by Kit Hallows
“She found some… some of my flies. I’d gotten rid of almost all of them, and really tidied my place up…”
I found this almost impossible to imagine; in my brief experience Dauple’s apartment had seemed to have been made up almost entirely of filth. “But?” I prompted, as his eyes drifted away.
“But I kept one tube. For posterity. She found it behind the sofa. Heard it buzzing, thought it was a…. Well, anyway. That was that. Damn you nostalgia!”
The memory of the burnt hole in the cushion and the syringe of agitated bluebottles he’d rushed to conceal when I’d first visited returned to me. “Sorry, Dauple.” I patted his shoulder and amid the dank swirling dust made a mental note to wash my hand at the first available opportunity.
“Do not fret,” he said. “I’ve always expected I’d spend the rest of my days alone. Just me and the flies. What can you do?” He gave a bittersweet smile and leaned down to check the artist once more. “So all you want me to do is check in on this young man now and then. Make sure he’s breathing and such forth?”
“Please. I’ll place a bind over the entrance to this place, you’ll be the only one who can get past it. And in the meantime I’ll try to find out what the hell’s in this stuff, and how we can bring him back.” I grabbed the little bag of powder and slipped it into my pocket.
“Be careful,” Dauple said. “The city’s crazier than usual. The blinkereds are getting restless. Something’s spooking them.”
“Don’t worry about me, just worry about him.” I nodded to Miles. “And take it easy on yourself. And no moping. Okay?”
“Rightio.” Dauple forced a smile. “At least I’ve now got something to fill the bleak, empty hours with. Plus you still owe me from before.”
“Owe you?”
“You promised you’d take me out on a job. I haven’t forgotten.”
“Sure.” I said. Shit, I’d totally forgotten. Oh well. Maybe once the dust settled. If it settled…
I left the studio while Dauple sat on an upturned crate, pulled his phone from his pocket and began to play music that sounded like fifties rock n’ roll plus garbled free form jazz from a post-apocalyptic future.
My hands glowed, illuminating the murky shadows of the yard, as I grabbed five crystals from my pocket and soaked up their magic. I placed a bind upon the door. If any blinkereds got too close they’d be struck down with the mother of all migraines. And if magical folk tried to break through they’d be bled of their energy, which would then be utilized to make the bind even stronger. It was simple but powerful magic and it would hold for a day or so. I glanced back and found Dauple watching me through the window, his eyes filled with fascination, curiosity and not a little fear and awe.
I shoved the door open and stepped out into the street. The homeless guy was still perched in his doorway and he glanced up at me from his mound of blankets. “Everything okay, chief?”
“Sure.” I handed him a ten and the business card I gave out to blinkereds. “Do me a favor, if you happen to notice anything untoward, give me a call. Okay?”
“Untoward?” he said. “Like that hearse and the weird-looking dude who got out of it?”
“Yeah” I laughed. “But he’s alright, he’s a friend. But, if you see anything else….”
“Okay,” he smiled. “So what about her? Is she with you too?”
I followed his gaze across the street. A tall woman stood below a flickering lamp near the corner of a narrow road. She wore a long dark hooded duffel coat and her features were lost to shadows. Slowly, she reached into her pocket and pulled out a tiny wooden ship. Just like the one I’d dropped down the drain.
“Friend?” the man asked.
“Not sure,” I said as I headed toward her. “I hope so.”
As I crossed the street the woman turned and began to walk down the narrow road.
I hurried after her, one hand inside my coat, my fingers on the snap of my holster.
14
I kept a respectful distance as I followed the woman as she made her way down the narrow lane. Something in her posture told me it was a wise idea.
We wound along a series of twist and turns until we came to the waterfront. An overpowering scent of seaweed hung over the shoreline and a rolling blanket of fog swept in from the grey placid water.
I was about to ask her where we were going when she paused on the beach, pointed toward a ramshackle rowboat anchored off shore, and glided into the water. I pulled my shoes off, rolled up the cuffs of my jeans for the first time in decades, and trudged out into the sea.
