Gangs of Antares (14 page)

I felt a great leap of hope.

This must be a friendly Wizard or Witch of Loh, come to save me!

The uncertainty of the apparition convinced me this was not Deb-Lu or Khe-Hi or Ling-Li. No, this was our apprentice sorcerer Rollo. Good old Rollo! One of these fine days he’d master completely the arcane art of going into lupu and scrying on people at great distances. I waited, somewhat impatiently, for the figure of the wizard to appear fully formed.

A face stared from the blueness, vanished, returned. That face was not that of any of my friends.

The eyes were closed. The nose was sharp, the mouth thin, and deep lines of concentration furrowed his brows. This, then, was a Wizard of Loh whose powers were not fully developed. That he was a Wizard of Loh I did not doubt, quite apart from the red hair hanging untidily from beneath a flat crooked cap.

He opened his eyes.

He gazed upon the scene all about, at the redness, the caverns, the piled mass of spider silk — and at me. A look of absolute horror crossed that disembodied countenance.

The thin mouth opened and words must have spilled out; they were quite inaudible. He had not yet learned the art of speaking when in lupu. I said: “Who are you, san?”

By his reaction he could not hear me. He looked about him in terror, eyes wide.

Then he vanished.

“Well,” I said to myself, “and bad cess to you, too, dom.”

So, on again I went, walking stoutly along from cavern to cavern. Any second now I expected to meet the creators of that silken mass. Spiders, like as not, giant spiders, all legs and stings and eyes on stalks. And here I was, the so-called puissant Dray Prescot, clad only in a brown breechclout, the yellow robe long since gone, and not a steel weapon to my name.

Light from the lake of fire gradually faded as I advanced, to be replaced by the pervading radiance of the lichen clothing the walls. Dimpy had told me of this phenomenon and I was greatly pleased to have it. Yes, it is true the Star Lords enhanced my night vision so that I can see remarkably well in the dark; all the same, a little light does wonders for a fellow’s morale in spots like this.

Twice I saw small scuttling creatures that skidded off at top speed the moment they were aware of my presence. I walk silently. Whenever a choice of direction presented itself I went up. Two or three times I came to dead ends and had to backtrack; but slowly I made my way along the crevices in the earth going steadily up towards the surface. There was the problem of just which surface that would be. I could come out onto a runnel; I could be climbing up inside a hill. Djan knew, they were riddled with holes like cheese.

Some of the passageways were narrow, damned narrow, by Krun, and I had a bit of a squeeze from time to time.

Anyway, just who the hell was that incompetent Wizard of Loh?

He’d been intending to spy on somebody. Instead, he’d wound up having a look at me in my predicament. Just what was he up to?

There was absolutely no use in expecting my own comrade sorcerers to pay me a visit. They were eternally busy, never having enough burs in one day to do all that they considered had to be done. We were fortunate that they were our comrades, and deigned to assist us from time to time.

A shape lumbered from behind a fallen boulder.

I stopped. The thing looked like a skinned ape, having two muscular arms and two stunted legs. White bone coverings obscured its eyes. Sinuous tendrils sprouted from its forehead, turning, searching, locating, finding — me.

Its clawed hands were busily stuffing the remains of a small creature, similar to those who had run from me, into a gappy and fang-filled mouth. With a last convulsive swallow the poor little beastie went down at a gulp. The skinned ape turned its attention to its next meal.

It stood perhaps a hand’s breadth taller than me. It looked compact and muscular. That it was blind meant nothing down here; once it fastened those hooks into me, he’d have me, so all his previous experience told him. I stood motionlessly.

The silence was broken only by the thing’s heavy breathing, by the pad of its feet on the ground as it shuffled forward. The moment he leaped...

When he surged forward with arms outstretched and claws extended to rip and rend, I swayed sideways. Instantly, he followed my movement. Snapping back the other way I laid a knobbly fist alongside his head, scrunching into his ear, and then dived on and flat.

He wasn’t fazed in the slightest. As I jumped up, the stench of him fouling my nostrils, he drove in again. This time I hit him harder. He shook his head, no doubt puzzled.

He did stink, too, rotten. This time I kicked him betwixt wind and water. I had no desire to kill him. After all, like the scorpion, he was only doing what he was created to do.

