Lump Work
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Lump Work
"Careful!" Bartholomy's hissing like an old tom cat, telling me what I don't need telling. Not for the first time. He hasn't taken his hands from his pockets since the cutting started, never mind swung that hatchet of his, and all his fussing's giving me knife-thoughts, which is no help with what we're about. Bad enough the cold makes us clumsy without anger stiffening the muscles. Only a few claws of ice remain, but once they're gone and the slab is free of the wall we can get it onto the cart and off to the vault on the Tallyend-road. Long as nothing breaks.
"It's the Shadow," he'd said, pushing past me to the fire. Manners are one of those luxuries harder to come by since the Frost. Like bread. I slammed the door and followed him into a room warm as a well bottom and half as welcoming. He didn't stand but bent over the coals like a beggar on a bone, "The Cargo's Shadow." He must be talking to the embers, there's no-one 'round here wouldn't understand him the first time. "It got itself trapped in the ice at Thin Dog Alley, don't ask me how, and some enterprising sort's seen it and sent word to Mr. P, who sent word to me, which brings me to you. Simple job." I wasn't picking that one up, nothing's simple at that hour. "All he asks is we fetch him the Shadow afore sunrise, ice included." He hawked up an oyster and spat it into the grate, "Triple rates." Finally he looked at me, dithered, "Got another stool? Lost two toes already this year and a third's on the turn."
The Shadow's older than the Frost, much older. Spinners say it came ashore during the last sailings of the Buccaneers, almost a hundred years ago now, hidden amongst the hogsheads of sugar, spices and barrels of rum. Took a short-while to fix its bearings but, no sooner had, than it started making the rounds of the Banks on the Tally-end – deposits or withdrawals a matter of opinion – afore resting, or whatever it does, in the yard at Thin Dog Alley. You won't find a local who doesn't have a tale about the Shadow, near misses and not, some piece of lore that's been handed down, a 'let-me-tell-you', a cradle song. I can't remember when I didn't know about the Warden Riots, or what happened to Iron Molly's boy, back when our gran's gran was a girl, but these days it's the Frost that's uppermost. Winters' severe as this are killers of a different order, dozens go in a single night, young and old froze to their beds. Times like these all you can do is choose an enemy.
Thin Dog's just off Whitemile, about half-way up from the riverside reek of Bentback Steps, but still a good few rungs down from those rarefied airs of the Tally-end; those four hundred yards of assertive prosperity, running west to east, where Mr. P's Bank and vault are waiting. It's all porticoes, arches, imported stone and fancy ironwork over there, not to mention the constant dusty clatter of builders. You'd think the Caesars never left. There's also a brace of coffee-houses, good for silver spoons and paper deals with natty red bows, serving, on the south side, the three famous Gunpowder Banks and, on the north, the two Sugar and Cargo ones. It's not the sort of place Bartholomy and me expect a welcome, perfume don't like sitting next to poverty after all. Even in the coffee-houses. The same is true of the Churches that have eeled their way between those gleaming temples of commerce. We get the eye, but when they hold out a begging bowl good folk will reach for their purses with a smile. Of course, their bowls are made of gold which might explain things.
The entrance to the alley was blocked by an old hand cart when we arrived, wheels replaced with runners, creaking under the weight of scaffold planks, coils of good rope and what looked like an acre of duck cloth, rimed and sparkling. Bartholomy didn't waste a moment but began blasting. He's got a Spinner's touch when it comes to invective, but whatever scrapings he paid to transport that load and help move the Shadow were long gone. I left him to rail against the empty air and began laying out the boards, whipping the rope to loosen the ice's grip. Every so often I'd stop to check the overlooking shutters for movement. Nothing. Thin Dog's that kind of place. Finally, I asked if he might consider putting that fire of his to something more productive, like beating the frost out of the duck. He gave me a look that promised much but set to. Still cursing.
