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

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Kurt took the commander around the station while Belladonna dealt with Lothar. The cells were empty for the moment, but they intrigued the commander. “You keep your prisoners in plain view?”

“That way anyone entering the station can see what happens to those who break the law,” Kurt replied. He led the commander up to the first floor, acting as guide for the tour. “We’ve three rooms that face south, towards the Bruynwarr, and three rooms at the front that overlook Three Penny Bridge. I’ve allocated the men one of the south-facing chambers as sleeping quarters, with the adjoining room set aside for ablutions. The graveyard shift is using the sleeping quarters at the moment, while the night shift are able to go to their own homes between tours of duty. The other room on the back of the building doubles as an interview room, and as the mess. At the front we have the kitchen, my office and female sleeping quarters.”

“Female quarters?” the commander sneered. “Not exactly protocol for a Watch Station, are they?”

“With respect, sir, you assigned Belladonna Speer to this station, so we had to find private quarters for her. Also, we acquired the services of another woman, Gerta Gestehen, who cooks for everyone.”

“Gestehen-I’ve heard that name before.”

Kurt sighed. “You probably know her as Gerta the Blurter. She came to the station, claiming a connection to the murdered elf, Arullen Silvermoon.”

The commander rolled his eyes. “That woman is infamous among Black Caps for her wild claims. Don’t tell me you’re fool enough to have swallowed one of her bizarre confessions?”

“Her story was a lie, as usual, but she was carrying evidence that links her to the victim. We believe she may have purchased it from the killer or from somebody who at least saw the body being dumped. Until we find that individual, we’re keeping Gerta here. It’s the safest place she can be.”

“You may believe that, but I doubt most right-minded citizens agree with you, Schnell.”

“Be that as it may-”

“Enough!” the commander snapped. “I’ve seen more than enough of this hole. Take me to your office, captain-we need to talk. More accurately, I need to talk and you need to listen.” Kurt led him into the threadbare office, the three chairs and makeshift desk failing to impress. “Sit down, Schnell. What I have to say won’t take long, that’s if you’re prepared to listen.”

“I’m always prepared to-”

“Don’t interrupt me!” the commander snarled. He slowly circled the room, as if marking his territory. “First of all, I believe you’re sorely in need of some lessons about tact and diplomacy. From what I’ve been told your sole successes since arriving here yesterday have been in making new enemies. In the space of a day you’ve turned more people against you, this station and all who serve inside it than most captains of the watch manage in their entire careers. Are you determined to get somebody killed?”

“No, sir, but I won’t-”

“I said don’t interrupt me!”

Kurt closed his mouth, willing himself to be quiet and take whatever abuse or advice the commander had come to deliver. Arguing with this man would do the station no good at all.

“That’s better,” the commander said after a lengthy pause. “As I was saying, you’ve created no shortage of enemies for yourself and, by extension, for the City Watch of all Marienburg. I’ve got members of the Stadsraad screaming for you to be removed, while half the merchants in the city have been signing a petition calling for your demotion. Frankly, I’m surprised you haven’t got the Stevedores and Teamsters Guild threatening to blockade Suiddock, it’s the only major force in this district that isn’t up in arms about you. Unless you learn to exercise some discretion, I doubt you’ll be alive come Geheimnistag.” He stopped by one the windows overlooking Three Penny Bridge. “Well? What’ve you to say for yourself?”

Kurt took a deep breath before speaking, giving himself time to choose his words carefully. “I imagine most, if not all, of those complaints originate from one source: Adalbert Henschmann. I visited him yesterday and put him on notice that the days when his League of Gentlemen Entrepreneurs could rob and extort the people of Suiddock are over. He didn’t take kindly to my words.”

“I’m not surprised. Did he threaten you?”

“Naturally. He also sent a fat fool called Oosterlee to bribe me. Neither was a success.”

The commander glared at Kurt. “Theodorus Oosterlee?”

“Yes, that’s the one. Bloated with his own self-importance. I took him down a peg or two.”

“Theodorus Oosterlee was one of my oldest friends,” the commander said, no trace of feeling in his voice, no hint of emotion in his impassive face and cold, dead eyes.

