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

CHAPTER THREE

“A new captain’s been appointed to the Three Penny Bridge?” Adalbert Henschmann smiled, but his unsightly teeth and thin lips made the expression look more like a sneer to anyone who didn’t know him. Those who did know him knew better than to pass comment on the sinister nature of Henschmann’s smile, particularly if they wanted to keep their own teeth. “How delicious. Does this fool have a name?”

The small, weasel-faced creature grovelling in front of Henschmann dared to look up at its master. “Schnell, his name’s Kurt Schnell. He’s from Altdorf originally-his father was Old Ironbeard Schnell.”

“Then the man’s either a rogue or a fool to have wound up in Marienburg, let alone being assigned as captain of the watch in my domain,” Henschmann growled. “How many men does he have?”

“Supposed to be a dozen-at least two have already deserted, in fear for their lives.”

“A sensible reaction, in the circumstances.” Henschmann stamped his foot down beside the fearful wretch cowering in front of him. “And you-are you one of the unfortunates assigned to this fool Schnell?”

Willy Bescheiden nodded, greasy strands of dark hair falling in front of his beady little eyes. “Yes, Mr. Henschmann, I am. I think Quist must have realised I was feeding you information from Noordmuur.”

“Well, that was only a matter of time. Quist is many things, but he’s no fool.” Henschmann peered out of the window of his bedroom at the Marienburg Gentleman’s Club. It was an opulently decorated chamber on the upper floor, replete with four-poster bed, a writing desk and chair, and a rich, wooden wardrobe bulging with expensive, garishly coloured garments. Henschmann prided himself on his fashion sense, replacing all his clothes twice a year to keep up with the latest trends. Nobody dared tell the de facto crime boss of Marienburg he had the taste of a colour-blind lunatic, since he also had the temper of a psychopathic murderer. That probably had something to do with the fact he was a psychopathic murderer, so at least his temper matched his methods of maintaining control over the city’s vast criminal underbelly.

Through the window Henschmann could see much of nearby Suiddock: the neighbouring headquarters of the Stevedores and Teamsters Guild, where his counterpart Lea-Jan Cobbius ruled with a rod of iron; the Golden Lotus Dreaming House, the most notorious drug den in all of Marienburg, if the truth were told; and beyond them the Three Penny Bridge, spanning the cut that separated the islands of Riddra and Stoessel to the east. Beyond that but out of sight was Luydenhoek, the third island in the chain. All were under Henschmann’s control, all were effectively his property-and now the watch was daring to send an outsider to bring the law to these lawless streets and canals. Henschmann almost pitied the fool.

“So be it,” he announced. “Remind me, Willy, what is the old station being used for?”

“That’s where the bodyguards of your, err, associates in the Gentleman’s Club wait while their masters are gathered here. Otherwise it serves as the Abandon Hope Tavern, a place for thugs to wet their lips, dip their wicks and punch each other senseless. Cobbius’ half-witted cousin Abram likes to think of it as his own private club, although those who’ve seen his privates-”

Bescheiden’s words were abruptly cut off as Henschmann took care to grind the heel of his left boot on the informant’s hand as he passed the grovelling guttersnipe. “Yes, thank you-I do know the principal functions of a tavern, and I have no wish to hear anything about the life of Abram Cobbius.”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Henschmann,” Bescheiden winced, snot dribbling down from his nostrils, soaking his feeble attempt at growing a moustache. “Of course you don’t, sir.”

“Very well. Go back to the tavern and tell those inside to prepare a special, Three Penny Bridge welcome for this upstart from Altdorf-they’ll know what to do. After that I want you to stick close to this Schnell, find out his plans, his thinking. Report back to me daily, more often if you believe it necessary, and you shall be compensated for your…” Henschmann strode past Bescheiden again, once more crushing the cowering watchman’s hand underfoot, “…pains. Is that clear?”

Bescheiden merely nodded this time, wisely keeping any further commentary to himself.

“Good. Now, get out of my sight. I’m expecting a visitor and the last thing I want her to see when she walks in is your vile, repulsive presence.” Henschmann tossed a few gold coins against the door. “Take those as a down payment for your services, and get you gone.”