The water was just as cold as it looked and I swore under my breath as tiny stones bit into the soles of my feet and the bunched up hems of my jeans grew heavy and soaked through.
Grabbing the rails, I tossed my shoes in, clambered aboard the wobbly boat and sat opposite the woman. She looked like the goddamned ferryman on the river Styx as she took up the oars and drew them through the dark water. Her movements were slow and steady but soon the city was far behind us, lost within the ragged curtains of fog. The water grew eerily calm and what little I could see of it was as still as a mirror.
Then a thud echoed up from the bottom of the boat.
I pulled my gun as the surface of the water broke and a mass of grey speckled flesh arced back toward the depths. A melodic roar rose up, its sound low and troubling. I aimed into the abyss but the woman slapped the back of my hand and forced the gun down. She reached inside her coat, handed me pair of earplugs and urgently motioned for me to use them.
The din subsided, and then the boat rumbled and shook. Ripples broke upon the water, followed by a great flurry of bubbles, their riotous sound lost to the thump of blood in my ears.
The ferry woman’s two silvery eyes gleamed within the shadows of her hood as she tilted her head back, opened her mouth and began to… sing?
A siren.
I suddenly understood. The earplugs. Her insistence. I pushed them further in with the tips of my fingers but if I strained I could still hear her song. Just barely, but enough to discern that her ancient lullaby was as beautiful and disarming as it was deadly.
The surface broke again and a massive stony creature with dagger-like teeth and lidless eyes leapt out of the sea, splashing me with icy cold water. Then it dove back down, its great barbed tail lashing the air like a serpent. The siren continued to sing, but the notes began to fade and soon she took up the oars once more and rowed like nothing had happened.
I considered removing the earplugs but decided to wait. She didn’t seem to mean me any harm, but my scant experience with her kind, paired with what I'd just witnessed, left me cautious.
We continued along the glassy waters for what felt like the better part of an hour, then she slowly stood as a huge, ominous black shape broke through the fog.
A galleon: one of Argyle Screed’s infamous midnight ships. Its massive hull had been painted the dark shimmering shade of a raven’s wing, and the effect was awe-inspiring.
I slipped the plugs from my ears as the rowboat drifted up alongside the galleon and came to a stop under the soft glow from the porthole above. The siren reached out, seized a rope ladder and pointed for me to climb. Rough damp hemp bit into my fingers as I hoisted myself up and the splash of paddles echoed around me as the siren rowed off and vanished into the fog.
I clambered over the rails and steadied myself on the deck amid a cluster of great oaken chests and nets. Strange rustles and twitching sounds came from the heavy wooden crates and I was tempted to have a look at what Argyle Screed had stashed inside. Then the wise words Erland Underwood had uttered popped into my head. Plausible deniability. It was probably better not to know.
Light spilled from the window of a cabin beyond a row of canons near the stern and the rigging creaked ominously above me as I climbed the stairs and crossed the slick, wet boards of the quarterdeck.
The door to the cabin was locked. I gave it a quick thump and stepped back as it flew wide open. I was face to fac
e with a great hulking fist that had engulfed the round brass knob. A fist that belonged to Argyle Screed’s goliath of a mercenary.
Crispig.
Lucky me. The last time we’d met I’d singed away his beloved beard. And it looked like the charred hair sprouting from his chin had a long way to go before it could be considered full and bushy again. As he scowled down at me I noticed the spots of blood still spattered across his tunic. That, along with the stench of stale sweat that clung to it, indicated it hadn’t been washed since our last encounter. Nor had his candy-striped trousers.
“You!” Crispig poked his great fat finger into my chest, knocking me back. “You! I will hurt.” His voice boomed like thunder and his eyes were filled with rage. “Yes, hurt!”
15
“Enough.” Argyle Screed’s bored, waspish voice echoed out from behind Crispig. The goliath’s eyes glowered and a slow snarl curled across his lips, but he stepped back.
