City of Dreams and Nightmare (16 page)

Dewar continued on his way, knowing that there was still much to do before he could allow himself to acknowledge his body’s mounting weariness.

The first port of call was Martha’s.

His initial knock was greeted with a yell of, “Go away. I ain’t workin’.”

He was not in the least surprised to find her alone, having left her that morning with a generous amount of coin so that she could afford to recover from her injuries without the need to see any punters for a day or two.

Her greeting of, “Oh, it’s you,” when she did recognise him was hardly the most heart-warming of welcomes, although he gained the impression that the girl was actually pleased to see him, probably because she found herself at something of a loose end without her usual level of company.

She was even more pleased when he presented the various items lifted from the dying bargeman.

Her gaze and then her hands fell immediately on a bracelet, a plain silver band, which had been cosseted with the man’s purse. She ran her fingers along its inner surface, as if to make certain of a mark or engraving. “That’s mine. Where did you…?”

She stopped, presumably her own imagination supplying the answer.

“I’ve just been having a drink or two with your old friend, Hal. He won’t be needing these anymore.”

She clasped the bracelet to her with both hands and he wondered what memories that simple trinket represented. Were those tears in her eyes? She looked up at him, a fragile smile ghosting across her lips. For a dreadful second he thought she was going to thank him and was grateful when she refrained, uncertain how he would have handled that.

“There’s more here than he took from you, I’d guess,” he said a little awkwardly into the silence. “Should see you all right until you feel up to working again.”

The girl nodded. “It’ll come in handy no doubt.”

“Now, about this street-nick…”

“Don’t worry, I found ’im for you. The Blue Claw made a deal with the Scorpions; passage both ways for one of theirs to use the Scorpions’ steps. This wasn’t no market trip – something special. The boy went up but never came back, least not by those stairs.

At last, the break he needed. “Good. You’ve done well.”

“There’s more. This ain’t what I’ve heard, just what I can tell you.”

“Go on.”

“There’s a lad runs with the Claw, name of Tom. Cute little fella and slippery as an eel. No one’s better at hiding than Tom, ’e can slip in and out o’ places you wouldn’t believe. If the Blue Claw were gonna send anyone to do the impossible, it’d be him.”

Dewar found he was smiling. He knew his faith in Martha had not been misplaced. “Thank you.” It was rare for him to say those words to an informant. After all, their reward was the hard currency of solid coin exchanged for the far less tangible but often more valuable one of information, what need had they of thanks? But in this instance the girl deserved it.

Despite harbouring fears that his mind was too active, Tom dropped off to sleep almost immediately. His dreams were vivid ones, as his subconscious tried to process the images and experiences from the previous night’s escapade, at the fore of his thoughts again after describing everything to Kat.

He saw once more the small, furred creature with wide hostile eyes, which arched its back and snarled at him, revealing sharp canines all too capable of leaving their mark on soft human flesh. He had no idea whether this was a wayward pet or some sort of verminous scavenger, but he opted to give it as wide a berth as possible. Instead of running away, the creature came to the top of the stairs and peered at him as he descended to the next Row, as if to make certain that he really was going.

Soon after, he found himself suspended above a scene of total wonder. Beneath him there opened up a vista that he could only think of as jungle. A kaleidoscope of plants and shrubs and trees stretched out as far as he could see. Everything was so bright – the world seemed depicted in tones of vivid greens, with more variety of shade and sheen and depth of colour than he could ever have imagined. Interspersed here and there with this bewildering verdancy were explosions of other colours, as blooms forced their way out of the shrubbery to claim a space and be seen – here a stand of tall stems topped with purple flowers, there a bush crowned with bright yellow sunbursts and beside it another that dripped with fronds of white, all rippled through with pink. Used to the blandness of the slums, this explosion of life was a revelation that went beyond anything he had imagined finding in the heart of the city.

No, not a jungle; he realised how wrong that initial impression had been. This was more a park, though far removed from the few wretched patches of open land which went by that name in the under-City. There was a pattern to all this apparent chaos – open areas of meadow interlinked by grassy paths which picked their way through the bushes and plants. The more he looked, the more obvious the hand of design became. The landscape was not the product of nature but of artifice.

Tom was doing his best at this point not to dwell on the most striking aspect of the situation, but soon arrived at a moment when he was left with little choice. Though solid in itself, the flight of stairs he was descending appeared to be unsupported, somehow suspended in mid-air, the bottom step ending a little distance above the canopy of the park’s trees and leading onto apparently open sky.

