Cardinal Crimson

by Will McDermott

  Yolanda shook her off. ‘Did you hear me?’ she asked, a note of hysteria entering her voice. ‘We’ll be fighting Guilder guards. We’ll all be marked afterwards. I can’t ask you to do that, not you and not the Wildcats.’

  Themis hooked her arm through Yolanda’s and walked into the diner. ‘Not to worry,’ she said. ‘We probably won’t survive the attack on Gonth’s hideout anyway.’

  Kal looked at the open door with suspicion. In the underhive, an open door was commonplace. Actually, open walls were commonplace. No door whatsoever was more the norm than an open door, but when it came to Hive City, doors with numerous locks and barred windows were just common sense.

  After all, thought Kal, they had to keep out the Underhive riff-raff out, didn’t they?

  So, when he’d finally found Jerod Bitten’s hab, the open door had stopped him short. Something was amiss inside.

  It had actually been all too easy to find the place. If he’d had Bobo with him, Kal was certain they would have spent the day sneaking around alleys to listen at windows, or distracting clerks at the post office to check mail records, or perhaps sitting in a dark room, watching the streets through the curtains. Kal had simply asked around.

  Now, with the door ajar, and him on record with several locals as a stranger asking after Mr Bitten, Kal wished he’d gone the more circuitous, more devious route. Well, there was nothing for it but to continue on in his own unique style.

  Kal drew his laspistols, kicked the door open the rest of the way and dived through. He rolled on the ground and popped to his feet. With his arms out wide, pointing his pistols to either side, he did a quick pirouette to scan the room. It appeared empty.

  He was certain the move had looked impressive, but it had probably been a big mistake. First of all, there was nobody here to impress. Second, while Bobo’s balm had done wonders for the pain, the skin on his back and legs was still raw, and the nerves painfully close to the surface.

  Making a mental note not to move so quickly for a while, Kal took a step toward the rear door and tripped over the body in the middle of the floor.

  ‘Aw scav!’ he said as he fell. His laspistols flew from his hands as he clawed at the air. When he hit the floor, Kal bounced and then rolled away from the body, coming face to pale face with another corpse behind the desk.

  Kal sat up and glanced back and forth at the two bodies. One was covered in a Delaque shadow cape, which made it tough to see in the dim light. He was young and athletic looking, but his head was turned a little too far around toward his back to be considered normal. ‘You would be our second assassin,’ said Kal.

  The other was an older man with short-cropped, grey hair wearing a thick, luxurious robe which had been ruined by the pool of blood surrounding the body. ‘And I certainly hope you are not Jobe Francks,’ he said, ‘for both our sakes.’

  Kal stood and walked to the door, cringing at several new pains in his legs. He noticed a trail of bloody footprints heading from the body to the door that he had missed during his grand entrance. He closed and bolted the door and then drew the blinds across the barred windows.

  ‘So, three people were in the room and one left after blood was spilled,’ he said, turning to face the deadly tableau. ‘Let’s figure out who you two are.’

  Kal took his time searching the bodies and the rest of the hab. The cloaked man was obviously the assassin. He had no identification on his body, but the array of tools and weapons was a dead giveaway. Not to mention he was too young to be Francks. He assumed the old guy was Bitten. He was wearing bed clothes, which matched clothes Kal found in the closets upstairs. Plus, judging from the blood splatters, he had been sitting at the desk when he got stabbed.

  ‘So, our Mr Francks survived,’ said Kal. He breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Now I just need to figure out where you went. Again.’

  The books and ledgers on the desk were of little use. Kal had no head for numbers and the columns of tiny handwriting blurred together and made his head hurt after a while. He closed the ledgers and stacked them on one side of the desk.

  Underneath one of the books he found a folded piece of parchment. Inside was a list of names and places written in the same small handwriting. Kal scanned the list. He recognised two names as the Cawdor gangs Francks had visited. Something about the other names sounded familiar as well. He’d just seen them in the ledgers.

  Kal opened up the books one by one again. Each one held accounts for one of the gangs on the list. Yet there was one more book after he got through the list. ‘What’s in here?’ he wondered out loud.

