CHAPTER TWO

 

 

“Ah, my boy, there you are!” Mordicio exclaimed happily as Florin was led into his office.

“Yes. I’m sorry that I’m a couple of days late, but…”

“Nonsense!” Mordicio waved away the apology. He rose arthritically from behind his desk and hobbled over to embrace his guest. Before Florin could react, Mordicio’s liver-spotted hands had descended upon his shoulders and he was clasped to the old man’s bony chest.

An onlooker could have been forgiven for thinking that this was a favourite nephew returned from some long and dangerous voyage, rather than a defaulting debtor. And at another time he might have been right. With Mordicio, loan sharking and family weren’t mutually exclusive.

“Come, sit down, sit down,” the old gangster smiled happily, his eyes as warm as honey beneath the snow-white bushels of his eyebrows. “Would you like a drink?”

“Well, perhaps a little wine,” Florin said politely, and pulled up a chair.

“Brioch, wine for my guest,” the old man, arthritis forgotten, snapped his fingers. Florin heard the shaven-headed thug who’d escorted him into this inner sanctum amble wordlessly off into the carpeted distance.

“Ah, Florin, Florin, Florin. It’s been too long.” Mordicio stumbled around the corner of his desk, paused briefly to rub his stooped back, then folded back into his chair with a sigh.

“Yes, I know. I’m sorry about that, it’s just that…”

“Please, no apologies. Why apologise? You’re here now, shouldn’t that be enough for a poor old man like me?”

Florin bit his lip, and tried not to look at the gilded books and jewelled trinkets that lined the old man’s shelves. He tried to ignore the silver astrolabe and the thick Arabyan carpets. In fact the only thing that looked poor in the whole room was its owner. Mordicio never wasted money on new clothes or jewellery.

Or barbers. The unruly bush of a beard that softened the bony angles of his face might have belonged to a dwarf, if a dwarf could ever have grown so tall and lank. Mordicio’s fingers burrowed into its depths to scratch his chin as he regarded his guest.

“No, my boy, no apologies. I’m just an old man glad to see an old friend’s boy. Of course, if you have my money…”

“Right here,” Florin told him. He unhooked his purse and, without further ado, started to count the coins out onto the scuffed leather surface of the old man’s desk.

“Oh, well, if you have the money on you—” Mordicio watched the coins piling up with the feigned indifference of a letch eying a low-cut dress.

“There you go,” said Florin, putting out the last coin. “One hundred crowns.”

“Very good. And don’t worry about the interest.”

“The interest?”

“Yes, for the last two days.”

Florin paused. There’d been no mention of extra interest for being two days late. But then, there’d been no mention of being late, either.

“How much?” Florin asked warily, but Mordicio just smiled.

“To you my friend, nothing. On the house.” His eyes twinkled, as his smile grew as wide as a shark’s. “Gratis.”

“Really?”

“Of course, of course. I always liked you. I liked your father too, gods rest him, even though he never put so much business my way. Ah, here’s our wine.”

The secretary had returned, as quietly as he had gone. He handed Florin a goblet of spiced wine, and his master a clay pot of water.

“Your health!” said Mordicio, drinking deeply.

“Your health!” Florin tested his wine. It was as fine as it smelled, and although it seemed a waste to gulp it down he did anyway. He wanted to get out of here before the subject of interest came up again.

“Thank you, it was excellent,” he said, wiping his mouth and setting the goblet down. “But now I really must be going.”

“Ah, busy, busy, busy, hey?” Mordicio nodded approvingly. “I was the same at your age. But a man must have pleasures as well as business. Like music, for example. Or gambling.”

“Well, yes…” Florin trailed off.

“Or women.” Mordicio’s smile suddenly seemed to be a lot more mocking than avuncular.

“Yes, women. Or should I say girls? Girls like the Comtesse Grisolde Angelou. A hideous name, but a beautiful girl. At least,” he chuckled mirthlessly, “her father thinks so. But then the magistrate isn’t alone in that, is he?”

Florin sat back down.

“What do you want?”