Tom could feel the dizziness that assailed him on the city’s walls stirring at the back of his mind and he fought to suppress it. This was no bottomless drop; there would be no terrifying plummet such as he’d been through before. This time the ground was clearly visible, and he could imagine himself surviving such a drop, provided the landing proved soft enough.

Perhaps that was it. Perhaps there was some mechanism at play to ensure that anyone stepping off the bottom step landed comfortably and unhurt, something which the people familiar with this Row took for granted but which he, a stranger, was unaware of. Maybe that was the whole point of the arrangement: to impress unsuspecting strangers.

So thinking, Tom was able to keep his fears at bay as he came to the end of the stairs and considered what to do next. He sat on the final step, intending to dangle his legs over the edge, but immediately encountered a problem. Where there looked to be open space, his heels struck an apparently solid surface, at a level with the stairs’ foot, where by rights the floor ought to have been. Still not venturing from the step, he shifted onto his knees and began to feel all around with both hands. Sure enough, touch reported the presence of a solid floor, conflicting with what his eyes saw. They continued to insist that there was nothing there, not even glass.

Tom got to his feet, still on the bottom step, and looked around, searching for the next flight of stairs that would lead downwards. Finally he spotted them, a short distance to his left. Only then, with a goal located, did he risk placing one foot on the presumed floor. For long seconds he stood there, one foot on the step and one on solid space, experimentally transferring his weight between the two, testing and then testing again.

Not entirely convinced but realising that he had no other option, Tom took a deep breath and finally abandoned the stairs. Each step was a battle against his own misgivings; every forward foot was placed tentatively, with the expectation that at any moment he might find himself tumbling down towards the parkland below. Yet the floor proved firm. He had no idea how it worked, what this daunting surface was composed of; there was no reflection or minor distortion to suggest its presence, nothing whatsoever to alert sight – that most relied-upon of senses – to the existence of a floor at all. But it held.

He made a determined effort not to look down, keeping his gaze centred on the stairway he was making for. Not that this was exactly ideal either, since that particular flight promised to be an unnerving experience in its own right. Whereas the stairs he had just abandoned had been ordinary enough in their construction, these were anything but. Each individual step hung suspended in the air, apparently unconnected to its neighbours above and below.

After what seemed an age he reached the stairs and started his descent. Whereas his walk to them had been a tentative one, he now opted to throw caution to the wind and ran down the steps, wanting to get them over with, while being afraid that the invisible supports might collapse at any moment.

In seconds it was done. For the first time in his life, he stood on ground carpeted in grass, and marvelled at the fact.

Tom surfaced from frail dreams, uncertain what had roused him. The scent of grass was a memory which drifted through his mind only to dissipate once his eyes opened and focused on the present. His night-adjusted vision interpreted the room in shades of grey and black shadow. On looking for a darker shape which should have been lying beside him and seeing none, he bolted upright, gaze darting around the room; then he saw her. Kat’s hunched black shape sat by the opened door, apparently staring out through the gap in the boards, though he couldn’t imagine what at.

“Is everything all right?”

“Fine. Can’t sleep, that’s all.” She spoke as quietly as he had; perhaps neither of them wanting to disturb the night.

“What can you see out there?”

“Ghosts, mainly. Don’t worry though, they’re my ghosts. Only I can see them and they’ll never haunt anyone but me.”

He made an intuitive leap: “People you knew from the Pits?”

She didn’t answer immediately and he wondered whether the question had been too intrusive, but then she said, “Some. Among others.”

He felt he ought to follow up with another comment but had no idea what and didn’t want to risk offending her by saying the wrong thing.

While he struggled with this uncertainty, the girl asked, very quietly, “Do you believe in the Soul Thief?”

Tom would have laughed under any other circumstances. Did she still think him a kid, a credulous child? He remembered tales first learnt at the same age as the city’s level verse, stories of a pale-faced woman in tattered black robes, who would creep into homes in the dead of night and suck out the souls from unsuspecting children while they slept, before disappearing.

“Of course not.” Night-time in the City Below held enough very real mysteries and terrors without conjuring up imaginary ones as well.

“I do,” she said in that same wistful voice. “I’ve seen her. She took my mother.”

He stared at her back, trying to decide whether or not she was joking for all that she sounded serious, and wondering whether he dared ask. But he didn’t. Partly for fear that she might then turn around and laugh, that she was teasing him, but mostly for the fear that she wasn’t.

Suddenly Kat moved, whipping her head around, black against almost-black. “Did you hear something?”

He hadn’t but now listened, straining to detect whatever she had. He heard it then; a fluttering, a faint whirring.

