by S. G. Night
“You mean the slum across the river?” Racath asked. “What about it?”
“It’s more to it than just a slum,” Elias continued. “Anyone who isn’t in the Dominion’s pocket lives on that side of the river. The place is a giant criminal underworld. Gangs, thieves, drugs, you name it. It’s all part of one big pot. There’s kind of an… independent government over there, a gentry, if you will, of crime lords that the Demons don’t know about. They take care of the people, spreading out their earnings to keep everyone from starving.”
“How does that help me?” Racath prompted.
“The guy in charge,” Elias answered. “Jax Tollo. Behind closed doors, they call him the Duke of Milonok. He knows about everything that goes on in this city. He can point you in the right direction.”
“And how exactly do you know about this man?” Racath asked.
Elias smiled nervously. “My family came out of the Burrows. Everyone west of the river is loyal to Jax Tollo. I was lucky enough to start a successful business and get the hell out of there, but in my heart, I’m west-born. The Dominion might commission my business from time to time, but my lot’s always been with Tollo and the Burrows.”
Racath nodded slowly. “So how do I find him?”
Elias thought for a moment. “Today’s Antag, right? The eleventh?”
“Yes.”
“You’re in luck, then!” Elias said, hopeful excitement pulling at his lungs. “Every other Antag, around noon, the gentry gathers in a secret little lair. They put on the nice clothes that they hide from the Demons and sit on a secret council to discuss all the what’s-happening-now in the Burrows. It’s beneath the Westside Inn, just across the bridge.”
Racath gave him a dubious look. “And you know that how?”
“I do own an architectural business, Thanjel,” Elias answered. “I designed the Westside Inn for Tollo myself. Including the gentry’s secret chambers.”
“How do I get in?”
“I don’t know, drop my name?” Elias suggested. “Jax knows me personally. I built his house, and I’ve done some work for him making shelters for some of the urchins.”
Racath nodded musingly to himself. “So I find this gentry, and Jax Tollo can point me to Felsted.”
“I guess so,” Elias shrugged. “Good enough?”
“We’ll see.” Racath muttered, stooping to pick up the dropped purse. He tied it back to his belt and turned to leave.
“Wait!” Elias called. Racath turned back to him. “What of my freedom?”
“I said you’d be free if your information checks out, did I not?”
“But—”
“I’ll find Tollo and see what I can learn. I am a man of my word, Elias, when I want to be. If I like what happens with Tollo, I’ll be back tomorrow to pay off your debt. Satisfied?”
Elias relaxed a little. “Sure,” he muttered, slumping back into his shackles.
“Don’t look so glum,” Racath admonished with a smile. “Look on the bright side. If I’m successful here, then the Genshwin will have you to thank for it. That’ll be a big you win with my master — I’m sure I could even get you back on retainer.”
Elias looked back down at his chains. “Thanks,” he grumbled, too bitter to hope.
“Don’t mention it.”
“Don’t hurt yourself out there, Thanjel. It’s a dangerous town.”
There was no answer. When Elias looked back, Racath was gone, and the hallway was vacant once more.
“Then again…” Elias said to himself. “You’re probably more dangerous than anything in this city, aren’t you.”
——
Old bells were ringing the midday hour by the time Racath had worked his way through the eastern city and reached the Milonok Bridge. Racath hadn’t been to Milonok for several years, and the times he’d been here before he’d only stayed on the eastern side. He’d never actually seen the Bridge up close.
The Bridge was monstrous — a mile-and-a-half strip of smooth, grey stone stretching between the eastern and western sides. It was wide enough for four carriages to drive side-by-side, high enough for a barge to pass beneath it, with a four-foot parapet on each edge. It was, in fact, the only bridge to cross over the Milon River and connect the western city to the eastern.
