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

CHAPTER TWO

Belladonna Speer had always possessed a fascination for corpses. Not so much the corpses themselves, more for deducing why they had become corpses. What turned a living, breathing person into an empty, barren husk? Where did their spirit, their essence go once they were dead? And how had that spirit been driven from their body? Most of all, she enjoyed the puzzle of solving these riddles, even though she knew many of them were enigmas no mortal could hope to explain or understand. Belladonna had seen her first corpse at the tender age of seven, when she found her mother’s father dead outside the family home in Guilderveld. Other children would have been traumatised, horrified, emotionally scarred for life. Belladonna was simply intrigued: why had her grandfather died, and what had killed him? The Black Caps had glanced at the wrinkled, wizened corpse and immediately announced anyone who lived long enough to see their seventh decade must have died of old age.

A priest of Morr was called to deal with the body, prior to Ruben Speer taking his place at the family mausoleum in Doodkanaal. Belladonna had watched the priest from her window as he anointed the body with various unguents and potions. The bald-headed holy man noticed her interest and invited the girl to come down. “You do not fear me?” he had asked, a wry smile at the corner of his pale, grey eyes.

“Why should I?”

“Many associate us with their own, inevitable mortality. Few wish to be near us, yet you display no such fear. Are you accustomed to death, my child?”

Belladonna shook her head. “I’d never seen a body before today. But everybody dies, don’t they?”

“Yes.”

“So what is there to be afraid of?” She had smiled, satisfied by her childish logic. It was Belladonna who noticed the scent of almonds on her grandfather’s breath when the priest accidentally leaned on the dead man’s chest. When she pointed this out to him, he repeated the motion and was rewarded with another waft of almond-tinged air escaping the corpse’s nostrils.

“Poison,” the priest whispered to himself, more a statement of fact than a question. He paused in his ministrations to study the corpse’s pupils and gums. He lifted up the fingers of both hands and sniffed at them. But it was Belladonna who found the abandoned hipflask, a trickle of almond-scented alcohol still inside it. She was about to taste the liquid for herself until the priest slapped it from her grasp. “Don’t!” He retrieved the flask and again sniffed at it. “Definitely poison-possibly from Araby.” Another deep breath. “Is your grandfather a merchant?”

“Yes. He deals with Araby all the time,” Belladonna said. “But one of the other merchants, Clements, wants my grandfather to retire and sell the business to him.” When the priest raised an eyebrow at this information coming from a young girl, Belladonna smiled sweetly. “I heard my grandfather arguing with Clements outside my window last night. Their shouting woke me up. Clements said he couldn’t wait any longer for my grandfather to retire from the business, he would have to take drastic action.” She looked at the lifeless remnants of her grandfather. “I’d never heard those words before, that’s why they stuck in my head. Is this what drastic action looks like? Did Clements poison my grandfather?”

“Yes, my child-I’m afraid he may have done. But you must not speak of this to anyone, do you understand?” the priest asked. “If Clements knows we suspect him, he will flee the city-or worse.”

So began Belladonna’s fascination for corpses and how they had died. Clements had confessed when confronted by Black Caps and was taken to the prison on Rijker’s Isle, where he died in a brawl. Belladonna would have liked to see his body, to study the clues it offered-but girls didn’t do such things.

There were no words to describe her talent for seeing what others did not. It was more than mere instinct or intuition. She could look at a body and instantly know what had happened to it, where others only saw grief or pain. As the years passed, the priest of Morr let her observe his duties, learning from him the many ways of slaying a person. Belladonna’s interest lay more with the methods of murder than the corpses left behind. As a woman she could never become a priest of Morr, but she had little wish to spend a lifetime in drab clerical robes that frightened everyone else away. She loved life too much to lock herself away in a temple or a mausoleum for the rest of her days.

Of course, her fascination with killings and manslaughter did not go well with her family. Young women from wealthy merchant families were usually destined for a choice from three roles in life: wife, mother or mistress. Some managed to pursue all three activities with equal vigour, but most kept themselves to one or two of these choices.

Belladonna’s four sisters were not her equal in intelligence or guile, even if you combined their collective wits and wisdom, but they were the apples of their parents’ eyes. By comparison, she was a troublesome child, a worrisome young lady and, finally, a woman of uncommon beauty who refused to abide by social conventions. Not for her a lifetime of flower arranging and child rearing. Instead Belladonna had horrified the rest of the Speer family by joining the Black Caps on her twenty-first birthday. She hadn’t been home since, except for her father’s funeral the previous winter. In a city where women were expected to be wives or whores-and sometimes both-Belladonna Speer was busy creating a new destiny, reinventing herself afresh.

