The first novel I wrote and by some distance the
most amateurish. It was written 1995-7 when I
was heavily under the influence of PG Wodehouse, Lindsey Davis and Terry
Pratchett. The section below is taken from Chapter 4 and is
a good example of the breathless style I used as a substitute for finesse. The full work can be bought from lulu.comVellers Square! Vellers Square, the jewel in Jalkin's crown. Vellers Square, famous the world over, site of renown, birthplace of legends, font of all rumours. Vellers Square, first tick on any sightseers tour, the pinnacle of civilisation, vast, sprawling and entirely out of control. You can take your Summers Bridges, your Dorlaf Avenues, your Kings Roads - Vellers Square is the essence of the Cities, its spirit concentrated into one droplet as glorious and lethal as neat alcohol. Vellers Square, inspiration for a hundred ballads, a thousand tales, ten thousand caustic newsheet articles and a million complaints. Vellers Square, the heart of Jalkin, the heart of the Cities, the heart of Dorlaf, the heart of Christoté. "What a hideous, ungodly being it must be, to beat with such a heart," one scholar wrote - that's Christoté he's talking about, that is. Vellers Square the crowded, the noisy, the ostentatious, the raucous, the chaotic, the hideous, the glorious, the odoriferous, the inane - in the end simply Vellers Square the overwhelming, "where strong men become weak men and weak men become litter," which exhausts all epithets because mere words can't do it justice. Ah, Vellers Square, Vellers Square, so good they named it - a lot of things, in fact, and most of them quite rude.
No one man could have made Vellers Square what it is today, nor even a single generation. The architect Nayston Culnt started it when he laid out the plans for Jalkin three hundred and fifty years ago. Culnt's blueprints, which can still be viewed in Jalkin Library, explain in a footnote that Vellers Square it is to be "the central intersection of the main thoroughfares, so a space large enough to accommodate all traffic...that this will entail". He really said that. Of course, Culnt (a name which has sorely tempted subsequent generations) wasn't to know that his stately civic dream would be hijacked so badly by real life, nor that the traffic could ever grow to such epic proportions. He also planned for Keskos Way alone to run through Jalkin, not aware that some genius would later decide that the Mellertang Way should also take in the Cities. The Mellertang intersects with Keskos Way at...Vellers Square. Think about it. Keskos Way, beginning in distant Yarport perched by the grey seas of the Western Ocean, running through Erenland's rain-filled forests, across the bright glow of the Christotan wheat fields and all the way to bustling Salbair on the eastern coast; and the Mellertang Way, following the great river which names it down from the foothills of the Orc-haunted Zanzin Mountains, through the turbulent little Flaugian states, past Dydesbury and the Sunken Sea, all the way down to the arid port of Crabal on the Eastern Ocean, far to the south of Salbair and on the brink of the Zabric Desert. Two roads hundreds of miles long, peopled by caravans, messengers, bandits and wanderers, converging once only, at Vellers Square, like the impossibly chance meeting of migrating birds.
And that's not all. If all the world's signposts point to Jalkin, all Jalkin's street signs point to Vellers Square. No less than seven roads run off it. Dorlaf Avenue, land of a hundred shops and a thousand costermongers, heads due south. A short stroll down East Street brings you to Parliament Square and Huwdone House. Head north-east up Lake Lane instead and you're at Suln Tres, the lake where the rivers meet and barges and boats are loaded to begin their journeys. If dockers aren't your wont, there's the ten thousand inns clustered around the curfew gates of Leighman Way and Cuelon Road. For those more inclined to alleged gracious living, Delgardo Avenue and Leighman Way both lead swiftly to the opulent streets of the north-west quarter. The actors of Welles Court, the newsheet scribblers of Stunat Road, the Calderdale, the Kratzan Riding College, Skalamags's Quay: the works, in short, lie a stone's throw from Vellers Square. And let us not forget what sights the square itself offers.
