Dead Man’s Party
Josh Reynolds


 	It was Spring Tide, and Marienburg was awash in revelry of both the sublime and more boisterous sort. Poles bearing caged seagulls were hoisted aloft as the celebration unfolded. Cornets and other instruments were played, mostly badly, by over-enthusiastic revellers. Buckets of seawater were sloshed about on the unwary as priests and pilgrims bellowed out the more profane hymns to Manann, popular among sailors.

 	Steel spheres containing handfuls of incense and hot coals were draped from every available protrusion, and clouds of exotic spices drifted across the streets, battling for dominance with the normal urban stew of the canals. Children threw dried flakes of seaweed and coral into the waters of the Central Canal as the great altar-barge of Manann hove to, the high priest roaring his praises and shaking his gull-pole until the bird’s raucous squawks threatened to drown out his own.

 	Every citizen was either in the streets or in the taverns, or heading from one to the other. Or so it seemed to Erkhart Dubnitz, knight of the Most Holy Order of Manann-in-Marienburg, as he stiff-armed a red-faced drunk into the canal in order to clear a path for his charge. ‘Right this way, Meneer Lomax,’ he said obsequiously, bowing and sweeping an armour-plated arm out just in time to catch a bucket-bearing priest in the belly. The seawater sloshed across the cobbles and Dubnitz’s charge chuckled.

 	‘At least the stones are getting a good scouring, hey?’ Bernard Lomax said, rheumy eyes taking in the celebration with a weary air as he leaned on his narwhal-horn cane. He was dressed archaically, in the fashion of his youth, and his clothes showed signs of having been repaired, rather than replaced. Lomax was old, and age weighed heavily on his thin form. He had the heft of a Nehekharan mummy in his twilight years but none of the joie de vivre, as the Bretonnian saying went.

 	‘Are you enjoying yourself, Meneer Lomax?’ Piet Van Taal said. Like Dubnitz, Piet was a knight of the most holy, and only occasionally violent, Order of Manann. In contrast to Dubnitz’s barrel-chested heft, he was a lean whip of a man with the stamp of one of the lower rungs of Marienburg’s aristocracy on his features. Like Dubnitz, he wore a coat of chainmail beneath an emerald surcoat bearing the trident-and-crown emblem of Manann, god of the seas.

 	‘Who can enjoy themselves with the stench and the noise?’ Lomax said, coughing into a clenched fist. ‘Is this what you do for fun?’

 	‘Not quite, no,’ Dubnitz said quickly. ‘Normally our carousing takes place indoors, away from the hurly-burly.’ He spun and punched a celebrant who’d been about to place a wreath of eel-skins and shark fins around his neck.

 	‘That sounds good,’ Lomax said, watching the wreath clatter across the cobbles.

 	Piet looked at Dubnitz over the top of Lomax’s head and mouthed, ‘The Scalded Gull?’

 	Dubnitz nodded. He laid a leather gauntlet on Lomax’s shoulder. ‘Right this way, Meneer Lomax. We’ll have you quaffing in no time.’

 	‘Are you taking me to a dive? Is it filthy?’

 	‘The filthiest,’ Dubnitz assured him.

 	‘Will there be loose women?’

 	‘The loosest,’ Piet said.

 	‘It sounds delightful,’ Lomax murmured, clasping his trembling hands together. ‘Lead on Sir Knights! I have a half-century’s worth of abstinence to make up for.’

 	The knights led him through the crowd into the back alleys that stretched out from the Central Canal, where the noise of the Spring Tide celebration grew muted and the natural odoriferousness of Marienburg reasserted itself. The Scalded Gull clung to a little-used stable on Fishhook Lane like an unsightly growth. It was an overlarge shed, with wide windows and a door that was less an obstacle than a curtain. It wasn’t crowded, for which Dubnitz muttered a silent prayer of thanks to Manann.

 	The barman grunted an unintelligible greeting and Dubnitz raised three fingers and gestured to a table in the back corner that sat beneath the hide of giant rat that had been stretched across the wall and nailed in place. Lomax looked curiously at the hide as they sat. ‘What is it?’

 	‘It thought it was a man,’ Dubnitz said. ‘Now it’s a conversation piece. We cleaned out a nest of the pestiferous beasts a few years back in the area, now all of the local swill-sellers let the Order drink for free.’

 	The drinks arrived and the two knights emptied their mugs in moments, slamming them down almost simultaneously. Lomax blinked at the speed. He hesitated, his fingers gripping his own mug as he looked into the foam as if it hid secrets. Then he jerked it convulsively to his lips and knocked it back. Dubnitz waved his hand, signalling for another round. Lomax went momentarily cross-eyed and coughed. ‘It has been some time since I had anything stronger than turnip juice,’ he said. He licked his lips. ‘I quite liked it.’

 	‘Glad to hear it,’ Dubnitz said, and he was. He examined the old man. Lomax was a man of means. He was also a miser with money to spare. Money which he’d promised to the Order of Manann, money which they desperately needed, if the hollow echoing sound of the tithe coffers was anything to go by. All Lomax had asked in return was one night, just one night of carousing and stupidity, to make up for a lifetime of thrift and denial, because misers like Lomax didn’t make charitable donations without strings attached.

 	It wasn’t that strange a request, all things considered. Lomax’s ascetic life hadn’t been by choice so much as by necessity. A man without pleasures or vices was a hard man to trap. The life of a dyspeptic shut-in had kept old Lomax toddling along through two generations of greedy grasping relatives who chafed at the tightness of Lomax’s purse strings and weren’t shy about trying to cut, burn or poison their way into said purse. Those same relatives had set up a howl that would have sent invading Norscans scurrying back to their boats when they found out that Lomax was leaving his substantial fortune to the Order of Manann.

