Retribution Falls (10 page)

It was, in fact, the reason they’d come here. Having been burned by their last endeavour, Frey decided to play it safe with some nice, legal work that wasn’t liable to get them all killed. He’d all but emptied the Ketty Jay’s coffers to buy a cargo of smoked bloodfish, which he planned to sell inland for a profit. Apparently, it was ‘easy work’ and ‘nothing could go wrong’, both phrases Crake had learned to mistrust of late.

He headed up railed stone stairways and along curving lanes. The houses pressed close to a waist-high barrier wall, which separated pedestrians from the sheer cliffs on the other side. Lamplighters were making their way along the cobbled streets, leaving a dotted line of hazily glowing lamp-posts in their wake. Tarlock Cove was preparing for dusk.

As Crake climbed higher, he could see the lighthouse at the mouth of the bay, and he was pleased when he noticed it brighten and begin to turn. Such things, signs of a well-run and orderly world, gave him a sense of enormous satisfaction at times.

Orderliness was one of the reasons he’d liked Tarlock Cove on his previous visits. It was overseen by the family whose name it bore, and the Tarlocks ensured their little town wasn’t left to ruin. Houses were well painted, streets swept clean, and the Ducal Militia made certain that the ragamuffin traders who passed through were kept from bothering the respectable folk higher up the mountainside.

Dominating it all from the highest point of the town was the Tarlock manse. It was unassuming in its grandeur, a wide, stout building with many windows, benevolently overlooking the bay. A classically understated design, Crake thought: the picture of aristocratic modesty. He’d visited with the Tarlocks once, and found them delightful company.

But it wasn’t the Tarlocks he planned to see tonight. He went instead down a winding, lamp-lit lane and knocked at the door of a thin, three-storey house sandwiched between other houses of a similar design.

The door was opened by a rotund man in his sixties wearing pincenez. The top of his head was bald, but stringy grey hair fell around his neck and over the collar of his brown-and-gold jacket.

He took one look at his visitor and the colour drained from his face.

‘Good evening, Plome,’ Crake said.

‘Good evening?’ Plome spluttered. He looked both ways up the alley, then seized him by the arm and pulled him over the threshold. ‘Get off the street, you fool!’ He shut the door the moment Crake was inside.

The hallway within was shadowy at this hour: the lamps hadn’t yet been lit. Gold-framed portraits and a floor-to-ceiling mirror hung on panelled walls of dark wood. As Crake began to unbutton his greatcoat, he glanced through the doorway into the sitting room. Tea and cakes for two had been laid out on a lacquered side table next to a pair of armchairs.

‘You were expecting me?’ Crake asked, bemused.

‘I was expecting someone entirely different! A judge, if you must know! What are you doing here?’ Before Crake could answer, Plome had taken him by the elbow and was hurrying him down the hall.

At the end of the hall was a staircase. Plome steered Crake around the side to a small, innocuous door. It was a cupboard under the stairs, to all appearances, but Crake knew by the prickling of his senses that appearances were deceptive here. Plome drew a tuning fork from his coat and rapped it smartly against the door frame. The fork sang a high, clear note, and Plome opened the door.

Inside was a single shelf with a lantern, and a set of wooden steps leading down. Plome held the fork high, still ringing, and ushered Crake past. Crake felt himself brushed by the daemon that had been thralled into the doorway. A minor glamour. Anyone opening the door before subduing the daemon with the correct frequency would have seen nothing but a cluttered cupboard, probably accompanied by a strong mental suggestion that there was nothing interesting inside.

‘Watch yourself,’ said Plome. ‘I’ll go first. Third step from the bottom will paralyse you for an hour or so.’

Crake stopped and waited for Plome to shut the door, strike a match and touch it to the lantern. He led the way down the stairs, and Crake followed him. At the bottom Plome struck another match and lit the first of several gas-lamps set in sconces on the walls. A soft glow swelled to fill the room.

‘Electricity hasn’t caught on here yet, I’m afraid,’ he said apologetically, moving from lamp to lamp with the match. ‘The Tarlocks banned small generators. Too noisy and smelly, that’s the official line. But really it’s so they can build their own big generator and charge us all for the supply.’

