BERNHEIMER’S GUN

Josh Reynolds

‘Faster, you spavined nag! Faster,’ Erkhart Dubnitz, knight of the most holy (and violent) Order of Manann, roared as, hunched low over the neck of his warhorse, he raced in pursuit of the stolen coach. A number of his brothers followed him, shouting similar sulphurous encouragements to their own horses as they galloped through the cramped and twisted streets of Marienburg.

A vegetable stall seemed to appear out of nowhere, and Dubnitz howled curses as his mount burst through it with enthusiasm, squashing radishes beneath its iron-shod hooves and savaging lettuce with its yellow teeth as the vendor was sent sprawling in the gutter. The man’s virulent curses pursued Dubnitz like arrows.

‘Feel better?’ Dubnitz snapped, clubbing his horse between the ears with a mailed fist. The animal flicked its ears, but otherwise gave no sign that it had felt the blow. ‘Got that out of your system, now?’ he snarled, digging his spurs into the horse’s heaving flanks even as he plucked a leaf of lettuce from the sea-shell shaped elbow joint of his armour. ‘Go faster, beast!’

The coach was just ahead. It squeezed through a narrow side-street, scraping paint off of its sides as the wheels sparked from the cobbles. The curtain on the back window was yanked aside and someone fired a crossbow awkwardly through it. Dubnitz cursed again and twisted clumsily in his saddle as the bolt struck one of his ornately engraved squid-shaped pauldrons and nearly tore it from his cuirass. With a growl, he snapped the reins and bent as low as possible over his horse’s neck, hoping to make himself a smaller target. Given his size, he knew that was a faint hope at best. Dubnitz was what the charitable-minded might call ‘barrel-chested’; though in his case, it was less a barrel and more a keg, and on better days full of alcohol and Manann’s bounty, spiced and roasted to preference.

Unfortunately, today was not one of the better days. Today is a day for the annoyances of full armour and mad riding, swords and spear-rattling, Dubnitz thought sourly. And all because of one poxy turn-coat engineer. Mikal Bernheimer was his name, and he’d come running down the Reik all the way from the Imperial Gunnery School in Nuln, with a satchel full of plans and a head full of secrets, or so he claimed. Bernheimer had arrived begging sanctuary, but someone didn’t want him to have it. Somehow, he’d been snaffled from the city watch while the High Council dithered over what to do with him, and bundled into a purloined coach by a tiny band of cut-throats and sell-swords who were even now haring off to Manann alone knew where. Dubnitz suspected that it was the docklands. In Marienburg, it always came down to the docks, one way or another.

The order had been roused to the hunt easily enough, as Grandmaster Ogg had bullied his way into a permanent invitation from the High Council, and he and a number of his knights, including Dubnitz, had been present during the kidnapping. Ogg had only haggled with the High Council for a few minutes before letting his armoured hounds slip their leashes.

Dietrich Ogg was famous in Marienburg both for his bull-headed bellicosity and the unsubtle nature of his political scheming. The knights of the order were fast becoming familiar figures in the households of the mighty of the city; he rented his warriors out as advisors, bodyguards and celebratory decorations alike, and it was said that whatever they heard, so too did he. Granted, mostly what they heard was ‘I could have sworn we had more wine in the cellars’ as they walked away whistling, bottles stuffed down their cuirasses. There were certain perks to knighthood, after all.

The coach burst out of the side-street and nearly rolled over, smashing against a wall before crashing back down onto all four wheels. The crowd of merchants, street-hawkers, crusty jugglers and wide-eyed gawkers scattered like a flock of fen-quail as the coach careened through them. In the wider thoroughfare, Dubnitz was able to pull up alongside the coach and reach for the thin trident sheathed along the side of his saddle. He considered using it on the team of horses pulling the coach, but discarded the idea. No sense in wasting good horseflesh if he didn’t have to. Instead, he stabbed the trident at the coach’s rear wheel, trying to slow it, but the coach was moving too fast. The trident ripped from his hand and he was nearly yanked from his horse.

Swaying in his saddle, Dubnitz’s flailing hand caught hold of one of the ornamental stanchions that lined the frame of the carriage, and, seizing the moment, he hauled himself onto the side of the carriage with a thump. The iron stanchion, shaped like a grinning sea-nymph, nearly came away in his hand, but he awkwardly dragged himself onto the top of the coach, his sea-green enamelled armour rattling. His horse, as well-trained as the order’s animals went, came to a stop as soon as his weight left the saddle and took the opportunity to finish munching its filched lettuce, watching the coach continue on with equine equanimity.

The coach was of the bigger variety and had enough room for three men on the top, plus baggage. Dubnitz carefully got his feet under him as the coach rattled and swayed across the uneven cobbles. If he could get to the driver, he’d stand a chance of stopping it, but he’d have to be careful – one wrong move could send him sailing off the coach. As Dubnitz crawled forward, the driver turned to face him, his eyes bulging comically.

The driver was unkempt and wearing a battered breastplate emblazoned with an anchor and crown, much like the kind worn by the marines of the merchant-fleets. Oaths and spittle spattered down from his lips into his bramble beard and he cried, ‘Cap’n, we been boarded!’

Dubnitz jerked to the side as a length of sword blade punctured the roof of the coach with almost-lethal accuracy. He barely managed to hold on to the roof, narrowly avoiding being hurled off. The sword was withdrawn and the door on the opposite side of the coach was kicked open, allowing a man to clamber out. He wore no helm, allowing his stringy hair to flutter around his face, but as he hauled himself onto the roof, sword in hand, Dubnitz’s eyes widened in recognition as his opponent’s artificial leg thudded down. It was crafted from a scrimshawed length of driftwood, balanced by a carved paw, into which a trio of toe-bones had been set like claws. The knee-joint was hidden behind a chunk of brass, beaten into the shape of a crude skull.

‘Oh bugger,’ Dubnitz said. ‘I should have just killed the horses.’

‘Erkhart,’ the other man growled in recognition, steadying himself on the roof of the swaying coach with the ease of a man used to the pitch and yaw of a storm-tossed ship. ‘I heard you’d given up honest graft for a career as one of Ogg’s swabs, but I hardly credited it.’

‘Hello Edvard, I’ll tell the Grandmaster you said hello,’ Dubnitz said, fighting his way to his feet, his hand reaching for the hilt of his sword. ‘I should have realised that your merry band of salty gallows-thieves were the only ones greedy and stupid enough to annoy the High Council.’

Edvard Van der Kraal, captain of the free company known as Manann’s Blades, smiled cruelly. ‘Stupid, is it? This little job will guarantee us a berth on any ship in the Manaanspoort.’ His artificial leg squeaked and his sword plunged towards Dubnitz. The latter drew his blade and blocked the blow with more force than finesse and was forced to dig a hand into the top of the coach to maintain his balance.

‘Only if you succeed,’ Dubnitz growled. He thrust his blade out and Van der Kraal drove it aside almost contemptuously. Dubnitz grimaced. He wasn’t one to avoid a fight – indeed, some of his most cherished memories involved fights of one sort or another, usually followed by feasting or… other entertainments – but Van der Kraal was as deadly a man as they came, and in Marienburg they came plenty deadly. The mercenary was a salt-blooded killer, with iron filings for eyes and a heart colder than a Norscan winter. Even worse, he’d taken an irrational dislike to Dubnitz due to an entirely innocent misunderstanding, completely out of the latter’s control.

‘Brave words for a body bound for the tannery,’ Van der Kraal growled, lashing out again.

They traded clumsy blows as the coach rattled on, neither man able to put much force into his blow for fear of knocking himself off, as well as his opponent. Every bump or jerk of the coach was a missed blow or a near-fatal one, adding an element of chance to the whole business that Dubnitz found increasingly unpleasant.

‘Never could stomach a heaving deck, could you?’ Van der Kraal taunted. ‘Your time on land has made you soft, Erkhart.’

‘Compared to you, Edvard, a stone in the Sea of Claws is soft,’ Dubnitz said. ‘Lucky for me, your men aren’t made of as such stern stuff as yourself.’

He caught Van der Kraal’s blade on his own, even as he plucked the thin, Tilean stiletto from its sheath on his belt and sent it sailing into the back of the driver’s neck. Both men goggled as the driver slumped sideways and toppled from the coach, causing the horses pulling it to go suddenly wild. Dubnitz looked at Van der Kraal. ‘I can’t believe that worked,’ he said, somewhat nonplussed.

The coach, driver-less, swept on. The horses began to pick up speed, heedless of what was happening to their burden. The coach smashed from side to side, striking walls and stalls and bouncing from one end of a street to the next. Neither Dubnitz nor his opponent had much time for fighting, as both put all of their efforts into trying to hold on.

Suddenly, the coach burst out from the narrow street it had been on and into the docklands. Crates were thrown aside and cages of poultry and exotic animals smashed, freeing chickens and ocelots by the score as sailors, dock workers and men of the Harbour Watch fled out of its path with shouts and curses.

Dubnitz glanced at Van der Kraal and saw that the other man was distracted by the rapidly approaching docks. ‘I think this is your stop,’ he said, twisting around to drive his boot into the mercenary’s belly. Van der Kraal went flying and Dubnitz was alone on the coach. Acting as quickly as he dared, he clambered towards the buckboard to where the reins had become entangled in the mouth of a carven grotesquery mounted on the front of the coach.

A bump sent Dubnitz tumbling face-first onto the buckboard and he clawed blindly for the reins. He caught them and heaved himself upright, bracing his feet against the edge of the board and hauling back on the reins with every ounce of strength he possessed in his stocky frame. The horses snorted in protest and their hooves rattled on the docks as they skidded to a halt only a half-moment away from the quay’s edge and the briny waters of the sea. Breathing heavily, sweat running down his face into his beard, Dubnitz looked back at the coach.

A loaded crossbow was pointing straight at him, aimed over the top of an open door. The mercenary holding it grinned and said, ‘Much obliged.’

Dubnitz grabbed the head of the bolt before the mercenary could pull the trigger and ripped it loose from the runnel. The man gaped at him stupidly, and then toppled over backwards as Dubnitz’s armoured fist caught him square in the nose a moment later. ‘You’re welcome,’ Dubnitz said, dropping off the buckboard to the ground.

