[Florin & Lorenzo 01] - The Burning Shore Read online

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Lorenzo snorted.

  “Mordicio would find you there within a month.”

  “Araby?”

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

  “Norsca?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Despite himself, Florin sniggered.

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

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

  “Even though I’m the smart one?”

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

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

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

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

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

  “Someone? Who?”

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

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

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

  “Damn.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Fine, fine.”

  “I was sorry to hear about your parents.”

  “Thanks. But it was a while ago.”

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

  It was Lorenzo who broke the ice. «

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

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

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

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

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

  “Except for you.”

  “Except for nobody.”

  Lundorf raised one eyebrow in a gesture of studied disdain.

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

  “Evidently.”

  The two men glared at each other.

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

  “Thank you, sir,” Lorenzo bowed sarcastically.

  Florin tried not to smile.

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

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

  “Now let’s eat something.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Boys will be boys.”

  “That’s not what my father said.”

  Lundorf roared with laughter.

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

  “And Dame Grulter’s laundry?”

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

  “The good old days, hey?”

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

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

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

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

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

  “Glory and gold,” Lundorf echoed.

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

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

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

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

  “But why?”

  “For glory and gold!”

  “Glory and gold!”

  “Cheers.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “The plague?”

  Lundorf grunted dismissively.

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

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

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

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

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

  “But there’s treasure!”

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

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

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

  CHAPTER THREE

  Florin’s pulse beat a painful rhythm inside his head. His stomach rolled on waves on nausea, each one stronger than the last. Florin pulled a pillow over his head and tried to go back to sleep, when a second jarring crash rang out through the room.

  “For Shallya’s sake!” he growled, sitting up and looking blearily around. The light hurt his eyes as he squinted across the chamber.

  Lorenzo looked briefly up from the bundle of clothing that he was wrestling into his master’s carriage trunk and said, “About time. Come on, help me to pack. We’re going.”

  “Going? Going where?” Florin snapped irritably. “I’m not going anywhere. Wake me up after lunch and we’ll go see Bastien then. Or maybe,” he collapsed back onto his pillows with a groan, “we’ll go tomorrow.”

  “No we won’t,” Lorenzo said, grim-faced as he stamped the last of his master’s jackets flat and banged the lid shut.

  “Well then, whenever. And will you stop making that noise? In fact, I order you to be quiet.”

  “Bastien sailed for Araby last night,” Lorenzo told him, and started to beat the dust off Florin’s saddlebags, the battered souvenirs of his long pawned horse.

  “What?”

  “We’re going to Lustria.”

  “What!”

  “Unless you want to explain to Mordicio why you can’t pay him.”

  The shock of this news did wonders for Florin’s hangover. He crawled out of bed and staggered over to the bucket of water Lorenzo provided for his morning wash. He dunked his head into it, letting the icy water clear his mind.

  “You’re telling me Bastien’s not here anymore?” he asked, blinking in confusion and dripping water over the floorboards. “No. No, he would have told me.”

  “He probably would if you’d accepted his last dinner invitation. Or the one before that. But you were too busy.”

  “I was,” Florin shrugged and slumped down onto the couch. He vaguely hoped that the sunlight that streamed through the window would stop his shivering as he tried to get to grips with the situation.

  Lorenzo looked sceptically at his master. Sometimes he almost seemed to want to get himself into trouble. Still, the old retainer decided, he had only himself to blame. He should have made him visit his brother.

  “Araby, you
say?”

  “Yes, boss, Araby. Now, we’re done. Here’s your trunk, and your saddlebags. And here’s a wheat sack for anything else you want. Do you want to take that bedding?”

  “We’re going to Lustria, you say?” Florin asked, comprehension dawning.

  “Yes. If we can get to your friend’s ship in time.”

  “Damn it.”

  As if rebelling at the news, Florin’s stomach rippled queasily and the urge to vomit became overwhelming. He staggered over to the window and leaned out over the street before loudly and copiously throwing up.

  From below voices rose in protest.

  “Hey, isn’t that the fellow from Mordicio’s house?” Florin asked weakly, wiping his mouth with his sleeve and pointing to the street below.

  Lorenzo was beside him in an instant. He watched as the shaven-headed thug, supposedly the money-lender’s secretary, led his squad of cut-throats through the crowd below. Although their uniform consisted of nothing more than their bald pates, the five men might have been brothers: their broad shoulders and sour expressions were almost identical.

  “Damn.”

  “The roof, I think,” Florin said. He was already feeling better, cured by the need to take charge of the situation. “What’s in here?” he asked, slinging the saddlebags over his shoulder.

  “Everything you need.”

  “And my cloak?”

  “Here,” Lorenzo held it up. “And your sword.”

  “Right then, just bar that door on the way out, would you?” Florin asked and, with a deep breath, pulled himself out of the window.

  The rotten tiles of the roof crumbled underfoot as he scrambled up to the dizzying heights of the ridge. Bordeleaux was spread out below him in all its glory: from the hard marble gaze of the Lady to the sprawl of workshops and slums that led down to the harbour.

  Florin cast a quick glance in that direction, and counted the forest of masts that bobbed above a sea as flat and silver as a coin. Whether one of them was Lundorf’s he had no idea. All he could do now was hope.

  After a moment, Lorenzo joined him and they started the long, scrabbling journey across the high desert of sloping roofs and battered chimneystacks. Although it wasn’t the first time they’d taken this route the two men felt their hearts beating briskly at the thought of the drop that lay below. The fingers with which they gripped the handholds and ridges soon became dangerously slick with sweat.