Ruin's Wake

by Patrick Edwards

  He’d met Brabant back then, an accidental acquaintance, then a drinking companion, finally something like a friend. When Cale had decided to move to the remote north, Brabant had sourced equipment for him and for the last nine years had been his only contact on the outside world. The memory of the last message flashed in front of him and the ball of worry returned like a kick in the gut.

  I can’t waste any more time.

  He could unburden himself of Derrin and Ardal Syn once they reached the city, but getting in with them in tow would be tricky. The three of them made a strange group, something checkpoint guards were unlikely to dismiss. The Factor back in Endeldam had been one thing, but he didn’t have time for another entanglement. They would have to sneak in.

  Fatigue began to overtake him, and he realised from the shards of Marna’s light that it had been several hours since he began his watch. He shook some life back into his limbs and made his way back to their makeshift camp. The fire had burned to embers, so he stoked it and added more wood. Derrin was curled up and fast asleep. As Cale went to wake him he heard a low voice from the other side of the fire.

  ‘My watch.’ Ardal Syn was awake, his eyes glimmering.

  ‘You don’t need to,’ said Cale.

  ‘I won’t be baggage. Besides –’ white teeth flashed – ‘I still have eyes.’

  Cale carried him out to the sentry trees and seated him facing their trail. ‘If you see anyone, whistle,’ he said, and made to leave.

  ‘Care to sit a while?’ said Syn. ‘Peepers need to adjust.’

  Ignoring the call of the campfire, Cale eased himself down against the trunk of another tree. ‘What’s on your mind?’

  ‘A few things, buck. Whether those largs will catch our scent again. How much I’m slowing you down. Where the hell we are. That sort of thing.’

  ‘In a few miles we should clear these trees, then Keln.’

  ‘That’s where I was headed before all this unpleasantness. I have an arrangement with customs, shouldn’t be too hard to get them to let us in.’

  Cale shook his head. ‘No contact with the authorities. I don’t have time.’

  ‘Fine, we go sneaky-beaky. I suppose you’ve thought about that too?’

  ‘I know a way. We could be there by nightfall tomorrow.’

  ‘For the boy’s sake, I hope we are. He’s not built for this.’

  ‘I was more worried about you.’

  Syn’s face creased. ‘I’m an old mutt.’

  From the faint light filtering through the leaves above, Cale judged Marna was at her height. His hand settled on a twig and he began to worry the bark with his fingernail. All around was the sound of the forest at night: small animals moving through the underbrush, insects burrowing under the bed of needles. No footsteps creeping up on them, no ranging pack of largs sniffing them out. A light breeze made boughs creak.

  ‘I owe you for this,’ said Syn.

  ‘You don’t.’

  ‘You can say that, but it doesn’t make it true. I pay my debts. Tell me where we’re headed after Keln.’

  Cale was silent.

  ‘You don’t know how much I charge, so I’ll forgive the lame gratitude. Think on it and we’ll talk once we make the city.’

  ‘All right,’ said Cale, hoping to change the subject.

  ‘What’s his name? Your boy.’

  Cale dropped the twig between his knees. ‘Bowden.’ Saying the name aloud squeezed the air from his lungs and he was glad of the darkness.

  If Syn noticed the pained expression, he ignored it. ‘Not seen him for a while?’

  ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’

  ‘Parted on bad terms.’

  The certainty rankled, worse for being right. ‘You know nothing about me.’

  ‘OK, buck. None of my business. Put your teeth away.’

  Cale let out a slow breath. ‘I’m tired.’

  ‘Boys fight their fathers. When they’re grown, they’re surprised when their own cubs start biting back.’ Syn raised an eyebrow. ‘No extra charge for the wisdom.’

  Cale nodded and was quiet. In the silence, the tension dissipated.

  After a while, Syn said, ‘Go sleep, buck. Don’t want you dropping me on my arse tomorrow.’

  Cale brushed himself down and left Syn to his watch.

  He built up the fire before sinking into a bed of moss and needles, his back resting against the gentle slope of the hollow. He tried to sleep but the images of a younger Bowden’s face, his mouth twisted with rage, kept swimming in front of him.