He peered into the coach. A lean, aesthetic-looking man, all elbows, knees and nose, was crammed into the far corner of the coach, a heavy engineer’s satchel cradled against his chest, and a pair of Bretonnian pince-nez askew on his face. ‘Ah–ah–ah,’ he said, his mouth trying to form words that wouldn’t come.

‘Good afternoon,’ Dubnitz said, grinning. ‘Mikal Bernheimer, is it? How are you enjoying Marienburg so far?’

Bernheimer’s eyes widened and Dubnitz stiffened as the flat of a sword blade fell lightly on his shoulder, its edge far too close to his neck for comfort. He clawed for his sword before he realised he’d lost it during the coach ride. He sighed. ‘Hello again, Edvard,’ he said.

‘You kicked me off the coach,’ Van der Kraal said.

‘I did? How clumsy of me. Must have been an accident,’ Dubnitz said, turning around slowly. The sword blade moved with him, pricking the hollow of his throat. ‘Care to get me my sword so that we can pick up where we left off?’ Van der Kraal looked at him as if he were an idiot. ‘No? Never mind, I just thought I’d give it a try.’

‘You always were an amusing sort, Erkhart,’ Van der Kraal said.

‘How’s Elisa, then?’ Dubnitz said mildly. It was a dangerous gambit, but he needed to play for time. If the others arrived, Van der Kraal would have no reason to kill him. Icy as he was, he didn’t shed blood for the love of it, especially when there was no profit in it.

‘She’s fine,’ Van der Kraal grunted. He stepped back. His face had an angry cast to it, which Dubnitz had expected. Mentioning Elisa was like poking a wolf-seal with a stick.

‘Still pining for me?’ he asked.

‘No,’ Van der Kraal said.

‘Pining for you?’ Dubnitz said.

‘No,’ Van der Kraal snapped. His eyes narrowed. ‘She’s married. To a milliner,’ he added, sourly.

‘A milliner,’ Dubnitz said in disbelief.

‘Yes,’ Van der Kraal growled. ‘A milliner – a very wealthy milliner – and I would like to get on with this, so step aside Erkhart. Bernheimer is coming with me.’

‘I don’t think so,’ Dubnitz said, looking past Van der Kraal. The mercenary frowned and turned slightly as a number of mounted knights thundered onto the docks, tridents levelled. Dubnitz reached up and used two fingers to gently push the sword aside. Van der Kraal frowned and stepped back. He lowered his sword as a number of tridents were aimed in his general direction, but didn’t drop it. He wasn’t intimidated in the least. Dubnitz had once seen Van der Kraal stare down a crew of Norscan raiders, so this wasn’t too surprising.

What was surprising was the sound of a number of crossbows being made ready to fire. Dubnitz looked around and spotted the new arrivals creeping through the obstacle course of busted casks, broken crates and unhappy chickens – crossbows aimed and swords and halberds ready. They were a nasty looking lot, but then they would have to be, to join the Manann’s Blades. Van der Kraal smirked. ‘Did you really think I wouldn’t have my lads waiting on the docks for me?’

‘The question is, do you think you have enough lads for the job?’ Dubnitz said, crossing his arms.

‘They have crossbows,’ Van der Kraal said.

‘Not many, from what I can see. And how quickly can they load them?’ Dubnitz said.

Van der Kraal frowned. But before he could reply, a third ring of bared blades and armoured bodies were added to the proceedings with a clash of metal and the wail of a marsh-horn, which made the hairs on Dubnitz’s neck prickle. It was an eerie sound, meant to travel across the vast, damp emptiness of the marshes that sat to either side of the city. The men of the Marienburg Marsh Watch were a disciplined bunch, and as rough and unpleasant in their way as Van der Kraal’s rowdies. They wore well-cared for cuirasses over leather jacks and had heavy, conical helms on their heads. They carried weapons that had seen much use against pirates and smugglers as well as other, more unpleasant enemies. They surrounded the men of the Manann’s Blades with brisk efficiency, and levelled their heavy gisarmes. The mercenaries looked prepared to fight, but their captain held up a hand, forestalling any sudden combative impulses his men might have been feeling.

Van der Kraal cursed as a pair of horsemen nudged their way through the gathered knights. One was Grandmaster Ogg, his stocky form clad in full armour, and his prosthetic trident-hand tapping against his thigh in an irritated fashion. The other was far less armoured, and yet far more terrifying. Aloysious Ambrosius, Marsh Warden and the closest thing Marienburg had to a Lord Justicar, was a lean, one-eyed man, dressed finely if not ostentatiously. The patch that covered his missing eye was embroidered with the trident and crown symbol of the Marsh Watch and the same sigil decorated his polished cuirass.

The rumour was that Ambrosius had once been a member of knightly order himself in the Empire, before certain personal peccadilloes had seen him cashiered and sent running for Marienburg, a bevy of bounty hunters and professional duellists hot on his heels. In his first week in the city he had seen Ambrosius lose an eye, gain a position as head of the Marsh Watch and kill almost a dozen men. Since that time, the Marsh Watch, once an underfunded and badly equipped joke of an organization, had grown to rival the Black Caps, as the City Watch was sometimes known, and the River Watch in influence over city affairs. Marienburg was a city of ever-shifting political tides, and Ambrosius was as fine a navigator as those dark waters had ever seen.

‘Well, here we are,’ Ambrosius said. Knights and mercenaries alike eyed one another nervously. ‘You are well, Herr Bernheimer?’ Ambrosius asked, looking at the little man. ‘Nothing rattled loose in that valuable mind of yours, I trust?’

‘Ah–I– no, milord,’ Bernheimer said, looking nervous. Dubnitz didn’t blame him.

‘Good,’ Ambrosius said. He glanced at Dubnitz. ‘Ah, Dubnitz,’ he murmured, ‘somehow, I felt certain that you would be leading the charge. You are a credit to your order.’

Dubnitz blinked. It hadn’t sounded like an insult, but with Ambrosius you could never be too sure. Before he could reply, he caught a look from Ogg and shut his mouth. The Grandmaster sniffed and said, ‘What about the mercenary?’

‘What about him?’ Ambrosius said. He glanced at Van der Kraal. ‘One assumes that it will be next to impossible to get you to divulge the identity of your employer in this matter?’ Van der Kraal grunted, and Ambrosius smiled thinly. ‘As I thought,’ he said. ‘I trust that your dues to the Guild of Military Contractors have been paid to date?’

Dubnitz hadn’t thought it possible, but Van der Kraal’s expression grew even stonier. The mercenary nodded tersely. Ambrosius’s smile widened and he made a ‘run along’ gesture. ‘Good, good, be off with you then. I am given to understand that there’s a river caravan riding the tide east come the morning, and that they are looking for men to guard them. Something you would perhaps be interested in, eh?’

Dubnitz could almost hear Van der Kraal’s teeth grinding. The mercenary nodded shallowly. It was tantamount to a temporary banishment, but it was better than being hung, or left in the tide-cages for the gulls and crabs. Without a word, he sheathed his blade, gave Dubnitz one final glare, and then stumped away. His men followed more slowly, warily watching for any sign of pursuit.

‘I can’t believe you’re letting them go,’ Ogg said. ‘Van der Kraal has been due a good neck stretching for a while now.’

‘As have a number of your knights, Dietrich,’ Ambrosius said. ‘But I think that we can both agree that they are more useful alive than dead, eh?’ He looked at Dubnitz as he said it, and Dubnitz assumed his best look of utter innocence. Ambrosius looked again at Bernheimer. ‘Herr Bernheimer, you will forthwith be placed under my personal protection. The High Council is… chastened by this unfortunate affair, and has graciously allowed the Marsh Watch to step in and lend aid to our brethren in the City Watch.’

I’ll bet they are, Dubnitz thought, and I’ll bet the City Watch is glad to be rid of him to boot. I wouldn’t wish such a task on my worst enemy. Ambrosius looked at him again, as if he’d heard Dubnitz’s thoughts, and swung down out of his saddle. One long arm fell across Dubnitz’s shoulders and the knight found himself being pulled away from the crowd. Ambrosius smiled at him. ‘Erkhart, Erkhart, Erkhart. You are a useful man. Did you know that? You have an innate capacity for innovation and drive to succeed, which is impressively pugnacious, if I do say so myself.’

‘Thank you,’ Dubnitz said warily. He began surreptitiously scanning for potential escape routes.

‘I refer specifically, of course, to that business with the zombies and the unfortunate Prince Eyll. Oh, and the matter of the cursed shark teeth last Mitterfruhl. Dietrich assures me that you have displayed a ruthless cunning on numerous other occasions as well, such as the curiously public demise of Bernard Lomax this past Spring Tide. Such qualities are why he offered you a position in the order, rather than leaving you in the cages with the rest of the scum.’

Dubnitz wasn’t entirely sure how to reply. Ambrosius released him and gestured towards Bernheimer. ‘Look at him, Dubnitz. Tell me what you see.’

‘Someone who could use a few more good meals, maybe a bit of a lie-down,’ Dubnitz said.

‘No. What you see there is… potential.’ Ambrosius kicked idly at a chicken as it ran between them, clucking loudly. ‘Quite simply, we need him. We need his expertise,’ he continued. ‘Marienburg has many merits, but engineering has never been one of them. The art of the gun and cannon is one little practised here. Our cousins to the east guard their secrets jealously, and what artillery and handguns we possess were obtained through illicit and altogether difficult means. If this city is to maintain its independence, we must have an edge.’

‘So why not bargain with the dwarfs ourselves?’ Dubnitz asked, plucking an apple out of a broken crate and rolling it around on his palm before taking a loud, wet bite. Chewing, he continued, ‘The little buggers love gold, and we’ve got plenty of that.’

‘Have you ever haggled with a dwarf?’ Ambrosius said. ‘Merchant families of good standing have spent entire generations bargaining with the dwarfs for what few crumbs we now possess. Also our esteemed Imperial cousins have expended treasure and blood to ensure that our relations with the mountain folk are strained at best. While the dwarfs do not make much of a distinction between our peoples, Karl Franz’s Empire cannot afford to allow us to become a blackpowder society.’

