"A murder in Marienburg" - читать интересную книгу автора (Bishop David)

CHAPTER NINE

The missive from the elves arrived not long after Belladonna that morning, delivered by a tight-lipped messenger from the elf quarter. He marched into the station as if he owned the place, intense eyes searching the faces of those within. “You!” he said, pointing an accusing finger at Belladonna. She was helping Sergeant Woxholt supervise construction of the new cells by prisoners, ensuring the workmanship was good enough for the job. “You were the female who guarded the body of our fallen brother yesterday!”

“Yes,” Belladonna admitted, trying to keep worry from her face. Had the elves discovered her conversation with the dead elf’s spirit? Had he resumed talking, even after she bade him to rest? She knew too little about their ways to assess the possibilities of this happening, and the messenger’s face was impassive, revealing nothing of his purpose. Belladonna kept her counsel, not wishing to volunteer anything that might worsen the situation. Bad enough having an elf murdered on your watch, let alone announcing you had resurrected his spirit and interrogated it for clues to the killer’s identity.

“This is a missive from the House of Silvermoon. You will read it-aloud!” The messenger produced a scroll of thick, yellow parchment tied with black ribbon, and handed it to her. She glanced at the sergeant, but all he did was shrug watching carefully from one side. Belladonna slid the ribbon from the parchment and unrolled the page, gripping it top and bottom and hoping her hands wouldn’t shake.

“The House of Silvermoon seeks answers to the unresolved questions stemming from the violent murder of Arullen Silvermoon, after he was lured from the elf quarter by a person or persons unknown. Such answers must be presented to the House of Silvermoon before the end of the intercalary holiday known as Day of Mystery, or else there shall be an irredeemable breakdown in relations between those within the Sith Rionnasc’namishathir and those beyond its walls. Heed this missive well.” Belladonna checked both sides of the parchment, but that was the sum total of its information. She looked to the messenger. “We know nothing more about Arullen’s murder-yet.”

“Then you have until five sunsets hence to discover the truth,” the elf replied sternly. He bowed his head to her and dutifully acknowledged the sergeant’s presence before marching from the station.

“Charming,” Woxholt observed dryly. “Why do I get the feeling we haven’t heard the last of this?”

“Because we haven’t,” Kurt commented as he came down the east stairs. “The elves are a proud people, but they know we represent the best chance of discovering who murdered Arullen. If they keep the pressure on us, it improves the likelihood we’ll concentrate on that particular crime.”

“I thought you were going to sleep?” the sergeant asked.

“I did.”

“Two hours is not enough rest, even for you.”

“It’ll have to do,” Kurt said, “Besides, the noise from the basement woke me up. Have any of our eager informants actually told us anything useful yet?”

Woxholt shrugged. “I’ll go and find out, if you and Belladonna keep watch over the prisoners.” After a nod from Kurt, the sergeant disappeared downstairs, his booming voice commanding silence from those below. Once he had gone, the captain joined Belladonna by the new cages. Three were now complete and the enforced labourers were hard at work on the final enclosure.

“We have to stop meeting like this,” she said, her eyes smiling at him.

“Don’t,” he replied.

“Don’t what?” Belladonna asked, her voice all innocence. Kurt took her roughly by the arm and pulled her across to the station entrance. “You’re hurting me,” she complained, tearing her arm free.

“Don’t flirt with me, and don’t pretend not to realise you’re doing it, either,” Kurt warned. “I’m captain of this station.” He pointed at the citizens making their way past on the cobbles, several of them peering interestedly into the station. “My first and last priority are the people who work here, and the people beyond these walls we’ve sworn to protect. I don’t have time for games or pretence. Given the choice, I wouldn’t have a woman among my Black Caps, but Otto persuaded me to give you a chance and Jan said much the same. You’ve proven you have talents the other recruits don’t possess, and that makes you an asset to this station. But you’ll never be anything more than that to me, understand?”

“You do like making speeches, don’t you? You should be a politician, not a Black Cap.”

Even Kurt had to smile at her comment. “Please don’t put that curse on me.”

