The Persistence of Poison: Hollow, #0

Hollow – prequel

The Persistence of Poison

Kent Silverhill

Visit Kent Silverhill’s website for info about Hollow and Kent’s other books.

You’ll find a wealth of detail about things like the characters in the books, the types of magic, and the different species in Hollow. There are also articles about how Hollow’s weird sun works, a map of Skarnelm and more.

PART ONE

The Beginning

CHAPTER ONE

London 1715

A KNIFE THUDDED into the planks next to Vester’s head.

To his annoyance, he couldn’t stop himself from ducking. What was the point of reacting when it was too late? He fumed at his useless waste of energy. Nevertheless, his eyes were drawn to the blade. It shimmered in the moonlight.

Close. Too damned close.

That was London for you. The stinking streets seethed with villainous, ill-bred scullions.

All he’d done was walk through one of the capital’s less than salubrious areas and some ruffian had thrown a knife at him, more than likely because of what he was wearing.

A person’s clothing showed their wealth. A wealthy person was a target.

He’d learnt that the hard way.

Unlike his mother and father, who had never grasped much about life. He’d been twelve when their landlord had thrown him and his parents out of their single roomed lodging into the street for unpaid rent. His father had vanished soon after and his mother died six months later, unable to cope with trying to feed herself and her son through begging.

Life was hard and the gang of homeless boys he’d fallen in with spent most of the little they had on drink, wallowing in self pity. They still did. Those that were yet alive.

He, on the other hand, had made sure he’d saved every farthing he’d begged or stolen until he had enough money to buy better clothing. That, more than anything, had been what lifted him out of the gutter.

Once he was better dressed, it became easier to get close to his prey. They were less suspicious of a respectable looking young man than a scruffy ragamuffin. His takings as a thief had never been so good. He cut the purse strings of London’s well heeled and even stole from his fellows to raise himself a little faster. His newfound wealth had provided the means to learn to read and write. Literacy was a great enabler and boosted him higher up the ladder. His belly may have suffered at the expense of his social standing, but it had been worth it.

He crouched low, making himself a smaller target, his eyes hunting for the knife thrower. Broken cloud covered the sky, though when a gap passed overhead, the full moon’s light was bright enough to penetrate the murky, smoke-filled air.

Here he was at twenty-six years of age, doing his best to establish himself in a profession that would earn him respect.

It wasn’t easy, though.

King George had not long been on the throne, God rot him, and Whigs had replaced the Tory government.

Whigs! Low class farmers with more hair than wits, the maggot-suckers.

It was their fault the streets were infested with layabouts, belswaggers and other lowlife.

He ran in a half crouch a few paces to the shadow of the next building. It was directly opposite the alley from where the knife had come.

He stopped and listened. In the background were the noises of a city at night: the rumble of carriages, the thud of hooves, the barking of dogs and the murmur of voices.

The street itself was empty and silent apart from the woman he was following - an alleged witch called Kate Niven - who was getting further away with every second.

She couldn’t have thrown the knife. She was in the wrong place, and she didn’t even know he was shadowing her.

With his experience of the streets, he should have thought about wearing a less noticeably expensive outfit. But it was important he look the part, let everybody see he was a witch-finder. They didn’t need to know he was self-employed. His outfit of a black knee-length coat, black waistcoat, black breeches, black stockings and black shoes demanded respect. Unfortunately, in this part of London, it marked him out as a someone worthy of robbing.

A cloud passed in front of the moon. The darkness deepened. Light footsteps scurried from the alley.

Vester reached inside his coat and slipped a set of iron shackles from a hidden pocket. Witches didn’t like iron and neither, he was sure, did knife-throwing assailants.

A break in the clouds drifted over and moonlight shone on a shabbily dressed man pulling the knife from the board.

In one fluid movement, Vester leapt and swung the shackles at the man’s head. They connected with a meaty thunk, and the man dropped. He lay still, blood dripping from his greasy hair into a puddle of filth in the muddy street.

Shouldn’t have interfered with a witch-finder. He got what he deserved.

Vester turned on his heel and set off after the witch again. She would be tired after a long day at work and wouldn’t have gone far.

Vester had to find something unusual about Kate Niven, something a prosecutor could exploit.

The accusation she was a witch had come from her landlord. He claimed to have suffered chills and shivering after she cursed him. His allegation was obviously a sham. What he really wanted was to get her arrested for witchcraft so he could rent her house to someone with more money. Vester had taken on the case because the landlord, though lacking in charm, was wealthy.

Kate Niven worked as a washerwoman at a large house in Westminster and Vester had waited outside the servant’s entrance late in the afternoon until she’d left work. She had been completely unaware he was following her, and he’d hoped she would lead him somewhere he could make use of in his report, like a derelict building he could claim was a Satanist temple, or where he could say she met with the other witches in her coven. Or both. But she had merely walked along the streets, probably just heading home, which was an activity that would be difficult to convince a jury to see as a sin.

So far, tailing her had been rather uneventful until some footpad had thrown a knife at him.

He hurried to catch up with her and was just in time to see her going into a public house.

