A Tailor's Son (Valadfar) (9 page)

“So you just move in then lady?”
The young match girl Rose said to
the old woman who had been struggling in with a bag thrown over her
hunched shoulders.

“
Lady, I’m no lady my girl. Call me Granny most people do, but yes dear
sadly I have moved in.”
Granny said as she tried to smile through a mess of
gums that lined her thin wrinkled mouth. The irony that Dante missed
was that the old woman standing in front of him had once been
housekeeper to the Dean Estate. That was back before the war. She
had fallen on bad times when both the men of the Dean estate were
killed and lady Dean remarried a noble from Stratholme and moved to
the south. At one time Granny would have had just as much authority
to clamber aboard the Cassandra as Dante, but much like him she
wandered aimlessly within the city.

“
Be nice to ‘aver a Granny, don’t know where mine are. The old priest
used to be like a Granddad to me but he’s been weird lately and he’s starting to scare
me, don’t seem right no more that-one.”
Rose said with the usual carefree
chirp she carried. She’d lost both her parents and lived alone, scraping
by on what she could get for a few matches peddled to those with the
coin to spare, or from the gutters. She was not averse to eating half
eaten apples from the edge of the street if it meant filling her belly that
night but she never seemed to lose the thin smile that coated her lips.

“There’s a lot not right within this city now young miss. Help me up to my
room with this bag will you girl and we’ll see about getting you something to eat in
return.”
Granny said. It had been a long time since she had looked after
children and she’d never had any of her own. The late Darcy Dean had
been the closest she had ever got to having them and she felt she had
failed him. She’d been the one to pack his bag and send him off after
that stupid Dragons Heart but how was she to know he’d end up dead
and buried in the Scorched Lands. Maybe this young girl was her
chance to repent. She could look after her with what little she had
managed to hide away before leaving the Dean estate. Dante watched
as the two shuffled up the corridor. Once they were out of sight he
twitched his nose and pulled his backside out from between the wood
with a bit of effort, it seemed that time gorging at the Queens had made
him fat. He’d have to be extra careful not to bump into any flea ridden
cats in the rain filled streets or he’d be an extra plump meal for them.
He made for the door with a squeak happy he was still ‘just’ slim
enough so slide under it.

While William skulked around in the sewers ending the lives
of rodents and sludge shufflers alike, Harold was still counting his
breaths at Saint Bartholomew as morning came to Nywek the 9
^th
. After
the inspector had gone Harold did not think he would survive the
night. These were no gentle rogues that had come to visit him, they had
no honour among thieves and even less for those they figured to be
marks. They were not honour bound pirates of the White Flag era, they
were common thugs. Harold knew they would shed no remorse for his
death. He shut his eyes as soon as the inspector left and sunk back
down onto the paper-thin mattress. Through the sound of the wind
outside Harold could hear the mismatched clatter of the bow legged
thug clambering towards him. Harold could sense the other thug, the
one who had passed Inspector Fraser the money, had not moved. He
stayed back towards the door.

Before Harold could wonder why, a sudden sharp point at his
neck caused his eyes to snap open. Harold was staring into the deep
green eyes of his attacker. He could feel the cold of metal pressed
against his neck, not hard enough to cut his skin but enough that he
dare not swallow. Harold was scared half to death instantly and feared
for his life. If he had been a brave man maybe he could have fought
them off, leapt from his hospital bed and somehow made his way past
them. He could have escaped into the cold city streets where he could
have stolen a horse and ridden to safety, just like a hero from one of the
great stories he’d read during one of the cold winter evenings in his
armchair. But he was just a tailor’s son and could barely hold himself up
on his elbows after his injuries let alone take out two of O’Brien’s own
blood. If the stories of O’Brien boys were to be believed, and Harold
had no reason not to believe them, then they were a pair of right evil
bastards. With the city torn in two more than ever before between the
haves and the have not’s, the criminals’ numbers had flourished but
sitting at their head was O’Brien. There had to be a reason for it.