  Derrin’s sleep was fitful. Sitting up, Cale saw him lying on his front and whimpering softly. His legs gave a sudden jerk and his hands splayed out, as if trying to stop himself from falling as he cried out, the sound muffled by the leaves and moss in his face.

  Cale’s legs were unwilling as he rose and gently shook the boy awake. ‘Shh,’ he said. ‘You were having a nightmare.’ The words sounded absurd in his head.

  Derrin’s eyes were wide. He shivered. ‘It’s so cold out here.’

  ‘Tomorrow this will be over.’

  ‘I hope so. I just want to be somewhere warm.’ He rubbed his shoulders under his thin shirt. ‘Thank you. Sorry if I woke you.’

  ‘Don’t worry, go back to sleep. Try lying on your back. I always have better dreams on my back.’

  The boy nodded and lay back with his feet to the fire. ‘We don’t have trees like this where I’m from. And it never gets this cold.’

  ‘You should go back.’

  Derrin shook his head. ‘I’ve nothing there any more.’ He looked up at Cale. ‘I never thanked you. For the Alec.’

  ‘Think nothing of it.’

  ‘No, I mean it. I owe you everything.’

  Cale smiled at the earnestness. ‘Have better dreams.’

  ‘You too.’

  * * *

  Keln’s docks were its ravenous mouth. A floodlit, cacophonous arc of warehouses, cranes and flat concrete, slashed out of the darkness of the bay. The backdrop to industry was the blocky skyline of mid-level buildings, all neon and pinpricks of light. The city itself was the furnace, the belly of civilisation. Ports like Keln took the trade of ocean, ate it up, digested it in a smattering of freight terminals, markets and storehouses before excreting it out along the many rail lines that radiated out into the plains. The main roads were filled, even at night, with convoys taking munitions to the Army depositories in Bala, cloth to the factories in Lenis, salt to the capital, Karume. Keln did not rest so long as the Hegemony hungered.

  The breakwater beacons blinked in the night, almost invisible from the shore under the glare of the lamps that illuminated the cargo aprons and a dozen unloading ships. There was unceasing motion and bustle. The calls of dock workers echoed down the endless lines of cargo crates. In each metallic box, small pieces of the greater puzzle that was the Hegemony: food in some, alcohol in others; clothes, medical supplies, furniture. Larger crates contained ground cars and skimmers, everything from simple utility vehicles to the sleek, dark executive cars from the luxury factories in Aspedair, bound for high-ranking officials in the capital. Aspedair did good business in Keln. It was not the largest of the Circlesea ports, but it was the oldest and the ties to the Free City were strong, meaning it was the prime entry point for illegal goods.

  As the night reached its darkest point a consignment of containers that did not appear on any manifest was unloaded from a cargo ship and taken straight to one of the smaller exits. Hegemony officials were absent, off conducting an inspection at the far end of the docks, a distraction paid for in unmarked envelopes. A rusty old gate, marked as sealed on official plans, creaked as it slid open, pushed by silent men in dark clothes. A single guard watched, unmoving, as it yawned wide.

  Waiting nearby were several empty trucks, and beyond, in the darkness, was the open countryside. The lights in this part of the port were badly maintained, those that still worked emitting a muddy brown glow that cast sickly shadows. Others blink
ed on and off in a mad rhythm, illuminating the approaching cargo hopper with flashes of stained yellow. The small, one-man vehicle’s tyres squeaked under its burden as it turned the corner into the loading area by the gate. As he saw it come near, the guard hit a switch and plunged the area into darkness.

  The quiet men moved like ghosts, their motions practised and assured. Each wore a set of goggles and worked quickly to transfer the crates from the loader to the trucks. Engines fired and the men jumped on board. The small convoy moved off through the open gate, taking a dirt road that led away from the city.

  The lights flickered back to life and the driver of the loader climbed from his cab to help the guard with the heavy iron gate. As he dropped to the ground he saw a flicker of motion. Two shapes, one slight, one odd-shaped and bulky, running in from the darkness and heading for the nearby alleyways. He called out to the guard who scrambled for his rifle, knocking the magazine from its housing. He swore as he scooped it up and jammed it back in, taking aim just as the fleeing shapes reached an alley mouth.