 	It was more out of spite than religious epiphany, Dubnitz knew. Lomax was doing the next best thing to taking it with him, and because greedy relatives didn’t like it when miserly relations loudly announced their intention to change their will and leave the bulk of their substantial fiduciary assets to an up-and-coming order of humble templars, there would be some attempt to stop it.

 	Thus, strings. A night of sybaritic pleasure, one full night, and then the new will took effect at cockcrow. All the Order had to do was give their new patron the best night of his life. Grandmaster Ogg was filled with a joy that he could barely contain and had ordered his most masterful carousers to take things in hand. Dubnitz and Piet set to it with a will, the former theorizing that Lomax, long having gone without, might mistake quantity for quality, and make the night’s work quick and easy.

 	By the eighth mug of rotgut, Lomax was cackling and clapping as a Strigany dancing girl spun and shook across the tabletop. The Scalded Gull had grown loud since they’d arrived as celebrants filtered into the alleys from the party outside. Dubnitz watched bleary-eyed as pickpockets plied their trade through the dense crowd and the dancing girl’s ferret-faced kin did the same to the pickpockets. Then, as Lomax started shouting a bawdy tune he’d known in his boyhood, Dubnitz spotted the assassin.

 	He was a dock-snake, one of the lean, lethal savages who ascribed to no union or guild and who roamed from berth to berth, unloading and loading vessels for under-the-table pay. A hooked fish-knife sprouted from one sinewy hand as he slithered through the crowd, his eyes locked on Lomax with the feral intensity of a starving wharf rat.

 	Dubnitz roared and shot awkwardly to his feet. Alcohol fumes clouded the edges of his vision. The dock-snake stumbled back as the dancing girl screamed and the crowd began to roll back like ripples spreading from a stone dropped in a rain barrel. Piet, still in his seat, was looking around blearily as he groped blindly for his sword.

 	Dubnitz’s sword sprang from its sheath in a crooked arc, slicing air rather than flesh as it passed just in front of the dock-snake’s nose. The man sprang past him, one bare foot hooking the table edge as he propelled himself up and at Lomax, who had tipped his head back and was raising a mug all unawares. Dubnitz spun and grabbed the back of the would-be killer’s trousers and, with a roll of his shoulders, sent the dock-snake hurtling backwards into the wall behind the bar with bone-breaking force.

 	And then, as the echoes of that crash faded, it all went to hell. People screamed. The dancing girl leapt off the table in a splash of silks and a rattle of bangles. Dubnitz spun in a circle, seeking enemies even as he noted that it was taking Lomax a long time to gulp his ale.

 	‘Dubnitz,’ Piet said. ‘Did something just happen?’

 	‘Someone tried to kill Lomax,’ Dubnitz mumbled. The room swayed around him.

 	‘Did you stop them?’

 	‘Yes,’ Dubnitz said.

 	‘Are you sure? He looks dead. Is he dead?’ Piet said, gesturing sloppily towards the crossbow bolt that had sprouted from the bottom of Lomax’s mug. The point of said bolt had passed through the mug and between Lomax’s open jaws, piercing the soft tissues of his sinuses on its trek into his brain.

 	Dubnitz looked blearily over his shoulder. He blinked owlishly and belched. ‘I’d say it’s a definite possibility,’ he said, stumbling over ‘possibility’.

 	‘Are we sure he’s dead?’

 	Dubnitz kicked the body, toppling over in the process. From the floor, he said, ‘Almost positively, yes.’

 	‘We’re dead,’ Piet muttered, shaking his head.

 	‘I thought he was the one who was dead,’ Dubnitz said, as he heaved himself to his feet.

 	‘Ogg is going to kill us.’

 	‘Bound to happen,’ Dubnitz said cheerfully, squinting around at the empty tavern. The evening crowd had chosen discretion over curiosity and fled. The Scalded Gull was empty of life, though the sounds of the Spring Tide celebration still curled through the open windows. ‘Don’t sober up on me now, Piet, it’ll only end in tears.’

 	Piet cursed and tried to stand, but he only succeeded in windmilling his arms and causing his chair to groan in protest. ‘What are we going to do? Lomax is dead!’

 	‘Says who?’ Dubnitz said, spreading his arms. ‘Tavern’s empty, Piet.’

 	‘He’s got an arrow sticking out of his head!’

 	‘So we pull it out,’ Dubnitz said mildly, striding to the bar and reaching under it. He pulled out a bottle and eyed it, then pulled the stopper with his teeth and knocked back a slug. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand he stomped back towards the table. ‘Have some good Sartosian red and calm down,’ he said, tossing the bottle to Piet, who caught it awkwardly.

 	‘I don’t think more alcohol is the solution here,’ Piet said, taking a long drink.

 	‘Can’t hurt,’ Dubnitz muttered, taking hold of the end of the bolt transfixing the dead man’s head to the back wall of the tavern. He had been tilting his head back for a swig from his mug when the bolt had perforated his palate and nailed him and his mug to the wall. Dubnitz worked the bolt free with a grunt and squinted at it. ‘Pretty sure he’s dead,’ he said.

 	‘I thought we’d established that,’ Piet said gloomily.

 	Dubnitz didn’t reply. He carefully pulled the dead man’s head back down. The eyes had rolled to the white and a trickle of blood seeped from one nostril, but other than that, there was little sign of what had killed him. Unless you got a good luck in his mouth or at the top of his head, Lomax could have simply been dead drunk, as opposed to just plain dead.

 	‘I’m sorry old man,’ Dubnitz murmured, closing Lomax’s eyes. ‘We promised you a night out to celebrate your generosity and what did you get for it but a bolt to the brainpan. Maybe you should have given the money to the Cult of Morr instead.’

 	‘What are we going to do?’ Piet said mournfully, staring into the bottle, which he’d managed to half-empty in impressive time. ‘Grandmaster Ogg is going to pickle us like herring.’ He looked blearily at Dubnitz. ‘I don’t want to be pickled.’