The sanctum under the house had changed little since Crake’s last visit. Plome, like Crake, had always leaned towards science rather than superstition in his approach to daemonism. His sanctum was like a laboratory. A chalkboard was covered with formulae for frequency modulation, next to a complicated alembic and books on the nature of plasm and luminiferous aether. A globular brass cage took pride of place, surrounded by various resonating devices. There were thin metal strips of varying lengths, chimes of all kinds, and hollow wooden tubes. With such devices a daemon could be contained.

Crake went cold at the sight of an echo chamber in one corner. It was a riveted ball of metal, like a bathysphere, with a small circular porthole. He felt the strength drain out of his limbs. A worm of nausea crawled into his gut.

Plome followed his gaze. ‘Oh, yes, that. Rather an impulse purchase. I haven’t used it yet. Need to wait for the electricity to get here. To provide a constant vibration to produce the echo, you see.’

‘I know how it works,’ Crake assured him, his voice thin. He felt suddenly out of breath.

‘Of course you do. And I expect you know how dangerous and unpredictable the echo technique is, too. Can’t risk a battery conking out on me while I’ve got some bloody great horror sitting inside!’ He laughed nervously, before noticing that Crake had lost the colour in his face. ‘Are you quite alright?’

Crake tore his eyes away from the echo chamber. ‘I’m fine.’

Plome didn’t pursue the matter. He produced a handkerchief and mopped his brow. ‘The Shacklemores were here looking for you.’

‘The Shacklemores?’ Crake was alarmed. ‘When?’

‘Sometime around the end of Swallow’s Reap, I think. They said they were visiting all your associates.’ He wrung his hands. ‘Made me quite uncomfortable, actually. Made me think they knew about . . . well, this.’ He made a gesture to encompass the sanctum. ‘It’d be very awkward if this got out. You know how people are about us.’

But Crake too busy thinking about himself. The Shacklemore Agency was bad news. Bounty hunters to the rich and famous. He’d expected they’d be involved, but the confirmation still came as a blow.

‘Sorry, old chap,’ Plome said. ‘I suppose they found you out, eh?’

‘Something like that,’ he replied. Something much, much worse.

‘Barbarians,’ he snorted. ‘They take one look at a sanctum, then cry “daemonist” and hang you. Doesn’t matter who you are or what you’ve done. Ignorance will triumph over reason every time. That’s the sad state of the world.’

Crake raised an eyebrow. He hadn’t expected such a comment from this generally conservative man. ‘You don’t think I should have stayed to face the music? Argued my case?’

‘Dear me, no! Running was the only thing you could have done. They just don’t understand what we’re about, people like us. They’re afraid of the unknown. And those blasted Awakeners don’t help, shooting their mouths off about Allsoul this and daemonism that, riling up the common folk. Why do you think I’m brown-nosing up to the local judge, eh? So I’ve got a fighting chance if anyone discovers what I’ve got hidden under my house!’

Plome had reddened during his tirade, and he had to take a few breaths and mop his brow when he was done. ‘Speaking of which, he could be here any minute. What can I help you with?’

‘I need supplies,’ Crake said. ‘I need to get back into the Art, and I don’t have any of the equipment.’

‘It’s practising the Art that got you into this pickle in the first place,’ Plome pointed out.

‘I’m a daemonist, Plome,’ Crake said. ‘It’s what I am. Without that, I’m just another shiftless rich boy, good for nothing.’ He gave a sad, resigned smile. ‘Once you’ve touched the other side, you can’t ever go back.’ A sudden, unexpected surge of tears surprised him. He fought them down, but Plome saw his eyes moisten and looked away. ‘A man should . . . a man should get back on a horse if it throws him.’

‘What happened to you?’ Plome asked, getting worried now.

‘The less you know, the better,’ he said. ‘For your own good. I don’t want you involved.’

‘I see,’ said Plome, uncertainly. ‘Well, you can’t go to your usual suppliers. The Shacklemores will have them staked out.’ He hurried over to a desk, snatched up a sheet of paper that was lying there, and scribbled down several addresses. ‘These are all trustworthy,’ he said, handing Crake the paper.

Crake ran his eye over the addresses. All in major cities, dotted around Vardia. Well, if he couldn’t persuade Frey to visit one of them, he could always take leave of the Ketty Jay and make his own way.

‘Thanks. You’re a good friend, Plome.’

‘Not at all. Our kind have to stick together in these benighted times.’

