A Tailor's Son (Valadfar) (6 page)

“What have I done?”
Paul whispered to the shadows of his cold
and tiny room as he remembered back, but the shade did not answer
his question. Paul Augustus gave in to his anguish and wept.

A rather well dressed gentleman used to come into Spinks
and Sons to have his suits altered in size. He worked for The Times, a
newspaper press that had opened up a few months before the fire at
the Queens. The single ply broadsheet newspaper had started to
replace heralds in the streets, the once proud profession fading into
nothingness. With pennies the Times could get children to sell the one
or two sheet long parchments at half the cost it used to cost to pay
educated men to proclaim the news and the pages could be transferred
from person to person allowing the news to travel at twice the speed it
used to travel around the city. The Scorched Lands being slowly
cultivated back into a lush forest by a selection of Elves from the
Alienage had allowed the price of wood and thus paper to fall allowing
this new industry to enter the city and boom. It was the reason for the
noble’s regular visits to Spinks and Sons; he was growing fat on the fine
foods his booming business allowed. This well dressed noble had told
Harold that it was estimated that some three thousand Iron Giants
were living in Neeskmouth since the end of the war. They had all
settled when the Dragons had been beaten back and William had taken
the throne. The noble had a long moan about the subject and Harold
remembered thinking to himself at the time that most of them lived
close by in the wooden parts of the city and not near the stone houses
of the noble district so what did it matter to the posh reporter with his
creamed hair and manicured hands? The Iron Giants worked in the
sweatshops and factories or as pinch pricks for O’Brien.

When the war was first won everyone expected the Iron
Giants to stake claim to the noble parts of the city, and to start with
they had, but they were not cut out for it and it didn’t take long for the
more cunning Neeskmouthains to out-trade them or wangle their way
back to the head of the pile. After twenty-eight years, all but a handful
of Iron Giants that came to the city now made up a large part of the
lower classes. The only people lower down on the social ladder were
the poor mages that suffered at the hand of Baron Malcolm Benedict,
and below them in the criminal underclass were the Drow. The city
truly began to slide into depravity when Lord William had lost the vote
and was removed from office in 118ab. His successor had cancelled
most of the rejuvenation projects that William had started and it was
the reason many parts of the city lay unfinished. Not only had Malcolm
Benedict left the city unfinished he had brought back the purge of
mages. With magic outlawed and any mages who admitted to the gift
being imprisoned in the Tower there was little or no chance to make
use of the limited medical resources the city had to offer. Even less if
you did not have the wealth of the noble district to back you. The
gentleman from the Times had gone on to protest against the work that
a Drow pastor had been carrying out as he tried to establish a hospital
for poor and sick that could not afford private fashions. His answer
was to send them back across the oceans where they belonged if they
could not afford to look after themselves why should they rely on the
charity of the city and those, like him that had worked to make money?
During the many months he visited the small family tailors, he
complained to Harold more and more about this idea as its backers
grew and a plot had been picked to begin building it. Harold didn’t
realise it as he slumbered but when he awoke he would be more than
thankful that this spoilt swine did not get his way and the hospital
found backers from across the sea and had since been built on Duck
Street. The streets’ original name had been replaced to reflect the new
occupants and the strange apparatus the doctors often wore. The
porcelain masks which covered their faces and came off at an angle
looking like a duckbills to protect them from sickness and so called bad
air. Harold hadn’t really held an opinion either way as during the many
times he heard the Times reporter complaining, but he may not have
survived the explosion at the Queens tavern if it had not been built.

Harold awoke to the loud pounding sound of rain against
glass, matched only by the drumming inside his own skull. It was
another cold and damp Thresh night. Harold had no idea how many
hours he had been out cold. He could remember the fire at the Queens,
the heat and whiteness, then the beach. Amongst the confusion stood
out the memory of the burning man. He had seemed so real, but as
horrid as a nightmare at the same time. It took some minutes for
Harold’s mind to clear fully and the random confusion of his thoughts
to align with the waking world. The journey from the explosion to his
hospital room was a blank but even with his sore head Harold could
still remember the image of that man crawling from the flames. Harold
knew the man’s face from the papers, a bonus of The Times man’s
visits. He always brought a free paper and Harold often read them.
Harold tried so hard to remember the article from which he’d
recognised the sketched face. He had always had a great memory for
faces but could never remember the name that went with them.
Perhaps he was a criminal that had done something horrible or he
might have worked with the O’Brien’s. No, thought Harold, that was
not it. Suddenly his mind sparked and it came to him like a racehorse
across the line. He was the man found dead in Common Road. Harold
remembered reading the article on how the man had died. It was a
mugging, and a vicious one at that. There was no way that it could have
been him. After all, dead people do not generally get up and become
arsonists, yet Harold was so sure. He put it down to a concussion and
moved on from the haze ridden day dreams waiting for the rest of his
senses to awaken.

