David Bishop - A murder in Marienburg

Space was always at a premium in Marienburg, little surprise in a city constructed atop a collection of islands across the outlet where the Reik met the sea. Homes and businesses grew ever upwards, upper stories wider than those at street level, looming above the canals and cobbled passageways. The sun’s rays never touched some streets, so they never dried, and those condemned to ground floor rooms suffered a lifetime of colds and chest infections, their clothes and homes perpetually damp.

By contrast, the headquarters building was warm and dry, sunshine filtering through stained glass windows, tinting the corridors with a friendly, cheering glow. Kurt had been here once before, the day after he stumbled into a job with the watch. It was a requirement of induction that all new recruits be presented to the commander before taking their oath of office. Kurt couldn’t recall his last visit in any detail, it was buried in a haze at the back of his mind, along with all the events that had driven him out of Altdorf, the dark days he saw as a warrior during the war against Chaos and the tragedies that had befallen him. Like most of the men who survived that conflict, those who saw the face of the enemy and lived to tell the tale, Kurt rarely spoke of his experiences on the battlefield. Seeing your brothers in arms struck down by a foe of such ferocity and unalloyed evil left deep wounds, buried far below the surface in places from which a few ales would not prise them free. Only cowards and liars bragged of their war exploits.

He looked down at his hands, studying the network of scars left behind by all the battles he’d fought to reach this doorway on this day. Had it been worth the sacrifices, the losses? No, in truth it hadn’t. Kurt knew he could never recover all he had lost back in Altdorf, all that had perished on the battlefields of the Empire. But what’s past had passed, as his old watch sergeant had been fond of saying. Better not to dwell on things you can’t change. So Kurt determined to make a life for himself in the here and now, putting aside the memories, the pain of what had happened. If he didn’t, they could drive him insane. Sigmar knows, that was how he’d ended up in Marienburg. He had no wish to relive those dark days again.

“Well, well, who’s this?” a snide voice asked. Kurt looked up to see four men approaching in uniforms of the watch, all bearing the insignia of captains. He recognised them within moments, as much by reputation as by their appearances. The man who had spoken first was Bram Quist, a scar-faced veteran of twenty years in the Black Caps. He was responsible for keeping the peace in Noordmuur, to the north of Marienburg. On his left was a barrel-chested behemoth with a bushy red beard and jovial face-that could only be Titus Rottenrow, who ran the districts known as Rijkspoort to the east.

On Quist’s right was a painfully thin man with waspish features and an unusual, rolling gait: Zachirias Wout. He led the watch in the Tempelwijk, to the west of Suiddock. Another figure was strolling along behind them, but Kurt could not yet see the final man’s face. Even so, he had little doubt who it could be. The first three were among the leading captains in the city, all fiercely ambitious, all eager to take the commander’s place when he eventually retired or died. But everybody knew who the golden boy of the watch was, the prime candidate for the succession: Georges Sandler. Sure enough, when the quartet reached Kurt the last man was revealed as Sandler, a luxurious mane of brown hair swept back from those aristocratic features, the hint of flab around his jowls giving the face a curiously boyish aspect.

Kurt snapped to attention. “Watch Sergeant Kurt Schnell, stationed in the Goudberg district!”

Sandler chuckled at Kurt’s military precision. “I say, this chap’s taking himself a bit seriously, don’t you think, hmm?”

Quist scowled at Sandler. “Not all of us were born with a silver spoon in our mouths, Georges. Some of us had to earn our commissions, instead of having our parents buy them for us.” Kurt felt Quist’s gaze shift to him. “That accent’s pure Altdorf, and judging by your stance… ex-military?” Kurt nodded. “Best battle you ever fought in?”

“There are no best battles,” Kurt replied, “only victories and defeats.”

“Quite the philosopher,” Sandler quipped, earning a cheap laugh from Rottenrow and Wout. They were still guffawing when the doors to the antechamber opened and the captains were beckoned inside. Quist waited until the others had entered before resting a hand on Kurt’s left shoulder.

“Don’t listen to that buffoon,” the veteran growled. “He’s never fought for anything in his life.” Quist was about to move through the doors when his brow furrowed. “Schnell, did you say?”

Kurt nodded. Here it comes, he thought, resisting the urge to lie.

“Any relation to Erwin Schnell?”

“He’s my father.”

“Old Ironbeard is your father?” Quist asked, unable to keep the admiration from his ravaged face. “Then you must be…” As realisation dawned, so Quist’s expression soured. He removed his hand from Kurt’s shoulder, as if it had been resting on a dung heap. By the time Quist had entered the antechamber, he was muttering curses under his breath so violent they would have shocked any passing sailors. The tall, forbidding doors slammed shut, and the disgraced son of Altdorf was left alone once more in the corridor.

Kurt closed his eyes and waited for the wave of shame to pass. Would he never be free of the past? The Watch Commander sat on a tall-backed chair behind an imposing desk, built from the timbers of a shipwrecked clipper that ran aground on Rijker’s Isle forty years earlier. All this stood atop a raised dais, supposedly constructed to support the vast weight of the desk. In fact it was designed to help impose the commander’s authority on all who came into his office. It was a large, ornately decorated chamber, created to intimidate and unease all entering it. Few left the better for having visited this place. The current commander needed no architectural affectations to impose his authority on anybody. He had a rasping voice and piercing, intense eyes that could unsettle the sternest of men. He was prone to laughing at the pain or discomfit of others, particularly when it was most inappropriate.

Some said he was an illegitimate genius who used his personal charisma to escape being drowned at birth with the other orphans begat by Marienburg’s whores. Others claimed he had made some pact with the Dark Gods, no doubt signed in his own blood, as it was the only way to explain his irresistible rise from lowly gatekeeper to commander. But everybody agreed on two things-he was an incredibly shrewd judge of character, and a bastard in every sense of the word.

“Sergeant Schnell-tell me about him,” the commander said to Belladonna. She was standing in front of his desk, hands clasped behind her back, steadily returning his gaze. Meeting his eye was the best way of earning his respect, she had learned through bitter experience.

“He’s quick and agile, good with his fists and feet. I’d say he doesn’t start many fights, but he certainly knows how to end them. I used the coins you gave me to start a bar brawl at the Seagull and Spittoon last night. Schnell had already been on duty for twelve hours by that time, but he bested four men far larger than him with ease. He’s brave, authoritative and a natural leader-takes command well. Had no trouble fending off the advances of an overly amorous serving wench, either.”

The commander couldn’t mask a smile. “Let me guess-you bribed her as well?”

“No, there was no need. Inga seemed determined to live up to her title of serving wench. I had one other observation-Kurt Schnell is among the most ambitious men I’ve ever met.”