“Fine,” Belladonna replied. “I’ll do as you ask. But don’t expect me to change who I am, either.”

“Agreed,” he said with a sigh.

“Captain Schnell?” an authoritative voice asked. “Captain Kurt Schnell?” Belladonna looked over Kurt’s shoulder to see a wealthily dressed, middle-aged man strutting towards the station entrance. His broad girth and double chins spoke of a life lived in luxury, while the red-veined nose and silver-topped cane suggested a strong fondness for drink, affectation and possibly a case of gout, the rich man’s disease. The ornate robes and other finery screamed the obvious: the new arrival was well off and he wanted everyone to know it. “I have a delivery for you.”

Kurt’s face had soured in the time it took Belladonna to study the newcomer. “Who from?”

“Perhaps we could speak inside?” the visitor suggested, gesturing grandly at their surroundings. “Somewhere away from prying eyes, where we might converse in private, as between two men.”

“Whatever you have to say to me can be said in plain view of the street,” Kurt said.

“So be it. My name is Oosterlee, Theodorus Oosterlee-perhaps you’ve heard of me?”

Kurt shook his head, but the name certainly jarred a memory for Belladonna. Five years ago the Oosterlee family had been one of Marienburg’s leading importers and exporters of premium goods-the finest spices from Araby, the best silks from the Orient, all the wealth of the New World could be had for an appropriate price from an Oosterlee emporium. But the family had fallen upon hard times and tumbled from grace following a series of damaging scandals. Theodorus Oosterlee had gambled away his legacy and been forced to take on silent partners, men apparently far less scrupulous than his father had ever been. Oosterlee had remained in place as the respectable face of the business, but word among the well to do suggested the business was little more than a front for the worst smugglers and brigands. In Marienburg, that almost invariably led to one man-Adalbert Henschmann. Belladonna cleared her throat, trying to get the captain’s attention, but he chose to ignore her.

“Perhaps not,” Oosterlee conceded when Kurt did not reply to his question. “Never mind. I represent a particular group of businessmen who trade from these parts of the city. They have asked me to approach you about coming to an arrangement, a kind of sponsorship for your station. One might go so far as to call it patronage-in the old fashioned, benevolent sense of the word, of course.”

“Of course,” Kurt agreed, his voice remaining noncommittal.

Oosterlee seemed heartened by this response, but still felt the need to wipe the sweat from his brow. “Remarkably close for so early, isn’t it?”

“I find the morning breeze quite cooling,” Kurt growled, taking a step closer to his visitor. “You mentioned something about an arrangement.”

“Yes, absolutely right-business first, that’s the way to do it,” Oosterlee clucked. “My associates and I would like to offer you a gift, an appreciation if you will for the services your station will be offering to the citizens of Suiddock.” He giggled like a little girl, fresh beads of sweat already forming on his brow. Trying to deflect attention from himself, he ran a gloved finger over the flaking whitewash on the walls of the station exterior. “You could use the money to give this place a lick of paint, spruce it up a little, hmm?”

Kurt took another step nearer to Oosterlee, looming over the obese man. “How much?”

“I’m sorry?”

“How much… appreciation… are your masters willing to show us?”

Oosterlee swallowed hard, struggling to maintain his composure. “I’m not sure what you-”

“How much money?” Kurt snapped, a vicious tone to his words. “Show me how much they’ve sent along here with their little lapdog.”

“I say, there’s no need to become abusive, my friend. I’m simply here-”

“I’m not your friend, Oosterlee. Scum like you turn my stomach, pathetic lapdogs running around, doing their master’s bidding, desperate to please him, even more desperate to collect the scraps from his table, to feast on the leavings of parasites who suck this city dry.” Kurt grabbed Oosterlee’s rich clothes. He rooted around in the fat man’s pockets for several seconds before producing a leather pouch bulging with coins. “Is this the appreciation you were mentioning, by any chance?”

“Well, I didn’t want to-”

“Is it?” Kurt snarled, his face so close to Oosterlee their noses were touching.