 	‘We won’t get pickled,’ Dubnitz said, peering at Lomax’s body speculatively. He turned, swaying slightly, and sighted down the crossbow bolt. He found the open window of the tavern and said, ‘Aha!’

 	‘Aha?’ Piet said, blinking.

 	‘The window,’ Dubnitz said, stumbling towards the window. He stuck his head out and peered at the wall of the stables opposite. The night-stew that passed for fresh air in Marienburg slapped his face, sobering him slightly. ‘The arrow came from outside.’

 	‘Brilliant deduction,’ Piet said, shoving himself to his feet. ‘Sam Warble himself couldn’t have done it better. Are you sure your name isn’t Zavant Konniger? We’re going to get pickled!’

 	‘Stop saying pickled. Ogg will jelly us, if anything. Man loves his jellied eels.’ Dubnitz absently scratched his chin with the crossbow bolt, then thought of poison, stared at the bolt and swallowed thickly. ‘What time is it, Piet?’

 	‘How should I know? Time to find warmer waters,’ Piet said, taking another swig from the bottle. ‘If we ride out now, we can be halfway to Altdorf in a few days.’

 	‘Don’t put the saddle on the horse just yet,’ Dubnitz said and snatched the bottle from him and knocked back the rest of it in one gulp. He tossed the bottle out of the window and strode back towards the bar. ‘I’ve got a cunning plan.’ He grabbed a broom and number of rags from behind the bar and several more bottles. He used his foot to roll a small keg of Averland Bear’s Milk towards the table.

 	‘This isn’t going to work,’ Piet said as Dubnitz pulled Lomax’s corpse upright by its shirt-front.

 	‘Of course it will,’ Dubnitz said, yanking the cork out of a bottle of wine with his teeth and pouring the contents over the body. ‘If he smells like a brewery exploded, no one will give him a second look. And all we need to do is keep him moving until the will goes into effect.’

 	‘This is madness,’ Piet said as he draped the dead man’s arm over his shoulders. ‘We should alert the watch. Captain Schnell, over at the Three Penny Bridge watch station, is a friend of mine.’

 	Dubnitz shook his head. ‘I owe Schnell money. Besides, this is Marienburg, and we’ve done worse,’ Dubnitz said, doing the same with Lomax’s other arm. ‘Besides, it’s all for a good cause, Piet. We’re seeing that Lomax’s last request is carried out.’ The body slumped between them, feet dragging. ‘We need twine.’

 	‘Twine,’ Piet muttered, looking around. ‘Why do we need twine?’

 	‘Well, to keep him walking, obviously,’ Dubnitz said. ‘It doesn’t have to be twine. See if you can get this broomstick down his trousers.’

 	‘Couldn’t we just sit here quietly with a few drinks?’ Piet implored.

 	‘People need to see him up and about,’ Dubnitz said. ‘It is our duty, for the Order and for Manann. Now, in his name find some twine or a broom or... here.’ Dubnitz grabbed up a chair and broke it on the floor, depositing the bulk of Lomax’s weight onto Piet. Taking the pieces of the chair, he stuffed them down the back of Lomax’s trousers and into his boots, stiffening his legs. Then he swiftly tied Lomax’s ankles to Piet’s and his own.

 	‘With him between us, we should be able to manage it,’ Dubnitz said, draping Lomax’s arm back over him. Awkwardly, he snatched the broom from Piet’s hands and jammed it down the back of Lomax’s jerkin and down into one leg of his trousers. Then he handed a rag to Piet and jerked Lomax’s head up. ‘Now, tie his head to the back of the broom.’

 	‘People are going to notice!’ Piet protested.

 	‘Not with his hat on they won’t,’ Dubnitz said assuredly. ‘Trust me, I’ve done this before.’

 	‘When?’ Piet demanded.

 	‘I’m not at liberty to say. A woman’s honour was involved. The situation was very uncomfortable for everyone concerned,’ Dubnitz said, stuffing Lomax’s fallen hat on his head. Lomax hung between them, not quite sagging. His head tilted down slightly, and he looked – and smelled – drunk.

 	‘Now what do we do?’ Piet said.

 	‘Now we carouse as we’ve never caroused before,’ Dubnitz said. He snatched up Lomax’s cane and spun it with the dexterity of a professional alcoholic.

 	They shuffled towards the door, Piet first and then Dubnitz, walking Lomax’s corpse between them. As they exited the tavern, a sound from above caused them to look up. A body, dressed in battered leathers, rolled off of the stable roof and thumped into the alleyway. A moment later, a crossbow followed, shattering as it struck the ground. Dubnitz stretched out Lomax’s cane and prodded the fallen man.

 	‘He’s dead too,’ he said.

 	‘I hope so,’ Piet said. ‘That’s Giuseppe Giancarlo, the Miragliano Murderist!’

 	‘How can you tell?’ Dubnitz said, rolling the body over to reveal its mauled face and chest. The man, whatever his identity, looked as if he’d walked face first into an exploding cannon.

 	‘Only man I know whoever lavished that much affection on his crossbow,’ Piet said, nudging the broken crossbow with his boot. Dubnitz saw that it had been inlaid with silver and the stock was ornately engraved.

 	‘Didn’t do him much good,’ Dubnitz said, peering up. ‘I suppose we know now who shot Lom– I mean, shot at Lomax.’ Giving in to ghoulish impulse, he grabbed the back of Lomax’s head and made it nod. Piet blanched.

 	‘Don’t do that,’ he said.

 	‘He doesn’t mind.’

 	‘It’s blasphemous!’

 	Dubnitz snorted and looked at the body again. ‘Of course, now we’re left with the question of who killed your friend Giuseppe.’

