[Thanquol & Boneripper 01] - Grey Seer Read online

  Instead of dashing in the bargerat’s skull, Thanquol brought the staff crashing down into an iron-banded barrel, splintering its lid. The grey seer sneered at the bargemaster and dug a paw into the barrel. He made a point of popping a few kernels of black corn into his mouth as he strode away. The vile taste still made his stomach clench, but there was a deep satisfaction in the humiliation of the thoughtless bargemaster.

  Thanquol clambered down the gangplank, his head raised imperiously as he strode past the awed throng of slaves and wharf-rats around him. He could see the great tunnels that stabbed through the earth away from the docks, thrusting down into the twisting burrows of Under-Altdorf proper. A few structures, gouged into the sides of the tunnels and supported with lumber and stonework stolen from the humans above, stood illuminated by torches and warpstone braziers. Vaults for cargo unloaded at the docks, slavepens, even the workshops of Clan Sleekit’s shipwrights loomed against the walls of the cavern. Thanquol could see a battered sign, probably stolen from a human tavern, hanging from a rusty chain above what could only be a garrison of the settlement’s warriors.

  It was from the garrison that an armed body of skaven emerged, marching quickly across the waterfront, kicking and biting any ratmen too slow or slack-witted to make way for them. Thanquol was not surprised to find that they were stormvermin, of the more usual black-furred kind. Their steel armour and weapons were better than most settlements in the Under-Empire could boast, but then few places had the rich opportunities to bloat their armouries through theft and bribery the way Under-Altdorf could. The black stormvermin looked puny beside the albinos the Council had sent along with him, but there were at least a score of the fang-faced brutes. Any lingering confidence Thanquol had in his bodyguards suffered when he noticed that counting was not one of their deficiencies and the two warriors began to slowly back away from the grey seer.

  The company of stormvermin came to a ragged stop before the dock. If they had been a less menacing sight, Thanquol might have snickered at the foolish attempt at aping the drill and precision of a human regiment. Most skaven were content to leave such pompous nonsense to the humans, but then there were many strange ideas among the inhabitants of Under-Altdorf. The Council saw rebellion and treachery everywhere they looked, but perhaps their paranoia about this city was not misplaced.

  A crook-backed skaven bulled his way through the armoured ranks of the stormvermin. He wore the symbol of Clan Skryre upon his leather robes, a thick tool-belt straddling his waist. There was a chemical stink to his fur, and a metallic tinge to his overall scent. The ratman’s eyes were hidden behind a set of iron goggles, pitted with tiny openings so that the skaven resembled a fly as much as he did a rodent. The creature raised his head high, striving to stare down at Thanquol despite his malformed back.

  “I am name-call Vermisch of Clan Skryre, honoured emissary of their great and terrible lordships, the Grand High Supreme Council of Under-Altdorf, Festereach and Gnawhome. I am delegated to meet-speak with Thanquol…”

  “Grey Seer Thanquol,” Thanquol corrected Vermisch, putting his most menacing hiss into every syllable. The little warlock engineer was like his stormvermin, pompous and preening. Far too recently, Thanquol had trembled before the Lords of Decay, before the Council of Thirteen itself. Moles would chew his bones before he would cower before this self-important functionary of a ten-flea circus with delusions of grandeur.

  Vermisch was still blinking in nervous confusion as Thanquol took a pull of warpstone snuff to fortify himself. The grey seer closed the little ratskull box with a loud snap and glared at the befuddled emissary. “I am Grey Seer Thanquol,” he said needlessly. As much as the snuff helped pour fire into his veins, it had a disconcerting habit of dulling the wit. “I am the chosen representative of their malevolent majesties, the Lords of Decay, the Council of Thirteen of holy Skavenblight and the living claws of his most vengeful divinity the Horned Rat. I am the eyes, nose and ears of Skavenblight. I am their judge and their dagger! Know me and tremble, spleenless-mouse, and beg my indulgence for your impiety!”

  There was no confusion in Vermisch now. His head lowered and turned, exposing his throat in the traditional display of subjugation. Several of the stormvermin had likewise dropped down, lowering themselves before the formidable figure who had so thoroughly cowed the sinister Vermisch.