Laying there with his thoughts, Harold could hear the rain
outside falling heavily. His vision was still impaired and the darkness
did not help matters. He tried to push himself up the hard pillow his
head rested on without luck. Harold could feel himself being beaten in
his efforts to sit up. He was unable to gather his bearings with the pain
agonising every part of him it felt like he had bruised everything from
his hair to his toes. The weight of his own body pushing him back onto
the mattress, Harold felt defeated. He slid his hands up his body and
reached for his forehead, as his arms slipped out from under the
blanket that was laid over him. The cold instantly bit at his fingers and
goose bumps dotted his arms. Harold felt blood on his face and needed
to find out how badly he was hurt. His fingers quivered as they found
cloth wrapped around his skull. It was a bandage, coarse and softened
only by the fact it was damp with his blood. Harold tried hard to
understand what was going on but needed to stop the beating behind
his eyes to do it. He had a headache worse than ever before in his life,
and with a trade of long hours sitting in the dark trying to thread
needles, he’d had a few. It made sense that Harold was in a hospital but
the question became which one? He had heard some horrific stories
from clients that had lost loved ones to the hospitals.

When the mages went and the last of their potions vanished
from the market stalls. Butchers or nobles with a macabre mind took to
setting up small surgeries close to the dark streets of the harbours.
Most of them had no clue to the biology of the human body and the
healing arts they practised were little more than experiments. Mistakes
in surgery, people catching infections from the filth and open wounds,
as well as the medical practices themselves, killed more than they cured.
Harold knew he was safer battling his wounds at home rather than
letting some knife-happy surgeon at him with rusty implements. At that
moment Harold wished to the creator that the apron had taken just a
few more minutes to stitch together the previous night. If it had, none
of this would have happened. Harold would have arrived at the Queens
after the fire started. This small thought began an avalanche of
questions in his mind. Harold had to get some answers and soon,
before his head imploded under the pressure of his own thoughts. He
had stayed unmoving for long enough. It felt like days but Harold knew
it had only been minutes, the constant thud behind his eyes keeping
time like a pendulum on a grandfather clock. Harold pushed himself up
onto his elbows, not giving in to the pain this time Harold continued
until his back rested against the brickwork behind him, grunting with
the effort he allowed himself an imaginary pat on the back. The room
felt warm to him but his breath crystallised in the air and Harold knew
that it was the pain that warmed his blood from the inside blocking out
the chill. It felt like his insides were an oven, but Harold could see the
signs of cold on his arms. He was suffering from a sort of fever from
the agony and could only pray it wasn’t an infection from the dirty
sheets.

A light shone in the hallway outside and Harold could just
make out the silhouette of another door close by. If that was another
ward then this was not some small practice but could be only one of a
few places. As the darkness lost its power over his vision Harold began
to see in monochrome the room around him. He could tell there were
other beds in the large room and along the walls. Harold could just
make out an assortment of jars, no doubt containing leeches or body
parts in formaldehyde. A small table sat next to his bed and Harold
could see a jumble of shiny tools on it that looked more like something
a carpenter would use than a doctor. The sheet that covered him was
dirty so Harold dropped it to the floor, relieved to see he still had all his
limbs when it fell from him. He was surprised that there were no
candles or gas lamps in the room, the only logical reason Harold could
think of was that he was the only patient in the room and he had been
out cold so there had been little point lighting the room for his benefit.
That did make him wonder if the doctors had actually planned for him
to wake up or had they just left him here until a dead collector came
around.

At that moment something flickered causing a brief shadow
to darken the light outside in the corridor, it cast a deep phantom that
engulfed the whole ward in blackness. His heart leapt to his throat and
Harold hoped that it was just the wind blowing out a candle. Harold
thought of calling out but his throat was so dry that not even a squeak
escaped. He really needed a drink but the taste of smoke and the awful
smell of the spilt spirits still haunted him. The shadow receded but
Harold could hear footsteps clapping against the flagstones outside in
the corridor. The disturbance to whatever source of light that dimly lit
the walls around him had not been the wind as Harold had hoped.
Someone was coming this way. The light grew brighter as the candle of
the intruder to his thoughts grew ever closer and Harold got a better
look around the shoddy ward.

