A Tailor's Son (Valadfar) Page 2

  Taking a closer look at her Harold noticed that she was young and not one of the leathery skinned old hags that he normally saw at that time of day. It was a horrible thought but Harold knew that some of the girls working the streets were as young as twelve or thirteen years of age. It sickened him to his core to think that this poor girl might actually be that young. He could tell she was nervous by the way she clasped her hands together, all the while fiddling with the pocket of her blouse which hung loosely from her young body. She did not seem to carry the same hard-edged attitude as other bangtails that Harold had seen throughout this area of the city, but if she was as young as he thought then maybe she had not long been on the streets. That made the whole situation worse for Harold. It upset him to think that this little girl still had a heart; it was easier to think of prostitutes as soulless beings plying a trade. Harold had no love for whores or their work. He didn’t understand why they didn’t leave the city and go tend to the farms or head off to one of the southern cities away from the reach of the Poles or Drow and start again, but Harold thought for a moment about what would make such a young girl turn to a craft like this and his disdain for his employer at the Queens flashed through his mind once more.

  Whatever the young girls’ story, O’Brien would have had a part to play in it. Harold’s anger was due to the fact that O’Brien was no doubt her pimp. He imagined her story. Her mother died in labour as was common and her father, a drunkard like most men from the wooden built part of the city had most likely abused her. She had finally collected enough courage to run away, just for O’Brien to find the poor little girl begging on the street somewhere, no doubt asking for nothing more than a scrap of bread. O’Brien would have spoken to her in his charming Drow accent and offered her to come back to the Queens for a meal. He would have given her a bed for the night, no doubt treated her really well, all the while getting her drunk on ale without ever a mention of its cost. Then when dawn came, he would have demanded payment for the ale, threatened her, and finally when she couldn’t pay, he put her out to work, the bastard. The workhouse would have been better for the poor girl, although Harold did admit only barely. His heart sank at the thought and as if she sensed the sorrow in his eyes the girl looked away. She brushed her front down, loosening the rags to reveal more of her young bosom. Small freckles dotted her chest that mirrored those around her nose and cheeks. Harold could imagine from her small trim jaw that she would have been attractive but for the swelling on her face. One eye was almost closed and yellowing from the bruising.

  The story in his mind continued. O’Brien put the girl out to work but she was not bringing in enough money so he taught her what happens to those that did not deliver what O’Brien wanted. He beat her up a little, not enough that she would be permanently useless to him, but no one cared if a prostitute has a few bruises and before the blood on her nose had even had time to dry he’d sent her back out on the streets to stand in front of Harold. It was then Harold noticed the filth on her, so much dirt on her clothes that maybe calling them clothes was too much of an honour. They were more like rags that had once been a cheap cotton dress but all shape had fallen from it so that it hung loosely over her small shoulders. One sleeve of her blouse was torn and Harold wondered if that had been an overzealous customer. Harold looked at this unfortunate girl in such sadness. She approached him with the same statement as before in her brittle tone as his glance met hers.

  “Alright, quarter pence, what do you say?” Listening past the cold she carried and the slur from the alcohol, Harold could hear in her voice that although young she was likely to be a little older than he first thought. It was hard to tell under all the dirt. No matter her age, she was desperate and that was for sure. If Harold had thought of it at the time, he would have wondered why she hadn’t moved towards the ships with the rest of the whores who wanted easy coin, but Harold guessed she had some reason to avoid sailors. It saddened him that there were so many nightwalkers along the docks. The place was littered with them, all hoping to make an easy penny from the sailors coming in from their long voyages. There were plenty of nameless young women or old hags for them to satisfy their urges with while they visited the shore. Most of the poor women received a black eye or a blooded nose from their swift visit lovers. As much as Harold hated the sensual crafts, he hated the men that abused such desperate women even more. It pleased him that fate would have the last laugh as the cowardly bastards had no idea what they would carry back with them onto their ships. They would have a rash, and a vile one at that, but it served them right no doubt as the scurvy took them and sent them mad. Harold thought for a moment as he stood there awkwardly. He did not want the services the young woman offered but he felt obligated to do something to ease her pain or be as bad as those that caused it.

  “How much do you need to earn for a room tonight?” Harold asked, feeling around for the loose change in his pocket. He didn’t have much to give as most of what they earned went straight to his father and the little Harold had, well, he had reasons not to want to be carrying it on him after sunset in that part of town.

  “I only need a half penny more. I will do whatever you want and I’m clean too. No warts or anything.” She replied trying to sound provocative but being clueless as to how to achieve it in her drunken state. That might have been enough for some of the potbellied pond-scum that had somehow managed to get a handful of coins to bed her but Harold had no interest in anything but getting her off the street and to work before the kegs ran dry and O’Brien turned his anger towards him.

