The Grim Company

Beneath Notice





The news had reached the city earlier that morning. Thelassa’s mercenary army was on the move. Over thirty ships had departed the City of Towers and would be docking somewhere to the west over the next day or two. The remnants of Dorminia’s naval force were even now spread out in a defensive arc about the harbour in case the enemy fleet tried to attack the city from the sea.

Eremul shifted uncomfortably again on his chair, silently cursing the numerous physical ailments that had assailed him of late. Grand Magistrate Timerus arched an eyebrow at him. ‘Is something troubling you?’

The hawk-nosed steward of the city’s affairs missed little. Of all the men seated around the huge table in the Grand Council Chamber, Eremul judged him to be the most dangerous – with the exception, of course, of the evil old bastard brooding on his obsidian throne.

‘Only the thought of our beloved city besieged by the White Lady’s mercenaries,’ replied the Halfmage. ‘Ah, that and the small matter of the lump protruding from my arse.’

The new Master of Information frowned. It was the ratty old physician he had seen tending to Salazar in the dungeons. What was his name? Remy? The man had apparently earned his position for some service he had performed for the Council in weeks past. Of the thirteen magistrates that had been present during the attempt on Salazar’s life, only four had survived. New magistrates had been sworn in to replace those killed, but three seats still remained empty. It would seem that men possessed of the qualities to serve the city in the highest capacity were difficult to find. Deceitfulness, cowardice, shameless arselickery. Why haven’t I been made a magistrate?

‘Warm water with lavender extract,’ said Remy. ‘Apply twice daily, before and after rest—’

‘The Halfmage is not here to discuss his well-being,’ said the Supreme Augmentor, interrupting the physician-turned-spymaster. ‘He is to help prepare the city’s defences against the three thousand Sumnians who will soon be at our gates.’

Marshal Halendorf adjusted his collar and wiped at his brow, which was soaked in sweat. The fleshy commander of Dorminia’s army looked pale and was obviously unwell, but the urgency of the situation had demanded his presence at this council meeting.

‘The Watch number a thousand strong,’ he said. ‘The camp east of the city holds seven thousand militia. My officers are doing the best they can to beat them into an army worth a damn, but they are proving obstinate.’

‘Obstinate?’ repeated Salazar. Eremul almost shuddered at the annoyance in the Magelord’s voice. Creator knew he wanted nothing more than to see Salazar dead, but the truth was that the Tyrant of Dorminia terrified him more than anything else in the world. ‘They are reluctant to defend their homes? Their families?’

Marshal Halendorf went even paler. ‘They… ah, that is to say…’

‘Yes, Marshal?’

‘My lord… It’s been said by some that the White Lady doesn’t intend to destroy the city. Rather, she wants to, ah, liberate it.’

‘Liberate it.’ The Magelord repeated the words slowly, as if every syllable was a thousand-ton hammer beating down on the men in the chamber.

Eremul could feel his heart thumping in his chest. He wished he were anywhere but here at this table. Even down in the dungeons, strapped to a cold slab. At least the men who had cut off his legs were, loosely speaking, human. They had probably felt something while mutilating him, even if it was only a sick pleasure. Salazar would snuff out his life as if he were an insect and not give it a second’s thought.

‘You will have any man who fails to show sufficient enthusiasm whipped,’ said the Magelord. ‘Any man who voices discontent about defending his own city will lose his tongue. Am I understood?’

Halendorf swallowed and nodded.

‘We have lost the mine at the Wailing Rift. The ships we sent to the Swell have not returned.’ Salazar’s eyes narrowed in anger. His oiled moustache twitched. Everyone seated at the table drew back a fraction. ‘I will tolerate no dissidence in this city. I want mindhawks on every corner. Anyone plotting against me will be put to death. Men and women, the young and the old. I care not.’

‘It will be done, my lord,’ said Timerus. The Grand Magistrate cleared his throat nervously. ‘I must confess that we found no signs of the Thelassan ship which attacked us last week.’

Eremul tried to feign a bemused expression. He had already learned of the confrontation between a group of Augmentor-led Watchmen and a lone vessel from the City of Towers.

‘Brianna,’ said the Magelord, uttering the name like a curse. ‘She now suckles at the White Lady’s teats.’

According to the report the Halfmage had received, a group of soldiers had chased a small band of rebels from the village of Farrowgate down to Deadman’s Channel. A brief and bloody massacre would have followed but for the timely arrival of a caravel flying the colours of the White Lady. Aboard the vessel was none other than Brianna, formerly one of Dorminia’s most powerful wizards and a survivor of the Culling. She had chased off the pursuing soldiers with a magical assault that had devastated a small stretch of the coastline. Two Highlanders had been involved – as had, Eremul did not doubt, a certain insipid manservant.

The sudden appearance of a Thelassan ship to save the day struck him as fortuitous to say the least, but the exact details of what had transpired were no clearer to him than anyone else. He was trapped in the city and had no way of contacting those aboard the mysterious vessel.

‘My lord,’ said the Supreme Augmentor hesitantly. ‘We did not count on Thelassa sending wizards. It was my understanding the White Lady has no tolerance for them.’