The informant was scrambling to retrieve the coins before they had settled to the wooden floor. He gathered them in his yellowed fingers and scuttled out of the bedchamber, doffing his black cap to Henschmann as he left. Bescheiden was still making his way down to the ground floor when a beautiful, raven-haired woman clad in alluring silks of red and black appeared at the foot of the stairs. She waited until he had passed before venturing up to her client for the afternoon, not bothering to acknowledge Bescheiden’s lecherous attention.

Willy by name and willing by nature-that was Bescheiden’s motto. If only the ladies had been as willing, he might not have had to spend so many of his bribes buying their affection. But he doubted his entire life’s earnings would be enough to purchase the attentions of the woman ascending to entertain Adalbert Henschmann. Courtesans like Madame von Tiezer were few and far between in this city, her clientele only the richest and most powerful people. Travelling to Three Penny Bridge took Kurt most of the morning because he decided to arrive on foot. Streets and thoroughfares in Marienburg were perpetually crowded during the hours of daylight by travellers, peddlers and citizens, but the problem doubled on any given Marktag. The grand traditions of the market day may have eroded over the years, but most housewives still chose Marktag as their day to go shopping and gossiping. Craftsmen and artisans sent their apprentices out on the streets to sell items that would otherwise have to be scrapped, while farmers and fishermen ventured into the city with fresh supplies of their latest crop or catch.

With so much money changing hands, Marktag was also the busiest day of the week for pickpockets and thieves, plunderers, pilferers, brigands and bullies. The war had made the overcrowding worse, with crippled soldiers lining the streets begging for scraps, while deserters lurked in taverns and bordellos, trying to vanquish their sorrows and guilt.

Kurt could hardly walk a hundred paces without hearing somebody scream from a dark side alley, or without being accosted by some citizen or merchant left out of pocket by fraud or theft. The Black Caps’ headgear had been chosen for a reason. It made the watchmen easier to spot in a crowd and offered them some slight measure of protection from the outrages perpetrated on ordinary citizens. He told them all where he was going and what he planned to do there, and his path miraculously cleared-until the next cry for help, the next belligerent victim stepped in his way. Eventually he removed his cloth headgear and found progress faster. Overhead gulls wheeled and squawked in the air, the cacophony of their cries a constant presence for any who chose to live in Marienburg. Kurt had been told you got used to the sound of the gulls after ten or twenty years. In the meantime he did his best to ignore the birds, even if their cries echoed the mocking laughter of the captains in that grand office.

The sun was directly overhead when Kurt eventually set foot on Luydenhoek. Another hour elapsed before he reached the western end of Stoessel, so narrow were the streets of Suiddock and so dense the constant press of people, animals and carts. He knew to walk in the shadow of the overhanging buildings at either side of the streets. Only newcomers walked down the central cobbles, where urine and faeces ran along a gutter searching for an outlet. But it was the unexpected dowsing from a brimming chamber pot emptied out a first floor window that caught most new arrivals in the city unawares. Few made the same mistake twice.

Kurt heard a crier calling two o’clock as he got his first glimpse of Three Penny Bridge. The structure itself was little different from many other bridges around Marienburg. Houses and shops stood along either side of the span, such was the lack of space available for construction elsewhere in the city. Buildings hung out over the cut slicing between the much larger Rijksweg canal to the north and Bruynwarr canal to the south. Kurt was always amazed that those precariously perched structures did not topple into the water more often, but most had stood for more than a hundred years. No doubt most would stand for another hundred-barring outside intervention. But which of them was the abandoned station? Kurt paused near the foot of the bridge, letting his eyes become accustomed to what little light fell on Three Penny Bridge, looking for clues about which building housed his new quarters.

A line of heavily fortified homes lined the northerly side of the span, all of them looking like they were expecting war to break out at any minute. No doubt they were burgled or attacked on a frequent basis, Kurt surmised. Several looked like they had been abandoned altogether, while another was a burnt-out shell, smoke stains above the charred windows resembling the kohl eye make-up favoured by whores.