Well, that was the theory. In fact she had spent the past three years working as a messenger and private secretary for the commander. She was his eyes and ears on the streets of Marienburg, reporting back to him any and all observations made during her travels. Yes, it was intriguing to be sent into the worst hives of scum and villainy, knowing the commander’s armband guaranteed her safe passage.

Belladonna had seen things few other women ever witnessed, and that had satisfied her innate curiosity for a while. But now her patience was wearing thin. She had learned all she could from these occasional excursions on errands for the commander. Now she wanted to put her theories and observations into practice, out on the streets and canals of this magnificent city. The problem was convincing the commander to forgo her.

The chiming of the dawn gong shook Belladonna from her musings. She was already up and dressed, standing by the single window of her private room in City Watch headquarters. The chamber was no larger than a monastic cell and as sparsely furnished, a stack of leather-bound journals the only truly personal possession. Belladonna made a mental note to come back here and collect the journals after seeing the commander. They contained observations and notes gathered over more than a dozen years, the fruits of her labours to learn all she could about the many methods of administering murder.

In truth, the contents were as familiar to her as the city itself, but the journals were a comfort against doubt. If all went according to plan, those volumes would have a new home before the end of the day. She strode from the room, not bothering to look back. When you possessed a fascination for corpses and how they came to be dead, the luxuries of the living held little interest anymore. Kurt was waiting outside the Watch Commander’s antechamber when the dawn gong sounded. The sound boomed along the long, empty corridor, sustained by the high, vaulted ceiling and walls of stone. The headquarters of the City Watch was a grand, spacious building in stark contrast to the places where lowly watchmen worked. Most stations were humble buildings in obscure corners of the city, often sited in converted homes or warehouses that had been seized from lawbreakers as part of their punishment.

Space was always at a premium in Marienburg, little surprise in a city constructed atop a collection of islands across the outlet where the Reik met the sea. Homes and businesses grew ever upwards, upper stories wider than those at street level, looming above the canals and cobbled passageways. The sun’s rays never touched some streets, so they never dried, and those condemned to ground floor rooms suffered a lifetime of colds and chest infections, their clothes and homes perpetually damp.

By contrast, the headquarters building was warm and dry, sunshine filtering through stained glass windows, tinting the corridors with a friendly, cheering glow. Kurt had been here once before, the day after he stumbled into a job with the watch. It was a requirement of induction that all new recruits be presented to the commander before taking their oath of office. Kurt couldn’t recall his last visit in any detail, it was buried in a haze at the back of his mind, along with all the events that had driven him out of Altdorf, the dark days he saw as a warrior during the war against Chaos and the tragedies that had befallen him. Like most of the men who survived that conflict, those who saw the face of the enemy and lived to tell the tale, Kurt rarely spoke of his experiences on the battlefield. Seeing your brothers in arms struck down by a foe of such ferocity and unalloyed evil left deep wounds, buried far below the surface in places from which a few ales would not prise them free. Only cowards and liars bragged of their war exploits.

He looked down at his hands, studying the network of scars left behind by all the battles he’d fought to reach this doorway on this day. Had it been worth the sacrifices, the losses? No, in truth it hadn’t. Kurt knew he could never recover all he had lost back in Altdorf, all that had perished on the battlefields of the Empire. But what’s past had passed, as his old watch sergeant had been fond of saying. Better not to dwell on things you can’t change. So Kurt determined to make a life for himself in the here and now, putting aside the memories, the pain of what had happened. If he didn’t, they could drive him insane. Sigmar knows, that was how he’d ended up in Marienburg. He had no wish to relive those dark days again.

“Well, well, who’s this?” a snide voice asked. Kurt looked up to see four men approaching in uniforms of the watch, all bearing the insignia of captains. He recognised them within moments, as much by reputation as by their appearances. The man who had spoken first was Bram Quist, a scar-faced veteran of twenty years in the Black Caps. He was responsible for keeping the peace in Noordmuur, to the north of Marienburg. On his left was a barrel-chested behemoth with a bushy red beard and jovial face-that could only be Titus Rottenrow, who ran the districts known as Rijkspoort to the east.

