Bezahltag part III
by Chris di Donna


It was the first day of Sigmarzeit and uncharacteristically cool and still. Street traders and raconteurs took advantage of the clement weather to quickly set up shop and post, trying to net a few extra morning customers before the summer sun beat them indoors. Candied
meats, stuffed with sawdust, lay bare in boxes below smoked hams swinging on their tresses in the breeze, which occasionally lifted the flaps where the meat had been removed and the sand poured in. Jewellery was rattled and shaked at passers by, not worth the glass
it was cut from, alongside golden tea room treasures of the finest tarnished brass. Fruit was surveyed by maids and dogsbodies whilst simultaneously being enjoyed by the worms and bettles behind the peel.

In amongst the many peddlers of dubious wares stood pedlars of dubious thoughts. Men stood atop boxes calling for an end to the passage sanctions of Embassy Row and for the people to amass there in protest and enjoy a drink of ale at the Gull and Trident when you
tire of the noon day sun. Others weaved through the growing crowd of foot traffic spreading local rumours, singing the praises of the Suiddock guilds and preaching the psalms of guilt for not visiting Templewijk as often as one should with ones money. The more discreet
whispered quietly to scant few shoppers, promising delights to sooth ones misery that wouldn't leave a headache the next morning like a night full of ale would.

This strip of traders and yellers was officially know as the Hoog stalls, unofficially as the Hood stalls. Despite the lack of quality of goods on offer the Stalls did a brisk trade, because it was all that the Suiddock had and could afford.

Murich, Bunt and Zloremar moved together at a cheery pace through the unscrupulous marketplace. Gold coins weighed down their dirty pants pockets yet buoyed their spirits. The smells of Suiddock slowly melted away as the height of the road increased. They were
approaching the Hoogbrug bridge.

"So" began Bunt, "Did you humans really build that bridge all by yourselves? Surely you had dwarven help?"

Murich snorted defensively, "Every single piece of that bridge from the largest block to the tiniest pebble was sawn, slung and set by Imperial engineers back when the city was founded. Dwarves weren't even so much as present in the drawing room where the bridge was designed. I'd watch that sort of question if I were you. When it comes to civic pride, Marienbugers become the most zealous communal loyalists in the known world, before they get back to cheating each other out of their eye teeth."

"Oh really" Bunt replied with a raised eyebrow, "That would explain the fight Zlo and me got into last week"

"Ya, rough men ready for fun!" added Zloremar.

"He had a good time routing them around the bar for the evening" said Bunt with a innocent smile.

"Routing?" asked Murich.

Bunt nodded, "Yes, I would say it was a fight but it was more of a rout."

The conversation was halted abruptly by a sudden and massive parting of the crowd. The three followed suit as a contingent of the Black caps appeared from the Hoogbrug bridge. They were more thickset and better armoured than the regular Black caps. They were the
strikebreakers, the riotdousers. The Stadsraad's finest paid thugs and ruffians come to put down another Suiddock guild uprising. Obviously Herg the Hand had spent a good couple of days stirring the loyal dock workers into another frenzy.

"Time to take out more chaff I guess" remarked Murich as the sweating, stinking brutes shuffled and clanked by in formation. He felt a habitual tremor in his bowels as they passed. His fear gnawed at him at the opportunity, at any opportunity.

As the thump of boots faded Bunt gave a loud sigh, "Yes, well. Lets get on shall we gents."

The sight of the Hoogbrug bridge always filled Murich with a real sense of pride. Built centuries ago by Imperial craftsmen, it was a human engineering feat second only to the spires of Altdorf and not an ounce of magic was in it. Great iron boughs prevented the stone
bridge from collapsing under its own weight and several years were spent damming and excavating portions of the islands so foundations could be dug down to the bedrock, many feet below the waters of the Rijksweg. The bridge had stood the test of time and was the only Marienburg structure that each successive authority had poured ample funds into maintaining.

Wether it was all due Imperial ingenuity or the vision and funding of the old city's merchant guilds was still a bone of contention across borders and in Embassy Row.

The colourful rows of carousers, stalls, preachers and the occasional bawd stopped abruptly only a few feet from the exit and entry ramps of the bridge. Here, not a single dwelling could be seen clinging on the light grey stone work. Not a patch of moss or a spring of brush
clung to its shaded, moistened base. Law, along with daily scrubbing, kept the Hoogbrug bridge as fresh as the day it was dedicated. Guards stood by the ramps, more to aid the flow of traffic than filter out its' participants.

The three strolled evasively past the street sellers and mounted the back of a large, overladen cart at the base of the ramp. The driver would not notice the added weight, at least not as keenly as his labouring mule. The ascent was steep and long, the three knew, as most dwellers of the port city knew, that a free ride should never be passed by.

The ascent completed and Murich looked out over the Hoogbrug battlements to the teeming city below. The New Palace, the steeples of Templewijk, Tarnopols clock tower and the grim walls of Rijkers Isle stood out like Outlander tourists. The morass of wood, mortar
and plaster buildings below all melted into one another, only achieving definition at the island edges. Here the air was crisp and fresh from the ocean. Even the stink of the plentiful beasts of burden crossing the bridge couldn't linger in the strong sea breeze.

At once, Murich felt his spirits drop. When his work for Amon was completed he would most likely have to leave Marienburg. His time there was dependant on the leisure of the Stevedores guild, and that was now spent. He had not even found a cure for his curse yet as he had hoped.

Unbidden, the images of that night long ago came to Murich. The cart bumped to a stop in the traffic and the calming breeze fanned the fires of his memory. He closed his eyes and stifled a tear, but it only served to intensify the tableau in his mind.