  Thanquol’s tail twitched in satisfaction as he saw the display his fierce words had provoked. For an instant he considered drawing upon his sacred powers and immolating a few of the cowering ratmen as a reminder to the rest of the finality of the Horned Rat’s holy wrath. He quickly relented, understanding it was the warpstone inciting him to such recklessness. Scolded, the Under-Altdorf warriors might prove tractable. Attacked, they might respond in kind. Thanquol still didn’t like the way the numbers favoured Vermisch.

  “Forgive-forget this unworthy flea, most awful of dooms, Grey Seer Thanquol,” Vermisch stammered, a suggestion of musk in his scent now. “My masters bid-ordered me wait-seek you. They wish-want to speak with your terrible eminence at once… if it pleases you, most dreaded of sorcerers.”

  Thanquol stared down his snout at the contrite Vermisch, giving him only a slightly menacing display of fang to keep him in his place. “It pleases me to see your chieftains,” Thanquol told him. “You may lead the way to their chambers.”

  Bowing and grovelling, Vermisch hurried to reform the stormvermin into two columns, then waited for Thanquol to join him at the centre of the protective formation. With a measured, unhurried and unworried pace, Thanquol slowly strolled towards the armoured warriors. He snapped a few whispered commands to his bodyguards, promising unspeakable things if they should leave his side again. Even the elite white stormvermin seemed disturbed by some of the sadistic images he conjured.

  “A masterful display, grey seer.”

  The fawning words were like a weasel’s whisper against Thanquol’s ear. The fur on his back crawled as though feeling the bite of a knife, but Thanquol forced himself not to break stride. In his preoccupation with Vermisch, he’d forgotten about Kratch. He blamed the oversight on the warpstone dulling his mind.

  “Adept Kratch,” Thanquol snarled. “An apprentice’s place is before his master… where his mentor can watch-see and point out his pupil’s… missteps.”

  Kratch hurried forwards, bowing his head in deference to Thanquol’s reprimand. “Forgive me, master,” Kratch said. “I did not want any enemies to sneak up behind you.”

  Thanquol gave his apprentice a blank, dumbfounded look, then blinked away his disbelief. Either the ratling thought himself incredibly clever or else he was the most painfully obvious backstabber ever suckled by a broodmother!

  As he continued to stare at the simpering apprentice, Thanquol noticed that Kratch was furtively snacking on something clenched in his left paw. The grey seer gestured at his apprentice with a claw.

  “What are you eating?” he demanded.

  Kratch’s eyes became downcast, his body posture wilting like a flower beneath the Lustrian sun. Guiltily, he opened his paw, revealing a few kernels of black corn.

  Thanquol snickered, understanding now why his apprentice had such a sickly scent. He realised that he still held a few kernels himself. With a broad gesture, one that could not fail to be noticed by Vermisch and his warriors, Thanquol placed the rest of the kernels in Kratch’s paw.

  “A reward-gift for your tireless loyalty,” Thanquol told his apprentice. The display of black corn, such a valued commodity in Under-Altdorf, given so liberally to a mere underling would go far to impress upon Vermisch that Thanquol was above the thieving, cringing inhabitants of this city. He was reinforcing his fierce words, reminding Vermisch of where he was from and who he represented.

  Stalking onward to join the functionary, Thanquol watched Kratch from the corner of his eye. There was, of course, another, purely selfish reason for the display, and each time he saw Kratch’s face twist with revulsion Thanquol felt a little shiver of amusement
tingle down his tail.

  The shop of Dr. Lucas Phillip Loew was an old half-timbered building that looked old enough to have been the birthplace of Magnus the Pious. A balustrade of brickwork seemed to be all that was keeping its eastern wall from collapsing into an alleyway, while the roof was missing so many tiles that the support beams stood naked and exposed to the elements. It didn’t matter overmuch. None of the upper three floors of the structure were inhabited; if it were not for Dr. Loew’s shop, the entire building would have been abandoned.

  The glassblower that had once operated the store next to Dr. Loew was long gone, a faded playbill still pasted to the window advertised a Detlef Sierck tragedy that had stopped being performed twenty years ago.