‘Not really a fan of it myself,’ Dubnitz said. ‘A handgun will punch through armour as if it were paper.’ He patted his cuirass. ‘I’m fond of my armour.’

‘Your opinion is noted,’ Ambrosius said, in a tone that implied that it had been discarded as well. Dubnitz nearly choked on his apple and cursed his tongue for wagging so freely. The only reason he still had it was that Ambrosius thought he was amusing.

‘Bernheimer claims to have the secret to blackpowder manufacturing, and to have designed a gun – cannon – which is second to none currently in use by our neighbours. That’s why the High Council even deigned to consider his request. Renegade engineers are more trouble than they’re worth, and our cousins in the Empire spare no expense in hunting down such escapees.’

‘But is Bernheimer worth it?’ Dubnitz asked, looking doubtfully at the little man where he sat disconsolately on the edge of the coach, his satchel clutched to his chest. He looked like a noodle that had been left in the pot too long. If he was as valuable as all that, no wonder someone had hired Van der Kraal to get him back.

Ambrosius nodded. ‘His knowledge will be combined with that of the artisans working on the city’s flotilla of landships, to improve their design and to improve their armament with his oh-so special gun,’ he said. Dubnitz grimaced. The landships were mobile fortresses of oak and iron, shaped like sailing vessels but mounted upon massive wheels and powered not by wind or oars, but by experimental boilers that, as yet, had a tendency to explode unexpectedly. The landships had been Ambrosius’s pet project for a while now. He’d managed to somehow talk a number of the city’s wealthiest burghers into opening up their vast coffers to pay for the blasted things. And now, apparently, he wanted to add cannons to them on top of the exploding boilers.

‘His old masters won’t like that very much,’ Dubnitz said warily.

‘I should say not, as evidenced by this little escapade,’ Ambrosius said. ‘I was ready for it, this time. I knew it would only be a matter of time until the City Watch allowed Bernheimer to slip through their grasp. I knew and planned accordingly.’

Dubnitz frowned. ‘You wanted him to be taken,’ he said. What better way to impress upon the High Council the inefficiency of the Black Caps than to have a number of them publically slaughtered and their charge kidnapped?

Ambrosius inclined his head. ‘Did I say that? Of course not, but he was and here we are.’

‘We,’ Dubnitz repeated. There was a sinking feeling in his gut. Ambrosius smiled, and the feeling got worse.

‘Yes, quite. I argued from the first that there was only one body of men capable of protecting our new engineer from those who would seek to deny our city his skills.’ Ambrosius’s smile grew even wider and Dubnitz swallowed hard.

‘The Order of Manann,’ he said hesitantly.

Ambrosius’s grin was positively vulpine as he clapped his hands on Dubnitz’s shoulders. ‘The Order of Manann and their best knight,’ he said.

‘Grandmaster Ogg, you mean,’ Dubnitz assayed.

‘Not quite.’

‘Oh,’ Dubnitz said.

‘I have every confidence that you will keep him healthy and safe for me – for us – Sir Dubnitz. I cannot bear to consider otherwise,’ Ambrosius said. Dubnitz had seen less terrifying smiles on sharks. Ambrosius turned and said, loudly, ‘Dietrich you are to be commended on the courage of your knights!’

‘I am?’ Ogg said, looking confused.

‘He is?’ Dubnitz said, trailing after Ambrosius as they rejoined the others.

‘Quite,’ Ambrosius said, climbing back up onto his horse. ‘I will send several of my clerks around, to aid Herr Bernheimer in getting acquainted with his new duties. Duties he is no doubt eager to take up, now that this excitement is over with.’

Bernheimer perked up. An odd glint came into his eyes as he stood up. ‘Oh aye, my lord, I am quite enthused with the prospect of starting afresh here, in this mighty citadel of possibility!’ His smile was disjointed, like a crack in polished glass. ‘I shall craft such artifice as shall raise the art of war to heights undreamt of in this fallen age!’ He hugged his satchel to his chest, and Dubnitz wondered if the man who’d invented the pigeon-bomb had had the same look on his face as he’d sent his first lethal payload skyward. Probably, he decided; all engineers were mad, to some extent. Of course, who was maddest – the mad man, or the man who had to guard him?

‘Manann carry me safely to shore,’ Dubnitz muttered.

‘Uncork, Van der Kraal,’ Uli Tassenberg said, eyeing the mercenary captain over the rim of his cup. His heavy bulk was parked behind an ornately engraved table, covered in sprawling piscine designs and sturdily anchored to the cabin floor. ‘You’re still getting paid.’

The sun was setting, casting a watery orange light over the ships anchored in the harbours of the Suiddock. Captain Van der Kraal had returned to the private yacht where his employer was waiting, albeit reluctantly. Now he stood in the cabin of Tassenberg’s pleasure yacht, matching the latter’s amused gaze with a glare of defiance. Tassenberg had a reputation for rewarding failure in a fairly permanent fashion, and his guards had taken Van der Kraal’s sword.

If there were any man in Marienburg more frightening than the Marsh Warden, it was Tassenberg the Slaver. He’d boiled horse-hide and made leather and glue like the other orphans in the Tannery. Marienburg was like an apple riddled with brown patches, and of those patches the Tannery was one of the worst. Located in the maze of streets that played host to the city’s tanneries, it was a squalid, foul-smelling territory and the gangs of mule-skinners and cat’s meat-men who made it their home were as dangerous as any dock-tough or river-rat. And now that he was powerful, Tassenberg had made it his fortress.

From the Tannery, he purveyed human flesh all over Marienburg, taking captives to the water wherever it flowed. They said he could get any hue of flesh or size or build, guaranteed. If you needed concubines or doxies, he could get you fifty before the sun had set; if you needed men or beasts for the fighting pits, he could have them in a fortnight, less if they didn’t need to be blooded, though he drew the line at rats of any size, unusual or otherwise – Tassenberg hated rats. If you were a recruiter, looking for a hardy crew, Tassenberg’s men could have you a full complement before the morning tide. More than one man of Van der Kraal’s acquaintance had gone missing after incurring a debt with Tassenberg.

‘We failed,’ Van der Kraal said, eyeing Tassenberg warily.

‘So? It’s not my money,’ Tassenberg said. His chubby, florid face rippled in a toothy grin.

‘No, it’s his,’ Van der Kraal said, looking at the cabin’s third occupant. The man was big, bigger than the low ceiling of the cabin could comfortably accommodate, and the cowled cloak he wore only made him seem larger still. An untouched goblet of wine sat before him, and one large, blunt-fingered hand rested on the hilt of the massive, archaic blade that served as a buffer between him and the two Marienburgers. ‘I don’t like taking money from men who don’t show me their faces,’ the mercenary continued.

The big man didn’t react. Tassenberg chuckled. ‘No, but you’ll take it all the same, Van der Kraal, and you’ll pay your bully-boys and go somewhere nice for a few weeks, eh?’

‘Funny, the Marsh Warden said the same thing,’ the mercenary said, snatching up the sack of coins and hefting it. ‘Seems a shame to miss whatever is going on,’ he added. Tassenberg was about to reply when the big man shifted abruptly in his seat. His knuckles popped audibly as his fingers curled around the sheathed blade. Eyes like dull, dark stones fixed Van der Kraal with a stare that was simultaneously bland and menacing.

The mercenary hesitated. Then, with a sigh, he nodded. ‘Ah well, the lads need a rest anyway. Thank you kindly, Meneer Tassenberg. If you ever require my services…’

‘I know exactly where to find you,’ Tassenberg said. He watched the mercenary troop back out to the deck, where Tassenberg’s men would escort him off the yacht with all due haste. The High Council had eyes everywhere. He took a noisy gulp from his goblet and refilled it from the flagon on the table. ‘He was probably followed. That’s the only reason that one-eyed thief-catcher would let him walk away.’

The big man tensed slightly. Tassenberg chuckled. ‘Easy does it, Mein Herr. I have my most trusted blade prowling those docks, hunting for Ambrosius’s little spies. Otto will deal with any prying eyes or ears never fear.’

‘You had best hope so, slaver,’ the big man rumbled.

Tassenberg smirked. ‘Have you ever heard the saying about flies, honey and vinegar, Herr Bruckner? No? No, I don’t suppose you have. Not Countess Emmanuelle’s headsman. Straight ahead, chop-chop-chop, that’s how you do it in Nuln, eh?’

‘Still your tongue before I rip it out by the roots, fat man,’ Theodore Bruckner growled, his dull eyes flashing as he thrust his hood back from his craggy face. Long hair and thick, braided moustaches covered his head and obscured his face, save for his hooked nose and odd eyes. ‘I do not suffer mockery.’

‘Unless it’s the countess doing the mocking, eh,’ Tassenberg said. ‘The stories I’ve heard about her. Whatever happened to her brother, eh? Was it as bad as the gossipmongers say?’ When Bruckner didn’t answer, Tassenberg shrugged and smiled. ‘Never mind. Business associates should stick to business and not try and make small talk.’

‘Do you think he knows that he was played false? That we never wanted him to bring Bernheimer to us, successfully?’ Bruckner said.

‘Possibly; he’s a cunning one, that Van der Kraal. But he won’t care. And he served his purpose – now those wet hens in the High Council will think Bernheimer is valuable. The best way to convince a rich man he wants something is to try and take it from him. Out of curiosity, how would he have gotten away, had Van der Kraal managed it?’

Bruckner smiled slightly. ‘He’s… resourceful.’ He didn’t elaborate further.

Tassenberg licked his lips. ‘My men are ready, for when he’s done it’s done. When should it be?’

‘A few days, at most. He’s assured me that he will concoct the proper signal. Can you get him out of the city?’ Bruckner said, running his fingers across the plain leather sheath of his sword.

‘Easily,’ Tassenberg said. ‘I’ll send Otto, and a few of my best cut-throats. It’ll look like a coincidence, I assure you. Especially given that it’s in the eastern docklands. It’ll look like just another shot fired across the bows of a rival of mine.’

Bruckner grunted. ‘It doesn’t bother you, betraying your people this way?’

‘I’m not betraying my people,’ Tassenberg said expansively. ‘I’m betraying my enemies – men and women who would see me hung or left in the tide-cages for my supposed crimes. Besides, a bit of sabotage is only politics, after all. And I’ve got other things to worry about than politics.’ He spat the last word, his joviality evaporating momentarily.

