Steven Erikson - Blood follows

Kreege, now recovered enough to speak, cleared his throat and said, “Yeah, Dully’s got a good notion there. A good-looking ship, a trough-runner for sure. Captain’s very quiet-Hood, the whole crew’s a quiet, private bunch. The Suncurl. Perfect for your needs, Mancy, whatever your needs might be. She’s at the Trader’s Dock, just back down off the rollers and sitting pretty.”

Emancipor finished his ale, then rose. He was exhausted, his thoughts seeming to swim behind a thick fog. “Thanks. I’ll head straight there. See you.”

“See you Mancy, and don’t mention it. Hey, did Subly have any luck at the alchemist’s?”

Funny, I don’t recall telling ’em about all that. Must have, though. Kreege dotes on our youngest lad-guess it’s a natural concern. Guess he’s just a nice, caring man, is Kreege. “She did well enough,” Emancipor replied as he stepped away from the table and turned toward the door. “Thanks for asking.”

“No problem, Mancy. Glad to hear it.”

“Me too,” Dully added. “See you, Mancy.”

Sergeant Guld made his way down doll street, seventy-seven winding paces through a tortured alley draped in shadow. Brushing his shoulders on either side, with restless clattering, were hundreds of wooden, bone, rag and feathered dolls, each hanging by the neck from shop overhangs on hairy strands of seaweed twine. Shell, studded or painted eyes seemed to follow his passage, as if every ghastly puppet and marionette was demon-possessed. At the very least, Guld well knew, some of them were. Doll Street did not rank among his favourite haunts in Lamentable Moll. If human eyes tracked him, they were hidden in the chill gloom of the shop interiors.

As luck would have it, Mercy Blackpug’s closet of a shop was at the far dead end, leaning against a warehouse wall and facing onto the heaved-cobble alley. A row of leather-bound, bestial and bristly dolls depended from the jutting overhang. Misshapen faces grinned beneath strands of oily hair, onyx eyes glittering. Drawing closer, Guld’s gaze narrowed on the dolls. Not leather, after all, rather, something more like pigskin, poorly tanned and wrinkled around the stitches.

Hood knows who buys these things.

A deep melodic voice sang out from beneath the overhang, “Buy a doll for your young tikes? Every child should know terror, and are not my little ones terrible?”

Guld pushed his way through the miniature gallows row. “Where’s the old woman?” he demanded.

The dark, exquisite face within its blanket shawl cocked to one side. Startling blue eyes regarded him curiously. “Old woman, soldier?”

“The one who’s said to own this shop,” Guld replied. “The one selling these dolls and other equally ugly… things. The one seen at every scene of murder this last fortnight. Mercy Blackpug.”

The woman’s laugh was low. “But I am Mercy Blackpug. You must be referring to my sister, Mince. She takes my wares to market.”

“Your sister? That hag? Do you think me a fool?”

The woman began filling a hookah. Her long-fingered hands moving in the darkness made Guld think of seasnakes. “Different lifestyles,” she murmured, “alas. Mince eats no meat, no fish. Only vegetables. And herbs. She drinks no alcohol. She smokes no durhang, nor my own favourite, rust-leaf. She is celibate, an early riser, asleep with the sunset. She jogs the cliff-trail out to More-Pity Point and back every day, no matter the weather. She is but a year older than me. Thirty-six.”

Smoke plumed, billowed to fill the shack with its swirling haze. “I, on the other hand,” Mercy continued, “imbibe all manner of vices, much to her disgust. In any case, my dear, I take it you are not here to sample my… wares.”

I’ll have to think about that. Dammit, do not get distracted! “I want to know the nature of Mince’s interest in the murders. Where is she?”

“Probably down at the docks, haranguing the sailors.”

“About what?”

“They are an offense to wellness. Mince would reform them-”

“Hold on, she’s not the woman who petitions the king every week?”

“The very same. My sister would be pleased to see Lamentable Moll a bastion of pure, righteous behaviour. Offenses punishable by death, of course. This rust-leaf is flavoured with essence of mint, would you care to try?”

“No.” Not now. Maybe later. Yes, later — “No, I said!”

Her blue eyes widened. “Was I insisting?”

“Sorry. No, you weren’t.”

“My sister likely attends murder scenes in search of converts. She preys on fear, as you might imagine.”

“So why is it she tolerates you? Enough to try and sell your dolls at market?”

Mercy laughed. “You of all people should know that the king’s spikes are rarely… unadorned. Lamentable Moll breeds criminals faster than rats, faster even than the king can hang them up.”

Guld glanced at a doll hanging close to him. Not pigskin, then.

Mercy drew on her mouthpiece, then continued, “The skin of criminals. My sister finds the irony delicious.”

Sudden nausea threatened the sergeant. He stared down at the woman, aghast.

She gave him a broad, white smile that seemed to sizzle right through him. She said, “Mostly relatives of the dead, my customers. Mementos of the departed. Who can fathom the human mind?”

“I may be back,” Guld managed, stepping outside.

“Who indeed?” she laughed. “Until later, then, Sergeant.”

He staggered up the alley, struggling to calm his thoughts. A voice cackled from the shadows to his right. “ ’Ware my sister, young man!”

Guld wheeled.

Mince’s crunched-leather face grinned humourlessly at him from between two hanging dolls. She had few teeth left, worn down to stumpy pegs. “She will be the death of you!” the hag rasped. “She is a pit! A whirlpool of licentiousness! A temptress. A knower of Moll’s most secret and vice-ridden lairs-you would not believe the extent of her business interests!”

Guld’s eyes thinned. “Lairs, you said? Tell me, Mince, would she also know details of who frequents such places?”

“She knows all, does my evil sister! Except how to take care of herself! Ill health stalks her, as yet unseen, but as sure as Hood himself! Soon, you shall see! Soon, unless she mends her ways!”

The sergeant glanced back down the alley. No reason to delay, is there? Not at all. I need to question Mercy. In detail. May take hours, but there’s nothing to be done for it.

“Do not succumb!” Mince hissed.

Ignoring the hag, Guld began marching back down Doll Street.

Knoll Barrow was by far the largest and the only grassy barrow in Lamentable Moll. It had been riven through countless times, and had the unique quality of containing absolutely nothing. Boulders, gravel, and potsherds were all that the endless looters and antiquarians unearthed.

Guld found the city’s two preeminent rat-hunters picnicking atop the Knoll. They had built a small fire over which they roasted skinned rats. A dusty bottle of fine wine waited to one side, beside a clay jar with a sealed lid.

Birklas Punth and Blather Roe were not quite typical among Moll’s professional rat-hunters. Nevertheless, the sergeant had on occasion made use of their vast knowledge of every conceivable facet of the city’s underworld, and had found them of sufficient value to tolerate their peculiarities.

“Such a serious regard!” Birklas observed with a fluttering wave of greasy fingers as Guld ascended the barrow. “Why is it, I wonder, that the lowborn are so often seen maundering, nay, burdened unto buckling with the seriousness of their hapless lot? Is it then the sole task of the pure-blooded denizens of fair Moll to while away the days-and indeed the nights-with unfeigned slovenity?”