Kultus

by Richard Ford

  Thaddeus nodded curtly, fumbling his key in the door, desperate to open it and be free of the carping harridan.

  ‘It’s just that I expected you earlier,’ she continued.

  Thaddeus nodded again, then felt cold relief wash over him as the key clicked into place and released the door’s deadbolt.

  ‘Only you had visitors earlier.’

  He opened the door, then froze.

  ‘Visitors?’ he asked, deigning to turn and look at the wrinkled prune, standing there in her hideous paisley nightgown.

  ‘Yes, a trio from the Judicature, said they needed to ask you some questions. Led by quite a charming young lady, actually. I let them in your room, hope you don’t mind.’

  Thaddeus heard the heavy clack-click of a carbine being cocked.

  Its wielder was standing in his room, the weapon pointed right at his face.

  A woman stood to the gunman’s right wearing the crisp grey uniform of an Indagator. Her expression was reminiscent of a cat that had just clawed its very first mouse.

  ‘Thaddeus Blaklok, I presume?’ asked the Indagator.

  But it was quite plain that she already knew the answer.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  From the outside, the Ministry of the Judicature was as grey and stern as its walking, talking representatives. Bare, weathered stone walls surrounded a building covered in interlocking walkways that linked sharpened spires and crenellated turrets. It was a grim edifice of rock and iron, whose exterior matched the austere corridors within.

  The building teemed with stiff doubleted Indagators, armoured fantassins and sullen administrants, but none paid Blaklok any heed as he was led through the panelled corridors and down staircases embossed with intricate engravings, his hands chained behind him. The place was spotless and there was a stench of polish and disinfectant more overpowering than any infirmary Blaklok had ever had the misfortune to enter.

  Within the bowels of the Ministry, it was an entirely different scenario. The further they sank into its depths, the more the buzz of hushed conversation was replaced with an eerie quiet, occasionally interspersed with a distant cry of pain, until the only sound was the soft clicking of Indagator heels. The disinfectant smell was traded for the stench of piss and shit and damp, but after the Cistern it was almost welcome.

  All the while Blaklok was looking for his out, his need becoming ever more desperate the further into the depths of the structure they went. But these three were seasoned, they knew exactly what they were about. At every step there was a heavy carbine pointed at his head, his hands were bound and his chaperones kept a generous distance from him in case he happened to attack. Every time Blaklok thought he had an edge, or could see an opportunity for escape presenting itself, it was gone as quickly as it arrived.

  That pissed him off no end.

  By the time he got to the interrogation cell he had run out of chances.

  Blaklok was manacled to a high-backed metal chair, and his situation was suddenly becoming all too reminiscent of Trol Snapper’s vault. Torture and an endless line of monotonous questions were imminent, Blaklok could tell. When would these people learn they couldn’t get anything from him? Pain was irrelevant, an abstract concept and meaningless to a man who didn’t feel it. When you were not motivated by hope, when you knew your future was even more bleak than one wracked by constant pain, you were never going to break.

  ‘Thaddeus Blaklok,’ said the woman, standing in front of him. There were no other chairs in the room, that way the interrogators were always standing above you, looking down, keeping you small. ‘I’m curious as to why I can’t find any trace of you in the Judicature’s archives?’

  ‘Beats the shit out of me,’ replied Blaklok, trying to retain an air of nonchalance. It was difficult though; this woman had a keen look to her, despite her youth. Something about her was getting under his skin. The two tipstaffs that stood to either side of her looked intimidating enough but they were inconsequential, there was nothing behind their eyes but violence. But she was something else.

  ‘I’m hoping that beating the shit out of you won’t be necessary,’ she said. ‘Although from what I’ve heard it’s not an attitude you share.’

  ‘Just get to the point, love. I haven’t got all day.’

  ‘Have you somewhere else to be?

  ‘What the fuck’s it got to do with–’

  He was cut off by a steel banded cudgel playing a drumbeat on his thighs. Blaklok clenched his teeth against the pain, never taking his eyes off her.

  So much for the violence not being necessary.