The architecture is as important as the crushing crowd density in forging the Vellers Square experience. The whole of the north side is taken up by Jalkin Town Hall. If Huwdone House stands on the very tip of the mountain of excellence in civic architecture then Jalkin Town Hall is very much in the valley, possibly even in an ocean trench. Originally it was a country mansion, but it has progressively gained a kaleidoscope of annexes, wings and outhouses to form a baroque jumble of pillars, courtyards, gargoyles, statues and stairways. When the population in a civilised land expands, its bureaucracy expands even quicker. The response from the whole Cities region has been to stick everything in Jalkin Town Hall, rebuilding when necessary. Fortunately the Town Hall itself is set back from Vellers Square, though several obscene details like the bright blue glass globe on top of the east wing are visible. Its chief contribution to the square is a high wall made of bricks every colour under the sun, topped by stone figures and coats of arms. In its centre stands the Town Hall's main entrance gates, their posts the dark green trunks of two elvish trees.
The sloping diagonal east side of Vellers is surprisingly sober, a collection of tall, narrow buildings of miscellaneous function; but to the south stands the Domes Theatre. Now, opinion is divided on the aesthetics of the Domes. Some point out that, externally at least, it is just a big, solid box of a place. It admittedly stands eighty feet tall and its corners are fashioned into bulbous spheres, but it is nonetheless a sombre and venerable construction, built in times when theatre was a respected art form dealing with sensible topics. (Namely, set five hundred years ago and written by, for, about and supporting aristocrats; a tradition deservedly wrecked by Stayson Cooper). From Vellers Square, though, what catches the eye is the tapestries. The stolen battle scene in Tomas Kenner's room was only an infant. An enormous tapestry hung over the main door of the theatre, portraying a group of old lords carousing revoltingly to advertise another re-staging of Cooper's The Comedians. Surrounding it were only slightly smaller works; a thief riding through a forest, a bun fight in Parliament Hall, a young woman sobbing in an alleyway, the battle of Brays Crossing in the Garreday Uprisings. Almost the whole south side of Vellers is usually covered by a miasma of astonishingly detailed images, some faded by age, others vivid as a sunny day. The effect is partially beautiful but mainly disconcerting; unlike the effect of viewing the centrepiece of the square's west side, which is generally sheer horror. Settle House protrudes into Vellers Square like a bad dream, all too visible behind its low, gem-studded walls and tiny, thorn-filled gardens (filled thus deliberately, no-one knows why). The architect who conjured up Huwdone House discovered later in his career what the other side of genius is. Shortly before hanging himself he unleashed Settle House on the world. It is a grotesque, deeply pretentious building fashioned like a castle - complete with turrets and a mock-drawbridge - with sickly cherubic figures carved into its walls. A pale green tiled roof slopes incongruously up past the ramparts and clashes horribly with the orange stonework. Set into the roof are mirrors which seem designed to flash sunlight into people's eyes. No-one knows what to do with the ghastly thing - Settle House currently houses unwary Domes staff - no-one knows why it was built and no-one knows why, 300 years after being retched up, it hasn't been torn down yet. Tall statues of Tars Tukas, again on a horse looking proud, and Stayson Cooper, rather curiously flourishing a wig, stand on either side of Settle House and give it undeserved gravity. In fact there are bits and pieces everywhere in Vellers Square, statues, wells, fountains and the like, all helping to block up the traffic. King of them all is the Maskham Altar.
The Maskham Altar was inserted into the very centre of Vellers Square last century and really set the seal on the place. It is a broad, low and perfectly square construction. A wide porch runs round it on all sides, floor tiles in the familiar chequerboard style, slightly raised and surrounded by flights of low steps. The inner walls of the altar building itself hide in the shadows behind the porch, unnoticed and unadorned. At each corner of the porch stand two thick, fluted and entirely tasteless pillars, gaudy blends of jade and ruby infested with silver Garran holy signs. A baroque collection of incense burners and charms generally hang from each pillar but, for all their brazen ornamentation, their real purpose is to hold up the massive roof which dominates the Maskham Altar. The roof completely covers the porch and its ominous low eaves hang over the square itself. It is a heavy and oppressive pyramid, covered in a single sheet of polished gold which shines like a beacon in the sun. On top of the pyramid's point stands a tall brass rectangular clock, the four faces of which are painted with detail so fantastic that it's a shame they are too high up to be seen properly. The Maskham Altar is ostensibly a fully-fledged shrine for the Garran Church but is rarely used - they allow the homeless to shelter in it at night - and it has come to transcend any religious meaning. It is the symbol of shameless ostentation at the very heart of the very heart. The property of a wealth-obsessed church, it is costly, it is pointless, it is the product of a land which does the necessary so well that it can afford the pointless. It is the vulgar boasting of a human race which has won its war of survival, and it is the Cities.
