“Thanks.” Turning away, there was little else he could offer and wasn’t about to go on about where he’d come from on the chance, more like certainty, she’d sell that information. No matter what, the old woman would turn what little she’d learned from him to some ready cash—food more likely, as cash, even northern currency, did not seem to have any meaning. This meant he was going to have to think about what he could part with. At the corner, he turned right onto a gloomy street, a little wider, with buildings on either side that leaned, dangerously, forward and seemed to tremble in the breeze.
Twisting and turning from one street and alley to the next, these consistently grew in breadth and length. This seemed to be a good thing because it meant he was getting close to businesses and that meant traffic. More traffic meant more people, and more people meant a way out. Eventually he found the main road the woman had directed him to, which was a bit of a surprise. There was no reason she should have told him the truth; when he’d gone, there’d be no finding her again. All she had to do was relocate a couple alleys over and he never would have bothered to look further. Why tell him the truth after noticing the backpack he was carrying and how full it was—heavy too. He had to shift it a couple of times during the meeting and a vague clatter had come from this.
Still and all, here he was on what looked to be a main artery built for tractor-trailers and a variety of other heavy vehicles. It was showing its age—the tarmac was chewed up in places and knit together in others with a spidery tar sealant. On his left—looking north and away from the bay—was a bar and grill. Said so, Zampton’s Bar & Grill. The old woman’s vegetable had been good enough to take the edge off, but he needed more food. Some information about the city would be necessary, or advisable, before he went in. Looking around, there was no one on the street. He supposed the show was over—over because they’d a clear view of the bay where the Beluga Fay had sat at anchor only a short time before.
All that remained were a few gunboats—the other freighters’ rescue efforts seemed to have been abandoned. The gunboats would only be there to prevent any enterprising citizens from making a break—not that any of these seemed enterprising. This was in keeping with what he’d heard of the islanders—how true the clichés where he’d no idea, but there would be some truth. There generally were some facts in clichés, but this disguised much more that wasn’t. He needed to begin grabbing some facts before he blundered into the city proper.
Not with the bag, though. He went back a couple of streets, found a derelict house, and stuffed the pack under some loosened floorboards. It would have to do. Walking into Zampton’s with this would announce he was new to town—all would know where he came from anyway, but at least they couldn’t take the bag. Stepping out into the main road again, it did not seem to have a name—none of the streets had street signs—he turned toward the bar and stuffed the knife into the back of his pants. A scabbard would have been nice, but any sheath he bought for it would cost more than the weapon itself. For all the good it would do him, he may as well not have brought it—but it might persuade at least one fool to keep their distance.
Taking a breath, he pushed open the hoary old door, and the stench of unwashed bodies and hot air filled with tobacco and flatulence washed over him.
“There are always some.” Zeb answered, as he turned back around the bar, wiping it down with a damp cloth he always kept tucked under his belt. Beside the cloth was a stiletto in a worn, fraying sheath. He was a big man, not simply tall—though he was about a head taller or more than most others in Zampton’s—but his girth and the muscle beneath this gave the man a presence most stepped aside from when he was angry. His complexion, a deep black, was usually shiny because the heat made everyone sweat, constantly, and the muck-sweat gave him what some called a demonic glow. These were superstitious people, and the other worlds were never more than a heartbeat from pushing through to this one—the consequences of this intrusion were never good.
“Some what?” A small man at the end of the bar asked, banging an empty metal pint. These had once been glass, but Zampton’s had changed over to metal years before because of breakage.
Taking the mug, Zeb drew him another pint and took his chits. Though it was true that money in its traditional form no longer had much meaning since the Sweats had broken out, the Governor, nonetheless, had managed to develop and maintain a chit system. Placing the pint in front of the man, “Whatcha mean?”
“There are always some—what does that mean?” At that moment, the door opened with a loud creaking moan and a man stepped in. Not answering, he went to the center of the roughened bar—pocked, gouged, and scratched with a generation of bar fights and more general wear. Loosening, so no one would see, the stiletto, the barman smiled from beneath a wiry and dirty beard that went down to the top of his barreled chest. In amidst flecks of food, sweat, and spittle there, were small beads inserted over strands of beard. Zeb liked the piratical look—helped keep the customers in check.
“What you be wanting to drink?” he called over to the man. Didn’t like the look of him because it was plain he didn’t belong. This one was the some of which he’d been speaking. The stranger walked over to Zeb—he was terrified, but hiding it well, that much the barman could tell. If he could, others here could as well.
“Food and what you have on tap.” The voice was strong, almost basso.
“Need to see your chits.”
“Got barter goods.”
“We only take chits here—we obey the law.” Zeb said the last loudly so any of the Governor’s whores could hear it loud and clear. Truth was, Zeb and everyone else here bartered, but knew enough not to be seen doing it.
Leaning close, “Many here will know you’re off the boat that blew up. Get out and run. These ones will take all you have and bugger you to death.” There was a scuff of a couple of chairs, and before the stranger could turn, it began.
“Whatcha got in them pockets, sweetheart?”