Three structures dominated the southern side of Three Penny Bridge-an abandoned temple at the Stoessel end, a fish market at the Riddra end, and a large, menacing structure in the middle. Working girls hung from the first floor windows, calling out to the men passing below, offering them fun, laughs and a good time. Drunks were sprawled in front of the entrance, lending the structure a disreputable air. Kurt could hear laughter and revelry spilling out from within, the familiar sounds of men gambling and arguing. Above the entrance jutted a twisted metal strut, and from this hung a battered and broken wooden sign. The word “Watch” had been obscured by a new name for the establishment: the Abandon Hope Tavern.

Kurt realised his first task would be reclaiming the abandoned station, and it would not be easy. Make a mess of this and he would quickly prove the captains had been right to mock him. “At least I won’t be on my own,” he muttered. “My recruits should have got here before me.”

He studied the throng shuffling back and forth across the most infamous bridge in Marienburg, searching for likely candidates, the best of the best that he’d been promised. But his heart sank like a stone on seeing the raw material he’d been supplied.

Seven men were lingering beside the fish market, trying to look like they didn’t know each other and certainly not as if they were meant to be there together. They all appeared bored, dishevelled and unfit. Several were leering at passing women, others were sipping covertly from bottles that no doubt contained liquor, and the remainder appeared quietly terrified. Not one of them was in the full regulation uniform of a watchman and none were wearing their black cap.

Guiltily, Kurt realised he had also removed his distinctive headgear. He retrieved it from his leather waist belt and positioned the cap proudly atop his head. If I lead by example, they should follow, he hoped. Time to find out if all the things his mentor had taught him would work as well on the Three Penny Bridge as they did in gentle Goudberg.

“Good afternoon, men,” Kurt said firmly as he approached them, trying to make his voice sound more positive than he felt. “You’ve all been assigned to that station, correct?” He jerked a thumb toward the Abandon Hope Tavern, not bothering to acknowledge the travesty it had become.

Nobody replied.

“I asked if you’ve all been assigned to that station. Is that correct?” Kurt repeated, letting anger seep into his voice, making certain all seven of them had heard him clearly. They started to straighten up, realising their new leader had arrived and he meant business. A few guiltily slid their black caps back on their heads. Eventually a small, insipid member of the group stepped forwards to speak.

“We were sent here, but some of the others didn’t bother turning up,” he said.

“Why not?”

A shrug was the sole response.

Kurt took a deep breath, trying to maintain his calm. He stepped closer to the self-appointed spokesman and grabbed hold of the craven creature by the throat. “What’s your name?”

“Bescheiden. W-Willy Bescheiden.”

“Willy Bescheiden what?”

Bafflement clouded Willy’s beady eyes. “Willy Bescheiden the third?” That got a laugh from the others. Kurt responded by tightening his grip around Willy’s throat, lifting the watchman into the air until Willy’s feet were off the cobbles, kicking uselessly at nothing.

“Let’s try that again, shall we?” Kurt suggested. “If I ask your name, you should tell me your name-and then feel free to add the word ‘sir’ to the end of that sentence. Is that quite clear?” Willy did his best to nod, his face slowly turning puce. “In fact, if I ask you anything, or you should need to talk to me for any reason, you will end every sentence with the word ‘sir’. Do you understand?” Willy nodded once more, his features now rapidly changing from puce to a sickening shade of purple.

Kurt opened his hand and Willy tumbled to the cobbles, coughing and gasping for air, retching up a thin stream of green bile. Kurt waited until the unfortunate figure lying in the faeces gutter had recovered enough to speak. “So, let’s try it one more time, shall we? What’s your name?”

“Willy Bescheiden-sir.”

“That’s better.” Kurt smiled at the other recruits, making sure they all knew he meant business. “And why didn’t the other men assigned to this station turn up, Willy?”

“They were afraid what might happen here.”

“Sorry, what was that you said at the end of that sentence?”

Willy scrambled backwards, trying to get himself beyond the kicking range of Kurt’s leather boots. “They were afraid of what might happen here, sir.”

“See how easy it is to pick up the simplest of habits?”