The love-hate relationship which locals have with Vellers Square can be summed up in Elparto's exuberant statement: "No other city in the world could create a site of such monumental vileness". Seve Lupaln just hated it, more vehemently than he hated any other part of the Cities. At five minutes to twelve he was stood in the eastern porch of the Maskham Altar bitterly regretting having bothered to show up, let alone early. A small platoon of flies had chosen him as their saviour and circled around his head, buzzing in and out of his ears. The heat was fantastic; high summer seemed to be returning as Garreday grew closer, long days of unbroken sunshine and a warmth as ubiquitous as the light itself. Lupaln, sweat pouring from his burnt face, could barely remember what being cold felt like. He was standing on the edge of the porch and being jostled every few minutes by a gaggle of inebriated young men energetically playing dice on the floor tiles. Two teenage girls sat next to him, engrossed in a discussion of their sex lives though sometimes responding to the vulgar comments of the young men with equally obscene witticisms. A more serious card game was in progress deeper into the shadows of the roof, smartly dressed men and women slumped in postures of feigned indifference and chattering brightly. A man with the long green robes and carved oak staff of a Garran priest suddenly slid from behind Lupaln and proceeded, quite unconcerned, through the throng. Heathens, Lupaln thought furiously, godless, shallow, vile heathens... He pulled himself together and took another searching look at a window in one of the innocuous east side houses. Once again a tiny and, from this distance, opaque glass square stared back at him. Just because you can't see him, Lupaln reassured himself. He tried to focus on the seas swelling around the altar; a mass of primary colours, brown ringlets, painted faces, flashing jewellery and wide-brimmed hats. The harsh blare of a newsheet vendor swam over the flood of chatter. Happily for The Messenger, its latest edition had coincided with stormy scenes in Parliament Hall, and the vendor was pulling the hook with all his might.
"Emissary found cheating! Emissary found lying! Cheating, lying, crooked Emissary! Read it all here! Emissary found lying! He's a cheat, he's a crook, he's a fraud and he's in your Messenger!"
Competing for attention were the staccato sounds of half a dozen sets of bongo and kettledrum buskers scattered in various nooks. Then, as if deciding even the existing din wasn't sufficient, noon struck. The brass clock uttered twelve great, echoing clangs which were probably audible half way across Jalkin. Deafened, Lupaln staggered down the steps, almost fell over a naked child wandering around randomly and floundered into the road. The human tide enveloped him and elbows, shoulders and feet struck him every few seconds. He stopped and glared back at those still in the porch, who were quite unmoved by the effect of having a tin pot jammed on their heads and struck with a mallet. Is it just practice, Lupaln wondered angrily, or are they bred differently here? And, more to the point, where's Jenks? Lupaln span round, trying to locate those familiar features in the strange gallery passing around him. He narrowly avoided decapitation by a huge crate of apples carried on the head of a man who muttered "Out of the way, out of the way" completely unconsciously. Not one to easily panic, Lupaln was starting to do so. Staying still in the crowd was impossible; he was being steadily ricocheted away from the altar and was surely now out of sight of the east side window. The chimes stopped - and still no Jenks. Then, in an instant, the crowds astonishingly parted and Lupaln was on his own. He had a second to marvel this miracle before noticing a South Star coach frantically ringing its bell as it bore down on him. Lupaln's desperate leap aside cost him a grazed elbow and brought him into the vicinity of the Messenger salesman.
"Lying Emissary! Read all about the lying Emissary!"
There was actually two vendors, a wizened old man who did the advertising and a stout youth handling the sales. These were almost unceasing; newsheets always look like doomed enterprises until you watch them selling on the streets. Lupaln leant against the Town Hall's multi-coloured wall, trying to get his breath back in air cooked in a sock. He knew Jenks was the sort of man who would arrive on time or not at all. Still, he might have got the wrong porch. The merchant began moving cautiously along the wall, craning over heads to peer at the Maskham Altar. He was wishing, amongst other things, that he had installed his bodyguard closer to hand; the man was no use if Jenks was found now. Like so many things connected with Vellers Square, his positioning had seemed a good idea at the time.
