Kultus (11 page)

CHAPTER TWELVE

It hurt to admit it, but the bastard had gotten away.

Blaklok had trailed Castor Cage for almost an hour, at times thinking he was on him, only to find the trail led to a dead end. He would pick up the scent again minutes later, but that too would only lead to nothing.

In the end, Blaklok was forced to admit defeat.

That irked him even more than being slapped around in Big Betha’s. He hated giving in; conceding defeat was worse than actually being beaten. At least losing in a fair fight meant you’d been done in by a better bloke. Giving up meant you were a fucking coward, only beaten by yourself.

He had been made to look an idiot in Betha’s and now had no way to atone for it. His only consolation was that the bastard Cage would keep. There would be another time for a reckoning; and soon if Thaddeus had anything to do with it.

Anyway, he had let himself become distracted by the circumstantial. All this traipsing around the Cistern was not getting him anywhere but humiliated. He had a job to do: procure the Key of Lunos. No amount of slogging round in the Cistern was going to help him do that.

Thaddeus began to make his way back up through the stinking tunnel towards the surface. Once he was out in the open air with the smog and the pollution he would be able to think better. He might even come up with a plan to break into the Repository, although he couldn’t imagine he would come up with anything different to the usual: storm in, break heads, steal goods.

It was thinking of this that distracted Thaddeus from where he was and what he was up to. It was how they managed to get the slip on him. Three of the fuckers, and big lads each, all tooled up to the nines. The first jumped out of the shadows behind him, garrote in hands. Blaklok had been out of the game a while and he had obviously slowed down during his time off, that was how the geezer managed to get so close before he noticed. Nevertheless, he still managed to spot the attack before that garrote was secured around his throat.

Blaklok grabbed the bloke’s wrists and twisted, turning them so his attacker’s hands were crossed, and then
he
was in the driving seat. He pulled back, thick arms yanking, and the garrote was around its owner’s neck in no time. Gritting his teeth, Blaklok tightened his grip, pulling with all his might and trying to strain the life out of the bastard. He was starting to enjoy the wheezing, hacking noises that were coming from his victim when a second garrote flashed over his head. Thaddeus barely had time to reach up with one hand and cover his throat before the wire tightened. It cut into his palm, shearing deep into the flesh, but better his hand than his throat. Blaklok was still holding his own victim, still pulling that wire tight around the bastard’s neck, but it was all he could do to fend off his second attacker. The one behind was doing all he could to strangle him, and Thaddeus had his hands full. If he let go of the first attacker to concentrate on the second he could be in even worse bother.

Before he could come up with a plan, attacker number three jumped from the shadows. Thaddeus didn’t have time to react as the last one hit him with a thick black sap. The first blow didn’t knock him out, and Blaklok was pleased with the surprise on the bloke’s face when his attack failed, but it was soon replaced by a stern look of determination as he struck again. This time everything went black.

The room he came round in was dim and stank of damp. As his eyes came back into focus, Blaklok could see it was more a vault than a room, metal walls on every side dripping with rust red moisture that gave off a rotting, metallic stink.

He was tied to a chair, the bonds were well tightened and as he tried to move he realised the seat beneath him was secured to the ground. Obviously this little torture chair was built for purpose. There was no gag on his face nor blindfold across his eyes, which instantly told him two things: they wanted him to talk and they didn’t care if he saw their faces. It also meant he was probably going to end up dead whether he sang a tune or not.

‘He’s awake,’ said a gruff voice from behind. Thaddeus tried to turn and see who had spoken but he couldn’t quite twist his head far enough.

‘Right then, let’s get started.’ The second voice was a deep growl.

Heavy footsteps resounded off the concrete floor and a tall figure walked into view. A black mop of hair sat over a horsey face and a startling set of huge teeth smiled down at Blaklok. This one was an ugly bastard and no mistake, but his suit was well pressed and a fine watch chain glinted on the front of his waistcoat. He took pride in himself despite his ugly mug. Blaklok liked him already.

‘Feeling all right?’ asked the man, eyes glinting and teeth shining in the gloom.

‘Better than you’re going to feel if you don’t fucking untie me,’ answered Blaklok, staring up at that horse’s face.