“You said he was-past tense. Oosterlee is dead?”

“The River Watch found his corpse an hour ago, floating in the cut beneath this station. I’m surprised you didn’t hear about it.”

Kurt shrugged. “I’ve yet to meet with my counterpart in the Suiddock River Watch.”

“Perhaps you would be better advised to start forming such alliances, instead of going out of your way to antagonise one of the most powerful men in this city, Schnell.” The commander turned back to the window, seemingly intent on watching passersby struggle to move around his transportation. A crippled soldier struggled past, a broken crutch supporting him where a left leg should have been, his tatty uniform hanging from an emaciated frame. “What have you discovered about the murder of this elf?”

“His name was Arullen Silvermoon.”

“Indeed. The House of Silvermoon is demanding answers and I have nothing to give them.”

Kurt shrugged. “Neither have I, sir. They have been told everything we know thus far.”

“Everything. Even about this person named by Gerta the Blurter?”

“Fingers Blake? No, not yet. We’re still trying to find him, but he seems to have vanished, and nobody’s talking about him, no matter how great a reward we offer.”

“Yes, your famous reward of a hundred golden guilders. Who is supplying this money?”

“We plan to seize assets from criminals and use these to fund informants.”

“And what about Black Caps in other districts? How are they supposed to keep their informants happy if you’re offering a small fortune to any scum that walks in off the street with gossip and rumour?”

“We will only pay the full amount to someone whose information leads to the elf’s killer.”

“That’s not what people are saying in other parts of the city, Schnell. You’ve created problems beyond imagining in all parts of Marienburg with your antics. I decide to pay you a visit, in the hope you might listen to reason, and instead I find you staggering out of a disorderly house with one of your men, a member of the watch who is plainly dead drunk in the middle of a Backertag. What am I to make of this?”

“Holismus saw his brother and-”

“Holismus? You’re saying he saw Joost Holismus? Impossible! That man is dead.”

“His brother says otherwise.”

“His brother is a drunk and drunks are not to be trusted, Schnell!”

Kurt bit his tongue, stopping himself from repeating the rumours he had heard about the commander’s brandy-sodden wife. That way lay instant dismissal, and that did nobody any good.

“Consider yourself and this station on notice,” the commander continued. “Either find a way to work with the local community-all of the local community -or suffer the consequences.”

Kurt stood, unable to contain his anger any longer. “Is that an order, sir?”

“Yes, it most certainly is.”

“You are ordering me to kowtow to the likes of Henschmann and his cronies, allow them leave to rob and extort and threaten and murder as they see fit?”

“No, of course not, captain. I am telling you to do your job-without rocking the boat!” The commander strode past Kurt towards the office door, but the captain grabbed his arms and held him fast.

“Who sent you to warn me off?” Kurt demanded.

“How dare you? Unhand me at once, man!”

“Who’s pulling your strings, sir? The Stadsraad or Henschmann himself?”

The commander’s eye narrowed. “What did you say?”

Kurt let go of his arm. “You heard me.”

“I won’t forget this, Schnell. From now on, this station and its Black Caps are on their own. Don’t expect any co-operation or assistance from other stations, other garrisons, other districts or other divisions of the Watch. If this place goes up in flames, we might come to watch you burn, but nothing more. Remember that when your temper leaves you and your men dancing with Morr himself!” The commander stalked from the office, cursing under his breath in language that would make a stevedore blush.

Kurt followed him out, not wanting anyone else to get in harm’s way. He had burned enough of the station’s bridges already, no need for the others to suffer further from the commander’s wrath. The two men raced down the wooden steps to the ground floor, where Belladonna was waiting nervously with Faulheit. Both their faces were ashen, as if they had heard every word that had been spoken in Kurt’s office. No, he soon realised, the cause was something else, something far more horrific.

Jan was standing in the entrance of the station, cradling Mutig’s mutilated corpse in his arms. Raufbold slipped out of the station as soon as he heard the commander was on the premises. He had little fear of that old toad, but recognised the unexpected visitation as an opportunity. Raufbold knew the commander’s presence would keep the rest of the Black Caps in the station busy and distracted, enabling him to satisfy a growing craving.