“Yes,” the messenger squeaked. Kurt released him and Oosterlee staggered backwards on the cobbles of Three Penny Bridge. He watched in dismay as Kurt emptied the pouch of golden guilders into one hand. “Obviously, if that isn’t enough I’m sure my associates would be more than happy to-”

“Who wants to be rich?” Kurt bellowed at all those on the bridge. “Who wants a taste of this man’s wealth? Who wants a golden guilder, courtesy of Theodorus Oosterlee and his corrupt masters?”

Belladonna glanced around. All those on the bridge had come to a halt, bemused by the sudden outburst from the captain of the Black Caps. Their expressions soon changed as Kurt threw the handful of golden coins high into the air. Before the first fistful had come back down, Kurt emptied the rest of the pouch into his hand and tossed it into the sky. A moment later golden guilders were raining down on Three Penny Bridge, coins bouncing off the road. In the blink of an eye everybody was on their knees, scrabbling among the animal droppings and stone cobbles, grabbing every coin they could get their fingers on. Oosterlee let out a shriek of dismay and threw himself on the ground, trying feebly to reclaim what he had brought with him. Molly and several of her girls came running out of the temple, not too proud to grab a guilder. The man from the fish market on the other side of the station also abandoned his place of business to chase the windfall. Only Kurt and Belladonna stayed standing, both watching the greedy spectacle around them.

When the last of the coins had been collected and the excitement was over, Oosterlee was still crawling around on the cobbles, frantically searching for any remaining guilders. Kurt stepped in his way, forcing the obese businessman to look up. “Captain Schnell-I’m sorry, I didn’t realise-”

Kurt snapped his right knee forward, so it rammed into Oosterlee’s many chins. The grovelling man tipped over backwards, landing with a heavy thud in the gutter streaming with urine and faeces. When Oosterlee tried to get up, Kurt pinned him back down beneath a leather boot. “Now, you listen, Theodorus-I’ve got a message for your masters at the League of Gentleman Entrepreneurs, or whatever grand title they choose to call themselves. I won’t be bought and I won’t be bargained with. Kurt Schnell is not for sale, not for gold, not for ale, not for crimson shade and not for anything else scum like Adalbert Henschmann might have to offer. I’m here to do a job, plain and simple. If they stay out of my way, I’ll stay out of their way. But if one more slug like you comes back here, trying to slither their way into my affections, I’ll be forced to take drastic action. I hope that’s not too much for you to remember.”

Oosterlee shook his head, terror etched into his chubby features.

“Then slime your way back to the Marienburg Gentlemen’s Club and tell Casanova what I said.” Kurt removed his boot from Oosterlee’s chest and stalked back into the station. The sergeant was waiting inside, his face stern and unforgiving. Seeing his expression, Belladonna went back to supervising the prisoners while they finished the last of the caged cells.

“Was that wise?” Jan demanded of Kurt. “We don’t have the men to take on Henschmann and his cronies. We’ve got two murders to solve, the elves breathing down our necks and Cobbius to deal with.”

“Henschmann started it, you know he did-getting his thugs to dump a cartload of dead pigs outside the station, sending that bloated warthog Oosterlee here to bribe me.”

“There’s a time and a place for all things,” Jan insisted in a low voice. “You’re starting too many fires and you’re leaving us to put them out. And the fuse on your temper hasn’t gotten any longer has it?”

“A wise man once told me that people never change, they only become more so.”

“What idiot said that?”

Kurt smiled. “You did, Jan.” The sergeant shook his head despairingly. “What news from those people in the basement, eager to collect the reward money?”

“Pretty much what you’d expect,” he replied. “Plenty of petty squabbles between neighbours, accusations of adultery and bigamy, and fingers being pointed. Merchants who have lead in the bottom of their scales, fishmongers who claim that yesterday’s catch is still fresh off the boat. These people haven’t had anybody who’ll listen to their complaints for the best part of five years, so Faulheit’s been getting it all.”

“Anything useful? Anybody mention Fingers Blake or Abram Cobbius?”