It was Bruckner’s turn to smile, albeit thinly. ‘Yes, you do.’

Tassenberg looked at him. His eyes narrowed speculatively. ‘What have you heard?’

‘The Master of Shadows still controls the eastern docks, does he not? He – whoever he is – has as much a stranglehold over his section of this detestable city as you do over yours.’ Bruckner said it matter-of-factly. ‘My agents approached him about arranging this matter first. The one who found him was sent back to Nuln via the Reik on five different boats.’

‘Yes, he is a mean bugger, that one,’ Tassenberg said. ‘Not sociable, like me. Not a man of the people, you could say.’ He patted his belly. ‘A man willing to enter into profitable arrangements without bias,’ he continued, ‘and on that note, when do I get my guns, headsman?’

‘When Bernheimer is back aboard this yacht, slaver,’ Bruckner said. ‘And not before.’

‘Fine, fine,’ Tassenberg chuckled, waving a hand in surrender. ‘I’m a patient man, me. After all, I’ve waited this long to bring the light of gunfire to the shadows of the eastern docks, I can wait a few days more. Besides, I can count on Otto to cause plenty of collateral damage when he pays them a visit.’ He grinned and lifted the flagon. ‘Wine?’

The shipyards of the eastern docklands occupied a structure that had once been a massive temple, though whether to Manann, Stromfels or even Mermedus not even the scholar-priests of the Order of the Albatross could say. It had been built upon a natural quay, formed from stone, densely packed soil and mud at some time in the distant past that had settled into a sort of trident shape. The first men to inhabit that area had raised a temple, though whether at their recognizance or at the behest of the ancient devils which had once inhabited the misty coastlines and marshes was a mystery. The temple was a vast space and open to the elements, consisting of oddly spaced stone formations that some scholars insisted aligned perfectly with the stars at certain times of the year, including Mitterfruhl.

During the construction of the shipyards in the time of Magnus the Pious, the temple had been used as the skeleton of what was to come. Now, the sky had been blocked out by great ribs of pitch-hardened wood connected by huge expanses of overlapped netting. Anchor chains had been wrapped around the antediluvian stones, and icons and symbols of Manann had been tied to the links. Smaller jetties and quays made from wood jutted from the crook of each curve of the trident, and crews of artisans and craftsman were hard at work at projects stationed at each. Priests of Manann were also present and in great numbers, moving amongst the crews and casting ladles of salt water across the unfinished vessels in order to bless them.

Dubnitz took a deep breath and clapped his hands against his cuirass. ‘Breathe it in, my friends,’ he said loudly, his voice carrying easily over the rattle of hammers, the hiss of saws and the shouts of workers. ‘Industry,’ he said, flinging out his hands, as if to grasp the entirety of the shipyards.

‘Industry smells an awful lot like tar,’ one of the two knights accompanying Dubnitz said, tamping down tobacco into the bowl of his scrimshaw pipe. Ernst Rohmer was an older man, with a seamed face and a build almost as heavy as Dubnitz.

‘It’s also quite loud,’ added the other, a lean whip of a man with the stamp of one of the lower rungs of Marienburg’s aristocracy on his features. Piet van Taal had his helmet under one arm and his palm resting nervously on the squid-shaped pommel of his blade. ‘I’ve been in battles that were less noisy.’

‘Two,’ Ernst said, holding up two fingers. ‘You’ve been in two battles.’

‘And this is louder than both of them,’ Piet said.

‘That’s because both of them involved less than thirty men, and took place almost entirely in ill-lit courtyards,’ Dubnitz said. ‘Crowd control isn’t the same thing as waging war, young Piet.’

‘Depends on the crowd,’ Piet retorted.

Dubnitz chuckled. Gulls wheeled overhead, or waddled across the nets above, squawking raucously as the morning sun blazed down on the shallow quays where the first trio of what many were hoping would be Marienburg’s answer to the Empire’s infamous steam-tanks were being assembled by every available hand. Marienburg’s craftsmen had developed a quick assembly-line method of manufacture that stood in contrast to the artisans of the Empire or Bretonnia. Each of the merchant houses had their own method, but all were standardised to some degree, out of necessity. There were only so many shipyards, after all, and time was money. The faster a ship could be built, the faster it could be plying the waters, whatever its purpose. When a new, faster, better method of construction was discovered by a group of craftsmen, it was quickly duplicated by all the rest. Occasionally, this led to sporadic outbreaks of violence in the shipyards, as rival crews sabotaged or stole from one another, but, in Dubnitz’s opinion, a bit of blood now and then helped keep the wheels of commerce turning.

A shout caught his attention. Bernheimer was scrambling across the hull of one of the landships, hooked into a barnacle scraper’s harness, shouting instructions to the coterie of artisans and workers who had gathered around him at the behest of Ambrosius’s clerks.

There were three of the landships – one almost completed, and the other two in various stages of construction. They were as large as any galleon or grain-ship, with hulls that would have put the walls of a border-fort to shame and masts as thick as a giant’s legs. At the top of each mast, rather than a sail, was a reinforced crow’s nest.

Each vessel was the result of months of planning and months of construction – whole crews from the shipyards had been pressed into service, working day and night to see to their completion. The massive, iron-banded wheels alone had required a week apiece to get right, if the gossipmongers were right. Carpenters and wood-workers from the length and breadth of the Old World had been lured to Marienburg with the promise of open coffers to ensure that the behemoths were structurally sound as well as imposing. Blacksmiths, armourers and builders had been employed to craft the heavily armoured parapet-style towers that occupied the fore and aft decks, and to attach the hundreds of iron plates that guarded the joins and hull.

The three knights watched the proceedings from a safe distance. ‘I don’t trust anyone that enthusiastic,’ Piet muttered, watching as Bernheimer swatted wildly at an overly aggressive gull with a set of rolled up plans.

‘I don’t trust anyone who meddles with explosives,’ Ernst said, puffing on his pipe.

‘I don’t trust anyone,’ Dubnitz said, smiling.

The other two knights looked at him, as if waiting for him to add a clarifier. Dubnitz looked at them. ‘What?’

Piet sighed. ‘Have I thanked you yet, Erkhart, for including me in this?’

‘Aye, very generous of you,’ Ernst muttered. He eyed Dubnitz. ‘This is about the five karls I owe you, isn’t it?’

‘Possibly,’ Dubnitz said, crossing his arms. Ogg had offered him his pick of his fellow knights to help him look to Bernheimer’s safety, and he’d chosen Ernst and Piet before either of them had had a chance to sneak out of the chapterhouse. One of the first things you learned after joining the order was to never, ever, volunteer for anything, especially if someone mentioned free food. It would only end in tears. Once they’d been caught and cornered, both men had grudgingly agreed. He’d been in tight spots with both of them before, and he knew they were born survivors and quick thinkers. Qualities that might prove useful, he suspected. Besides which, Ernst owed him money, and Piet was, in Dubnitz’s opinion, born to take arrows meant for better men.

Bernheimer had retired late that first night and every night since, after jabbering the ears off Ambrosius’s clerks. Marienburg had its own corps of engineers, but they were hardly of a class with a graduate of Nuln’s Gunnery School. Bernheimer claimed to have learned his skills at the feet of the infamous Jubal Falk himself, the Powder-Master and Castellan-Engineer of Nuln. His notes, calculations and designs seemed to bear that out – at least according to Ambrosius’s people.

In the three days since Bernheimer had been rescued from the Manann’s Blades, things had gotten very busy in the shipyards. The experimental gunworks that Ambrosius had founded and funded several months before had been put at Bernheimer’s disposal and subsequently set to work crafting the gun he had designed even as he had visited the alchemists’ guild to see to the preparation of his particular mix of black powder. Now, he was overseeing the installation of swivel-mounts and reinforced powder caches, as well as seemingly redesigning the hulls of the landships for maximum efficiency.

Or so he claimed. As with all engineers, or at least all those of Dubnitz’s limited acquaintance, Bernheimer loved to talk, and ideas and concepts spilled from him like a storm-swollen flood – it was difficult to tell, at any given moment, exactly what he was on about. Then again, maybe that was the point.

‘Did you say something?’ Ernst said.

Dubnitz gave a start, and then shook his head.

‘Merely thinking out loud,’ he said.

‘I was wondering what that rude noise was,’ a woman said.

Dubnitz flinched. The voice was familiar and the tone even more so. His eyes rolled heavenwards.

‘Manann spare me your storms,’ he murmured as he turned to face the newcomer, a jovial grin plastered to his face. ‘Esme, you’re looking well!’

Like all members of the Order of the Albatross, Esme Goodweather wore a tarjack’s harness over her robes, with dozens of pouches and reliquaries tied to it, as well as a hooked knife carved from the tooth of some unpleasant deep-sea leviathan and a handful of silver bells. Dubnitz had seen her use that knife to unpleasant effects more than once, and as she looked at him, she fingered the hilt speculatively. ‘So are you, Erkhart. Unfortunately,’ she said.

‘You’re still upset,’ he said.

‘What was your first clue?’

‘How many times must I apologize? It was dark! Anyone could have made that mistake!’ He looked helplessly at his fellow knights.

Piet threw up his hands and stepped back. Ernst looked away, whistling genially. Dubnitz growled. Cowards, he thought. ‘Besides it’s been almost a year – you can’t possibly be still holding a grudge?’

‘It has been a year,’ Goodweather said agreeably.

Dubnitz relaxed.

‘Since the first one,’ she continued.

Dubnitz tensed up again.

‘Ah,’ he said.

‘Why are you here, Erkhart? Does it have something to do with that annoying little man yelling at everyone about firing trajectories and hull fractures?’ Goodweather said. ‘Is that why you and your rusty friends are here?’

‘We’re here at the behest of the Marsh Warden,’ Dubnitz said, ‘to see that “the annoying little man” as you call him, comes to no harm.’ He leaned forward. ‘And why are you here, then? Did you miss me that much?’