He hadn’t had a proper chance to savour the sweet, burning taste of crimson shade in his lungs since being posted to Three Penny Bridge. Sure, he’d helped himself to the drugs he had confiscated from a minor offender, but that was low quality crimson shade. Now that old, familiar need was starting to make its presence felt. His hands always gave the first sign, fingers trembling as if they were afraid. Next came the sweats, a thin sheen of nervous perspiration appearing across his skin until it soaked through his clothing. Left unanswered, the cravings would cause cramps in his stomach, blur his vision and shorten his already brief temper. Finally pain and delirium would overtake him, until he was ready to slaughter anyone who got in his way, butcher anybody who had the means to fund his habit. Raufbold had encountered a few crimson shade addicts suffering withdrawal symptoms during his time as a Black Cap-wretched creatures, beneath contempt or pity, the lowest of the low. He had no intention of going the same way.

Raufbold slunk across Three Penny Bridge to Riddra, knowing he would have little trouble finding a fresh supply of his personal daemon there. In a city where too many people survived on all manner of intoxicants, Riddra was the hub for suppliers and supplies. Opiates from Nippon were smuggled ashore here and the small island was also home to Marienburg’s most infamous drug den, the Golden Lotus Dreaming House.

If you believed the rumours, many of the city’s prominent and influential people visited the unremarkable building squatting near Three Penny Bridge to feed their filthy habits. Of course, they came after dark, and usually by boat, using a concealed entrance in a side alley. Raufbold knew better than to set foot inside the timber and stone building, even crossing the cobbled street to avoid being near it. An old wives tale said anyone who passed the front door of the Golden Lotus would become an addict, so powerful was the waft of black lotus fumes that seeped from the building.

In truth, Raufbold crossed the street simply because everyone else did. No respectable citizen walked by the Golden Lotus in daylight.

Besides, crimson shade was one of the few drugs not available within the Dreaming House. For that you had to find a dealer among those skulking along the narrow passages and alleyways that populated the shadows of Riddra. Crimson shade was extracted from leaves of the blood oak of Estalia, the foliage laboriously ground down to a paste by mortar and pestle, before being dried and desiccated. The results were sold as a fine powder that addicts rubbed into their gums, snorted through their nostrils or mixed with herbs and smoked in a pipe.

Raufbold had no time for the affectation of smoking a pipe these days. When he first tried crimson shade, he had enjoyed the ritual of filling and lighting a pipe. Now he would snatch the powder from whomever was supplying him and force the results into his gums, rubbing and rubbing until his teeth were coated in blood, waiting for that rush no other experience could match.

At least one good thing had come out of his new posting, Raufbold decided as he searched the streets of Riddra for a familiar face. He wouldn’t have to cope with the long trek across Marienburg to get a fresh supply of his favourite vice. But he would have to be careful from whom he got supplies. They needed to be discreet.

The last thing Raufbold wanted was his dealer being brought into the station on charges and trying to escape a spell in Rijker’s by giving up the name of their local Black Cap customer. Yes, discretion would be crucial, and for that he needed to find Marcel Roos. The Bretonnian drug dealer was fond of offering his customers a discount price for their crimson shade, if they agreed to read his twelve-volume novel about art, memory, time and sweet biscuits. Roos was convinced he would one day become a famous scribe, his magnum opus acclaimed throughout the Old World as a work of searing insight and poetry. The fact that few people could read and even fewer of them were likely to be looking for literature while feeding their addiction didn’t seem to bother Roos. He always said history would recognise his genius. Raufbold had been a regular customer for more than a year and had often promised to buy a copy of Roos’ masterpiece. One day he would have to make good on that promise.

Raufbold spotted Roos lingering in the shadows on the western most edge of Riddra, scribbling furiously in a leather-bound journal, the telltale bulge of a drug pouch visible in the folds of his cloak. “Marcel, there you are! I’ve been thinking about your novels and I’ve come to a decision.”

“Yes?” the dealer asked, his face lighting up until he recognised Raufbold. “Oh. It’s you.”