“There’s something…”

The girl moved again, even as he started to speak. Not a hesitant rising to her feet, as if she were trying to locate something, but rather a savage spring from floor to standing in one explosion of movement, as if she knew exactly where it was.

“Aagh! Nearly had you,” she said.

It was too dark for him to gain more than a vague sense of her movements, but he started at the abrupt bang, which must have been Kat’s hand slamming against the wall, presumably carrying something with it, because the girl then proclaimed, “Got you!”

He then heard her grinding her heel against the floor.

“What was it, a bat?” Though he didn’t really see how one of the blood suckers could have sneaked in unless it got past her as she sat with the door open.

“Nah, too small, and anyway, it felt made rather than natural. I’m sure there was metal in there.”

“Something of the Maker’s, then?”

“Probably. Won’t be worrying us any more, in any case, whatever it was. Best we try and get some more sleep.” She came and laid down beside him again.

“Good idea,” he agreed, doubting that he would.

On the roof of the cavern, eleven small drones had gathered, swarming around a bulky protrusion like bees around honey. The object that drew them was a sun globe, one of the many synchronised light sources responsible for granting this subterranean world a semblance of nature’s night and day cycle.

Not globes at all, the substitute suns had been named thus to strengthen the association with their celestial namesake. In fact, they were shaped like rounded humps, each one resembling a gigantic drop of water which had started to gather on a ceiling but not quite developed sufficient form or mass to drip down. Partial globes at the very most.

This particular one hung almost directly above the attic room where two weary street-nicks had taken refuge for the night. The sun globes were secured to the cavern roof by an array of deeply sunken rivets and bolts and cradled in thick cabling. The system’s designers had gone for overkill. After all, nobody wanted one of these things falling onto the streets. Referring back to Insint, the drones had calculated that if the rivets and bolts were removed in a certain order, and if the cables were cut at exactly the right time, then this globe would fall a fraction off centre and could be persuaded to impact with the attic room in question.

This would be the work of many hours, particularly since there would now only be ten of the tiny droids available, one having gone to take over from its recently decommissioned fellow monitoring the two street-nicks. However, it was work that had already begun.

NINE

The doorbell’s sonorous chime was the very last thing Magnus wanted to hear. Who could be calling at this hour? He toyed with the idea of ignoring it, but in the end sat forward, placed the bulb of warmed brandy on the table and rose to his feet. Unlikely perhaps, but this might prove to be important.

It was at times like this that he most missed Dewar. Finding a temporary replacement was always an option, someone to act as butler, cook and valet, but so far he had resisted the temptation. There were too many sensitive matters unfolding to risk having a stranger in the house. Magnus was not without enemies, some of whom would jump through hoops and dance on the tip of a needle to place an informant so close to him. Besides, he was hardly ever home – working all day and dining out of an evening – so only in the very early hours or the very late ones, such as this, did he miss being attended to.

Part of him regretted not setting up a means of communication with his agent, but it was too risky. Whatever method they employed would have been open to interception and he couldn’t risk being implicated in any way. He knew he could trust Dewar to get the job done but he hated being uninformed. The man had only been gone a day and already Magnus was fretting, wondering what progress had been made.

As he left the comfort of his study and entered the comparative chill of the hallway, the bell rang again. Whoever this was, they clearly did not number patience among their virtues.

He arrived at the door and squinted through the spyhole. Though he had no preconceptions, what he saw still managed to surprise him. He didn’t recognise the man’s face as such but he certainly recognised the uniform: hooded tunic, white with purple trim, the most frequently seen semi-formal attire of the council guard. Magnus drew back from the door, horrified. Were they here to arrest him? A dozen possibilities chased each other through his thoughts. Had they somehow found out about Thomas – was there another witness only recently come forward? No, he would have sensed any such observer. Perhaps some other clandestine manoeuvring had been uncovered, though it seemed unlikely; he had been so, so careful. What then?

Taking a deep breath to compose himself, he adopted the winning smile that had served him so well through the years and reached towards the door. He would act the outraged innocent and brazen it out, whatever the accusation.

Two guards confronted him; big men who seemed to loom threateningly in the entranceway. He was aware of more guards behind them. Yet even as Magnus said, “Can I help you?” the pair parted, stepping aside to allow a further, slighter figure to step forward.

The smile slipped from the senior arkademic’s face and all he could do was gape.

The man revealed by the respectful guards may have edged beyond the limits of middle age but his face still shone with vitality and his movements were smooth and assured. “Perfect!” the newcomer exclaimed, then laughed. “To see such a renowned politician as yourself at a loss for words is a rare treat, Magnus.”