‘Hardly,’ Goodweather said. She gestured towards a ship in the shallows, where several other priests and priestesses were splashing the decks with Manann’s sacred bilge. ‘I’m here on temple business. There are boats that need blessing.’ She frowned. ‘But I saw you, and I thought of that business last Mitterfruhl, and decided to see what trouble the tide was bringing in.’

‘You make me sound like your personal bird of ill-omen,’ Dubnitz protested. ‘And here I am, being civic-minded and a good Marienburger. You wound me, Goodweather.’

‘If only,’ she said.

Dubnitz grinned. ‘Be honest. You’re still on the outs with the temple authorities after you punched the high priest for getting fresh on the altar-barge, and you were hoping I’d blab something interesting, weren’t you? A bit of such and such for the delicate shell-like ears of Manann’s own, as to what the High Council is up to?’

Goodweather shrugged. ‘And if I am? Information is as good as currency in this city, you know that.’ She leaned close. ‘What’s going on? Who is he?’

‘Did you really have to dump him into the canal during Summer Tide, and in front of the orphans to boot? What sort of example is that setting for the wee tykes?’ Dubnitz said, ignoring the question. Goodweather opened her mouth to reply, when Piet said, ‘What is he doing?’

‘What?’ Dubnitz turned around. Bernheimer was gesticulating wildly and berating the crowd of clerks and engineers who surrounded him on the deck of a landship. He was shaking one of the bulky, powder-charged Cathayan signal-rockets that many of Marienburg’s warships carried, as if for emphasis. They were useful devices, rather like oversized fireworks, and they were usually colour-coded, each colour marking a different order.

‘If he’s not careful, that thing is going to go off,’ Ernst said, tapping the bowl of his pipe on his vambrace.

The signal-rocket went off with a spiralling shriek, scattering sparks across the deck and the crowd gathered there. The rocket punched through the netting above, scattering gulls, and corkscrewed up into the sky, where it exploded in a blossom of bright red.

‘Well that’s lovely,’ Piet said, shading his eyes.

Dubnitz, however, wasn’t looking at the burst of colour and fire. Instead, he watched the gulls. Those that hadn’t scattered when the rocket passed through the netting suddenly took wing, as if alerted to some further danger.

The explosion rocked the shipyard a moment later. Geysers of water, burning wood and dislodged stone spurted into the air, sending those men who hadn’t been knocked sprawling by the force of the explosion scurrying for cover. Dubnitz instinctively placed himself between Goodweather and the debris that scythed through the air. Piet fell over with a curse, and Ernst was forced to steady himself against a stone.

‘What in Manann’s name was that?’ Goodweather yelped, covering her head.

‘Someone blew up a powder-keg,’ Dubnitz said. ‘You can smell the sulphur from here. They’ve blown a hole under the shipyard!’ He glanced over his shoulder, trying to see through the voluminous cloud of smoke and dust that now spread through the shipyard. He cursed as he spotted several shapes hurrying through it. The first one to bull through the smoke into full view was an ogre, as big and hungry-looking as any of its kind: it was clad in the outsize burnoose and turban of an Arabayan corsair and wielding a tulwar with a blade roughly the size of Dubnitz’s leg. The blade slashed out and slapped a staggering priest into the air, sending his body spinning into the water.

Behind the ogre came a number of muscular individuals who bore the stamp of the fighting-pits on their scarred faces, as well as a bevy of colourful bravos who wouldn’t have looked out of place in a bloody riot whether it was taking place in Miragliano or Altdorf, and a halfling whose short, broad form was festooned liberally with pistols. As Dubnitz watched, she drew one and snapped off a shot, plucking a hapless sailor from his feet.

‘I knew it! I knew it was all going to go to pot,’ Dubnitz said, rising to his feet. He tore his blade from its sheath as a shave-pated and iron muzzled pit-fighter charged towards him through the spreading smoke, flail swinging. He side-stepped his attacker and gutted the man. As the body of the pit-fighter hit the planks, he snatched up the flail and used it to bash aside a spear that dug for his vitals, before chopping down on its wielder’s head with his sword. He grunted and jerked the blade free of the dead man’s skull. Dubnitz looked down at the two men, and saw a strange, but familiar, brand on the flesh of both. ‘Ha, of course,’ he muttered, ‘as if this couldn’t get worse.’ That was Tassenberg the Slaver’s mark. Every slaver had one, and Tassenberg’s was shaped like a twisted horse-shoe – a bit of humour from a boy who’d grown up in the Tannery. Dubnitz sighed. At least it wasn’t the Master of Shadows. He looked at the two knights. ‘Get up, both of you. It’s time to earn our pay.’ He glanced at Goodweather. ‘And you – find some cover.’

‘What about you?’ Goodweather said.

‘Me? I’ve got some red work to attend to,’ Dubnitz said, grinning. With that, he strode into the smoke, flail in one hand and sword in the other. Alarm bells were ringing and men were shouting, but no one seemed to be putting up a concentrated defence against the attackers. Not that the latter seemed to be after anything in particular. Attacks like this weren’t uncommon, especially given that Tassenberg didn’t control the docklands, and wasn’t friendly with those of his ilk who did, but why now? Did it have something to do with Bernheimer?

The thought wasn’t a pleasant one. Tassenberg was dangerous enough – if he got his hands on the armaments that Bernheimer had purportedly designed, he’d set the city aflame in his desire to stamp out his rivals. Marienburg was a place of precarious balance; the powerful pushed and pulled against one another, and the city sailed on riding the currents. This included the hundreds of criminal enterprises that flowered in the nooks and crannies of the city like mould, but fools like Tassenberg didn’t see it that way. They wanted the whole pie to themselves, and didn’t care a fig that it was poison. They instigated massacres, when a simple murder would serve.

Dubnitz chopped and hewed with the skill of a natural woodsman. He was a fair swordsman, but it was his strength and speed that gave him his edge, and he was well-aware of it. In the hack and slash of shipboard combat, finesse and skill were less useful than muscle and endurance. It was the same here. A street-fight was no place for the knightly arts. It was a place for getting the bastard down as quickly as possible and putting the boot in as many times as you could, before you moved onto the next one.

Ernst and Piet had followed him, swords in hand. They moved steadily towards the landship where they’d last seen Bernheimer, and Dubnitz cursed himself silently. One of them should have been beside the man at all times. He twitched his wrist and sent the flail snapping out to block a stabbing sword. Ernst caught the swordsman in the side and chopped into him hard enough to lift him off of his feet. Piet punched a bravo, rocking him back a moment before he lopped off his sword-hand and left him bleeding and screaming on the quay.

Side-by-side, the three knights formed a deadly wedge; armoured as they were, albeit not in full-plate, they were more than a match for the thin blades and knives of the majority of the gutter-trash who’d boiled up out of the hole the explosion had made in the quay. Most of the attackers gave the three knights a wide berth, but those who didn’t soon regretted their decision.

Leaving a trail of bodies in their wake, they reached the landship quickly, but not quickly enough. The landship was aflame, and the workers were either dead or scattered. For a moment, Dubnitz feared that Bernheimer was among them when he caught sight of the engineer hanging over the shoulder of the ogre he’d noticed earlier like a side of beef. The ogre roared and swatted anyone aside who got in his way as he fought his way back towards the epicentre of the smoke.

‘Manann’s scaly nethers, they’ve got our new engineer!’ Piet said.

‘Well, let’s go get him back, shall we?’ Dubnitz snarled, hurrying after the ogre. He wasn’t looking forward to fighting the brute, but if they didn’t, they’d be for the tide-cages once it became known they’d let Bernheimer be taken, if Ambrosius – or Ogg, for that matter – didn’t simply have them executed out of hand. A Kislevite, stripped to the waist and moustaches and scalplock flowing, bounded out of the smoke, bellowing a war cry as he brought a heavy sabre down on Dubnitz’s shoulder, scoring the armour and knocking him to one knee. Dubnitz grabbed his opponent’s facial hair and jerked the man forward so that their skulls cracked together. The Kislevite staggered and Dubnitz slammed into him, bull-rushing him back into a pile of lumber. He smashed his opponent in the throat with his vambrace and kneed him in the groin, leaving him gagging and gasping. ‘Get to Bernheimer,’ Dubnitz shouted, trying to catch Ernst’s attention as the latter cut the legs out from under a Norscan who’d moved to stop them.

Ernst turned and made to reply when a large, heavy hand shot out of the smoke and wrapped around his head. Before either knight could react, Ernst was yanked from his feet and then slammed face-first into the ground hard enough to crack the stone and, by the sound of it, bone as well. The ogre let Ernst fall – whether he was dead or merely unconscious, Dubnitz couldn’t say – and stepped over him, tulwar sweeping out. Dubnitz hopped back, cursing. Bernheimer was nowhere in sight.

‘Crack your bones,’ the ogre slobbered, lumbering forward. ‘Suck the marrow.’

‘Sounds delightful, but I’m afraid I must decline,’ Dubnitz said, avoiding a second blow. He’d had the misfortune to fight ogres before. The brutes were far stronger than any human opponent, and one blow from that tulwar would cut him in two, armour or none. He circled the ogre, lashing out quickly to cut at the back of one of its tree trunk-like legs. The beast whirled with a bellow and nearly took his arm off at the shoulder. The ogre reached out with its free hand and fingers like bilge hooks crashed against his shoulder. Metal buckled slightly as it dragged him closer and the tulwar dropped towards him with lethal finality. Dubnitz managed to interpose his blade, but just barely, and the tulwar wasn’t stopped, so much as slowed. The tangled blades descended towards his face.

Then, there was a smell like standing water in a slaughterhouse and the ogre screamed in agony. It hurled Dubnitz aside and staggered. A number of red, snapping shapes, like clouds of blood in the water, circled the brute, tearing at it with spectral teeth. The phantom sharks were as insubstantial as a morning mist, but as deadly as their physical counterparts, and the ogre clawed blindly at them as its tulwar fell to the ground. Its howls were cut off a moment later as one of the sharks swallowed its head. The ogre gave a shudder and toppled over, missing its head and a good deal of the meat from its bones.

Goodweather stood behind it, her hand extended, palm up, displaying a number of shark’s teeth. They steamed faintly. ‘Still alive, Erkhart?’ she asked.

