by Ian Whates
Now, as he stood at the top of the stairway and gazed out at last across the City Below, it was time to get his bearings. He was high above the floor of the vast cavern which housed Thaiburley's lowest level. The sun globes were beginning to warm up, granting this basement world its semblance of dawn. Far to the left, at the very edge of his view, Tom could just make out the start of the scrapland that was the Stain, where the detritus of generations had been dumped and left to rot.
In the middle distance he was able to see the black ribbon of the Thair, the deep dark river that provided the city with much of its power and water. The Thair which ran through the Stain was very different from the one that entered the city not so many miles upstream. Sluggish, depleted, and carrying with it the biological and industrial effluent of a city of millions, these were the waters that fed the most diseased and shunned corner in all of Thaiburley.
Things lived in the Stain; creatures that nobody cared to talk about or even think about.
With a shiver, Tom turned his attention elsewhere. To his right, the Thair's banks were bordered by beetle-like installations that leached both substance and energy from the river. A little further along, he could make out the viaduct supporting the grand conveyor; the elevated moving road that carried goods to and from the Whitleson factories. With its series of tall archways, the viaduct resembled some multi-limbed creature stalking the streets. At its far end, towards the wall, stood the docks, where great barges and vessels were berthed, loading and unloading the foodstuffs and trade goods that were the city's life-blood. Clustered around the docks were the Runs - an infamous shantytown of hovels where dock-workers, sailors, beggars, thieves and whores laid down to sleep, or otherwise in the case of the whores and their marks. At the far edge of the Runs, close to the Thair, was an area of the city claimed by the Blue Claw, one of the many street gangs that proliferated in the City Below. Only once Tom reached their territory would he truly be home; although how warm a welcome he could expect from Lyle and the rest of the Claw was debatable, since he would be returning empty-handed.
Having fixed the layout in his mind, Tom began the descent, making his way down a winding stairway that wrapped around what appeared to be a wide brick chimney. He guessed this was a delivery shaft, similar to those he was accustomed to seeing near the docks. It was through such links between the City Below and the rest of Thaiburley that commerce flowed; although what this particular one might carry, so far from the Thair and the trade vessels that plied it, he had no idea. Of more immediate concern was who might be waiting at the bottom.
Routes to the City Above were a lucrative source of business and sufficiently rare that they were coveted and often fought over. Somebody would be claiming this as their own and would demand tribute from anyone passing up or down. Tom had nothing to pay with. His ascent and descent had already been negotiated and paid for, but only through a very specific access, set into the city walls and close to his home turf. The one belonging to the Scorpions. This route would be claimed by a completely different gang and he didn't doubt there was going to be a reception committee waiting below.
The only thing that offered any hope was the timing of his arrival. He had no idea what hours this particular gang might keep, whether they worked in shifts, were entirely nocturnal or whatever, but anyone who'd been active through the night would be thinking of bed right now, while anyone who worked a dayshift was likely to be still asleep, which meant a skeleton crew below, whose backup would be sluggish to respond; he hoped. If so, all he had to do was get past them and lose himself in the streets. He might just get away with it.
Tom's spirits lifted as he made his way down the broad stairway. The tiredness that had dogged every footfall just a short time ago evaporated. Yes, these would be unfamiliar streets, and yes, there was almost certainly going to be a scrap, but he had finally made it back to where he belonged and after all that had happened, reaching anywhere in the under-City was a cause for celebration.
There were two of them waiting below, which was about what Tom would have expected. As he descended he studied them, when the corkscrew stairwell would allow. He'd already decided on the area to make a beeline for if it came to a chase. A small street market was beginning to take shape a short distance away; a few people were already stopping to barter, which increased the chances of confusion and escape.
The two street-nicks were sitting on the bottom step, playing a game of 'flip' to pass the time. They were shaking and then tossing what he assumed to be the traditional flat pebbles onto the ground before them. Not that Tom paid the game much attention; he was more interested in the boys themselves. They would be armed, of course, but not necessarily quick to draw blades when they saw it was just little old him coming down. One looked to be considerably larger than the other.
Ideally, a quiet approach was called for, perhaps vaulting off the stairwell early to head away unnoticed, but it was impossible to descend an iron stairway without making at least some noise. The pair were on their feet, waiting, by the time he made the final turn, their game abandoned. As he'd thought, one was short, a fair bit smaller than Tom, while the other was impressively large.
Tom put on his most disarming smile and tried to look relaxed, to saunter down the remaining steps. Their response was a suspicious scowl.
"First of the day," the shorter of the pair said.
"Lucky me!" Still he offered the open, unthreatening smile.
"Stayed overnight in the market, didja? There's passage fee to pay."
"'Course. Who's collecting?"
"The Blood Herons."
Tom nodded as if that meant something to him, which it didn't.
They stood either side as he came towards the bottom, both close enough to grab him should he try and run. The taller of the pair had yet to speak. No difficulty in guessing who was the brains and who the brawn here, and Tom knew which he considered the more dangerous. Instead of walking the final few steps, he threw himself at the smaller boy, swinging a punch to the stomach as he did so. Despite their apparent alertness, this sudden explosion of violence seemed to catch the boys flat-footed. Tom's assault carried the smaller boy over and they landed with Tom on top. He knew that he had to finish this one quickly, that the taller Blood Heron was only a few paces away, so head-butted his opponent and was relieved to feel him go limp.
