The old man’s annoyance was palpable but he ceded the point after some protracted wrangling. “Your grandfather was a penny-pincher too,” he grumbled. “Take the skin off a man’s back just for going a drop over his rum ration.”
“I happen to know my grandfather never flogged a man during his entire career,” Hilemore returned.
“Tell you that himself, did he?” Tidelow’s beard bunched in a grin. “Looks like he had a few tall tales of his own then. Got the stripes on my back to prove it if you want to see.”
Hilemore had never been quick to anger but an insult to the memory of Commodore Jakamore Racksmith was bound to make him bridle, probably because it was such a rare occurrence. “No thank you,” he told Tidelow in a low voice barely above a growl.
“Oh, don’t get all prickled, Captain.” Tidelow’s grin broadened as he touched a match to the bowl of his pipe. “He was better than most, and the finest fighting sailor I ever saw. But wars aren’t won by kindly men.” He took an appreciative puff on his pipe then turned towards the rail, placing a foot on the gangway. “I’ll take care of your lad,” he said, pausing to touch the stem of his pipe to his forehead. “And you can be sure he won’t be needing any fire-arms to ensure my adherence to our bargain.”
“I know,” Hilemore replied.
“Then why send him off with me?”
Hilemore said nothing, clasping his hands behind his back and raising his chin.
“Oh well.” Tidelow shrugged and started along the gangway, casting a few final words over his shoulder. “Best of luck with whatever it is brought you here. And take heed of what I said about wars and kindly men.”
CHAPTER 15
Lizanne
Beyond the gate the tunnel branched off in three directions. Lizanne chose the one in the centre, reasoning that most new arrivals would instinctively opt for right or left. She had a notion that it would be wise to choose the least used entry point. The gloom was partially alleviated by the light trickling through narrow holes in the tunnel roof, the scant illumination fading as the day wore on. The central passage branched off again after fifty paces and once more she kept to the straight course, following it for another hundred paces until it ended in a junction with another passage. Pausing, Lizanne saw that this tunnel extended left and right in a broad circle that probably encompassed the centre of Scorazin. She chose the leftward direction on a whim and soon came to the first entry point. It consisted of a cramped channel sloping upwards to a slanted iron grate. The prison city’s fetid air was thicker now, the patch of light beyond the grate dim with drifting smoke. Lizanne crawled along the channel until she was a foot shy of the grate then cautiously raised her head for the first view of her new home.
Initially, it seemed just an unremarkable alley, no different from the many such alleys her career had taken her to over the years. Certainly the cobbles hadn’t been swept for some time and the plaster on the surrounding walls was patchy, revealing weathered brickwork that gave the buildings a slightly diseased appearance. However, she had seen far worse places in her time and a brief scan revealed no obvious threats. Then she saw the corpse. It lay huddled against the walls, so shrunken and wasted she had taken it for a bundle of discarded rags. Now she saw white bone through the threadbare overalls that clad the remains and a matted clump of long dark hair obscuring the skull. The hair and the smallness of the corpse made this unmistakably the body of a woman. Lizanne wondered if she had been a new arrival like her, venturing forth only to be cut down within feet of the grate. It was equally possible that she was a veteran of this place, used up and left to wither in this alley. In either case, Lizanne decided to seek another entry point.
She was even more cautious when peering out from the next grate, having detected raised voices as she crawled along the channel, loud in argument and slurred with drink. Amongst the grunting babble she discerned two distinct accents, one with the broad vowels of the northern empire and the other the more clipped, nasal tones of the western midlands.
“’S your fault, y’fucker,” the midlander said in a tense growl. “Had to open y’shitty mouth. Two sacks by morning. How in the name of the Emperor’s balls are we s’posed to manage that?”
“Lick my arse,” the northerner replied, his tone rich in aggression but also possessed of a certain weariness. “You’re the one gave her the wrong count. Y’know what she’s like with numbers. Never forgets. I told you that your first day.” A short pause then. “Gimme that, you’ve had plenty.”
“Fuck off!”
Lizanne raised herself as the sounds of a scuffle came through the grate. This entry point was positioned near an outflow pipe, which cast a steady stream of yellow water into a muddy channel leading towards the river. The stench was a gut-stirring blow to the senses, forcing her to swallow a gag and blink tears from her eyes. She could see the river-bank thirty yards or so off to the right, a bar of thick mud where dim figures were visible through the drifting haze; the mud-slingers Constable Darkanis had warned her about. Two men were engaged in a struggle beneath the pipe, stumbling around in a parody of dance with a bottle clutched between them.
“Give it, you greedy sot!” the northerner grunted, tugging hard on the bottle. He was the larger of the two, with a mane of shaggy dark hair and the reddened, bloated features of one who had been lost in indulgence for several years. His opponent was of roughly the same height but with a gaunt aspect and, despite the disparity in build, proved staunchly unwilling to give up his bottle. Lizanne took note of their clothing, standard overalls like hers, worn under knee-length jackets which appeared to have been stitched together from sackcloth. Her interest was piqued by the fact that they both had identical emblems stitched on the shoulders, a red-and-yellow symbol she couldn’t quite make out.
“Hah!” The northerner gave a triumphal laugh as he finally managed to wrestle the bottle from his opponent. The gaunt man lunged for him but fell face-down in the mud, drawing a delighted bellow from his companion before he raised the bottle to his lips, then froze as Lizanne got to her feet and stepped up to the grate. She clutched her blanket tight and peered out at him, eyes wide and apparently uncomprehending, unlike his, which had abruptly narrowed in vulturine calculation.