City of Dreams and Nightmare

by Ian Whates

  "Fine." He tried to keep the relief out of his voice. "One thing, though: will you please stop calling me 'kid'?"

  "Did I?" She shrugged. "I'll try."

  Better than nothing, he supposed. "Do you know this area?"

  "Some. You?"

  "No."

  She snorted. "Don't you know anywhere outside of the street your gang play in?"

  "A few places, we just haven't found any of them yet."

  "Be sure and let me know when we do. Come on."

  And they were walking again, Tom keeping pace with the girl, lost in his own thoughts and trusting her to know the way. After a few minutes, he said, "Any idea what's got them so spooked?" He didn't need to explain who.

  "None. Except that in the past day or two I've seen so many odd things down here that I'm well on the way to being spooked myself. The only difference is, I don't really know what I'm supposed to be afraid of, and I'm pretty sure they do."

  Tom left it there. Having seen how sensitive Kat was when it came to the Tattooed Men he was wary of saying something to rile her again. He had a feeling they would be fresh in her mind and hoped that if he didn't push the subject, she might volunteer some information of her own accord. In the event, he didn't have to wait long before she did so.

  "They're the survivors," the girl said. "From the Pits. The Tattooed Men are the ones who walked away."

  Tom whistled. "No wonder they look so mean."

  "Yeah." She smiled. "Not a gang you'd want to pick a fight with, that's for sure."

  They walked on in silence for a few minutes, before she spoke again. "It gives you a real bond: fighting in the Pits, surviving. When we came out, after they closed the Pits down, it didn't seem right to just drift apart and join different gangs, we were too close, trusted each other above anyone else; so we became a gang. Only problem was there was no territory for us; everywhere was already staked out, so it was a case of move in and take over someone else's patch or wander, carve out our own way. After so much time cooped up in and around the Pits, we all had itchy feet in any case, none of us fancied staying too long in one place, so we became nomads within the city, finding our own places and own routes between the established street-nick territories. Course, we 'trespassed' on occasion and there was the odd fight in the early days, but few gangs had the stomach to take us on twice, so bound aries adjusted."

  "And you were part of this?"

  "Yes."

  "But you left."

  "Yes."

  The inevitable question hovered on the tip of his tongue, but he could sense her bracing herself, ready to snap at him if he asked, so instead he simply looked at her expectantly.

  After a few seconds she sighed. "There can only be one queen, kid. It soon got to the point where either Chavver had to leave or I did, otherwise we'd have ended up killing each other. I chose to go. Simple as that."

  "And now?" Curiosity finally won out over sensitivity.

  "Now it looks as if one of us will be killing the other in any case. Soon as this is over. Whatever the breck this is and always assuming I can tell when it's over. Otherwise, she'll have a long wait."

  She grinned and Tom joined her. "If I was you," he said, "I wouldn't turn up either way. That'd really make her mad."

  "No, this has been getting under both our skins and it's well past time things were settled, if only for the sake of Rayul and the other men. She's going to lead 'em all into trouble otherwise."

  He wondered what she'd learnt from Rayul while he had been out of it. Enough to worry her, evidently, though presumably nothing about what had sent the Tattooed Men running for the remotest corner of the under-City.

  "Did you ever think of leaving the city altogether?" he asked.

  "Yes, but I'm not going to. I've been out there once and didn't like it much."

  "Really?"

  "Yeah. Groups of us used to hire out as ship's guards now and again, to bring a little coin in. I went on one trip. Never again. There's a lot of open space out there and it's not for me. Guess I'm a street-nick at heart. This is where I belong."

  "So, assuming you manage to survive whatever's wrong with the streets right now, you've got a fight to the death with your sister to look forward to."

  "Yeah," she gave a wry smile. "Some future, huh?"

  The fire had been brought under control. The smoke was sufficiently dissipated for Tylus to look things over, though it still hung over the scene in fragmented drifts and the smell would doubtless linger for several days yet.