  He opened the book and looked through it. Kal recognised a name here and there as Guilders he had done bounty work for in the past. One name appeared over and over that Kal recognised but couldn’t place. That name was Tavis. ‘Where do I know that name from?’ he asked himself.

  He noticed another piece of paper sticking out from underneath the open book. He pulled it out. It was an old, yellowed wanted poster. ‘Jules Ignus?’ asked Kal. ‘What’s the significance of this?’

  He turned it over and noticed what at first looked like a small smudge in the corner. Looking closer, he saw it was more of the same tiny handwriting. Just two words, but they brought much of the past few days into clearer focus for Kal.

  Written in tiny letters, almost too small to see, was a name: Cardinal Crimson.

  Ralan despised his role in the organization. As Crimson’s personal attaché, he’d had to do a lot of horrible and disgusting things over the years, from the daily applications of oil to the Cardinal’s body to the running of petty errands such as fetching the holy foot-wrappings. His life was at best degrading, and all too often it became agonisingly painful.

  The worst task though, was delivering bad news. That was how he had earned the hand-shaped acid brand on his neck and cheek. He touched the scar tissue as he walked toward the Cardinal’s office. That piece of news had also involved the heretic Kal Jerico, as he remembered.

  He reached the door but hesitated before knocking. Ralan always went through this battle with himself. To wait gave him some small respite before the coming tirade. To wait too long ran the risk of delivering the news too late, which could be worse and brought a worse punishment. He touched the scar again and knocked.

  ‘What is it now?’ screamed Crimson through the door.

  Ralan opened the door. ‘I have news about the heretics, your eminence.’

  The Cardinal looked up from his lounge chair. ‘It had better be good news,’ he said. Crimson’s robe hung open, showing his leathery skin and protruding ribs.

  Ralan swallowed hard and pressed on. Best to do it quickly, like removing a bandage from a pus-covered wound. ‘It is not, your eminence,’ he said, and then pressed on quickly. ‘The second assassin has failed and Jobe Francks is on the move once again.’

  ‘The Emperor damn him to the abyss!’ screamed Crimson.

  ‘I’m afraid there is more,’ said Ralan after the outburst. ‘The heretic Kal Jerico was seen entering Bitten’s hab.’

  Crimson unleashed a chilling scream that rattled the door against its frame. ‘I hate that man!’ he said. ‘How did you let him escape?’

  Ralan wanted to protest that it had not been his decision to leave the heretic unguarded, but that statement would have been rewarded with an instant trip to the pools of redemption. ‘I am sorry, sir,’ he said instead. ‘I have men ready to retake Jerico.’

  Crimson paused from his ranting to consider the idea. ‘Are the two heretics together?’ he asked.

  Ralan shook his head. ‘Many people saw Francks leave Hive City, sir,’ he said. ‘The heretic Kal Jerico has not caught up with him yet.’

  ‘Then watch him closely, but do not interfere,’ said Crimson. He had calmed down considerably and a toothy smile actually flashed across his lipless face as he drummed his bony fingers together. ‘He can lead us to Francks and we can take care of both problems at once.’

  Ralan started to deliver the last piece of new
s, but re-considered and turned to leave. He almost made it to the door before Crimson spoke again.

  ‘You said many people saw Francks leave the City?’ he asked. ‘Why was that?’

  Ralan’s heart fell. He turned. ‘Ah yes,’ he said, trying to paste an innocent smile on his own, scarred face. ‘I almost forgot. It seems Francks was preaching about the return of the body again, and this time people were listening.’

  ‘Listening?’ said Crimson. ‘Was that all?’

  ‘And following, I was about to say.’

  Crimson now had a low, deliberate tone to his voice, which Ralan found more frightening than the screaming ‘Why this sudden interest in the ramblings of a crazy prophet?’

  Ralan put his hand on the door handle, hoping to make a quick exit once he was finished. ‘They say he was floating, and even glowing, sir.’ He swallowed hard one more time and gave the last piece of news. ‘He claimed that the body had returned and promised to take them to it.’