“A few believed Blake may have lifted their money pouch but none of them can prove it. Nobody seems to know where he lives and nobody has seen him for at least a day, if not longer.”

“And Cobbius?” Kurt asked. “What about him?”

Jan sighed. “If you believe what people are saying about him, he’s like the plague, infecting everything and everyone he goes near. He’s been bragging about what he did to Vink, saying its proof that nobody can touch him. The citizens are terrified of Abram Cobbius. As far as they’re concerned, he’s completely untouchable, protected from on high by his cousin Lea-Jan.”

“We need to prove them wrong. Arrest Abram and it shows we mean business.”

“Arrest Abram and you’ll get us killed,” the sergeant hissed. “I don’t want to die in this place!”

Kurt stared at his oldest friend in Marienburg. “You mean that, don’t you?”

“Of course I mean it.”

“No, you believe you’re going to die here, on Three Penny Bridge.”

Jan didn’t answer, but his pained expression was eloquent enough.

“Why?” Kurt asked.

“I had my fortune read on Mitterfruhl,” the sergeant admitted. “Everything the seer said has come true-my retirement, you asking me for help, coming here. She said if I did as you asked and we arrested a powerful man with a broken nose, one of us would die.”

“Superstitious nonsense! And you believed her? How much did you pay this seer?”

“She wouldn’t take my money, said it wouldn’t be right. Told me to keep it for funeral expenses.”

Kurt shook his head. “I’m not changing my mind to avoid the predictions of some gap-toothed old crone, no matter how well she fooled you. She was probably working for Cobbius herself.”

“You only broke his nose yesterday, remember?” Jan prompted. “The seer told me all this long before you were offered the chance to become captain on Three Penny Bridge.”

“I don’t care,” Kurt insisted. “Arresting Abram Cobbius is the most important thing we can do right now. It will send a signal to everyone, citizens and criminals, show them that we’re serious. If we want to be anything more than a joke in Suiddock, we have to take on the worst this district has to offer.”

“You’re making a mistake,” Jan said. “Letting your anger get the better of you again, Kurt.”

“I’d prefer it if you called me Captain Schnell when we’re on duty,” Kurt snapped. “You may have been my mentor in the past, but I outrank you now, remember?”

“Yes, captain.”

“That’s better. It’s time you got out on the streets. Go and see how Mutig is coping with his first patrol. While you’re looking for him, ask around about where we can find Abram Cobbius too.”

Jan came to attention and saluted his former pupil before marching from the station. Kurt caught Belladonna looking at him in bewilderment. “Don’t start on me,” he warned. “I’m not in the mood.” Mutig spent the morning searching for a suitable target to meet his needs. The most promising tavern appeared to be Vollmer’s Rest, a hostelry on the northern edge of Stoessel with a broad wooden balcony overlooking the Rijksweg. Mutig had seen half a dozen men stagger into the tavern already well on their way to oblivion, and none of them had managed to stagger back out.

Once the sun had passed its highest point of the day, the Black Cap ventured a look in the tavern’s grease-smeared windows. The most promising recipient for a trouble-free thrashing was slumped against the taproom bar, black rings under both eyes, an ugly swelling in the centre of his face where a nose should have been. It looked like somebody had already made a start on him, but he was obviously still in charge of the drunken rabble slouching around him, judging by the way they laughed at his jokes and deferred to him physically. He was big and he was ugly, with a broad chest and narrow, porcine eyes. An oil painting, he was not. There was something vaguely familiar about him, but the Black Cap couldn’t recall why. It probably didn’t matter.

Mutig felt confident he could knock this buffoon insensible with a single blow, but decided to use his lead-encased cosh for extra safety. No point starting a fight unless you had the weapons to finish it. Stepping back from the window, he admired his own reflection in the glass, adjusting the tilt of his black cap. Yes, the streets of Suiddock would soon echo in wonder at the name Hans-Michael Mutig. Once his reputation as the newest hard man in the district was secure, he need never fight again. All he had to do now was find somewhere to empty his protesting bowels and the fun could begin in earnest.