A wardrobe was open at one end below a barred window and
inside it hung six pure white nurses’ uniforms, including their silly hats
worn to keep their hair from falling into open wounds. The beds
around him were empty and some had the sidebars up, turning them
into odd-looking cots. The floor was surprisingly clean and partnered
well to a bucket and mop that looked to have had a lot of use. They hid
in the corner next to two peeling, white tables, similar to the one next
to his bed. Being able to see in colour in the light was pointless. Other
than the whites in the room, the only other colour around him seemed
to be gray. The floor was a gray, the walls were plastered gray and the
only hint of colour was a limp plant sitting isolated at the other end of
the ward and the odd stain on another of the beds that Harold didn’t
want to think about. Harold glanced to his right and took a better look
into the tools the surgeon had placed next to him. They were not, as
Harold first thought, just tossed on the table but were displayed rather
neatly. It was their strange shapes and jagged edges that gave them a
cluttered look in the dark. The tools themselves had fine ivory handles.
The fact that each one seemed to end in a point or blade, and a large
wooden hammer around the size of his fist sat next to them, meant
Harold didn’t want to stay long enough to see them being used. His
attention left the macabre tools as the footsteps stopped outside the
room. The door slid open and Harold prayed it was someone coming
to tell him he was fine and would be going home soon. As the door
opened a self-assured man strutted in and made straight for Harold’s
bed.

The visitor was full of confidence. The only other people
Harold had seen that cocky were the constables. As he got closer,
Harold began to make out the blue of his uniform, confirming his
suspicions that it was indeed the law and Harold wondered what a
constable would want with him. His uniform was impressive. It had
huge brass buckles all along its front and buttons that, with a little
imagination, could have been bronze ashtrays. It was neat, pressed, and
still dry. His visitor must have arrived by coach otherwise he would be
sopping wet from the rain which Harold could hear was still clashing
against the window. The officer wore a full top hat that nestled against
his huge bushy sideburns which he removed and tucked under his arm
as he drew close to Harold’s bed, but not before Harold noticed the
bronzed marking embossed in it. It showed him to be a city guard.
Harold thought that you could bet your day’s takings that the constable
was corrupt and no doubt on O’Brien’s pay; they all were.

“Good, you’re awake. I had half expected to have to sit around and
entertain the nurses.
” The officer jested. “
My name is Inspector Francis Fraser,
and I‘d like to ask you a few questions, my lad.”
He said to Harold in a voice
that was deep and dry showing an accent foreign to the city. There were
too many hints of southern Neeska blood chiselled into every syllable
for him to be able to hide his lineage, but strangely he still tried. As
much as he attempted to mask his accent, his bright orange hair, which
grew down through the slug-like sideburns into a full beard, gave his
true heritage away. The inspector was from southern blood, no doubt
from Stratholme and Harold guessed he hid it to allow himself to
progress in force. Most people in the city were still holding a grudge
against the kingdom of Stratholme because they did not send aid
during the Dragon’s Blight, it did not matter to most that they were
being ravaged by a plague that threatened the very existence of the city
at the time. A rounded fat face and a reddened nose showed signs of
heavy drinking and it was not until he sat down on the end of his bed
that Harold noticed the band the officer wore around his wrist marking
him as a high-ranking commander. Francis was stocky and from the
scarred knuckles, Harold knew that he was a man that got the answers
he wanted. Harold did wonder at the time if he was the type of man
who joined the guard force for the good of the city, or if he was just
another crook that had joined to abuse the laws for his own benefit.
The inspector coughed abruptly, and it was only then Harold realised
he had not replied for some time. Harold guessed the concussion made
his daydreaming habit even worse. He had been fortunate to have the
tendency, as had Harold not been daydreaming at the Queens
,
he might
have been quicker loading that barrel down, and have actually been in
the cellar when it went up in flames. His heart sank as Harold realised
that at some point the O'Brien’s boys would also be in to see him.
O'Brien no doubt had died in the fire and they would be out for the
blood of whoever started it. Harold was probably the only witness still
breathing. That must be why the inspector was with him but once he
left the hospital Harold would be at their mercy, all he could hope was
that he was discharged before O'Brien’s gang found out where he was
being treated.