of folk who’d heard of proselytizing, and if you heard a word enough, sooner or later you came to know its meaning.

“I mean, it is not my intention to convert you.”

“Shrewd of you,” Jeb said. “Don’t think my nature would take to it.” Marlec would know what he was talking about. What he’d gathered, the Wayists had another term for husks, one they’d drawn from their scriptures. That’d make Jeb a half-demon to their way of thinking.

“That’s not what I’m saying,” Marlec said. “You being part husk is not an issue.”

“Demon,” Jeb corrected. “Let’s keep it honest. That’s how we do things in Malfen.”

Marlec looked bewildered, but then his eyes lit up, and he laughed. “You mean, in Malfen people are frank about their dishonest dealings?”

“We call it as it is.”

“And who said there was no honor among thieves?” Marlec said.

Half a dozen eyes turned toward them at that, and Marlec seemed to shrink in on himself. He raised a hand to the side of his mouth and whispered, “Not that I was suggesting you were a thief. Perish the thought.” He leaned back in his chair and let his voice return to normal. “You know they think you had something to do with the murders, don’t you?”

Jeb tried not to sigh.

“Not in here, mind,” Marlec said, looking around at the punters. “The locals. Maybe even the sheriff, although he’s not as stupid as he looks.” He screwed his face up and touched his forehead, chest, and both shoulders with the tips of two fingers. “That didn’t come out as I’d intended. The sheriff is, I’m sure, a good man, doing the best he can.”

The words drifted over Jeb, while his eyes focused on the bar. “What the heck kind of place is this? And these people, you can’t tell me they’re local. Most of them don’t look like they’d know how to catch a fish if it swam up and bit them on the…” He held up a hand. “Sorry. You know what I mean.”

“No need to apologize. I hear it all the time. Coarse speech is nothing more than a symptom. Often, it is what attracts me; the sick, after all, need a doctor.”

“Arse, then,” Jeb said.

“Feel better?”

Jeb spread his hands. “You know, I think I do.”

Marlec wagged a finger at him and grinned, though his eyes gave him away. Oh, he was good; good at playing along and giving a show of affability, but he was a calculating bastard, one step removed from the conversation. What was it he wanted? What was he even doing in Portis? Fisherfolk seemed too busy for religion, and rogues like those in the Sea Bed by and large had no inkling there was anything wrong with what they did. Try enlightening them, and they’d likely slit your throat.

“What the locals don’t appreciate,” Marlec said, “is that demons—husks—have purposes of their own that are nothing to do with the Maresmen. In most cases, it’s not something they’d enjoy, so they should count themselves lucky to have you here.”