Five minutes later Mutig strolled into Vollmer’s Rest and waited for the inhabitants to pay attention to him. Instead they were focused on their leader, who was pouring ale down his throat and bragging about how his cousin would show some upstart the meaning of true power. The cheek of that gutless whelp, evicting them from their own private taproom! Well, they’d change their minds, soon enough. “Hey!” Mutig shouted, determined to make a strong, first impression. “Which one of you scum wants to prove what a big man he is?” He strode through the cluster of glowering drunks, heading straight for the bar and the braggart propping it up. “You look a likely candidate,” Mutig told the inebriated thug with the broken nose. “How about I teach you a lesson you’ll never forget?”

Mutig never knew what hit him. He heard the sound of wood splintering and something else, like an egg cracking open. The next thing he knew was intense pain, closely followed by inky darkness. Faulheit finished interviewing the last of the would-be informants by midday. He reported his limited findings to Kurt before asking permission to go and get something to eat. He sauntered back into the station moments later with a pie from a stall that had opened on the other side of the bridge. “The owner heard about your tendency to toss golden guilders around and decided to try their luck, in the hope of a repeat performance,” Faulheit explained when Kurt came downstairs, lured by the scent of hot meat. “I think it’s the first new business to take residence on Three Penny Bridge since the station last closed.”

“Good. That means we’re starting to make a difference,” Kurt said, licking his lips. He sniffed the air appreciatively, his eyes lingering on Faulheit’s lunch. “What’s in the pie?”

“Long pig and chestnut, apparently. Never had long pig before, it’s rather tasty.”

Belladonna returned from ushering the last disappointed citizen out of the station. None of the informants had earned the mythical pouch of golden guilders and most were even less impressed to discover the captain had been throwing coins around in the street outside. She too was entranced by the delicious aroma of Faulheit’s lunch. “What flavour did you say that was?”

He sighed, frustrated that these constant questions were stopping him from actually eating any of the pie that was exciting such interest. “For the last time, it’s long pig and chestnut.”

The colour quickly drained from Belladonna’s face. “Did you say… long pig?”

“For the love of Manann, yes!”

Kurt noticed the sudden change in her features. “What’s wrong?”

“Long pig-I’ve heard that’s what savages in the New World call the people they eat.” Belladonna bolted for the front door, just getting outside in time to empty her stomach on to the cobbles. Inside Faulheit was staring at his partially eaten pie with growing horror.

“You don’t think this is… That it’s got bits of…” He threw the rest of the pie aside. It rolled across the floor and came to rest against the nearest cell. One of the prisoners grabbed it and scoffed down the remaining chunks of meat and pastry. That was too much for Faulheit. He bolted for the door, joining Belladonna outside as they retched up their stomach contents with alacrity.

Kurt marched past them, pausing only to order Faulheit to throw a bucket of water over the cobbles once they’d finished vomiting. The captain crossed over the bridge to confront the pie seller, a ruddy-faced man with red hair, red freckles and a red smock stood beside a wooden cart.

“Hello, captain!” the stallholder said. “I’ve heard all about you, I have-quite the celebrity you’re becoming all over Suiddock and so quickly, too -who’d have thought it, eh? Would you like to try one of my pies? You’d never know there was a fresh meat shortage after you’ve tasted one of my pies. I’ve got some exciting new flavours I’ve been trying out: garlic and gristle; turnip and water vole; long pig and-” The captain grabbed hold of the cart and violently tipped it over, spilling the pies across the cobbles. “Here, what in Sigmar’s beard do you think you’re doing?”

Kurt picked up one of the pies, holding it distastefully between his fingers. “What flavour is this?”

“Long pig and chestnut,” the stallholder said proudly. “That’s been my best seller today.”

“And where do you get the long pig for your pies?”

“There’s a cutter on the docks, called the Grey Sail, brings it in fresh for me from the ocean every week. Wish he could bring me more, but I think most of his trade is arms shipments these days, what with the war and everything. The fresh meat always sells out first, what with supplies being so hard to-”

Kurt offered half the pie to the freckled man. “Try it for yourself, tell me what you think that tastes like.” The stallholder bit deep into the pastry case and masticated happily, his brow furrowed in thought.