“Hurt.” Crispig said, grabbing the tatters of his beard. “Hurt!”
“I said, enough.” Argyle Screed sidled up to his mercenary and used his bony elbow to poke Crispig in the side. “Move away. Now!” Screed’s peppery hair was even wilder than the last time I’d seen him and his soft blue eyes looked tired behind his tortoiseshell glasses. He drew his burgundy frock coat around his stick-thin frame and with a nod of his head, gestured for me to enter the cabin. I ignored Crispig’s deep throaty growl as I slipped past him.
It was warm inside. A fire crackled and spat in a cast iron stove near a long wooden table covered in maps and charts. The rest of the room was largely consumed by sofas and plush chairs. Screed grabbed a fringed shawl from a settee and draped it over the table, obscuring whatever devious antics he’d no doubt been plotting. “I believe it’s most certainly time for a drink,” he said as he strode over to a liquor cabinet and poured two glasses of red wine. “Here.” He held a glass out to me.
I took it and paused, waiting for him to drink his first, which didn't take long.
“My my, you’re a suspicious man, aren’t you, Mr. Rook.”
“The last time I accepted a drink from a…stranger…it ended badly.” I took a sip. The wine was as smooth as butter and rife with fresh, explosive flavors; berries, plums, vanilla, nutmeg and a hint of other mysterious, unknown otherworldly spices. One thing was clear, this renowned smuggler certainly didn’t settle for second best.
“Badly for you, or for them?” Screed asked, raising a perfectly plucked eyebrow.
“Both, actually. But their badly was of the permanent kind.”
The floor shuddered as Crispig began to stumble toward me.
“Report to your station and keep watch, Crispig!” Screed said. “Now!”
Crispig plodded over to a large porthole near the front of the cabin and took hold of the brass telescope positioned on a tripod before the latticed glass. Then he stooped down, glanced through the eyepiece and grunted to himself.
“There’s nothing out there but that horrendous fog,” Screed whispered. “But it will keep him occupied for a while.” He gave a slight, almost imperceptible shiver as he glanced toward the swirling grey window and drained his wine, then his hand shot out toward the bottle and he refilled his glass.
“I’m here, Screed. So, what did you want?”
“I see you’re just as charming as ever, Mr. Rook. What do I want? I want both of us to walk away from this with a little sunshine in our strides.”
“Care to tell me what you’re doing out here on the high seas?” I asked, “without any pseudo cryptic nonsense.”
“I’ve taken to a life on the waves in a somewhat subtle attempt at avoiding that dear friend of yours, Ms Elsbeth Wyght. She’s not best pleased with me right now. And while I don’t have the faintest clue if the legends are true, I’ve heard witches struggle to cross bodies of water, so I thought I’d give it a try. And so far, so good.”
“Where is she?” A pang of adrenaline shot through my gut.
“I don’t know. We haven’t met. At least not in the flesh. But I’ve certainly heard from her. She sent one of her little witchy protégés to the Seventh Knot with a proposition. The silly little mare thought she could sweet-talk me. Now, if she’d had been a well-gunned warlock, it might have been a different story.”
“What was she after?”
He reached for the bottle of wine and topped both our glasses. “Essentially she wanted to tap into my network of associates, use them to sell her mucky little drugs.”
“Drugs? Like this?” I held up the bag of black powder I’d taken from the artist’s studio.
“Yes, exactly like that. Black spice as the hip young things call it.”
“And you weren’t interested?” From what I’d heard, there was very little Argyle Screed didn’t traffic in.
“I’m an art dealer, Mr. Rook. Primarily. And while it’s perfectly true I might occasionally dabble in the exotic, unusual and difficult to acquire, I’d never peddle anything as common as drugs. Which is exactly what I told Wyght’s messenger, and then the silly bitch tried to curse me!” He reached beneath his frilly shirt and pulled out a necklace. It was a simple iron disc, but in the center was a heavy dent surrounded by a scorched black nimbus. “Thankfully this little charm worked, and dear old Crispig sent the stupid little girl packing. You know, he still had a lot of frustration to mete out after your last encounter with him.”