“Prime Master,” the senior arkademic recovered quickly, bowing his head in respect. He felt he could be forgiven for a moment of less than perfect composure under the circumstances. After all, it was not every day that the ruler of the city council, in effect the ruler of all Thaiburley, came knocking at your door. “Please, come in.” As if he had a choice.

Magnus stepped back and allowed the prime master to enter, preceded by one of the council guards and flanked by another. The balance, four as far as Magnus could see, remained outside, taking up station at the door.

“What happened to that charming manservant of yours?”

Magnus was instantly on his guard; the man was as observant as ever, nothing escaped the prime master’s sharp eye. “Taking a leave of absence – a family bereavement, quite unexpected.”

“How unfortunate.”

“I’ve been meaning to sort out a replacement, but I haven’t had the time. There’s always so much to do.”

They reached the study. The two guards remained outside while the senior arkademic and his guest entered.

“Your dedication does you credit, Magnus, but this will never do,” the prime master said. “We can’t have you neglecting yourself for the sake of the city. I’ll send one of my own staff over to cover until your man returns.”

Magnus was horrified. He could think of nothing he wanted less. “That’s most kind, prime master, but really there’s no need. I spend so little time here anyway.”

Magnus lifted the carafe of fine brandy, with an enquiring glance towards his guest, who nodded.

“All the more reason you should be properly looked after when you are here. I’ll brook no further discussion on the subject. My man will be at your door first thing in the morning.”

What could he say? “Thank you, prime master, that’s most generous.” So much for keeping prying eyes away. He handed a bulb of freshly poured brandy to his guest, who was settling into the armchair opposite his own.

The prime master swirled the amber liquid in its bulbous glass and breathed in the warm, caramel vapours, smiling his appreciation. “Excellent! You always have had exquisite taste.”

The pair saluted each other with their glasses, locking gazes for a second, before sipping the potent spirit.

“To what do I owe this unexpected honour?” Magnus asked.

“Oh, I merely wished to express my condolences on the death of Senior Arkademic Thomas. I know the two of you were close. Something of a protégé of yours, I believe.”

“Indeed.” Magnus stared down at his glass as if in melancholy reflection. Straight to the point. What did the man know? What did he suspect? “It was a terrible business. I felt so helpless.”

“Yes, you were there, of course. A pity you couldn’t have intervened and prevented this awful tragedy.”

Magnus knew his part in this well, but it had never been more important that he play it to perfection. He placed his glass down, very deliberately, sighed and said, “I only wish I had arrived sooner, that I had been closer when the murderer struck. As it was, all I could do was watch as Thomas toppled over the wall, and the boy responsible was away before I could stop him. I conjured a spy-eye and sent it after him, then dashed to the wall, but Thomas had gone, of course. I was too late…” He paused, shaking his head for dramatic effect.

“Yes, I’ve seen the images from your spy-eye,” the prime master said.

Had he now? That was interesting, and hardly reassuring. Magnus had no idea the most powerful man in Thaiburley was taking such a keen interest.

“Let us hope this Kite Guard you’ve assigned can find the lad and bring him to justice.”

“Indeed,” Magnus replied, offering a tight smile and trying hard to remain calm. His visitor seemed remarkably well informed.

“Well, thank you for the excellent brandy.”

He placed the glass, still tinted with the amber of un-drunk liquor in its bowl, on the table opposite Magnus’s own. “The hour is late and I shan’t detain you any further. I merely wished to express my sympathies and reassure you of my continued support and good wishes.”

Continued? Magnus had never been aware of the man providing him with either. “Thank you for taking the trouble to do so, prime master.”

His distinguished guest departed, collecting council guards in stages as he went. “And don’t worry,” he said on the way out, “my man will be here first thing tomorrow.”

Magnus stared at the front door for long seconds after it had closed, wondering what that was all about. He turned and walked back to the study, deep in thought. A number of things were certain. The prime master had never gone to the trouble of visiting him at his home before. He knew altogether too much regarding the investigation into Thomas’s death. He did not do anything without good reason.

No matter how Magnus added those facts up, the sum emerged as an uncomfortable question or two.

Was the prime master suspicious? Had the visit been meant as a warning? Was its intent purely to unsettle Magnus?

If the latter, it had succeeded admirably.

The night was an unusually quiet one. Lyle finished the few jobs that needed attending to in record time. The Blue Claw had embarked on just a single small outing in the early evening, which didn’t require his presence, and there were no more planned for that night. He’d put Barton, his most reliable lieutenant, in charge of the job – a raid on a large warehouse which stood at the edge of the docks – some minor pilfering, nothing more. The importers turned a blind eye to such things – they knew the game – but even so a delicate balance had to be struck. The street-nicks took enough to make it worth their while but not so much that it hurt the commercial interests to the point where business felt obliged to react. As with most everything in the City Below, it was all a matter of give and take, while being careful to never take too much.

