A Tailor's Son (Valadfar) Page 12

  “Let’s just get this over with. Why have you called us here?” Ernest shot Paul a look that could have carved through stone and he half hoped it would. All the way to street level so they could get the hell out of there. They’d taken many jobs from different people in their time and had met people in all sorts of seedy places, hidden rooms, dark alleyways, even the hull of a sunken boat along the coast once, but the foreboding and devastated catacombs were a new low.

  “I need you to kill someone .” Paul stated unflinching. The room fell silent. Neill had never been the sharpest knife in the drawer, but even he realised this was not something a priest should be asking.

  “ What is in it for us?” Neill asked to break the silence. With the small chunk of apple finally removed from his tooth and his mind free to absorb his surroundings, even he wanted to be out of there and fast.

  “ We are already short on time looking for the person that killed our old man, we’s got to be picky what jobs we’s be taking.” Ernest added, wishing that he had not postponed his search for the meeting.

  “ You see, this is where I can help you.” Paul interrupted. The fear he had once felt for these thugs had disappeared. He knew his time was running short anyway. Either William or his affliction would kill him, and soon. Smiling he continued. “I want you to kill William Bailey. He was the one responsible for the fire at your pub. Yes, William. Dark William, soulless William, and a mistake he was but soon you’ll clear it up.” Paul said without any hint of humour. Ernest’s brow wrinkled with obvious confusion.

  “He’s already dead, vicar. That maggot Harold already had us go looking for him. Took us a few days to realise he was a dead man. Now if you tell us where Harold is, that might buy you a few more days breathing.” Ernest asked, realising that if the priest was sending him after the same man Harold had, then there must have been some connection between them.

  “He is not dead. He should be, but he is not. You must find him, you must kill him.” Paul begged as he watched Ernest and Neill exchange a glance. Oblivious to the insanity of his words, he wondered what the two thugs were thinking. “Wait, this Harold, who is he?” Paul asked, and with that question his story was tied too irreversibly to Paul’s. Ernest told the vicar everything they knew about Harold. Paul did not want anyone to know what he had done in the catacombs and although at the time Harold still knew nothing, Paul’s fear of being found out flooded over his already paranoid mind, like water over a weakened dam. “This Harold should be dealt with too. Though in any way, no need to stab the chest, mortal men die easy. Sacellum made us weak. Ashamed of us, the creator was.” Paul rambled.

  “Just what is your involvement in all this, vicar? Why do you want them both dead?” Ernest asked. He was accustomed to people asking him to ‘remove a problem’ but a vicar wanting two people dead was definitely an unusual situation.

  “Does it really matter to the likes of you?” Paul asked bluntly. Ernest shrugged his huge shoulders. It didn’t matter really, they wanted him dead anyway, and it seems that William was at fault also. How he faked his own death they had no idea but if he had then he really would be eating worms in no time.

  “All right, let’s say a wunner’ and we’ll do it.” Ernest said looking towards Neill who nodded, eager to get back onto the street. “What do you mean a wunner?” Paul asked bemused. As crazy as he had become, Paul had never been part of Neeskmouth’s shadier side until very recently.

  “Sacellum, you work in a church but can’t even speak Neeskmouthain. I want a hundred, fifty a head.” Ernest said smiling. It was an expensive charge but he could tell the vicar was crazy and hoped this would mean he was dumb too.

  “I don’t have that kind of money.” Paul replied, furious that the goons would not do it for free. After all, so much rested on his work did they not know what they could be part of?

  “ Then it doesn’t get done, simple. Come on Neill let’s get out of this bloody place. The smell is doing my nose in.” Ernest said turning his back on Paul.

  “Wait.” The Reverend exclaimed. “Take the cross.” He offered, defeated. Paul needed someone to take care of William and if he had to pay, then so be it. The solid gold cross was a symbol of the Sacellum religion its four points marked the four ancient powers of the universe that the creator used to make the world and its finish represented the gold city in the skies. It was engraved with seven symbols each referring to one of the locks put in place to keep the spirit realm separate from the mortal realm and should have held value to Paul far more than it’s worth in coin but he had long since lost his faith.

  Ernest turned back to face Paul. He was sure he should have understood what the priest had said but it didn’t make much sense as a statement on its own.

  “What?” Ernest asked as he looked towards Neill to see if he had understood, it was a long shot at best and Neill just shrugged. “What the hell are you on about now priest?” Ernest added.

  “Take the cross from upstairs, its gold. That will cover the cost and I won’t tell the guard it’s even missing.” It would only be days before someone visited the church and noticed the cross was missing, but by the time they did and called the constables it would be too late. The O’Brien’s would have already found a buyer for the relic. With the fear of the demon Rinwid sitting out by Briers Hill the nobles would pay a king’s ransom for something meant to keep it at bay.

  “Neill, you reckon you know anyone that would be interested in that?” Ernest asked and Neill nodded. “Well then vicar. You better start digging two graves.” Ernest said.