  Once in the air it was as if he stared down upon the rooftops through tattered layers of gauze. Even so, from up here near the cavern roof he was able to get a far clearer picture of the damage and was shocked at its extent. It had been impossible to get a true sense of just how many buildings lay in ruin from down on the ground. He was also amazed that the death toll was so light - initial reports had proved to be exaggerated and current estimates put the figure at around a dozen, which, bearing in mind the way the buildings here were crowded so closely together and the early hour of the incident, struck Tylus as remarkably few. Evidently those fleeing the fire had called out warnings to onlookers, and this was thought to have been a mitigating factor.

  Having surveyed the destruction below, he now turned his attention to what lay above. The point from which the sun globe had fallen was easy enough to identify. Remnants of braces and metal fitments clustered around an unusually flat area of cavern ceiling, while the tattered fronds of severed cables hung down forlornly. Among all these, Tylus hoped to find a bracket strong enough to support him. He flew under the area once, twice, flipping onto his back as he sailed past so that he could search for a likely roost. Satisfied that he had located one, he came around again, this time heading straight for the chosen spot. In his right hand he held a spring-gated steel hook, from which a length of rope extended to encircle his waist. As he reached the roof, he clipped the hook deftly around a metal bracket and hoped it would prove to be as solid and strong as it looked. Thankfully, the hook remained firm and the bracket seemed able to support his weight. He now swung his knees up to strike the roof. Each knee was equipped with a suction cup. He had no great confidence in the things, having failed to get them to work properly even in training, and that had been against a smooth service rather than the irregularities of rock, no matter how much said rock had been levelled. Sure enough, the cups made only token gestures towards gripping, before pulling free to leave his legs dangling beneath him.

  Unperturbed, Tylus half-swung, half-reached for another bracket, indistinguishable from the one he was tethered to. Finding it sound, he looped a second length of rope through it, which he secured with a slip knot. The short rope ended in a stirrup, broad enough to accommodate both his legs. It took a little manoeuvring but he soon managed to get both legs through and so hung there, swaying gently to and fro like a man in the very skimpiest of hammocks. From this precarious vantage point he began to examine the scene, excited to have another opportunity to utilise what he considered to be his neglected investigative skills.

  Tylus quickly found a number of revealing clues: screw holes in support plates, their threads still prominent, suggesting that the screws had been carefully removed. Had they been wrenched out by the weight of a falling object he would have expected to see the threads distorted or even sheared off. Then there were the cables. Those nearest him showed definite signs of having been neatly cut rather than torn. The evidence seemed irrefutable. This had been no accident but rather an act of deliberate sabotage, but to what purpose? What could anyone hope to gain by bringing down a sun globe?

  It was then that he spotted something which seemed out of place: a small piece of mangled mechanism tangled up in one of the cables. At first Tylus couldn't work out why this innocuous looking piece of wreckage had caught his attention, after all, it wasn't surprising to find fragments of detached machinery in the wake of such a catastrophe. Then he had it: despite being tiny and severely damaged, this parcel of circuits and
metal looked to be self-contained, a separate entity rather than a part of something. It was also, frustratingly, just beyond his reach.

  He swung towards it, stretching but falling short. Another swing and he stretched further, almost making it this time. The secret, he decided, lay in building up a rhythm. He swung back and forth, back and forth, before pushing off with his left hand for added momentum at one end of the swing and straining with his right at the other. This time he touched it, but couldn't quite grasp the thing before he was carried away again. Next time! He gave a further, muscle-jarring push with his left and twisted around to stretch for all he was worth, snagging the cable that trapped the small mechanism with his right hand, pulling it towards him and finally taking hold of the tantalising object. Small enough to fit into the palm of his hand, it resembled a silver beetle, though lacking legs. Its central carapace had been dented and a seam on one side split open. Tylus imagined the cable, which he quickly freed it from, had whipped back when the sun globe fell, catching the mechanism and dashing it against something - perhaps the cavern ceiling. Yet for such an image to hold true, it meant this small thing would need to have been independently mobile, and surely, even if that were so, it would be impossible for such an insignificant device to bring a sun globe down on its own. He twisted in his makeshift harness, looking at the number of screw shafts, bolt holes and cables around him.