  The shot rang out, echoing off the containers.

  When the guard checked the alley mouth, there was no sign of a body, just a spatter of fresh blood on the wall. Not wanting to attract attention – to the gate or his extra income – he decided not to file a report.

  * * *

  A hulking bodyguard stopped Cale outside the door to the office. He heard voices coming from inside, one pitched so low it almost sounded like the rumble of an engine. After a few minutes the door opened and a sharp-nosed man in a dark hood stepped out. He flicked a nervous glance at the neckless, bald bodyguard before making off down the stairs. Cale was ushered in by a meaty hand.

  The office above the warehouse was plush. Walls were lined with leather-bound books and gilt-framed art, most of it likely illegal. In one corner a ring of chairs surrounded a low glass table and a large arched window took up most of one wall, lightly frosted and looking out over the twinkling night-time vista of Keln’s docks.

  The room was dominated by an enormous hardwood desk and the equally enormous man who sat behind it. Brabant had been a pile of muscle when Cale first knew him and that size had now run to fat; sheathed in a caftan of light yellow silk, he sat back in his high-backed chair and watched Cale as he entered. His head and many chins were shaved clean and one ear was hung with a large inset jewel. He looked like a man who’d lived life well, perhaps even gone soft, though Cale knew better than to be taken in. A closer look beneath the many rings and bracelets showed flat, callused knuckles and the fine nose had, on closer inspection, been broken and reset. Underestimating a man like Brabant was all the better for his margins.

  ‘Sit down, Cale,’ rumbled the mountain in silk. ‘Please, have something to drink.’

  Cale waved the offer away but took his seat in a plush chair, grateful for the thick cushions. His many cuts and bruises had been seen to by a sullen but competent medico and his head wound bandaged, but the painkillers only dulled the aches. On the desk in front of him he noticed a paperweight and recognised it as one of his own make – a small bird, carved from the same white polished stone as his Faces. He didn’t remember sending it.

  ‘The bullet only grazed your skull, my man tells me,’ said Brabant. ‘Just a fraction over and you’d have been someone else’s mess. You always were a lucky one.’

  ‘Thank you for taking us in,’ said Cale.

  Brabant waved his hand. ‘Unimportant. You know you’re welcome here, at any hour.’

  ‘The man at the docks, the guard—’

  ‘—has been taken care of. Don’t worry, Cale. I’m just glad you made it this far.’ Brabant leaned back and steepled his fingers under his nose. ‘I didn’t know if you’d even received my message. That’s the problem with this system of ours; it is somewhat one-sided.’

  ‘I came straight away. I ran into some problems.’ As if on cue, his ribs throbbed and he winced.

  ‘So I can see,’ said Brabant. ‘Pardon me, old friend, but you look like shit.’

  Cale managed a narrow smile. ‘It’s good to see you.’

  Brabant clapped his hands together and rose. He rounded the desk and took the chair next to Cale. He placed a hand on Cale’s arm.

  ‘I’m truly sorry. About Bowden. Anything you need, just name it. If you need somewhere to stay—’

  ‘I’m moving on, Brabant. Immediately. I’ve lost enough time.’

  ‘You’ve been hurt. You’re not as young as you were, these things take time.’

  Cale fixed Brabant with a look and shook his head.

  The fat man held his gaze for a moment, then looked away. ‘If you think it best, I can’t stop you. At least stay for tonight, give me a chance to gather some things for you. Clothes, patches for your wounds. You’ll need weapons. I can have them ready by morning.’

  Cale nodded. ‘Thank you again.’

  ‘I told you, it’s unimportant. One thing though – your arrival has caused some echoes. I can make them go away, but I need the three of you gone quietly and at the same time.’

  Cale shook his head. ‘This is my problem, not theirs. With a new set of limbs, Syn can handle himself and Derrin needs a contract on a ship. Neither would be a stretch for you to arrange.’