  “Anything I want? You promise that?” Harold asked her as he pulled the lint out of the handful of small coins he’d found at the bottom of his pocket. It was his whole earnings for the day but Harold knew he would still have food waiting for him when he got home, more than could be said for the redhead.

  “Yes, for sure, mister no matter how weird, less it’s magic. No magic.” The young girl said, eagerly snatching the small handful of coins from him. “Cor-blimey, there’s got to be almost two pence here. What weird stuff you after?” She said and suddenly her face changed. It seemed darkness had seeped into some people’s hearts ever since the demon broke through the spirit realm into the waking world. There had been bodies found that seemed to have been bled dry and rumours of cults spreading that worshiped the evil presence in the crater outside the city. There had been talk of working girls going missing. It was clear she was worried just what Harold would expect for such a payout.

  “I want you to get home, get off the street. A young girl like you shouldn’t be working like this.” Harold said with a smile. Suddenly his attention was diverted as a coach rattled by passing between him and what he would loosely call a woman, almost knocking them both over. Harold took his chance to trot on quickly leaving her behind. The near collision had startled him and it took him a few minutes to notice the leaf that had entangled itself in his cropped brown hair. As Harold removed it he began to daydream again. He had needed the money really, but not as much as the girl probably did and it was worth it for the thought that for just one night she could sleep peacefully, just as peacefully as Harold had in the bed at grandmother’s cottage.

  The Queens was already in full cheer when Harold arrived. The proprietor, O'Brien, could be heard singing some old folksong, the patrons inside clapping and jeering him on. There was no doubt in Harold’s mind that O’Brien was half-cut already, usually finishing off a whole bottle of whisky before the sun fell behind the horizon. Harold wondered if it was from the money of poor innocents like the little girl he had passed, or was it on the backs of tortured souls that he had build his criminal empire. Harold thought to himself that at least he had helped save her from the vile sweaty job for at least one night. As he relished on his good deed for the day Harold looked straight up above the towering buildings and into the sky. As much as he hated what had been happening to Neeskmouth in the last few years, he did have to give the city its due. The sleeping beast that was Neeskmouth with
its disgusting polluted breath had created such a spectacle. The last golden rays as they fought their way through the thick smog above the city were a secret beauty only known to those of them the nation classed as unfortunate, providing they didn’t breathe in too deeply. The nobles locked themselves away safely in their homes while the poor still worked or begged for coins from those barely any better off. It was as if the Gods made the little beauty just for them, a silver line to an otherwise blackened cloud. It was a shame that the sound of a drunkard vomiting in the street spoiled it for Harold that night.

  Harold’s eyes grew accustomed to the coming darkness as he drew his vision back down to the streets. He didn’t know why but his gaze fell on the buildings as if it was the first time he’d seen them. They were not huge stone towers like those estates at the noble end of town. No, these were not the rich four or five storeys high masses of brickwork. They did not overhang with polished windows and sculptures that had been painted in the dried excrement of the flying rats that littered the skies. Instead they were a mix of wood and clay, simple hovels made for purpose over beauty. The buildings were all so square and unwelcoming, coated in blackened ash and moss from the ever wet air. They still managed to both impress and impose on Harold even after all these years. Most of the city was built in the same style, crushed together with no space between the buildings. The overhanging balconies blocking out what little of the sky could be seen behind the smoke. The city was growing so quickly that there was no space for houses and it would not be many more years before stone giants took their place instead, if construction kept going at the pace it had since the war ended. With the prosperity that the golden age had brought, people came from miles around to work in the factories that were sprouting up like weeds. The city hummed with the sound of machines and the hammers of stonemasons building places for the cheap labour to live. It made a man feel like each street was a secluded island with only one or two spots within the city where they could see the sky clearly, and that was why with the light bouncing off the clouds and the moon starting to climb ever higher in the sky, Harold savoured the moment.