On Quist’s right was a painfully thin man with waspish features and an unusual, rolling gait: Zachirias Wout. He led the watch in the Tempelwijk, to the west of Suiddock. Another figure was strolling along behind them, but Kurt could not yet see the final man’s face. Even so, he had little doubt who it could be. The first three were among the leading captains in the city, all fiercely ambitious, all eager to take the commander’s place when he eventually retired or died. But everybody knew who the golden boy of the watch was, the prime candidate for the succession: Georges Sandler. Sure enough, when the quartet reached Kurt the last man was revealed as Sandler, a luxurious mane of brown hair swept back from those aristocratic features, the hint of flab around his jowls giving the face a curiously boyish aspect.

Kurt snapped to attention. “Watch Sergeant Kurt Schnell, stationed in the Goudberg district!”

Sandler chuckled at Kurt’s military precision. “I say, this chap’s taking himself a bit seriously, don’t you think, hmm?”

Quist scowled at Sandler. “Not all of us were born with a silver spoon in our mouths, Georges. Some of us had to earn our commissions, instead of having our parents buy them for us.” Kurt felt Quist’s gaze shift to him. “That accent’s pure Altdorf, and judging by your stance… ex-military?” Kurt nodded. “Best battle you ever fought in?”

“There are no best battles,” Kurt replied, “only victories and defeats.”

“Quite the philosopher,” Sandler quipped, earning a cheap laugh from Rottenrow and Wout. They were still guffawing when the doors to the antechamber opened and the captains were beckoned inside. Quist waited until the others had entered before resting a hand on Kurt’s left shoulder.

“Don’t listen to that buffoon,” the veteran growled. “He’s never fought for anything in his life.” Quist was about to move through the doors when his brow furrowed. “Schnell, did you say?”

Kurt nodded. Here it comes, he thought, resisting the urge to lie.

“Any relation to Erwin Schnell?”

“He’s my father.”

“Old Ironbeard is your father?” Quist asked, unable to keep the admiration from his ravaged face. “Then you must be…” As realisation dawned, so Quist’s expression soured. He removed his hand from Kurt’s shoulder, as if it had been resting on a dung heap. By the time Quist had entered the antechamber, he was muttering curses under his breath so violent they would have shocked any passing sailors. The tall, forbidding doors slammed shut, and the disgraced son of Altdorf was left alone once more in the corridor.

Kurt closed his eyes and waited for the wave of shame to pass. Would he never be free of the past? The Watch Commander sat on a tall-backed chair behind an imposing desk, built from the timbers of a shipwrecked clipper that ran aground on Rijker’s Isle forty years earlier. All this stood atop a raised dais, supposedly constructed to support the vast weight of the desk. In fact it was designed to help impose the commander’s authority on all who came into his office. It was a large, ornately decorated chamber, created to intimidate and unease all entering it. Few left the better for having visited this place. The current commander needed no architectural affectations to impose his authority on anybody. He had a rasping voice and piercing, intense eyes that could unsettle the sternest of men. He was prone to laughing at the pain or discomfit of others, particularly when it was most inappropriate.

Some said he was an illegitimate genius who used his personal charisma to escape being drowned at birth with the other orphans begat by Marienburg’s whores. Others claimed he had made some pact with the Dark Gods, no doubt signed in his own blood, as it was the only way to explain his irresistible rise from lowly gatekeeper to commander. But everybody agreed on two things-he was an incredibly shrewd judge of character, and a bastard in every sense of the word.

“Sergeant Schnell-tell me about him,” the commander said to Belladonna. She was standing in front of his desk, hands clasped behind her back, steadily returning his gaze. Meeting his eye was the best way of earning his respect, she had learned through bitter experience.

“He’s quick and agile, good with his fists and feet. I’d say he doesn’t start many fights, but he certainly knows how to end them. I used the coins you gave me to start a bar brawl at the Seagull and Spittoon last night. Schnell had already been on duty for twelve hours by that time, but he bested four men far larger than him with ease. He’s brave, authoritative and a natural leader-takes command well. Had no trouble fending off the advances of an overly amorous serving wench, either.”

The commander couldn’t mask a smile. “Let me guess-you bribed her as well?”

“No, there was no need. Inga seemed determined to live up to her title of serving wench. I had one other observation-Kurt Schnell is among the most ambitious men I’ve ever met.”

“Even more so than that fool Sandler?”

“I did say ‘among the most ambitious’,” Belladonna replied lightly.

The commander frowned for a moment. “And how did you assess his level of ambition during a tavern brawl? I know your powers of deduction can be remarkable, my dear, but still…”

“I’m told he’s been waiting outside your antechamber for two hours.”

“Hmm, very well. Send in Quist, Sandler, and those two imbeciles that hang on Sandler’s every word. Give us five minutes before telling Schnell to join us.”

