Scourge Page 15

  “So Stanton favors Gorog?” Machison asked. Old alliances and long-standing treaties meant that no one was completely his own person, not the Guild Masters or the Merchant Princes—or even the Lord Mayor himself.

  Sarca shrugged. “Yes. Throck’s a cooper, with a long-standing association with the Vintners’ and Distillers’ Guilds, like Vrioni before him. He’s sure to side with their demand to renegotiate. Stanton’s a carpenter; he’ll side more with the Shipwrights’ Guild and the Masons’ Guild. Internally, though, the joiners and furniture makers will have his ear. Throck’s got the stronger personality, but Stanton comes from the side of the Guild with the most members and the most influence.”

  “Which would be the most easily swayed?” Machison asked.

  “Stanton’s made furniture for Gorog, so he’s liable to favor whoever Gorog tells him to support. Throck’s coopers supply the vineyards Kadar’s invested in, and Tamas’ breweries and distilleries. He’s going to be owned by them.”

  “Weaknesses?” Machison asked.

  “Stanton’s better at making furniture than making money. He’s in debt. That’s always good for leverage. Throck runs a profitable business, but he has a weakness for pretty women and beautiful men. It hasn’t been difficult to supply him with lovers who’ll turn pillow talk over. I’m told he pockets some of the fees that are supposed to go to the temple.”

  So he’s likely cheating the tax collector and skimming off Guild fees too, Machison thought.

  “You’ve done well, telling me this,” he said. He reached beneath his vest, pulled out his velvet purse and removed two gold coins. “Consider this a down payment on a large order for new pikes and stirrups for the guards. I’ll have my exchequer come by with the specifics tomorrow.”

  “Thank you, m’lord,” Sarca said, pocketing the bribe. “I’d best get back.”

  “Take the back lanes. Make sure you’re not seen.” He did not rise to see Sarca out, knowing his guards would see him on his way.

  When he was certain the man was gone, he rang for Jorgeson.

  “M’lord?” the chief of security asked as he answered the bell.

  “Send an assassin for Inton Throck. Make a sloppy job of it, and leave something to implicate Kadar’s people.”

  Jorgeson raised an eyebrow in surprise. “When?”

  “Before dawn. He must not live to attend the Guild vote tomorrow.” Machison met Jorgeson’s gaze. “If Throck is elected Guild Master, he’ll find a way to jam up the negotiations with Garenoth to please Kadar. We can’t afford that. We’ve got to ensure that the negotiations run smoothly.”

  Outside, the tower bells tolled twelve times. “I have just the person for it,” Jorgeson said. “Consider it done.”

  Machison tossed back the rest of his drink. “I never consider anything done until it’s done. Too much can go wrong. Bring me word when Throck is dead.”

  “Yes, m’lord.” Jorgeson closed the door behind him, leaving Machison by himself. He poured himself another whiskey and returned to his chair by the fire, staring into the flames.

  The Merchant Princes play the Guilds for pawns and the Guilds fight each other for bronzes. If Blackholt does his job, we’ll keep the commoners occupied, maintain the Balance, and send the Guilds chasing their tails while we cinch the agreement with Garenoth.

  These trade negotiations are going to turn out just fine—for Ravenwood, and for me.

  Chapter Eleven

  “YOU’RE EARLY.” CORRAN eyed the Lord Mayor’s guard warily. “Payment’s not due for another week.”

  The guard gave an ugly grin. “Payments are due when we say they’re due, and I say they’re due now.”

  Arguing would just make things worse. Corran reached beneath the counter and found the small money pouch. “Take it.”

  The guard made a show of emptying the coins into his hand and counting them. “How’s business?”

  “Middling,” Corran replied. “Thanks to you, it’ll be a cabbage week.”

  The guard chuckled. “Well, then, you won’t starve. Don’t let us catch you hurrying anyone along to get more business.” He laughed heartily at his own joke, and bounced the money bag in his hand. “See you in a few weeks. Try to stay out of trouble.”

  From a friend, it might have been taken as a joke. But coming from one of the Mayor’s guards, it had an ominous edge to it that made Corran uncomfortable.