“Well, it’s meaty, obviously. A bit like pork, actually, but with some other flavour as well.”

When Kurt told him what long pig was, the stallholder didn’t believe him at first. But after a few moments a look of quiet horror passed over his face and he hastily flung the rest of the pie down on the bridge.

“You mean I’ve been selling… all this time it’s been… oh my stars…”

“What cargo does the Grey Sail take over the ocean when it sails out?”

“Explorers, traders, merchants, adventurers-you know the sort.”

“And have you ever seen any of these people come back?”

“No, but I suppose they decided to stay out there. Takes a long time to see the New World, I’m told. Sea trips can take months or years, so I’ve heard.”

“If the journey takes so long, how can the Grey Sail be there and back again every week, hmm?”

The stallholder was about to answer, but realised he couldn’t. “I don’t know, now you mention it.”

Belladonna had recovered enough to join Kurt beside the upset wooden cart. “Well?”

“A vessel called the Grey Sail has been offering trips to the New World,” Kurt replied. “But instead of giving people the experience of a lifetime, I’m guessing they’re taken out to sea, slaughtered and brought back to port as fresh cuts of long pig.” He studied the queasy-faced stallholder. “Who owns the Grey Sail?”

“Captain Marius is in charge on board, but I think it’s owned by Abram Cobbius.”

Kurt grimaced. “Quite the little empire he’s running around here.”

“I suspect we don’t know the half of it,” Belladonna said. “But whatever happens on the Grey Sail is a wet crime-not our jurisdiction. Have you got friends in the River Watch who can deal with that?”

The captain nodded. “He owes me a favour, too. I’ll send a message suggesting he investigate the Grey Sail. The sooner we start turning the screws on Cobbius and his illegal businesses, the better.”

“He’s not used to being challenged, Kurt. He won’t respond well,” she warned.

“Don’t you start, I had enough of that from Jan. Besides, I want Abram Cobbius angry and off balance. That way he’ll make a mistake sooner, overstep the mark-and then we’ve got grounds to arrest him. Once that happens, a few hours in an interrogation cell will soon get the truth about what he did to Vink. I want this animal sent to Rijker’s for so long, he rots out there.” When Mutig regained his senses, he could smell where he was better than he could see it. Everything around him was a blur, as if someone had smeared grease across his eyeballs. He could hear the sound of gruff murmurings and laughter in the distance, but did not recognise the voices at first. But the smell that filled his nostrils, that he knew all too well. Stale ale and sawdust, pipe smoke and a cold sweat of abject terror all hung in the air like an early evening mist that had rolled in from the sea. There was another scent mixed in, the distinctive tangy aroma of urine. Somebody had lost control of their bladder. Mutig let his head sink down on to his chest. His vision was still a mass of oscillating and undulating blurs and shapes, but he could make out a dark stain around the crotch and thighs of his uniform. He was the somebody that had lost control of their bladder. His shame was complete.

He tried to cover himself but found his arms were bound behind his back, the ropes so tight they had cut off the circulation to his arms, making them feel like useless lumps of lead. His legs were also bound to the chair in which he was sitting equally unable to move. More ropes lashed his torso in place so he couldn’t do anything but strain uselessly against them. When he tried, it served only to alert the murmuring voices nearby that he had become conscious once more. “You can’t keep me prisoner here,” he said, surprised how weak and feeble his words sounded, stricken with terror. Mutig licked his lips, trying to get some moisture on the cracked, bloodied skin. “Everyone at the station knows the route for my patrol. They’ll come looking for me if I’m not back soon.”

“Let them come,” a voice full of gravel and sneering replied. The speaker was standing directly in front of Mutig but the Black Cap couldn’t make out his features. He squinted, trying to bring his eyes into focus, but the effort sent a stabbing pain through his fractured skull. “What’s the matter, boy?”

