Deathstalker Coda (11 page)
Authors: Simon R. Green
Douglas and Stuart had been on duty outside the Lantern Lodge entrance since first light, and now it was nearly midday. It had been drizzling for hours, a cold, numbing persistent fall that soaked everything and everyone. The sewers were overrunning again, and the stench in the street was almost unbearable. The heavy gloomy day settled over everyone like a bad mood. People slouched back and forth along the narrow streets, heads down to avoid eye contact, in pursuit of work or a room or anything that might bring in a few credits. Times were hard. There was damn all left to steal, and rats were becoming a delicacy. But crowded as the street was, everyone gave the two masked bravos outside the Lantern Lodge plenty of room. Douglas and Stuart had demonstrated their willingness to protect the hotel on many occasions, in a professionally violent and disturbingly thorough way that had impressed even the hardened denizens of the Rookery. Which was why the two men were just a little surprised to observe a small crowd of heavily armed men heading in their direction. The dozen or so men moved like professional fighters, and while they hadn’t drawn any weapons yet, there was something about them that suggested their appearance was only a matter of time.
“You know them?” Douglas said quietly to Stuart.
“Some of them. Brion de Rack’s men. Protection racketeer. Pretty much everyone around here pays off de Rack, just to be left alone. But he usually targets the bigger businesses, not dumps like this.”
“Maybe he’s branching out. How do you want to play this?”
“Oh, the usual,” said Stuart, resting one hand on the pommel of his sword. “Reason first, escalating quickly to extreme violence.”
“Sounds like a plan to me,” said Douglas.
The dozen or so thugs and bullyboys came to a halt a respectful distance away from the two masked bravos. The street rapidly cleared as everyone else suddenly remembered they had urgent business elsewhere. Window shutters slammed together up and down the street like a round of applause. Even the drizzle seemed to hold back, as though anxious to see what would happen next. One of the men stepped forward to face Douglas and Stuart. He was taller than most, and bigger, with a layer of fat over his muscles to show he was one of the few people in the Rookery still eating well and often. He wore a long, heavy leather coat, decorated all over with steel piercings. A row of human scalps had been stitched to one sleeve as trophies. He wore splashes of bright color on his face, under a flat, dark, wide-brimmed hat. He smiled easily at Douglas and Stuart, but it didn’t touch his eyes.
“Step aside, boys. My business is with the owner.”
“We don’t step aside,” Douglas said calmly. “It’s bad for our reputation. You want to talk to the owner, you talk to us first.”
“Now, that’s a very unfriendly attitude. You don’t want to hurt my feelings, do you?”
“We’re not paid to be friendly,” said Stuart.
“All right. I will go that extra mile, to avoid unnecessary trouble. The name is Sewell. I work for Brion de Rack. This is his territory. You live in his territory, you pay him tribute. That’s just the way it is. In return, we make sure nothing horribly destructive happens to your property. Or, indeed, you. Nasty things pretty much nearly always happen, if you’re not de Rack’s friend.”
“We’re a bit small fry for de Rack, aren’t we?” said Douglas.
“Times are hard. Now, you’ve made a good showing, honor is satisfied, so stand aside.”
“The old protection racket,” said Stuart, and there was something in his calm, quiet voice that made Sewell look at him sharply. “A loathsome little scam, when all is said and done. Based on terror and intimidation, and a façade of invulnerability. Unfortunately for de Rack, and you, my partner and I don’t intimidate that easily. We’ve faced much worse than you, in our time.”
“We’re here to protect the hotel from scumbags like you, Sewell,” said Douglas. “And we take a real pride in our work. So walk on. Or we’ll step on you.”
Sewell looked at them for a long moment, apparently unable to believe what he was hearing. He wasn’t smiling anymore. “Listen, leather faces—this is de Rack’s territory. He owns it, and everyone in it. You only live here because he allows you to, and if you annoy him, you don’t get to live here anymore. And an insult to me is an insult to him.”
“What a marvelously time-saving scheme,” said Stuart.
“That’s it,” said Sewell. “You just can’t help some people. Drop your weapons on the ground, kneel down and say you’re sorry, and we’ll let you off with a beating. Make us work for this, and we’ll cut you open and see what color your guts really are.”