  He didn’t leave his place behind the counter until the guard was out of sight. Kell had taken the cart to make the day’s rounds, and Rigan to fetch the priest; Corran had shooed him out the back door as soon as he spotted the guard.

  Corran went back to the workroom. At least five generations of Valmondes had labored over the dead here. It was honorable work. He looked up as Rigan came through the back door.

  “Old Saunders will meet us in the graveyard in half a candlemark,” he said. “We’d better get moving.”

  The bodies they’d prepared the night before were cold and stiff, so loading them was not too difficult. Rigan pulled the cart, while Corran pushed as they moved along the dirt streets. A fence of stone and iron marked the limits of the burying grounds. Corran was never sure whether the wall was meant to keep animals out or to keep restless spirits in.

  Lavish monuments marked the sections of the cemetary reserved for particular Guilds. Funeral expenses were part of what Guild fees went to pay for, along with training apprentices, maintaining the Guild hall and the temple of the Guild’s patron god, and offsetting the Lord Mayor’s expenses for guards to protect members from the monsters. The Guild into which a person was born set the course for the rest of his life, and into the After.

  “Took you long enough,” Saunders grumbled as they pulled up. “What did you bring me today?”

  “One bricklayer and one weaver,” Corran replied. “They’ll require the usual service.” The other two bodies would not receive the ministrations of the priest.

  “You know the fee.”

  “Understood,” Corran said. He dropped the coins into Saunders’ arthritic hand.

  “Go ahead and lay them out,” the priest said. “I trust you’ll take care of the digging part once I’m done.”

  Corran and Rigan lifted the bodies out of the cart and carried them to where they would be buried. Brissy would be interred in the plot reserved for the Weavers’ Guild, while the crushed bricklayer went to the Masons’ Guild’s plot on the opposite corner. The others, including the nameless victim of the monsters, went along the back wall into a common grave. The stabbed man would go outside the wall, beyond the protection of hallowed ground; Corran and Rigan would take care of that themselves, once Saunders was gone.

  Saunders might be an old sot, but he does the blessings right, Corran thought. The brothers began digging right away, though they were unlikely to have even the first grave completed before Saunders finished his work. The priest’s voice was melodious, blending with the bells, chimes, and drumming with which he accompanied the prayers.

  He could rush through, but he doesn’t, Corran thought, as the strike and shuffle of dirt made a counterpoint rhythm to the chant. I could almost believe he cares.

  Saunders packed up the ritual items and slung his pack over his shoulder before walking to where the brothers were filling in the first grave. “Just so you know,” he said, with a glance over his shoulder, “the head of our Order doesn’t want us saying the ritual over anyone killed by the monsters.”

  Rigan and Corran both stopped what they were doing to stare at the old priest. “Why not?” Rigan demanded.

  Saunders raised a hand. “I don’t make the rules. I suspect it’s connected to what that prophet in the marketplace is saying, about the monsters being the vengeance of the gods. But if the bodies are shrouded and wrapped, and properly marked, I don’t make it my business to peek inside. I just thought you’d want to know about the change. I’ve also heard talk that the Guilds might bar the victims of monsters from their plots.”

  Corran took a
deep breath and bit back the retort that came to mind. Saunders is doing us a favor by telling us, he reminded himself. Don’t blame the messenger.

  “And the priests are all right with that?” Corran asked.

  Saunders shrugged. “Apparently so.”

  The priest headed back toward Wrighton, leaving Rigan and Corran to finish their task. Corran tried to channel his anger into his digging, plunging his shovel deep into the ground and quickening his pace.

  “You’re thinking of Jora.”

  Corran did not reply immediately. Rigan could read him better than anyone except maybe Kell. Rigan had left him the space to grieve those first days after Jora’s death, and then made sure he was on-hand when he needed him.

  Corran stabbed his shovel into the dirt. “Yes, it’s about Jora. Those bastards would have denied her a proper burial for something that wasn’t her fault. Mama, too. All because some crazy prophet decides that the people the monsters kill deserved to die?”