From a friend of a friend's window Tomas Kenner watched Lupaln vanish into the crowds. The merchant had previously been looking in his direction twice a minute, and Kenner first wondered whether he'd been detected. Now, though, he was thinking of a room on the floor above. He knew it could be rented on an hourly basis by those wanting, for all the best reasons, to watch Vellers Square without being seen. One hand on the hilt of his sword, Kenner padded thoughtfully to the door.
It took Lupaln fifteen minutes to do a circuit of Vellers Square, clinging to the sides as if on the edge of the pit. He had seen many marvels but Lerithan Jenks wasn't one of them. He had seen troops of tasselled, masked and half-naked kettledrum players. He had seen astrologers with suns tattooed on their foreheads and two wizards pushing a great vat of sulphurous smelling liquid. He had seen people dragging boars, people carrying hens which erupted in explosions of clucks, and even a woman pulling a procession of cows. (Although private wheeled transport is banned from Vellers during daylight, the contents of vehicles may be moved through it. Impatient merchants form mini-armies to haul their goods across the square; and sometimes people give up halfway and abandon their cargo in the street. Some say that's where the Maskham Altar came from.) He had also been seen as the prince of the mugs by an tall man furtively trying to sell "The miraculous new healing herb. Wizards are baffled by it". In context, perhaps the strangest sight was a man in the western porch wearing the traditional costume of a local farmer, a tight olive tunic with cream sleeves and a buttoned-down skull cap. No doubt a Domes actor on his lunch break, Lupaln thought; the only place where these people dress properly is on stage. He pushed back to the eastern porch. There was a fortune teller quite shamelessly setting up a table of cards in his old spot, there was a woman slumped on the steps in dejected exasperation as her son screeched around her, and there was no Jenks.
"He lies all day, he lies all night, and its all in your Messenger! Get your Messenger here! Latest edition!" Then, with a rare change of track: "Kakranfan gladiator arrives today! Read all about him in your Messenger! Great big sod of a gladiator!"
"He'll be paraded through the square," Lupaln heard someone behind him remark. "They've got him in a cage."
"A cage?" her neighbour asked.
"Big job on wheels. He came through Yaleth this morning. He leans out of the cage and goes "Grrr" at people. Its something to see."
That decided Lupaln. His interest in Kakranfan gladiators was tepid, and Garrath only knew what the crowds were like when there was something to see. Jenks could go hang. Lupaln turned to his bodyguard - or turned to the distant window which he hoped his bodyguard was watching from - and gave an expansive shrug. He then jerked his thumb over his shoulder and began pushing towards Leighman Way.
Lupaln's bodyguard was certainly watching. He was frozen by the window and trying to focus on anything but the sword blade held at his throat. Looking over the man's shoulder, Kenner noted Lupaln's departure. He very carefully manoeuvred his sword around so that the tip instead of the edge was at the bodyguard's throat. Then he backed towards the door, making sure the man came with him. In a sudden flurry of movement he leapt backwards out of the door, shut it, locked it, rammed a nearby water barrel under the handle, shoved his sword into his belt and dived down the stairs.
Even a close escape from Vellers Square hadn't improved Seve Lupaln's temper. He strode down broad Leighman Way cursing the time wasted on the rendezvous, cursing the Cities and cursing Lerithan Jenks and all those who sailed with him. He had agreed to meet Jenks in good faith. Somewhat suspicious good faith maybe, but he'd been prepared to negotiate, he'd been prepared to listen... Well, sod the lot of them. Lerithan Jenks and the Wolf Pack: made for each other. They deserved everything they got, and hopefully that would be to ride off into Labland and be exterminated with the rest of the scum...A buffet even stronger than usual sent Lupaln skittering across the pavement into the mouth of an alley. He whirled round, to confront the man he had noticed in Vellers Square wearing the peasant costume. Just for a second Lupaln glimpsed the man's face, and the sudden shock of recognition froze him. It wasn't Lerithan Jenks; indeed, it was the last person Lupaln expected to see in the Cities. As he tried to overcome his confusion, the peasant gave him another viscous shove on his breastbone. Lupaln stumbled backwards into the alleyway, almost losing his footing on the slippery stones. The peasant span him round, grabbed his wrist and twisted it up his back. He hauled them both along in a wild frogmarch which ended in Lupaln being flung forward, tripping over a packing crate and falling onto the urine-scented ground. He painfully rolled onto his back and realised they had entered a new world. Gone were the crowds and the brightness; all was black and silent, a narrow corridor two feet wide between solid walls of stone. And standing over him was...