“Not in here Bilts—if you want to drink here again.” Zeb answered, still close in to the stranger. “You,” quietly, “going to have to get out on your own.” The stranger pushed off the bar and moved into the room. Zeb smiled because he seemed to understand the nature of a bar fight—keeping the barman away from your back.
“If you want it,” pulling the stubby blade, “you are going to have to take it.” Bilts and his friends, large men but rough and emaciated looking, laughed until the new man took three large steps toward them. Zeb could see they hadn’t expected that. Bilts rocked back a step or two, but it didn’t help, and the stranger was on him. The melee was not more than a short burst of violence when the stranger had managed to make his way to the door.
He half jumped and was half helped out. No one followed because two got stabbed. Zeb was grateful the blade had been dull; otherwise, there would be a lot more blood to clean up—and he’d cleaned up enough of that. With Bilts holding the shoulder where he taken the blade, for all of its small depth, Zeb laughed, but he was uncertain what he was laughing at.
“You go clean yourself up in the back and don’t bleed on the floor or I’ll have you clean it up.” Bilts glowered at the floor, but Zeb could tell he’d the good sense not to offer this to him. Turning, he made for the back.
The man went for his pack. As he turned the corner, a shadow disengaged from the far corner of Zampton’s and followed at a discrete distance.
With the pack, the stranger made it up one street and down another, always remaining close to the main road heading north. He could not afford to lose that now he’d found it. As well, he knew he’d have to find someone who could tell him something about the city and its internals before he went too far. Food would be a good idea, but he was going to need some chits for that. This meant getting involved sooner than he would have liked. Worrying about how dangerous this would be could not concern him for the moment. Now he needed information and food.
A cat screeched behind him then bolted across the narrow st
reet. On the opposite side, it turned, arched his tabby back, and hissed long and loud at the shadows on the opposite side. Someone had followed him out, and he’d thought he’d been clever—obviously not. There were still new skills to be acquired now he was on land again, but he could not afford to be a laggard in the new classroom. At the corner, he turned left and deeper into the side streets and alleys he’d just escaped. This was dangerous, but it would be more dangerous meeting whoever was following in a broad well-lit street where he could easily get the law down on him, have someone see him, or having to fight in the light with lots of room to maneuver.
The Beluga Fay had been a good remedial education, but this was going to be advanced villainy, and he was uncertain if he were up to it. That he did not have a choice was a source of comfort. Then he was not so certain and turned south into a narrow, foul smelling alley. Somewhere in the middle of this, he found several bins to hide behind—these were overflowing with decaying organic matter. The stench was horrific, sweet, and wet. This alley had to be behind some restaurant, but what surprised him was the desperation the country had been claiming for their food reserves when they could continue to throw away this much of it. Still, the street was strewn with bits of vegetables and meat, so someone had to have been rifling the bins. This he understood, but discarding this much food when it could have been turned into chits was odd—what with the blockade and all.
With the last thought, there was the sound of hard breathing and much quieter footfalls. Whoever it was, they were practiced at tracking—another skill worth acquiring. The breath lessened at the entrance to the alley and the tracker hesitated. They knew he’d be waiting for them down here. With that realization, the stranger sat the pack on the ground, pulled out the pipe he’d taken from Boru and kept the blade in his dominant hand. The pipe would be more useful. If he got to where the other opened himself up, he could stab him somewhere soft—the throat maybe.
The other took a step into the alley, then another. Soon enough they were only a few meters from the stranger, and he stepped out. Neither spoke. The other wanted to circle round, to get some room for fighting, but the alley would not allow this. They had to come straight at the man from the Beluga; however, they hadn’t seen the pipe. When the figure did charge, Beluga pulled this from behind his back and brought it up in a hard, fast, sweeping motion. The metal caught the villain just under the chin and knocked him back with a hard clacking of teeth and a harsh grunt. The thief was practiced, even as they were being knocked back and down, his blade struck out, catching the stranger along the upper bicep. Though not deep, the blade hurt, and he stumbled back, grabbing his arm.
As the figure fell back on the rotten cobbles, the Beluga stepped forward and stabbed him several times in the throat. With the other bleeding out, he stripped the thief of all he had, grabbed his better knife; his chits, not many, and dressed himself in the older, shoddier clothes. His newer ones had already caused enough trouble, and he wasn’t going to let that happen again.
Stepping out of the alley there was a sharp intake of breath off to his left, and he pulled the new blade. “Come out, or I come in after you.” There was a brief pause and she stepped out. He was not shocked, but there was some surprise. Not only was it a woman, but she hardly looked twenty. On top of this, she was shortish, maybe 1.4 or .5 meters tall—the woman was an islander and one of the darker of these, probably one of the northwestern islands. “What do you want?” She craned her neck down the alley and smiled.
“You did that well.”
“What I had to—what do you want?” She blanched at the edge and a small, thin knife appeared, but in a rest position.
“Put that away and I will not hurt you.” She hesitated and the Beluga stepped forward pulling the new knife. The woman staggered back a few steps and put the blade away.
“My people are up north.” He nodded, but didn’t know what was meant by this.
“We could use,” she paused as though wondering how to say what was next, “someone good with their hands.”