“Is that any way to treat one of your most loyal customers?”

Roos went back to his writing. “I can’t sell you anything today, Jorg.”

“Why not? My guilders are as golden as the next man.”

“Orders. No dealer in Suiddock is allowed to sell you a grain of crimson shade.”

“Orders? Whose orders?”

Roos shrugged. “I don’t know precisely, but the message was delivered by Henschmann’s personal bodyguard Helga, so you figure it out. Your money’s no good to us today-or tomorrow.”

“Why?”

“You’ll have to ask Helga that. Mine is not to reason why, mine is simply to do as I’m told or die.”

Raufbold drew his dagger and rested the blade across Roos’ journal, stopping him from writing. “I’ll kill you before you write another word if you don’t sell me what I need, Marcel. How’s that sound?”

Roos swallowed hard but still shook his head. “I’m scared of you, Jorg, but I’m terrified of Henschmann. You know what he does to anyone who dares disobey him.”

Raufbold used the tip of his dagger to pull back the dealer’s cloak, revealing the bulging pouch. “What’s to stop me killing you and taking your bag of crimson shade?”

“It’s salt-try it if you don’t believe me. Helga took all my supplies, same with all the dealers in Suiddock. Killing me won’t do you any good, Jorg.”

The Black Cap sliced the pouch open and stuck a finger into the contents as they poured out. He rubbed the white crystals against his gums but they were salt, as Roos had warned. Increasingly frustrated, Raufbold lifted his dagger up so the point dug into the skin beneath the dealer’s jaw. “Why? Why cut off crimson shade supplies for the whole of Suiddock, just to deny me?”

“Helga said to give you a message. If you want your drug, come and get it. She’s waiting for you at the Marienburg Gentlemen’s Club.” Roos swallowed, a trickle of sweat running down his face.

“Why?” Raufbold demanded, his hands beginning to tremble uncontrollably. The craving was getting stronger by the moment, made worse by the knowledge his supply had been cut off. “Why?”

“I don’t know. Please, Jorg, I’ve told you all I know.”

“That’s not good enough,” the Black Cap snarled. Anger overtaking him, he rammed the dagger up into Roos’ head, until the hilt jammed against the jaw line. The dealer tried to cry out, but the blade had pierced his tongue.

Still not satisfied, Raufbold twisted the knife inside Roos’ head, feeling the tip grind against bone and sinew, until something brittle broke deep within the skull. The dealer’s body was twitching and thrashing, fingers dancing like madmen. Raufbold ripped his dagger free, a spray of blood and viscera coming away with the metal blade. Roos toppled over, falling face-first into the cobbles with a sickening thud, a crimson pool forming around his skull.

Realising what his craving had driven him to do, the Black Cap glanced about to see if anyone had witnessed his butchery, but everyone knew enough to mind their own business in this part of Suiddock. Raufbold wiped his dagger clean in Roos’ cloak, not noticing the blade’s tip had broken off. He stood up, his face bathed in sweat, his heart racing and breath coming in short, quick gasps. Roos must have been telling the truth, nobody would lie to a crimson shade addict holding a knife on them, but Raufbold wasn’t ready to walk into whatever trap was being laid for him. He had to find another dealer first, make sure he had no other choice. Raufbold looked at his quivering hands, scarcely able to focus on them. His withdrawal symptoms were accelerating. He had to hurry. The commander had wasted no time to offer commiserations for the murder of Mutig. He pointed to the body triumphantly while sneering at Kurt. “See? This is what comes of your high-handed attitude, Captain Schnell. One of your recruits has been murdered and his blood is upon your hands! Well, I’m certain this poor soul’s sacrifice is merely the first of many here, all sacrificed at the altar of your ego. Remember what I said, captain-nobody else in the Watch will lift a finger to help you or your Black Caps. Nor can you expect any replacements or reinforcements. You’re on your own!” The commander strode from the station to his coach, taking care not to brush against Mutig’s corpse on the way out. Within moments the coach had rolled away, wooden wheels scraping across the cobbles on the bridge, until the sound was overtaken by the inevitable cries of gulls wheeling overhead.