  Even if the building was not threatening to collapse into ruin every time a stork landed on its chimney, the landlords would have been hard-pressed to find tenants after Dr. Loew moved in. In the wealthier and more educated districts of Altdorf shops like that of Dr. Loew, an alchemist by profession, were shunned because of foul odours and the very real threat of dramatic explosions. In a superstitious, backwards slum like the waterfront, the situation was worse. The denizens of such places had little tolerance for magic of any sort, having listened only too intently to the fiery sermons of zealous Sigmarites. To their minds, there was no separating an alchemist from a wizard and a wizard from a sorcerer.

  Still, a shop like that of Dr. Loew did not depend upon local custom for its business. His patrons were scattered all across Altdorf, in every district and at every level of society. He did not need to seek out his customers, they would seek him out. And, because of the isolated, lonely situation of his shop, they would feel even more comfortable about patronising the alchemist.

  At present however, the men moving about the wooden racks of powders and pastes, peering into the jars of dried spider legs and pickled salamander eyes, were sellers, not buyers. Dr. Loew, seated at a long table at the rear of his shop, watched the men through the jungle of alembics and jars scattered across his workspace. Scruffy, caked in the grime and poverty of the waterfront, they were the sort of unpleasant creatures circumstances often forced the alchemist to deal with.

  Such creatures had low morals and few scruples when it came to gathering the morbid, often illegal substances desired by his patrons.

  Hans Dietrich and his little band of smugglers were men Dr. Loew had only dealt with rarely in the past, far less than the weirdroot growers and graverobbers who were his usual sources of supply. Dietrich didn’t seem to have the spine for engaging in activities that might earn him the attentions of the witch hunters, and generally gave the alchemist a wide berth. This time, however, he’d found something valuable enough to overcome those concerns.

  Dr. Loew looked away from the smugglers, returning his attention to the little bronze firepot and the iron bowl resting above it. He studied the way the heat played across the strange rock the criminals had brought him. The stone was like a sponge, absorbing whatever was inflicted upon it. That was in keeping with wyrdstone; the substance was notoriously hard to refine and smelt. Part mineral, part something else entirely, the weird rock had defied the best scholars of ten centuries to accurately classify. Of course, being unknown rather than understood, wyrdstone was condemned as tainted with Chaos by the short-sighted officials of temple and state. Mere possession of even the smallest fragment was grounds for torture and public execution… and there was no court of appeal when the prosecutors belonged to the Order of Sigmar.

  Still, there were uses to which wyrdstone could be put that made knowledgeable men seek it out and pay small fortunes to possess it, whatever the risks. It could be used to heal the most terrible of illnesses, elixirs derived from its pulverised dust could cure fevers of the mind, pastes made from its ground powder could reverse the ravages of age and leave the skin as fresh and smooth as a baby’s bottom. Of course its most prized ability was its most elusive. Wyrdstone was held as the true alchemists’ stone, that fabulous substance that would be the catalyst for transforming lead into gold!

  Dr. Loew watched the thin stream of green smoke rising from the smouldering rock. It had an unusual smell to it. Not something he would associate immediately with wyrdstone, but still somehow making him think of the outlawed mineral just the same. Perhaps this was some exotic ore, some incredibly rare variant of the wyrdstone more commonly known to scholars and wizards. If that was true, there was no telling what price the substance might command.

  “Well, Herr Doktor?” a gruff voice intruded upon the alchemist’s thoughts. Looking up, Dr. Loew found himself staring into the hard features of Johann Dietrich, the larger and more imposing brother of the crafty Hans. Johann had a shrewd look about him, one that set Dr. Loew on his guard. Smugglers were, after all, thieves, and it wouldn’t do well to let them know just how valuable their find was.

  “I can’t be sure,” Dr. Loew said, pulling off the copper-scaled gloves he had donned to protect himself while handling the stone. “I think perhaps I need to run more tests.”

  Johann smiled and shook his head. “I think you recognised that rock as soon as we set it down,” he said. “Play your games on your own time, frogcatcher, we don’t have any to spare.”

  Dr. Loew leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms defiantly. He wasn’t about to be lectured by some illiterate slob from the gutter, certainly not in his own shop. He sniffed at the silver pomander dangling from his neck, letting its medicinal fumes ward off any tainted dust that might have dispersed into the air from his handling of the specimen. “You tell me what it is, then,” he snapped.

  “I think it’s wyrdstone,” Johann told him.