“Yes, sir.”

Kurt nodded, letting his eyes wander over the faces of his charges. He had gotten their attention, but he needed to do more than thrash some sense into them if he wanted their respect. Fear was an effective leadership tool for a while, but without respect he would never get their best. A demonstration of will was required, to prove he would never ask them to do something he wasn’t willing to do himself. Any soldier was only as good as the commander leading him; Kurt’s father had taught him that.

He drew his club from its leather loop at his side and began tapping its heavy end against the palm of one hand. “That building has been stolen from the watch, from us in effect. Our first task is to reclaim that house of drunkenness and ill repute, transform it into a haven for law-abiding citizens, a place where people can come for help. It will not be easy and it will not be painless, but it is necessary if the watch is going to bring justice back to Suiddock. Who’s with me?”

Two of the recruits raised their hands, responding to Kurt’s passion and his rhetoric. Two more twitched but kept their hands buried in their pockets. The others, including the still stricken Bescheiden, made no effort to respond- their attitude was all too apparent. Kurt called forward the two men who had volunteered to help. One was a lumbering brute, a bear of a man who stood at least a head higher than Kurt. His shoulders were so broad he probably had to turn sideways to get through most doorways, but he had gentle eyes in stark contrast to his imposing physique. The other man was Kurt’s build and age, but he bore more scars on his face and hands than Kurt had ever seen on a living creature. His face had a haunted look, little surprise in the aspect of someone who had survived such injuries.

“What are your names?”

“Joachim Narbig,” the smaller man replied, “I serve Manann, the city and you -in that order, sir.”

Kurt let that slide for now, knowing he needed all the allies he could get. The source of Narbig’s religious fervour could be determined later and dealt with, if necessary. He turned to the other volunteer, an eyebrow arched enquiringly. “Jacques Scheusal,” the man-mountain replied in a thick Bretonnian accent.

“Just what we need, another bloody foreigner,” one of the others muttered, earning a laugh from his colleagues. Kurt pushed past Jacques and Joachim to confront the other watchmen.

“Who said that?” None of them spoke. “Come on, show us the courage of your convictions-or are you too much of a coward to even do that?”

After a few moments one of the recruits stepped forward to confront Kurt, a cocky grin smeared across his face like pork fat on a crust of bread. He stood at ease, thumbs hooked in his waist belt, a faint twitch troubling the corner of one eye. “I did-sir,” he said, with heavy sarcasm on the last word.

“What’s your name?”

“Raufbold, Jorg Raufbold-but all the women call me Gorgeous Jorg.”

“And you don’t approve of foreigners in the watch?”

“We should kick ’em out of the watch,” Raufbold replied. “This is our city, let us run it.”

“Really? I didn’t notice you volunteering to help me clear out the tavern.”

Raufbold ran a hand across his jaw line. “The ladies love me the way I am. Go in there and you’ll get your face kicked in. You want to be a hero, go right ahead. We’ll wait here, see how long you last.”

Kurt stepped closer, until his nose was almost touching Raufbold’s. “Aren’t you forgetting something?” The watchman shrugged before looking over his shoulder to smirk at the others. That expression changed rapidly when Kurt closed his fist around Raufbold’s groin. “What I said to Willy applies to you too-to all of you. When you speak to me, you call me ‘sir’ or suffer the consequences. Now, Gorgeous Jorg, how much do you think the ladies will still love you if I crush your jewels between my fingers?”

Raufbold bleated an unintelligible reply.

Kurt tightened his grip further, eliciting a sob of pain from the watchman. “What was that?”

“I don’t know-sir!”