  ‘Why did you kill Earl Beuphalus?’ she asked conversationally.

  ‘So you’re trying to pin that one on me are you? Typical fuck–’

  The cudgel hit him in the ribs. It wasn’t hard enough to crack one but it still cut him off mid-sentence. And Thaddeus hated to be interrupted.

  ‘Let’s say I have a strong hunch,’ she continued. ‘If not you then who?’

  ‘How the bloody hell–’

  He was stopped by a punch to the jaw.

  ‘Shit! You fuck–’

  Followed by another.

  ‘You cunt, I’m go–’

  And another.

  Blaklok fell silent.

  His mouth and nose were bleeding, and this bitch didn’t seem to care what answers he was going to give until he told her what she wanted to hear. For now it was time to retreat.

  Her questioning went on for almost an hour, the same old sounds interspersed with a cudgel blow or a fist on flesh, but Blaklok took it all silently. He was deep inside now, listening from within a cavernous hole, watching and waiting.

  When it was finished they dragged him to a cell. By then he was too weak to overcome them, even when they un-manacled his wrists.

  He lay on the floor of the cell for untold minutes. It was time wasted but Blaklok needed it to bring himself out of his torpor. Besides, it was a well deserved break from the incessant beatings he had been taking for the past two days.

  When he eventually managed to sit up, peeling his bloody face off the cold stone floor, he saw that there was only one way out of his current situation. The cell door was thick and solid, the lock only accessible from the outside. Four walls surrounded him and no windows.

  It was time to call in the cavalry.

  As he thought about it, a smile crossed his face. Those fuckers would get such a surprise when they opened up the cell to find him gone.

  There was no salt or chalk handy. No chipped stone to make a mark on the floor and not enough dust and grime to mould into the shape of the sigils he needed.

  It would have to be blood.

  Blaklok only hoped he had enough left to spare; his face and chest were covered in the stuff.

  After working his jaw to get the blood-ridden saliva flowing, he let a line of scarlet drool spew from his mouth. It wasn’t much but it was a start. This he carried on for several minutes, shaping a basic summoning circle on the floor. Then, holding his nostril taught, he snorted out some more cruor-riddled sputa within the circle, licked his finger and wrote the requisite sigils required for the ritual. By the time he was on the last symbol his drool was running out. It would have added insult to injury if he’d had to open a vein to finish the cryptograph. He just managed to complete the last part as his mouth went dry.

  There was no summoner’s pentacle, he would have to perform this conjuration dry. Well, he was in enough shit already, how much worse could it be if he opened a portal to the Pit with no protection?

  Falling to his knees, Blaklok began the incantation. As the black words spilled from his lips, the parched feeling in his throat and mouth was replaced with the taste of hot bile. It was as though his body was rejecting the abhorrent language he was uttering, as though every fibre of his being recoiled in the face of such degrading blasphemy. Blaklok fought for control, struggled to stay in charge of his will and his faculties. Hot winds blew into his face and he felt his bladder suddenly fill. H
is fingernails dug into his palms and the stench of rotting eggs flared within his nostrils, but still he kept his eyes closed. It wasn’t as if he had never looked into the abyss before, but the sheer memory of the sight was enough to keep his lids firmly clamped.

  All the while he continued his foul litany until the words themselves seemed to take over, and he no longer had to concentrate on the pronunciation and inflection. All he had to worry about was not shitting himself.

  Then came the noise. It was like ice and fire, high pitched and booming all at once, a raging torrent in his face. He could only imagine this must be the closest he would come to feeling the exhilaration and the shit-storming terror of falling to his death, without actually having to fling himself from the tallest tower in the Spires. At least he hoped he would never experience it.

  And then all at once it was gone. The wind, the heat, the fear, all but the stench; that sulphurous linger, now mixed with a damp animal stink.

  ‘We were not expecting to see you again so soon.’

  Rankpuddle’s voice was like slime running over Blaklok’s skin. The spinning had also started in his head and he knew it would only get worse if he opened his eyes.