“What do J want, he asks me. As though we were traders haggling in the market and not two old friends!” Mordicio’s voice quivered with outrage, and his hands tugged at his beard as though in grief. “What do I want? Me, who knew you when you were a child. I’m almost insulted.”

“That was never my intention.”

“I know, my boy, I know. But when you get to my age you like to talk to youngsters. To be reminded of what it’s like to be young and in love. Or, if not in love then…” He punched his thumb through the ring of his fingers in an obscene gesture and laughed.

Florin sighed.

“No, I’m just interested, just interested.” The gangster’s voice faded off and for a moment he sat and regarded his guest, enjoying his discomfort.

“As for me, I’m too old for that kind of thing. Well, almost. But I do enjoy a little bet from time to time. A little flutter.”

“Oh yes?” Florin asked, waiting.

“Yes. Even if it’s just on the toss of a coin.” With an exaggerated wince of arthritic pain Mordicio reached across the desk and selected a single coin from the pile. He turned it between his fingers and examined both sides.

“An emperor and a griffin. Let’s call the emperor heads, shall we? What do you choose?”

“Me? Well, I don’t gamble. I, well, I…”

“Very wise, very wise. But there are worse vices, you know. Can you imagine what the magistrate would do if he found out what you have been doing to his daughter?”

“What are we betting on?”

“Your debt. Let’s call it double or quits, shall we?”

Florin knew that he should refuse. His brother would have complained for months about having to give him one hundred, but two?

Anyway, Mordicio might be bluffing. And if he wasn’t, why would the magistrate believe him? Especially if Grisolde kept her mouth shut.

Florin leant forward, pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, and squeezed.

“I’ll call heads. The emperor,” he decided, sitting back up.

“Well then, here we go. I’ll throw it. Isn’t this exciting my boy? Doesn’t it set the heart aflutter?”

“Yes,” Florin groaned miserably. “It does.”

Mordicio spun the coin high into the air with a practiced flick of the thumb. It glittered in the afternoon sunlight before falling back to the desk and bouncing on the aged leather, pirouetting around like a golden ballerina. It slowly wobbled to a drunken halt and finally collapsed onto the desk.

Florin, hardly daring to look, leaned forward. Then, although he fought it, a smirk spread across his face.

“Who won?” the old man asked. “My old eyes aren’t what they were.”

“Me,” Florin said smugly. “Look.”

“I’ll take your word for it. Ah well, you win some you lose some. So now I owe you a hundred.”

The younger man tried not to look too triumphant as he started to shovel the coins back into his purse.

“Well, no hurry. Whenever you can.”

“No, no,” Mordicio spread his hands. “I’m a man who pays his debts. Unless… Well, how about another spin of the coin? Double or quits?”

“No, I really must be going,” Florin shook off the temptation. With this money he could buy some decent rooms, a decent wardrobe, maybe a necklace for Grisolde… No, not that. Grisolde wasn’t really worth it anymore. Maybe Claudia.

“Well, if you won’t humour an old man…” Mordicio broke his train of thought. “By the way, would you ask Grisolde to tell her father I need to speak to him? I think it’s better he hears the news of her engagement from an old friend of the family, don’t you?”

“What!”

“No, no, don’t thank me. I’ll be happy to oblige.”

Now it was Mordicio who smirked.

Florin, defeated, selected a coin and resisted the urge to punch the old man. Behind him stood Brioch, and behind Brioch a mansion full of locked doors and professional thugs.

So he didn’t punch Mordicio. Instead he said, “Double or quits, you say?”

Mordicio, a genuine smile creasing his face, nodded.

 

He couldn’t remember the last time he had been so close to tears. Perhaps not since his father’s funeral, four years ago. Even then the Hanged Peasant’s best wine hadn’t tasted so sour, nor had the obscenely painted walls of the back terrace seemed so dull.

“Don’t worry about it, boss,” Lorenzo told him unhappily, pouring him another glass of wine. “Bastien will pay. Doesn’t he always?”

“Used to,” Florin agreed miserably. “But this time? Three hundred crowns. That’s probably more than he’s got in the warehouse.”