  The Queens tavern was a real contrast to the buildings around it and was one of the last of its kind. Harold did not know its history fully but it was one of the oldest buildings in the city and had survived the fire that had swept through the harbour when the Poles first invaded. It was one of the last reminders of the days before the city was occupied by the Iron Giants. At one time, not so many years ago, the stone buildings ended at the Market Crescent, aside from the statues at Celebration square, but now they pushed further north and only the most common parts of the city were still made in the old way, with clay and beam. It had been both a blessing and a curse for Lord William Boatswain when he opened trade with the Dwarfs of the Goldhorn Mountains. The city prospered and grew, giving birth and helping fund the Brilanka monks’ march into Neeska. They had been called in to aid in the battle against the shadow demons of Briers Hill. Their first Cathedral had started to be constructed with this newly found wealth just south of Celebration Square. Close by a massive wall that stood five men high was built running around the natural Neeskmouth ridge from the west and south of the city, to save it from ever falling to barbarians again. The city folk felt safe and blessed but not everything had been so wonderful. With so much money flowing into the city and so quickly, the sudden boom of new technologies released from within the secretive Dwarfen halls, trouble was guaranteed. The machines themselves rivalled even the magic of mages and lead to corruption, the likes Neeskmouth had never seen. It was not only pirates now that threatened the harbours. With their wealth from bringing in these Dwarfen masterpieces the Brilanka monks funded a crusade that saw mages outlawed and in 118ab William, one of the saviours from the return of the dragons at the turn of the century, was voted out of office in place of the current lord, Malcolm Benedict. Malcolm Benedict was a mad man, obsessed with stamping his religion across the city and getting more and more Dwarfen machines. How the Queens tavern had survived all that and not been forcibly torn down in the developments, was a mystery. On the other hand, maybe it was not. After all, it had been in the O'Brien family for almost seven generations. The upper classes of the city were so corrupt that the O’Brien’s no doubt held a lot of sway with them and that had kept the place as it was. There were even rumours of their coercion reaching as far back as the monarchy of the dethroned Handson’s. The Queens was a small thatched building, not as pretty as Harold’s beachside home but it did have its own charm, if you looked under the blackening of age through the thick clouds of smog.

  The side street was emptying and only a few people headed along it making their way home. Harold watched them from the shadows wondering what stories their tired and worn-out faces hid. As always they seemed oblivious to his presence as they busily scuttled home like disturbed woodlice from under a dampened log. As Harold untied the barrels from the horse and cart he prepared to move them into the tavern; the drunkard who had ruined the sky painting earlier, staggered off out of sight and Harold was alone once again. It was strange how it always happened. The city had a twilight period where the beggars vanished to go off to sleep wherever it was they went, the shops all closed and the streets emptied. Given another half an hour the streets would be bustling again with a different type of Neeskmouthain, but for now those families that could afford food ate and those that could not still sat around the dinner tables. Once the meals were finished, the tidal pulse of Neeskmouth would change; the street gangs would come out, the prostitutes would move away from the docks and into the markets, the children would vanish, and the lantern man would light the city up which seemed to signal the seedy underbelly of Neeskmouth to awaken.

  The wagon of ale was waiting unattended by the opened cellar hatch. Very few places could afford to leave things unattended nowadays, but no one in this part of the city would steal from O'Brien. Half the whores in the district worked for him, and most of the men he called friends were more than a little disreputable. The few constables that had been issued to this area of the city got more of their pay from O'Brien than they did anywhere else. When William had first brought back a city guard he had made the city safer than it had ever been, but after he left the castle the budget for the safety of the common man was sent upstream and didn’t make it past the last noble brick. If you wanted anything O'Brien could get it for you and if you wanted anyone disposed of, then he could do that as well and the guards knew that. For the small pittance they were paid they turned a blind eye to anyone whose allegiance lay with the O’Brien family. It was rumoured O’Brien had connections to the pirates on the White Isle, and even as far as Portse on Gologan, another one of the Drow pirate coves that dotted the furthest reaches of the map.

  The smell of spirits almost choked him as Harold approached the trapdoor leading into the tavern’s cellar. Harold rolled the first keg in front of him with relative ease making the most of the silence before the city re-awoke. The sun had gone down and Harold was tempted to light a match to see if he could shed some light down into the depths. His hand was already sliding within his white sleeveless jacket for his tin, but common sense took hold just in time. The fumes, that were strong enough above the hatch to get a sailor pissed, would ignite, and Harold did not fancy burning to death that night. He admitted that he could really have used the lie down but he would rather have done it above ground than below, and anyway, Harold had never been a fan of worms. Pressing his sleeve against his face Harold had to wonder if one of the barrels must have fallen from the racks and smashed. It if had been a full keg, like the smell suggested, then half the rats in the catacombs would be waking up with a hangover, if the eye watering smell was anything to go by.

  Harold gazed into the darkness trying to see what had happened down there and reached gingerly for the rope. The last thing Harold wanted to do was lower down onto broken fragments of keg, so he hesitated. They could not afford two sick people in the family and Harold had his good shoes on
. They were red leather and decently made – a favour from a local cobbler in return for a repair to his daughter’s wedding dress the last year. Harold swung himself back giving up on seeing anything by leaning over the dark hole, once up onto the cold cobblestones of the street he laid the keg on the ground. He still used his arm to cover his face as Harold tried to peer over the edge again. It was no good. He would have to get down there and clear up the debris before being able to lower the fresh keg in. Harold couldn’t afford to lose any more money after giving everything he had to that working girl. He doubted very much O’Brien would accept it was a mistake if he broke the barrel by lowering down without clearing the way first. As Harold had reached for the rope a second time, he thought, just for a moment, that he’d seen something move down there in the darkness. Harold took it to be nothing more than a large rat, which was another one of the many plagues that littered the docks. It did occur to him that the shadow had seemed too big for a rodent but then, what else would it have likely been.