“We don’t do kneeling either,” said Douglas. “Bad for the reputation, and the trousers. Makes the knees go all baggy. Now push off, fart face.”
Sewell’s face darkened, and he turned to his men. “Kill them. And make it messy.”
He was about to say something more when Douglas drew his concealed disrupter and shot Sewell in the chest. The energy beam punched right through the man, throwing his dead body back into his men. They scattered with cries of alarm, like startled birds, and Sewell measured his length in the gutter. The front of his leather coat was on fire. The thugs finally thought to draw their own weapons, but by then Douglas and Stuart were among them, swords in hands. The bullyboys tried to make a fight of it, but it had been a long time since they’d had to deal with anything but frightened and dispirited people. They didn’t stand a chance against two ex-Paragons. Douglas and Stuart cut their way through the pack with vicious skill, moving fluidly and easily and protecting each other’s backs at all times. They worked well together. Their swords flashed brightly in the gloom, like rays of hope, and blood pooled on the ground, hardly dispersed at all by the slow drizzle. Bodies fell with cut throats and gaping wounds, and did not rise again. And quicker than anyone had thought possible, it was all over. Douglas and Stuart stood together, blood dripping thickly from their blades, hardly even breathing hard. The sole surviving thug stood with his back to a wall, looking at the two bravos with wide, horrified eyes. Douglas and Stuart turned to look at him, and he quickly dropped his sword on the ground and raised his shaking hands in the air.
“
Who are you?
What are you? No one fights like that!”
Who are you?
What are you? No one fights like that!”
“We are Douglas and Stuart, bravos for hire, and that’s all anyone needs to know,” said Douglas. (He and Stuart had tried using false names when they first arrived in the Rookery, but they kept forgetting them, or confusing who was supposed to be which, so they gave them up. Douglas and Stuart were common enough names.) “In case you’re wondering, we let you live because you’re going to carry a message to de Rack, and the message is: Leave us alone. Leave the Lantern Lodge alone. Pretend this unpleasantness never happened. That way we can all hope to live long and profitable lives. Be persuasive, because de Rack wouldn’t like the alternative. Really he wouldn’t. Now go away, and don’t come back.”
The thug was off and running the moment he was sure he’d got all of the message. A muffled chorus of boos and jeers followed him from behind the shuttered windows. Stuart gave a cheerful bow, and then he and Douglas went through the pockets of all the men they’d killed. Hard times bred hard ways, and credit had no provenance in the Rookery. When they were sure they’d got everything worth the having, Douglas and Stuart returned to their post at the front door and counted it up. There wasn’t much. People slowly emerged onto the street again, to steal the dead bodies’ clothing. Douglas sighed heavily.
“I hate this place. People shouldn’t have to live like this.”
“It’s the Rookery,” said Stuart. “They do things differently here. They always have.”
“Not like this. It’s never been as bad as this.”
They watched as the growing crowd squabbled over the dead bodies’ few remaining possessions. By nightfall the bodies would be gone too, and it was wise not to ask where.
“Like rats in a graveyard,” said Douglas.
“Even rats have to eat,” said Stuart.
Douglas sniffed loudly. Stuart looked at him. He’d been trying to help the disturbed, brooding Douglas ever since they’d come to the Rookery, but the man who had once been King, and lost everyone and everything he ever believed in, didn’t want to be helped. This was the most Stuart had heard Douglas speak in days—probably because he seemed to come alive only when he was fighting. And even then, the Campbell fought with precision rather than passion. Stuart kept trying to draw him out, but Douglas seemed unwilling or incapable of thinking about the future. As though just getting through each day was hard enough. The man who had once been King now seemed tired all the time, physically and spiritually. He was drawing further and further inside himself, despite everything Stuart or Nina could do to help.
“Things shouldn’t have to be this way,” Douglas said again, and Stuart was surprised and pleased to hear some honest emotion in the Campbell’s voice. “We ought to be doing . . . something, to help these people. We took an oath as Paragons, to protect the people. Remember?”
“Yes,” said Stuart. “I remember. I wasn’t sure you did.”