“Still, blood is thicker than water.”

“Yes, that’s what I said last time. And the time before that. But every time I say it Bastien looks a little more doubtful. I don’t blame him, either,” Florin admitted unhappily. “Maybe we should just run.”

“Maybe.” Lorenzo poured himself a drink. He glanced morosely around the tavern yard in which they sat. The shadows were lengthening into night now, the last sunlight of the day gleaming on the vines that covered the trellis above their heads. A sparrow perched above them, feasting on the last of the summer’s grapes. Lorenzo enviously threw a cork at it, and wished that he could fly away so easily.

For one traitorous moment he considered doing just that. After all, his master’s debts weren’t his. But the years he’d spent with Florin, and with Florin’s father, were a chain he had no wish to break. He was the d’Artauds’ man; had been since he’d escaped the grinding poverty of his village, would be until his body was carted back there to be buried.

So the question remained, what were they going to do?

“We could run,” he nodded, and sucked his front tooth thoughtfully. “But where to? And with what?”

Florin shrugged and rubbed his eyes. Damn Mordicio. And damn Grisolde, and her damned father.

“I don’t know,” he admitted, peering into the depths of his cup. “Maybe the Empire. Or Tilea.”

Lorenzo snorted.

“Mordicio would find you there within a month.”

“Araby?”

“He’d find you there even sooner. You’d stand out like a pigeon amongst a flock of rooks.”

“Norsca?”

Lorenzo barked out a mirthless laugh and pulled at the grizzled skin above his Adam’s apple.

“You’d be better off letting Mordicio cut your throat here and now, and be done with it.”

“Well, I suppose that I could ask Bastien,” Florin suggested.

Lorenzo had successfully navigated his boss through the shoals of pride to the safe harbour of desperation. He breathed a sigh of relief. He knew that Bastien would pay, regardless of what his stringy old scold of a wife would say. Anything to protect the family’s name.

“Yes, ask Bastien. After all, what are brothers for?”

“Although even if he says yes again—and he might not—do you remember what Rochelle’s family did to him, after he lost that estate last year?”

“Ah, yes. Brother Rochelle. I wonder how monastery life is suiting him.”

Despite himself, Florin sniggered.

“Ah well, to the hells with it. If it comes to that, we’ll go to Norsca and be damned.”

“It won’t come to that,” Lorenzo smiled, glad to see the storm clouds of his master’s mood lifting. “Bastien will pay. Sometimes I think he even likes you!”

“Even though I’m the smart one?”

“The smart one who owes Mordicio five hundred crowns.”

Their laughter was interrupted by the tavern keeper, who came waddling out from the taproom beyond.

“Excuse me,” he said, leaning over the table in a cascade of jowls and wiping his hands nervously on his apron. “There’s…”

“Don’t worry, Jules,” Florin interrupted, raising his hand imperiously. “I know it’s a little overdue, but I’ll pay my tab on the first of the month.”

“It isn’t that,” the barman muttered, a flicker of resentment in his eyes. “There’s someone to see you.”

“Someone? Who?”

“A runner from the docks, sir. And a mercenary.”

“A mercenary?” Florin and Lorenzo spoke with one voice.

“Yes. Says he’s looking for you, sir.”

“Damn.”

Florin pushed back his chair. Lorenzo was already on his feet, eyeing the exit. But it was too late to run. The mercenary had followed the tavern keeper into the courtyard, and had already spotted them.

He struck an impressive figure, even for a professional warrior. Towering more than a head above the other patrons, the blond point of his fashionably waxed beard jutted forward like the ram of a galley. The man pushed carelessly through them. Few dared to take offence, the mercenary’s brash confidence obviously owed little to his damasqued armour, or his sheathed sword, or even the solid muscle of his frame.

He drew nearer and Florin noticed the red flashes that the Bretonnian sun had burned onto his pale skin. They marked him as a northerner, a soldier of the Empire. The gathered Bretonnians knew better than to annoy such a barbarian, even if he did look sober. They hurried out of his way as he marched through them, his heavy boots thumping across the slated floor as remorselessly as the beat of a money-lender’s heart.