The man laughed, and Thaddeus could hear other voices chortling behind him. They sounded nervous, their laughter false and forced. Lackeys most likely, and this one was obviously their leader.

He leaned forward, still smiling that big-tusked smile, and slapped Blaklok hard across the face. It was a blow meant to shock rather than hurt, but Blaklok didn’t shock easily.

‘Don’t you know who I am? I’m Trol Snapper,’ he said, still smiling.

There was a pause, and Blaklok could only assume it was so the name had time to register. It was clear he was supposed to know who this ugly fucker was, and be scared.

‘Never fucking heard of you,’ Blaklok replied, still staring.

He saw a sudden flash of doubt on those equine features, but it was gone in an instant. This one obviously relied on his reputation speaking for him. Well now he would have to do the talking himself.

‘You’re as stupid as you look if you don’t know me, son,’ said Trol. ‘But that’s neither here nor there. I’m not interested in whether you recognise me or not. Word is you’ve been asking after a friend of mine. A recently deceased friend of mine, and you’re going to tell me why!’

‘Like fuck I am,’ snapped Blaklok, the words out of his mouth before he could even think about it.

This time Trol’s blow was not with an open palm but a clenched fist. It was hard and solid, but not as powerful as Thaddeus would have expected from a man of Trol’s size. He couldn’t wait to be let loose on this one; he’d show him what a fist in the face was meant to feel like.

‘Horatio,’ said Trol, glancing up at someone behind Blaklok. ‘It’s time to do what you do best.’ Snapper took a step backwards, flexing his fist as though it pained him.

Another man stepped forward. He was stout, broad featured with greasy hair plastered to his head, wearing plain trousers and a vest. He had seen some action recently, and a plaster was stretched over his flat nose. Blood still caked his mouth and nostrils, and Thaddeus fought the urge to laugh at him.

‘Now. Earl Beuphalus. What’s your interest in him?’ said Trol, slipping his thumbs into the pockets of his waistcoat.

‘Who’s your dentist?’ asked Blaklok, trying to sound as sincere as possible.

Horatio took a step forward and planted his fist into Blaklok’s gut.

Now this one could hit.

Blaklok felt the air rush out of him, his insides crying out in pain. He gritted his teeth against the ache and stared at Trol, ignoring his attacker.

‘Bet you could eat an apple through a letterbox,’ he said, forcing a grin.

Another strike to the gut, this one harder.

Blaklok couldn’t help letting loose a whimper of pain. Showing weakness almost bothered him as much as the beating.

‘When you kiss your mother you must be able to comb her moustache at the same time.’

Horatio’s fist struck his jaw. Stars danced around the periphery of Blaklok’s vision but he could still make out the look of anger on Trol’s face. Obviously the slights against his mother were a winner.

‘You think you’re funny?’ said Snapper, leaning closer. ‘You like to make jokes? We’ll see how funny you look with no nose.’

Horatio pulled out a straight razor and, with a flick of his wrist, unleashed the blade. A big hand grasped Blaklok’s ear, pulling his head back, and the razor slipped under his nose. He could feel the cold of the metal against his top lip, the razor’s edge just brushing the side of one nostril.

‘Don’t make me ask you again you ugly bastard,’ snarled Trol, his big teeth a hair’s breadth from Blaklok’s ear. ‘What do you know about Beuphalus? Were you the one that did for him?’

Blaklok thought hard, trying for another quip about Snapper’s mother, but he never had the chance to say it.

There was a deafening crash and the echo of buckling metal. Horatio released Blaklok’s head and staggered back, the razor now loose in his grip. Trol stepped back too and the pair of them were gawping like they’d just been slapped.

Another crash, and the sound of heavy metal hitting the ground. It rang like a bell throughout the vault and Blaklok tried his best to turn his head. The carnage was just out of sight; raised and panicked voices were followed by screaming. Horatio ran past Thaddeus and out of sight, quick to join the fray, but Trol remained, backing away as far as he could, his look of bewilderment soon turning to apoplexy.

Blaklok strained at his bonds but it was no good, they would not budge. Behind him all hell was breaking loose and he was unable to do anything about it.