  ‘I’ve run into a bit of a problem,’ he said, feeling a little foolish to be having a conversation with his eyes shut.

  ‘We cannot say we are not a little disappointed. Thaddeus Blaklok came highly recommended. We are finding nothing to justify such a recommendation.’

  ‘Well boo fucking hoo. Right now I’m all you’ve got. Or is there someone else you can turn to?’ Blaklok paused, waiting for a reply, but none was forthcoming. ‘Yeah, I thought not. So I suppose we’ll both just have to make the best of a bad do. Can you get me out of here or not?’

  Rankpuddle began to make a throaty noise, like he was choking on his own vomit. Blaklok could only assume it was what passed for the creature’s laugh.

  ‘Thaddeus Blaklok asks if we can get him out of here. That is jocular.’

  ‘I don’t see what’s so funny you stinky little shit. And if you don’t stop laughing–’ He opened his eyes and instantly regretted it. Rankpuddle was standing before him, but the room was reeling, causing the hideous creature to flicker from right to left in his field of vision, then snap back to its starting point like a broken record. Nevertheless, Blaklok kept his eyes open, fighting the dizziness, willing it away.

  ‘Of course we can get you out of here, Thaddeus Blaklok. As long as you can pay the price?’

  Typical demon; always on the bastard want. It couldn’t be much, a low class imp like Rankpuddle wouldn’t dare ask for a bestowal of umbra, not for such a simple petition of aid.

  ‘All right, what are you after? Is it blood? I don’t know how much of that I’ve got left to give. It cost me enough to get you here.’

  ‘For this, Thaddeus Blaklok, the price is bone and flesh. Can you pay?’

  Blaklok’s fists clenched. Anywhere else, with time to prepare and the resources available, it would have been a simple and easy request. A rat, a chicken, sometimes even insects were acceptable depending on who was asking, but stuck in here there were few options.

  ‘I don’t suppose I can have this one on the cuff?’

  ‘For this, Thaddeus Blaklok, the price is bone and flesh. Can you pay?’ repeated the demon.

  ‘Guess not,’ said Thaddeus quietly.

  A toe would have probably been much preferable to one of his fingers but he didn’t have a blade handy and he had never been flexible enough to bite his toenails. Thaddeus looked down at his hands. He splayed his fingers, counting them for the last time, then stuck the little finger of his left hand into his mouth. As he bit down he stared at Rankpuddle. The little stinky shit – there would be a reckoning for this as well as the rest he owed.

  The pain coursed up his hand as teeth split flesh. Every fibre of his being was screaming for him to stop, but Thaddeus had long ago learned to ignore the expostulation of his body. In a second he was down to the bone, his teeth grinding against it as he twisted his jaws, and all the while he stared at the cursed imp, fighting the urge to scream in rage lest it be mistaken for pain, or worse – fear. He could hear the crack of cartilage as the proximal separated from the metacarpal, and with one final wrench of his jaws he pulled his hand away.

  With his right hand he plucked the severed digit from his mouth and flung it towards the squatting creature.

  ‘We thank you,’ said Rankpuddle with a smile. His yellow dog’s teeth were bared and Blaklok could see the black gums attached. Then everything began to swim. Not just his field of vision but his hearing too, even the rank smell of sulphur seemed to undulate on his palate, mixing with the acrid stench of burning.

  He fell hard.

  His back hit a metal surface and pain jarred through him, right down to the tip of his missing finger. Blaklok barely had time to reach out and grip the siderail before he was flung from the roof of the monotrain. Black smoke billowed in his face as the steam engine powered itself along a single elevated track, far above the twisting streets below.

  Silently Blaklok cursed the shit-eating demon back to hell. Was this his idea of a joke? Transporting him straight onto the roof of a moving monotrain might have seemed like a laugh, but how was he going to get the Key if he fell to the ground below? He was already a finger down, he doubted he would be in any fit state to finish the job if he was bounced off a pavement from a great height.

  The train pulled into the station with a clatter of sleepers and squealing of breaks. Thaddeus was only too happy to jump from the roof, still clutching his bleeding hand.