‘Bruised but breathing,’ Dubnitz grunted, pushing himself to his feet. ‘I can’t say the same for poor Ernst, however.’ He looked at her. ‘Thank you, by the way.’

‘We all serve Manann, from the highest to the lowest,’ she said, kneeling beside Ernst. Gingerly, she pried off his helmet and pressed two fingers to his throat. ‘Pulse is weak, but it’s there. He might live, if we get him to the Sisters of Mercy in time.’ She stood and shouted at a knot of nearby priests. Stretcher-bearers were already being organised for the wounded. The priesthood of Manann were as feckless and corrupt as the next highly organised bureaucracy, but they came through in a pinch, Dubnitz was forced to admit.

Piet joined them, blood caked in the crevices and runnels of his armour. ‘You need to see this,’ he said, his eyes flickering to Ernst and then away. Dubnitz followed him through the slowly clearing smoke. ‘They cleared out after Bernheimer got filched,’ the younger knight said. ‘Just stopped fighting and started running, the bastards.’ He gestured. ‘I chased them to here.’

It was quite clearly the epicentre of the explosion that had rocked the shipyard. A round, ragged divot gouged out of the solid stone and wood of the quay, large enough to lose a cart and horse in. Smoke still billowed up from within it, and the air stank of sulphur and scorched wood.

‘I knew it,’ Dubnitz said. Weariness crept over him, and he rubbed his face. ‘Bugger this for a game of sailors.’ He sank to his haunches and peered through the smoke, down into the hole. ‘I knew it. They came up through the unterdock, like sewer-rats coming up a privy-hole.’

The unterdock was a secret place that everyone in Marienburg knew about – proof that nothing remained hidden in the city of merchants for too long, and also that nobody in Marienburg knew what ‘secret’ meant, really. It was an artificial world beneath the massive docklands that occupied the bulk of Marienburg’s coastline. Built in an ad hoc fashion by generations of smugglers, merchants, pirates and beggars, the rickety wooden walkways spread like a massive spider’s web beneath the docklands, starting in the north and spreading slowly but surely over the centuries to the other three cardinal points. It cut between the shallows and the surface, like a wedge of fossilized peas in an Ostland pasty. Stairs, ladders, fishing nets and overturned dinghies occupied the spaces between wooden planks, and formed natural landmarks. The air was muggy and thick with sea-salt. Barnacles clustered in patches like moss and things moved beneath the dark, sludgy water.

‘I’m surprised they didn’t set the air down there on fire,’ Piet said, in disgust.

‘They probably did. But it’s not like that sort care about casualties, do they?’ Dubnitz glanced up at Piet. ‘I hope you brought your waders.’

‘We’re not going down there?’ Piet said, aghast.

‘They have the engineer,’ Dubnitz said, rising to his feet. It wasn’t a long drop. Hopefully they wouldn’t go right through the rotted planking and into the drink.

‘Dubnitz – wait – I’m coming with you,’ Goodweather called, hurrying towards them. She had snatched up a sword from somewhere, and held it balanced on her shoulder. Dubnitz turned and held up a hand.

‘As much as I’d rather have another old hand at the under-routes with me as opposed to a man who gets the urps when the privy overflows…’ He cut a look at Piet, who made a rude gesture, ‘I need you to alert the Marsh Warden and Grandmaster Ogg as to what’s happened.’ He turned and barked an order to a nearby sailor, and scurried away.

Her eyes narrowed. She opened her mouth, as if to argue, but then nodded sharply. She put a hand on his arm. ‘Try not to die,’ she said. The sailor he’d sent away scrambled back, carrying a bilge-lantern. Dubnitz took it and slapped it into Piet’s arms

‘I make no promises,’ Dubnitz said. He clapped his hand over hers, trapping it momentarily. ‘Best hurry, though,’ he added. ‘I’m only a fan of stacked odds when they’re on my side.’ He released her hand and turned, jostling Piet towards the hole. ‘Come on Piet, down we go!’

They clambered down and moved carefully through the depths, the light cast from Piet’s lantern revealing the path before them. ‘Which way do we go?’ Piet asked, looking about nervously.

‘If memory serves, there’s a way out, into the docklands, just south of here,’ Dubnitz said. ‘That’ll be the quickest way out, and they’ll be in a hurry, I imagine. Come on.’

The unterdock groaned and sighed like a living thing around them as the tides and the breeze from above caused the structure to expand and contract slightly. Walking through it reminded Dubnitz of moving across a ship’s deck during a summer storm – not altogether difficult, but unpleasant all the same. Water dripped from above them, and the air was heavy with dampness. Things splashed in the darkness, causing Piet to start more than once, but Dubnitz ignored the sounds. He’d been assigned to sewer-jack duty more than once for various infractions, and he knew that, for the most part, the mutated beasts that swam the black waters of the unterdock avoided armed men.

The other knight glanced at him. ‘You know, I could have alerted the Grandmaster,’ Piet said.

Dubnitz grunted. ‘You mean before or after he finished gutting you for dereliction of duty?’

Piet paled. ‘Yes, I suppose you’re right. Much safer down here,’ he said, shaking his head.

Tassenberg patted the panting messenger-boy on the head and then cuffed him with an open fist, sending him scrambling. ‘There we go. See? No problems, headsman. Otto is on his way, your engineer safely in hand.’

Bruckner grunted and crossed his arms. He stood on the deck of Tassenberg’s yacht and surveyed the ships that clustered in the eastern harbors of Marienburg. There were hundreds of vessels, from an equal number of ports, carrying men from every nation, all flooding into Marienburg to conduct their business. Gulls wheeled over the harbour in vast, croaking clouds, and the bells rang, and over it all, a thick column of black smoke that twisted up into the air. They’d heard the explosion from where they were, and Tassenberg had laughed and clapped with joy. Bruckner had merely watched.

Bruckner was not a man for the subtle arts of the saboteur or agent provocateur. He was, as his title proclaimed, a headsman. He reaped lives, brutally, efficiently and without concern for rank, creed or gender. He had taken the heads of ladies’ maids and manor-house lords alike at the behest of Countess Emmanuelle von Liebewitz, and it was only at her earnest request that he was here now overseeing this task. He would have preferred, on the whole, to have come at the head of an army, instead of relying on the dubious skills of a creature like Tassenberg to get him into and out of the city.

But it was important that no one, least of all the electors of the Empire, knew about this. At the moment, Nuln maintained a long-held and cherished monopoly on blackpowder weapons and trained artillery crews, and it was that monopoly that enabled Nuln to remain free of interference from imperial authorities. But the monopoly could not be maintained, if someone else – Marienburg, say – began to sell blackpowder weapons as well. Thus, the countess’s spymasters and the castellan-engineer had come up with a way of sabotaging the freistadt’s burgeoning blackpowder efforts. It needed to be done, of that Bruckner had no doubt. Nonetheless, skullduggery put a bad taste in his mouth. Better to simply take heads.

‘Your efficiency does you credit, slaver,’ Bruckner said, leaning forward over the rail. He peered towards the raised section of dock nearby, where an aperture composed of heavy chunks of wood, akin to those used in mines to bolster a tunnel-mouth, opened out onto the water. ‘They’ll come out there, then?’ he said.

‘Yes,’ Tassenberg said, joining him. ‘It’s the quickest route out of the unterdock. It’s all about the speed now, I’m afraid. Little time for subtlety,’ he continued.

‘That was subtle?’

‘Subtle for Otto,’ Tassenberg clarified. ‘He’s a good lad, but he lacks restraint. Besides, I told him to have fun with it.’ He grinned. ‘By the time the authorities react in force, we’ll be sliding through the Reik-Gate, and right past those fools in the River Watch. I’ve got most of the current shift on my payroll, so we shouldn’t have any problems.’ He smacked the rail with a plump hand. ‘And this boat is meant for river-travel. I use it to procure certain – ah – speciality items from up north.’

‘I noticed the cages in the hold,’ Bruckner said. His voice held no clue as to whether he approved or not. Tassenberg peered at him for a moment and then shrugged.

‘Always be prepared, that’s my motto,’ he said.

‘And are you prepared for pursuit?’

‘Otto can handle himself,’ Tassenberg said. Bruckner looked at him. Tassenberg stepped back. ‘I have close to thirty men on this tub. All armed and perfectly ready to spill blood in our defence, headsman, not that you need defending,’ he added quickly.

Bruckner shifted slightly. ‘I will feel better when we are away from this garbage heap.’

‘Marienburg’s not that bad. Our sewers work, and we’ve got lovely local cuisine.’ Tassenberg paused and added, ‘If you like fish.’

‘I don’t,’ Bruckner said.

‘Yes, well.’

Bruckner stared at the aperture, willing Tassenberg’s man to appear. The sooner that he was out of this city and could get back to doing what he did best the better, rather than skulking about on a criminal’s yacht.

The pistol shot took a bite out of the plank next to Piet’s face, spraying him with splinters. The knight cursed and staggered back. Dubnitz grabbed him and pulled him into cover behind a heavy stone support. ‘What in the name of all the devils of the deep was that?’ Piet snarled.

‘I think they’ve realised we were following them,’ Dubnitz said. He peered around the edge of the stone and could just make out the watery orange light of the gloaming. They were near the exit. He could hear water slapping against hulls and signal bells.

‘That’s the way, Bella my girl,’ someone snarled loudly. ‘Kill him! It’s open season on armoured bastards!’

Dubnitz recognized that voice. ‘Otto,’ he growled.

‘Who’s Otto?’ Piet asked, peering at him.

‘Otto Schelp, the Manann be-damned Sewer-Wolf, that’s who!’

‘Uli Tassenberg’s pet killer,’ Piet muttered. ‘Wonderful.’ Everyone who dealt with the less savoury elements of Marienburg society knew the Sewer-Wolf, even if they didn’t know his name. The lean, grey-faced killer was the subject of bawdy ale-house legends and mothers used stories of his exploits to frighten their children. Schelp had carved a red, wet hole into the city’s heart, ensconcing himself forever amongst such luminaries as Mad Chipley, van Markowitz the Devil-Dog, and the Face-Eater of Fish Pie Street.