A body fell to the ground beside him, covered in blood and flapping like a landed fish. Then it went still, the eyes staring up, dead and blind. That was enough for Trol, and he took his leave, sprinting off to Blaklok’s left. He left a faint nasty whiff behind and Blaklok was sure the buck-toothed bastard had shat himself.

There was a high-pitched scream, and the angry shouts died away. In the end, all Thaddeus could hear was the sound of someone being throttled. It seemed to last an age, that bubbling croak, and when it finally ended Blaklok realised he was next.

Footfalls clicked on the concrete floor, drawing closer with every resonant step. Blaklok clenched his fists, expecting big strangler’s hands to reach around his throat at any minute. Instead, the ropes that bound him to the rooted chair suddenly went slack and fell away.

Blaklok stood and spun like a scalded cat, expecting to see some hideous giant, but the figure that had seemingly saved him was the most inoffensive he had ever clapped eyes on.

The man was small, wearing a flat cap and brown raincoat. From beneath the peak of his hat he smiled amiably. ‘Hello,’ he said. ‘I think we should go now.’ It was a friendly suggestion, rather than an order, and Blaklok almost laughed. If the room had not been full of bodies he well might have.

‘I think that’s a good idea,’ he replied, and moved quickly towards the large hole in the wall that had previously been blocked by a huge steel door, now so much twisted metal on the ground.

As he moved down the tunnel, away from Snapper’s torture room, the amiable figure of his rescuer trotted alongside, his small legs too short to keep up with Blaklok’s stride.

There were a lot of questions that needed answering here. But he guessed they could bloody well wait, at least until they were away from the heaped corpses.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

It wasn’t long before Blaklok had to stop and confront his newfound ‘companion’. He looked down at the man, who was a good head-and-a-half shorter than he was, staring his stare into those amiable little eyes.

‘All right, what the fuck’s going on?’

The man smiled slyly. ‘All will be revealed, Mr Blaklok. Please, let’s continue. Although Snapper’s men were easily dealt with, there will be more. And I was forced to carry out your rescue somewhat indiscreetly. Who knows what kind of ruffians might be after us.’

With that, he doffed his cap and led the way towards the surface.

Blaklok could do nothing else but follow.

They walked for what seemed like hours. It was a circuitous route through the winding tunnels of the Cistern, and one that Blaklok didn’t recognise, but he wasn’t about to complain. He was happy to put as much space between himself and the bowels of the Cistern as he could, especially now he knew there were several Chamber members out to do him mischief. Besides, something about this little fellow in his brown coat and flat cap was most agreeable. He felt compelled to follow, like it was his purpose to do so.

When eventually they made it to the surface, Blaklok shivered at the sudden chill of the wind. It reminded him that he had lost his greatcoat when he had been in Snapper’s ample clutches, and only served to anger him further. Now there were two new enemies who needed to be settled with: Cage and Snapper. They would get theirs, sooner or later.

The little man led them through the darkening streets, eastward towards the Fell Marches. Though not the most ignominious part of the Manufactory, neither was the Marches the most salubrious of districts. Like many of the city’s slumlands, this place was bereft of Judicature interference. The rule of law was kept, in the most part, by its citizens, and the Marches were lucky in that respect. A union of workers held sway here, mostly honest men who just wanted to keep the peace for the good of their families. Extortion and coercion were rare in the Fell Marches, but that was not to say they never happened. Honest working men were just as likely to use brawn over diplomacy, and it was not unheard of for violence to spill out onto these usually peaceable streets.

As the gaslights were being lit along the grimy street, Blaklok was led into a dark doorway. No door hung from the rusted hinges, but by now he didn’t care. He just wanted somewhere to sit and think a while.

The stairs were rotten and old, and made a deathly racket as the pair of them ascended. Blaklok couldn’t help but notice his tiny benefactor’s footfalls hardly made a sound, despite the decrepitude of the stairway.

After walking along a dank passageway flanked with seeping walls, they came to a plain door. The man smiled as he pulled a tiny key from inside his coat and unlocked it.

It was pitch black inside, and a cool draft wafted in from somewhere to his left. It smelt of mothballs and incense; a welcome change from the damp stench of the corridor.