Maeve looked down at the headstone and the hardy white mountain flowers at its base.
“Yes I do actually. I’ve always loved graveyards. This is her?”
Beerbolme replaced the flowers with a handful of fresh ones.
“Yes. That is Izabella Gaunt. His wife.”
“Did you destroy his records?”
Beerbolme brought a leather folder out from beneath his apron and handed them across. Maeve could not tell if his expression was shame or resentment.
“I do not think he is an evil man, Inspector. He has served his city without question on the orders of others. I think he believes he serves it still.”
Maeve looked at the gravestone and beyond to the high cold mountains. The sky was a dark moody blue as winter evening set in. She pulled up the collar of her overcoat.
“I wonder doctor, if you would consider putting the kettle on again when we go inside? That tea really warmed my bones.”
Beerbolme smiled at her.
“Of course Inspector. We all need our soul reheated once in a while.”
As they turned to walk up the steps to the rear entrance to his practice, Maeve stooped and plucked a single white mountain flower from the graveside. She pinned it into her lapel.
Beerbolme blinked at the gesture.
“They are called snowtears Inspector. They are the only thing of beauty that can survive the high mountain winters.”
Maeve rubbed her hands together for warmth as she walked up the steps.
“Not the only thing, apparently.”
20
THE VIGILANTE’S TALE PART 6
The rain drove down upon the sloping roofs and temples of Tiger Bay.
It steamed up from the nighttime streets as if the peninsula were a fire to be extinguished. Midnight markets, brothels and gambling dens huddled together for shelter. The town was piled on top of itself, houses jutting out from the hillside at all angles. The population spilled out into the deep natural harbor on flotillas and barges that stretched out to the numerous smaller islands that made up the kingdom. There were entire families who lived and died on these rickety floating ghettos, their feet rarely touching the fertile soil of the island itself.
It was a saying in Tiger Bay that people came here to find life, to find their death, or to forget which one they wanted.
John Gaunt was pretty damn sure which one he wanted.
On the far side of the world the island sat in the South Pearl Sea in warm oceans teeming with trade and infested with pirates
Almost every building on the island was hung with lanterns filled with the national symbol of the Kingdom, the giant south sea firefly. So numerous were these passive but beautiful creatures that flitted across moonlit rice fields and hovered over gilded rooftops, that at night the island could be seen from far out at sea seemingly surrounded by a glowing warm amber mist.
One of the most valuable commodities ferried around the world via this strategically important den of vice was the drug Opaque.
Opaque was unique because it allowed the imbiber for a short time and with limited efficacy, to enter the spirit world.
From there its users could attempt to glean wisdom from the realm of dreams and ghosts, contact lost loved ones, or create their own limbo fiefdoms of the mind. It was much sought after by New Reign’s spiritualists, prophets and escapists. It drew the world’s addicts and experience seekers into its cloudy dream state and kept them there. Most serious users of Opaque did not see another birthday.
John Gaunt had stepped off a steamer that morning with the firm intention of inhaling the silver-blue smoke of Opaque and never waking up again.
He walked amongst the sea-market listening to the chatter of the ocean hunters and fishermen as they bartered for darkpearls or stingerfish. He stopped and smiled in front of an exotic aquarium with rectangular tanks stacked atop one another filled with bizarre sea life. In front, smoking a long blue rillo and standing over sizzling racks of street food, was the fat, braided proprietor. The sallow faced man noticed Gaunt’s interest and addressed him.
“Mister, you see anything you like? We have lustfish from the Broken Trench, one bite from them and you will stay erect for days, your woman will be much pleased. No? Perhaps it is not women that is your preference. Look! Sea nymphs from Akkara. They do not travel well but these ones would be excellent for the discerning gentlemen’s needs. I have a small pool in the back where you may sample one if you wish?”
The portly man pointed to one of the tanks behind him. In it were two young girls, perhaps fourteen, with slim athletic bodies glittering with iridescent scales, and elegant fish tails instead of legs. They were aware of the attention and swam sleekly to the back of their tanks, cowering behind a rock and peering out through the bubbles with fear and shyness.
