by Duncan Pile
“Fine,” Trask said. “We approach the Lotus Flower from the west and head for the alley on its northern side. There might be a guard lying there, pretending to be an opium addict. If he’s there, we kill him. We go down the alley, turn right and that’ll lead us to the entrance. After that we follow the map.” Trask pulled a folded wad of cloth from within his cloak and opened it up, revealing the crude schematic of the warehouse Jonn had drawn for him. “If all goes to plan, we’ll meet you coming the other way.”
“That’s the best scenario,” Jonn said. “If you get to Belash’s suite before I do, hang about for a few minutes but no longer. If I don’t join you, head up to the roof garden and capture Belash and the Wrench. You have their descriptions, right?”
“One man who looks plain as can be – average height, brown hair, brown eyes – and another who looks like a starved rodent.”
Jonn nodded. “If you get there first, hold them captive till I arrive.”
“Don’t worry. We won’t start the party without you.”
Jonn grunted. “Good luck.”
“The same to you,” Trask said, and padded off into the night, his men close behind him.
With a wave of his arm, Jonn rallied the remaining guards and led them towards Silandra’s tent, and the secret entrance hidden within. They dashed along the cobbles, trying to avoid attention, but the streets of the Thieves’ Quarter were never empty, even in the early hours of the morning. A drunk leaned out of an alleyway as they passed.
“Hey! Where you goin’?” she slurred. Another drunkard, roused by her cry, called after them too, but the men ignored them and teemed silently onward, leaving the revellers behind. Another silent, scurrying minute later, they approached a large canvas structure, looming and pale in the moonlight. Jonn led them round the back and pulled out a knife. The entrance to the sewers was in the partitioned, rear section of the tent. Jonn cut a long, vertical slit in the canvas, which parted around the sharpened blade with a barely perceptible hiss. Gesturing for his men to stay put, he slipped through the opening and into the dark interior of the tent. Light blossomed nearby as the sides dropped from a shuttered lantern, dazzling him. Jonn froze, his heart hammering in his chest. Was it Belash, waiting in ambush?
Someone called his name from outside the tent, but Jonn didn’t respond. His eyes adjusted to the light and he breathed a sigh of relief. The hand holding the lantern was slender; behind it, a fall of long, lustrous hair.
“Silandra,” he whispered, watching the fortune-teller carefully. He was ready to pounce if she tried to run for it, or to scream.
“The man with two faces,” she murmured. She seemed calm. “You’re here for Belash.”
“He dies today,” Jonn said.
“You’d better call your men in,” Silandra said, rolling back a rug to reveal the hidden hatchway.
Jonn stuck his head through the opening he’d made and beckoned for his men to enter, re-joining Silandra as his men quietly filled the tent. “Why are you helping us?”
Silandra’s eyes flooded with pain. “I tried to escape the city with my daughter, but Belash caught us. Now she serves in his harem.”
“Don’t worry,” Jonn said, reaching out and squeezing her hand. “She’ll be free by sun-up.”
Tears of gratitude filled her eyes. “Bring her back to me.”
“I will,” Jonn said. He turned to address his men. “Erik, you’re coming with me.” Erik was one of the men he considered a real friend among the guards. He’d helped save Gaspi’s life after his first encounter with a demon, and had been with Jonn through thick and thin. More importantly, Erik was deadly with a throwing knife. There was no way of approaching the guard post without being seen – first they had to descend a ladder and then cross the sewer, by which time the guard would have seen them and fled, rousing the whole complex against them. If that happened, they’d have to battle every step of the way from the sewer to the roof garden.
“Erik, when I give you the word, drop from the ladder and kill the guard before he can run.”
“No problem,” Erik growled, loosening his cloak and fingering the smooth hilts of his throwing knives, strapped across his chest.
“I’ll go second. Ruben, wait for the signal before following us down. If I cough once, come quietly. If I cough twice, come fast and in force.”
Ruben – a round-shouldered guard with a friendly face – was as strong as an ox and lethal with a mace. “Got it.”
Jonn glanced around, checking everyone was ready. “Silandra, shutter the lantern.”