Another flurry of pistol shots punched slivers from the column they were hiding behind. Dubnitz recalled the halfling he’d seen at the shipyards and cursed. ‘They’re somewhere up ahead of us.’ He drew his blade. ‘Watch yourself, Piet. They’re trying to keep our heads down, likely while somebody–’

The men rose from the water to either side of the boardwalk the two knights stood on, and thrust at them with tridents and bilge-hooks. Whether the men had been waiting, or whether they had taken to the water with the first shot, Dubnitz couldn’t say. He swatted aside a trident and chopped down, cutting the head off and leaving its wielder to fall backwards into the water. He had no time to check on Piet. A bilge-hook skittered across his side and his arm clamped down, trapping it. He twisted, ripping it from its owner’s hands, and rammed his sword into the man’s chest. The blade became lodged in bone, and Dubnitz was forced to let it go as he heard feet drum on the planking behind them. While they’d been distracted, the rest of the gang had crept up on them. He swung the bilge-hook about, narrowly blocking a blade that chopped down at him.

‘Hello Erkhart,’ the swordsman barked. ‘Fancy meeting you here!’ Otto Schelp grinned widely at Dubnitz, his grey face pinched and oily beneath a bowl of stiff, pale hair. He wore black leathers that were shiny with grease, and his sword was smudged with soot in order to dull the blade. He hacked at Dubnitz, forcing him back through sheer enthusiasm. ‘Tassenberg will pay me a bonus for bringing him your head! You broke his heart the day you left the Tannery.’

‘I broke his head, you mean,’ Dubnitz said, twisting the bilge-hook and driving its butt into Schelp’s belly. ‘I broke yours as well, as I recall, Otto.’

Schelp stumbled back, wheezing as Dubnitz swung the blade of the bilge-hook at his head, but he ducked aside, weasel-quick, and brought his blade down, snapping the bilge-hook in half.

Schelp snarled and slashed at him. Dubnitz fell, and rolled over the body of the man he killed earlier, using his momentum to wrench the blade free. Dubnitz rose to his feet and locked blades with Schelp. The thin man was fast, and deadly. He always had been, even when they’d been boys in the Tannery together, with Fat Uli Tassenberg and Crazy Rat-Eating Edwin. But Dubnitz had been better than Schelp when they were boys, and he was better now too. The Sewer-Wolf was used to killing unaware sewer-jacks and the out-of-shape guards of the River Watch. Dubnitz stamped down on Schelp’s foot, bones snapping as he howled. Dubnitz punched him in the throat and Schelp wobbled, clutching at his throat with his free hand, his face going blue. ‘Your problem, Otto, was that you were always too dumb to cheat,’ Dubnitz said, beating his blade aside and launching out a kick at Otto’s belly.

Schelp flew backwards and smashed through the rail of the boardwalk, plummeting down into the stew of sludgy waters. Dubnitz waited for him to resurface, then, when he didn’t, he turned to check on Piet. ‘You – ah – you have a bit of brain on your helmet there,’ he said, after a moment. Piet stood in the centre of a ring of carnage, breathing heavily. His sword-arm was red from blade tip to elbow and his armour was coated in the detritus of slaughter.

Piet plucked the offending lump of grey tissue from his visor and said, ‘Thank you.’

Dubnitz shook himself and started forward. ‘Let’s go get our engineer.’

The two knights stalked forward. As the sun set, a thick mist was rising from the water, filling the unterdock. He heard the splash of oars, and realized that Schelp had been trying to delay them. He spotted a row boat tied to a slight-looking jetty, abandoned by the remainder of Otto’s crew. He dropped off the dock into the boat and snatched up an oar, tossing it to Piet. ‘Grab an oar, Piet.’

‘It’s just my opinion, but one engineer isn’t worth all of this effort,’ Piet groused as Dubnitz hacked through the line that held the boat to the dock. ‘It’s a sad day when a knight has to row his own boat.’

‘Stop complaining. This is what you signed up for,’ Dubnitz said, as they began to row.

‘No, I signed up for the easy women and free beer,’ Piet snapped. ‘A man doesn’t become a knight if he’s looking to do all of this work.’

Dubnitz grunted. He didn’t disagree, but now wasn’t the time. ‘If we don’t get that engineer back, work will be the least of your worries. Ambrosius will make us his personal projects.’

Piet bent forward. ‘Let’s row faster,’ he said.

Their boat slid out of the unterdock and onto the Reik. The mist was thicker now, and it was almost impossible to see ahead of them. The mist enveloped them, muffling the sounds of the harbour. Dubnitz knew that their quarry had to be rowing towards a ship; like as not, it was the same ship that Van der Kraal had been trying to get Bernheimer to earlier.

‘Are we just going to row around until we find them?’ Piet hissed.

‘I’ll admit I didn’t think that far ahead,’ Dubnitz replied softly.

‘I can’t even see where we’re going!’

‘Trust in Manann, Piet. He’s never steered me wrong,’ Dubnitz said piously. The mist had been stirred ahead of them, and he could just make out the shape of a large ship, growing larger as they drew closer. Suddenly, he spotted another row boat, and saw that it was pressed up against the large ship. Someone had tossed down a ladder, and men were shimmying up it. The halfling with the pistols was still on the boat, as well as another man. Dubnitz gathered his legs under him and passed his oar back to Piet. ‘Keep rowing,’ he said.

‘What?’

‘Keep rowing!’ Dubnitz bellowed, drawing his sword as the prow of their boat smacked into the side of the other. Dubnitz leapt onto the other boat, his sword whistling out. The cut-throat fell back into the water, trailing blood. The halfling gaped at him and clawed for one of her pistols and Dubnitz booted her over the side. ‘Come on Piet!’ he said, lunging for the ladder. Piet stumbled after him, and they clambered up the ladder towards the deck rail above.

They cleared the rail, surprising those on the deck. Bernheimer was standing among them, surrounded by armed men. The engineer seemed unhurt, so far. Dubnitz planted an elbow in a man’s stomach and heaved him over the side as Piet joined him, his blade looping out to open the neck of another. They marched forward, scattering crew and bravos before them, until they reached the knot around Bernheimer. Dubnitz recognized a face in the crowd that faced them. ‘Well, well, well,’ he said. ‘I should have known that where Otto went, Fat Uli wouldn’t be far behind.’

‘Erkhart,’ Tassenberg growled. ‘Don’t call me fat.’ The slaver had his thumbs hooked into his wide leather belt and his chubby face twisted in an expression of malice. ‘I haven’t seen you in a dog’s age, Erkhart.’ A large man stood behind him, faintly familiar to Dubnitz.

‘Who are these fools?’ the big man rumbled.

‘Oh, where are my manners? Theodore Bruckner, meet Erkhart Dubnitz, of the Order of Manann, and whoever his friend is,’ Tassenberg said.

Dubnitz froze.

‘Did – did he just say that that’s the Headsman of Nuln?’ Piet muttered.

‘Yes,’ Dubnitz said. He looked at Tassenberg. ‘What’s this then? Selling out our fair city, Fat Uli?’

‘I told you not to call me that,’ Tassenberg said, his smile slipping slightly.

‘Come here, Bernheimer, we’re getting out of here,’ Dubnitz said, extending a hand to the engineer. Bernheimer blinked and extended his hand. A small pistol popped into his palm, springing from a mechanism hidden in his sleeve, and fired. Piet made a tiny sound, and looked down at the neat hole in his cuirass.

‘Oh,’ Piet said. Then he toppled forward, as Bernheimer hopped backwards. Dubnitz gave a roar and lunged, even as Piet fell. But Bruckner was quicker – impossibly quick, for a man of his size – and his big blade sprang from its sheath and skidded across Dubnitz’s ribs hard enough to send him sailing backwards against the deck rail, his sword spinning from his hand. Dubnitz tried to push himself to his feet, but a flare of pain tore through him, and he looked down to see blood pulsing down his side. Somehow Bruckner’s blade had punched through his armour and into his flesh. Dubnitz slid down, clutching at the wound. The mist coiled across the deck, damp and thick, making it hard to see.

‘You call yourself a knight?’ Bruckner asked. ‘You’re a street-thug in armour. I have fought knights, Marienburger. You are nothing. Like this pest-hole of a city, you are a pale copy of your betters.’

‘Good old Erkhart has always had something of an inflated opinion of himself,’ Tassenberg said, giving Piet a kick. ‘The whole order is a joke. Pantomime knights, rousted out of grog-shops and the tide-cages to put on a show for the punters. Think just because they’ve got themselves a fancy new chapterhouse that they can conduct themselves like their betters.’ He looked down at Dubnitz and smiled. ‘You never should have left the Tannery, Erkhart.’

‘Why?’ Dubnitz grated, glaring at the engineer.

‘Why what… why did I shoot that oaf, or why did I come to Marienburg?’ Bernheimer asked, stuffing the pistol back up his sleeve. ‘It doesn’t matter. It’s the same answer to both questions. It was my duty, and one I happily performed.’ He looked at Bruckner. ‘It went exactly as you said.’

‘Of course it did.’ Bruckner planted his sword in the deck and leaned on the cross-piece. The mist roiled about him, and he waved a hand irritably. Dubnitz thought he heard a splash, but the thought vanished in another wave of pain.

‘I did as you requested. It was child’s play,’ Bernheimer said. ‘The first time they fire my guns, they’ll explode, and Marienburg’s attempts at duplicating our steam-tanks will be reduced to burnt and broken hulls. And the powder mixtures I “created” for them will crack the housing of any cannon they’re used in. The secrets of the Gunnery School will remain with Nuln and Nuln alone.’

Bruckner nodded slowly. He looked at Dubnitz, his dark eyes glittering with satisfaction. ‘Excellent. The countess, not to mention the castellan-engineer, will be pleased.’

‘We’ve got your engineer. We’ll weigh anchor and you’ll be back in Imperial territory before the next cock-crow, headsman,’ Tassenberg said. ‘By Stromfels’s scaly rear, I’ll sail you all the way back to Nuln, if you like. That way I can collect my guns in person, eh?’ He grinned down at Dubnitz again. ‘You always were a disappointment to me, Erkhart. You would have made a wonderful criminal, had you stuck with it.’

‘Just… like Otto, you mean?’ Dubnitz gasped. The mist had grown thicker. He heard another splash, and then something that might have been a thump of wood against wood.

