The Greater Good

By Stephen Brown

Copyright 2015 Stephen Brown

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Coming soon in Paperback. See author website for details

http://www.thestephenbrown.co.uk

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For

Moochie & Pepper

xx

My Thanks to:

Sue Wilde and my Parents

for wading through and

giving their thoughts

And also to

Moz Dockner

For a few course corrections.

Not that you’d know it from this story,

I’ve made you the historical figure of the 2nd Emperor.

Not bad for a bit of proof-reading, eh?

And as always

To Jutta

Table of Contents

Title

Dedication and Thanks

Contents

Map – Kingdoms and Empire

Map – Bergen

Map - Werpenstad

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

About the Author

Other Titles

Chosen Charity

Kingdoms and Empire

The Province of Bergen

Werpenstad

PART ONE

CHAPTER 1

Pursuit // Rumours // Scandal

The foetid moisture clogged in his lungs with each new breath. The air was thick and stinking, and though he could not see far in the malingering fog, Joshua Puss knew that the marshes of the Borgersveldt spread out before him for miles and miles and miles.

Squinting his eyes, he peered through the mists; visibility was down to about four yards. He grimaced; this was not going to be easy. Still, he had tracked his quarry this far and was not about to stop now. Taking note of what few landmarks were around, he heaved his pack from off his back and set to work making markers. Speed was important, true, but it would count for nothing if he just blundered off into the fog and got himself lost.

With well-practiced skill it took him only a few minutes to tear off a number of ragged strips of cloth and attach them to the stakes and metal pegs which he carried in carefully tied and rolled up bundles. Fixing these five dozen markers onto a series of bandoliers, he shrugged them across his shoulders and made a final check: his sword was loose in its scabbard and he had a bolt loaded in his crossbow, the string nice and tight, but with a safety block holding the trigger back until he sprung it. One more look at his surroundings and then he set off into the swamps, his expert eyes picking up the spore he had been following for the best part of a day now.

Progress was slow but sure - Joshua lifted himself into the concentrated mind-set that had become second nature to him after eight years working as a tracker. Constantly checking all around to familiarise himself with any new landmarks showing through the gloom, he would push a flagged stake into the spongy ground whenever the last one was at the boundaries of his vision. In the absence of any wind the cloth strips hung limp against the pegs, and he made sure to place each marker so that the knot of the rags lay in the direction he had just come. That way, if the visibility cut even further, he would still be able to retrace his steps back out of the treacherous marsh.

Puss would have been unhappy to be labelled bounty hunter, but it was true enough that he had long since turned his hunting skills away from catching the game surrounding the Stad to the pursuit of human quarry. Only through official channels mind you - they were all legitimate marks. He had a full time contract with the Council and never did any private work. Nor would he ever, he had vowed when he had begun. If it ever came down to that he would go back to hunting meat for the butchers’ blocks, or the never ending supply of caravans that plied up and down the Imperial Highway or the numerous other roads in the area. Better that than to accept questionable coin from dubious patrons in all those no-questions-asked arrangements that he knew went on. No, he would never do that. Joshua Puss had decided that from day one.

An hour of careful progress into the Borgersveldt and the air was heavier than he would have thought possible. The fogs had closed in around him so thick that Puss felt he could almost slash through them with his knife. His lip curled ironically at the thought. If only I could! The saturated mists had cut visibility down to almost nothing.

The wispy white tendrils clung to him now like a spectral horde of beggars, and he found himself waving an arm in front of his face at times in a frustrated effort to clear their grasping hands away. Feeling for another flag, he realised he was down to his last bandolier - his final twelve markers - having been forced to cut the distance between them as he progressed further and further into the fickle swamp.

He was still able to follow the spore - just. Squatting down every few steps he expertly sighted a bent reed here, a flattened clump of tussock grass there and, rarely, the occasional partial print in the mud on one of the raised patches of ground. These prints had become the cause of some anxiety for Joshua as, in places at least, they seemed to bear alarming similarities to... well, to animal tracks, but he knew that was just his imagination playing with him.

The spongy terrain distorted everything, he knew, and in these mists, with all the stories everyone had heard about the Borgersveldt and the creatures that lived there... He had pushed all those childhood stories out of his mind and focussed as he pressed on, but when he reached the next patch of raised mud and crouched down to inspect it the stories came screaming back with a vengeance, filling him instantly with an earth-shattering terror.

There, pressed into the sodden turf on a mound rising some two feet above the water, Joshua Puss found himself staring down on a complete footprint.

It was not entirely intact, but as whole as you would ever hope to find in a pursuit such as this; the only thing was, having found it, Joshua almost wished he hadn’t.

There was none of the usual elation at finding such a solid trace, none of the anticipation it should have brought. Instead, it filled Puss with dread, pure and simple. His heart sunk and shrunk away, seeking solace in the very depths of his soul, and he suddenly become aware of the icy chill that hung around him in the fog. Gaping down disbelievingly at the print, a murmured prayer rose unbidden to his lips, a prayer from his childhood, dredged up from his deepest memories to every God he knew.

Puurs protect me, Talal spare me, Griet give me grace, and Sweet Sulaika show me your face, to guide me on, to guide me on, by the Pearl, by the Egg, by the Eye and the Sun, hear the plea in my heart and the words on my tongue, don’t come for me Miu, my time isn’t done.

Faced with that print, Joshua’s whole world came crashing down and he became in an instant very, very scared. All that he had ever known as good, solid truth, all the certainties that had propped up his world and made it safe had been knocked out from under him, all his comfort zones dissipated into the now quite terrifying mist.

Joshua suddenly became aware that he was alone, isolated and very small.

