Richard Ford - The Shattered Crown

Merrick stared after her. Tempting as the prospect of giving his life for the queen was, he could think of a thousand other things he’d rather be doing with it. But where else was there to go? Out on the streets to wait for the Guild to find him?

No, that was just stupid. He had his sword and his armour and Kaira watching his back. They were in an impregnable citadel in a heavily defended city.

What was the worst that could happen?

As he followed Kaira he began to wonder, if it came down to it, whether he really would sacrifice his life for someone else. Especially when that someone else was a girl he hardly knew.

Merrick could only hope he never had to find out.

It was a dark damp cellar, hidden deep beneath a house in a shitty part of Northgate — though truth be told, all of Northgate was pretty shitty. Rag had learned there were a thousand cellars like this in Steelhaven, the Guild’s secret little crap-holes where anything, or anyone, could be spirited away from the world, never to be seen again.

‘I haven’t got the money, Mister Friedrik. Honest I haven’t!’

The words came in a frantic series of pants, spat from a bloody mouth dripping with lies.

Or was he telling the truth? Rag couldn’t really say. He must be lying, mustn’t he? Otherwise why would they be putting him through this?

Walder was tied to a chair, a single lantern swinging above his head, bathing him in light and surrounding him in shadow like he was the only one in the room — the only one in the world. His face was a mess, his clothes filthy, britches and shirt piss-stained and hanging off him in torn clumps. He was breathing hard, face tear-streaked, desperate, wits shredded to shit. It was a sight that could have turned the stomach of even the most hardened thug, but Rag had seen this a dozen times before — heard the pained cries, seen the beatings again and again. As much as she hated to admit it, she was getting used to it.

A man walked forward into the light and Walder gave a little squeal. Harkas was an evil-looking bastard what never smiled. Without a word he leaned in over Walder, expressionless, just looming over him all intimidating.

The punch came quick and fast, fist stabbing out like a knife from the dark. It hit Walder in the middle of his little paunchy gut, knocking all the wind from him. The noise that he gave out made Rag flinch. It reminded her of a time, years ago, when some of the street lads had caught themselves a kitten. They’d tortured it for what seemed like an age, and Rag had watched them, too afraid to step in, too sorry for the little thing to run away. In the end they’d thrown it in a fire, after they’d snipped its ears and tail off, and the sound it had let loose was a bit like the one Walder was making right now.

When he’d stopped wailing and Harkas had made his way back into the dark he began pleading again.

‘I’m sorry … I’m sorry. I wish I knew where it were.’ So did Rag, then this could all be over with . ‘If I knew I’d tell you, Mister Friedrik, honest I would. Please don’t kill me, Mister Friedrik. I’ve got mouths to feed.’

Rag had heard pleading like this before; so many times even she was growing hard to it. Please don’t hurt me, I’ve got kids. My old mammy’s sick with the gout. The wife’s in the family way, Mister Friedrik, please let me live . At first she’d believed every line, felt sorry for every pathetic one of them, but now it was just getting fucking dull. And if she was getting bored with it, she was damn sure he would be too.

Walder stopped, breathing hard, looking out from the lamplight, straining into the dark. With slow measured steps, Friedrik walked forward.

It never failed to impress Rag what fear such an amiable-looking bloke could strike in another human being. She’d been in the Guild long enough now to meet some pretty scary bastards, but Friedrik, despite his little frame and his curly hair and his friendly smile, was scarier than any of them.

‘Walder,’ Friedrik said casually as though he was greeting an old friend, and not some poor bastard strapped to a chair and bleeding. ‘Walder, Walder, Walder.’

Friedrik smiled then, one of his big friendly don’t-worry-about-it smiles. All Walder could do was smile back, but Rag could see the desperation behind his eyes. Could see that Walder knew he was walking a thin line and whether he’d live or die would depend on the next few moments.

‘I believe you, of course,’ Friedrik said, holding up his hands like this had all been some kind of misunderstanding and they could just go out for a beer to make it right. ‘You fenced the items for us, like we asked. You took the payment, like we asked. What you handed over to us was a little light, but why would you lie about it?’ Walder opened his mouth to speak, but was silenced by Friedrik’s raised finger. Rag flinched again at that. If there was one thing guaranteed to piss Friedrik off it was being interrupted. She let out a sigh as Friedrik patted Walder on the shoulder. ‘It’s all right, mate. Things like this happen. Cut him loose.’

Two lads moved from the dark behind Walder, reaching down and cutting the rope that secured him to the chair. Walder looked around, wide-eyed.

‘Is that it then, Mister Friedrik? Can I go now?’

Friedrik frowned. ‘Can you go? Yes, Walder, you can go. Just as soon as I’ve had what you owe.’ He held his hand out and big Harkas stepped forward, placing a little knife, handle first, in his outstretched palm.

Walder looked at the blade, the colour draining from his already pale features. He shook his head but didn’t say a word.

‘It’s obvious you don’t have the coin, Walder,’ Friedrik said. Then he held out the knife. ‘So you owe me … ooh … let’s say two fingers. Your choice which ones, I’d go for the pinkies if I were you, but I want my fingers. And I want them now.’

Walder looked at Friedrik, then glanced around. There were three other men in the light now but Rag knew there were more lurking in the dark, just waiting for Friedrik’s word. Walder knew they were there too.

‘Please,’ he said, more of a high-pitched whine than a word. ‘I can get money. I can get you a-’

‘It’s too late for that,’ Friedrik said, shaking his head. He had a sympathetic look on his face, like there weren’t nothing he could do about this. Like it weren’t him asking a fella to cut his own fingers off. ‘Now, get to it, Walder, we haven’t got all day.’

‘But … but I can’t.’ Walder stared mournfully at the knife, then back up at Friedrik.

‘Yes you can,’ Friedrik replied, the sympathetic look gone now, replaced by a dark expression that spoke no mercy or reprieve. ‘Because if you don’t, I’m gonna let the lads choose something else to cut off, and whatever they decide I can guarantee you’ll miss it more than a couple of fucking fingers.’

Walder knew then there weren’t no options left. He stood up from the chair and kneeled down next to it, placing his hand flat on the seat and taking the knife firmly in hand. He gave a last look up at Friedrik, but there was nothing there that would save him.

As Walder began to squeal in pain, hacking at his pinky finger like it was a tough piece of roasted meat, Rag closed her eyes and turned away. He grunted like a pig, and some of the other lads laughed at that. Then the grunting stopped and she heard a clattering sound.

‘Gods be damned,’ whispered Friedrik in frustration, and Rag turned to see Walder had passed out from the pain and the fright. One of his fingers was bleeding, but still very much attached to his hand.

‘Do the honours would you, my dear,’ Friedrik said.

At first Rag could barely believe what she was hearing, but when she looked at him, Friedrik was staring right at her, a smile on his face like he’d just asked her to slice him a piece of cake.