Crake folded the paper over, and saw that Plome had written it on the back of a handbill. He opened it out, and went grey.

‘Where did you get this?’

‘They’re posted all over. Whoever that is, they want him badly. Him and his crew.’

‘You don’t say,’ Crake murmured weakly.

‘You know, the Century Knights just turned up in town looking for him, if you can believe that!’ Plome enthused. ‘The Archduke’s personal elite!’ He whistled and pointed at the flyer. ‘He must have really messed up. I wouldn’t want to be in his shoes when the Knights catch up with him!’

Crake stared at the handbill, as if he could simply will it out of existence.

WANTED FOR PIRACY AND MURDER, it said. LARGE REWARD.

Staring back at him was a picture of Frey.

Nine

A Matter Of Honour - Bree And Grudge - ‘One More Town We’re Not Coming Back To’ - Departure Is Delayed

Crake hurried through Tarlock Cove as fast as he dared. The streets were dark now, deepening towards true night, and stars clustered thickly overhead. The beam of the lighthouse swept across the town and out to sea. Crake walked with his collar up and his head down, his blond hair blowing restlessly in the salt wind, trying not to draw attention to himself.

Run, he told himself. Just run. You weren’t a part of it. They don’t even know you’re on the crew.

But run where? His assets had been seized, so he had only the money he’d taken when he fled, and there was little enough of that left. His only contact here was Plome, and the last thing Plome needed was to shelter a fugitive. He had his own secrets to keep. No, Crake wouldn’t implicate him in this matter. He’d deal with it on his own.

Run!

But he couldn’t. Because the only way he was going to stay ahead of the Shacklemore Agency was to keep on the move, and the only way he could do that was aboard the Ketty Jay.

And there was more, besides. It was a matter of honour. He didn’t care for Frey at all, and Pinn was beneath consideration, but the others didn’t deserve to be hung out to dry like that. Especially not Malvery, of whom Crake was becoming quite fond.

But if he was honest with himself, even if he’d hated them all, he’d have gone back. If only to warn them. Because it was the right thing to do, and because it made him better than Frey.

He traced his steps back to Old One-Eye’s, and paused at the threshold, listening for signs of a disturbance. He’d been seen drinking with the crew. If they’d already been caught, there was no sense getting himself picked up as well.

There was a good chance Frey hadn’t been recognised, though. The ferrotype on the handbills must have been taken a long while ago, ten years or more. It didn’t look much like Frey. He had a little less weight and a lot less care on his face. He was clean-shaven and looked happy, smiling into the camera, squinting in the sun. There were mountains and fields in the background. Crake wondered when it was taken, and by whom.

The drinkers were merry and the noise inside the tavern was customarily deafening. All seemed well. Peering through the windows, which were bleared with condensation, he detected nothing amiss.

Get in, grab them, and get out of town.

He took a breath, preparing himself to face the throng inside. That was when he spotted a pair of Knights heading up the street towards him.

He knew them from their ferrotypes. Everyone knew the Knights. Broadsheets carried news of their exploits; cheap paperbacks told fictional tales of their adventures; children dressed up and pretended to be them. Most citizens of Vardia could identify twenty or thirty of the hundred Century Knights. But nobody knew all of them, for they operated as much in secret as in public.

These two were among the most famous, and they attracted stares from passers-by as they approached. The smaller Knight was Samandra Bree, wearing a long, battered coat and loose hide trousers that flared over her boots. Perched on her head was her trademark tricorn hat. Her coat flapped back in the wind as she strode along, offering glimpses of twin lever-action shotguns and a cutlass at her belt. Young, dark-haired and beautiful, Samandra was a darling of the press. By all accounts she did little to encourage their attention, which only made the people love her more and the press chase her harder.

Her companion was Colden Grudge, who wasn’t quite so photogenic. He was a man of bruising size with a face like a cliff. Thick, shaggy brown hair and an unkempt beard gave him a spiteful, simian look. Beneath a hooded cloak, time-dulled plates of armour had been strapped over his massive limbs and chest. He bore the insignia of the Century Knights on his breastplate. Two double-bladed hand-axes hung at his waist, and an autocannon was slung across his back.

Crake’s mouth went dry and he almost fled. It took him a few moments to realise that they weren’t heading for him at all, but for the tavern he was standing in front of. They were going to Old One-Eye’s.