 	The sound of soft sandals scraping the cobbles caused the two knights to swing around to the darkened end of the alleyway, their burden causing them to almost overbalance. ‘I think we’re about to find out,’ Piet said.

 	The Arabyan was the first to step forward. He was wreathed in black robes and he stopped and leaned on his scimitar. ‘I want Lomax,’ he said, fluffing his curled beard. A discreet cough caused him to pause, and he turned slightly. ‘We want Lomax, Mock Duck and I,’ he corrected. The Cathayan slid forward to join him, pistols strung from his narrow frame like holy talismans. He drew one and cocked it, aiming it at Dubnitz. His dark eyes found the body of Giuseppe and narrowed. He looked at the Arabyan, who frowned. ‘Which one of you killed Giuseppe?’

 	Dubnitz and Piet both held up their hands. ‘Not us,’ Dubnitz said. ‘I assumed it was you.’

 	The Arabyan blinked. Then, he coughed. Something bright protruded from his throat. He reached up with a trembling finger and touched it. Then, with a gurgle, he toppled forward, revealing the wavy-bladed dagger jutting from the back of his neck. The Cathayan spun, drawing a second pistol. He leapt into the darkness, his pistols roaring. More pistol shots sounded, and then, silence.

 	‘We should go,’ Piet said.

 	‘I concur,’ Dubnitz said. ‘Make for the alley mouth–’

 	The shapes were shadows within the darkness at first, blotches of black. As they eased into the torchlight, metal gleamed. Brass masks, wrought in the shape of a daemon’s grinning leer, peered out of ragged cowls. Gauntleted hands emerged from voluminous sleeves, clutching wavy-bladed daggers. There were three of them.

 	‘Well, there’s a sight I hoped never to see,’ Dubnitz hissed.

 	‘The Murder-Brothers of Khaine,’ Piet whispered, the colour draining from his face. The murder-brothers, sometimes known as the massacre-monks or the slaughter-priests, were the pre-eminent assassins in Marienburg. Devoted to Khaine, god of murder, they lathered an unhealthy amount of religious fervour onto even the simplest back-alley killing.

 	‘We’re lucky it’s not all twelve of them,’ Dubnitz said, extending Lomax’s cane. Tiles crashed down from the roof, shattering on the ground. Dubnitz’s eyes flickered upwards and he caught sight of furtive movement. ‘Spoke too soon,’ he added.

 	‘Oh gods,’ Piet said hoarsely. ‘They’re all around us.’

 	‘Back away slowly,’ Dubnitz said. ‘If we can get to the mouth of the alley–’

 	‘Give us the merchant, dogs of Manann,’ one of the murder-brothers croaked, his voice distorted by the contours of his mask. ‘Khaine has no interest in your hearts today.’

 	‘Glad to hear it, but as you can see, our friend here can barely stand without us, so–’ Dubnitz said, tapping Lomax’s chest with the cane.

 	There was a rush of feet and a wavy dagger speared out of the darkness to the side. Piet snarled and drew his sword, the motion swinging Dubnitz around to face two more of the murder-brothers as they sprang for him. He lashed out with the cane, catching the tips of both blades in the carved grooves that lined the cane and twisted his wrist, jerking the knives from their wielders’ hands. His metal shod boot came down on a sandaled foot and an assassin yelped. The cane slashed out. Narwhal horn was almost as hard as iron, and a brass mask crumpled.

 	Piet’s sword chopped out, separating a cowled head from hunched shoulders and then they were galumphing towards the mouth of the alleyway, the hounds of Khaine in hot pursuit. As they ran, Dubnitz was reminded of the three-legged races he’d participated in as a boy, and of the Tannery rats which had pursued the racers along the course. He’d hated it then, and time hadn’t dulled the feeling. Sound and the smell of the canals washed over them as they burst out into the throng. People laughed and jeered and wept. Men draped in flags stumbled past on stilts carved to look like ships’ masts. Clowns clad in paper seaweed gambolled past. Dubnitz, Piet and the corpse between them fit right in to the madness of Spring Tide.

 	As they awkwardly shoved into the morass of drunken revelry, Dubnitz craned his neck. ‘I think we lost them!’ Adrenaline had burned away the last dregs of drunkenness that had made their current predicament seem like a good plan. Thinking on it, Dubnitz wondered if it might not have been better to simply hide the body somewhere until the next morning.

 	‘Knife,’ Piet hissed.

 	‘What?’

 	‘Knife,’ Piet snarled, flailing his hand. Dubnitz looked down and saw a wavy-bladed dagger jutting from Lomax’s belly.

 	‘Whoops,’ Dubnitz said, plucking it out and tossing it into the gutter. The wound wasn’t deep, but it was dark. Dubnitz snatched a bottle of something equally dark and strong smelling from the hands of a woman balancing a trained seagull on her nose and splashed it on the wound. Then he knocked back a drink and handed it to Piet, coughing.

 	‘Are there really twelve of them,’ Piet said, taking a drink.

 	‘Supposedly,’ Dubnitz said, scanning the crowd. All of the nearby taverns would be cramped and reeking messes, with no room to move, if it came to that, which it likely would, as the murder-cultists of Khaine were nothing if not persistent. ‘Keep your eyes peeled, Piet.’

 	‘No worries on that score. I won’t be closing them again until we’re done with this farce,’ Piet hissed. ‘This is an idiotic plan, Dubnitz. We were almost killed back there!’