A wolfish grin spread across his face as he reached Florin’s table.

“So you are here!” he exclaimed, pulling off one leather gauntlet to punch him painfully on the shoulder.

“Damn me! Lundorf!” Florin’s apprehension turned to disbelief, which dissolved into a burst of delighted laughter. “What are you doing here?”

“Visiting my old ring leader,” Lundorf grinned, baring strong, white teeth. “How have you been?”

“Fine, fine.”

“I was sorry to hear about your parents.”

“Thanks. But it was a while ago.”

For a moment the two old friends stood and studied each other. It had been a long time since they’d been together. They’d been teenagers then, tearaways supposedly under the care of a succession of harried old scholars. But that was more than a decade ago. Now, as they faced each other once again, they found themselves shuffling their feet awkwardly and wondering what to say.

It was Lorenzo who broke the ice. Ť

“I take it you don’t want me to stick him, then?” he asked from the position he’d taken behind Lundorf’s back. The two younger men turned to watch him folding his knife back into his sleeve, disappointment creasing the punch bag of his features even more than usual.

“By Sigmar, that monkey’s ugly!” Lundorf said, peering at the older man’s face with an unhealthy fascination.

“Lorenzo Gaston at your service,” Lorenzo responded with a bow. “And tell me madam, do all the ladies of your Empire wear their beards in that fashion?”

“Do all of Bretonnia’s peasants speak to their betters in such a manner?”

“No, we never speak to our betters in such a manner.”

“Except for you.”

“Except for nobody.”

Lundorf raised one eyebrow in a gesture of studied disdain.

“I see that Florin’s choice of servant hasn’t improved over the years.”

“Evidently.”

The two men glared at each other.

“Well then,” Lundorf said eventually. “If you won’t act like a peasant I suppose I won’t treat you like one.”

“Thank you, sir,” Lorenzo bowed sarcastically.

Florin tried not to smile.

“I’m glad to see you two have hit it off so well. Lundorf, this is my, um, my manservant Lorenzo. Lorenzo, my oldest friend Karl von Lundorf.”

The two men shook hands and found that, to their surprise, they liked each other.

“Now let’s eat something.”

“And perhaps a drink?” Lundorf suggested. “It’s damned hot in this wretched country!”

“Speaking of which,” Lorenzo added with an obscene wink, “I’ve heard that Madame Gourmelon has some new girls.”

And so the night began. After the wine of the Hanging Peasant they ate from the clay platters of Gunter’s Pork Knuckle Paradise. Only then, suitably fortified, did they wipe the pork grease from their faces and descend towards the docks.

The nearer they got to the savage carnival that was Bordeleaux’s nightlife, the narrower the streets became, and the wilder the crowds. Drunken longshoremen rubbed their hessian-clad shoulders against those of the sons of opiate merchants. Soft-bellied burghers haggled with hard-eyed girls, shamelessly fondling their buttocks and breasts as they negotiated the price of half an hour’s fun.

And everywhere, flitting amongst the throng like piranhas, ragged children scurried to steal, or to beg, or to fall upon any they found already fallen.

“This is fantastic!” Lundorf roared above the screams and the laughter, unaware of the pickpocket’s hand Lorenzo had just punched away from his purse. “You Bretonnians really know how to have a good time.”

“We certainly do,” Florin replied with a smile of pride. “Ah, here we are. The Vampire’s Shadow. The finest wines and comeliest wenches in the whole of Bordeleaux. And the most courteous doormen. Good evening, Fulger.”

Florin bowed slightly and offered the hulking ogre that leaned against the doorpost a coin-laden handshake.

“Evening, Monsieur d’Artaud,” the ogre replied, pocketing the coin. “Good to see you again.”

Two more silvered handshakes later and the trio were seated in a corner table, relishing the roar of noise and fog of smoke that was the tavern’s lifeblood. A wine skin later and Florin found out what had brought Lundorf from the fog and chill of his homeland.