Perhaps this place would be useful. He waited a minute, then went through the door behind her. The room stank of sour ale and rang with raucous drunken laughter. Keeping his head low, he headed to the rear of the room. On the way, he grabbed an empty tankard from a table, found a vacant spot where he could see Niven, and stood discreetly against the wall. He held the tankard like it was full and copied the slouch of other men who stood nearby.

Kate Niven sat down at a table opposite an old woman.

Of the two of them, the old woman looked more like a witch. For a moment, he considered changing his target. The old woman would be easier to convict. People had gone to the gallows before because of how they looked. But who would pay him for arresting her? There would be no profit in it. Kate Niven was worth a lot more.

The old woman held Kate Niven’s hand palm up as the two engaged in conversation. He raised an eyebrow. So, the hag was a fortune teller. While having one’s fortune told wasn’t a crime, a good prosecutor could make the fact that Niven had seen a fortune-teller count against her in court.

When the talking finished, Niven got up and went to sit with a group on the other side of the room. Without thinking, Vester tipped the dregs from the tankard into his mouth, gagged, and spat them on the floor. Wiping his mouth, he slipped through the crowd to the old woman’s table and laid a farthing in front of her.

What did you say to the woman whose fortune you just told? he said.

She looked up with a wary expression at the tall, hawk-faced stranger before her, then her mouth dropped open, revealing a few blackened teeth like the ruins of a tiny stone circle. Her eyes widened.

Vester was startled. She looked at him as though she knew him. He hadn’t been a witch-finder long and wasn’t famous yet… Or was he? Were people beginning to fear him? But it wasn’t fear on the hag’s face. More like surprise.

Yer goin’ on a journey, she said.

Yes, yes. That was a standard opening line for a fortune teller. I’m not interested. Tell me what you said to her. He nodded towards the table where Niven sat.

Far, far away, said the hag.

She reached out, grabbed Vester’s coat, and pulled him closer before he could flinch away.

Her face was inches away from his. Her breath smelt like a dead man’s armpit. He was off-balance and couldn’t pull away. He tried to shift his weight, but his foot slipped on the greasy floor and he ended up with the tip of his nose touching hers.

Not of this world… I see strange creatures. Devils! Demons! Her wild eyes stared into his. From ‘ell! she added, in case there was any doubt.

She coughed and spittle leapt from her lips, splashing across his cheeks and into his mouth.

He put his hands on the table and pushed himself upright, tearing her hand from his coat.

Damned clay-brained crone! He staggered back and wiped his face with his sleeve. The hag was staring at him, her expression aghast.

A few people close by were taking an interest in the scene. Curious faces turned towards him, but most people in the room hadn’t seemed to notice. It probably wasn’t the first time the hag had acted strangely.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the door opening. Kate Niven was leaving the pub. He whirled around and followed his quarry.

She was several yards ahead, down the street. He stayed back, keeping a constant distance, rubbing his face and spitting to rid himself of the old woman’s foulness and the taste of stale ale.

Following Kate Niven into the pub hadn’t been a resounding success. Nothing she had done since he started tailing her would be of any use in a case against her. To make matters worse, she seemed perfectly normal. She dressed like most other women of low station in an ankle-length skirt and apron, and her hair tied back and covered with a scarf. She was clean and neat if a little threadbare but that was only to be expected for someone of her-

Clean and neat?

She was a washerwoman, but her own clothing wasn’t stained.

He allowed himself a smile of satisfaction. It would be a simple matter to persuade the court she used witchcraft to clean her employer's clothing. He would convince them that must be the case because her own outfit was unsoiled.

Best not to call her employer to testify. More than likely, the real reason for Niven’s clean clothing was that she wore an apron when she worked.

He thought more about it as he kept pace behind her.

It was flawless. She would protest her innocence, but as he would point out, that was a sure sign of her guilt.

Only a guilty person pretends to be innocent.

It would require blackmailing the judge, but that shouldn’t be a problem. He hadn’t come across a member of the bar yet who didn’t have some dirty secret they would be keen to keep out of public scrutiny. A bit of research into the judge’s background would no doubt reveal something suitable.

Blackmail is so much cheaper than bribery. And considerably more satisfying.

The street joined a busier thoroughfare. Everyone here was on foot. There wasn’t a carriage or cart to be seen and the buildings shoved together on both sides of the street were grey and worn, only just short of dilapidated.

Kate Niven stopped at a small, grubby house, inserted a key in the door and let herself in.

Vester stopped under the overhang of the top floor of the house on the opposite side of the street. It was late and it was likely the woman would go to bed and not come out again tonight.

Vester scratched his ear. He had enough evidence. There was no point in staying.

On the way back to his quarters, he planned his report in his mind.

The landlord peered into his purse, holding the drawstring in one hand while his other hand caressed the bag like he was fondling his scrotum.

Three pounds? He spoke in the tone of a man being asked to sell his children. Outrageous! It takes half a year to earn that in rent from the blasted woman!

We agreed on the price when you engaged my services, said Vester.

You told me you’d secure her conviction.

Which is all but achieved. My testimony at her trial will do exactly that.

How can you be sure?

Her confession is being extracted as we speak.