 	‘Ish-is thath-that-Bernie?’ a voice roared before Dubnitz could reply. ‘Hey! It’s old Penny-Pinch him-himshelf!’ A fat hand, bedecked with rings of varying degrees of vulgarity, grabbed Lomax’s shoulder and tried to turn him. Momentarily panicked, Dubnitz and Piet flailed about, their balance off. They righted themselves and turned as the fat merchant stumbled back, blinking blearily. The man’s chubby features brightened as he blew at the feather that drooped from his shapeless hat out of his face. ‘It is you!’ he said, slurring his words. He ignored Dubnitz and Piet and poked Lomax in the chest. ‘I shaid to myshelf, I said, ‘Rupol-Rudolpho, that can’t be Bernie Lomax, because he hates parties! But it is you and–’ he sniffed Lomax and reeled back extravagantly. ‘And whooh! You’ve been at it!’

 	Dubnitz grabbed Lomax’s hand and stretched it out to swat playfully at the drunken merchant’s shoulder even as he grabbed the back of Lomax’s head and made it nod. Piet glared at him, but Dubnitz jerked his head towards the merchant and shrugged.

 	The merchant blinked again. ‘Shay, Bernie you look sort of peaked. I know thish wonnerful cure– ack!’ He reached up to swat his neck and Dubnitz saw a tiny feathered dart pop free of his third chin and bounce into his palm. The man blinked a third time, his eyes out of synch. ‘Down I go,’ he said mournfully, sinking to the street, where he was swiftly swallowed up by the crowd. Dubnitz heard a ‘tink’ and saw another dart rattle off of his cuirass, leaving a tiny trail of fluid in its wake.

 	‘Time to go,’ he said, using Lomax’s cane to open a path. Piet staggered after him with a strangled curse.

 	‘What happened?’ the other knight barked. ‘What was that?’

 	‘Poison dart!’ Dubnitz replied. ‘They use them in the Southlands, I’m told.’

 	‘I thought the Khaine-lovers only used knives!’

 	‘They do,’ Dubnitz said. ‘That was someone else.’

 	‘How many assassins did Lomax’s relatives hire?’ Piet nearly shouted.

 	‘My guess would be all of them,’ Dubnitz said. ‘Duck!’

 	‘What?’ Piet said as Dubnitz sank down. Piet, unprepared, was jerked directly into the path of a blow from a pair of iron-shod knuckles. He swayed and tripped over his own feet, pulling Lomax down and forcing Dubnitz to stand. Dubnitz twisted, lashing out with the cane to strike the scar-faced bruiser who’d lunged from the crowd. The weighted knob of the cane bounced off the big man’s brow, and the latter staggered, shaking his head like a fly-stung ox.

 	‘Get him, Bull!’ a smaller, thinner man dressed in a stylish outfit that had seen better months shouted. ‘I’ll get Lomax.’ The little man had a thin moustache in the style of Estalian duellists and a dagger sprouted from his hand as he dove towards his prey.

 	‘Piet,’ Dubnitz said, thwacking the big man again. ‘Shake it off Piet! Duty calls!’

 	Piet, jaw already purpling, reached out with his free hand, grabbing the little assassin’s wrist and slamming it against Lomax’s knee. ‘Middenheim! Get this fool!’ the little man yelled, struggling with Piet. A thick rope dropped over Piet’s free hand with alacrity, and he was jerked around. A lanky Middenheimer who was dressed in wolf skins and wielding a hunting lasso, pulled on the rope, pulling Piet towards him. He frowned as the bonds holding Piet to Lomax and Dubnitz held. ‘He’s stuck, Danzig!’ he shouted.

 	‘Not for long,’ Danzig snarled, another knife appearing in his hand as if by magic. Dubnitz gave the big man another whack with the cane and the ivory shattered on his broad head, revealing a hidden blade. Dubnitz’s eyes widened and then he whirled, parrying the little man’s blow. Danzig stared in shock and then back-pedalled as Dubnitz swiped at him. Dubnitz jabbed the tip of the blade just beneath Danzig’s chin. ‘Fancy Danzig, as I live and breathe,’ Dubnitz said. ‘And this must be Bull Murkowski and Middenheim Oscar, who’s from Talabheim, if I remember correctly.’

 	‘Erkhart,’ Middenheim said, still holding Piet’s arm trapped in his lasso.

 	‘If I recall correctly, there’s a warrant out for all three of you,’ Dubnitz said. The crowd swirled around their island of deadly calm. If anyone noticed the five men and the corpse, no one gave any sign. Fire-eaters belched nearby, filling the air with heat and the smell of sulphur.

 	‘Just give us the merchant, Dubnitz,’ Danzig growled.

 	‘He hit me,’ Bull grunted, rubbing his face.

 	‘I did, and several times at that,’ Dubnitz said, nodding. ‘And I’ll do worse than that if you three jackals don’t scarper.’ He hugged Lomax’s stiffening body close. ‘Bernard Lomax is under the protection of the Order of Manann.’

 	‘You–’ Danzig began. Whatever he’d been about to say was cut off abruptly by a wave of boiling heat as a tongue of flame shot between them. All of them turned to see a fire-eater gesture with his fire-stick. Then he let loose with another belch of fire. Middenheim cursed as his lasso curled and fried, snapping and sending him tumbling. Piet, free, grabbed for his sword.

 	‘Dubnitz,’ he snapped. Dubnitz turned from the fire-eater to see the black shapes of the murder-brothers of Khaine prowling through the crowd like sharks.

 	‘Them again,’ Dubnitz said. ‘They’re like a bloody rash.’

 	The fire-eater had been joined by a tumbler, clad in silk and humorous pantaloons. The tumbler bobbed and bounced and sent a slipper-clad foot elegantly crunching into Bull’s dumb features. The big man backed away, puzzled, as the tumbler continued to kick, punch and prod him. ‘Lomax is ours Danzig,’ a man clad in a Tilean carnival mask said, levelling a repeating pistol that was so intricately engineered that it qualified as a work of art. The pistol burped and Danzig scrambled away, hands raised as the cobbles beneath his feet were chewed to dust by the pistol.

 	‘We’re going to be killed by jugglers!’ Piet said. ‘I don’t want to be killed by jugglers!’