*

The temple town of Werpenstad was a modest, but important one, lying as it did on the Great West Road, the paved Imperial Highway running the length of the western border of the Empire, linking Cipriana and the Partition Lands in the south with Delta and the coast in the north. It was walled and gated, with a standing militia force of some five hundred regular troops plus officers. This, coupled with the occasional sorties made by the patrolling regiments of the Imperial Army from Spastad, meant that the citizens of Werpenstad had always felt safe. Always, that is, until last night with the rising of the Eye, the sinister and ill-omened third Moon whose blood red gleam was as fickle and evil as a predatory cat.

Rumours had already flooded through the Stad like a plague of rats. Although none of the normal burghers had been directly affected, this was the biggest story to erupt in Werpenstad since... well, it was just the biggest, simple as that.

Somebody had tried to assassinate the Burghermeister, in his own home!

The attempt had failed, more through outrageous good fortune than anything else: a bucket of soiled water thrown from an upstairs window by his teenage daughter had distracted the would-be assassin at the critical moment, and the feathered dart intended for Heinrich Dupont, Burghermeister of Werpenstad still in his first year in office, had embedded itself instead into the wooden panel right beside his cheek.

Quivering with the force of the impact, a thick sheen of poison glistened off the needle in the flickering light of the candles illuminating the room from their ornate holders, and a single, oily globule dropped soundlessly to the flag-stone floor. The assassin had fled unseen through the sewers, if the stories were to be believed.

The Burghermeister had gone into shock, understandably, but was otherwise unharmed and had been whisked to the Stadhuis by the Vice-mayor’s personal guard almost immediately after the alarm was raised. The militia had been mobilised in full force and the town’s tracker summoned.

Shortly before the troopers systematically starting scouring Werpenstad, Joshua Puss had dropped down into the sewers via a culvert in a narrow lane not far from the Burghermeister’s residence, following the very faintest of trails he had managed to pick up at the scene.

It was now sundown the following day and all of the Stad’s gates had remained locked since the attack. Vice-mayor Lord Karl Kreigel had taken marshal control of the town, deeming the Burghermeister too badly shaken up to make any responsible decisions - indeed, to make any decisions at all at the moment, for all the man seemed able to do was keep himself curled up in a shuddering ball, moaning softly to himself and crying out loudly when anybody touched him.

Karl Kreigel was the head of what had been a noble family up until around a hundred years ago, before the Secession Wars when the lowland countries in the north had split from the Kingdoms to form their own Empire. Though the landed gentry no longer existed in this part of the world, his family and others like it, had retained through merit a high status in the hierarchy of the new Imperium and had remained prominent citizens ever since. The Kreigel family had lived in these parts since the foundation stones of the Stad had been laid centuries ago and had, for the most part, been popular lords.

Despite the fact that the feudal system had been torn down by Bogdan Janosik in the building of the Empire, the honorifics Lord and Lady had been retained, although unlike in the Kingdoms they had separated themselves from, they were merely used as titles and carried no weight or hereditary authority whatsoever.

Lord Kreigel had been an important member of the council for getting on five years now, and currently held the position of Vice-mayor, second only to Dupont. Amongst his other duties he was also head of the Stad’s militia and he took the defence of his town very seriously.

It was his own liveried soldiers, bearing the Double K of his personal heraldry, which formed the ring around Dupont’s residence, keeping back the small but persistent crowd which had hovered near the Burghermeister’s house since the news had broken. Even though neither Dupont nor any of his family remained in the house, Kreigel could not run the risk of the crime scene being contaminated by the hands and feet of curious burghers.

Despite the offer of this protection remaining after Karl’s investigations were complete, the Burghermeister had steadfastly refused to return home, preferring the sanctity and solid stone structure of the elaborately carved Stadhuis, the main administrative building and centre of government in the Stad. Kreigel had also seen fit to surround this four-storied edifice with a detachment of his own personal guard.

Your family has been removed to another residence Burghermeister, Peter van Buren, the Secretary to the Council explained. All the council members were present in the high-ceilinged Council Chamber, an emergency meeting having been called at first light that morning.

But they’re safe? You’re sure? Dupont asked, still ashen-faced and trembling these scant few hours after the attempt on his life.

I’m positive Burghermeister, van Buren assured him. They are staying over at Councillor Hoskam’s, whose house has also been put under guard.

They’re not to be allowed back do you hear? Dupont leapt from his chair, vehement in his insistence. No matter what any of them say! Sweet Sulaika’s mercy, if Florentine hadn’t emptied her chamber pot... his eyes clouded over and he sunk his head in his hands, beginning to sob once more.

Won’t you try to calm down Burghermeister, please, van Buren tried to placate him, leading him away from the table to the arrangement of cushioned seats over by the fireplace. Meanwhile a discussion was going on further down the table between Lord Kreigel and Councillors Ann de Ludgaard and Lars Schtomm.

But to have your own soldiers out there Kreigel, is that absolutely necessary? the elderly de Ludgaard pressed. I mean, people are talking - what does it say about the rest of the militia?

Don’t you trust them? Schtomm asked him in his usual bellicose manner. By the Bhard, you trained them man!

Kreigel frowned at the man’s tone, as idiotic and reactionary as ever. "We cannot afford to trust anyone Lars, not until we know who this assassin was, and who sent him. Besides, it’s not a question of trust; the militia already have enough to do - they’re spread pretty thin between the increased patrols, and conducting house to house searches in the area around Dupont’s house."

With regards to the Burghermeister’s residence, came in the oldest member of the council, the much respected and wily Maxwell Weisselsbloed, why post anybody there at all? Perhaps a better approach would be to keep a more discreet eye on the building; a less visible presence. Maybe then this assassin might be lured back, if he thought there might be another chance to strike...?

