Before that could happen, Josiah threw him out of the way. Waylian landed hard, hitting his head against the wall. Real anger bubbled to the surface. Not magickal, not infused with power, just cold hard rage.
‘I said no!’ he screamed, as Josiah grabbed the door handle again. With a strength that surprised him, Waylian rose to his feet then flung himself across the room. His arms wrapped around Josiah’s neck and he hung there, his feet dangling as the big lad tried to shake him free.
He held on as Josiah staggered across the room making a pathetic choking sound. Josiah’s big hands worked to pull Waylian off, but to no avail. There was no way Josiah would escape, no way Waylian was going to disappoint his mistress again.
Josiah stumbled, then toppled over, falling on a broken chair, which shattered into pieces beneath them. The air was punched from Waylian’s lungs, forcing him to release his victim.
He flailed his arms, vainly trying to grab Josiah’s shirt, but the big lad had already rolled away and risen to his feet. Waylian stared into those murderous eyes as Josiah looked down.
‘I’ll fucking kill you,’ Josiah growled.
Waylian’s hand scrabbled around beneath him until it closed on something hard. As Josiah came forwards Waylian rose to his feet, swiping what turned out to be a chair leg across Josiah’s head. The big lad went down like he’d been shot with an arrow.
The chair leg felt unbelievably heavy in Waylian’s hand and all he could do was stand there and stare at the body in front of him.
Shit, what have you done? You’ve fucking killed him. Gelredida’s going to skin you alive for this.
He dropped the chair leg to the floor, and quickly squatted down beside Josiah. The lad’s head was bleeding and he was out like a snuffed candle. Waylian moved closer, relief washing over him as he felt Josiah’s breath on his face.
Before he could even begin to think his way out of the predicament, the door to the little house opened.
Gelredida walked in and casually closed the door behind her. She regarded Waylian, kneeling as he was over the body of Josiah Klumm, with curiosity.
‘What do we have here?’ she asked.
‘It’s … er … not what it looks like?’
‘Really?’ She raised one white eyebrow. ‘Because it looks as though you’ve killed the boy I sent you to fetch.’
‘He’s not dead, Magistra. He’s just … er …’
‘Having a nap?’
‘He tried to leave. We fought and I … hit him with a chair leg.’
‘How very resourceful, Waylian.’
‘I didn’t mean to. It just-’
‘Never mind.’ She pulled out a length of rope from inside her robes. ‘It’s saved me a job anyway. Tie him up and put him in the cellar.’ She flung the rope to Waylian. ‘Make sure he’s gagged. We don’t want him screaming the place down when we leave.’
Waylian stared at her for a second, then at the rope. ‘You mean we were going to keep him prisoner here all along?’
Gelredida smiled. ‘I wasn’t going to ask him nicely. By all accounts he’s quite a stubborn, wilful jackass. Just like his father.’
‘Who’s his-?’
‘Enough questions, Waylian. Rope. Cellar. Chop chop.’ She punctuated her last two words with a swift clap of her gloved hands.
Waylian put his mind to the task and tied Josiah as tightly as he could. As he flipped the door to the cellar open and peered down into the dark he did wonder what the lad had done to deserve such a fate. Was it his place to ask? Gelredida seemed in no mood to answer questions, though she’d taken Josiah’s unconscious condition better than he expected.
Just do as you’re told, Grimmy. It’s probably best if you don’t know. You don’t want to end up the one in the cellar, do you?
As Gelredida watched impatiently, Waylian dragged Josiah’s unconscious form into the darkness.
Maybe he’d ask her all about it later.
Maybe he’d just keep his mouth shut.
THIRTY-FOUR
As she got to the top end of Slip Street, Rag couldn’t work out whether she’d missed this place or not — the filthy streets, the ramshackle houses, the girls calling for punters. It was weird — there were the same faces, the same sights and sounds, but now it somehow felt different. Or maybe it wasn’t different; maybe it was exactly the same and it was her who had changed.
You don’t belong here no more. You should never have come. Never look back — it only leads to pain. Why don’t you just turn around and go back to the Guild? That’s your family now. That’s where you belong.
But Rag didn’t turn around. How could she?
She carried on walking down the street, a sack thrown over one shoulder, tramping through the mud like she’d never left this place. When she saw the Bull ahead of her she got a heavy feeling in the pit of her stomach. Her pace slowed and she came to a stop, just staring up at that roof.
What if they hated her for leaving? What if they threw things and spat at her for deserting them?
What if they didn’t?
Only one way to find out what they’d do, and she hadn’t walked all the way here for the good of her health. Tightening her grip on the sack, Rag crossed the street and made her way up those rickety stairs, the wood creaking like it was gonna give way beneath her. She’d done it a thousand times before, but she’d never been so scared as she was now.
When she made it up over the lip of the roof she expected them to be waiting, arms folded, evil looks in their eyes. But despite the noise she’d made on the way up, there weren’t no one waiting. Just that little shack made of planks sitting on the flat roof.
Rag walked across the rooftop, taking no pains to be quiet. As she got close to the shack she could hear voices talking, fast and low.
‘Getting fucking colder,’ said one.
‘I know it’s getting fucking colder, and there ain’t nothing to be done about it,’ said another.
‘We should get a fire going.’
‘You fucking get a fire going.’
They were voices Rag recognised, but something was different about them. They weren’t carefree like they used to be. It weren’t no light-hearted banter. Now there was a hard edge to the squabbling.
She peered inside. Chirpy, his once smiling face now mournful, sat staring at the empty ashes of a dead fire. Little Tidge had grown; but grown lean, and his face had a wolfishness to it like he’d seen one too many bad things. What concerned her most was the sight of Migs curled up on the floor, his long hair matted to his head.
‘What’s going on, shit stains?’ she said, expecting them to turn around and laugh or shout … or something.
The lads didn’t even flinch, just looked up at her blankly. She could have been anyone — could have been a Greencoat come to turf them off the roof — it was obvious they didn’t care.
Rag squeezed herself into the shack and took a seat on the makeshift bench. She tried a smile but couldn’t take her eyes from Migs lying on the floor.
‘What’s wrong with him?’ she asked, reaching out a hand and touching the clammy skin of his cheek.
‘Fuck do you care?’ Tidge replied.
Chirpy nudged him. ‘He’s got some kind of fever. We don’t know what to do about it. We ain’t got coin for no apothecary.’
‘So you’ve just left him lying there — no blanket or nothing?’
‘We ain’t got one. What we supposed to do?’ said Chirpy.
‘What about Fender?’ Rag asked. ‘Where’s he?’
Both the boys shrugged.
‘Not seen him for weeks,’ said Tidge.
Rag placed her sack down on the makeshift bench and knelt down beside Migs.
‘All right, little mate?’ she asked. ‘How you feeling?’
He looked up and tried a little smile that turned into a grimace and a cough.