  Chapter 14: A Final Goodbye to Faith Unbeknown to them, Ernest and Neill left Paul alone in the dark to face his worst fears. He knew that his time had run out. A convulsion rattled through his aged and scrawny chest forcing him to his knees as if to reinforce the conclusion. His bones clanged against the cold cobble slabs and the sharp pain that flared through his arthritis-ridden knee was nothing compared to the burn that engulfed his lungs. He pressed deeply into the stone floor with his hands, both for balance and to try to relieve some of the pressure growing inside him. Suddenly, Paul began clasping his face as the source of the pain erupted like a volcano charging for his mouth. The hacking cough that escaped sliced at his throat, adding a third agonising discomfort.

  Frozen in place while he wheezed for breath, Paul thought back to a year ago when the doctors told him he had a pox on his chest. They had told him that it was just a chemical imbalance, that they could cure it. They had tried bloodletting, for which Paul still carried the scars across his wrists and lower arms. When the knives had not cured it they turned to leeches but it was useless and had not worked. The only other choice offered to Paul from his low-paid practitioner was to cut the sickness from him. Being no expert on biology, Paul still had enough savvy to know that cutting his lungs to shreds would kill him. He had begun to pray, spending almost every free hour at the chapel altar begging for salvation. When it didn’t come, Paul had given up hope and in his defeat he turned to the bishop asking to travel to colonies, hoping that spreading God’s word might be his final salvation. His wish granted, he had boarded a ship for The Dark Gulf. Instead of his finding a new lease of life from his God, Paul found only more heartache.

  During his crusade through the colonies, his sickness began to worsen. At first phlegm had been the main problem but that was soon followed by a shortness of breath. He was so thankful that he had found the secrets of the Rakta Ishvara while in the temple, and had left the village as fast as he could, returning to the city of his birth to work on a cure before this devil’s curse took his life. As Paul sat cradling himself in his arms looking at the blood splattered floor, he knew that his time was running out.

  The work had been a failure to start with and was still not a total success, with William wreaking havoc on the streets. Paul had wanted to remove the need for feeding on fresh blood before he took the leech to himself but he no longer had a choice. Snapped back to the present by another minor chest murmur, Paul wiped h
is watering eyes, forced himself to his feet and, ignoring the agony that twisted every inch of his body, he made for the table. Because of his tests, Paul knew that by digesting enough of the Abrus herb he could take the parasite and have a few days before it took over completely. He just had to hope that it would be enough time to find the cure. It would have to be as he didn’t have enough time for doubts. He grasped the porcelain jar containing the herb, and began to eat, sparing not a morsel. Once the last of the Abrus leafs were forced down his sore throat, Paul took the tongs and removed the little black Rakta which began to wriggle excitedly at the promise of a new host. Paul closed his eyes tight and let the leech sink its hooking claws into his skin. The pain was excruciating and he soon slumped to the floor again, this time falling unconscious. When he awoke a new beast would stalk the streets of Neeskmouth.

  Chapter 15: Papers and Guard Reports While Paul was becoming the second Rakta Ishvara to plague Neeskmouth, Harold awoke early. He left the house while Muriel was still asleep upstairs, his plan being to find a paperboy selling the Times before the guard had even slept off their hangovers. The wind outside was the coldest yet and the clouds threatened something worse than the downpours Harold had grown used to in the past couple of weeks. Their fluffy outer edges and the yellow colour promised snow. Hoping it would hold off until he was back at Muriel’s house, Harold walked past the few other early risers and beggars, the tall stone buildings helping to shelter him from the harshest of the winds. The beggars had lit fires burning whatever rubbish they could find in the streets to stave off the cold and huddled around them like flies around a dung pile. Above him, Harold could hear the wind testing the tallest structures, nature battling against man. As Harold walked below he half prayed the wind would send them toppling down onto him, an easy escape from what Harold imagined he would soon be facing, but the huge stone buildings had survived two wars with the Dragons, and the occupation of the city, and it would take more than a strong wind to uproot them.

  His daydreams occupied him and it was not long before Harold found a young boy selling papers from within the archway of a closed bakers. He did not call out as normal, no banter, and no shouts in his pre-teen voice of what news had befallen the city. It seemed to Harold that the bitter cold had managed to curb his vigour for selling the few sheets of print, even with the residual heat escaping from the cooling stoves inside. When Harold dropped the tuppence into the boy’s hand, he muttered out with frozen thanks and stuck a rolled up copy of the paper into Harold’s free hand. Harold left him to his statue-like vigil over Meadow Road and walked to a secluded side street close by. Shadowed and sheltered from the bitter cold, his only company a couple of pigeons roosting above him, and a rather grumpy and defiant looking rodent sat cleaning its tail on the spokes of a carts wheel, Harold began to flick through the pages taking in the details of William’s latest victims.

  There had been another two prostitutes found dead, the number of dead already creeping into dozens. Nothing else seemed important at first glance. There was a poorly printed picture of John Johnson, the lord mayor of Neeskmouth harbour and a puppet to Malcolm Benedict. The article beside it went on to explain how he had been proud to open Waters-edge barracks. Neeskmouth seemed to be moving so fast it had left Harold behind. His family’s little summer cottage seemed like a different world and Harold pined for it so much. Disheartened, he crumpled the paper under his arm and made to return to Muriel’s house. Still being no closer to finding William, Harold had but one choice left. Harold had to read the guard record of the case and for that, Harold would need Muriel’s help. He’d hoped that the morning papers would have some magic solution to avoid the obvious insanity of what he was going to do next.