Over by the fireplace the Burghermeister jumped to his feet again, knocking back his chair and spilling the decanter of fortified wine van Buren had given him to calm his nerves. I’m not going back there! he shouted in a panic-stricken voice. You can’t make me! he jabbed a shaking finger at Maxwell. No one can make me! It’s a death trap! The house is a death trap and must be knocked down! Yes, you must knock it down, do you hear? Demolish it, it’s the only way!

Sit down! barked Kreigel across the room, fixing Dupont with a withering stare of contempt. This is what happens when you allow a slob like him to govern, he thought, disgusted at Dupont’s total lack of composure. The man had completely fallen apart. One trying incident and he had gone to pieces. Talal’s teeth, he was the Burghermeister - did he not think he was going to make enemies?

Kreigel had run for office in the same election as Dupont and many had been surprised when he had been beaten by the guildsman. A merchant’s silver-tongue was the only difference between them, it had been said. Undoubtedly Dupont would have been prepared to grease a few palms where Kreigel would not.

Seeing the Burghermeister sit again beneath the intensity of his gaze, Karl turned to Weisselsbloed and continued. This killer’s not coming back, or I very much doubt it. Not straight away at least. This was no hack and slash, back-alley thug. He was a professional, presumably highly trained and equally highly paid. The only reason I wanted the house guarding was to keep it clear of burghers so I could examine the area and try and get something from the crime scene.

Ahhh yes, Weisselsbloed smiled, once a policeman always a policeman. He turned to Philips Brandt sat next to him, only recently elected to the council. He used to be Assistant Chief Commissioner in Spastad you know, he whispered conspiratorially. Years ago now of course. Cut his teeth in Aub and Gansen too in his youth, way back. He turned again to Kreigel. So you’ve been over the place already have you?

Indeed. I examined the crime scene extensively this morning.

And did you find anything?

Indeed I did, the Vice-mayor nodded. Indeed I did.

*

CHAPTER 2

Seequar // Assassin // Investigation

Slowly, Joshua Puss finished easing the stake into the ground, trying not to make a noise. Having done so he switched his hands to grip his huntsman’s crossbow. Had he heard something? He was sure that he had - but then he had thought that already on five different occasions in the last five minutes, including once when he would have sworn on Griet’s Grace that he had glimpsed a pair of burning red eyes peering malevolently out at him from the mists; but there had been nothing there.

He felt a faint gust of wind whispering chill against his skin, rolling down lazily from the Spears, the colossal barrier range of mountains to the west. Moving cautiously on as the fog temporarily thinned, he swung his crossbow in a wide, smooth arc, taking in as much of the - There! What was that?

Through the swirling mists, painted blood red in places where the setting sun was able to penetrate the thick white mist, Joshua thought he could make out the faint outline of... something, away to his right. How far, twenty yards? It was difficult to tell with the fog dancing and gyrating in the breeze, but that was probably not far off, as that was about the furthest he’d been able to see at any time since he’d entered the Borgersveldt, and these were about the best conditions there had been.

There was a shape out there. Definitely something, on the very edges of his vision! Keeping low and placing each step softly and deliberately in the treacherous ground, he made his way over to the silhouette rising out of the gloom.

The figure did not move as he stalked towards it, and when he got to within five yards Joshua knew why. He had thought it looked vaguely man-sized in the murky light and in fairness it was; up close though, the tracker could see that it was nothing more than a gnarled and twisted, long-dead tree, clinging to a mound of raised sod with roots almost rotted through.

Clucking disappointedly, Puss lowered his crossbow and looked around. The tree and its hillock lay on the fringes of an area otherwise completely submerged in green, stagnant water, its flat surface broken only by several clusters of reeds and bull rushes, poking up sporadically as the shallow lake stretched out into the mist-smothered distance. Well, at least he could use the tree as a marker as he was almost out of them now; he was down to his last three.

But there were tracks here! By the foot of the tree there were fresh prints, the earth slowly oozing itself back into shape as he looked on, and Puss didn’t need his well-trained eye to know that his quarry had stood right here only moments ago and, by the looks of it, had turned back to look his way! They went off into the water and were very fresh - another minute and they’d have been swallowed up again completely by the spongy turf. He was close - he must be really close, but verdomme, where had he gone? Staring out across the knee-high lake there was sight nor sound of no one.

Now he had a decision to make - Puss knew he needed to close him down fast, before his markers ran out; otherwise he would either have to give up the chase, which he was loathe to do, especially being so close, or else push on regardless and trust his ability to negotiate the marshes until he came back onto his pegs again. That was risky. Good as Puss was, the Borgersveldt was notoriously dangerous - and it was vast, stretching for miles all the way back up to the mountains.

Narrowing his eyes in the fast-approaching darkness, he made his decision and stepped down into the calf deep, brackish water, into a clump of rushes which stretched up like clasping, skeletal fingers grasping desperately for air. Under the murky water his foot brushed up against something soft in the mud, possibly a fallen branch or a log, rotten through. As he began to step over the obstruction though, there was an explosion of water directly beneath him, accompanied by an evil, blood-chilling squeal.

Erupting from the shallow lake came a violent blur of movement and it took Joshua a second or two to realise a knife had been driven up through the inside of his upper thigh, slicing through the major blood vessels there and sending wild jets of blood spurting out in all directions. He was stabbed again as he fell, three times with lightning speed, before his body splashed headlong into the muddy waters of the swamp.

His vision darkened almost instantaneously as he went into shock, just prior to bleeding to death. As his eyes began to fade completely and the pain finally cut through the adrenalin and burst agonisingly into his system, he saw a hideous rat’s face leaning over him, dripping wet from where it had lain hidden beneath the brackish waters, and made all the more grotesque by its sheer size.