If the nights are bad the days are glorious bright, long as you don't mind the cold. Or hunger. Thirteen weeks since the river froze and trade is slower than a rich man settling his debts. Carriers and haulers are working hard on those roads that remain navigable, while the wherrymen haven't missed a note; soon as they could they fitted skates to their craft and have been skimming up and down ever since, like fleas. They're just about keeping the city fed, for a price. No surprises the penny-pinchers are turning the Frost into profit, or that the gentry are falling over themselves to pay. Roll up, roll up. Thruppence just to walk on the Old Man's back and double prices for anything you buy there; beef, beer, there's even a booth where you can get your name printed on a poster should you want a keepsake. And yet everyone can see a famine's coming, high-minded subscriptions and bounties on fish for the market can't change that. It's coming. Again. Be easier to find diamonds than a bucket of coal nowadays. All of which is why I'm letting Bartholomy crowd me as I break the last fingers of ice with only the parsimonious stars and a waxing crescent to guide.
"Can't use a lantern," he'd said when I made to grab my glim. "Too much light and the Shadow wakes up." Not that it sleeps, but I know what he meant. Caught a quick look afore he remembered to shield his own flame; it's like a cataract formed over dry molasses. But even in those few moments, when he cursed and fumbled with the catch, I could see the milky glaze receding and the black looking back at me, clear and starting to heat up.
Spinners say it arrived on a Trinity Ship, sundered from a body or bodies of Cargo, but they don't say how. Jacks who've sailed the route will tell you that when the holds are full, and they're always full, the air becomes so gutting foul it can corrupt even Death, and I believe them. You can smell the wretched stink of those ships long afore they arrive. When that Black Air starts blowing upriver it's only those who must that go down to the wharves, the rest shut our windows tight and reach for the vinegar sponges, incense, tobacco. Doesn't help.
It's taken an age but the block is finally released from the wall and frozen dirt of the yard, its face, supported by boards, lashed tight. We've both grown accustomed to the not-quite-dark so, slow as our strength will allow, we lean the whole piece against the cart and start securing the back, all the while listening for that snap-crack which says run!
"Never thought to see the arse side of a shadow," Bartholomy grunts, pulling the rope, "Looks just like the front." I tip him a grin and strap on the rest of the wood. Then we inch the whole thing onto the bed of the cart where it menaces, solid as a coffin. Two layers of cloth to cover, a sailor's delight of knots and that's it, snug. So when Bartholomy says, "Let's go!" I nod and grab my handle. It's heavy but not such that we can't shift it. Getting our own purchase on the ice, now that's a different matter. There's a hold-your-breath as we turn out of the Alley and back onto Whitemile but, once that's past, it's plain sliding on the wide and empty road.
Once the weather starts to warm that's when the Shadow leaves the yard and begins its circumnavigation of the Banks; south side outbound, north on the return and home afore Winter. Its own version of the Trinity they say, Gunpowder to Cargo to Sugar, then start over. You could plot its passage by the bodies left behind, and eventually people did.
We manoeuvre our makeshift sled along the self-same path with a noise like a hundred dull razors scraping hide. But, no matter, the cold's proving to be an excellent physic for curiosity and best of all I can't hear Bartholomy over the din. Maybe his mouth finally froze shut.
For all their glister the Tallyend Banks have plenty of dark nooks where the Shadow can lie in ambush, waiting to spring the trap of itself. Which it does in the blink; like a nadder striking, or one of those waves Jacks in the suck-casas talk about, the ones that rise up out of nowhere and swallow a ship whole afore the lookout can cry alarm. But serpents and oceans are things of nature, which an't the sense you get with the Shadow. Those few times I've seen it killing my mind goes to the gibbet or the hanging cage. Something made. Imagine a shallow grave come to murderous life and you'll not be wide of the mark.