  He gestured toward the city. “Instead of getting rid of the monsters, they levy a curfew. They say it’s for our protection, but if they did their jobs, we wouldn’t have to hide inside. I swear it’s more about controlling us than protecting us.” His fist clenched in frustration. “It’s wrong, dammit, and the Guilds are backing them up.”

  Rigan took a deep breath and pulled his shovel free. “Come on. One more to go.”

  The sun was low in the sky by the time they dug the last grave. They were just lowering the corpses into the common grave when Corran froze. “Did you hear that?”

  Rigan was in the grave, laying the bodies down as Corran handed them in. “Can’t hear anything except you. Why?”

  The hair on the back of Corran’s neck rose. He scanned the wall, trying to locate the noise, and thought he caught a glimpse of something dark moving behind the stones.

  “We’ve got trouble!” Corran shouted as the monster hurtled the cemetery wall in one mighty leap. The beast was the size of a large wolf, but thin enough that bones showed under gray skin stretched tight. Every movement rippled sinew beneath the flesh. Lean muscle flexed in its haunches, and long claws dug into the ground, propelling it forward. Powerful shoulders rose to a muscled neck and a grotesque head. Its face was bat-like, with a wide, flared nose and pointed ears lying flat against its skull. Its wrinkled snout rose to a ridged brow. Red eyes, like glowing embers, fixed on their prey. But what had Corran’s full attention were the jaws, wide-hinged and powerful, filled with glistening rows of long, pointed teeth.

  Corran fell into a fighting stance, holding his shovel like a stave. He grabbed a rock and hurled it as hard as he could, striking the monster between the eyes, stunning it for a moment. The monster bellowed, then fixed its red eyes on Corran and charged. Sharp talons swiped at him and he dodged, but one claw caught his sleeve and sliced into his forearm. Corran brought the shovel down, clubbing the monster over the head with the iron blade. The metal clanged against its bony skull and Corran leaned forward, putting his weight and momentum behind the blade, driving it into the monster’s head. The creature roared and sprang at him, blood streaming from the ragged gash, the wound deep enough to show bone.

  “Corran! What’s going on up there?”

  “Stay down!” Corran swung the shovel again. The monster staggered, then leaped, pushing off with its powerful hind legs, landing so close that Corran had to scramble backward. This time the claws ripped through one of Corran’s pantlegs and gouged bloody trails into his thigh.

  He bit back a cry of pain, and shifted his weight to his good leg before charging with his shovel leveled like a lance, ramming the edge of the sharp iron blade into the monster’s face. Warm blood spattered Corran. He circled the shovel above his head and slammed it down hard enough he feared the blade might crack. The monster reeled, then rallied with a growl and the snick of teeth, close enough for Corran to smell its fetid breath.

  Powerful claws ripped the shovel from Corran’s grip, and the creature knocked him flat on his back, pinning him to the ground. Corran twisted, evading the snapping teeth, wildly searching for a weapon. He reached over his head, and touched one of the pieces of rock left from digging the graves. Corran gripped the hunk of stone and brought it down hard onto the monster’s skull, splitting the furrowed ridge of bone and sending a sheet of dark blood into its crimson eyes.

  He brought the rock down again, slamming it into the creature’s face, breaking its wrinkled nose. The monster bucked, nearly pulling out of reach before Corran gave one more desperate swing and felt its skull give way completely. Blood ran down Corran’s arms and gushed from the monster’s mouth. The red eyes lost focus and, with a shuddering groan, the creature collapsed. Corran wriggled out from under its weight, heart thudding, amazed to be alive. The whole fight had taken only seconds. Rigan was just hauling himself out of the grave, and he looked at his brother in horror. Blood soaked Corran’s torn clothing.

  “By the gods, did you kill that thing?” Rigan said, wide-eyed. He advanced warily on the monster, and gave it a cautious poke with his blade.

  Corran leaned forward, hands on thighs, trying to get his breath. “I guess I have good reactions,” he lied, hoping Rigan wouldn’t think too hard about Corran’s fighting skills.

  “What was it?”

  “No idea. Never seen anything like it before.”