 	Dubnitz didn’t reply. The repeating pistol was swinging towards him, smoke curling from the barrel. The eyes behind the carnival mask were dark and eager. Then, abruptly, they widened. Carnival-mask slumped, a wavy-bladed dagger jutting from his back. A murder-brother vaulted over him, plucking the dagger free as he did so. Dubnitz lunged, spitting the cultist on Lomax’s sword-cane. The move pulled Piet and Lomax out of the path of the fire-eater, who unleashed a titanic flume of heat. A nearby drunkard burst into flame and suddenly the crowd noticed the pandemonium going on in their midst.

 	Screams mingled with music and prayers as the crowd thrashed in sudden panic. People fell into the canal. Others scrambled for the safety of doorways or open windows. Dubnitz jerked the sword-cane free of the murder-cultist’s chest and narrowly parried a thrust harpoon. A man with the look of a Norscan whale-hunter jabbed the harpoon again, trying to pin Dubnitz to the cobbles. ‘Piet, I need some help here!’ Dubnitz shouted.

 	‘You’re not the only one,’ Piet said. He’d lost his sword, and now held a broken cobblestone, which he brought across the jaw of a mime that drew too close with a satisfying crunch. ‘I hate mimes.’

 	‘Was that mime an assassin?’ Dubnitz grunted, the tip of the harpoon nearing his face.

 	‘I have no idea,’ Piet said, bouncing the cobble on his palm before throwing it at the fire-eater, who unleashed another plume of flame. The cobble bounced off the man’s tattooed skull and he instinctively took a breath, inhaling the fire he should have been spewing. The fire-eater’s screams were cut short as he was cooked inside out.

 	‘Bad show, monsieur,’ a purple clad Bretonnian snarled, driving his foot into Piet’s armoured chest. Off-balance, he fell, dragging Lomax and Dubnitz with him. ‘The ancient art of mummery is sacred,’ the Bretonnian continued, as the two knights flailed helplessly, trying to get to their feet. Lomax’s dead weight, however, made that difficult. ‘It seems I, Bartok of Bastonne, master of the mystical art of the Athel-Loren war-dance, am granted the honour of collecting the bounty on Monsieur Lomax.’ Bartok blinked. ‘Why are the three of you tied together?’

 	The harpooner jabbed at Dubnitz while the Bretonnian spoke, and the knight, having lost Lomax’s cane, grabbed the harpoon as it stabbed at him. With a convulsive shove he rammed the handle into its wielder’s face, busting lips and freeing teeth. As the harpooner reeled, Dubnitz swung the harpoon at the Bretonnian who was preparing to launch a kick at Lomax’s wobbling head. The haft of the harpoon caught the assassin on the knee, and he fell with a cry. As he hit the ground, Dubnitz hit him again and again, battering the master of the mystical art of the Athel-Loren war-dance into bloody unconsciousness.

 	‘Piet, let’s go, up and at them, can’t spend all evening in the gutter,’ Dubnitz roared, using the harpoon to pull himself to his feet and to simultaneously drag Piet up. Lomax bobbed between them like a cork on water. The body was already going stiff and further hampering their movements.

 	‘I want to go home now,’ Piet said, punching an Estalian knife-man wearing too much green and yellow to be wholly sane. The Estalian staggered back into the crowd and was trampled by yelling drunks.

 	‘The night’s young yet,’ Dubnitz said. A murder-cultist darted from the screaming, pushing, crowd, twin daggers raised high. Two miniature crossbow bolts caught him and sent him spinning into the canal. A killer in a featureless helm and a red hauberk calmly reloaded the small crossbows attached to his armoured forearms as he stood on the bundle-board of an abandoned wagon. ‘On second thought, you’re right, it’s time to go!’

 	The Spring Tide crowd around the central canal had thinned as the realization that attempted murder was being committed on a grand scale set in. Outside of the immediate area, however, the party was still in full swing. Dubnitz and Piet lurched towards the crowd. Crossbows twanged and Piet glanced over his shoulder, cursing. ‘He’s got arrows in him,’ he said.

 	‘He’s got more than that,’ Dubnitz said. ‘I think the harpoon nicked him; he’s leaking all over my armour.’ He snagged a flagon of ale from a tipsy bawd bellowing out a hymn to Manann and knocked it back. ‘Piet, this wasn’t one of your better ideas I must say,’ he said, slopping foam on the street.

 	‘My idea,’ Piet nearly shrieked, glaring at him. ‘I– pigeon!’

 	‘I think you mean “duck”,’ Dubnitz said. Piet dove for the ground, yanking Lomax and Dubnitz atop him as a pigeon hurtled through the space occupied by their heads only seconds previously. The pigeon struck the sign of a tavern and exploded in a ball of fire and feathers. Dubnitz gazed at the charred spot that marked the unfortunate avian’s final impact and said in shock, ‘By Manann’s scaly nethers that was a Herstel-Wenckler pigeon bomb.’

 	‘It’s a swarm!’ Piet yowled, trying to crawl away, his armour clattering. Dubnitz, on his side atop Lomax’s corpse, stared up in horror at the feathered shapes descending towards him like verminous avenging angels. Only a fool or a madman would release pigeon bombs into streets this closely packed.

 	‘Death by pigeon,’ he murmured, suddenly calm as he faced his imminent doom. ‘Who’d have thought such a thing possible in these civilised times?’

 	‘Shut up and help me run,’ Piet screamed, shoving Dubnitz off. Lomax flopping between them, the two knights stumble-ran into the safety of the crowd as the first pigeons struck the street and fire erupted. Dubnitz’s foot skidded as he stepped in a cuttlefish. The high priest of the Cult of Manann was flinging the creatures from his altar-barge as it passed along the canal.