He took in the figure as his life ebbed away, from the vermillion ovoid eyes within the depths of its sodden hood to the two inch incisors jutting out at a terrifying angle from its over-sized mouth. The thing stood a little over four feet tall, although it had a natural stoop, so it was probably a bit bigger stood straight up. It was sleek and muscular all the way down and was covered in slick, wet fur. Its horribly pink and hairless tail was repulsive, as thick as an arm at its root, but was mercifully submerged beneath the waters which still churned with the sudden violence of the attack.

The last things he saw were the chittering monstrosity stooping down closer to him, the spittle from its mouth mingling with the swamp water that dripped from its muzzle, and also the two foot tube which the creature had been breathing through, which he had mistakenly assumed to have been just another reed. And he saw a wickedly serrated knife, already stained up to the hilt with his blood.

The rat-man, an abhorrent perversion of all that was natural, took him by the hair and ripped his throat open with one final vicious slash and let him drop. It then stalked off, back in the direction they had both come, leaving Joshua Puss bobbing and floating on the surface, bleeding out into the green-tinged lake.

*

Standing, dripping still with rank swamp water, the rat-like figure sniffed the air. Catching the scent he was after, he set off, pausing only occasionally to make sure he was still on the right track. He could have followed the human’s trail of stakes and flags, but this way was more direct.

He had been good, for a human. No match for a Vit-vit Brood Brother though and especially not one as proficient as Seequar. Always the eyes with humans; sometimes the ears when they could be bothered to remember they had them, but almost never the nose, and that was a big failing.

Nevertheless, he had been forced to lure the human to an ambush site and lie under the water, breathing through his blowpipe stuck out from the middle of a clump of reeds. He had cut him down easily enough - he was far too fast for a clumsy human, even without the element of surprise - but the crossbow had made him extra cautious. To avoid the chances of a lucky shot had meant taking time; time that could have been better spent getting back into the human settlement and observing. Seeing how the humans responded was vital in determining how he was going to finish the job.

Weak. Weak, inadequate creatures making up a puny, substandard race. They were no match for the Vit-vit, but were just too capable to be ignored, and too numerous to be confronted head on, not that that was ever the Vit-vit way of doing things. Seequar’s kind preferred to remain hidden, subtle, effecting changes unnoticed from the shadows.

In Humanity, the Vit-vit saw a race that, whilst being inferior to them in every way, was nevertheless curious and intelligent enough to become a problem if they were allowed to continue their progress unhindered - or unguided, as the Masters of the Four Ages had decided centuries ago - and so it was that they had set out to manipulate the direction the troublesome surface dwellers’ society was headed through a number of wildly-differing methods. This Brood Brother’s activities in Werpenstad was just one of those ways.

Seequar was furious, and his blood red eyes glowered with a barely repressed venom in the misty twilight. They would suffer now, those from his nest, he chittered to himself as his nose honed in on the tiny hillock he had been aiming for. His heightened senses had made him dodge the falling effluvia unconsciously, but on this occasion it had happened at the exact same moment he had taken the shot!

Normally such a tremendous boon, his lightning reflexes, this time it would have been better to have been soaked. Then his dart would have spiked the fat, fleshy neck of the treacherous, ungrateful human and the poison would have done its work. As it was he was soaked anyway, only now he had to go back and finish things off! With extras, he snarled with absolute, vengeful hatred.

He had missed, and Seequar had not missed in a long, long time. He was a Brood Brother - a seven-scar Brood Brother - and it was not expected of him to fail in such simple tasks. The Vit-vit word for his organisation was Tzeen-tek, which in the multi-layered language of the rodent race could be translated as the Shapers of Days, Dealers of Death, the Cowled Manipulators, and so much more. They were a branch of the elite, the highest level of the strictly structured society the Vit-vit lived by, and Seequar had been given the task of overseeing this area of human habitation and seeing that events played out in the way the Masters had decreed.

And he had missed.

He had not waited around to take a second shot. Although it would have taken only a second or two, the Lore Knots of his order stated very clearly this was invariably a mistake. The Tzeen-tek had centuries of experience in the arts of skilful assassination and had found that overall it was better to withdraw immediately, and then return to strike again later. A Brood Brother was an investment of a lot of time and a lot of skills, and this was the way that best ensured the operative’s survival. Needless sacrifice was frowned upon as a waste of precious resources, and was therefore never encouraged. Whatever difficulties arose from delaying the action could be assessed and dealt with just as long as the Brother was alive.

How much time to leave it depended upon too many variables to be the same in every instance, but it was generally recommended that another opportunity should be looked for some time within the next sun-cycle. There would always be added complications of course, but in most cases it had been found that shock could still be depended on as an ally during this period, and although the defences were usually raised, a breach could be found by an astute and diligent Brother.

Of course it was far better not to miss in the first place, but mistakes were sometimes made, that was inevitable, and as long as the task of the Tzeen-tek was carried out then no harm was done. Perhaps even lessons could be learned for future generations.

Dipping an arm into the muddy waters around the small island, his clawed fingers closed around the bundle he had secreted there during the chase. Removing the waterproof pouches from the soaking rag they were wrapped in, Seequar affixed them in their customary positions about his body. Then, marking out a stylised rat’s head in the pulpy earth, he gave his thanks to the Half Tail and set off again - back in the direction of Werpenstad.

*

It was the morning of the second day after the attack. The sun had risen slowly over the rooftops of Werpenstad, as if not wanting to shed its light on the deeply troubled town. The Council was seated again around the large, pine table that dominated the room. Karl Kreigel sat with his set of notes in front of him.

No one heard or saw anything, he said.

"Well what a surprise, sneered Councillor Schtomm volubly. You amaze me!"

Indeed, Kreigel conceded, that does always seem to be the case, but on this occasion I actually believe it to be true.