Gaunt pitied the poor young creatures and whatever torment they would have to endure at the hands of sex starved sailors and greedy pirates. There were few rules in Tiger bay other than appetite. He could not bear to look at the hunted expression on the poor trapped sea beings and so turned to another tank.
“That one. Is that what I think it is?”
The fat man puffed on his blue cigarette and nodded slyly. He pointed at the tentacled creature that changed colour within its tank.
“Oh yes sir. That is a Nautilus squid. Very rare. They used to be a delicacy here in the restaurants of Tiger Bay. The Cuttlefish Bistro was the place to get the finest dishes of this creature. They served it as a summer soup, it was quite delicious. The dish was rumored to extend life, in fact the oldest woman in the city swore that it had helped her live past two hundred. Nowadays, it’s fallen out of fashion as cuisine. However, to the sorcerers and priests across the sea it has become quite sought after. Your fashion tells me you are from Free Reign, no?”
Gaunt nodded. His long leather officer’s overcoat was battered and weather beaten but it was still recognizable as issued from the New Reign military academy, Northgate.
“Once upon a time, yes.”
“Ah, well in the last year I have been paid handsomely by people from your eternal city for these creatures. Used in some experiment or other I heard. Not for me to ask, with the prices they were paying.”
The man tapped his bulbous nose theatrically. Gaunt peered across the bustling ocean market towards the city proper.
“I’m actually looking for the city’s best veilhouses and mistmarkets. Can you recommend?”
The man’s narrow eyes closed almost entirely as he feigned shock.
“Well, sir, you insult me. I’m a respectable vendor. If it’s the darker side of Tiger Bay you’re after I can’t help you. This town’s reputation for narcotics and prostitution is a stain on another wise beautiful port.”
Gaunt sighed and rubbed his stubbled chin.
“I’m just looking for a mistmarket that serves the purest Opaque.”
The fat vendor peered from left to right up the street then announced a little too loudly.
“Why yes sir, I can sell you a map of the greatest tourist spots and museums of Tiger Bay. There is also a noodle house I cannot recommend highly enough.”
Gaunt pulled a rillo from his brass tin and lit it, wishing the fat man would get to the point. The vendor leaned close in and whispered.
“Head straight up the hill from the harbor and into the purple quarter. The lower station for the cliff railway is there. Take the funicular cable car up the hillside to Pearl Street station. You will find yourself in the mage-market. There’s a large spirit machine shop there called The Latest Gear. In the alleyway next to that. That’s where you want to go.”
“What’s it called?”
“Madame Bonekeepers Mistmarket. It’s the best narcotics house in the city, but you’ll need money. The best doesn’t come cheap.”
Gaunt nodded. “Thanks.”
He nodded to the vendor and walked through the crowds up the moonlit hill.
He reached the top of the long cobbled street lined with
warehouses and seafront bars. The harking and stench of the midnight fish market faded, replaced by the raucous voices of drunken charlatans, corsairs and gamblers. Groups of men and women from across the world spilled out of pubs, cursing and laughing in a dozen languages.
Gaunt resisted the temptation to get blind drunk and start a fight, and threw his chewed kebab skewer away. He knew that there were men in these bars that would take a knife to him for the price of a drink, and he would have gladly bought the round, but that was not how he planned to cross over.
Hanging outside each building that he passed was a large lantern containing a south sea firefly the size of Gaunt’s hand that mindlessly bobbed and clattered against the glass, creating a pool of warm amber light on the pavement beneath.
It was well known that the giant firefly possessed a mild thaumaturgic quality, its light slightly increasing all appetites in those nearby. It had been exported across the world for various purposes, from helping the recently sick regain their lost weight, to being hung in restaurants and brothels to increase revenue. Gaunt thought the fact that Tiger Bay used the lanterns as its primary light source was a very telling clue as to the soul of the city.