“Can’t see you,” Mutig said, becoming increasingly aware of tautness in his chest. He didn’t know if it was muscular, driven by fear or something worse. “Who are you?”

The speaker leaned closer, until his rancid breath was all the Black Cap could smell. It was the bully with the black rings under his eyes and the broken nose, the person Mutig had tried challenging to a fight. “My name is Abram Cobbius, you pathetic little worm.” Cobbius pointed a finger at his shattered proboscis. “See this? Your captain did that to me yesterday. I’m not surprised you didn’t recognise me when you came in here. My face looks like I should be floating in the water near Doodkanaal!”

Mutig’s breath caught in his throat when he heard the name of his captor. Of all the people he could have chosen to confront, fate had somehow led him to one of Suiddock’s most notorious sadists. “If you torture me, the captain will see you executed for it,” he said, his words braver than his heart.

Cobbius merely laughed, his men eagerly joining in the hilarity. “Torture you? What a wonderful idea, I hadn’t thought of that. I was just going to dump your body on the cutter of my acquaintance and have you turned into choice cuts of long pig. I love a nice piece of long pig. But you’ve given me-” His words were stopped by the sound of running feet approaching and the tavern door bursting inwards. “Marius? What are you doing running in here like the wolves of Ulric are after you? This tavern’s closed-or can’t you read the sign outside?”

A voice Mutig didn’t recognise replied, bearing the cultured accent of a Bretonnian. “The River Watch, they’ve seized the Grey Sail and are searching the hold. I only escaped because I was on dry land at the time, making a delivery to the meat market.”

“Why are the River Watch interested in my ship?” Cobbius demanded, anger rising in his words.

“They know what we’ve been doing on board! I overheard some of them talking on the dock when I crept closer. Somebody must have told them.”

“You mean they know what you’ve been doing on board. I own the Grey Sail, but I leased it to you, Marius. You’re the captain, you take the blame for everything that happens on board.”

“But I was following your orders, Cobbius!”

“That’s your word against mine, and I’ve got my cousin to back me up.”

“I’ve never met your cousin,” Marius protested.

“Yes, you have. He was a witness when I leased you the Grey Sail, remember?”

“No, that’s a lie!”

Mutig heard a sharp intake of breath from the other men in the tavern.

“Did you just call me a liar?” Cobbius asked, cold fury evident in his voice.

“No, I didn’t mean-”

“You called me a liar and you did it in front of my men, too.”

“Please, I was upset, I wasn’t trying to-”

“Nobody calls me a liar, you frog-faced Bretonnian body-snatcher!” Mutig heard something swift and sure flying through the air, before thudding deep into its target, the impact sounding like a carving knife slicing into the heart of a cabbage. Somebody choked and gurgled a few times, before falling heavily to the wooden floor. “Stick that in your pipe and smoke it, Marius!” The others laughed, their relief palpable in the confined, murderous atmosphere of the tavern.

Mutig swallowed hard, fearing the worst. If that was how Cobbius dealt with employees who displeased him, how in the name of Manann would he treat a member of the Watch? The answer was not long in coming, but the Black Cap found no comfort in his captor’s words.

“Now, where was I before that fool interrupted me?”

“Torture,” one of the others prompted.

“That’s right, torture,” Cobbius agreed. He leaned forwards, his face looming in focus before Mutig’s terrified, tear-filled eyes. “Tell me, can you read and write?”

“Y-Yes,” the watchman replied. “A l-little.”

“That’s good. Education is important. I often wished I’d made the effort to learn more.” The others laughed at this, enjoying their master’s good humour. He shushed them into silence before resuming his close questioning of Mutig. “So, my unwelcome guest-which hand do you write with, hmm?”

“My right hand,” Mutig whimpered, unable to hold back his fear any longer.

“Somebody lend me a knife,” Cobbius said to the room. “And make it a sharp one. Don’t want to be hacking away all afternoon, now, do we? I’m sure this Black Cap has places to go, things to do.”

Mutig started screaming and didn’t stop for an hour.