by Richard Ford
‘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.
With a hiss, the little man had lit a taper, and ignited a small gaslamp. It bathed the room in yellow light that danced off the walls, and Blaklok was surprised to see how comfortable the room looked. A cosy looking armchair sat in one corner, and immediately Blaklok headed for it, not waiting to be invited.
The little man did not complain as Blaklok made himself at home, even smiling as he waddled across the room to close the door. The pain in Blaklok’s gut still ached and his jaw hurt, but at least his palm had stopped bleeding. He had also bruised his shoulder when Castor Cage had flung him across Big Betha’s but he was never going to let any of that show. Thaddeus merely sat and watched the little man as he turned and walked towards a small stove that sat in one corner of the room.
‘Tea?’ he asked.
Fucking tea! thought Thaddeus. That seemed to be the answer to everything these days. Leg fallen off? Have a cuppa. Dog dead? Have a cuppa. Soul been stolen by the Demon Prince of the fifth tier? Never mind, have a cuppa.
‘Yes,’ Thaddeus answered. Well, if you couldn’t beat them…
‘My name is Quickstep, in case you were wondering,’ said the little man as he lit the stove. Thaddeus remained silent, although he had been wondering. ‘I know it’s an odd one,’ he said, turning and grinning from beneath the shadow of his flat cap, ‘but that’s because it’s not my real name.’
‘No shit,’ said Thaddeus. At any other time he would have beaten the crap out of the little fucker to find out the truth, but right now he just wanted to sit and drink his tea. Besides, most of the people he knew went by some alias or another. It didn’t really matter. And this Quickstep had just saved his life – or his nose at least.
Quickstep busied himself at the stove for a few moments until the screaming howl of the kettle signified it had boiled. Within seconds he turned, bearing two very different cups. One was a battered enamelled mug, white but for all the chips and scuffs on it. The other was a porcelain cup and saucer that looked as though they had been stolen from the tea set of some aristocratic antique dealer. Blaklok was presented with the battered mug.
‘I suppose you’ll be wanting to know what all this is about?’ asked Quickstep, sitting himself on the sofa opposite Blaklok’s armchair.
‘I suppose I will,’ he replied, taking a long sip of tea. The brew was still too hot and it burned his lips, but he didn’t let on.
‘Well, needless to say, the mission you’re on is an important one, but you knew that already.’
‘What do you know of it? Were you sent by–’ Thaddeus stopped himself before he said any more.
‘I represent parties who are interested in the Key of Lunos. As do you. Whether those parties are one and the same is not for me to say.’
‘Because you don’t know?’
Quickstep smiled and lifted his teacup from its saucer. He took a sip, lifting his pinky finger in a dainty manner. After a long draft he placed the cup back on the saucer with a resounding clink. ‘I think what we don’t know about all this far outweighs what we do. Nevertheless, I’m willing to tell what I know if you are.’ He raised an eyebrow suggestively.
‘Go on,’ said Blaklok, eager to hear what Quickstep had to say. Whether he would feel like reciprocating afterwards remained to be seen.
‘Very well. I represent the Fane of Zaphiel. We’re not quite as popular as the other Fanes, but we are still a loyal part of the Sancrarium.’
‘I’ve heard of you. But how have you heard of me?’
‘Oh, we might be small but our eyes and ears are large. Despite appearances the Fane of Zaphiel packs quite a bit of clout.’ Blaklok could not argue with that, particularly after seeing the mess Quickstep had made of Trol Snapper’s vault. ‘We have been watching your… progress. Needless to say, I was sent to put you back on track.’
‘What does the Fane of Zaphiel want with the Key of Lunos?’
‘Nothing,’ replied Quickstep. ‘But we realise that there are other parties – nasty, loathsome parties – who want the Key badly, and who would use its power for ill. We also know that you’re not one of those parties, so we are willing to help you.’
‘Exactly what ‘parties’ are we talking about?’
‘Well, you’ve already had an unfortunate run in with one of their representatives. Hopefully the next time you encounter the Legion you won’t take them so lightly.’
‘So it’s the usual is it? This Cult of Legion want the Key so they can open one of the gates and summon their demonic master? Wankers!’
‘If only it were that simple,’ replied Quickstep, with a frown. ‘The Legion won’t stop at summoning one demon. They are named well. If they are not stopped the Manufactory will have more than its usual infestation of rats and almsmen to worry about.’
Blaklok gripped the mug, rubbing his thumb over the rough scuffmarks as he thought about the implications of what he had been told. The Legion wished to release their horde into the Manufactory. Conceited fools. What did they hope to gain? What did any demonist hope to gain other than immortality and power. They would learn their lesson the hard way, like all their kind inevitably did. Getting bummed by your demonic master was never pleasant.
‘Any suggestions for getting my hands on the Key?’ he asked.
‘The Repository is well guarded,’ Quickstep replied with a grin. ‘But I’m sure a man of your–’
He stopped suddenly, his head flicking toward the open window, the fragile cup and saucer falling from his fingers. Blaklok watched them fall, tumbling towards the stained carpet and releasing a limp splash of brown brew.
Then the window imploded.
Both men were showered with glass and shards of the wooden frame, and instantly Blaklok was on his feet. Quickstep had leapt up in time to meet a hulking robed figure as it shot through the empty window frame and loped forward on powerful limbs. Blaklok barely had time to register what the creature looked like – lean and muscular with ridges on its leathery flesh and spines on its back that protruded through its blood red robe – before Quickstep had smashed the thing in the face with a balled fist. The beast was knocked backward with a howl, curling up and grasping its wounded snout, as a second robed creature crept into the room. This one’s advance was more measured, and it seemed to be focused on Blaklok. He recognised the baleful eyes that stared at him with a hateful glow.
It was Castor Cage.
Thaddeus took a step forward, intent on settling the score with this weird hybrid of man and mons
ter, but more robed creatures were already creeping in behind, grasping the broken window pane and pulling themselves into the tiny room.
‘I suggest you make yourself scarce, Mr Blaklok,’ said Quickstep, moving in between Thaddeus and the advancing beasts. ‘Your task is more important than brawling with these foul monstrosities.’
Blaklok stared at Castor as he skulked forward, fighting the longing within to launch himself forward and settle the score. But he knew Quickstep was right; he had to concentrate on retrieving the Key of Lunos. The Cult of Legion would have to wait until later.
He turned and ran for the door. As he moved he heard an enraged growl, as the creatures bounded forward. Once again, Quickstep let loose his own brand of fury, and Blaklok could hear the uproarious racket as a battle royale ensued. He didn’t look back as he ran down the corridor and away from the fray. Heads began to pop out of darkened doorways, lured by the sounds of violence, but not one of them would leave to investigate. The inhabitants of the Manufactory knew better than to stick their noses in where they weren’t needed.
Back on the gaslit streets, the chill night air made Thaddeus long for his greatcoat, and he couldn’t get back to Mrs Fotheringay’s boarding house quick enough. Quiet as death he opened the front door and padded down the hall towards his room. It wouldn’t do to wake the old trout at this hour; the last thing he needed was her whining about him keeping odd hours, especially when he had a robbery to plan.
As he reached his door, Mrs Fotheringay suddenly appeared at the end of the hallway like a ghostly apparition, her hair in curlers and her face covered in some enriching balm. It made her look even more gruesome than usual.
‘Ah, Mr Blaklok. Out late this evening, I see.’