A town of nearly sixteen thousand burghers, the sceptical Schtomm retorted, "and not one of them saw a skulking assassin creeping through the streets? In the early hours of the evening, an armed man in the Quartier Veeldonk? Come on - every street is lit, verdomme!" he swore.

"Not every street, Kreigel corrected him, and besides, I don’t believe he was actually on the streets for all that long."

What?

It is my contention that the villain utilised the sewers, not the streets, to get in and out of Veeldonk - and probably in and out of the Stad itself.

A stunned silence greeted Kreigel.

Can we assume you have some intelligence to back this up? Weisselsbloed asked. Knowing you as I do Karl, I take it this is more than simple guesswork.

Indeed. Kreigel shuffled the copious stack of papers that lay before him.

Ahh, I was wondering about that lot, the old councillor commented in his dry, cracked voice.

"Gentlemen, I have thoroughly examined the Burghermeister’s house and the immediate area around it and feel in a position to make several observations regarding the nature of our attacker and certain of his methods.

As I was saying, there are portions of Veeldonk which are not lit, but there are lanterns all around the front of Dupont’s house, the frontage looking out onto Amaaz Avenue. On examining these lamps however, my men discovered that two of them had been doused prematurely along with another two streets away.

"My, that is clever, Lucinda Tole commented. How can they tell?"

Their wicks were still lengthy relative to the others along the Avenue and most of the wax - those lamps in Veeldonk not using oil use the very highest quality wax - was still present. There were nods and murmurs around the table, both impressed and surprised.

The most interesting is the one two streets away, on Kleinekaas Straat. You may or may not be aware that Kleinekaas has a culvert half way down its length leading into the sewer system. It is here that our assassin made his entrance and took his leave.

Really, Councillor Schtomm said, unconvinced.

Yes.

He came up through the sewers.

That is how it looks Lars, yes, Kreigel sighed.

And on what basis is this assumption being made?

"That’s what I’m trying to tell you man! On the basis that it is the only way he could have got in and out again without being observed! Otherwise somebody must have seen him, as you just said yourself!"

I heard that someone was sent down there after him, Councillor Rood said from down the table, but Sophie Verwarmt spoke over him.

The sewers are too small for a person to traverse, surely?

Actually no. They are easily big enough for a person to get around right throughout the Stad, and in Veeldonk they are quite sizeable brickwork tunnels, as they are in Guilderslaan and, to a lesser extent, here in Centrum.

Perhaps you are unaware, Mevrouw, Weisselsbloed said in an amused tone, looking over at Verwarmt, "that the Stad annually employs somewhere in the region of twenty to twenty five Rat Catchers on a full time basis. I believe they are termed Verminators in the Treasurer’s books - books which, I had thought, fell under your remit..."

There was a stifled laughter from several of the other councillors around the table. Sophie was a prickly, confrontational old woman who had rubbed all of them up the wrong way at one time or another, so a laugh at her expense was not to be missed.

Well yes, of course, she snapped back, ruffled at the implied slight. "I just assumed those men all operated above ground."

Well that is not the case, Lord Kreigel cut in, eager to steer the conversation away from pointless bickering. "Even though it cannot be said that all the districts in the Stad benefit from the same quality of facilities as Veeldonk, they are all serviced by the same complex warren of tunnels and shafts which all eventually flow out of the Stad in over a dozen subterranean channels."

There were maps made, years ago, Weisselsbloed remembered, although no doubt the sewers have been added to since then, where the maps have not, so I dare say it’s hardly worth digging them out, wherever they’re being kept these days.

But aren’t they grated? another of the councillors asked. Blocked off to prevent exactly this sort of thing?

And to collect any large items of debris, yes, Kreigel answered, but I wonder when they were last properly maintained? When was the last time any of my esteemed colleagues has brought up the drains in council? I’ve been a member these last five years and I can’t remember ever having any proper debates on the state of the sewers. In fact I can barely remember even any mention of them in all that time. It may be that they are still blocked off, some of them if not all, he continued, but the fact is we just don’t know. We have relied completely on the Catchers to keep things in order underground, and perhaps to the Stad’s detriment. It is certainly something that must be redressed, but at a more appropriate time. For now, as I said, this is how I believe our villain gained ingress and left again.

Didn’t we send somebody else down there? Rood asked again.

Indeed. Immediately upon the alarm being raised I sent for Puss.

The tracker?

Yes. Fortunately he arrived before almost everybody else and with it still being dark, he noticed the blacked-out lanterns and was able to detect a faint trail which took him directly to the culvert in Kleinekaas Straat. He descended immediately.

And?

We received a pigeon from him late last night. The message reads, he checked a thin strip of parchment pinned to a larger sheaf of paper amongst his notes: "Tracked quarry, edges Borgersveldt, WSW. Single individual. Following."

And since then?

Nothing. However, I believe he only had one bird with him - speed was of the essence at the time and the cages, though small, are quite bulky.

Brilliant! interjected Schtomm again. So now we’ll have no idea what he’s found until he shows up again, if he ever does. The Borgersveldt goes on for miles! A man can get lost in there in five minutes and never be seen again!

True, Kreigel replied, but we have to trust that a man of Puss’ capabilities would not allow himself to get irretrievably lost; he would turn back before he let that happen.

Of course he may also have caught him! van Buren suggested hopefully.

Yes, Weisselsbloed agreed. Remember that the conditions in Borgersveldt are the same for the fox and hounds alike.

Indeed. I have dispatched a ten man team from the militia to head to the fringes of the Borgersveldt following Puss’ heading. They have spare horses in the hope that, should it be the case that he has caught him, they can intercept him on his way back. I am anticipating we should hear something within the next two to three days at the very latest.

And in the meantime? There must be something else we can do.