‘She does not,’ the Magelord replied. ‘Brianna was… difficult to part with. Powerful, and yet demure. Loyal. Perhaps the White Lady has learned the value of pragmatism.’

‘I fear even your Augmentors will be hard pressed if she brings her magic to bear against them, my lord. My men are peerless on the field of battle, but against the arcane they are as vulnerable as any other soldier.’

The Tyrant of Dorminia was quiet for a time. ‘The White Lady herself will not come, that is certain,’ he said eventually. ‘However, her servants most assuredly will. The task of nullifying their threat falls to you and your men. I will deal with any magical assault, with the assistance of our friend the Halfmage.’

Eremul’s blood froze as Salazar turned to him with a faintly mocking smile. Even in his current weakened state, the Magelord could shred his mental defences and strip his mind raw of secrets with the ease of a man crushing a maggot between his fingers. ‘I will do anything to serve,’ he wheedled as convincingly as he could manage.

‘I know you will,’ replied Salazar. ‘Now then, Marshal Halendorf. Update me on the progress of the city’s fortifications.’

Eremul sat in silence as the magistrates discussed the upcoming invasion. The men at the table barely looked at him unless he was called upon to answer a specific question, and that suited him perfectly. He tried to make himself inconspicuous.

An abused dog. Salazar’s little plaything. He wondered what had happened to the White Lady’s agents who were supposed to be contacting him.

Perhaps they, too, had decided he was beneath notice.

By the time a Watchman was assigned to wheel him back to the depository, Eremul’s head felt as if it was about to explode from the tension. He was therefore less than pleased to find an unpleasant-looking fellow with a slightly panicked look in his eyes loitering before his door. He waved the soldier away and frowned at his unexpected visitor.

The man’s mouth dropped open slightly. ‘What happened to your legs?’ he asked.

Eremul sighed. ‘Why, I appear to have temporarily misplaced them. Who are you and what business do you have here?’

‘My name’s Lashan,’ said the man irritably. ‘I’m looking for a fella named Isaac. He owes me money.’

Lashan. Where have I heard that name before? ‘Does he indeed. And who told you he could be found here?’

‘Don’t you worry about that. I need the money before nightfall. The full one hundred gold spires.’

‘I know you,’ Eremul said. ‘You’re the assistant harbourmaster.’ He blinked as the man’s words sank in. ‘One hundred spires? Isaac’s a manservant, not a bloody magistrate.’

As it happened, Isaac was paid a gold spire each month, which was a reasonable sum for a servant. A hundred was more than he had earned in his entire time at the depository.

‘A manservant?’ Lashan’s brow wrinkled in confusion. ‘That don’t make no sense. This Isaac fella – or whatever he’s calling himself now – he’s got connections. There ain’t a month goes by when he doesn’t receive visitors from any place you could name. At least I assume they’re here to see him.’

Eremul’s eyes narrowed. This conversation was making him uneasy. ‘Why does he owe you so much money?’

It was the assistant harbourmaster’s turn to narrow his eyes. ‘I don’t see how that’s any of your business.’

‘Fine. Isaac isn’t here. I know where he might be found – but alas, I wouldn’t want to meddle in business that’s none of my concern.’

Lashan looked angry. ‘Don’t mess me around, cripple. You’re in no position to take the piss. If you won’t tell me where he is, I’ll just have to beat it out of you.’ He cracked his knuckles menacingly.

Eremul gave the glowering little man an ugly smile. ‘Why waste your energy on a legless fop like me? There’ll soon be plenty of Sumnians for your mighty fists to beat into submission. Unless, of course, the vastly important office you hold prohibits you from risking yourself in defence of our fair city. I expect it might, particularly if a sizeable amount of coin greases the right palms.’

Lashan snorted. ‘You’re a smart bastard, I’ll give you that. So I want to secure myself a position away from the fighting. Who wouldn’t, given the choice?’ He spat a glob of thick phlegm, which landed perilously close to Eremul’s chair. ‘I have a wife and three sons. Concerns a real man could understand.’

‘As opposed to a half-man,’ Eremul said quietly.

‘You got it. Now tell me where he is or things will get ugly.’ He took a step towards the Halfmage.

‘I’m afraid it’s too late for that.’ He finished his evocation, felt the magic spiral out from his fingertips and wrap unseen around Lashan’s limbs. The assistant harbourmaster yelped and then toppled over like an upset glass. He struggled to rise and got as far as raising his hips off the ground before collapsing back down. He tried again, to all outward appearances a man determined to get intimate with a particularly attractive pothole in the street.

‘What’s happening to me? I can’t move my arms or legs,’ he moaned. Eremul wheeled his chair forwards until he was looming over the struggling man. He peered down at him.

‘Now, now, Lashan,’ he said, his voice full of mock sympathy. ‘I’m sure a small thing like the temporary loss of your extremities won’t discourage you. I was quite looking forward to a good beating.’

‘You… you did this to me.’

‘Ah. Perceptive as well as brave. You should be more careful about whom you threaten.’ His voice became grave. ‘I would sit here all day and watch you squirm like a worm, but to tell the truth my arse aches and I quite fancy a lie down. Answer my questions and I’ll let you crawl back to your hole.’