Gaunt reached the funicular railway and bought a ticket from the station attendant. He lit another rillo and waited. As the purple quarter was the southernmost station at the bottom of the hill, Gaunt could see the giant wheelhouse that powered the system. Housed within it was an aquarium tank larger than a house. Through the thick armoured viewing window, Gaunt watched the massive wheel turning in the water. Within the wheel was an orange and black crustacean as big as an elephant. Its huge spiny piston legs scuttled tirelessly within its wheel, powering the tramcars up the steep incline to the upper areas of Tiger Bay.
There were no such creatures in the seas of the West and Gaunt marveled at the ingenuity. The tram car that trundled into view was a beautifully crafted wood painted a deep green, with a gently curving red tiled roof.
A tightly packed gaggle of painted women in silken robes and holding parasols giggled as they passed Gaunt, and he tipped his hat at them and then boarded the tram.
At some unspecified signal the giant aquatic power system starting pedaling its piston legs once again and Gaunt felt a small jolt as it began its steep ascent up the hill.
The carriage was busy even in the late hours but Gaunt was lucky enough to find a wooden seat by the window and he sat there peering out through the dirty glass. The night was humid and his shirt was soaked in sweat and grime. He could smell the sour odour of his own perspiration mix with that of the rest of the passengers.
He was not sure how exactly he had ended up in the South Pearl Sea on a spice steamer, he had just followed his feet and spent his money on whatever ticket took him the furthest. Airship, train or boat, Gaunt had boarded all in an attempt to run from his grief and his world. Now he knew that he had run far enough. He would find a way to cross over to the other side and seek out Izzy.
The tram clunked to a halt and Gaunt peered out at the signage on the wall. Shuffling past the pipe smoking man he disembarked at Pearl Street station into the bustling midnight mage-market.
Gaunt wandered past the necromancers, shamans and priests of all races and specializations. He was bathed in orange, purple and green lights as alchemists fizzed essence powders with liquids in puffs of coloured smoke that rose up shaped like snakes or tigers, before dissipating into formless clouds.
Gaunt avoided eye contact with the hawkers of sorcery and fixed his eyes upon the alleyway next to a technomancy shop called The Latest Gear. The street was crooked, narrow, cobbled and overhung with creaking balconies.
The perfect place to get lost.
Gaunt wandered down amongst the smell of stale urine and the lazily slumped vagrants until he came to the place he was seeking.
Taking a deep breath, Gaunt knocked on the red door.
Tense seconds passed, before the door swung open and a seven foot Firefox stood glaring down at him. It wore thick wooden armour over its reddish-brown fur and its snaggled fangs were stained with nicotine.
“No more visitors today.”
Gaunt stubbed a muddy boot in the door before it closed on him.
“I have money. I’ve been told to ask for Madame Bonekeeper.”
The hulking mammal took a deep drag on a soggy cigar stub and regarded Gaunt with its little red, calculating eyes.
“Names aren’t currency little man. Currency is currency.”
Gaunt brought out a grubby sheaf of notes from his coat pocket.
“I said I have money.”
The gatekeeper gave a sort of purring snarl then swung the door wide and let Gaunt into the secret den of vice that many entered and still less left intact.
Gaunt was led down a dark passageway to another locked door. The bristling Firefox guard knocked three times and the door opened. Gaunt was immediately hit with the scent of feverish bodies and acrid smoke. The room beyond was vast and its edges were lost in shadow. A few dim lanterns showed that the room was compartmentalized using drapes of silk and velvet, behind which various moans and sighs could be heard. Gaunt could see rhythmic movement and frantic limbs through some of the silken gauze. Moving around the room were serving girls of all races wearing nothing but the flimsiest gowns, carrying bubbling Opaque pipes from guest to guest.
Gaunt was suddenly aware of a shadow to his left and he heard a low melodic female voice.
“You’re wondering why so many people here are fucking, aren’t you?”
