Articles of Faith

Behind her, a shape shifted against the wall, something Chel had at first glance taken to be a pile of sacks. He was enormous: big hands, big face, wide around the middle. He looked like a small hill. His hair was tied back in a thick bundle of dark braids, and his curly black beard boasted two streaks of grey at the corners of his chin. He offered Chel an awkward smile.

‘I go by Loveless,’ the blue-haired woman went on, ‘and this fine specimen of Clydish stock is Lemon.’

The final figure bowed her head in acknowledgement. She was small and wiry, her pale skin splashed copper with freckles. A mountain of orange hair bounced above a face that was round-eyed and squarish. She still looked irked.

Tarfel shuffled out of the store’s darkness beside and above him. ‘Why are you called Lemon?’

‘Because she’s round and bitter,’ Loveless said with a straight face.

‘I’m not fucken round!’

The laughter that filled the room met a sharp end when Spider rounded on the captives, his mirth vanished. ‘Now that’s enough about us. Who the fuck are you?’

‘I am Tarfel Merimonsun, Prince of—’

‘Oh, do shut up, princeling,’ Loveless said. ‘We know who you are, you blithering pillock. Why do you think you’re here?’

‘About that,’ Chel said, still sitting against the wall. His shoulder pulsed. He wondered if it had been Loveless who strapped him the night before. Perhaps it had been Lemon. Or maybe the other one they’d referred to?

‘The Spider asked you a question, Andriz piss-pot.’ Spider was still very close to him, and Chel could see the top of a freakish knife jutting from his belt. ‘Who are you, and what the fuck are you doing here?’

‘Vedren Chel, of Barva. I’m sworn to the prince.’

‘Chel?’ Loveless said. ‘What does that mean?’

‘I’m not sure it means anything. Do names always mean something?’

‘Oh, dear little scab-face, names mean everything.’

Lemon had wandered closer. ‘Got any nicknames? Any monikers or noms de guerre?’

‘Any what?’

‘Ah, come on, man. All our noms are de guerre these days. What do other people call you?’

Chel thought of the various names he’d been called over the last few years. ‘Chel.’

Tarfel pushed back into the conversation. He looked vexed at being excluded. ‘His sister calls him “Bear”!’

That got more sniggering. ‘You don’t look much like a fucking bear,’ Spider said. ‘More like a shit-eating rat. Are there rat-bears?’

‘I think there are in Tokemia,’ Lemon said.

Chel swung his sore head toward the prince. ‘Thank you, highness.’

Tarfel had the decency to look abashed, then a thought crossed his features before Chel’s eyes. ‘You’re not Rau Rel, are you?’ the prince said to the room.

More laughter. ‘No, princeling,’ Loveless said. ‘We’re mercenaries.’

Delight spread across Tarfel’s face. ‘See, Chel? Which company?’

The mercenaries exchanged cautious looks.

‘Black Hawk Company,’ Lemon said after a slight hesitation.

‘I’ve not heard of that one. How many strong are you? Two thousand? Five?’

Lemon looked around the room. ‘The second one.’

‘Five thousand?’

Lemon coughed. ‘Aye, well, we’re an incipient venture. Up-starting, if you will. Old hands, new pennant.’

‘Could I, by any chance, make you an offer?’ the prince said.

‘Only if you offer to fuck off back into that store and stay quiet until Kurtemir.’

Chel saw the big man, Foss, stiffen at that. He guessed that their destination was not intended to be divulged.

Spider was back at his ear, and this time the knife was in his hand. ‘The Spider notes with disappointment that you still haven’t answered his question. Why are you here, sand-crab rat-bear?’

Chel’s mouth felt suddenly dry, and he swallowed. ‘If you don’t know, I sure as snake-shit can’t tell you.’

‘He’s here because I want him here.’ No one had heard the door open this time, but there the old beggar stood, head ducked below the low lintel. He walked slowly into the hold and into the light. His rag-bundle clothes were streaked in grime: dust, soot, blood and who knew what else, his hair hanging in great ashen strings before his face. ‘Get to your duties. We’re not away clean yet.’

Foss gave him a sharp glance. ‘The river dock closed as we left it,’ he said in a low voice. ‘A sail?’

‘Not yet,’ the beggar said, then turned to the rest of the hold. ‘Was I mumbling? Get to it! Not you, Lemon – you’ll be keeping our friends company for now.’ Lemon started to protest, but he held up a hand. ‘You need the practice. The rest of you, out.’

As the other mercenaries shuffled out, the beggar marched to a water basin in the corner of the hold. He reached down and dragged his rotten clothes over his head, discarding layers of rags at his feet, then leaned forward and dunked his head. Chel watched through narrowed eyes as he splashed the water over himself, washing away coats of filth, then stood again, water cascading over his bared torso. Chel’s good hand was back on his ruined shoulder. Who was this brutal old bastard who had done him such damage?

The man before him had jet-black hair and skin the colour of sand, and was nowhere near as aged as Chel had thought. His body was sharp-edged and thickly muscled, and criss-crossed with more scarring and tattoos than Chel had ever seen on a single human. His upper arms cascaded with markings, some no doubt Free Company, but none Chel could distinguish or recognize. What kind of man could serve in that many companies anyway? An alarming collection of knives belted at the man’s waist glittered in the lantern light.

The beggar turned back to the hold, and at last Chel saw his face in the dim light. He was prow-faced, his nose a sharp, brutal beak, his dark and heavy features following in its wake. He seemed surprised that Chel and Tarfel were still there. He looked like a furious eagle.

He pinned Chel with a glare. ‘Got something you want to call me?’ Then he grinned, short and sharp. ‘Lemon! Get those fuckers locked away.’ With that, he scooped up a shirt and strode for the door.

A moment later the hold was empty, but for the disconsolate, muttering Lemon. ‘Aye, right. Practice, is it? Fuck’s sake, like I had any fucken alternative. Would he have me shit my breeches on duty? I ask you.’

Tarfel had already wandered back into the store in anticipation of being bolted away. Lemon checked over Chel’s bandages and strapping, while he lay piled where Spider had left him.

‘The tall one,’ Chel said. ‘With the nose. He’s the brains?’

‘The brains? Maybe the spleen, or wherever bile comes from. Right, you’ll live. Now get yourself back in there, wee bear, or ancestors-take-me I’ll fuck you right up with a hammer.’

Chel looked up at her. Buried in the matted fur and leather of Lemon’s outfit was an array of ironmongery, small hammers, axes and picks. ‘Are you a miner?’

She half smiled. ‘Once, maybe. In a sense.’