Jan staggered into the station and laid Mutig’s remains on the end of the long bar. “It was Cobbius,” he murmured, “Abram Cobbius. Mutig told me not long before he died.”

Kurt sent Faulheit to fetch Otto, while Belladonna examined the tortured recruits’ clothes and torso. “This must have taken hours,” she observed, sadness in her voice. “They kept him alive through it all, making him watch as they took his legs and his arm. I’ve never seen such cruelty.”

“I have,” Kurt said, his thoughts drifting to another time and another place. “But the man who did this did it for his own pleasure, not as a sacrifice to a Chaos cult, not as any act of appeasement.”

“What did the commander mean?” Jan asked. “No reinforcements?”

“Henschmann has been calling in favours across the city, isolating us.”

“Maybe, but the commander wouldn’t simply cut us off without a good excuse.”

Kurt grimaced. “I accused him of being Henschmann’s lackey.”

The sergeant’s expression darkened. “You’ve signed our death warrants, Kurt-you realise that, don’t you?”

“Cobbius murdered Mutig you said so yourself!”

“I’m not talking about Mutig, Shallya take his soul! I’m talking about your self-destructive need to prove yourself, no matter what the cost. There’s more at stake here than your reputation, damn you!”

“Enough!” Belladonna stepped between the two old friends, before they resorted to settling their differences with fists instead of words. “Arguing is not going to bring Mutig back and it’s not going to change the commander’s mind. We have to make the best of what we’ve got, come what may.”

The two men glared at each other, still itching to vanquish their anger with violence. It was Kurt who spoke first, blinking and looking away from his former mentor. “Jan, I’m sorry. I didn’t… I’m sorry.”

“You should be, captain. But Belladonna’s right-we should fight our enemies, not each other.”

“That’s better,” she said.

Kurt stared hard at Mutig’s blood-flecked features. “He’d still be alive if we’d arrested Cobbius.”

“True, but Mutig was the architect of his own demise,” Jan said, explaining how the Black Cap had chosen the wrong target to prove his courage. “Cobbius knows we’ll be looking for him, now. He’ll go to ground, no doubt protected by his cousin Lea-Jan. We’ll have to wait for our chance to take him.”

“So what do we do in the meantime?” Kurt asked.

“We do our jobs. If word spreads about Mutig’s murder and the way he was treated, it’ll be open season on Black Caps in Suiddock. We have to carry on as if everything’s normal, for now.”

Faulheit returned, bringing Otto with him. The priest approached Mutig’s body with reverence, but horror overtook him as he saw what had been done to the Black Cap. Otto shook his head, distraught. “Great Morr, save us,” he whispered, before clasping a hand over his mouth. The priest staggered and fell, his eyes rolling back into his head and his eyelids fluttering shut. Belladonna was first to him, kneeling at Otto’s side, pressing an ear against his chest to listen.

“He’s fainted, that’s all,” she said after a moment, rearranging the priest’s body into a more restful position on the wooden floor. “His kind possess a heightened sensitivity to the dead, they absorb some of the pain felt by the deceased in their final moments, offering comfort to the soul and guiding it onwards.” She glanced up at the corpse on the reception desk. “What happened to Mutig, the torments he was put through, they were too much for Otto. His body shut down as a defence against the pain.”

“I didn’t realise,” Kurt said.

“You weren’t to know,” Belladonna whispered, resting a hand of comfort on the captain’s shoulder. Below them, Otto stirred, his lips muttering silent incantations, his eyelids fluttering open again. “Don’t try to get up yet,” Belladonna warned. “You suffered a shock, seeing Mutig’s suffering.”

The priest nodded, licking his dry lips. “I hadn’t realised how bad it would be. Rarely does one of my kind encounter such savagery, such agonies in the dead.” He took a deep breath. “His ghost invaded my thoughts for a moment, overwhelming me.” Belladonna helped him to his feet and went with him to look at the corpse. Otto closed his eyes and reached out both hands above Mutig, breathing in and out slowly, his face a mask of concentration. “I can still hear the dying echoes of his spirit, inside my mind. Mutig died in fear, but he did not die alone.”