"You!"
"Where is he?" the peasant spat out. Lupaln tried to crawl backwards but the peasant came with him, not letting him get an inch of distance. Without warning the merchant pulled himself onto his haunches and launched himself head-first at the peasant's groin. He made contact but not with sufficient force; the peasant recovered to grab Lupaln by the neck and fling him at a wall. Lupaln twisted to catch the impact on his shoulder but the collision still jarred every bone in his body. He felt his hair being grabbed and his head dragged back, so he savagely lashed behind him with his elbow. There was a satisfying thud as it connected. The peasant let go of his hair and Lupaln whirled round with his arm flailing, to crack the peasant solidly on the cheek. The force of the blow sent the man floundering further down the alley and he ended sprawled half-upright against a wall. Pain was wracking Lupaln from a dozen directions, not least from the knuckles used in the blow. A sudden flood of euphoria filled him, however, and he lurched unsteadily towards his semi-prostrate assailant. That was when he saw the glitter of steel suddenly appear in the man's hand.
Lupaln stopped and dropped his hand to his belt. His thoughts had reached as far as "If that's the way you want to play it," when he realised his fingers had found nothing except cloth and leather. The dagger tucked in his belt had gone; dropped somewhere in the alley maybe, more likely in Vellers Square, no doubt some thieving bastard... He snapped his attention back. The peasant had slowly risen and was advancing in a fighting crouch, holding the knife ahead of him. Lupaln quickly tried to back off but again lost his footing, giving the peasant time to spring forward. An experimental slash of the knife passed inches from Lupaln's face. Another followed as the peasant continued to track Lupaln's stumbling retreat. This time, though, the peasant tripped on the treacherous ground and his eyes were momentarily off Lupaln. The merchant whipped out an arm, grabbed his assailant by the wrist and wrenched downwards. For a second the peasant was unbalanced but he clung to his weapon, and then shot his free hand out at Lupaln's face. He caught the merchant's nose with a lucky shot and used the reprieve to throw them both sideways, thumping Lupaln's back into a wall. Winded, Lupaln lost his grip on the peasant, took a second to recover, then desperately threw himself to one side as the man lunged. He was almost quick enough; the knife missed impaling him but scythed across his side in a long, red tear. Lupaln's dive sent him crashing to the ground. A second after landing the pain hit him, a vivid and unbearable pulse which pressed through the length of his body. He desperately tried to master it, and at the same time twisted round to locate the peasant. The man had recovered his balance and was stood over him, knife poised for a downwards stab at his neck. Again Lupaln moved just in time, rolling so that the blade missed its target and instead sunk deep into his shoulder. Cursing, the peasant pulled it out with an excruciating yank. But it was only a matter of time. The pain was coursing uncontrollably through Lupaln. It filled his mind with roaring insensibility and blinded him in a flickering red mist. He dimly felt his strength trickling away and his consciousness beginning to fade into a heavy black blur. In a daze he waited for the next blow, which...
Never came. Lupaln fainted at this point, a shame because what followed was worth seeing. One second there was the sound of footsteps heading down the alley. The next Tomas Kenner hurtled out of the gloom, took a flying leap and hit the peasant with both knees and an elbow. The collision toppled both men over. The peasant rolled quickly to his feet, gathered his dagger in the same movement, prepared to spring at his new opponent, and stopped. Two feet away, Kenner was gripping his outstretched sword in both hands. A long moment passed. Kenner gazed into a pale, expressionless face and small, thickset eyes. He guessed the man's thoughts: if I can get two feet closer I can do him, but what will happen while I'm travelling those two feet? The air around them seemed to go completely still as they faced each other, motionless and calculating. Kenner tried to tighten his grip on a handle which was becoming slippery under his sweating palms. Then the peasant slowly backed further down the alley, turned a corner and vanished. Kenner waited until the footsteps had died away. Finally he risked a glance at the prostrate Lupaln, who was slowly surfacing back into consciousness.
"Hey, Lupaln," he said breathlessly. "Remember me? Tomas Kenner. You're looking well."
He whirled at the sound of another figure cascading down the alley. At first he feared it was a colleague of the peasant but then relaxed at the sight of Lupaln's bodyguard, who had broken free sooner than expected. No sooner had he done so, the bodyguard gave a bellow and swung his sword at Kenner's head. There was a loud clash as Kenner parried clumsily and sprang back.