  Chapter 16: Laying Down the Plans Harold arrived back at Muriel’s home before ten o’clock. To his surprise she was awake and answered the door quickly. It was a surprise as neither of them had been sleeping properly. Harold had hoped she would have rested in until at least noon, to make up for the restless nights, and to ease the blackening bags that had begun to hang under her eyes like aged leather saddlebags on an old donkey’s back.

  “Where have you been? I’ve been worried.” She said, before sliding aside slightly, just enough to tease, forcing him to press too close than was proper in order to get in again. Harold was sure it was on purpose this time. He felt a small warm caress of breath against his neck as Harold crab-walked his way past. Once free from the confines of the entrance, Harold turned and waved his paper at her.

  “I was just getting this. I thought it might give me some clue as to where William is.” Harold explained. Muriel shook her head and closed the door a little harder than necessary. The aged wood creaked under the sudden pressure before falling silent. If the woodworm lurking inside the damp maple could talk, they would have told Harold that she was not at all happy with his idea of going after William.

  “ You’re still set on that idea, then?” She said cupping her hands and blowing into them to remove the chill that opening the front door had created.

  “What choice do I really have?” Harold answered. The thought of the summerhouse flashed across his mind once more. He could always take Muriel with him, and then she would not even have to work again. Harold could look after her. He wanted to be more than friends. However, if he left with her, then it would leave his father and mother at William’s mercy. He could not take the risk of the violent monstrosity that had devastated the guard wagon and the Queens and now countless poor lifeless girls across the city crossing paths with them. If William was left to roam the city and Harold had turned and run like the coward he felt he was, then he would never forgive himself and besides, someone had to protect the other poor working girls. Somehow, Harold had gone from being a junior tailor to a prostitute’s hero overnight. He wondered, if he did vanquish this would-be demon or renegade mage whether he’d get his own statue in Celebration Square, but it did not take long for the image of the polished marble in his imagination to warp to an old man holding a knitting needle. The stone face warping to one of sadness and then of pain as the images of the guard wagon took over and Harold could taste his own blood. William stood triumphant in front of Harold’s cold lifeless face grinning. Harold shook himself from the daydream before the fear paralyzed him.

  “ Honestly Muriel I would rather not have to face down a cold blooded killer. I would much rather go back to working at my father’s shop but someone has to do something and it seems I am the only one who knows who is really at fault. If I run the guard will still be looking for me and while they waste their time many more girls will end up dead.” Harold voiced the explanation more for his benefit than Muriel’s. Harold guessed that that is what really makes a hero. It is not someone who is unduly brave. It’s not someone as strong as an ox and fearless, a warrior fighting down hordes of enemies. It isn’t someone who travels the world making a name that kings will remember for generations to come. It isn’t even someone the bards sing of. No, Harold knew, deep down inside, right there and then at that moment, that a hero is someone who having no choice does the right thing – regardless of how bloody idiotic it is.

  “You have somewhere to go, if you were to run I mean?” Muriel asked and the question stumped Harold. The girl was quick; he had to give her that.

  “Yes and no, but that’s not the point. I have to do this .” Harold said, trying to shrug off the question. He daren’t say yes, if he told her about the summer house and she wanted to go with him. As scared as Harold was for the people of the city and his family Harold knew if she said she wanted to run away with him he would have gone in an instant. Muriel’s strong demeanour returned and she began walking towards him. Harold wondered if she was as robust as she looked, or if it was a front she put on enabling her to cope with her lifestyle and the slander poured onto her by her clients. Muriel sighed, but beneath the frustration on her face, Harold could see she was glad he had not taken his chance to run away and had instead chosen to help her. As Harold seemed
to at almost every moment he spent with her, he thought of what her story was and if anyone had been there to help Muriel before. He wondered if he was the first to show her kindness or whether her life had been a good one until something changed. He wanted to tell her he’d give his life to making her happy but he didn’t know how to find the words.

  “ Come on, take a seat you’re making the place look untidy.” She said pulling out her chair around the table. Harold joined her, keeping his chair back so things weren’t too cosy. Harold wanted nothing more than to cuddle up with her, to break down and cry against her shoulder but he had to be strong, if not for his sake then for hers.

  “ Thanks for not running away, Harry. I need you around.” Muriel admitted, and the room fell silent. Before Harold had time to reply, not that he had any words to use, she continued. “So what have you learnt from the paper?” She said changing the subject and looking away, her gaze staring out of the window into the world outside. Harold knew she had spoken so quickly because she was not ready to hear the words they both knew would have followed. Harold needed her too, and she could tell, but instead of taking the chance to tell her how he felt they spoke of William and the damnable newspaper.

  “Nothing much at all really it was a waste of time, but I had to try.” Harold said, shrugging his shoulders. “Oh, there was one thing. The Water’s edge barracks are open.” Harold jested as it was the only thing he could remember from the whole paper, purely because of the balding fat faced lord that had stared out of the paper at him.