  ‘Hold!’ screamed Crimson. He stormed across the room, his open cloak billowing out behind him as if battered by a stiff wind. He grabbed Ralan by the throat, his fingers digging into the scar tissue. ‘Forget Jerico,’ he said, his lipless mouth mere centimetres from Ralan’s face. ‘Get your men and follow me.’

  ‘Where?’ asked Ralan, wheezing to get the air to speak.

  ‘To kill Jobe Francks. I know where he’s headed.’

  8: ON THE RUN AGAIN

  Scabbs stood watching his people, quite pleased with himself. He even struck a pose, a la Kal, as the chain gang continued to move rocks – only this time they were using the rubble to build an altar and a bier for the miracle body to lie upon.

  Of course, his pose probably wasn’t quite as majestic as one of Kal’s many stances. His tattered shirt and the ripped trousers that barely covered his bloody body weren’t as awe inspiring as Kal’s leather coat. Plus he kept taking his hands off his hips to scratch at loose patches of skin.

  Still, he was fairly happy with what he’d accomplished in the last few hours. The glowing body had ended the riot. The guards pulled back, either afraid of the possibly radioactive corpse or simply not willing to engage its fanatical worshippers.

  The slaves had turned to Scabbs for direction. Arliana had given him a pleading look and he found it impossible to let her down, but had no idea what to do. He looked around at the bodies lit by the glow of the miracle body. ‘We should get the wounded, don’t you think?’ he asked.

  They acted like it had been an order and began working. Flush with power, Scabbs ordered some of the slaves to fortify their position. Arliana had suggested they build the bier, and Scabbs agreed. The body was the focal point of the revolt and needed to be seen. Plus, it was now the only source of illumination in the area. He didn’t mention that part, though.

  They now had a low wall between them and the guards, and a supply of heavy, hand-sized rocks to hurl. Those slaves not working bowed in front of the bier, praying for salvation. Scabbs stood surveying his work, or rather their work. He had never felt so strong and vowed to never run from danger again; to stop relying on Kal and Yolanda to save him all the time.

  But they were still prisoners and it was only a matter of time before Grondle got reinforcements. As the lord of the slaves pondered these problems, he heard a commotion in the distance. This was it. Either more guards had arrived or Yolanda had brought help. He needed to be ready for either.

  ‘People,’ he called. ‘Something is happening. We need to… what’s the phrase? Oh right. Get to battle stations!’ Scabbs felt he needed to end with some sort of flourish, so he set his legs apart and struck his arm into the air and pointed.

  The slaves looked at him quizzically and then turned their gaze upward to see what he was pointing at. ‘No.’ he said. ‘Get behind the wall and grab a rock.’

  As the workers moved toward the wall, Scabbs backed up and took position behind the body. From there, he saw the guards, who had been standing outside rock-throwing range, pull weapons and prepare for battle.

  Inexplicably, they lined up facing away from the slaves.

  The commotion behind the guards grew louder. He heard shouts and weapons fire. The guards began to back up toward the slave compound, as if pressed from the front. It’s Yolanda, thought Scabbs. Time for the diversion.

  ‘Fire!’ he called. Nothing happened. A few of the slaves turned to stare at Scabbs, and he realised a little of what it must be like to be Kal Jerico. ‘Throw your rocks at the guards while they aren’t looking.’

  A moment later, rocks and small chunks of metal soared into the air from behind the wall. Most thudded harmlessly on the ground, but a few connected and while the damage was minimal, the effect was devastating.

  As more and more rocks rained down on the guards, many of the Orlock gangers in the group dropped their weapons to cover their heads. Others ducked or broke ranks and ran. In a moment, only the Guilder guards were left to face the commotion, and they were quickly overrun.

  But instead of Yolanda and the Wildcats, or Kal and his blazing laspistols, or Bobo, or anyone else that Scabbs might have expected, the group that broke through the guards’ ranks consisted of Hive townsfolk led by a wild-haired man wearing a blue Cawdor cape.

  They rushed forward, pelted by rocks as Scabbs was too dumbfounded to order a ceasefire, and jumped the wall. ‘Stop,’ screamed Scabbs, and even he wasn’t sure if he meant his people or the newcomers.

  Most of the rock throwers turned their attention back to the Guilder guards, who were too few to force their way through constant barrage. The townsfolk rushed to the bier and fell to their knees.

