City Of Ruin (34 page)

Observing. Waiting.

Voland needed good-quality meat, enough to feed a few families for a little while longer, enough to keep the price of food a little lower. It was never a question of morality – Voland being an intellectual – they were merely serving the greater good. It could always rely on him, having endowed it as his arachnid-construct, injecting it with gifts at which it could only marvel.

There: four men in military uniform, all with bottles in their hands, shambling along an isolated alleyway, leaning in and out of varying shadows of the night, sometimes laughing, ultimately oblivious.

The creature waited for a fiacre to move by, then spat out a strand of thin webbing for a swift descent into the cobbled street below. There, it watched the men from a new perspective, moving away between rows of buildings that loomed high and featureless and continuous. A trilobite ran across its path, waist high and with antennae sifting the air, and when registering its presence the little creature emitted a high-pitched noise. With one hook-shaped foot the spider stamped down on it with a mild, clattering implosion.

One of the soldiers heard the sound, and turned and screamed and drew his sword and quickly the others did likewise. They advanced towards it, a tight line. Then three of them stood still, while one edged forward. The spider spat silk in his face and, as he drew his hands upwards, it spewed its quietus, knocking him askew with one leg. Six legs spread wide, it leapt forward over the other men and shoved them onto the ground with their weapons collapsing around them. Like a leaking wound, the spider oozed silk onto their pain-stricken faces, till soon their desperate movements diminished to a helpless twitching. Then nothing.

So simple, so quick.

It gathered up the first victim, then lined them all up, and for a moment it did nothing but simply watch them, and sense for any reactions.

There were none.

As it was seeing to their transportation, by hauling the bodies around the corner, another figure in similar uniform came by. Savagely it lashed out at the newcomer with its jaws, ripping his torso down the middle. Blood surged across the cobbles as it nudged the corpse behind some piles of waste food.

The spider lugged the bodies one by one up to the roof, then considered the problem of carrying this extra weight. It spent a while spinning more balloons, then bound them together, like giant frogspawn.

Deep night drew across Villiren. Clouds gathered momentum, overpowering starlight. The sound of the tide lapping the harbour walls and up against Port Nostalgia. Gentle sparks of snow drifted down, bringing with them a strange sense of calm.

And as the spider ascended, it sensed that in one of the side streets below, some hybrid human wrapped in black was coughing and retching into a gutter, a silent scream on his lips. But it did not have the time to ascertain what it might be.

*

Brynd kicked the sword away and sent it skittering across the cobbles past Nelum’s feet. His lieutenant looked up startled, but at the moment Brynd didn’t care. A distance had grown between them anyway, a barrier caused by red-hot secrets and speculations.

Right now, Brynd’s concern was for what was happening out on the streets of Villiren. Already his day was ruined. Dawn was some minutes away, the horizon barely any lighter than the cityscape, and here he was, witnessing a scene where yet more soldiers had vanished. Those swords lying on the ground were imperial blades all right, the runework was there for all to see.

The man who had summoned them was a rubicund, elderly type, clothed in thick layers of ragged cloth, with a manic look in his eyes as if he was possessed.

‘Just here, right here, yes,’ the man muttered, rubbing his hands over and over again. ‘I’s asleep at first, in the refuse – nice and warm it is there – and then when I hear screams and such, and afterwards I get up and . . . like I said, at the end I wanted to be getting away from that one over there.’ His outstretched hand was directed towards a slender man standing hunched against the wall, his collar turned up, emitting tendrils of smoke from a roll-up, and there was something distinctly civilized about his appearance.

‘He responsible?’ Brynd asked.

‘Ha! Not him, like, but he can vouch for me.’

Brynd glanced at Nelum and they both stepped over to the stranger.

‘You have a name?’ Brynd demanded.

Dressed entirely in black and with traces of musk about him, the man regarded Brynd with an almost alien detachment. Although vaguely familiar, his pale face looked distinctly unhealthy, and there was something febrile about his mannerisms.