Belladonna nodded. “There’s one other matter, sir-I’d like to request a transfer.”

“Why?”

“Much as I’ve enjoyed studying the machinations of office politics in your presence, I believe my talents would be put to better use on the streets. You don’t need me here.”

“Perhaps not, but I enjoy your company,” the commander replied evenly. But his face had hardened and his eyes betrayed seething anger at her request.

“Be that as it may, I believe I would better serve the city in a more active role.”

“No doubt you have somewhere in mind?”

Belladonna smiled. “Working with Schnell. I doubt things would ever be dull on his watch.”

The commander smiled, like a shark about to devour its prey. “You should be careful what you wish for. I’m told the Cathay people have a saying about it being a curse to live in interesting times.” He placed his elbows on the armrests of his chair, forming his fingers into a steeple in front of his brooding face. “When you bring Schnell before me, stay and observe what happens. If you still wish to go where I am sending him, then you are fool enough to deserve that fate-I will not stand in your way.”

She nodded her thanks and retreated to the antechamber. Kurt was surprised when the woman from the Seagull and Spittoon appeared from the commander’s antechamber. “You can come inside now,” she said, beckoning him in. Kurt had assumed she was merely a messenger, but it seemed she acted as adjutant to the commander. A curious arrangement in a city where women wielded the most power as matriarchs at home, or holding sway in courtly circles. Few females were seen in law enforcement, and fewer still in the watch. Perhaps she was the commander’s consort, and he employed her in his office as a ruse to hide her real role? Whatever her true function, Kurt sensed she was sympathetic to his cause. He jerked his head to the grand doors leading into the commander’s office.

“I saw Quist, Sandler, Rottenrow and Wout go in-who else is in the room?”

“Just the commander.”

“Four captains and the boss,” Kurt mused, trying to make sense of these portents.

Belladonna smiled at him kindly. “Don’t worry, you’re not in trouble. Yet.” She waited another minute, busying herself with a few parchment scrolls at a desk before moving to the doors leading into the commander’s office. “It’s time.” She admitted Kurt, before following him inside.

“Come forward,” the commander called, beckoning Kurt closer to the raised dais. The four captains were split into pairs, Rottenrow and Wout on one side of the dais, Quist and Sandler on the other. Kurt chose to ignore them and concentrate his attention on the commander. Always focus on the deadliest enemy in any situation, Kurt’s father had taught him. Deal with them first and the others will be easier prey. The brave warrior fights the hardest foe, even if it costs him dear-that is the mark of bravery. “First of all, I’d like to congratulate you, Sergeant Schnell.”

“Thank you, sir,” Kurt replied. He said no more, holding the commander’s gaze but refusing to ask the obvious question-why was he being congratulated? Instead Kurt counted inside his head: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight-

“Very good, Schnell! Most people in this situation cannot allow seven seconds of silence to pass without caving in and asking for more information. You show remarkable resilience of will.”

“Must be in the blood,” Quist muttered. “Shame he doesn’t have more of Old Ironbeard’s talents.” The captain was silenced by a glance from the commander, before the focus shifted back to Kurt.

“You’ve done well since joining the Black Caps. Some might even describe it as a meteoric rise through the ranks. In all the areas of Marienburg where you’ve served, reported crimes on dry land have dropped dramatically and clear-up rates for past offences have doubled. You’ve also been instrumental in ridding the watch of its more corrupt elements in those districts.”

“I’ve been fortunate in my assignments,” Kurt replied. “The likes of Goudberg are not what I’d describe as the city’s most dangerous or challenging districts.”

“So, it sounds like you’re more than ready for something that’s more of a stretch, yes?”

Kurt nodded. Here it comes…

“Good. I’m hereby promoting you to rank of acting captain. Your task for the next twelve months will be to re-establish a presence in an area of the city that we’ve been guilty of neglecting for far too long. You will reopen the old station and impose the firm spank of authority on the more recalcitrant elements nearby. It will not be a simple task by any means, so I’ve asked these captains to provide the help you’ll need. Each of them is sacrificing three of their best men to staff your new posting and each assures me you’ll be getting the best of the best from among their ranks.”

A snigger escaped one of the captains, but Kurt did his best to ignore it.

The commander got up from his seat and came round the desk toward Kurt, but remained atop the dais. Even so, his eyes were just level with the newly promoted captain. “Succeed in this task, Schnell, and your promotion will become permanent. Fail, and-”

“I won’t fail,” Kurt cut in, his voice sounded far more certain than he felt. “Where is my station?”