As Racath blended into the stream of foot-, horse-, and cart-traffic on the bridge, Sokol fluttered down from the sky to alight on his shoulder. “Good to see you again,” he greeted her, squinting into the haze beyond the Bridge. “So there it is…”
The Burrows. If you were to see the slum from above, it would look like a junk heap. Back on the eastern bank, everything was made of fine lumber and charming light-grey stone, the cobbles clean and the air fresh. The buildings were neat and well-built, the shopkeepers well-dressed, the clientele well-groomed and well-fed. But here….here, the buildings were piled on top of each other, stacked into tiers of tangled towers that rose into the cloudy sky. What wasn’t built from crumbling masonry was cobbled together from rotted wood and scrap metal, held together with twine and corroded nails. It turned the layout of the city streets into a jumble of half-smothered allies and mazelike passages, like a giant, half-smashed beehive.
Through the keening of the city sounds, Racath could hear distant wailing. Howling, like tortured dogs: the sounds of the poor bastards stupid enough to get themselves hooked on jat. The drug was obviously rampant here. Desperate people flocked to it like naïve moths to fire, looking for solace.
But in a place like the Burrows, most people probably couldn’t afford the pure, high-quality jat you could buy in shady eastern-city alleys. So they’d have to settle for the diluted alternative stuff, like two-jack or red rook. Jat is bad enough on its own, but when you added things like red sulfur, mercury, and lead to the mix…it does awful things to people. And it was their cries, the howls of the rooked, that filled the sky.
Some neighborhoods were better off than others. But maybe that’s not the best way to describe it. It was hard to tell if some neighborhoods were more wealthy, or just less decrepit. They were poor areas, sure, but not decaying yet. Beggars, more than Racath could count, lined the streets. Some of them had succumbed to their hunger while still in their regular places, collection tins still hopelessly outstretched, dead where they sat.
Ragged people congregated in tight groups on street corners, all of them thin and hollow-eyed. Like they were already corpses, just waiting to die. Racath only saw a couple of Arkûl guards patrolling the streets; the people would quickly scurry into the rubble upon catching sight of their spears and Dominion emblems.
Patches of cobblestones were missing from the pavement, torn up by people desperate for anything they could find to build with. You could tell how long it had been since a cobble had been pried up just by looking. The more recent ones left deep, vacant spaces in the street, like the gaps of missing teeth. But the older ruts had accumulated new tenants over time: garbage, piss, mud, and even the occasional corpse.
It all added to a leeching, overpowering atmosphere of brown. Just…brown, everywhere. Pervasive brown. It was in the rust, the muck, the screams…everything. Brown.
——
Eventually, Racath found the Westside Inn near the mouth of the Bridge — one of the less-wretched areas of the Burrows. The tavern air reeked of city filth; odors of dirt, sweat, stale alcohol and rotting food assailed his nose. Unhindered, Racath entered the inn, his Shadow swishing behind him. He slid through the mess of drinkers and made his way to the bar, melding perfectly with the crowd. He reached the bar and slithered into an empty space. After rapping his knuckles on the table, he caught the attention of an overweight, middle-aged barmaid by the poorly-stocked taps.
“What can I get for yeh?” she grunted.
Racath did not meet her eyes, keeping his face beneath his hood. “A little bird told me that there is a meeting today beneath the cellar of this establishment.”
The barmaid blanched. “Uh…sir, I dunno—”
Racath pivoted his head and unleashed his withering glare upon the woman, the spark in his green eyes venomous. There was a fire in his eyes, a fire that lashed out like a burning whip. The woman flinched visibly.
“You know exactly what I’m talking about,” Racath whispered. “Don’t take me for a fool just because I don’t have the accent. I know you want to protect your gentry, but trust me. I’m no enemy to the Burrows.”
The barmaid grimaced to herself. “Yeh have an invite?” she breathed in a heavy whisper, leaning forward conspiratorially.
“After a fashion,” Racath answered, tapping his fingers on the splintered bar. “Your architect, Elias. He sent me. I need to talk with the Duke.”
The woman shuffled her feet. “Err…aye, sir. The cellar door be jus’ over there,” she stammered and indicated a door in the corner. “Go on down, an’ I’ll be righ’ with yeh to see yeh in.”
“Nice try,” Racath said. “You go first. I’ll follow shortly.”
Flustered, the woman bobbed her knees in a poor imitation of a curtsy and shuffled off to the door.