Tom rolled, away from the stairs and away from the larger boy. As he did so, he clawed up a handful of dust and earth. Despite being quick, he was barely on his feet before the big Blood Heron reached him. Tom flung the earth at the other's face. Hands that had been stretched towards him changed direction as the boy yelled out and instinctively went to rub his stinging eyes. It gave Tom all the opening he needed. Instead of wasting time with a punch, he kicked out as hard as he could, landing his foot squarely in the boy's groin.
The Blood Heron let out a howl of agony and collapsed. Tom had no intention of waiting around to see any further reaction; he was off, running flat out towards the street market he had spied from the stairs.
Despite the senior arkademic's urgings and despite having worked through the night, Tylus found sleep elusive. Eventually he did manage to snag hold of the concept and wrestle it down long enough to gain an hour or so of blissful oblivion, but was all too soon awake again.
He dressed swiftly, a man with a mission; washed down a few snatched mouthfuls of dry and unsatisfying breakfast cake with a draught of bitterly dark ale, then set out. Initially the way was unlit, but it was only a short walk along a route he knew well, and the immediate approach to the station was blessed with electric lighting. Ceiling-mounted tubes of florescent gas flickered to life at his approach. He knew they were activated by sensors, another wonder of the modern age, but could never entirely shake the childhood image of invisible spirits flying before him and triggering the lights specifically for his benefit.
Armed with the senior arkademic's warrant, Tylus entered the station with a confidence unknown since his very first days with
the force. Brandishing the document, he gained access to the department's most precious resource: the Screen. These wondrous devices provided access to a wealth of information about the city and its inhabitants. As far as Tylus was aware, the Kite Guard were the only arm of the civil defence or watch to be equipped with them, and even they had only one per station. All officers were trained in their use but only the chosen few were permitted access. Thanks to the warrant, Tylus now shared that privilege - temporarily, at least.
He worked quickly, anxious to be done before anyone had the wit to question his authority too closely. If one of his colleagues should muster the courage to contact Magnus, Tylus could find himself in trouble before the mission had properly begun.
He knew full well that the warrant was intended for use in the City Below, not to secure the resources of his own department. However, whoever drafted the document had been careless, failing to restrict its authority to the under-City, which enabled Tylus to push his luck. Not that he did so without misgivings. He imagined Magnus would take a very dim view of such wilful misuse of his authority, but the young Kite Guard reckoned it to be worth the risk.
He was finally exercising skills in which he had trained but had never previously been allowed to utilise: those of detection.
Summoning up the city's schematics, which appeared on the screen in stark relief, he quickly found the section of wall where his encounter with the street-nick had taken place the previous night. Deft manipulation brought a different, flatter view of the city. A tracery of stairwells developed, highlighted in red as they flowed from the relevant section downward, a network penetrating the Rows like capillaries flowing through a body. Tylus set to work immediately. The boy had been descending the city's walls, so it seemed reasonable to assume this was also how he ascended. A large proportion of the red traceries vanished, as the Kite Guard eliminated all the internal stairwells. The lad would almost certainly have chosen the quickest and most direct route he could find. More red lines disappeared. Only a few now remained and Tylus pursued these relentlessly downward, rejecting the least likely branches as they appeared. Once he came to the city's lowest areas, the options dwindled dramatically: access to the City Below was limited, deliberately so, and eventually there were just two likely candidates for the stairwell the boy might have used to exit that basement world.
The Kite Guard felt inordinately pleased with himself. With inspired forethought, he had managed to narrow the field of search from near-impossible vastness to a manageable area. Instead of blundering blindly into an unknown and notoriously perilous part of the city, he now had a reasonable starting point.
After sorting out a few further details, he set about closing the screen down, only to have his self-congratulatory mood swept away by a voice that bellowed across the squad room, silencing everyone there. "Tylus! What in Thaiss's name do you think you're up to?"
For an instant Tylus froze, dread washing through him, causing him to feel like a small child caught doing something forbidden.
Goss, his face a contorted mask, eyes bulging and cheeks flushed purple with fury, stalked across the room. Had the man no home to go to? "I'll have your cape for this, officer, permanently!"
Recovering from the shock, Tylus determined to hold his nerve. He stood and came to attention. "Sir, I'm accessing the Screen in order to perform duties assigned to me by Senior Arkademic Magnus, sir!"
That brought the sergeant up short, though he looked no less furious. "Duties?" The word spat out like something unpalatable.
"Yes, sir. On special assignment, sir!"
The sergeant glanced across to the duty officer, who gave a quick nod of confirmation, much to Tylus's relief. Magnus had obviously acted promptly in contacting the department.
"I was told to produce this in the event of challenge, sir." He handed the warrant to Goss.
The sergeant read it, his nostrils flaring as he did so, before slapping it back into the young Kite Guard's hand without saying a word. After a final hate-filled glare, he managed, "Carry on," before turning to stalk away.