Indeed. From my investigations I have been able to put together a rudimentary profile of the would-be assassin, to give us an idea of the sort of man we should be looking for. If I may...? The assembled heads nodded and Kreigel consulted his notes and then cleared his throat.

I believe our felon to be only a very short man, something under five feet tall. He is both nimble and very athletic with long, powerful fingers and most likely is not from around these parts - a foreigner, or else somebody who has travelled extensively to foreign climes. Not only is he highly intelligent, but also calculating, well able to plan ahead. If he plays the game at all, I would suggest he would be an extremely proficient Kings and Emperors player.

Silence filled the hall momentarily.

"You are joking, surely?" Schtomm guffawed.

Most assuredly not, Councillor.

Oh come on! Five feet tall? A foreigner with big hands? Ridiculous!

"Powerful fingers I said. If I might be allowed to explain...?"

"Oh yes, why not? We’ve already wasted most of the Council’s time, why not take the whole day? Please go ahead - tell us all about this acrobatic, foreign dwarf with powerful fingers." Schtomm threw himself back in his chair and folded his arms, scowling.

"Will you curb your tongue for just a minute Lars, and let the man speak? Weisselsbloed reprimanded in an unusually scolding voice. This is a most extraordinary piece of deduction - if he can back it up it will no doubt help the Militia immeasurably!"

Kreigel bowed his head in the old man’s direction and sifted through his papers until he found the notes he was looking for. "The Burghermeister was shot at by a handcrafted dart approximately three inches in length, fashioned from some kind of hardwood with a feathered flight at one end. The point was coated in an oily, viscous substance which subsequent tests have proven to be highly toxic.

"From this alone we can conclude that our assassin was a skilled enough craftsman to be able to put together his own darts and, this being a somewhat exotic method of attack, we can also infer that if not actually foreign then he has at least travelled to foreign parts and brought back some of their practices."

Chandrigal maybe? Philips Brandt asked him. I have heard there are Bushmen living in the jungles there who utilise the blowpipe - it is said they can pick off a monkey in a tree from forty yard away!

Possibly, Kreigel answered, "but I couldn’t say for sure. After all, I believe they also use them to a limited degree in Delta. Wherever he came from, he left the needle lodged in the wall on a level with Dupont’s neck, and it was travelling upwards when it hit. From the angle the needle was embedded in the wood panelling we can deduce the trajectory of the flight and following that, the location it was fired from.

"On the facing wall there are two windows opening out onto Zwart Laan. The windows are leaded in a diamond pattern and in one of them the leads had been lifted and bent backwards so as to remove a single panel of glass. No tools marks were evident, so we can assume he has long, powerful fingers," Kreigel emphasised the words for Schtomm’s benefit, glaring at him as he did so.

The level of this single pane was consistent with the angle of the dart in the wall and from this we can estimate the probable height of the assassin, as he would no doubt be firing his blowpipe from a stance that was comfortable to him. Now, I do not even have a rudimentary knowledge about firing a blowpipe, but after a few quick experiments I was able to find what I thought to be the most comfortable posture for me, both left and right handed. Transferring these likely stances back to the window I think we can put a figure on his height with some confidence. As I said, I believe our man to be only between four and five feet tall, somewhere around four foot eight or nine would be my best guess.

Could we be talking about a child then? Brandt asked.

Kreigel screwed up his face. As far as height is concerned, yes I suppose we could, he nodded, but I do not believe it to be the case. There are too many other variables. Apart from the level of planning involved in the attack -

Which could have been done by a third party and explained to the would-be assassin.

"Indeed, but as well as the minutiae you also have to look at the crime as a whole, from an overall perspective. Put yourself in the villain’s shoes - we are talking here about the assassination of the Burghermeister of a well policed, walled and gated town on a main Imperial Highway. Think about it. If you were willing to risk such an act in the first place, would you entrust it to a child? Would you let all your plans and schemes hang on a minor?"

Hmmm... Brandt pulled a face. No, probably not.

Nor would I. There is just too much about this to put it down to hirelings, children or otherwise. The location for the hit was well worked out, the routes in and out planned beforehand and... Kreigel paused and shook his head. Gentlemen, I have been involved with the field of criminality for many years and this is just... different. I’m not sure I can explain it better than that. This is intelligent, sophisticated and very well planned. It smacks of professionalism.

One of the Families from Verdun perhaps? Weisselsbloed asked.

It’s possible, but why? When has Dupont ever been anywhere near Delta? I thought all his companies traded with Spastad and further south? Weisselsbloed could only shrug and none of the other councillors were able to add anything. Well, that is something for us all to ponder. In the mean time I suggest we all remain vigilant. I have stepped up patrols to ensure a good visible presence in the streets and on the walls, in case he does try coming back, but as much to reassure the burghers as anything else - we cannot allow them to think lawlessness will be tolerated, otherwise Puurs only knows how this may escalate.

Can we open the gates again? Councillor Hoskam asked. We cannot afford to let trade suffer unduly - life must go on after all.

Indeed. I don’t see why not, especially given that Puss has confirmed he has already left the Stad. We will double the men on the Gates though, and instruct them on what to look out for.

Chandrigali iron-fingered midgets I assume, said Schtomm acerbically.

"What would you have us do, Councillor? Kreigel snapped angrily, slamming a hand down onto the pinewood table. What would you do? Come on, you’re all too ready to sit there and rubbish anything that’s said, but do you actually have anything worthwhile to give in its place?"

Schtomm grew even more sullen at having been rounded upon. "Well, I suppose if he really did come up through the sewers, I’d send a squad down there to take a look around."

"I have already sent three units of men into the sewers, each accompanied by a Catcher guide, just in case he is still down there. I will also be holding interviews with the remaining Catchers later on today. I have been hearing some pretty wild rumours coming from their quarters since the attack, albeit third hand. No doubt some of you have too."