“I was with him,” Jan said.

“Good. That was a comfort for him, at the last.” The priest swayed and staggered back a step, but Belladonna was there to help him this time. He opened his eyes and looked directly at Kurt. “Mutig had something to tell you, Captain Schnell. A message for all your Black Caps.”

“What message?”

“Beware the catacombs. Stone, tooth and claw wait there. Doom lingers below. Beware…” Otto shuddered, before his body relaxed once more. “Mutig is at peace now,” Otto said. “His torments are over. But I feel yours are yet to come, captain.”

“I fear you’re right,” Kurt conceded.

“What do you want done with Mutig’s mortal remains?”

“By rights all Black Caps are entitled to a final resting place in the watch vaults beneath headquarters, but I doubt any of us will be welcome there at present. Can you keep him at your temple for a day or two, until the commander calms down?”

Otto nodded. “I’ll require help to transport his body to the temple.”

“Faulheit can assist you,” Kurt said, turning to Belladonna before she could object. “I know you want to examine the body for evidence, but it will have to wait. You need to sleep first. That’s an order.”

Belladonna went upstairs, not bothering to disguise her unhappiness at being told what to do. While Faulheit helped Otto prepare the corpse for its final journey, Kurt took Jan to one side.

“The commander was right about one thing-we’ve made next to no progress discovering who murdered Arullen Silvermoon. I have my suspicions about the culprits, but no proof. We need to find this Fingers Blake, the thief who sold the brooch to Gerta. Any suggestions?”

“The night shift will be arriving soon, but it’ll be busy enough coping with the usual drunken brawl and trouble outside taverns,” Jan replied. “Have you got any of that bribe money left?”

“No.”

“Pity. We could have used it to hire an old friend of mine, Sam Warble.”

“The halfling detective?”

Jan nodded. “He can find people and get into places that are beyond us, but he’s not cheap-thirty guilders a day, plus expenses. Of course, he does owe me a favour…”

Kurt couldn’t help smiling. “Dare I ask why?”

“Let’s just say it involved twenty-seven herring sausages, a beginner’s guide to taxidermy and a serving wench called Brunnhilde who accused Sam of murder. I persuaded her to think otherwise.”

“You think Warble can find Blake for us?”

“Perhaps. At the least, he’ll offer some useful advice.”

“He could probably find Abram Cobbius as well, if we asked.”

Jan shook his head. “Finding Cobbius is not the problem. He’ll be sequestered in the guild headquarters. We have to wait until he gets bored, eludes those guarding him and comes out to play.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Kurt conceded. “If you’re willing to cash in your favour with Warble, go ask him to find our missing thief. Every time I go upstairs Gerta demands to know what progress we’re making. I can’t keep her here indefinitely and I daren’t let her back out on the streets. Besides, much more of her cooking and I’m liable to sink the next river taxi I get into.”

“I know how you feel,” Jan agreed, patting his bulging stomach. “I could be a while finding Warble. I’ll try Sam’s lodgings in the Winkelmarkt first. Failing that, he’s liable to be eating in a halfling tavern near the elf quarter. You know how halflings love their food.” Raufbold’s stomach was cramping and he could hardly see to walk when he staggered into the Marienburg Gentlemen’s Club. He’d accosted two more dealers after Roos, but got the same response from both of them-if he wanted crimson shade, he had to pay a visit to Helga. Now he stood on the stairs that led up to the club’s first floor, the beefy blonde sneering down at him in disgust. Raufbold’s tunic was soaked with sweat, his hands were shaking like a boatman trying to navigate his way out of a fishing net and his heart was pounding as if determined to burst from his chest at any moment. “P-Please,” the Black Cap heard his weak, feeble voice pleading. “I need some shade… please…”

She unfolded her arms and held out a tiny leather pouch, dangling it in front of his face. Raufbold made a wild grab for the drugs, but Helga was too quick for him and he fell face-first into the wooden steps, splitting the skin across one cheek. “You disgust me,” she sniffed, her nose in the air.