‘Dannan,’ he replied.

Suddenly the name rang a bell, and Brynd relaxed. ‘You’re the leader of a gang, aren’t you? I didn’t recognize you out here, my apologies. Could you tell me what the hell happened here?’

‘Spider,’ Dannan announced, then went on to describe the creature in terse whispers. This was a different man from the coxcomb gang leader he had seen across a table. Illness seemed to plague him now. ‘Twice as tall as a man at least.’

Brynd could hardly believe what he was hearing. ‘Why were you here – some gang business?’

‘I was merely enjoying the night. Felt that something was going to happen, is all. Happens to me sometimes.’

‘And you, what, just came here to watch this performance? I don’t understand why.’

With a disturbing smile, the man nodded. ‘I can always sense death, but can do nothing about it.’ And he gestured with a wave of his hand towards the corner where he had vomited.

The old man edged into the conversation, though hunching fearfully away from Dannan. ‘BanHe, this one – likes death, so the word on the street goes. You have your witch women in Villjamur, doncha? Well this is a male one.’

Brynd was used to the eccentricities on the streets of Villjamur, but back in his home city it was easy to comprehend which were merely wild stories.

Out here, he didn’t know what to believe.

*

Eventually the rumel investigator arrived, his hat tipped aslant across his eyes. He was clutching a pastry and, with his mouth half-full he mumbled, ‘I got your damn message. You realize what time it is?’

‘Four more,’ Brynd announced. That message had been sent ages ago, and yet the investigator had stopped off at a bakery to fill his gut even more. ‘Four soldiers gone tonight, and these two men here are actual witnesses.’

Information was exchanged between them until Jeryd was fully briefed. He then examined the scene, noted the remnants of a giant trilobite, the discarded swords, the precise location. Now and then he’d nod as if what he was seeing confirmed some hunch. At one point he took a blade from his boot, and scraped some residue off the cobbles. As he returned he grumbled, ‘Spider, eh?’ The rumel suddenly seemed on edge.

‘That’s what
they
claim,’ Brynd admitted. ‘But I’m doubtful something of such a size could remain concealed in a city as populous as this. Someone would be bound to spot something sooner or later.’

‘Don’t be so sure. You can stay hidden very easily, when you don’t want to be seen.’ Jeryd held out his blade from which drooped strands of some substance.

Brynd was astounded. ‘Looks consistent with what these witnesses have claimed.’

‘Doesn’t it just,’ Jeryd observed. ‘And, yeah, I’ve seen this before, smeared across various rooftops. I was wondering what could produce such a substance, and now with two witnesses claiming to have seen a giant . . . arachnid—’

‘Bigger than giant, like!’ the old man protested. ‘Monstrous!’

‘I’ll fucking second that,’ the so-called banHe cooed. There was an androgynous air to the way he inhaled his roll-up.

‘Well, issues of scale aside,’ Jeryd continued nervously, ‘we have at least got ourselves something to go on.’

‘Please share that with us, investigator,’ Brynd encouraged him sarcastically.

‘It isn’t an exact science, this job.’ Jeryd wiped his brow. ‘Some days you find yourself just chasing your tail – if you have one, that is – and you end up getting nowhere. This might easily be one of those days. But I’ve seen this substance more than once and I’ll tell you this: it’s nothing natural. If these guys say you got a . . . giant spider picking people off, I’m inclined to believe them.’ A pause as he screwed up his face. ‘Even this banHe guy – met a lot of his female kin in Villjamur. Good sorts, when you dust away the weirdness, so you can rely on what he says.’

‘Oh, I’m sooo fucking thankful,’ piped the banHe, reminding Brynd fondly of Kym, a man he knew in Villjamur.

‘What do you suggest,’ Nelum added, ‘in terms of making progress? I have to say, it is rather a shame this spider thing isn’t our ally. I once read of how silk was used for treating battle wounds, in the past. It doesn’t cause any allergic reactions, being quite inert.’

