A Bad Penny

By Jim Webster

No good deed goes unpunished. When Benor saves a man’s life he finds himself the target of assassins. Poetry, politics and the quarrels of academics make a lethal cocktail.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AG Books
• Release date: Oct 31, 2016
• ISBN: 9781785385995

Jim Webster

I can cope with being described as fifty-something. During the course of a reasonably quiet life I’ve done a number of things. I’ve farmed cattle all my life, and at the same time have been a consultant and a freelance writer. I also fit in being a husband and father. My life has included some intriguing incidents, at the age of twelve, my headmaster was somewhat put out to discover that not only was I selling ammonium nitrate to other boys to make bangers, it wasn’t actually forbidden by the school rules. I’ve watched Soviet troops unload coffins from a transport plane at Tashkent; been questioned by an Icelandic gunboat captain, not so much at gun point as at 40mm Bofors point, and according to the nice man at Frankfurt airport, I inadvertently invaded Germany. I was perfectly happy to believe him, I am happy to believe anyone who points a Heckler & Koch MP5 at me. Brought up on the classic masters of SF, I bought Jack Vance, ‘The Dragon Masters,’ in the early 1970s and that book taught me that the world or society the characters lived in was every bit as important as the plot. I’ve also written Supplements for Pelgrane Press to go with their ‘Dying Earth’ role-playing game, inadvertently contributed to the design of the FH70 Field Howitzer and living where I do on the outskirts of Barrow-in-Furness most of my mates have at one time or another built nuclear submarines. Me, I tend to seasickness on a particularly bracing bus trip.

Book preview

coincidental.

Chapter 1

Benor Dorfinngil was heading home for his own bed. Well, technically he was heading back to a barge where he paid a nominal rent and they let him spread his bedroll on that small part of the deck protected from the elements by the overhang of the cabin roof, but still, that’s where he was heading.

Benor was on his way home earlier than he might normally have been. The unexpected arrival of an errant husband meant that Benor had tactfully left the scene. This meant that an equally errant wife was currently claiming that she’d been warming her husband’s side of the bed for him, so much had she been longing for his arrival.

The night was wet, the rain had stopped and now there was just a constant drizzle. Benor had travelled south to hit the river and was now following the wharves that lined the estuary. His plan was to take the footbridge over Wherry Beck, and then cut across Tinker’s Wharf. From there it would be the simple matter of following the walkway along the top of the Graving Dock gate before picking up the Old Esplanade and then home.

As he crossed the footbridge the rain came on again, sheets of it blowing in off the estuary. By the time he’d crossed Tinker’s Wharf he was soaked to the skin. He was walking swiftly; hunched up trying not to touch the clothes he was wearing, and he almost never heard the cry for help.

It was a man’s voice, from over towards the Graving Dock. Benor broke into a jog. The lanterns along the edge of the Graving Dock cast an uncertain light. They seemed to create more shadow than illumination. Then, near the side of the dock he saw two men grappling with a third. The latter was striking out desperately; his two assailants seemed more circumspect, as if they were wary about how they landed blows. Finally, one of them caught him on the side of the head with a length of wood and he collapsed. They grabbed him by his feet and dragged him, head bouncing, toward the Graving Dock, as if about to throw him in.

Benor looked round desperately. Roof-runners traditionally go unarmed. Amongst the fraternity there is a sense that the husband is, to a degree, the one in the right. This means that it is considered bad form to fight your way out; a good roof-runner will flee, hurting nothing but the cuckolded husband’s pride.

He found a broken barrel stave, snatched it up and sprinted across to the two men who were still dragging their victim. The rain and the fact that Benor was wearing soft soled shoes meant that they never saw him. Indeed one had his back to Benor, and he knew nothing until the barrel stave struck him on the head and broke into several pieces.

At this point he turned round, saw Benor and shouted, Right, I’ll have you.

He dropped the victim’s leg and lunged at Benor who dived under his arm, rolled to avoid the boot of the second man and then got back on his feet. Both men were following him now, their victim temporarily forgotten. Benor ran across the dock with them in hot pursuit, turned down a narrow lane between two long stacks of barrels laid on their sides and accelerated, only to discover that it was a dead end. The two men behind were closing quickly and Benor didn’t hesitate. He scrambled up the stack as rapidly as he could.

The smaller of the two men followed him, reaching out and grabbing Benor’s foot. Benor kicked, broke the grip and scrambled on, reaching the top where he turned to face his pursuers. The first of them had almost got to the top of the stack. Benor sat down, placed his feet against the top barrel and pushed. The man climbing was unbalanced, lost his grip and fell backwards with the barrel falling on top of him. Benor hastily rolled another barrel forward and dropped that one down as well. Then he looked over the edge at his handiwork. The first man had knocked the second man as he had fallen, or perhaps the second man had tried to catch him. No matter what, the first barrel had caught them both, and then the second barrel had burst on them just after they hit the floor.

Benor climbed down, ready to scramble back up if either moved. Both barrels had smashed and the men were surrounded by joints of salt mott. One of his victims stirred and Benor struck him with a barrel stave. This one didn’t break. Then he hastily went though their pockets. Both had purses, which Benor pocketed. One had a second purse tucked into his boot, this Benor also took. He felt he was entitled to some recompense for his troubles. He tied their hands behind their backs using their britches, feeling this would slow any pursuit. Finally he selected a mott ham from the ruins of the barrel, slung it over his shoulder and went to find their victim.

He was on his hands and knees being sick. Benor waited until he’d finished.

How are you?

The man started to shake his head, then stopped with a look of pain and said, My head is sore.

It will be. How much do you remember?

I remember being attacked, where are they?

Over there, Benor pointed. We’d better go before they come round.

Which way?

Lean on me. Benor helped him to his feet and had the man put an arm round his shoulder. He then rebalanced the ham on the other shoulder and set off across the footway. The top of the dock gate was reasonably wide but there was no hand rail. At one point Benor almost lost the ham. By the time they had got to the other side, fear seemed to have made his companion more alert and he was walking unaided. Still they weren’t making good time. By the time they reached the eastern end of the Old Esplanade it was almost dawn, the tide was already going out and the area was thronged with shore-combers, who regarded Benor, companion and ham with interest. By the time Benor got back to the boat the sun had risen.

* * *

Tallis came into