  As he did so, something shifted. The plate supporting the bracket he was tied to had begun to pull away from the ceiling, presumably loosened by all the swinging he had just subjected it to. Tylus froze, staring at the exposed pins which were all that held him in place. He looked for something to hold on to, careful to turn only his neck and head, but he had let go of the cables when he freed the small mechanism and nothing else obvious lay within reach.

  He tried moving, ever so slowly, but that proved to be enough. Suddenly there was nothing supporting his waist any more as the metal plate pulled completely free of the ceiling. He fell backwards, to hang upside down. The plate and bracket, still attached to him by the rope, shot past, narrowly missing his chin.

  For a few seconds he dangled there like an incompetent trapeze artist, supported only by his crooked knees, then he felt himself over-balancing, his legs slipping out of the stirrup. He fell, the bracket and plate ahead of him, tugging him downward.

  He brought his legs over, straining to hold them, to prevent them from going too far, desperate to get his body horizontal rather than being dragged into an uncontrolled cartwheel. In many ways this should be much easier than when he lost control on the walls. Then it had been a sudden change of wind direction that caused him to stall, followed by constant buffeting that made it all but impossible to control his spin. At least here there was next to no wind. However, the ground was also an awful lot closer, leaving very little time in which to recover from any mishap.

  Perversely, the trailing rope with its metal deadweight helped. The pull on his waist acted as a centre, a focus, as he sought to straighten his legs and keep his upper body from shooting upwards as counterbalance to the rotation of legs and hips; all this in freefall, with nothing to steady himself against.

  For an instant it seemed he would fail, that the sheer momentum of his legs would carry them beneath his body and on, but he tensed his muscles, thrust his stomach forward and dragged them back. Somehow, he did it, finding himself steady, with his body horizontal, paralleling the fast approaching ground. Tylus spread his arms, deploying the kitecape, feeling it bite the air and convert his plunge into a controlled swoop and then into a glide, arcing down toward the rooftops and then up again, gaining a little height before spiralling around to where Richardson, Captain Johnson and a knot of officers waited.

  He chose his landing spot with care, close to the group of guardsmen. Unfortunately, they insisted on moving, hurrying towards him as he came down. The result was that he nearly took Johnson's eye out with the swinging bracket, which he was unable to do anything about until he had landed. Thankfully, the captain ducked at the last minute and the metal plate sailed harmlessly over his head. The Kite Guard felt solid ground beneath his feet once more and, much to his relief, still clutched the mysterious mechanism in his right hand.

  Johnson recovered his composure quickly after nearly being decapitated and, even before Tylus had fully divested himself of rope and its attached weight, asked, "Well, did you discover anything?"

  "Definitely sabotage," Tylus confirmed, and went on to relate his observations. He then showed Johnson the damaged device and explained his suspicions. Johnson examined the mechanism, frowning and evidently unconvinced, before handing it to an aide. "I'll pass this up the line and have it looked at."

  A process that would likely take weeks and the results of which, always assuming there were any meaningful results, would be far too late to be of any help.

  "Who did this?" Johnson muttered, "And what in the world were they trying to achieve?" Questions which echoed Tylus's own thoughts.

  "Perhaps if we consider what they did achieve, it'll offer some clue as to their intentions," he suggested.

  "Go on."

  "As far as I can see, they've managed three things." He counted them off on his fingers. "One, brought down a sun globe; two, destroyed some buildings; and three, killed some people."

  "The first two seem meaningless in themselves, which leaves-"

  "Killing someone."

  The captain stared at the Kite Guard. "You're suggesting this was an assassination?"

  Tylus shrugged. "It's the best explanation I've come up with so far."

  "Bit elaborate, don't you think?"

  "Very, but if whoever is behind this wanted to make it look like an accident..."