  “We can’t leave it here,” Rigan protested, “the guards will ask questions.”

  “Throw it in the hole.”

  Rigan raised an eyebrow. “In the grave with the bodies?”

  “The dead won’t care,” Corran said. “And I want to keep on living. So let’s get rid of that thing and get on our way before someone comes by.”

  That’s a new kind of monster, one the hunters haven’t seen before. I’ve got to let Calfon and the others know.

  Chapter Twelve

  “RIGAN VALMONDE! YOUR jokes are so bad, you must practice them on your customers!” Elinor, the dyer’s apprentice, rolled her eyes.

  “Why not? They’re at least as lively as the regulars down at The Lame Dragon.”

  Elinor chuckled and turned away. Rigan’s gaze followed her every move. She was the reason he volunteered to pick up the order of dyes and pigments.

  “I didn’t know undertakers were allowed to have a sense of humor,” Elinor teased.

  Rigan sighed. “Actually, it helps. If we couldn’t make some pretty dark jokes about the work, we’d probably crack.”

  Elinor went to mix up the pigments. Parah, the head dyer, was busy with another customer, and Rigan wondered if she had caught on that Elinor preferred to handle this particular order.

  Rigan came around to watch her blend the leaves in the mortar and pestle.

  He liked the smell of the dried herbs and powders, and the regular pulse of the grindstone. But mostly, he enjoyed Elinor’s company. Just being in the same room with her made him feel like he’d drunk too much ale.

  “I’m sorry,” Elinor said quietly.

  “Come again?”

  “I’m sorry—about Wil. I haven’t seen you since, well... since all that happened.” Elinor did not look up, and her cheeks flushed.

  “It was a bad night,” Rigan replied. “I still can’t believe he’s gone.”

  “You and Donn were lucky,” Elinor said, still keeping her eyes on her work. “There are some guards around that are just plain trouble.”

  Rigan looked at her, surprised. “From what I heard, most people got told it was monsters.”

  She glanced up at him then. “There’s what people got told, and what people believe. There are all kinds of monsters, some of them wear uniforms.”

  It had taken Rigan a week to heal before he felt up to venturing outside their workshop. Today was the farthest afield he had gone other than the cemetery, though he had plans for something more tonight, something he might only have the nerve to do if he did not think on it too long.

  “I can’t argue with that,” Rigan replied. “I’m just sorry th
at Donn and I couldn’t have protected Wil better.”

  Elinor clunked the pestle back into the mortar. “Rigan Valmonde! You listen to me. There are some things you can change, and some you can’t. Allery saw a little of what happened, and he told Jacen, who figured I’d want to know.”

  “Oh?” Rigan said, raising an eyebrow. “Why’s that?”

  She reddened. “Never you mind. What I’m saying is—once a wheel gets to turning, it’s hard to stop. And that wheel started turning for Wil when the guards roughed him up. Do you think it would have changed a thing if you and Donn had stood your ground and fought? You’d all three be dead.”

  Rigan looked away. “That’s what Corran and Kell said, although they swore a little more.”

  Elinor chuckled. “Then why aren’t you listening? Bad things happen. Some you can stop, and some you can’t. Sooner or later, I believe the wheel of the gods will grind those guards just like I grind these leaves. That’s why people still pray to the Old Ones, to Ardevan and Eshtamon. They pray for vengeance, for the powerful to get brought low and the wrongdoers to get what’s coming to them.” Elinor stole a glance toward where Parah was talking with a customer on the other side of the shop. The two older women had their backs to them, and were deep in discussion.

  “Because Wil’s not the only one,” she added in a low voice. “Same kind of thing killed Parah’s youngest son eighteen years ago. That’s why she goes to the temple of the Old Ones and makes offerings.”

  “She’s been praying all that time and nothing happened?”

  A cold smile crept across Elinor’s lips. “Oh, she didn’t wait eighteen years. Not how she tells it, when you can get her to say. The guard responsible got caught stealing from the Guild, and was hanged a few months after she made her plea to the gods. She still goes to the temple to give thanks for justice that wouldn’t have come any other way.”