“Please,” he begged, prising himself up off the steps. “I’ll do anything you ask-anything!”

“Anything?”

“Yes!”

“Betray your fellow watchmen? Steal from them, lie to them?”

“Yes!”

“Murder them?”

Raufbold didn’t hesitate for a moment. “Yes!” He’d have sold both his testicles for the bittersweet relief of crimson shade, even though he knew its effects would last a day or two at best. “I’ll do anything!”

Helga smiled, an expression ill suited to her sour countenance. She opened the leather pouch and emptied its contents onto the steps in front of the Black Cap. Raufbold threw himself forward, pawing at the tiny crystals with his sticky hands, swiping the crimson shade into his mouth. When he could get no more with his fingers, he pushed his face against the staircase and licked the last specks up, along with all the dirt and dung tracked into the club by visitors in recent days. Helga climbed down the steps, clambering awkwardly over Raufbold. She knelt on one knee beside him, pressing her wide, flabby face close to his. “Now listen to me, you disgusting, vile little worm of a man. I own you now, you’re mine. Whatever happens in that station, you will send an hourly report back to me. A messenger will be lurking near the privy, waiting for word from you. They will also bring you fresh orders, when necessary. Obey without question and you’ll have all the crimson shade your sick, queasy, little heart desires. Deviate from my commandments and you’ll never find another person in the city willing to feed your cravings. Is that quite clear?” Raufbold nodded, all his troubles floating away from him. “Then get out and never sully this place with your presence again.” Scheusal, Bescheiden and Verletzung all appeared for their night shift on time and-to Kurt’s relief-sober. After his travails with Lothar and the murder of Mutig, the last thing this station needed was for another man to go missing or off the deep end. He briefed the trio about all that had happened and warned them not to patrol near the guild headquarters. “If you see Abram Cobbius on the street, don’t try to be a hero and tackle him single-handed. Keep a good watch on his movements and get a message back to here, telling us where you are and what you’re doing. Understand?”

Satisfied they had grasped his instructions, Kurt let Scheusal take charge of allocating assignments for the evening’s patrols. The Bretonnian gave a good account of himself, sending Bescheiden east to Luydenhoek and basing the scowling Verletzung on the more dangerous island of Riddra. Scheusal claimed the Stoessel patrol for himself, a sensible choice in the circumstances. He looked to his captain for approval and Kurt was happy to give him the nod. Jan had been right, as usual. Scheusal might not have much to say for himself, but he obviously listened and learned. His brawn hid a deceptively intuitive brain. I’m lucky to have him here, Kurt thought. I could do with half a dozen more like him.

Jan returned as the night shift was leaving, the sergeant telling the three men to be careful out there as they departed. Once inside, he sought out Kurt. “No luck with Warble, I’m afraid,” he reported.

“I thought he owed you a favour?”

“He did. He still does. Sam’s up to his neck in a smuggling case, something involving a solid gold statue of a bird. But he did make a few suggestions of places we could look for our thief, and told me how we could recognise him in a crowd. Blake’s got a hook nose, black curly hair and it seems Fingers is more than just a nickname.” Kurt smiled, waiting patiently for the rest of the explanation. “Blake has six fingers on each hand. That sort of mutation would normally have the witch hunters all over him, but he hides the extra fingers with a special pair of gloves. Nobody has ever seen Blake without those gloves on, so people started speculating about what was wrong with his hands-hence the nickname, Fingers.”

“So how does Warble know-”

The sergeant held up both hands and shook his head. “Trust me, you don’t want to know the details. All Sam would tell me was Blake does remove his gloves in the privy. After that, I didn’t ask.”

“Fair enough. So, where are the favoured haunts of our twelve-fingered friend?”

“The Alderman’s Alehouse on Paleisbuurt, the Goat and Stoat at Goudberg, and the Marienburg Gentlemen’s Club on Riddra. I’ve already tried the first two, that’s why I was so long getting back here.”

“That leaves Henschmann’s domain and I doubt I’m welcome inside anytime soon,” Kurt sighed.

Jan tapped the side of his nose. “We don’t need to go inside to see if Blake’s coming and going.”