Racath sighed, stretched his stiff back, waited a moment, then proceeded across the room and through the door after her. Shutting the door behind him, he found the maid two steps below, a candle stick in her quivering hand. Her shivering caused the light to shudder and dance on the walls in a hazy sphere of illumination.
“Well?” he whispered, imperiously.
The heavyset woman nearly jumped and slipped on the steps. “Yessir,” she panted, catching her balance again. “Follow me, if yeh please.” She led him down the stairs into the dank wine cellar. Negotiating her way through the cluttered carnival of wine vats and dusty bottles, the maid showed him a door cast in shadow, locked with a heavy iron bolt. She inserted a simple key into the lock and turned it; the door clicked.
“There yeh go, m’lord,” she squeaked, her voice cracking.
Racath fished a penny out of his purse and tossed it at her. The brown coin arched and she scrabbled to catch it, snatching it out of the air by the ends of her fingers. “For your troubles and your silence,” he murmured.
She attempted to curtsy again, then scurried away, blubbering all the way up the stairs. When he heard the cellar entrance shut, he silently unlatched the hidden door. It swung open without a sound on well-oiled hinges. Beyond was a short hallway, a tunnel maybe twenty feet in length. Light poured in from the other side. Racath entered.
Edging along the damp wall, Racath heard a clamor of voices emanating from the end of the hall. A soft light in the distance bloodied the shadows. Side-stepping a pair of squabbling rats, he slinked onward.
The hall opened up into a large, subterranean chamber. A glimmering chandelier hung from the high ceiling, studded with diamonds and overflowing with candles that cast enchanting embroideries of fragmented light across the floor. The dull grey of the walls was concealed behind boisterous tapestries embroidered with gold patterns of twinkling threads.
The room was, by far, the most impressive display of wealth outside of Dominion control that Racath had ever seen. The chamber itself was a massive violation of Demonic laws against Human prosperity, tangible evidence of Humanity’s art, expression, and riches. Racath nodded approvingly.
Elegant armchairs were arranged in a large half-circle at the end of the room. The seats chair were stuffed with a hodgepodge of men and women, dressed in peasant clothes that had been altered and decorated to resemble the trappings of barons. Judging by the venue, and the garb of the attendees, this had to be the “gentry” Elias spoke of.
When he noticed them, Racath took a careful step backward, sticking to the thick shadows of the entryway. Leaning against the wall, he crossed his legs and folded his arms, comfortable that — despite his proximity — the Humans could not see him. With a practiced eye, he began to analyze the assembly for one that could be Jax Tollo.
It was then that Racath noticed the current object of the Human’s interest. They were shouting down from their armchairs at what looked like a crumpled pile of fur on the floor.
Racath’s hair stood on end. Before, the grandeur of the room had preoccupied his attention, but now that he saw the mass on the floor, his muscles clenched and his veins burned with predatory instinct. And hate.
The thing on the floor was chained by heavy iron manacles. It shuddered and whimpered, blood matting its pelt and staining the grand rug beneath it. It wore cracked and broken armor. Its chest piece was emblazoned with the familiar Dominion insignia of a crimson moon and sun inside a teardrop.
It was a Goblin. To Racath’s displeasure, it was still alive.
TEN
Azrael’s Hand
“Silence!” bawled a corpulent, purpled-robed man, hammering a gavel on the armrest of his chair. The sharp banging echoed in the underground chamber, and the crowd of Humans slowly quieted. The Goblin on the floor made sniveling, wounded sounds, like a kicked dog.
The man spoke again, his voice squeaky but powerfully strident in the large room. “The gentry of The Burrows are all present and accounted for. We are now in session, His Grace, Jax Tollo, the defiant Duke of Milonok presiding.”
He whapped the gavel on his chair again. “We are gathered in court today to pass judgment on this criminal,” he gestured to the Goblin. “As the body of the law in this district of our great city. Viscount Redman, the indictment?”