"Moxon!" Lupaln attempted, but his shout came out as a whisper. "Moxon, not him..."
It was a short fight. Kenner was an appalling swordsman. Although good with his fists, he had been curiously unable to grasp the basics of holding a weapon and thrusting it at someone. It says a lot about the Guards that this never hindered his rapid career rise, and something about the country as a whole that said rise occurred in one of the few areas where national security is at risk. He had, however, mastered some points of urban conflict, one being that if you are fighting in a two foot wide alley, go easy on the scything sweeps. Moxon had never learnt this lesson. For a few minutes they went through the usual motions, one man lunging, the other parrying and long, cautious pauses in between the action. Then there was an abrupt clank and a shower of sparks as Moxon's sword hit stone with considerable force. His weapon sprung from his grasp, and Kenner reversed his own sword and smashed the handle onto Moxon's nose. In the ensuing lull Lupaln, who had agonisingly pulled himself into a seated posture, managed to find the strength to bellow,
"Moxon, PISS OFF!" Moxon, clutching his nose, gave the merchant a bewildered look. "Moxon, you stupid cunt..." Lupaln tried and failed to manoeuvre further up the wall. "..Shit... you're attacking the wrong fucking person. Kenner just drove my attacker away..."
"'E attacked me," Moxon claimed belligerently. "Stuck a sword at my fucking throat."
"Don't talk such-"
"'E fucking did. That's why I were late-"
"Hey, Lupaln," Kenner suggested brightly. "Maybe we could discuss this when you don't have arteries spouting everywhere."
"What? Oh." Lupaln gazed at his bloodied side with a perplexed and slightly aloof air. Then he fainted again. A pause followed.
"'E dead?" Moxon asked casually.
"Ha. You wish." Kenner rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Well, there's only one herbalist I trust to stitch him up. Ain't too far if we go the back way. You take his legs, I'll get his shoulders."
A few streets away, Smithson's was also the site of conflict. Margat Rendo had found space in her busy schedule to drop in, pay her regards and demand that Smithson stop giving Tomas irresponsible and immoral advice. This applied especially to the topics of marriage and fatherhood, ones which Margat doubted Smithson was very well-placed to advise on. Smithson mildly remarked that all he did was discuss matters with Tomas, and that if Margat actually thought her brother listened to any advice given, she had yet to learn the first thing about him. Mrs Gowling, a neighbour who happened to have called in, then raised a point concerning Margat's right to flounce in any time of the day and raise hell with a respectable herbalist. To which Margat, an accomplished left-and-right hand scrapper, responded that she believed Jalkin to be a city of free speech and her basic human rights in this area wouldn't be curtailed by the likes of Mrs Gowling. Smithson watched the developments with interest, sensing that both women had found an opponent in the right weight category. Metaphorically at least, for Mrs Gowling was a broad woman in her fifties with swarthy features, two chins and arms like tree trunks. She was one of Jakks Lane's unofficial monarchs, and though by nature a genial soul, one glare from her beetling brows was usually enough to quell insurrection. A less amused observer was another customer, whose herb order had been half-prepared by Smithson before Margat's entrance. The man was pressed against one wall and wishing desperately that he'd listened when his priest told him that divine retribution for past sins can come swiftly and severely.
The Kenner family are long versed in causing public scenes, and Tomas continued the fine tradition. Just as his sister was scaling new heights in her oratory, the door was kicked in and Kenner and Moxon entered, bearing Seve Lupaln like a fallen warrior who has lost his shield. Lupaln, now half-conscious, had turned a deathly pale and his clothes had unpleasant mahogany stains. Blood was still seeping out of his shoulder, hitting the ground with pattering drips.
"Hey, Myran," Kenner called cheerfully over his shoulder. "Get the fire going. Got a bit of a patient for you."
Mrs Gowling was the first to recover. A volunteer nurse for the Church of Ella, she was doggedly unfazed by scenes of carnage. She pulled Smithson's decaying couch down then, when the body was lowered onto it, began examining the injuries and talking in "kindly" mode.
"All right now, Mr..."
"Lupaln," Kenner supplied. Smithson glanced sharply at him.