Beluga smiled. “What’s your name kid?”
“I’m a woman.”
The Fay’s smile broadened. “Okay, sweetheart—what’s your name?”
She didn’t appear heartened by the romantic gesture—seemed more aggressive and dangerous than the first. “Synon.” Anxious defiance in the voice. “Your name?”
“Titus Pym. How far north?”
“It’s a ways, but we can offer you safety and anonymity.”
“From what?” Pym was getting anxious again.
“From knowing you’re from the boat that blew up—everyone will be wanting to trade you back to the blockade, or the Governor.”
“I won’t be.”
“They might kill you—or make you a slave.”
“A great town you have here.”
Synon shrugged, but said nothing. Titus held a hand out to the woman and she took this. As she approached, the moon again cut out from behind a cloud, and the soft light illuminated the woman a little more. Her pupils were islands of pitch in white seas—these last were clear and wholesome. The skin was a deep chocolate brown, smooth, and unblemished. Her breasts, what he could see within the shapeless shirt she was wearing, were small and firm—she was young. Her body, inside the equally loose pants, was firm, almost hard. Synon’s handshake was stronger than necessary, which said to him that she was compensating. That made sense—a woman alone on the docks.
“It’s a nightmare, but it’s home.”
“How far north?” Pym repeated the question.
“I have no car and public transport is pretty much dead down here after dark, so we got a good two hours by foot, if you don’t dawdle.”
“I’ll try to keep up. But there won’t be any trouble up there?”
“Not if you don’t bring it. Like I said, we need people who can handle themselves in a fight.” Saying so, she walked past him and back towards the main road. There was little choice—Pym didn’t know the city and had no friends. He needed both. Turning, he followed the woman.
“Hold up.” Synon said, after they’d been cutting along the edge of the main road for almost an hour.
“What is it?” he said, adjusting the backpack. The weight wasn’t yet bad, but each kilo was beginning to wear him down. By the end of this hike, each kilo would feel like five. Pym knew he would have to get used to this and fast—unless something unexpected happened and he came into possession of a car and fuel. This seemed unlikely, considering the condition of the city and its lack of local resources—fuel, most especially, had to be imported. He learned on the Beluga that they were more interested in medical supplies and food.
The serums hadn’t worked so far, but food managed to keep the Governor in control and the social system from collapsing. Still, this left little room for luxuries like fuel—at least through the blockade of the city. Titus had heard rumors the national government had done a deal with some on the multi-national force now offshore to get fuel through, but this was supposed to be used for the national police force and the militia drawn from military and ex-military caught out when the Sweats began and the nation closed off the city for fear of this breaking out amongst the general population. It was not long after this that the East put together a multi-national blockade to keep the epidemic from becoming a pandemic.
Even so, some level of commerce continued between the country and the multinationals. The only other choice would have been to seal the country off and let the Sweats and starvation do for the archipelago. That would have created a whole nation of people willing to do anything to escape. Eventually, some would make it off the islands; and those could carry the Sweats East. The West was reasonably safe because of the thousands of kilometers of open sea between the end of the archipelago and landfall. However, eastward, it was a different story. East, the Sweats could island hop until it hit a long island chain, and then it was one rough sea crossing to the mainland and hundreds of overcrowded cities. After landfall, it wo
uld only be a matter of months, perhaps weeks, before the continent was infected. If that occurred, the collapse of civilization would follow.
By far the better choice was to blockade the archipelago, feed them, and offer what experimental vaccines there were. Each month seemed to bring a wide variety of new ones, many of these almost as dangerous as the Sweats. Though not a new vector, these treatments had managed to create a high enough death rate so that few, but the most desperate, were willing to try them. This was what Pym had landed in—his choice to row ashore, rather than out to incarceration and suspicion, was beginning to look less and less wise.
“I need to take a look at that arm,” Synon said as he wrestled his pack to the ground.
Titus glanced at it, and the sleeve was soaked.
“Take off the shirt or I’ll have to tear the sleeve. Maybe you’ll be wanting to keep the garment whole—replacements are hard to come by.”
Titus took off the shirt and sat down on the pack. He was feeling a little light headed. Perhaps that meant he was tired—probably it had something to do with blood loss and hunger. “You have anything to eat?”
“No,” taking out a field kit, “that’s what we’re going to go looking for when we get there.”
“What’s the damage?” glancing down at the arm.
“Soft tissue—the muscle appears untouched. I should sew it up, though.”
“You’ve done this before?”
“Often—even before.”
“Really?”
“Not a wealthy country and doctors are expensive.” Cleaning the wound with alcohol, she threaded a suturing needle and set to work. After a few minutes, she’d finished, and they were on their way. Synon had been better than Titus had expected, and though painful, it could have been a lot worse.
“How much further?” Titus asked, adjusting the pack. They’d been back on the road for a while, and he was starting to need a rest. Being almost blown up and attacked four times over the course of the evening was beginning to take its toll. On top of this, he was still looking back over his shoulder—still unclear if he’d left behind the hold.
Beluga Fay (Dragon Bone Hill) Page 3