  So many scores to settle and so little time. But they would all have to wait, for now it was back to business.

  Enough of the pratting around, there were heads to break and a Key to steal at the Repository. Blaklok’s blood was up and he was ready to do what was asked of him.

  Just let somone try and stop him!

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  He kept to the back streets, striding past the whores and cutthroats, through the slick filth and steaming vents. Even in his fury he knew better than to walk the main thoroughfares and attract attention. In the back alleys no one would pay him much mind. The anger raging in his eyes and the clothes covered in blood would not attract much notice here amongst the pimps and soaks.

  Despite his ire, Blaklok’s mind was still churning – rumbling with lucid thoughts, all the whys and wherefores. He had been set up, his name put in the frame for Beuphalus’s death. That could have been done by any one of the three parties he had pissed off in the recent past. Lord Julius perhaps, but Thaddeus thought him too caitiff. Trol Snapper maybe, but why would a criminal of the Cistern have the Judicature do his dirty work for him? Most likely it was the followers of the demon Valac. It was more like the actions of the nobs to get the Indagators to do their shitwork, and Blaklok had pissed them off royally by interrupting their boy-murdering party.

  Whoever was responsible, it would have to wait. There were bigger arses to kick right now. The Cult of Legion was abroad and in obvious union with their patrons, from the demonic look about them. The bestial creatures that had broken into Quickstep’s tenement had been human once; you could see that in their eyes. Part of Blaklok pitied them. Most of him just wanted to beat them silly. If Quickstep was right they were after the Key of Lunos, and if they were as clever as they seemed they would know that other parties – Blaklok and Quickstep included – knew about their aims. In turn, that would mean they were probably even now planning their break-in of the Repository, if they weren’t in there already, stealing the Key from under the noses of the Repository’s curators.

  This angered Thaddeus to the quick. Didn’t they know the Key was his to steal? It wasn’t for a bunch of soul-selling, demon-loving pricks who wanted to unleash hell on the Manufactory!

  He was close now, almost at the Repository. Part of him was ready to storm up the stairs to the entrance and start smashing skulls, but he stopped himself. He remembered the cu
stodians in their armour, carbines cocked and ready. It might be easy to take two or three down and maybe he would make it inside the building but he would never get to the Key by taking the direct route.

  Thaddeus looked around the grimy street he was on. In one corner he noticed a shifty looking figure in a doorway; pimp or pickpocket, he didn’t know which, and didn’t really care. In all honesty it could have been the most devout and bounteous bloke in the Manufactory, Blaklok would still have picked him.

  Without a word he walked towards him. The shady figure saw Blaklok coming and started to look round, panicking as the huge bald frame bore down. He barely had time to scream as he was dragged into the shadows and given a mild pasting.

  Blaklok used the bloke’s shirt to wipe down his bloody face. The coat he wore was too small but it still covered Blaklok’s grimy vest. The hat covered most of his bruised and yellowing face, and by the time he walked from the shadows of the doorway he looked almost presentable.

  As he reached the Repository’s entrance and strode up the stairs he kept a wary eye on the two custodians who stood guard at the door. Hopefully they wouldn’t question him, but if he was stopped he would simply have to improvise.

  One of them glanced in his direction, Thaddeus could see him leering from the corner of one eye, but he carried on regardless, trying to appear as innocent as he could – a hard enough task in itself. Just as the custodian made to move in his direction there was a sudden squeal from the street behind. The custodian stopped, his attention momentarily diverted by the noise, and in that brief second Thaddeus was gone, straight through the door and away. He glanced back before the huge oaken door closed behind him and saw a group of teenage schoolgirls giggling and squealing as they passed. On any other day Blaklok would have found them an annoyance… but not today.

  He moved through the museum, gliding past the other patrons and barely noticing the cornucopia of strange and sad creatures. His focus was on the Key, only the Key, and nothing would distract him from it. Several times his shoulders bounced heavily off someone in the crowd but Blaklok never noticed as he mounted the stairs to the mezzanine above.