They were plunged into darkness once more. Jonn gripped Erik’s shoulder. “Wait,” he whispered. “Let your eyes adjust.” It wasn’t long before he could make out the silhouettes of his men. He leant down, took hold of the hatch, and pulled it slowly upwards. It swung open without a sound, revealing the topmost rungs of a ladder. Light filtered up from below, presumably from the guard’s lantern. He tapped Erik on the shoulder.
Erik placed his feet on the highest rung. The ladder descended through a chute for several feet before he’d be exposed to the guard below, so Erik climbed down one careful rung at a time until he could go no further without being seen. He looked at Jonn, who gave him a nod, and dropped soundlessly to the ground. He fell into a controlled roll as he landed and passed from Jonn’s sight. Jonn jumped into place on the ladder and rushed down, hearing sounds of alarm from below. He reached the bottom and spun around. One of Belash’s men was slumped against the wall, the hilt of a dagger protruding from his chest. Another had tried to flee, but Erik had caught him in the neck with a second gleaming blade. He’d fallen to his knees, bright red blood pumping through his fingers as he tried to staunch the wound.
Jonn crossed the planks to the other side of the sewer and shoved the wounded man against the wall. It was Colante, one of the more likeable of Belash’s men, but a murderer nonetheless.
Jonn lowered himself to one knee and tilted Colante’s head back. “Is Belash in the roof garden?”
Colante moaned, pressing his hands even more tightly over his wound. Blood bubbled and squirted through his fingers and his skin was unnaturally pale. The man was a goner.
“You’re about to die,” Jonn said. “Let your last act be a noble one. Now tell me – is Belash in the roof garden?”
Colante’s eyes focused slowly on his own. “Am I really going to die?” he asked in a strangely childlike voice, but he never got to hear an answer.
Jonn rose to his feet. “Signal the others,” he told Erik, who coughed once, loudly and clearly at the base of the ladder. One by one, the guards slipped quietly down the ladder and gathered around Jonn. “Belash has doubled the guard, which means the whole place is likely to be on alert. If you see one of his henchmen, do not hesitate. These men will rip your lungs out as soon as look at you, so don’t give them the chance. Fight in pairs if you can and when you kill, do it quietly. Let’s go!” He stepped out into the tunnel and headed into the gloom, leading his men towards the heart of the complex.
Twelve
Trask moved swiftly through the darkened streets until he reached the Lotus Flower. As he’d expected, some of the tavern’s denizens still lingered, hours after closing time. There were seven in all, slumped and sprawled around the entrance. One man was mumbling to himself while the rest stared into space with glassy eyes. Trask beckoned to a small detachment of guards – a team within the larger group – and urged them on towards the loitering addicts. After a brief scuffle, they were all out cold.
Trask held a hand up while looking for the passageway next to the tavern. There it was, obscured by a tangle of creepers hanging from the tavern roof, its entrance cluttered with refuse. He moved quickly down the passageway and found the concealed alley at the rear that led to a thick, wooden door, guarded from within. He signalled to a tall guard called Kolan who followed closely on his heels, and ushered him forwards. According to Jonn, there were several special knocks that could gain you entrance to the warehouse, including one that was
only to be used in an emergency. That was the knock Kolan would use, claiming that a late shipment had caught on fire on the docks, and Nub had sent him to get help. Hopefully he’d be believed, but if not, Trask had prepared for that as well.
Kolan stepped up to the door and knocked loudly, using the pattern Trask had taught him. Moments later, a small viewing panel in the door slid open and a dark-skinned face peered out.
“Who’re you?” a deep voice asked suspiciously, but with a trace of urgency. If there really was an emergency, Belash would not be pleased by unnecessary delays.
“Kolan. Nub sent me. There’s a fire in the docks,” Kolan said, sounding suitably anxious.
There was a short pause. “I don’t recognise you,” the voice said. “Bill?”
After a brief scuffling noise, another voice spoke. “No, me neither.”
Trask’s heart sank. There were two of them. One man they could deal with, but it would be hard to stop the other running away to get help. Getting in without raising a general alarm was looking like a tricky proposition.
“I’m new,” Kolan said.