  ‘Behold, the body of Bowdie, our saviour!’ said the wild-haired man. ‘He has been delivered unto us once again. May his message of hope never again be buried by the deceiver.’

  Scabbs looked at the old, grey-haired Cawdor. As he turned, Scabbs saw swirling cloud of white drifting through the man’s eyes and felt himself falling into them. He shook his head and looked away. ‘You must be Jobe Francks,’ said Scabbs, focusing his attention somewhere just below the man’s chin. ‘My friends and I have been looking for you.’

  Staring at the ledgers, Kal had figured some of it out. Crimson and Francks and Bitten were all intertwined somehow. Most likely Crimson had hired the assassins to kill Francks. He must know something about the Cardinal’s past; something to do with a body. Crimson had muttered something about a body while torturing Kal.

  Bitten was the link between the two. He’d obviously been helping Francks ever since he arrived, setting him up with places to stay. He looked at the wanted poster with Crimson’s name written on the back. It seemed Bitten knew something of Crimson’s past as well. But why had the Cardinal left Bitten alone until now if he knew so much?

  ‘Tavis!’ said Kal out loud. Crimson had also mentioned the Guilder’s name. That’s where he’d heard it before. Bitten’s dealings with Guilders over the years must have provided him some protection. They were a powerful force in Hive City and the Underhive. Powerful enough to give even Crimson pause. Powerful enough that Bitten had been able to set up his own Cawdor gangs – gangs so loyal they were willing to harbour a fugitive from Crimson.

  ‘But none of that tells me where Francks has gone now,’ muttered Kal, looking at the list. ‘He left this behind. Why? Bitten’s death? Maybe, but I think it’s something else. It has something to do with Tavis and the body, I’m sure. But what? Where? Damn, I need a break.’

  There was a knock at the door. Kal pocketed the list and the wanted poster and crept across the room, avoiding the trail of bloody footprints as he walked. ‘Yes?’ he said.

  ‘It’s Jann,’ came the reply. ‘Is that you, Jerrod?’

  Kal needed to deal with this quickly. He opened the door and slipped through, closing it behind him. There was a quite attractive older woman on the doorstep.

  ‘Hi,’ he said. ‘I’m a… business acquaintance of Jerrod’s.’

  ‘Oh, are you two in
a meeting?’ asked Jann. ‘I just need a moment.’

  ‘He’s not here,’ said Kal. ‘That is to say he’s, um, gone.’

  Jann’s eyebrows furrowed. She was either confused or suspicious. Neither was good for Kal. ‘I’m his new… bookkeeper. Jerrod just stepped out while I was going through the books.’ Best to keep the lies as close to the truth as possible; that’s what Kal always figured.

  This seemed to ease her mind as the smile returned. ‘Well tell him to come over when he gets back,’ she said. ‘I simply must tell him about that strange prophet who went through the streets a while ago.’

  Kal’s mind raced, but he kept his face calm. ‘Prophet?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh didn’t you hear him?’ said Jann. She reached out and touched his arm, as if to bring him into the fold. ‘This odd man with wild hair and strange eyes walked right through here this morning, preaching about the return of the body or some such nonsense.’

  ‘Oh?’ said Kal. He patted her hand and smiled. ‘How interesting. Where did you say he went?’

  Jann smiled. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I joined the crowd for a while, but when he left Hive City, I stopped. He wasn’t that interesting. I don’t know why so many people were following him. But I know Jerrod takes an interest in that religious stuff, so I wanted to let him know. You’ll tell him, won’t you?’

  Kal’s smile broadened. ‘I certainly will,’ he said, ‘just as soon as he returns. Thank you so much for coming by.’ He took her hand and brought it up to his lips before releasing it. ‘Really. Thank you so much.’

  As Jann left, Kal turned and slipped back through the door. He waited a minute before leaving, but left and ran down the road toward the nearest dome exit. A crazy prophet trailing a mob of townspeople shouldn’t be too hard to locate. That was strange even by Underhive standards.

  ‘You need more guards?’ screamed Tavis. ‘What in Helmawr’s name is going on doing down there, Grondle?’