Strangely, as if the rest an't strange enough, while not so much as a scream can escape from the Shadow's volume, you can reach in. I wouldn't, but you can. There's always a Crow or two about; not as many as there used to be, mind, not since the College Hospitals drew lots for the Banks back in the sixties, but more than enough to perform the necessary amputation if you do. Those dust-dry institutions have been making the Shadow's killings centrepieces of their outdoor lectures for years and, providing you're not too shabby, you can get close enough to mingle with the fledgling Crows and Surgeon Apprentices, not to mention all the bright-eyed and idle. Maybe you learn a thing or two. As a for instance, time seems to move differently for those trapped by the Shadow, or so it looks from the out. Diseases, whose courses are known to take days or weeks to run, come and go in minutes. The stains from loosened bowels, blood and black vomit, spread and dry within heartbeats. Blisters swell like the throats of frogs afore bursting even as eager quills try to record their erruptions. Flesh melts, quick as candle wax, around bones that fracture like poorly fired clay. Get a good seat and you'll miss nothing.
...........Upshot is, on a given day, the coffee-house nearest the next Bank on the Shadow's route will have set tables out on the pavement and got their kettles bubbling afore dawn. Picture a hanging. Now add waiters. Of course the crowd scatters like fowl under cannon fire the instant the Shadow withdraws releasing the body. Effluvium, is the Crows' name for it. Those of us from the wrong end of Whitemile recognise it for what it really is; Black Air. But we don't waste our breath trying to set them right.
It took less than a decade afore the Shadow's proclivities were made plain, and yet a second one would pass afore the Banks called Truce and Caucus. Twenty years till some Owner or Investor, someone like Mr. P, breathed the Black Air and gave the rest of them cause to act. They didn't even wait for the stink to fade, but went rushing to conclave and, afore the first brandy was poured, had agreed that whenever the Shadow was due at a particular Bank, that place would shut its doors for a day or two, and none of the others would poach. They put it nicer, of course, had it written up by Wigs and each signed their name, but that was the meat. Didn't bother the Shadow none – I doubt it knows how to read – 'cause there's always someone, fool or foreigner, who ignores the signs and reaches confidently for the bell pull. By the time they've flashed Old Shady's the doorman, lesson's already begun.
Almost as soon as we set foot on the Tallyend-road we have to wrestle the sled to a halt. A small huddle of commercial types are gathered outside Mr. P's Bank, misting and stamping and each looking near as happy as a drowning cat – a fact we can all too plainly see because at least half have some kind of link. Liveried idiots. Bartholomy goes to 'have a word' while I make sure our passenger is still safely tucked in. The business with the waiting crew takes longer than it should but eventually they put the flaming things out.
Just as we start the exchange, Mr. P deigns to put in an appearance. He's wanting to show who's cock now the hard work has been done and is full of puff, standing in front of his Gunpowder Bank. A small man, made big by a factory's worth of wool and wealth, he's telling me how grateful he is, how well I've done, how I would be served by remembering to keep my mouth shut, how ... I say nothing, which seems to please. It's not fear, or respect; he paid me to deliver the Shadow, and I did, nothing more, nor less. Lump work. And now it's 'job done' as Bartholomy might say. Keeping a thing dark, that costs extra, which Mr. P should know, what with him being a banker and all. Except his sort always want something for nothing, and expect you to be grateful when they take it. He's still talking, I catch Bartholomy's eye, he nods, job done.
I turn and begin the slip back down to my lodgings. The first blue washes of dawn are showing east-aways and I reckon that, if the fire hasn't gone out and my bed's not froze, then maybe I can grab a few hours afore making my second stop of the day. I've had plenty of time to do the geometry and I know a Spinner who likes hearing a new tale almost as much as she does telling an old one. A creature of habits is St. Michael, most of which would raise an eyebrow were they widely known, but that's by the by. Come the forenoon she'll be in the Cross and Vulture – locals call it the Angry Bird if you're looking and lost – so I reckon to buy her a couple of pots and tell her my story. She's a taste for Flesh and Blood, which today seems like a small price to pay. It always does when I have coin.
...........See, I don't know what Mr. P wants with the Shadow, but, whatever it is, it'll be nothing to the good, at least not for the likes of me, or Bartholomy. And that's not the only worry. No, what bothers me most is how easy the Frost has made it to forget one simple thing, ice melts. Always has, always will. And then what? Sends a shiver, that does.
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Last edited by Richard G; 03-11-2025 at 11:28 AM.
Reason: corrections per JS
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