Crispig snarled like a Rottweiler. I ignored him and turned my attention back to the black spice. “Do you know what’s in this stuff?”
“Asides from the coke, no. Not yet.”
“Why would anyone that’s well versed in magic need cocaine?” I asked. “There are other herbs and roots far more…potent-”
“Black spice isn’t exactly aimed at our community, Mr. Rook. She’s after the blinkereds. Hence Wyght’s desire to tap into my network of partners.”
“You’ve lost me.”
Screed smiled. “Let’s just say the odd bottle or two of my more unusual wine blends have been known to make their way to the common market.”
“You’ve been dealing outside the community? Do you have any idea how long I could send you to-”
“Yes, yes, Mr. Rook. But please remember, I asked you to come here and I’m actually trying to help you. Now, would you like to hear my proposal or would you prefer to arrest me for a crime that's damn near impossible to prove? Any evidence has long gone down the throats of my clients and out through their whatnots. Not that you’d be able to find any of them in the first place. My customers are beyond rich and highly value their privacy.”
“I’m listening.”
“Good. Now, despite the fact that Wyght and her wretched Silver Spiral have only been peddling their muck for a couple of weeks, it’s already gaining traction with the city’s more adventurous blinkereds. It’s said to be highly addictive and somehow it leaves its users with little comedown or negative side effects.”
A low, ominous feeling passed through me. I glanced back to the oppressive, swirling grey fog beyond the window. It seemed thicker now. Denser.
“All in all, a dealer’s dream,” Screed continued, “but it’s not for me. As I explained to Wyght’s emissary, I do not peddle drugs. I procure experiences, the difficult to acquire and the finer things in life.”
As well as a whole heap of illegal things I was too weary to list.
“So.” Screed took another sip of wine. “I decided to summon you. This galleon is more than secure, but why should I be hiding out here like a common criminal? Spending my evenings with Crispig and missing out on all the juicy goings on in the city.”
“So, you want me to eliminate Wyght.”
“Of course. As do you from what I heard.”
“And I imagine you’re losing money on booze from the blinkereds switching over to black spice.”
“To a degree. Although the word is the spice has just been pulled out of circulation. So I’m sure the oenophiles will be back soon.”
“Pulled out by who? I don’t understand.”
“Neither do I. Or maybe I do. Now that they’ve got people hooked on the stuff and demand is through the roof, they’re probably planning on jacking up the price before they start selling it again. That’s what I’d do. But, that’s just my two pennies worth. There could be a more sinister reason they’ve pulled the drug. Some dark, evil motive.”
“So just to get this straight,” I said. “You called me here to ask me to terminate Wyght because she’s threatened you and she’s affecting your bottom line.”
Screed’s eyes twinkled. “Crispig, fetch the man a cigar.”
Crispig pulled away from the telescope and glanced our way, his mouth wide open. “Cigar?”
“It's just a figure of speech,” Screed said. “Two things you have a very slim grasp of.”
“What?” Crispig asked.
“Numbers and conversation…never mind.” Screed raised an eyebrow. “Get back to watching the vapors.”
I held up the spice. “I was called out tonight to take a look at a blinkered who was wired on this stuff. He’s still alive, but there’s no one home and someone taped a mirror to his hand and fixed it so he was staring into his own eyes. I believe it was most likely the Silver Spiral, but why? What might they stand to gain?”
“Witchcraft is not my bailiwick, darling, but I happen to know a man whose been working ‘round the clock to identify the components of the spice, and most importantly, what makes it so addictive. It could shine an interesting light and perspective on the situation.”
“Why? I thought you said you had no interest in narcotics.”
“To understand it, Mr. Rook. And to learn its purpose so I can hopefully eliminate it. Or maybe find a dashing young man such as yourself to do the job for me.” Screed winked, but slowly his expression grew serious. “The word is Wyght’s using the spice as a honey trap to find blinkereds with unusually imaginative minds.”