A quick glance around the room showed a few ill-concealed smirks on some of his colleagues' faces, and it occurred to Tylus that he wasn't the only one who despised the sergeant. In fact, this little melodrama had probably done his status among the other officers no harm at all.
Would Goss contact Magnus? Probably not, and even if he did so, it seemed unlikely that he would dare to question specifics such as accessing the Screen.
Tylus resisted the temptation to dance an impromptu jig and instead, with as much dignity as his impatient feet would allow, strolled towards supply, to exchange his torn kitecape for a fresh one.
Hawkers and stallholders paused in the process of setting up their wares to stare at Tom as he raced past; this was the last thing he needed. Presumably he was in Blood Heron territory and the gang members were likely to know these market men and women, any one of whom could point them in the direction of a fleeing fugitive.
He slowed, forcing himself to be patient, to walk rather than run.
In doing so, he paid more attention to the market itself. Immediately in front of him was a veritable curtain of dead fowl. River ducks, by the look of them. Row after row of the things suspended by their feet from horizontal poles arranged one above the other, so that each line of downward-pointing beaks ended a fraction above the next pole. Tom counted five such poles in all and he wondered who would bother to buy ducks when they could just as easily go to the river and catch their own. A man and a woman, conservatively dressed, were busy hanging the final few birds from the bottom-most pole, tying their feet and attaching hooks to each and every one.
A sign stood beside them, written in bold hand with large, untidy script. Not that it meant anything to Tom, who couldn't read. At that moment the man noticed him and looked up, smiling, before helpfully reciting a set patter which Tom suspected might mirror the sign's message.
"Fresh off the river, caught in the early hours o' this morning. We'll even pluck 'em for you if you want."
"Don't be daft," his wife said beside him. "That's a street-nick; see the way he's dressed? Only thing he'll ever 'ave from a stall like ours is what 'e can pinch."
Tom bowed his head and shuffled past, cursing his curiosity. He'd managed to draw attention to himself even without running.
He continued down the street, eyes fixed on the ground, refusing to look up, allowing his mantra to loop through his thoughts as he willed people not to notice him.
A little further on, when he judged enough of the market lay between him and the stairwell, he ducked down an alley to his left, between buildings that seemed taller and sturdier than those he was used to. The alley led to another avenue, which he stepped into without hesitation. He was conscious of figures in the street around him but paid them little attention, still concentrating on going unnoticed.
Then something in their gait, their posture, penetrated his awareness. He looked up, and found himself staring at a Jeradine. In fact, all the "people" in sight were members of that tall bipedal, reptilian race. Tom froze, his thoughts racing. If even half the rumours were true, a flathead was more likely to eat him than anything else. He'd seen the occasional one or two before, at a distance, but never this many and never this close. They kept themselves to themselves as a rule, rarely leaving their enclave, which he vaguely thought of as being somewhere over the far side of the city. Here, apparently.
How had he stumbled into Jeradine territory without even realising? There was a human street just the other side of that alley. He would have expected fences, barbed wire and a gate, but this was all so casual, so unsecured. It was as if the short passageway had somehow transported him to another world.
Tom backed slowly towards the alley in question, his eyes never leaving the disturbing, green-scaled visage of the nearest Jeradine, with its bulbous eyes, broad mouth and its oddly featureless face which ran from the crown of the head, between the eyes, all the way to the tip of the snou
t in a straight, unbroken line. Flathead.
None of the Jeradine reacted to him, but he drew little comfort from that, knowing nothing of their habits or customs and so unable to gauge whether this was in any way an ominous sign or a good one.
Finally he was able to escape into the alley and scamper back to the market street. He hesitated on the point of stepping out, peering around the corner to ensure the way was clear. Several youths were gathered in front of the stall that sold fowl, talking with the owner, who was pointing up the street in Tom's direction.
He ducked back hurriedly out of sight.
Now what? They were Blood Herons for sure. If he stepped out into the market he seemed guaranteed a beating, and after the way he had left two of their members, the Blood Herons would be out for revenge and so were bound to make it a nasty one. Turn the other way and he was entering the unknown, taking his chances with something intrinsically 'other'. But at least it was a chance, whereas the street-nicks would offer him none. Drawing a deep breath, he hurried back down the alley and walked straight out into the street, turning right, wanting to put as much distance between himself and the Blood Herons as possible. Again the Jeradine in view ignored him, though whether by design or indifference was impossible to tell. From what he had heard, the flatheads were unable to shape human speech so there seemed little point in asking; though perhaps he was wrong on that last point, because coming towards him at that very moment were a pair, one of each species, clearly engrossed in conversation. What particularly caught Tom's eye was the fact that this man, the first human he had seen on the flathead street, wore the brown and orange uniform of the City Watch; a razzer.
Suddenly the night's events came piling in on top of him and he remembered the murder, the encounter with the Kite Guard and his own terrifying fall. Had word spread already? Had every razzer in every Row of the city been alerted and told to keep an eye out for him? Either way, the last thing in the world he wanted was another encounter with an officer of the watch, whatever the uniform.