Richard Ford - Herald of the Storm

The remaining henchman stumbled back, raising his hands in surrender as a second brutish thug emerged from the shadows.

One of the new thugs seized Merrick and hauled him up. Merrick was groggy, his legs unsteady, but he still had wit enough to grasp an opportunity when he saw it — even if presented by a bull of a man who looked like he might eat Merrick’s liver as soon as look at him.

The two thugs dragged him off as Ortes’ henchman looked on in silence, in total fear of these two behemoths. They were easily a full head taller than Merrick and twice as wide at the shoulders. A sudden ‘out of the frying pan’ feeling crept up on him. How much of a rescue was this?

‘Look, gents,’ Merrick said as they led him around a corner and down a dark alley. ‘If Shanka’s sent you, I’ve got his money. At least … in theory. There’s just a couple of arrangements I have to make to release the equity.’

‘Stop talking,’ said one of the brutes. Merrick wasn’t going to argue.

They walked in silence along the back alleys, through slurry and shit, past rats and garbage. Merrick guessed that if they’d wanted him dead they would have killed him already, or just left him to Ortes’ men, so there was no point trying to escape — at least not yet.

Eventually, and without warning, the two brutes bundled Merrick through an open doorway into a dimly lit warehouse. It seemed to contain only two large crates, which could easily have been used as man-sized cages. Some paraphernalia on the walls, difficult to recognise in the gloom, looked like farming tools, but in Merrick’s head could quite easily have been implements of torture.

‘Sit down,’ said one of the thugs.

‘But there’s no chair,’ Merrick replied, glancing around.

He screeched suddenly as the other brute kicked him in the back of the knees and sent him sprawling.

Before he could ask what all this was about, two figures walked from the shadows.

The first was tall and bald, his face long and gaunt. He had something of the undertaker about him, a demeanour that was mirthless, as though he had never smiled in his life. The second was shorter and much fuller about the waist. His curly hair was receding and framed an open and strangely jovial face. This man’s welcoming smile seemed at odds with his partner’s skull-faced stare, and it did nothing to reassure Merrick. He recognised these two men instantly, and knew there was nothing to smile about.

‘Hello, Ryder,’ said the shorter figure.

‘Hello, Friedrik,’ Merrick replied, then turned quickly to his silent friend. ‘Bastian. How are you both?’

‘We’re very well,’ Friedrik replied. ‘Clearly much better than you.’ He glanced towards the hulking goons behind Merrick. ‘You were told to bring him here unharmed.’

‘That wasn’t us,’ said one of the thugs, pointing at Merrick’s torn shirt and bruised face. ‘We found him like that.’ Despite his size, he was clearly intimidated by the little man, and with good reason. Friedrik and Bastian controlled the Guild — the organisation that ran every illicit racket in Steelhaven. Nothing happened in the city without their say so. No one was mugged, extorted, pickpocketed, burgled, swindled, brutalised or murdered unless it was on their explicit orders. Working within the boundaries of Steelhaven outside the purview of the Guild carried very harsh penalties indeed.

‘Making friends as usual, Ryder,’ Friedrik said with a grin. ‘That’s good to see.’

‘I’m popular. What can I say?’

‘Yes, very popular. Or so we hear. Apparently Shanka the Lender wants your balls on a skewer.’

‘That’s just a slight misunderstanding I’m currently trying to resolve.’

‘Of course you are. You’ll be pleased to hear I may just have a solution to your problem.’

Merrick felt cold panic begin to rise in his guts. Being in debt to Shanka the Lender was one thing. Being in debt to the Guild was quite another. At least without his balls he’d still be half a man — what the Guild might do was much worse.

‘Honestly, Shanka and I are just ironing out some teething problems. There’s absolutely no need for you to get involved.’

‘Oh, but I insist, Ryder. For old times’ sake.’

Fuck .

‘Okay. I’m all ears.’ Merrick tried a casual smile, but he knew it wasn’t very convincing.

‘We have a job which will utilise your truly unique skills.’ Thieving? Gambling? Drinking? Surely they didn’t want to borrow his skills in the bedroom? ‘We want you to broker a deal with some foreigners. To see it through from start to finish, using your usual charm and finesse.’

‘Really? There’s no one in the whole city better suited to this than me?’

Bastian suddenly stepped forward, his piercing eyes staring down with barely masked hatred. ‘It’s your particular pedigree we’re interested in, Ryder. You have contacts. Friends in high places who will come in very handy. Bribes will have to be paid, blind eyes turned to certain actions. You will make this happen, Ryder, and in return your debts to Shanka the Lender will be paid off.’

‘Sounds fair,’ Merrick replied, though it actually sounded shit. ‘Exactly what deal do I need to broker?’

Bastian looked towards the diminutive Friedrik, who gave a long sigh before he spoke. ‘A slave ship will reach port in two days. When it arrives it will be empty. By the time it leaves, you will ensure it is full. Will this be a problem?’

Shit right it’ll be a fucking problem . Slavery had been outlawed in the Free States for over two centuries. The penalty for slave trading was public castration and execution by hanging.

Merrick looked first at Friedrik, then at the cold, calculating eyes of Bastian.

‘No. No problem at all,’ he replied

‘Excellent.’ Friedrik smiled. ‘You’ll be given the details of when, where and how. All you need do is be yourself and turn on that famous Ryder charm. It’s unlikely you’ll see us again; from now on you’ll be dealing with Palien, so if there’s anything you need before you go, best speak up now.’

Merrick thought for a moment and then gingerly rose to his feet. ‘Just one thing.’ Bastian scowled as though Merrick had just left a shit on the floor behind him. ‘Any chance you can lend me a sword?’

Eastgate Market was the oldest in the city. Not the largest, certainly not the cleanest and it definitely didn’t display the richest wares; but it had a long history. It dated back to the Age of the Sword Kings, when the river barons had brought their goods down the Storway from the foot of the Kriega Mountains.

How Rag knew this she couldn’t remember — it was just one of those useless pieces of information you picked up. She did know other things, however, that weren’t quite so useless. Things like where Harol the Fishmonger kept his stash of crowns and when it would be at its fullest. Things like which hand Carser the Butcher wielded his cleaver with so she could avoid it if he got too close. Things like what the fastest routes out of the market were for when things got too hot. Things like when the lads in the Greencoats would be patrolling and what time they took a break for dice and a swift jar of ale.

The Greencoats were the least of her worries. Well, maybe not the least, but they were way down the list. They didn’t bother much about a lone street urchin. Some of them were even fairly sympathetic at times and turned a blind eye, either too lazy or too preoccupied to pay attention to young wastrels stealing morsels from the market stalls.

No, it was the Guild that was the worst.

They’d have someone wandering around now, sizing up the best punters for the catch, signalling to their pickers, pinchers and cutters so they knew which marks to go for. It was organised, disciplined, and so they took the richest pickings. If Rag got in the way, distracted a picker or drew undue attention, she’d get more than a hiding; she’d be lucky if she’d be left with her eyes. Then it’d be a life on the corners of Dockside or worse, the Rafts, and she’d have no choice but to beg with the rest of the cripples, if she were lucky. If she weren’t lucky she’d be whored out for scraps, a freak, treated like an animal until someone ended her short life for her. Rag had seen it happen, and she was determined it weren’t a fate she’d share. Yes, the Guild controlled this market, and thieving here without their say so was dangerous indeed.