“
Don’t worry. I’m not going to kiss you.”
The goon closest to him
whispered with a laugh. Harold could smell the halitosis on his breath,
obviously a lifelong friend. Harold felt a sudden warm sensation drip
down onto his bare chest and realised the point of the knife had
pricked his skin. It was no more than a scratch but the blood that
trickled from it confirmed Neill’s threat. With the slightest wrong
move on Harold’s part or at the will of this man, Harold would become
another dissection dummy for the surgeons to play with. Harold bit
down hard and clenched his teeth together. The urge to swallow grew,
as did the pain, but Harold dare not risk swallowing.

“So, Harry is it not?”
The thug by the door asked. “
It would seem
you were at the Queens when it went up. We have a few questions for you. You see;
the relic that was our old man died in the fire. But I’m guessing you realise that, or
there would be no need for my brother there to be getting so close to you.”
He said
nodding towards his brother with an almost worried smile. “
Now you’re
lucky in some ways, my-old man was passed-it and it’s about time that I got to take
over the running of the business. Still, someone’s got to bleed for his death. What kind
of son would I be if I let it go without retaliation? So you might want to answer quickly
if I was you. My-brother can get a little excited
.” The words confirmed
Harold’s suspicion that even Ernest was unsure of his brothers’ sanity.
“
Now, how is it that your scrawny little self managed to climb out of there alive, when
my own kin went up in smoke?”
The room fell silent as the statement hung
like death in the air. Harold could not answer with all the pressure on
his neck. The slightest movement would sink the cold edge of the blade
deeper into his flesh. He had this sickening feeling that they were going
to kill him. A sudden flicker of shadow before Harold’s eyes and the
Drow heavy had pulled the weapon from his throat. Harold waited for
a second or two to see if he was dying. When there was no sharp pain
across his throat he realised he had not been sliced open and instead he
remained in the living hell that surrounded him. The knife’s new resting
place did not give the impression of being any better for him. Neills’s
face was so close to Harold’s cheek that he could feel every foul breath
that Neill took. Harold would have turned his face away from him if
the knife was not now touching his upper eyelid. With the shakes Neill
had from the scurvy Harold could see the point wobble back and forth
like the pendulum of a grandfather clock.

“Now, you will be telling me what you saw or you won’t be seeing much of
anything, you get my meaning? Pop’s always brought us up to believe an eye for an
eye.”
Neill joked. The knife slid back with a sway of his hand and Harold
took his chance to blink. His eyes refocused and settled on Neill’s
companion, Ernest, who was pacing back and forth by the door like
one of the governors guards outside the Handson Castle. As if he knew
that Harold’s gaze had fallen on him Ernest stopped and looked
towards Harold. Harold could see he was uncomfortable and it
surprised him to realise that he did not like what Neill was doing any
more than Harold did. He guessed that is why he had not taken over
from his father before now, he lacked the killer spirit. A stupid man
may have thought this meant he was safe but Harold knew he was not.
Just because Ernest did not want him dead did not mean the short
goblin of a man next to him would not as soon as kill him than waste
his time with questions. It was then that Harold felt the expectance of
Neill by his side and Harold mustered up an answer.

“William.”
Harold damn near shouted the name, his voice
trembling with a mix of fear, anger and just plain fatigue. The random
outburst seemed to confuse matters but what else could he say. He dare
not say William’s last name, as scared and confused as Harold was he
was clever enough to realise that telling the over-eager Neill that it was
a dead man whom had killed his father was suicide. Harold thanked the
gods for the moment of genius that struck him. “
Some drunk in the street
called out his name just as the cellar went up.”
Harold lied. The lie slid out
easily and Harold just hoped they would not notice.
“I don’t know any
more than that honestly. Your father paid me well and I needed the work. I would not
have had anything to do with this.”
Harold added hoping his time serving the
family would give him the benefit of the doubt at the very least.