Blind though he was, he was damned quick. So I leaped in, avoided the flailing claw-armed hands, and grabbed his tentacles.

All the time he had made no sound apart from his breathing. Now he let out a keening whine, most distressing, as I yanked savagely.

Gripping and twisting his tentacles, inside the reach of his arms, I laid into him, kicking him repeatedly. His screech shrilled higher in agony. Oh, yes, by Vox, I felt sorry for him. I kicked him good and hard and then with my left hand dragging his head forward by the tentacles I gave him a cracking blow on the jaw with a right. He went down, thump, and as I released him rolled over and so lay still. I stared down at him, impassively. He’d recover.

Shaking my shoulders, I walked on.

By the time I reached clear signs of the handiwork of people my insides were like the money-pouch of a fingerless pickpocket.

I gave a sigh of relief as I saw the palisade across the tunnel. The next step would have been to capture one of the creatures living down here and eaten the little fellow. I examined the barricade.

Clearly it was meant to stop people from going down into the depths from which I’d walked. When I’d taken down enough to allow me to pass through, I carefully re-erected it. Then I went on.

The exit was only a few paces on. I stepped out into the familiar dimness of the warrens. I was at the end of a side street where already the torches were being lit. The torch lighter looked at me in amazement, mouth open and light held high.

“What? Where’d you come from, dom?”

“Oh,” I said, off handedly. “I just dropped in.”

He’d lost most of his front teeth, so he splashed and mumbled when he talked. He was a slave. I decided to put a hangdog look on my face, and hold my head down, and with the brown breechclout pass along as a slave. I obviously had no weapon, and no money, either. That, I felt, would be the safest course to prevent being jumped and unnecessary aggro of that nature.

He was still staring after me and scratching his head as I shambled on. One of the lesser Moons of Kregen shot past in the evening sky, in view for a short time only between hill and hill.

I stopped and turned. “Oh, dom, whereaway is this?”

“Ravelstan Street. You’d better watch out. The Alley Leems are out tonight, hunting.”

“My thanks. ’beree.”

He mumbled and I walked along the unlighted side of Ravelstan Street. People were about, doing what they did down here. Then I made another decision, a more delightful one this time.

Dimpy’s address was not far, a couple of warrens away. I’d go and see what the young Imp of Sicce was up to. Anyway, I ought to put my outsides around some food to stop my insides complaining.

Nothing was to be seen of any trouble being caused by the Alley Leems gang. They all had their rackets. Some of the more lurid establishments were opening for the night, lanterns shining invitingly over tawdry porticoes. The young bloods from the hills would be down, indulging in what they fondly imagined to be the height of decadence. No doubt the usual couple or so would be hit over the head and robbed. They’d have their private guards. It all added to their conception of fun.

Sentries from the Hellraisers stood alertly at the crossroads that marked the beginning of their territory this side. No doubt they’d heard the Alley Leems were looking for trouble. As a slave I just shambled through and no one took any notice.

I’d expected to have to ask for Dimpy’s house. I did not.

There was no mistaking what was going on. Dimpy stood in front of the sagging door to his hovel, a whole braxter in one hand and a broken one in the other. Facing him a yelling, taunting crowd of young hooligans were working themselves up to rush him and overpower him. From the windows the faces of two young girls and their mother stared in terror upon the scene and what was about to happen.

Chapter fourteen

“The Watch! The Watch! Run! Run!”

The bellow burst over all the noise of the mob. Then, in an even louder roar: “Run! Katakis!”

That old foretop hailing voice struck immediate terror into the young hooligans. For a single moment only they stood, petrified, suddenly silent. They all knew that the infamous City Watch rarely interfered with big gang fights. In a small local disturbance like this, a petty rumble, the Katakis would come leaping in like leems, arresting anyone who looked likely. They’d be out for slaves. There’d be a nice profit to be turned here.

Again I yelled, running up and waving my arms.

“Run, you famblys! The Kataki Watch!”

That did it. Like a bunch of terrified ponshos as the werstings close in, they turned and ran. They ran in a helter-skelter bunch away from Dimpy’s house.

Crossing swiftly to him I snapped out: “You’re not safe here, Dimpy, that’s obvious. You’ll have to—”

“Drajak!” He gasped it out in shocked amazement.

“Aye,” I said. “We’ve got to get your family out of this.”