 	‘Get to the barge!’ Dubnitz said, forcing them a path to the canal with the harpoon.

 	‘But–’ Piet began.

 	‘Go, go, go,’ Dubnitz said, bashing a set of stilts aside and sending a man dressed as an Arabyan schooner staggering into a low hanging sign. He sensed more than saw the assassins following them. Lomax’s relatives had seemingly spent their inheritance before they’d even gotten it. Every killer in Marienburg was after them and some few from farther afield.

 	‘Dubnitz, to your left,’ Piet said.

 	Dubnitz twisted as a man wearing a bronze mask crafted in the shape of a snarling tiger’s head lunged out of the crowd, clawed gauntlets scraping off Dubnitz’s chainmail sleeve. He thrust the harpoon between the assassin’s legs, tripping him up. But even as he fell, a hard-faced killer wielding a notched axe took his place, chopping at Dubnitz. Dubnitz swatted him with the harpoon and as the axe-man stepped back, a pigeon alighted on his shoulder. He had time for a single expression of panic before the pigeon bomb blew him into gory bits. Dubnitz blinked blood out of his eyes as overhead, Cathayan fireworks went off, lighting up the night sky. Somewhere, the great Tidal Bell in the Temple of Manann was ringing.

 	‘Hear that? It’s almost morning,’ Piet said. ‘We made it, I can’t believe we–’

 	The crowd thinned at the edge of the canal. They had gotten ahead of the barge, but not of the assassins.

 	‘Bernard Lomax, you are marked for death,’ an oily duellist said, gesturing with his rapier. ‘Meet it manfully.’

 	‘Give us the merchant and you can go free,’ a sinister halfling with a dagger spinning between his pudgy fingers said. Around he and the duellist, a half-dozen other would-be bounty killers had eased forward. Like as not, half of them hadn’t even been hired to do the deed and were simply opportunists. Dubnitz could hear sword fights breaking out throughout the crowd as other assassins, too far back to join the fun, turned on one another either in frustration or optimism.

 	‘I’d be happy to,’ Dubnitz said, keeping the harpoon extended. ‘And I will, as soon as you tell me which of you lot was throwing the pigeons.’

 	‘What pigeons?’ one of a pair of twin beauties wearing little more than scars and armour said. She and her companion looked up. ‘Oh,’ the other one said softly.

 	All eyes swivelled upwards as flapping sounds filled the air. Dozens of pigeons swooped over the street, beady eyes looking for perches. ‘Pigeons; thousands of them,’ Piet muttered.

 	‘Run!’ Dubnitz said, stumbling forward.

 	Bird droppings and explosions rocked the street and a body pin-wheeled through the air. The explosions weren’t large, but then, neither were halflings, Dubnitz reflected as he loped towards the canal with Piet. Those assassins not caught in the airborne conflagration hurried after them.

 	Piet was muttering prayers to Manann as he ran. Dubnitz simply cursed, letting flow a shower of creative invective. He cursed Lomax and his relatives, Ogg and his grandiose designs, and Marienburg with its proliferation of professional murderists. He’d always suspected he’d die at the end of a hired blade, the victim of a jealous husband or scorned woman. Possibly a city official with a grudge, or an old enemy, free of prison, or even Grandmaster Ogg, once he figured out what Dubnitz had done with his missing hand. In fairness, it made a lovely candelabrum and the Duchess had been quite appreciative, but Ogg wouldn’t understand. He had no sense of proportion, that man.

 	But, mostly, Dubnitz cursed Manann, because once again the sea god had given him no luck but bad. Even as he settled into a quiet, snarling rhythm of curses, however, the holy altar-barge of Manann hove into view ahead of him and cuttlefish slapped the stone, hurled by the high priest. ‘Haha! There it is Piet! Get to the barge! It’s our only chance,’ Dubnitz said, trying to hurry them along.

 	‘The barge? But–’ Piet began.

 	‘No time for buts, Piet,’ Dubnitz said. The stones were slick near the canal and he had to stop himself from falling head over heels. ‘It’s the barge or the blades.’

 	‘Maybe we should think about this,’ Piet said.

 	‘What sort of knight are you? Just jump,’ Dubnitz shouted, grabbing a handful of Lomax’s jerkin and leaping. Piet, despite his protestations, jumped along with him. The barge wasn’t far from the edge of the canal, being as wide a craft as the temple could afford.

 	A moment of vertigo stretched across eternity before Dubnitz’s foot found the edge of the barge. The altar attendants reached out automatically to grab the knights as they swayed back and forth on the edge of the deck. Dubnitz and Piet staggered forward, nearly knocking over the votive candles and sending an iron pot of blessed seawater spilling across the deck. Priests slipped and slid as the water sloshed around their feet. The high priest turned, mouth open in mid-bellow. His hands were full of cuttlefish and words of benediction died on his lips. He looked at Dubnitz, who grinned sheepishly. ‘Bless a trio of pilgrims, your supremacy?’ he asked.

 	‘Aren’t you one of Ogg’s bully-boys?’ the high priest said, flinging a cuttlefish over his shoulder. ‘You are! You’re Dubnitz, the one who let that goat–’

 	‘May I present Bernard Lomax, your excellency,’ Dubnitz interjected. ‘He is a humble merchant and follower of His Most Salty Majesty, Manann.’ He glanced at Lomax’s dangling head. ‘He’s overcome with emotion, your benevolence.’

 	The high priest waved a hand in front of his nose. ‘He’s overcome with something, I’d say.’ He squinted. ‘Is that a–?’

 	‘What dagger?’ Piet said, hastily plucking the errant blade out of Lomax’s back and flinging it over the side of the barge.

 	‘Are those crossbow bolts?’

 	‘You know how it gets during Spring Tide, your most tidal excellency,’ Dubnitz said swiftly. ‘People go wild. They let their hair down. Sometimes crossbows are involved.’