“That’s better.” Kurt let go and Raufbold sank to his knees, all trace of cockiness squeezed out of him. Kurt glared at the other reluctant recruits. “The rest of you can wait here. Jacques, Joachim and I will now show you how we deal with those who would make a mockery of our station. Watch and learn.” He marched towards the converted building, hoping the two volunteers would follow. To his relief, they did. The easy part was over. Anybody could intimidate a pair of fools. Reclaiming the station would be much harder. Abram Cobbius was enjoying the attentions of a serving wench when three strangers walked into his tavern. In truth, he did not own the watering hole, but he considered it a home from home. After a hard day extorting money from nearby residents and merchants, Abram was fond of retiring to the Abandon Hope Tavern for a tankard or two of Marienburg’s most violent ale. He knew he had nothing to fear, thanks to the proximity of the Stevedores’ and Teamsters’ Guild headquarters. While cousin Lea-Jan remained in charge of that powerful union, Abram was safe from harm. Few would dare challenge him and none would dare infringe upon his exploits. So why in the name of Manann were three Black Caps daring to invade his domain? Abram pushed the wench aside and stood up, displeased at being interrupted.

“Who gave you permission to come in here?” he snarled, slouching towards the unwelcome trio.

One of the threesome stepped forward to meet Abram, a determined set to his face. “I was about to ask you the same question. Are you responsible for what’s happened here?”

“If you mean turning an abandoned building into the finest tavern south of the Rijksweg, then I guess I can take credit for that,” Abram replied before gesturing at the greasy, yellow walls and beer-stained floorboards. The ceiling was hidden above a cloud of pipe smoke. “I let the wenches choose the decor.”

“How noble of you,” the intruder said. “We’ve come to reclaim this property for the watch.”

Abram laughed out loud, unable to stop himself. He swung round to his seven henchmen, all of whom were watching this exchange with amusement between swilling ale and bothering the other wenches. “You hear that, men? Our visitor is reclaiming the station!” They laughed in response.

“Got them well trained, haven’t you?” the stranger asked. “Can they do any other tricks? Balance a pig’s bladder on their noses, perhaps, or roll over and play dead?”

Abram’s amusement was fading fast. “You’ll be the one playing dead if you don’t leave now.” He took a better look at the Black Cap leader, assessing his enemy’s capabilities. Abram ignored the other two, knowing his own men would deal with them in the unlikely event this turned to violence. The intruder was in his middle years, with a firm jaw and no trace of fat round the face. The watchman tunic was stretched across a wiry physique, muscles bulging the sleeves. His features were implacable, no fear in those piercing, ice-blue eyes, while the shaven head spoke of a man not swayed by vanity. He meant business and he had the bravado to go with it. The intruder had a powerful physical presence that would intimidate most people, but Abram couldn’t care less. This place was his territory. “Your accent tells me you’re not local. If you were, you’d know better than to come in here, trying to throw your weight around. Walk out while you still can, stranger-understand?”

“Perfectly.” The newcomer made as if to leave, but paused, raising a finger in the air. “There’s just one thing before I go.” He beckoned for Abram to come closer, so he could whisper something. Amused, Abram leaned closer, expecting the fool to do the sensible thing and offer an abject apology. Instead the Black Cap smashed his forehead into the bridge of Abram’s nose. The extortionist staggered backwards, white spots dancing in front of his eyes. Pain lanced through his head as blood gouted from both nostrils, soaking the front of his handsome leather jerkin. Abram had the misfortune to forget about the chair he’d had to walk around to confront the intruders, and fell straight over it, his head thudding into the floorboards.

“Get him!” Abram screamed at his cronies. “Everybody, get him!”

The henchmen stood up, ready for action, murder in their eyes. The three Black Caps glanced at each other and smiled-until another twelve henchmen appeared from staircases leading off the central drinking area of the tavern, all hastily fastening their trousers back up. “Ahh,” the leader of the Black Caps sighed. “Bugger.” Jacques Scheusal considered himself a simple man. He believed in loyalty and following orders, doing your best and never giving in. When his new captain had asked for volunteers to clear out the station, Jacques had not hesitated. He knew the effort would almost certainly involve fighting and danger, but a man of his size had little to fear in most melees. He could charge through any door, flatten most opponents with a single blow from his meaty forearms, and he had survived more stabbings than he cared to remember.