  The alchemist laughed. “And what do you base that on?” he scoffed. “The word of some hop-headed cut-purse?” Dr. Loew pointed a finger at the lurking figure of Kempf. The weasel-faced thief grinned back, making no secret of his eavesdropping.

  “No,” conceded Johann, “I base that on the smile you keep trying to hide. Greed doesn’t become you, doktor.”

  The alchemist scowled, making a show of prodding and poking the sliver of stone in the bowl with a copper rod. “It might be wyrdstone,” he admitted reluctantly. “If it is, I might be able to find a buyer for you.”

  “How soon?” Kempf interjected, his voice eager and hungry. Johann glared at the small thief, only relenting when he backed away from the table.

  “It would take awhile,” Dr. Loew said after a moment of thought. He tapped the table as he considered his answer. “One has to be careful making inquiries of this sort, you understand.”

  “If you have a buyer, we might have more to sell him,” Johann said in a low voice.

  Dr. Loew’s eyes narrowed and he directed a cautious stare at the big smuggler. “How much more?”

  “More.”

  “A lot more?”

  Johann gave him a slow, knowing nod. “A lot more,” he said.

  Dr. Loew didn’t try to hide his smile now. “It looks like this may very well prove to be wyrdstone. If you have much more, it will take some time to find enough buyers to move it.”

  Johann shook his head. “We’d prefer to dispose of it all at once.”

  “Very dangerous to try and sell a large quantity of wyrdstone,” Dr. Loew told him. “The authorities aren’t very understanding.”

  “But it could be done?” Johann asked.

  “It could be done,” Dr. Loew said, rubbing his fat, warty nose. “I could find a buyer outside Altdorf, that would be safer than selling it to someone inside the city. There’s a man I know in Nuln who might be interested—if it proves to be wyrdstone.”

  “If it proves to be wyrdstone,” Johann repeated, turning away. He grabbed Kempf’s shoulder and prodded the small thief towards the door. Hans and the others saw Johann moving to the exit and started to follow.

  “Where can I contact you?” Dr. Loew called after the departing men.

  Hans turned around and smiled at the alchemist. “You don’t,” he told Dr. Loew. “We’ll co
ntact you.” The smuggler gave a last look at the shelves of dried herbs, crushed powders and pickled reptiles. “Interesting stuff you have here, doktor. Disgusting, but very interesting.”

  Dr. Loew scowled as he watched Hans amble out his door. Ignorant peasants! What did they know of scholarship and learning! The fools had no idea what they had found, no idea at all. The specimen they had left with him was worth a small ransom on its own. Certainly more than the thugs would earn in a month sneaking wine past the excisemen.

  The alchemist sucked his teeth and leaned over the iron bowl again. It was wyrdstone, every passing moment made him more certain of the fact. He had several contacts in the Colleges of Magic who would jump at the chance to buy such a fine specimen. Briefly, he considered informing them of the find that had fallen into his hands, but Johann’s claim that the smugglers had more gave him pause. It might be the bold promise of clever criminals trying to ensure a square deal from the alchemist, but Dr. Loew was reluctant to dismiss the possibility out of hand.

  He thought of his contact in Nuln. Dr. Drexler had been obsessed with the study of wyrdstone since the Nuln riots several years ago. The physician would pay handsomely if Loew could provide him with a significant supply of the mineral. It was said he was supported in his experiments by no less than the Countess von Liebowitz of Nuln.

  The image of the bulging coffers of Nuln settled Dr. Loew’s dilemma. He rose and retrieved quill and parchment from his desk. Sitting back at the table, he began to compose a letter to his colleague in Nuln.

  As he started to write, Loew’s left hand absently scratched at his forearm, trying to stifle the sudden irritation of his skin.

  “Your notoriety precedes you, Grey Seer Thanquol.”

  The speaker was Grey Seer Thratquee, the highest ranking representative of the Horned Rat’s priesthood in Under-Altdorf and the occupant of the centremost seat on its ruling council. An aged, white-furred skaven with mismatched horns, Thratquee had the smug scent of a cunning politician, well-versed in the arts of corruption and cronyism. Thanquol took an instant dislike of the elder grey seer, not least because without the talisman he had been given by the Lords of Decay, it would be Thratquee, not Thanquol enjoying the dominant position.