Brandies
.” Ernest called out from his doorway patrol.
“
Don’t be going too far though Harry. I wouldn’t want to have to go visit
your father if you’ve been telling us porkpies. Say, he still own that place up on East
Street
?” Neill asked sounding disappointed that no one had been killed.
The question was followed by another stench ridden and
deep-throated snigger. The anger peaked in Harold and he wanted to
attack the swine, to stop him before he got to his family. Harold had
never really had a fight before but he couldn’t just stand there, or rather
lay there, while the brute threatened his sick father. Harold started to
slide up on his elbows ready to, well - do something. He wasn’t really
sure what he had planned but Neills’s fist came down and across fast,
striking the side of his face with a blow like thunder. Before he could
do anything Harold felt the world shake as he sunk back into the
sheets.
“You leave them alone.”
Harold demanded but he knew his
warning was worthless and so did Neill. He let out another chuckle
from between his toothless grin.
“You got spirit and that’s for sure. No wonder the old man gave you th
e
job as barrel slugger. You’d just better hope you got sense not to have lied to us
.” Neill
said to Harold and his stomach churned like so many sour curds. Neill
turned to address his companion and joked. “
Let us leave her ladyship here
alone. She could most definitely use her beauty sleep.
” He said and paused. “
He’s
still a damn sight better looking than your ma.”
Neill added with a belly laugh.
“
That’s your mother too you half wit
.” Ernest said with a sigh. It
was clear who the brain in their partnership was. Neill slid the knife
into his jacket as if nothing had happened and made for the door.
Harold could hear the two of them bickering playfully as they left the
ward. Harold had been lucky for now, but he had to get to his father
and warn him. The blow to the head had left him shaking and darkness
soon swept over him once more. It seemed his body was not ready to
deal with the stress it had been put through in his dreams the cottage
called to him once more.

While Harold’s concussed brain went on another a trip down
memory lane that would last all of three days, William’s story
continued. Later they would blame it on trapped underground gas but
Harold always knew it was William. He had killed those four sewer
workers and it was before the last corpse had even cooled that William
decided to seek out Paul Augustus and find a cure for his hunger. He
was still conscious of what he had done even with the evil growing
inside him. Unlike the demons that were rumoured to be stalking the
night without any remorse, William was still human enough to feel the
guilt for what the presence inside him made him do. It was on the
evening of the 17
^th
Thresh that William left his sewer home and headed
for a confrontation with Reverend Paul Augustus. It would be the last
time he was truly himself before the Rakta Ishvara devoured the last of
his humanity
.

William listened under the roadway grate while he waited for
the crowds to pass by. It was still raining heavily which meant the
streets would soon be empty as even the pinch pricks did not stay out
in weather this bad. A whistle in the distance and the clatter of
horseshoes marked the departure of the guard officer William had seen
entering the hospital earlier that very evening and more than once in
the last few days. He’d over heard the officers’ name called out by the
driver of the black guard cart. Francis Fraser had come back to see
Harold a few times while he rested, unaware of the world around him.
But thankfully for Harold, as William watched he was unaware who it
was Frances had been coming to see. If he had then William would
have had to kill him. The Rakta Ishvara would have made sure of it. It
could not risk anyone knowing it was within the city before it was
strong enough to rule it. A final glance through the slits into Duck
Street and William pushed the grate open and its rusted hinges creaked
with the effort, the grate had only been down a few years but the small
budget put into manning the sewers had made for shoddy crafts and
the poorly set iron had rusted almost solid in the wet winter. William
felt the new strength inside him grow further as his arms strained under
the force of the reluctant grate. The creature within William’s chest
beat and squirmed sending a pulse of stale blackened blood into
William’s muscles and with a sudden snap, the aged metal broke free,
landing some yards away from its housing. William climbed up into the
rain-sodden air enjoying the fresh, if not somewhat fierce wind.