 	‘Are you sure he’s–’ the high priest began dubiously.

 	‘Oh Mighty Manann, Bless Us Your Servants!’ Dubnitz bellowed, falling to his knees and causing the barge to rock as Piet and Lomax followed suit. The latter’s stiffening limbs and joints gave forth a plaintive series of cracks and pops as abused ligaments split. ‘He’s too afraid to ask it of you himself, your saintliness,’ Dubnitz said, cracking one eye open. ‘Could you bless him, perhaps? Let the crowd see that he has your favour?’

 	‘I–’

 	‘Oh Mighty Manann, Absolve Us of the Sins of Dry Land!’ Dubnitz shouted, gesturing wildly, making sure to jerk one of Lomax’s hands so that it flopped beseechingly at the high priest’s robe. The crowd was cheering now, every eye on the barge. Seagulls squawked and horns blew. The high priest leaned close.

 	‘What are you up to, Dubnitz?’ he said.

 	‘I assure you, it’s for the greater glory of Manann, your pristine parsimoniousness,’ Dubnitz said. The high priest frowned, but straightened and raised his hands in benediction.

 	‘I expect we’ll be getting a nice donation this week from the Order,’ he muttered before launching into the words of Manann’s Blessing. The noise of the crowd surged in volume, hammering at the ears of those aboard the barge. It was only by the slightest of chances that Dubnitz heard the whine of a bullet. He leapt to his feet, yanking Piet and Lomax up. The bullet punched into Lomax’s back and sent them stumbling forward, into the high priest, who squawked in sudden fear as the corpse lurched into him.

 	A triumphant assassin leapt to his feet on a ledge overlooking the canal, the Hochland long rifle held over his head as he let out a yell. Dubnitz swept the harpoon’s blade through his bindings, freeing himself from Lomax and then sent the harpoon hurtling towards the assassin. ‘Imperial assassin!’ he roared. ‘He tried to kill the high priest!’

 	The assassin fell from his perch with a yell as he twisted to avoid the harpoon. Rifle and assassin both tumbled into the canal as the crowd gave a howl like an angry beast. Dubnitz spun and pointed at a familiar black-clad shape. The murder-cultists of Khaine had been following the barge at a distance, picking off their competition with the patience of stalking tigers. ‘More assassins,’ he shouted, and the crowd drew back, suddenly exposing the brass-masked killers, who looked around in confusion. Then, as one, the revellers fell on the killers, dragging them under as surely as the waters of the canal had swallowed the rifleman. Fierce as the murder-cultists were, they were no match for an entire city’s worth of fists and feet putting the boot in. Black-clad shapes sank beneath the press, battered into insensibility by the Spring Tide celebrants.

 	‘A fine display of the old Marienburg fighting spirit,’ Dubnitz said, hands on his hips. ‘By which I mean filching their valuables while they’re bleeding on the street.’

 	‘If you’re finished congratulating yourself, I could use some help,’ Piet snarled.

 	Dubnitz turned to see the other knight fumbling with Lomax’s body, which was tangled in the high priest’s robes. Dubnitz scampered over. ‘One moment your excellency, help is on the way,’ he said, surreptitiously unknotting the bindings that held Piet tied to Lomax. Dubnitz hauled Lomax’s abused corpse off of the high priest and pulled it into an embrace. ‘Bernie! By Manann’s beard, no!’ he said, adding a wail for good measure as he shook the body. Lomax’s head flopped back and forth, his neck having been broken at some point and time. ‘He’s been shot!’ Before the high priest could scoot away, Dubnitz grabbed his hand. ‘Take his hand, excellency, take it and comfort him as he goes to Manann’s realm!’ He grabbed Lomax’s limp hand and slapped it atop the high priest’s. The latter blanched and tried to pull away, but Dubnitz held on, his face the picture of tortured melancholy. ‘Shot, your mercifulness, shot while saving you from a killer!

 	‘I thought he was–’ the high priest began.

 	Dubnitz rode over him, shouting, ‘He has given his life for you! For Marienburg! Comfort him as he…’ He paused, watching the horizon. ‘As he – hold on,’ he said, counting the strokes of the Tide Bell in his head. ‘Wait for it – yes, there we go – comfort him as he dies, oh great sage of the Free City!’

 	The high priest, uncertainty writ on his features, mumbled something as spontaneous weeping broke out amongst those elements of the crowd not busy kicking in the faces of the murder-cultists. Dubnitz shoved the high priest aside and pulled Lomax into another embrace, tears spilling into his beard as he blubbered heroically. Word of mouth was a fine thing, and street corner patterers were already carrying the word of Lomax’s heroic sacrifice across the city, Dubnitz wagered.

 	The entire city had witnessed Lomax die at cockcrow, and there’d be no contesting of the will by his relatives, not when the manner of his death was known. A hero of the city, dying to rescue the high priest of Manann, and donating his worldly wealth to the templars devoted to said god. ‘Sometimes, I suspect the gods love me,’ Dubnitz said as he blubbered. ‘Do you ever get that feeling, Piet?’

 	Piet dropped to one knee beside him, a hand placed comfortingly on his shoulder. ‘You’re a horror, Erkhart. A literal horror,’ he muttered.

 	‘Yes, but what I am not is pickled,’ Dubnitz said. ‘And neither are you, so stop complaining. It all worked out for the best. Now, would you say it’s cockcrow yet?’

 	Piet sighed and nodded. ‘I think we’re in the clear.’

 	‘Ah well, Manann giveth and he taketh away, drift into his bosom, be at peace and such, et cetera and so forth,’ Dubnitz said, dropping the body and rising abruptly to his feet. He clapped his hands together and looked around. The rising sun caused the scum on the surface of the canal to sparkle prettily. ‘So… who’s for breakfast?’