“Why did Nub send a newbie to headquarters? He knows better than that – and ’specially not to teach you that knock.”
“There wasn’t anyone else to send!” Kolan snapped. “Nub’s fighting the fire, along with a couple of dockworkers. Now come on! The longer you delay, the worse this will be. It’ll be getting near the opiates soon.”
The second voice rumbled something that Trask couldn’t make out. “I’ll have to check with the Wrench,” the first voice said.
“There’s no time!”
“If I say there’s time, there’s time,” the guard responded, a threat in his voice. “And I’ll tell you this, Kolan, the Wrench won’t like being woken at this time of night. If this turns out to be a waste of time, he will take you apart piece by piece. Now wait here till I come back.”
“Whatever you say,” Kolan responded, but he was already drawing the small blowpipe from within his clothing, loaded in advance with a poisoned dart. He raised it to his lips and the dart left the chamber with a quiet ‘phut’. A cry of alarm sounded from beyond the door as Kolan paused to reload the blowpipe, inserting a second dart with as much haste as he dared, but by the time he raised it to his lips the other guard had gone. Trask heard the sound of a body slumping to the ground, followed by the scuffling noises of a pair of heels, banging against the floor as the man convulsed and then died.
“Quickly, before the other guard returns,” Trask urged. He reached into his pocket and took out a small device – a contribution of Hephistole’s, who had offered it as a gift without asking what it might be used for. Trask smiled tightly as he held it against the door. Hephistole might not be able to help him directly, but the chancellor found creative ways to bend the rules.
The device itself was a hollow cone made of some kind of dark rock. Trask depressed the raised trigger protruding from its side, and the device began to vibrate in his hand. Hephistole had said something about energy and vibration, and more importantly that it would reduce wood to sawdust in about a minute. Sure enough, as he watched, the thick oaken beams around the device began to disintegrate. Trickles and then clouds of sawdust drifted to the ground as a hole appeared near the door’s upper hinge. There were two bolts – one at the bottom and one at the top, so Trask would have to do this twice. His heart was pounding, knowing that the other guard could return at any moment.
He inserted his hand through the first hole and felt for the upper bolt, finding it with scrabbling fingers. He slid it loose and withdrew his arm to start on the second hole. The cone began to vibrate in his hand, and he watched with mounting tension as the wood disintegrated. The moment the hole was large enough, Trask rammed his arm through it and reached for the bolt. He found it and pulled it back.
“Let’s go,” he urged his men and drew his short sword – ideal for fighting in close-quarters. He shoved the door open and slipped into the room, just as the first guard and a disgruntled, wiry-looking individual in hastily donned clothes swept around the corner. For the briefest moment they froze, and then the Wrench pushed the other man forward and darted out of view, yelling for help.
Trask cursed and ran at the first man, who belatedly drew his weapon but couldn’t raise it in time to block the vicious cross-swipe, which opened him from collarbone to hip. The reverse blow bit deep into the man’s neck, and he fell to the floor with blood fountaining from the wound. Trask bounded past without even glancing at him, followed his men, who had rushed by him during the fight. There was no sign of the Wrench but others were spilling from their rooms, rushing to intercept the invaders.
Trask cursed as they became embroiled in combat. He’d hoped to get much further than this before getting bogged down, but now it looked like they were going to have to fight every inch of the way to Belash’s quarters.
…
Jonn led his men along the underground corridors of the warehouse, making their way towards the more populated parts of headquarters. They came across two more henchmen on the way, going about night-shift errands in a half-doze. Jonn didn’t think either man, one of whom he’d known by name, had time to realise what was going on before their throats were cut. They didn’t pause to hide the bodies, making swift progress through the complex until they reached a stairway that led them to a broader, well-travelled corridor.
Jonn turned to face his men. “We’ll most likely have to fight the rest of the way. Remember – no mercy. These men do terrible things you would not want to imagine and deserve no clemency. Kill them quickly and quietly, and move fast. When we reach a corridor with tapestries on the walls, the men will be even tougher, so fight them two against one if you can, okay? Let’s go,” he said, and led them swiftly up the stairs.