Tassenberg’s smile vanished, and he drove a boot into Dubnitz’s side. The sudden burst of pain caused him to exhale in agony. ‘I’m going to enjoy wrapping you in irons and dropping you over the side, Erkhart.’

‘A statement so common in this city as to be utterly without merit, I believe,’ a familiar voice said. Men cursed and spun, reaching for weapons. Aloysious Ambrosius sat on the rail, an intricately engraved and painstakingly crafted pistol in one hand. He aimed it in a general fashion. ‘Isn’t that so, Sir Dubnitz?’

‘He is no knight,’ Bruckner snarled.

‘No? Well neither am I, these days. And neither are you, headsman.’

‘How did you get on this boat?’ Tassenberg snapped. ‘I’m a private citizen, Ambrosius. You can’t just sneak aboard my private vessel for your own amusement!’

‘Of course I can,’ Ambrosius said. ‘You’re a private citizen harbouring agents of a foreign and hostile power, Meneer Tassenberg. You appear to have assaulted two members of the most holy Order of Manann in Marienburg. Either of those would be enough to see to your incarceration.’ He uncocked his pistol and shoved it back into the sash about his waist. ‘Not to mention giving aid to the aforementioned agents in sabotaging the military infrastructure of Marienburg.’ He removed his gloves. ‘I am quite disappointed in you, Herr Bernheimer, I must say.’ Ambrosius slapped his gloves into his palm. ‘Did you truly think I had my clerks following you about to help you? I might only have one eye, gentlemen, but I can still see well enough. Your “modifications” to our armaments were noted, logged and tested. I’m confident that our own engineers will be able to make them safe enough for our use. And you, of course, will help.’ He smiled at Bernheimer.

Bernheimer spluttered. Bruckner stepped past him, blade raised, its edge still wet with Dubnitz’s blood. ‘Your overconfidence was always your least attractive trait, Aloysious,’ the big man said.

‘And those ghastly moustaches make you look like some flea-ridden Norscan, Theodore. Still – it was a cunning little gambit, and those idiots in the High Council would have snapped the bait up, greedy creatures that they are, under different circumstances.’ Ambrosius shoved back the edge of his cloak and rested his hand on the pommel of his blade. ‘For instance, you should never have gone to a bloated creature like Tassenberg when the Master of Shadows turned you down. You insulted him.’ He sniffed and looked at Tassenberg, who blanched and reached for his own blade. ‘So he, being a conscientious citizen of our little freistadt, passed along word of your undertaking to me.’

‘Not that you needed it,’ Bruckner said, raising his blade slightly.

‘No, Herr Bernheimer is a cunning saboteur but as liars go, well, he is but an amateur.’

Ambrosius glanced at Dubnitz, who had pulled himself upright against the deck rail. The Marsh Warden’s good eye narrowed slightly. Then his full attention was on Bruckner, and he drew his own blade, which looked ridiculously small and light compared to his opponent.

‘Marienburg is a city of plotters and schemers, Theodore. It has to be, to survive. Your scheme was not the first and will not be the last to threaten our independence from Karl Franz’s Empire. But today – ah, today we remain free.’ He paused. ‘Then, perhaps this was never about that. Perhaps you simply missed me.’

Bruckner growled audibly and took a step forward, his face flushing.

‘No, of course not,’ Ambrosius purred, as if Bruckner had spoken. ‘Nothing as sentimental as that, I suspect. No, this is about money. It always comes down to money. Nuln makes a hefty profit on its powder and shot, does it not? But it will make less, if Marienburg gets into the game. Money rules everything around us.’ He made a come-hither gesture. ‘So let’s see who has wasted theirs this time.’

Dubnitz swept the deck with a bleary gaze as Ambrosius spoke. Piet was lying still and quiet in his own blood, where Bruckner had left him. Anger flared within him. This hadn’t been about independence or sovereignty. Ambrosius was right – it was about money. It always came down to money and murder in Marienburg. He wanted nothing more than to bury his sword in the headsman’s back.

Even as he thought it, Ambrosius and Bruckner slid towards one another with a particular grace that trained swordsmen display. All eyes on the deck were riveted on the duel. Every man-jack of Tassenberg’s crew was distracted by the clash. Bruckner had the advantage in size, reach and ferocity, but somehow Ambrosius refused to be split in two. Dubnitz wondered, as he stretched a blood-slick gauntlet towards his sword, whether this was merely the latest in a long series of skirmishes between the two. They spun and slashed at one another, causing the mist to billow and froth about them. Dubnitz peered past them, and saw shapes moving in the thick, grey morass and, for a moment, a fearful memory gripped him of another mist and the things within it, but then he caught sight of a trident and he knew what it was. ‘Good girl,’ he hissed and groped for his sword.

One of Tassenberg’s men turned, alerted by the scrape of metal on wood. His mouth opened and he raised his own blade as Dubnitz’s fingers closed on the hilt. He shoved himself up with desperate speed and swept his sword, opening the man’s belly. Then, with an awkward heave, he was up on unsteady legs, one hand clamped to the hole in his side and his blade slashing across the back of another man’s neck. He thrust himself forward, bulling into the crowd around Tassenberg, using his bulk to send them sprawling, and in the case of one, pitching the man over the rail.

Tassenberg turned with a yelp as Dubnitz staggered into him and bore him to the deck. He felt the slaver’s blade dig into his mail, but it failed to pierce it and he hunched forward, pressing the edge of his blade to the other man’s throat. He looked up at the remaining men. ‘Drop your weapons, or I cut Fat Uli’s throat.’

‘You wouldn’t,’ Tassenberg gasped. ‘You’re a bloody knight!’

‘No, I’m not,’ Dubnitz said, glaring down at him. ‘Remember? I’m a pantomime knight, a thug in armour. I’m good old Erkhart, Uli, and you know I’ve cut more than one throat in my time.’

‘Drop them. Drop them!’ Tassenberg shrieked.

Weapons clattered onto the deck. The mist began to clear, revealing men of the Marsh Watch standing on the deck, tridents levelled. And among them, Goodweather stood, the mist clinging to her arms like silk ribbons. She nodded to Dubnitz as he shoved himself to his feet, still holding tight to Tassenberg. The crime-lord gave a snarl like a cornered alley-cur and suddenly threw himself over the rail, tearing free of Dubnitz’s grip. Before anyone could stop him, he was gone. Dubnitz longed to chase after him, but there was still the matter of the headsman. He turned slowly, still clutching his side.

Across the deck, Ambrosius and Bruckner still traded blows. As Dubnitz watched, the bigger man beat his opponent down with a sudden blow and raised his blade over his head for a two-handed blow. Ambrosius’s hand flashed to his sash and he plucked his pistol free and cocked it. Bruckner froze.

‘I never could beat you, Theo,’ Ambrosius said, almost gently. ‘Not in a fair fight, at any rate.’

‘You have no honour,’ Bruckner growled, lowering his blade.

‘That makes two of us,’ Ambrosius said, getting to his feet.

‘I am a representative of a sovereign power,’ Bruckner said, slamming his blade into its sheath.

‘So you are,’ Ambrosius said. ‘And you’ll be treated as such.’ He looked at Dubnitz. ‘Sir Dubnitz, I am simply overjoyed to see you alive.’

‘I was hoping you’d show up,’ Dubnitz said. He went to Piet, even as Goodweather sank down beside him. ‘Is he–?’

Piet coughed. ‘What stomped on me?’ he croaked.

Goodweather quickly cut the straps on his cuirass and pulled it aside. She reached into his jerkin and Piet winced. ‘Looks like his armour slowed it down enough so that it only lodged in the muscle in his chest. He’ll live. What about you?’

‘This? Pah. Barely a scratch,’ Dubnitz said, pressing his hand tight against his side. He looked up as Ambrosius’s shadow fell across him. ‘Tassenberg got away,’ he said.

‘So he did. Good.’ Ambrosius said. ‘Fat Uli keeps the others of his ilk on their toes. If we stretched his neck, someone new would take his place in a fortnight, and I already have my people in Tassenberg’s organization. Besides, I’m given to understand that the Master of Shadows wants a word with him.’

Dubnitz shuddered. Fat Uli was going to have to swim fast to avoid that particular shark. ‘And what about Bernheimer?’ he said.

Ambrosius tilted his head and turned slightly. Two of his men had Bernheimer in a tight grip. The murderous engineer looked as if he’d deflated. ‘We’ll keep him, I think. He did place himself under our authority. And we can get more use out of him now. It’s not like he can go home, after all. Isn’t that right, Theodore?’

Bruckner stiffened where he stood, encircled by tridents. He said nothing, but his expression spoke volumes. Ambrosius smiled. ‘As I thought,’ he said. ‘No, better he stays here and shares his vast knowledge with us. We’ll pay you well, Herr Bernheimer. Better, I expect, than Nuln ever has.’

‘You used us, didn’t you?’ Dubnitz said. ‘To find out where Bruckner was? You knew they’d come for him again, and you used us to flush them out.’

‘The first time they came for him was a ruse,’ Ambrosius corrected. ‘But yes, I did. I used you as my hound, even as I will use Bernheimer to improve our weaponry, and make us equal to any Imperial province, and just like I’ll use Bruckner to wring concessions from our fair sister-city Nuln. As I will use any tool at my disposal to keep this city from sinking into the mire,’ he said, smiling. There was no warmth in the expression. ‘Try not to die on your way to the Sisters of Mercy, Sir Dubnitz. I have a feeling that the next few months are going to get very interesting.’

Dubnitz winced and glanced at the redness seeping between his fingers. ‘That’s what I’m afraid of,’ he murmured.

About The Author

Josh Reynolds has blazed a trail across the Warhammer World with the novels Master of Death, Neferata and Knight of the Blazing Sun, along with the Gotrek and Felix tales Charnel Congress, Road of Skulls and The Serpent Queen. As well as numerous short stories, he has also written the Warhammer 40,000 audio drama Master of the Hunt and contributed to the Apocalypse anthology Damocles with the novella Hunter’s Snare. He lives and works in Sheffield.

A BLACK LIBRARY PUBLICATION

Published in 2014 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd., Willow Road, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK.

Cover illustration by Paul Dainton

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