‘Tell you one thing,’ Jeryd said, ‘if any soldier lived long enough to set eyes on whatever the hell produced this’ – he indicated the excessive gossamer strands – ‘then he’d probably be damn well frightened to death on the spot. I know I would . . .’

Nelum persisted, ‘Still, if it saves lives—’

‘At the moment it’s not saving anything,’ Brynd interrupted. ‘It’s taking soldiers from the street, valuable men we need in combat.’

‘But the real question is,
why
?’ Nelum observed.

‘Indeed,’ Jeryd added. ‘Could do with more of your sort in the Inquisition. So, why is this abnormally large creature specifically hunting down soldiers? Do you think it might have anything to do with the aliens that are invading?’

‘I’ve no idea.’ Brynd found he was dealing with too much that he knew too little about these days. ‘They could be indeed, because we’re not really that certain of our enemy. But it’s not just soldiers that have gone missing. Civilians, too.’

‘A fact we must remember,’ Jeryd confirmed. ‘This isn’t specifically an attack on the military. And you have soldiers out on street patrol regularly, yet they’ve not seen anything like this before, right?’

None of his men patrolling the city had reported anything. Perhaps they feared they would be considered insane. Brynd shook his head in frustration.

‘Then it looks like we got ourselves one bastard-cunning killer on the loose,’ Jeryd grumbled.

People began moving through the streets as the community gradually woke up, carts rumbling towards the iren, fiacres carrying passengers across the city. Those passers-by wearing masks turned to face the small group with fake and comical expressions.

The rumel investigator set off along the nearby streets a little, pacing back and forth.

Five minutes later Brynd heard Jeryd shouting his rank.

The Night Guard contingent ran to see what the matter was. Jeryd was crouching by a pile of waste, gesturing at the base of the nearby wall.

A mutilated man lay crumpled in cold blood. Rats and trilobites had been picking at his corpse, but what was still evident was that something had cleaved him open with ferocious force. The Dragoon’s uniform, ripped to shreds, was all Brynd needed to see.

*

Jeryd liked Doctor Machaon a great deal more than Doctor Tarr, who still resided back in a dark corner of Villjamur. He’d only met the latter a few times, but had become more than depressed at listening to his ruminations about death. Doctor Machaon, on the other hand, seemed positively joyous at the case now lying before him. Around forty years old, with rubicund cheeks and a belly that made even Jeryd feel trim, the investigator took to him instantly.

‘Such exotic wounds!’ Machaon crowed. ‘Quite a savage end for this poor fellow.’

Machaon’s workroom was to be found in the Ancient Quarter, not too near the bistros for temptation to disturb his work. The Onyx Wings were in full view from the west-facing window. An array of coloured lanterns and flambeaus lit up the room even further. Charts sprawled across the walls, bottles were ready to burst off all the shelves. There was a tray full of chisels and enterotomes and saws and cutters, and in the centre of the room was a table on which the body of the victim had been placed. A lamp hung above it.

Machaon had already flexed the corpse’s joints and searched for abrasions or bruising on the skin. He explained that he was now looking for lividity, and jotted something down in a notebook lying open to one side.

‘I’m convinced this one’s a murder,’ Jeryd told him, pressing the doctor for an opinion rather than waxing lyrical about the nature of the wounds.

Machaon opened a small jar and sprinkled some blue powder onto a white plate. Then he took a sample of blood from a major vein and squirted it on the powder, still humming to himself. ‘And you are most correct in that, Investigator Jeryd. Most correct. But in all my years as a physician, I cannot recall seeing a wound such as this.’

Jeryd waited for Machaon to continue with the post-mortem, soon oblivious to his presence in the room.

‘Doctor, do you know what caused it?’ Jeryd pressed again.

Go on, say it.

A spider.

‘I would suggest . . . judging by the way the torso has been severed, the width of the initial bite, exposing his organs thusly . . . and accounting for what rodents and trilobites have done to it overnight . . . this was nothing human. Nothing rumel either. Nothing caused by a weapon such as a sword or axe.’