"All right, Mr Lupaln. I'm going to have a look at what's what, then we'll get you patched up right as rain." Mrs Gowling began peeling off the sodden tunic. "Quite a state you're in, I must say. You been sword fighting?" she added, just a shade more severely.
"It was a dagger." Kenner noticed Smithson still looking at him. "What?"
"Tomas, this isn't your work is-"
"No it bloody ain't," he barked. "I'm the one who saved his arse, so stop gawping at me. Hero of the - shit, that's a good one." The long, ugly rip in Lupaln's side was exposed for all to see. The flow had stopped but the surrounding flesh was caked with dried blood. At this point Smithson's customer decided no amount of illness, social etiquette or elephantine bodyguards blocking the doorway would keep him in this house of horrors, and fled.
"Could be worst, could be worst," Mrs Gowling murmured. "It's the shoulder that's worrying me. Here, love," she said to Margat. "Keep his shirt pressed over the wound like I've done, try and stop the stuff coming out. That's a bluethistle job if I'm any judge, plus we'll need some rusken on both of 'em. That's just for... Mr Smithson," she added firmly to the transfixed herbalist. "Can we have some action please?"
Smithson snapped out of his trance, produced a handful of cloth bandages and tossed them to Kenner. "Dip these in that pan boiling over the fire will you? That's the one. Tell me," he added, taking a jar of honey and a small box of bluethistle seeds from his shelves, "This wasn't the work of you-know-who was it?"
"Nope." Kenner handed the steaming bandages back to Smithson, who spread them across his counter and began smearing them with honey. "You know who never bloody showed up. Again."
Margat, who had been dreamily watching blood seep over her fingers , at last found voice. "Sweet Torgu, Tomas. I've seen you come home with bloody noses when you were a kid, but now you've really outdone yourself."
Lupaln muttered something. "What was that, Mr Lupaln?" Mrs Gowling asked, leaning past Smithson to search through his shelves.
"Think it was 'tell that bastard'," Kenner translated. "Hey, Moxon, he's asking - Oh, he's gone." The doorway stood empty.
"None of that language please, Mr Lupaln," the nurse said cheerfully. "The Goddess is protecting you now, and the Goddess likes clean mouths." She threw some dark green leaves into the boiling pan.
"Hey, is that muuken?" Kenner said sharply. "Don't give him any bloody muuken. Just stitch him up." Muuken is an anaesthetic herb, mainly used in conjunction with a bluethistle bandage. Placing bluethistle on a wound disinfects it, stimulates the healing process and hurts like sin.
"I'll pretend I didn't hear that. Got your gag ready, Mr Smithson?" She produced from her pocket a flowered scrap of wool with strings attached.
"Oh flipping heck, hang on." Smithson was frantically sprinkling the seeds over the honey-soaked bandages. Mrs Gowling removed Margat's hand and peeled the saturated shirt from Lupaln's shoulder.
"Thanks love, I'll take over. Now you two, out. Go on, shoo." A sickly smell was beginning to fill the shop. "And make sure no-one comes in."
Brother and sister allowed themselves to be bundled outside. They started to bicker even before they reached the door. Whilst he and Mrs Gowling treated Lupaln's wounds, Smithson could hear them sat in the doorway and arguing furiously.
He came outside twenty minutes later and gratefully removed his mask in the purer air.
"Bloody hell, Myran," Kenner said, breaking off from loudly enquiring whether his sister would prefer it if he resigned his job at Huwdone House and took up begging as a trade. "You might've warned me you were muuking him. I've got questions-"
Smithson was in no mood for this. "We're putting him in that Ellan Hostel off Veitch Road. You could run along there now, let them know we need a bed. Mention Mrs Gowling's name. And if you mind your manners," he added, "They'll probably let you visit Lupaln tomorrow. And then he won't be delirious through loss of blood and'll be able to answer your questions. OK? By the way, do you know where he lives or anything?"
"I lifted a business card from him. I'll see to that an' all."
"Thank you so much for your help, Mr Smithson," Margat said with dangerous sweetness. "And do thank Mrs Gowling for me. My brother, as I'm sure you know, needs a lot of people looking after him."
Smithson watched them walk arm in arm down Ashel Street, quarrelling with practised rhetoric. Not surprisingly, they hadn't gone far before the topic turned from the nature of Kenner's job to his treatment of Gellina.
.