  ‘Normally you’d be right, but as I said,’ Brabant waved a glittering hand, ‘echoes. For their part they seem very keen to come along. Both of them feel they owe you.’

  ‘They don’t.’ Cale shut his eyes as his head throbbed. When the wave passed he opened his eyes and saw Brabant looking at him with a worried expression.

  ‘You know where he is,’ said the fat merchant. ‘You know this might not work.’

  ‘I have to try,’ said Cale.

  Brabant nodded slowly, then rose from his chair. ‘I’ll arrange for transport. It won’t be comfortable but once you get to Debrayn you’ll be in the clear to do what you need to do. It’s not too far from the coast; you can offload your young friend there if that’s what you decide to do. As for the other one…’ Brabant paused, playing with a thick golden ring on his middle finger. ‘What do you know about this Ardal Syn?’

  ‘Nothing, other than what he told me. He’s a mercenary.’

  ‘He’s dangerous, I know the type.’ Brabant leaned in and his basso voice rumbled. ‘Watch yourself around that one, Cale.’

  ‘He’s gone as soon as I get to Debrayn.’

  Brabant nodded. ‘All right. Good. I will say this for him: he’s good to his word. He bought some second-hand neticks from me and credit was good.’ The fleshy face lit up with a grin. ‘So at least he won’t try to rob you.’

  iv. Underworld

  Kelbee had always imagined subversives would hide underground. When it turned out to be true, she was almost disappointed.

  Nebn went down first, his hands steady on the rusted access ladder. His head disappeared below the surface, then there was silence. After some minutes she heard his voice calling gently to her, the sound funnelled by the manhole. She took another furtive look around her at the underside of the overpass, sure she was still being watched. Apart from a few mangy krits that scurried amid the piles of refuse and broken concrete, the place was deserted.

  Taking a breath, she placed her foot on the first rung of the ladder, which hummed as it took her weight. She felt around below with the other foot for the next one and found it. Slowly, like he’d said, she descended until her eyes were level with the ground. One more step down and she was in darkness.

  The smell was thick and cloying like she’d dived into a noxious pool. She could feel it on her skin and intruding up her nostrils. She pressed her lips tight and let go of the ladder with one hand to pull her collar over her mouth. Her eyes began to water.

  ‘It’ll pass,’ she heard him say from somewhere below. ‘Breathe through your mouth, it helps.’

  She shut her eyes, as if that would help, then opened them again, annoyed with herself.

  ‘It’s on your left.’

  She loo
ked over and saw something on the wall glowing through a layer of dirt. She reached out and felt the tackiness of old rubber, then pushed the blister-like protrusion in. It gave a faint click. Above her the manhole irised shut with a groan, making her duck in spite of herself.

  Kelbee edged down, stopping once to cuff at her eyes. Her sight adjusted as she went; it was not total darkness, there was brightness below her feet where the ladder bottomed out. The shaft around her was rough concrete, dark with layers of age and dirt. A few more steps and she was through into the tunnel, then his hands were on her waist, steadying her.

  There was a pool of light around the base of the ladder, but beyond only echoing gloom. The sewer was old but, judging by the stream of brownish sludge that ran by the concrete walkway, still in use. There was no handrail; just the thought of stepping off the edge into the stinking flow made her throat tighten, so she kept her eyes up. What little she could see of the tunnel was clad with grimy green tiles. Light came from a single recessed bulb in the ceiling; the darkness beyond was so absolute that she welcomed even its sickly glow.

  As if hearing her think, he said, ‘I have to turn the light out. It’s a precaution.’

  Her eyes widened, but she nodded.

  He took her hand and squeezed it. ‘Just keep hold of me,’ he said, then found a button by the ladder and pressed it. The light clicked off.

  He held her hand tight and led her through the tunnels. Occasionally, he would pause for a moment before continuing down this or that side tunnel. Their footsteps echoed off the curved ceiling, rasping concrete mostly, sometimes the clank of metal catwalks. She shuddered to think what was washing under their feet in the darkness. Just one misstep away. The smell didn’t get any worse, which was small comfort.