“It’s a great opportunity,” Lundorf told him, sweeping his hand around in a broad gesture that sent his goblet flying across the taproom. “Lustria! Remember when we used to play that game, Florin? Jungle explorers?”

“Yes. That was the time we set fire to the tanning sheds.”

“Boys will be boys.”

“That’s not what my father said.”

Lundorf roared with laughter.

“Yes, didn’t he make you howl? You never told him about the rest of us being there, though, did you? This man,” Lundorf turned to Lorenzo, “was a hero when we were children. He was always our leader. Remember what we did with Binmeier’s goats?”

“And Dame Grulter’s laundry?”

The two men howled with laughter, while Lorenzo, mystified, looked on.

“The good old days, hey?”

“Yes, the good old days. Shame you weren’t there, Lorenzo old man. You’d have had a hell of a time.”

Lorenzo, whose adolescence had been spent struggling beneath the grinding heel of absolute poverty, nodded indulgently.

“So, what are you going to Lustria for?” he asked, keen to move the topic of conversation to something that he could understand.

“For glory,” Lundorf told him. “And gold.”

“A toast,” Florin cried, raising his goblet. “To glory and gold.”

“Glory and gold,” Lundorf echoed.

“Gold and glory,” Lorenzo chimed, and the three men drank. When they’d drained their cups, and sent the serving girl dodging away for more, Lundorf froze. Then he sat bolt upright, clutching his forehead like a man in the grip of a seizure.

“I’ve just had a fantastic idea,” he cried out, gripping Florin painfully above the elbow. “Why not come with me? We’re short an officer.”

“To Lustria?” Florin asked, trying to slide his hand beneath the dress of the returning serving girl. With hardly a pause she turned and, swinging from the hip, put all of her weight behind her punch. There was a resounding smack that rocked Florin back against the table. He grinned stupidly as his fellow customers, including Lundorf, bellowed with delight.

“Yes, Lustria,” Lundorf shouted above the din.

“But why?”

“For glory and gold!”

“Glory and gold!”

“Cheers.”

They drank some more while Florin, absentmindedly feeling his bruised cheek, considered it.

“But there’s nothing in Lustria. Just swamps and diseases. The occasional shanty town.”

“But that,” Lundorf said, lowering his voice and leaning forward confidentially, “is where you’re wrong. That’s why this expedition’s been put together. We’ve got ships and men. Damn me, we’ve even got a cannon. And why?” He leaned closer, ignoring the spilt ale that soaked into his sleeve. “Because there’s treasure there, just waiting for the taking.”

“How much?” Florin asked, as though he was about to start haggling.

“Boat loads. The jungle’s full of it, apparently, just waiting to be picked up.”

“Waiting to be picked up?” Lorenzo, who’d leaned forward too, scoffed. “I suppose the owners don’t want it anymore? All went off after the grail?”

“No. They all died… A plague or something, or maybe there was a war…Anyway, the thing is…”

“The plague?”

Lundorf grunted dismissively.

“It was a long time ago. Anyway, the thing is…”

A sudden fight broke out on the next table and Lundorf paused as two sailors, one knife and five dice rolled past them. “The thing is, it’s covered by the jungle, so nobody else has found it yet.”

“How will you find it, then?” Lorenzo demanded.

“We’ve got a… well, I can’t say. But anyway, how about it, Florin old man? Let me introduce you to the Colonel tomorrow morning. You’d make a great officer.”

Florin drained his cup and got unsteadily to his feet. He swayed slightly before putting his hand on his heart and saying, “Lundorf, I love you and I’ll go with you anywhere. Anywhere in the world. But not to Lustria. There’s nothing there.”

“But there’s treasure!”

“Glory and gold,” Florin roared, snatching up somebody else’s goblet and drinking deeply.

The ensuing brawl carried them out of the tavern and away into the night. The last thing Florin remembered after they’d found the next tavern was telling Lorenzo to stab the next man who mentioned Lustria.

Lorenzo agreed to do it too, relieved that however drunk, his master wasn’t fool enough to swap the comforts of Bordeleaux for the depths of some miserable swamp.