Oh, not all that again! councillor Rood laughed.

"All that, Marco?"

Those bird-brained stories of monsters and terrors lurking in the dark - you never heard them? Rood glanced at the faces around the table. Most of us here have. Rats the size of dogs was the last I heard, walking upright on two legs even! Go to St. Barneva’s if you want crazy stories, Lord Kreigel, you’ll hear plenty of them there without asking around for any more! In fact, isn’t there a Catcher in there at the moment? A recent inmate, I think.

Be all that as it may, Karl carried on undaunted, "these Catchers appear to be the only ones who know anything about our sewers right now, so it would seem prudent to me to at least listen to what they have to say. No doubt there will be a good deal of chaff, but there may well be a piece of corn or two in amongst it all. The interviews are scheduled for later on this morning and I would welcome perhaps two or three others to help me in assessing the Catchers’ stories as well as their states of mind."

*

Any survivors D’joos? asked the Captain from amongst the smoking ashes. Raymond D’joos, corporal in the Werpenstad Militia shook his head, grimacing at the discovery of another blackened body.

They had come across this wrecked and burned out wagon train as they made their way towards the possible rendezvous point with Stad tracker, Joshua Puss. Captain Brabant’s outrider had noticed the faint traces of smoke at about the same time as he spotted the carrion birds circling high overhead. Then they had come across the horses, still wearing their harnesses, grazing on the gentle slopes by the sides of the road. They had evidently been cut loose from the three-wagon merchants’ caravan, presumably to prevent any attempts at getting away.

There were only thin wisps of smoke by now, the fires having been lit somewhere between four and seven hours ago. That was Brabant’s best guess anyway, and the buzzards had retreated while his squad had sifted through the debris. The crows still hopped around the scene of devastation though, cawing and jostling amongst themselves for the choicest scraps. The smell of charnel flesh was disgusting and the sight no less so.

The three covered wagons and most of their contents - sacks of beans for the most part, from what they could make out - had been almost totally consumed by the flames, and his men had pulled out the charred remains of eight bodies and lined them up on the side of the road. Brabant had sent one man back to Werpenstad immediately to report the incident. Then he had most of his men dig graves for the eight corpses because, apart from anything else, to leave them lying about in the open would invite disease and that, so close to a town of sixteen thousand people, was not something he was prepared to risk.

Someone from the Village would be sent out in due course to perform whatever rites were necessary for the dead to continue on their way, but until then he had his men douse the bodies with flasks of oil before they shovelled the dirt back over them to stop the scavengers and carrion eaters from clawing what was left of them back up.

Blasted crows! D’joos shouted, hurling a rock at a group of the large, black ravens fighting over a scrap of something mercifully indefinable. "Get out of it, verdomme! Haven’t they suffered enough?"

Stand down corporal, Brabant admonished. They can’t help their natures and they’re doing Miu’s work, so leave them be.

Each man within earshot made the sign of Miu across his chest at the mention of His name. The God of Death, or Lord of the West as He was also sometimes known, was respected by all, in Kingdoms and Empire alike. They had a variety of arrangements with Him in the Kingdoms, but in the Empire a portion of land to the west of every settlement’s boundaries was given over to Miu and those enjoying His care. In the smaller dorps and villages this may be nothing more than a simple half-acre graveyard or even just a patch of earth, whereas in the larger towns and settlements like Werpenstad they were considerably larger, and run by one of the terrifying Priests of Miu. No matter the size, they were invariably known as the Village of the Dead, or more simply the Village.

There’s none of us like what we’ve seen here, but losing our heads isn’t going to help. We’ve got a job to do, so let’s just do it and be on our way.

D’joos sighed. Sorry Captain, but... there was no sense to this! There can’t have been anything taken and why would anybody attack a caravan and not take the goods it was carrying? It doesn’t make sense! This is just cold-blooded murder!

That it is D’joos, Brabant replied, that it is. Or that is how it appears at least; we don’t know, maybe there was a smaller, more precious cargo that whoever it was took away before... this, he waved a disgusted arm at the desolation. Perhaps there was a bag of gemstones, or a... chest of monies.

Do you think so Captain? D’joos asked.

The Captain sucked his teeth, still casting his eyes around what amounted to the total annihilation of the caravan. Personally D’joos, no, he said finally. I think you were right first time - this was the work of some unfeeling, cold-blooded murderer, or murderers. They never stood a chance. He turned to look at his corporal. "And I’ll tell you another thing - if we ever catch the black-hearted scum who did it... Well, let’s just hope we do, that’s all."

An hour and a half later Captain Brabant kicked the soil off his boots before climbing back into the saddle. Forcing his eyes to linger on the sickening remnants of the torched wagons, he saw the last of the soil being mounded up on the roadside graves. He signalled to two of the men. Get those horses rounded up; we’ll take them with us. Luc! he shouted to his outrider. Mount up! The rest of you too. We’ve lost enough time here, let’s get going. We need to make the Borgersveldt by nightfall!

*

CHAPTER 3

Verminators // Spöllner // Overworked

Three other council members had joined Lord Kreigel to interview the Rat Catchers of Werpenstad, together with his own Captain of the Guard and Major Leopold Prince, his second in command of the Stad Militia. Several of the Catchers had already been seen and each had spoken, reservedly, about hidden things stalking the sewer system. None had ever seen anything though, until Matthias Gilbert entered the room.

Err, Kreigel checked his list of names, Matthias isn’t it? Good, good; well, take a seat man and tell me what you know.

What I know, my lord? Gilbert asked sheepishly, his woolly cap clutched firmly between his nervous hands.