Another man, this one dressed in a robe of fine silvery satin, read from a parchment. “The accused, by the name of…” Viscount Redman squinted at the parchment, his mouth moving slowly. “Hundkt af’Skiderik of the Akerig pack of House Kravin, the 32nd Horde of the Ministry of Enforcement of Compulsory Law, stands before us today charged with crimes of his own, as well as those of his cohort.”
The judge nodded approvingly. “And the charges?”
“Sixty-four counts of unjustifiable murder, two-hundred-seventy counts of theft and plunder, and thirty-seven counts of the forcing of uninvited sensuality,” Viscount Redman recited.
With every offense listed, Racath’s fists grew tighter. It was an outlandish number of crimes, even for a Goblin horde. But where was the rest of this Goblin’s pack?
The judge looked from the Viscount to the Goblin. “Maggot!” he shouted. “How do you plead?”
Wheezing, the Goblin lifted its head from the floor, one eye was swollen shut, fur matted with blood. Its fear and pain turned weakly to defiance, a snarl flowing out of its torn muzzle. “You’s cannot judge me, rukt,” it growled weakly. “You’s hasn’t the right! You’s murdered’s my pack and took’s me prisoner, and that makes you the criminal here! Criminals ‘gainst the Dominion!”
“Your statement is noted,” the judge said formally, banging his gavel again. “Unfortunately, it is you who has no authority here. This tribunal represents the governing body of the Burrows, and we are bound by the laws of the Commonwealth of Io. Your Dominion has no power here.”
A smirk found Racath’s face. So, the Dominion saw these Humans as an organized criminal syndicate, but in reality they were the secret successors of pre-Demonic Ioan nobility. An inspiring thought.
“Your guilt is incontrovertible,” the corpulent judge declared, and the assembly of Humans replied with a chorus of ayes! “That has already been decided. What is in question today is your sentencing. If you recant your actions, you may be granted a swift death. Do you accept this opportunity?”
The Goblin did not speak again, merely growled and snapped at the man, like a wild dog.
“Be it noted that the accused has rejected the opportunity to recant,” the judge said formally. “My lords, my ladies — how shall this creature be sentenced?”
Almost instantaneously, the court erupted again into their storm of shouts and curses. A chant soon arose from their midst: “Kill him! Kill him! Kill him! Kill him!”
Kill it? Racath thought. Alright then.
He drew a throwing knife out of his Shadow’s chest-piece and sidearmed it. The missile darted
out of the darkness of his hiding place and buried itself in the Goblin’s spine.
The creature howled, its back arching, flailing against its chains. Then it crumpled to the rug again. It spasmed and twitched, unable to move; the metal spike in its back had paralyzed it.
Silence fell as swiftly as the noise had risen. The tribunal gaped at the crippled prisoner and the weapon protruding from its back.
Smoothly, Racath stepped into the light. The assembly turned its attention to him, still slack-jawed and gawking. Not one of them spoke as the Majiski in black nonchalantly approached the wounded defendant.
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” Racath addressed them. He planted his foot on the Goblin’s face and wrenched the knife out of its spine. His heavy boot pressed downward, crushing the creature's skull into the floor, breaking it. “My name is Death. How may I be of service this evening?”
The silence was wide and deep. Pervasive, almost. But it broke, quite suddenly as slow, resonant applause from a single pair of hands came from the man who sat in the center of the half-circle of chairs. Racath had not noticed the man before: his throne was made of a plain, polished wood and his simple tunic was modest maroon and grey. His wiry, silver hair fell around a pair of grey-green eyes and a kind but cunning face.
“Bravo,” the man said with a gentle laugh. “Bravo indeed, Genshwin.”
The judge — as well as the rest of the gentry — looked back and forth between Racath and the plain dressed man. “Err…Your Grace…?” the judge fumbled. “Who—”
“Someone I’ve been expecting,” the plain dressed man interrupted. His tone rang with quiet authority, latent beneath a lion-like voice that reverberated deep in Racath’s chest. “The court is adjourned. Leave us, please. All of you. I have dealings with this man that require my attention.”
“But…” the judge spluttered. “Your grace, we—”
“Now.” The man’s voice remained deep and pleasant, but the clever power beneath it was like the crack of a whip.