Gaunt turned to see a confusing creature sidle up next to him. Her torso was a voluptuous raven haired woman, too severe to be truly beautiful but striking nonetheless. Her luxuriant black curls were piled high on her head with a golden clasp and she smoked a long black rillo in a silver holder. Yet her torso sat on a lower half that was a bleached, bone-hard arachnid. She shifted her weight with a clattering tangle of skeletal legs and extended a long manicured hand out to Gaunt. Gaunt tried to disguise his shock at the eldritch woman and gingerly shook her hand.
“I wasn’t really wondering anything to be honest. But why are they?”
“It often accompanies users of Opaque. They are seeking to commune with the spirit of a loved one on the other side. Often they have desire to make love with the one they have lost. That, alas, is not possible in any practical sense. So I provide surrogates. These lovely serving girls who bring the pipes. They provide their bodies in service whilst the users are lost in the dream-state. In the fugue they believe it is happening with their loved one. I have males as well if that is what you prefer, if it is a man you have lost. Your arse won’t know the difference.”
Gaunt laughed mirthlessly.
“No, thank you. Are you the proprietor?”
The arachnid woman curtsied slightly on her eight multi jointed legs and blew out a trail of silver smoke. Her crimson lips parted in a practiced smile.
“I am Madame Bonekeeper. This is my mistmarket. You have tried Opaque before?”
Gaunt looked around at the patrons, lost completely to the world.
“No. Never. But here, I have money.”
Madame Bonekeeper took the wad of grubby notes and folded them into her brassiere.
“Then come with me. You’re in for a treat.”
21
The Demented slipped silently along nighttime streets. He was cloaked and cowed but he could not risk recognition. He had produced glamour before moving amongst the public. It had warped and twisted his features into that of a grizzled sailor. It was agony to maintain, his features held there like a perpetual cramp, tendons and muscles stretched and warped to their limits. His lips were drawn back and one hooded eyelid flickered in irritating spasm, but the disguise would suffice until he arrived on the island. The rain had started, sizzling and steaming off the streamlines that illuminated the alley he skulked along in a chilly blue.
He passed a few vagabonds curled up under makeshift blankets and shelters but they paid him no heed.
As he passed one unfortunate, the vagabond raised a dirty hand and called out to him. His voice gargled with the phlegm of respiratory disease.
“Excuse me, can you spare a Florrek or two for a hot meal?”
The Demented tried to pull his hood up a little to hide his face and walked a little faster. The overpowering voice that harried him daily boomed in his brain.
Tear him rip him cut him.
“He wouldn’t know what I looked like, master. Look at his eyes he has pickled his brain.”
Coward.
“Forgive me, I am committed to our cause. I will address it.”
It was no easy burden to hear the voice of your god in your head every day. It drained a man. The Demented stopped and slowly turned to face the homeless man. It was impossible to guess the age of the vagabond, the toil of life and layers of dirt had put decades on a frame that could have been thirty. The Demented crouched down before the man and saw him recoil a little. Even in his bedraggled stupor the vagabond could see something wasn’t right. He wondered if this cowed man was a war veteran like himself, as his face seemed twisted and scarred. What disturbed the vagabond was the pallid fever that sheened the man’s skin. It was the fever of the zealot. The vagabond held up his hands and showed his brown toothed smile.
“I…I don’t want any trouble. I just want to get myself some bread. A bottle of beer mayhaps, keep out the cold.”
The Demented drew back his hood and smiled back. The vagabond frowned in something close to vague recognition. In faltering voice he spoke.
“Do I know you, sir? Do you frequent the Markshall soup kitchen? You’re a gent I know, but maybe you’ve given charitable donation?”
The Demented rubbed his chin and slowly shook his head. He seemed to be wrestling with some inner question.
“No. No I don’t think you’ll have seen me there.”
The vagabond reached out a shaky hand towards the stranger and then drew it quickly back. He blinked and did everything he could to avoid eye contact.
“That ain’t your real face, is it mister?”
SMOKE AND BLADES Page 15