‘Go f*ck yourself.’

Eremul sighed. ‘As if I had an alternative.’ He lined up his chair and ran the wheels over the man’s outstretched fingers, which were scrabbling at the dirt. Lashan howled in pain.

‘Keep it down,’ he said. ‘You wouldn’t want everyone to witness you being humiliated by a legless cripple, would you?’ He reversed the chair back over Lashan’s other hand. This time he felt the crack of tiny bones beneath the wheel. The cries of pain intensified.

‘That sounded like it hurt,’ he said conversationally. ‘And you have at least eight more fingers to go. Then we can work on the toes. After that, well, things get interesting. I have a vivid imagination.’

‘Argh! Stop, I’ll talk!’ The words came out in a rush. Tears tumbled from Lashan’s eyes, joining a damp patch on the ground beneath his chin where drool had gathered.

‘Good.’ Eremul glanced around. People were beginning to take notice. He wanted this over with quickly before too much interest was aroused. ‘What do you know about Isaac?’

‘Nothing,’ Lashan replied hurriedly. ‘I’ve never even met him. All I know is he pays me to turn a blind eye to vessels entering and leaving the harbour. I don’t know who they carry on board and I don’t care.’

‘How long has this been going on?’

‘I don’t… Three, maybe four years.’

Three or four years. How is this possible? He felt his jaw clench in anger. ‘Who told you to look for Isaac here?’

‘His middleman,’ Lashan replied. ‘Calls himself the Crow. Apparently they had a falling out.’

‘Where might I find this Crow?’

‘You won’t,’ Lashan replied. ‘He told me where to find Isaac and then said he was leaving the city. He was packing his things when I found him.’

‘He can’t leave. The city is under lockdown and the army is encamped outside the walls.’

‘The Crow does what he pleases. That’s all I know, I swear.’

Eremul released the magic binding Lashan’s limbs. ‘Isaac isn’t here. Whoever it is you’re trying to bribe, he won’t be signing your exemption papers. And one more thing,’ he added as the balding fellow rubbed the life back into his arms and legs. ‘Say nothing of this. Very few know I’m a mage. I’d like to keep it that way. Understand?’

Lashan nodded. He hovered uncertainly for a moment. The Halfmage sighed again. ‘Taking bribes is practically a job requirement for those with any authority in this city. I have no interest in reporting you. Get out of my sight.’ He watched the portly figure scamper away.

He felt as if he had been kicked in the balls. He had trusted Isaac. Could his manservant have been spying for Salazar? No, that was impossible. Isaac had known for months now that he was working against the Magelord. There was no conceivable way Salazar would have permitted the destruction of the mine at the Wailing Rift, so vital to the city’s magic supplies.

His head throbbed. Why had he involved Isaac in his schemes in the first place? The man was clearly more adept than any servant had a right to be.

Why did I send Isaac to the Rift? The question bothered him like a scratch he couldn’t quite itch. The more he thought about it, the more his head hurt. He was about to go back inside the depository and bundle the useless sack of flesh that was his body into bed for a much-needed rest when he saw the urchin approach.

‘Are you normal?’ the boy asked uncertainly.

Eremul stared at the lad, with his requisite grubby face and tattered clothes. ‘On balance,’ he said carefully, ‘I would have to say no.’

‘Oh.’ The urchin looked momentarily crestfallen. ‘What happened to your legs?’

‘My legs? You mean to say they’re not there?’ He looked down in mock astonishment. ‘Why, I do believe they’ve walked away of their own accord. Perhaps out of frustration at having to listen to the same question every single day.’

The boy looked confused. Eremul couldn’t help but feel a shred of pity for him. ‘I’m Eremul,’ he said. ‘Is that who you’re looking for?’

The young waif scratched his head and repeated his name a few times before nodding. ‘That’s it! Eremul. I was told to give you this.’ He reached down inside a filthy pocket and withdrew a rolled note. ‘The lady who asked me to deliver it gave me six coppers.’

He took the note. ‘Was this lady strangely pale and distinctly unmemorable?’

The boy nodded. ‘She scared me. But Bran delivered the note last time and he returned with a whole silver! He bought us sugar cakes and so much cider we were both sick everywhere. It was real funny.’ There was a hint of sadness in the urchin’s voice. Eremul felt something cold worm its way inside his chest.

‘How is Bran?’

‘He’s dead, mister. The coughing sickness killed him just last week.’

Eremul sat in silence for a time. Then he reached inside his robes and withdrew two silver sceptres. ‘One of these coins is for you,’ he said. ‘The other is to bury your friend. You know the whereabouts of Bran’s body?’

‘Yes. I hid him under some leaves in an alley near the Warrens.’

‘Wait here. I’ll be back in a moment.’ He wheeled himself inside the depository. A quick incantation later and the magically concealed words on the note were floating in the air before him. He read them once, gasped softly, and then read them again just to be sure.

He burned the note and fetched his quill and ink to pen his own brief note to the Collectors, instructing them to bring a young boy’s body to the cemetery near Crook Street for burial.