  "And they'd be unlikely to know we had a Kite Guard handy to make a quick appraisal." Johnson called out to one of his officers, "Sergeant, I want a full list of all the people who died in the fire as soon as possible: names, addresses where relevant and occupations likewise." He then turned back to Tylus, all smiles. "Thank you, Kite Guard Tylus, you've been most helpful."

  "My pleasure; and when I need the department's help...?"

  "Just ask."

  Tylus watched the captain walk away. It made a great deal of sense to prioritise the identification of the victims. The more he thought about it, the more plausible his outrageous idea seemed. He decided, however, to leave his additional thoughts on the subject unspoken. Why worry the good captain unnecessarily? After all, he had no proof. But the thought refused to go away: if this had all been an extravagant ploy to kill somebody, who was to say that the attempt had succeeded? What if it hadn't? What came next?

  Putting such concerns to one side for the moment, he hurried to catch up with Johnson. "Sir."

  The captain turned round, all smiles. "Yes, Kite Officer?"

  "You know you said that whenever I needed the department's help all I had to do was ask? Would now be a good time?"

  ELEVEN

  Dewar was faced with something of a dilemma. Once he learned from Lyle and an oh-so-willing-to-please Jezmina that the lad Tom really hadn't returned as yet and was now overdue, he had little choice but to wait. It was either that or start scouring the under-City for signs of the boy, and he simply wasn't in a position to undertake such a daunting task - too much ground to cover. Besides, the lad had to come back here eventually; there was nowhere else for him to go.

  Breaking into the Blue Claws' headquarters in order to capture and torture their leader was not something he was likely to get away with twice. If he were to abandon the place now, it would mean relinquishing his current advantage: that of being on the inside, at the one place where his target was bound to turn up eventually. So he waited.

  That left the question of the Blue Claw themselves. He thought long and hard about the best way to handle the gang, and eventually came up with a strategy. It wasn't a perfect strategy and would never be anything more than a temporary fix, but it should buy him the day or two he needed. If Tom hadn't sho
wn up by then, he never would.

  The key to the plan was Jezmina. Not many things frightened Dewar, but this girl did. He had no idea how young she was, she simply fell into the category of being far too young. Yet there was a sensual quality to her that belied her years.

  Jezmina's complexion was slightly darker than most under-City dwellers, suggesting foreign ancestry somewhere in her past. This leant an exotic quality to her undoubted beauty, which he had originally overlooked as being nothing more than cute prettiness. She also knew how to play to her strengths; her dark hair was worn simply, with a centre parting which caused it to tumble down and frame her oval face. Most street-nick girls had a habit of doing outrageous things to their hair, presumably in order to stand out. Not her, she didn't need to. The hair, slightly arched eyebrows and drown-in-me eyes were virtually identical in shade, and the whole was completed by a full-lipped mouth ideal for pouting.

  As soon as Jezmina realised Dewar had the upper hand over Lyle, her whole attitude towards him had changed. The way she transformed from snivelling victim into smouldering temptress was a wonder to behold. He had no doubt at all that she was trying to seduce him, and could well understand how someone like Lyle could end up completely at her mercy. This girl was dangerous, and she was exactly what he needed to secure his status within the Blue Claw.

  Lyle would play along, partly thanks to Jezmina's persuasion, but mostly due to his fear of being hurt any further. Dewar had taken great care to inflict maximum hurt with minimum damage to the Blue Claw's leader, and the man's face was unmarked by anything other than pain. That, however, left him looking drawn and haggard when he appeared before the gathered street-nicks that morning and introduced Dewar to them. Which suited the assassin just fine.

  Lyle sat in front of his puzzled followers, a robe pulled about his huddled form and obviously far from well. He explained how he had been struck down in the night by an aggressive ailment which was likely to see him incapacitated for a day or two. Only through the ministrations of Jezmina was he in a fit state to address them at all. By chance, his old friend Dewar had called by to see him and would be running things in Lyle's stead until he had recovered.