“But — but where’d you come from—?”

“No time for that.”

The noise of the hooligan mob was not decreasing. Rather, the shouts were coming back again. In the forefront of the canaille the boy who’d so basely tricked Dimpy with the sword had been urging them on. Now, in the uncertain light of torches, here he ran again, charging back up the street, waving his arms. The mob followed.

“Inside.” I grabbed Dimpy and fairly hurled him in through his open front door, back-heeling it shut after us.

The girls were clasping each other. They were not screaming. His mother, pale, worried, stared at me in apprehension.

From the windows we could see the mob, led by the trickster, haring back up the street. They ran gasping, with open mouths and staring eyes. Following them in full cry chased the Kataki-led Watch. Cudgels rose and fell. Some of the hooligans dodged, yelling; others fell with bleeding heads.

And I, Dray Prescot, laughed.

I’d chased them off with a false cry of the Watch, and they’d run slap bang into the real Watch out for blood and slaves.

I relished the joke.

“Sleed the Slick.” Dimpy sounded angry and contemptuous. “I hope the Watch take him.”

Now in the normal course of events in a situation like this one could go into a police station and request assistance. Down here with the Watch, a gang of little better than masichieri led by Katakis notorious for their hunger for human bodies to be collected up as slaves, such an open course would be disastrous. All the same, I had to get myself and Dimpy and his family up aloft out of this.

The pursuers and the fleeing disappeared off into the dimness along the street. Dimpy’s mother said: “I do hope—” She put a hand to her forehead. “This is all so — so dreadful.”

“It’ll be all right, mother.” Dimpy turned to his sisters. “Did you see Big Balla?”

They shook their heads — no.

I said: “Perhaps you’d care to introduce me, Dimpy.” By this I hoped to restore some normalcy to a fraught situation.

“Of course.” His mother was called Velda, the two girls were Samphron and Melly. They all bore the marks of living down in the warrens where existence was a daily struggle. They shared Dimpy’s independent toughness, his resilience, his — not to put too fine a point on it — his bloody-mindedness. I liked them at sight.

“We can’t stay here now.” Velda sighed, I guessed, at having to leave what, however ramshackle it might be, was her home.

Some vague kind of plan was already forming in my old vosk skull of a head. I nodded and told them to gather up what possessions they valued and could carry. With a careful survey of the street, carrying bundles, we slunk out. They turned for a last look back; then we set off.

“Once that tanzy Sleed shakes off the Watch, he’ll be back.” Dimpy’s voice was ice cold. “I just hope they take him.”

I wanted to know if they had anywhere they could hide and be safe for half a day. They were uncertain. Since the Hellraisers had taken over Roaring Fifties territory everything had changed. Their old friends had either died, been killed or had disappeared.

Now how the blue blazes was I going to get this parcel of folk up out of it?

If they could be stashed away somewhere safe, fine, I’d get myself aloft and get a lifter to come back for them. As it now appeared they had nowhere to go, that simple plan was squashed on the head.

The evening was gathering momentum, with people moving about, stalls with flaring torches and shouting barkers at every vantage point, places of entertainment gearing themselves for the night’s first performances. The noise was bearable, even with occasional odd echoes bouncing off the sides of the hills. If fights erupted, they’d be personal. The gangs were not out tonight — yet.

Dimpy was not dressed in the decent clothes given him from Princess Nandisha’s bounty; he wore a shabby old tunic. The ladies of his family wore the dress common down here, scooped as to neck and plain as to hem, in materials woven to give pretty patterns — flowers, birds, animals. They looked what they were, common folk from the warrens.

Among the throngs now out for the evening there would be eyes searching for Dimpy and his family.

My vague plan jumped a notch as I spied the place I needed. It didn’t matter to me what kind of decadent entertainment was being offered here, just as long as it attracted the clientele I required.

The front was built out of stone from the cliffs but you were left in no doubt as to the amphitheater’s capacity by flaring notices proclaiming the fact it was cut back into the earth. At the left side a narrow alley led back, on the right a wider road was obviously provided to afford access to carts. One such cart ground past now. We shrank back. The cage contained a muzzilla, all hair and fangs and claws, with a whiplash tail. The promoters of the fight might strap a dagger to that tail, if the muzzilla had been trained in its use. They were cantankerous beasties at the best of times.