Jonn reached the upper corridor in time to see several of Belash’s men running from their posts, heading towards the exit behind the Lotus Flower. He cursed under his breath; Trask and his men must be in trouble.
He paused, hating to leave Trask in difficulty, but quickly realised he didn’t have a choice. He had never planned for one of the groups to act as a diversion, but right now he had a chance to reach the roof garden with little resistance.
“This way,” he whispered. They rushed unimpeded along the eerily silent corridors until they reached Belash’s apartment. Three of the elite guard stood ready at the mouth of the corridor, blocking their path to the roof garden. Jonn didn’t hesitate, leaping to the attack, and was blocked by the nearest guard – a broad, muscular fighter called Vetaza. He and a second guard repelled Jonn’s men, effectively holding the corridor while the third man ran back into the complex to sound the alarm. Jonn attacked with renewed ferocity – the time for stealth was over. Vetaza was good, perhaps as good as Jonn, but Jonn fought like a man possessed. He longed for revenge, but more importantly, he was determined to shut down Belash’s operation for good.
He exchanged blows with Vetaza, the thrust and parry of exemplary swordsmanship, but Jonn could feel he was gaining the upper hand. An overextension enabled Jonn to knock the fighter back and force him to block an overhand blow that would have cleaved his skull in two. Jonn chopped again and again at the man’s head, his blows held at bay by a blade that dropped with each attack until it finally fell from numb fingers. Vetaza had time for a single plea before the next blow shattered his skull, and he fell to the floor with crazed eyes, each pointing in a different direction. On his own against dozens of opponents, the other guard was quickly overcome and was pierced through with many blades.
“Come on,” Jonn urged, and rushed ahead. He stopped at the end of the corridor and raised a fist above his head, bringing his men to a halt. Belash would be in the roof garden, the only access to which was up the stairway and through the trapdoor; a perilous route indeed, especially when he had to skirt an open courtyard to reach it. If Belash had archers, Jonn and his men would be attacked from above. If they didn’t, they’d only have to dodge a few thr
owing knives before going through the hatchway. There was also a chance Belash had left a few men hiding in the women’s sleeping quarters, which they’d have to pass before reaching the courtyard. They might even be waiting in ambush around that very corner. He pressed his back against the wall and inched along it till he reached the intersecting corridor. He peeked around the corner and swiftly pulled his head back. Nothing.
He selected six men and paired them up. “Go ahead and sweep the rooms but don’t go into the courtyard.” The six men disappeared round the corridor. An idea occurred to him. He singled out another couple of guards. “Go back and get one of the bodies,” he said, and they too disappeared, returning moments later with the slighter of the two men they’d killed – not Vetaza but the other man.
Jonn’s men returned from sweeping the rooms. “Nobody there.”
Jonn was surprised. If Belash had plenty of men to guard him, he might have spared a few to slow the attackers down as they passed through the women’s quarters. Perhaps the crime-lord was not as well defended as he’d feared.
He led them onwards, passing a row of empty rooms before reaching the courtyard and calling a halt. He considered waiting for Trask. The additional forces would make victory much more likely, but they also brought additional risks. The longer he waited, the greater the chance of Belash’s forces finding their way to the roof garden and attacking from behind. God forbid that Trask and his men had been overcome, but if they had then the only men heading their way were enemies.
It was time to go. “Move in single file,” he said to his force of thirty men. “Follow the portico – it should provide you with some cover. Then up the stairs and through the hatch, where our quarry awaits. Everyone ready?” The men nodded their assent.
“You two,” he said, indicating the men dragging the dead body. “Come directly behind me. Everyone else follow. Let’s go!” Hunching to make himself a smaller target, Jonn dashed around the edge of the courtyard, taking cover beneath the portico. Arrows struck the floor all around him. One of his men cried out in pain. Jonn rushed on and made it to the spiral stairway, where no arrow could reach him. He stuck his head out and saw three archers and two men wielding throwing knives. One of the knife-wielders spun towards him and flicked a wrist in Jonn’s direction. Jonn pulled his head back, and a blade missed his face by inches, clattering noisily against the brickwork.