Barton could be relied on to carry out the job efficiently, if only because it gave him one more thing to boast about. This was the lad’s only major failing: attention seeking. He valued the good opinion of his fellows far too much. Otherwise, he was dependable and efficient. That combined with his popularity made him someone to keep an eye on. Lyle was no fool and knew that of all his lieutenants, Barton was the most likely to challenge him for leadership of the Claw at some point. As the lad grew bolder and more confident, the day when he would do so grew ever closer. But it hadn’t arrived yet.

He waited to see the boys safely home, congratulating them on a job well done. The proceeds consisted of preserved food stuffs brought in by barge and waiting for transport to the City Above: pickled fish, dry cured meats, salted beef and other such, all of them easily shifted. Lyle inspected and stashed the goods with considerable satisfaction. All that remained was his usual late night inspection, checking to see that everything was secure and the lookouts were still awake and alert. The Claw were not especially at odds with any other gangs at present, but he still insisted that a proper watch was maintained. You could never be too careful.

Happy that all was in order, he headed for bed.

The day’s only disappointment had been Tom’s failure to return. It was getting to the point where he might have to accept that the boy had failed and been caught or, more likely, killed. It would be a shame to lose one of his more gifted thieves, but this had been a long shot at best, the chances of success remote. Besides, he had been well paid, which meant that the whole gang would benefit from one boy’s sacrifice.

It also removed a potential rival for Jezmina’s affections. Not that Tom was ever that much of a rival, of course. The girl had even been complicit in persuading him to accept the impossible challenge of raiding the Upper Heights in the first place; a clear enough indication of where her loyalties lay.

Perhaps now that Tom was out of the way it was time to admit how things really stood between the two of them, though perhaps not. Jezmina was so good at playing the wide-eyed innocent and Tom was by no means the only member of the gang she had wrapped around her little finger. It was good entertainment value if nothing else, so maybe he would leave things as they were for a little while yet.

One advantage of being in charge was having his own room, a place where the other gang members would only dare disturb him if something of genuine importance had cropped up. The one exception to that rule ought to be waiting for him at that very moment. The thought of her welcoming arms, her tender kisses and her soft, yielding body quickened his step.

This building had belonged to the Blue Claw for years, decades even. Nobody remembered or cared how it came to be in their possession. An old mansionesque building left over from more prosperous days when the docks had thrived, it was one of several such properties, mostly derelict, which clung to the corner of the docks; buildings which had, against all reason, avoided being swamped by the shantytown of the Runs.

Valuing his privacy in the brief moments allowed him, Lyle had chosen his quarters with care. A short corridor separated them from the communal areas. His hand reached the brass knob and pushed the door open. The room was in darkness, which was unusual. He whispered her name, “Jezmina?”

“Here.” Yet her voice, even though barely above a whisper, sounded odd, strained.

“Is everything all right?” He reached for the wall lamp, familiarity guiding his hand to it almost at once.

“Fine.”

His thumb pressed down on the switch, grating flint against flint. At the second attempt it sparked and he watched that tiny crumb of flame drop to ignite the oil.

In the lamp’s wan glow he saw Jezmina sitting in a chair, eyes wide with fright, staring at him.

“Why are you sitting in the d…?”

No, she was not staring at him as such but rather past his shoulder.

As that realisation sank in, he felt the presence of the intruder behind him and the jab of cold steel at his throat. He stopped speaking, stopped moving.

“Because I wanted it that way,” said a man’s voice at his ear. “You must be Lyle,” the voice continued. “We’ve been waiting for you.”

Tom woke suddenly, with the feeling that something had disturbed him but no idea what. He sensed that morning was well on the way. It was still night but the darkness had thinned a little, to the point where he could see Kat crouching by the door in greater definition than the darker, featureless patch of blackness she had been when night held full sway. Had she been crouching there all this time? No, he clearly remembered her lying down again. And besides, the door was now closed.

Then he heard a sound from outside; just a faint scraping, but unmistakable. Someone or something was on the far side of the door.

He rolled to his feet, a move which earned him a glance from Kat, who immediately lifted a finger to her lips. Tom nodded, fully aware of the need for quiet. The lingering cobwebs of sleep still fuddled the edges of his thoughts, but they were quickly disappearing in the face of potential threat. He drew his knife and waited. One of Kat’s long blades already rested across her knees as she squatted, still watching the door.