Some hours later their relief arrived to take over, and Douglas and Stuart went inside for their only meal of the day. Their replacements were just ordinary muscle for hire from the local hiring house. No one special; the house just sent over whoever was available. The two bruisers nodded respectfully to Douglas and Stuart as they disappeared inside the hotel. The lobby wasn’t up to much—paint-peeling walls, sawdust on the floor, and no chairs. Nothing to encourage anyone to linger. Just a battered old reception desk, where the staff were protected from the customers by a heavy metal grille. There was an elevator at the back, but its operation was a sometime thing, and did not inspire confidence. Douglas and Stuart climbed the five flights of stairs to their single shared room. They didn’t disturb the handful of ragged forms who’d paid to be allowed to sleep in the stairwells.
Nina Malapert was already there in their room, laying the food on the table, which was a bad sign. She was only ever back this early when her day’s work had gone really badly. The way she bashed the battered crockery about was confirmation enough without the frustration evident in her scowling face. She nodded briefly at the two men as they sat wearily down at the table. It wasn’t a big room, and with the table unfolded it took up most of the available space. Dinner was boiling on a hot plate set perilously close to the only bed. (Douglas and Stuart shared the bed. Nina had made a nest of blankets for herself in one corner.) There was only one window, smeared with the debris of years.
Douglas and Stuart took off their leather masks and dropped them on the table beside their plates. Their faces felt hot and sweaty from the leather, despite the early evening chill that had worked its way into the room. Douglas Campbell was still a handsome man, with his noble brow and great mane of golden hair, but more than ever he looked like a wounded lion brought down by jackals; a great man brought low by too many losses and the unbearable weight of unrelinquished responsibilities. Stuart Lennox looked much older than his years warranted. A stern young man with a drawn, almost gaunt face, his gaze was always a little distracted, and he rarely smiled anymore. And even Nina Malapert was no longer the happy, bubbling, free spirit of old. The demon girl reporter who laughed at danger and would dare anything for a scoop wasn’t exactly gone, just suppressed by the weight of life in the Rookery, but it did seem she didn’t smile nearly as much as she once had. Her tall pink mohawk bobbed angrily as she ladled out the meal.
Douglas watched Nina bustle about, and tried hard to feel . . . something. It was difficult for him to feel anything much, anymore. His family was dead, his friends were gone, his responsibilities taken from him. He felt lost and unfocused without them. He wasn’t a King anymore, or even a Paragon, but he didn’t know how to be anything else. So mostly he just went through the motions, getting through the day until he could finally go to bed and lose himself in sleep. He looked at the discarded leather bravo’s mask beside his plate. Sometimes he thought that was his real face now. He could feel Stuart looking at him, and stared at the mess on his plate so he wouldn’t have to look at Stuart. He knew the earnest young man only wanted to help, but Douglas didn’t want to be helped. He wanted to be numb, so he wouldn’t have to think or feel or remember.
According to the official media news sites, Anne Barclay was dead. Killed by falling debris during Douglas’s daring escape from the court. Another old friend hurt, and gone, because of him. Nina tried to tell him you couldn’t trust anything on the official sites these days, that it was all Finn’s propaganda, but that was just Nina being kind. At least Lewis and Jesamine were still out there, somewhere, avoiding capture. Douglas hoped they were happy, at least. He desperately wanted somebody to be happy, out of the mess he’d made of things.
He looked at his dinner. It wasn’t up to much, but then it never was. Stringy meat and potatoes, with lumpy gravy. Douglas pushed it about a bit with his fork.
“What’s the meat?”
“Best not to ask,” Nina said briskly as she sat down next to him. “And you really don’t want to know what’s in the gravy.”
“Is there pudding?” said Stuart, hopefully.
Nina gave him a withering look. “What do you think?”
Stuart had a plate of ropey-looking vegetables, boiled within an inch of their lives. He never touched meat. The others never said anything. They knew why. Once Nina would have insisted on their saying grace first, but they had all fallen far beyond a state of grace now. The three of them sat and ate for a while in silence. It was food and it was fuel, and that was all it was. Outside in the street, there were occasional shouts and screams and sounds of violence, but then, there always were.
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