As the biggest and burliest watchman in Rijkspoort, he had been used as brute force, his mere presence enough to intimidate anyone looking to start trouble. Jacques had been delighted to get transferred to Three Penny Bridge, hopeful it might mean better prospects. His time in Rijkspoort had been blighted by anti-Bretonnian comments from men meant to be his brothers in arms. He was less impressed to discover Raufbold had also been transferred, since it was Raufbold who’d led the snide remarks. The new captain’s attitude and Altdorf accent were more promising, but his grasp of tactics left a little to be desired in Jacques’ opinion. Starting a bar brawl in Marienburg’s most notorious drinking house? Even a simple man knew there were easier ways of making an impression.

The fighting was fast and furious. Three Black Caps against half a dozen drunken thieves and robbers had seemed favourable odds when Jacques followed his new boss inside the tavern. But three against eighteen? Even for a man mountain like Jacques, that was asking a lot. He fought well, swatting aside four of the enemy in his first charge. But first one man, then another jumped onto Jacques’ back and wrapped their arms round his massive head and neck, fingers clawing at his eyes and mouth. He spotted a wooden supporting beam nearby and marched backwards towards it. The first man on his back let go with a howl of pain, but the other clung on grimly, his hands closing round Jacques’ throat, choking the big man’s air supply. Still Jacques fought on, smashing a fist down on the head of a passing opponent, rendering them senseless. But darkness was overwhelming him, clouding his vision and weakening his legs. Jacques sank to one knee, hefty hands still flailing at the thugs buzzing around him like flies. Finally he blacked out, pitching face-first into the beer-soaked floorboards. Joachim Narbig fought like a man possessed, using swift, precise movements to disable each foe as they drew near. An elbow into the throat choked one enemy, while two fingers stabbed into the eyes sent another howling away in pain. Joachim took seven drunkards out of action, all the while muttering the catechism of a true believer, calling on Manann to protect him from those who did not know the ways of righteousness. But even Manann could not hold back such a tide and sheer weight of numbers were Joachim’s undoing. Still fighting valiantly, he was driven back out onto the bridge, taking two of Abram’s henchmen with him. “A little help wouldn’t go astray,” he snarled at the other watchmen. Kurt was full of admiration for the way Jacques and Joachim fought, especially considering the uneven odds and unfamiliar territory. Both were worthy additions to the new station’s complement of men, and could well be potential candidates for the sergeants he would need. Of course, his first priority was surviving this foolish attempt to reclaim the station. Kurt knew he should have discovered the enemy’s strength before starting a bar brawl. His old sergeant would not have been impressed by such a wanton disregard for tactics or common sense. Still, there was plenty of time for self-recriminations later, assuming he was still alive to indulge in them. First he had to get out of here.

By the time Jacques was felled, less than a dozen foes remained on their feet. Unfortunately for Kurt, Joachim was sent sailing back outside mere moments later. That left Kurt on his own, ten murderous men advancing on him, several already bloodied by the brawling. Front and centre was the leader of the pack, black rings forming under his eyes from the badly broken nose Kurt had shattered. “Do you have any idea who I am?” the furious thug demanded.

“Can’t say I know your name,” Kurt admitted, “but your face seems familiar. I saw an ass whose rear end looked just like you on my way here. Perhaps you two are related?”

“My name is Abram Cobbius. My cousin is one of the most powerful men in all Marienburg.”

“Uh-huh. Get on well, do you?”

“Kill this fool,” Abram commanded. His men advanced on Kurt, blades and cudgels drawn, ready to rend him limb from limb. Kurt backed slowly away from them, until the solid wooden bar prevented him retreating any further. His eyes darted round the tavern, searching for anything that might be of use. The advancing horde had blocked off any chance of escaping through the front doors, but there was a large leaded glass window at the other end of the bar looking out across the Bruynwarr to the southern part of Suiddock. Kurt had no wish to sample the canal water, but retreat was always better than surrender in his experience, especially if the enemy was not planning on taking any prisoners. He jumped up onto the bar as the nearest thugs sliced the air where he’d been standing with their knives.

“It’s been a pleasure making your acquaintance, but we’ll have to settle this later,” Kurt smiled.

“I said kill him!” Abram bellowed.

Kurt was already running along the bar towards the window. So much for making a strong first impression, he thought idly, before throwing himself head first at the leaded glass window.