The commander smiled broadly, mischief in his eyes. “Three Penny Bridge.”

Kurt felt the muscles in his jaw line ripple involuntarily as he fought to keep the panic from his eyes. He was not a native of Marienburg but he knew the reputation of Three Penny Bridge all too well. It was the most dangerous, most lawless area of the city. The rule of law had not touched the benighted district of Suiddock for five long years. If you believed the legends, the abandoned station was cursed, destined to attract doom upon all who set foot inside it. “You want me to reopen the station on Three Penny Bridge?” he asked helplessly, wanting to make sure this was not all some elaborate practical joke on him.

“Correct. You did say you wanted a challenge, Schnell.”

Kurt nodded, “Didn’t the last captain go insane after being infected by Chaos?”

“Joost Holismus was a good man,” Sandler interjected. “I considered him a close, personal friend. Joost would never give in to that taint. He drowned himself, rather than see others infected.”

The commander snorted derisively. “Believe that if you wish, Sandler. The rest of us have our own suspicions about what happened to Joost, and none of them are quite so noble.”

Sandler started to protest but quickly fell silent beneath the commander’s glower.

Kurt took a deep breath. “When do I start?”

“Tonight. Today, if you wish-the sooner that place is cleaned up, the better,” the commander enthused, clapping a hand on Kurt’s right shoulder. “Good luck, Schnell-hopefully you will not need it, but I wish you every good fortune in the task ahead.”

“Thank you, sir.” Kurt stepped back, saluted and turned away. Belladonna was already holding open the door for him to leave. As he strode from the office, Kurt could hear the captains laughing and joking with each other about his fate.

“Twelve months? He’ll be lucky to last twelve days!” Wout cackled.

“Twelve days? He’ll be lucky to last twelve hours over there,” Rottenrow chortled.

“I give him until Geheimnistag,” the Watch Commander said. “If he’s still there and still alive after the Day of Mystery, it would be a small miracle.” The others laughed heartily as the door closed behind Kurt.

“Did you see the look on his face when you mentioned the Three Penny Bridge, sir? Priceless!”

Belladonna rested a comforting hand on Kurt’s left arm. “Don’t listen to them. They’re just grateful you got the poison chalice, instead of them.”

“Thanks,” he grimaced. “That helps a lot.”

She shrugged. “Have you got anyone in the city you trust, someone to back you up?”

Kurt pondered her question for a moment. “One man, but he’s retired from the watch.”

“Talk him out of it. You’ll need all the help you can get where you’re going.” Belladonna gave his arm a gentle squeeze of encouragement before escorting him from the antechamber. The doors swung shut behind him and Kurt Schnell, acting captain for the Three Penny Bridge, was back out in the corridor where he’d waited since long before dawn. Now he was wishing he’d stayed in bed.

Belladonna waited until the captains had departed before re-entering the commander’s office. Unusually, he had stayed away from his desk, waiting for her return. “And how did our new acting captain react once he left my presence?”

“Like a man who’d just been punched in the groin.”

“Well, at least he’s not a fool.” He moved closer to Belladonna, until they were within touching distance. “And what of you? Joining Schnell is a fool’s errand.”

“I still want to be part of his team.”

The commander moved closer still, until their hips were almost touching. He was half a head shorter than her, so his breath was warming her neck. One of his hands slid round her waist, while the other explored more sensitive parts of her body. “You need not put yourself in such danger, my dear. I could make your life very comfortable, in exchange for certain… tasks.”

“I prefer to earn my rewards,” she said, struggling to keep the disgust from her face.

He leaned closer still, his eyes hungry with lust. “Oh, you’ll earn them, be certain of that.”

Belladonna snapped a knee up into his groin, the impact so hard it lifted his feet off the floor. The commander crumpled like a cloth sack, abruptly emptied of its contents. He gasped for breath, spitting vile obscenities at her. She smiled down at the prostrate figure curled upon the floor.

“Can I take it you’re giving me permission to leave, sir?”

Another string of curses told Belladonna where she could go and what she could do upon arrival.

“Well, I’m not sure that’s physically possible, but I’ll take it as a suggestion rather than an order. Goodbye, sir.”

Belladonna walked slowly from the imposing chamber, a wry smile on her lips. She’d been waiting a long time to repay that slug of a man for his wandering eyes. With any luck, he wouldn’t be able to walk straight for a week after that. Perhaps she should summon an apothecary to help heal the commander’s bruised pride. No, let him suffer. She had little doubt he planned to make her suffer now.