You have heard about the attack made upon the Burghermeister young man; it is believed that the assailant travelled through the sewers, both into and out of the Stad. We are asking all of you Catchers if you have seen anything strange down there. Anything out of the ordinary, no matter how inconsequential it may seem to you.

He means even if it doesn’t seem important, the wily old Weisselsbloed explained to Gilbert, who was obviously struggling with Kreigel’s language.

"Thank you Maxwell, yes. So, have you seen anything strange?"

My lord, Matthias began to mumble, if I may speak freely...?

But of course.

And if I say something, nothing bad’s going to happen to me?

Of course nothing bad is going to happen to you! Please get on with it man, what are you talking about?

Well, old Gurney, he said something last week didn’t he, and look what happened to him - he got carted off to the Barn didn’t he?

"What? Old Gurney? The Barn?" It was Kreigel’s turn to look non-plussed.

Old Gurney Duvel, my lord. One of the oldest Verminators in the service.

Ahh yes, Weisselsbloed told him. "Gurney Duvel; he was taken over to St. Barneva’s Hospital last week - the Barn, you may or may not be aware, is how it is commonly referred to by the burghers."

Because it’s full of barn-pots, whispered Ludo Henkel, sniggering.

Indeed, cut in Lord Kreigel again. So why was this Duvel taken to the good Sisters of the Saint, and what bearing does this have on yourself and these proceedings?

Because I seen what old Gurney seen and, begging your pardon my lord, but while it fair scared the life out of me, if it means I’m going to end up in the Barn then I’m keeping my mouth shut!

I see. Very well Matthias, be assured that you can speak freely here. You have my word that you will not be hospitalised as a result of what you say.

Well, as long as I’ve got your word...

Yes! Now be about it man, there’s another fifteen of you to go yet!

Ok, well, Matthias began, "there’s been stories for years, but always kept underground, just between us Catchers like, because it’s... well, it’s crazy awful stuff my lord.

"There’s always been legends of the Big ‘Un, and trying to catch the biggest rat of them all. King Rat we call him, near as tall as a man and twice as nasty, and he’ll come to get you for killing off all his kin folk."

King Rat, Kreigel said levelly.

Yes, my lord! Gilbert replied, hurrying now as he feared the disbelief and ridicule of the councillors and thought they might stop him before he could get his story out, which, having started, he so badly wanted to finish. There’s a few of us have seen him, more than a score of sightings only this year - five in the last two weeks or so! No, don’t scoff! he said as Henkel stifled a laugh. He’s been spotted, but always from a distance and always kind of by accident, as if we’d surprised him. Always skulking around he was, in a black, hooded cloak, almost as high as a man and evil as a horse’s bite.

And you say a number of you have seen this figure?

That’s right my lord, five of us in all, he suddenly looked even more downcast, "though there’s only two of us left now. Just me, if old Gurney really has gone mad..."

Explain.

Well, I’ve seen him and old Gurney, and so has Rob - err, that was Robert Spannend I mean. He was the first one to see him back in... start of spring it was, but the day after he packed his bags and quit.

He quit? But we’ll need to talk with him. You know where he lives?

"Begging your pardon my lord, but he quit the Stad. Said that was the end for him here, he wouldn’t sleep another night behind these gates. He got a bit of kit together, bought himself a mule, and said he was going to try his luck prospecting up in the mountains."

Oh, I see.

The last two, Geer van den Elsken and Rene von Brugge, well, they ain’t with us no more, may Miu take their souls, he shuddered, making the sign of Miu across his chest. All the others present did the same.

They’re dead? Kreigel asked.

That’s what we all reckon my lord, Gilbert answered. They must be. Haven’t been seen since just before the rising of the Eye and none of us reckon they’ll ever be seen again.

I see. So what happened with this Duvel then?

"Well, he was the one that saw the King two weeks ago, and he told us all about it, see. He was working the Schoenmarkt then, but Geer and Rene were taking over the following week - we work shifts see, so’s we all get a turn in the good tunnels."

You mean in districts like Veeldonk and Guilderslaan? Weisselsbloed asked.

Err, no my lord - we gets paid by the tail see. Them fancy sewers round Veeldonk, well, there’s rats there all right, but up there you’ll make in a week what you can get in a night down in the Slaachthuis.

Yes, yes, Kreigel interrupted, but what happened under the Schoenmarkt?

It was... last Tillerman’s day, Gilbert continued, "what’s that, ten days ago? They both saw the King on the same night, Rene and Geer, and both came up excited, claiming they was each going to bag him; beat the other to it, like. Three days this went on and then, on the day before Mittwok, they both went down the Schoenmarkt and never came back up again."

And you didn’t go looking for them?

"Begging your pardon sir, but there ain’t that many of us and money’s kind of tight you know... We reported it and a couple of the lads spent an afternoon searching off shift, but there was nothing. No sign of them or their dogs... they’d just disappeared. The King had had them, and they was probably already dancing with Miu!" They all instinctively made the sign again before Gilbert was motioned to carry on.

I had to go down there next night and three hours into my shift, well bugger me, but I saw him too! He was all furtive like, seemed to be looking up at the grates and manholes - there’s a few of them in quite a small stretch down in that area. I came up behind him - about a hundred and fifty yards behind him, by Griet’s Grace, but behind him all the same. We was just on the boundary of the Schoenmarkt and Centrum, up there by the wall.

So what happened next? asked Henkel, still somewhat disbelieving.

Matthias laughed. "Well, I ran didn’t I? There was a culvert only ten yards behind me and I was up it like a shot! I slammed the lid back down hard and had it away on my heels back to Paarden Straat as fast as I could! And I’ve refused to go down there ever since!

"He was the meanest looking brute I ever seen my lords, and as Puurs is my witness I’ve seen that King every night since then, all ferocious like, in my dreams! I’ve been given a week