by D. P. Prior
But it was a plan, a chink of hope. It was perfect. All he needed was some money, an investor, and maybe he really could forge a new life for himself, a life that didn’t involve wandering from place to place and fighting, just because that’s all he knew how to do.
“Morning, sir.”
Nameless spun away from the window. A slob of a soldier was looming over him, eyeing him with suspicion.
“Everything all right?” the soldier said. He clearly wasn’t enquiring about Nameless’s welfare. He may as well have said, “What’s going on here?”
Seeing the soldier’s protruding gut, his general state of flabby lack of condition, only reinforced Nameless’s idea that he really could make a go of things in Brink.
“Where do you train, laddie?” he asked.
The soldier’s baffled expression was all the answer he needed. “Thought as much. Thank you. Thank you for giving me an idea.”
He could set up a gym with a beer hall attached, and he could earn a living training the troops the Senate sent to protect the town.
Nameless clapped the soldier on the arm. “Now, laddie, all I need’s the money to buy this place.”
“Very well, sir. As long as everything’s all right.” The soldier walked on, casting the odd look back over his shoulder, as if he didn’t know what to make of Nameless.
A crow flapped down from the roof and landed beside Nameless in the road. The air shimmered about it, and in its place there stood a homunculus. He was lean and hawkish, and he wore a cloak of feathers.
Nameless stepped back against the boarded-up swing doors. He glanced across at the hostel to see if anyone else had noticed, but the toga-clad man and the thick-set woman must have gone inside.
“Nameless Dwarf,” the homunculus said in a chirping voice. “You don’t know me, but I know you. And I know a friend of yours: Shadrak the Unseen.”
The assassin? The albino midget Nameless had at first taken for a homunculus.
“He is in trouble, Nameless. He’s going to need your help. But more than that, it is almost time.”
“Time?”
Nameless’s mind was a whirl of emotions, thoughts, second guesses. The mere sight of a homunculus was enough to set his heart racing. He couldn’t help thinking of the one who’d broken into the Scriptorium, the one who’d come to him in the chamber of the black axe, told him the ravine was under attack by demons. They were born to trickery. Deception and betrayal were as innate to them as breathing.
“Time for you to be free of that helm. For the black axe to be destroyed.”
“You are with the Sedition?” Nameless asked. “You know Aristodeus?”
The homunculus nodded. “I am called Bird.”
“And you know Shadrak, you say. What kind of trouble is he in?”
“He will kill someone he shouldn’t, and not by choice, either. It will set in play events that will drive him from the guilds he now controls.”
“Guilds?”
“He lords it over the guilds of New Londdyr.”
Now why didn’t that surprise Nameless?
“Does that mean he has money, laddie?”
“Lots of it,” Bird said.
“So, I help him, you think he might…” He turned away and cast a longing look over the building he’d earmarked for his gym-cum-beer hall. “Laddie,” Nameless said, “you might just have made my day.”
When there was no response, he turned back, but Bird was gone. Across the street, a crow flew over the roof of the hostel and gave a single, mocking caw.
But all the same, Nameless couldn’t recall the last time he’d felt so full of purpose. He had to have the gym, and if that meant traipsing all the way to New Londdyr to help out a friend in need, then so be it.
But then a shadow fell across his enthusiasm. It was almost time, the homunculus had said. Time to be freed of the helm; time to destroy the black axe. It was what he wanted, even more than the gym; but hearing the words from a homunculus only made him wonder what was going to go wrong.
He drew in a long breath and let it out in a sigh. Nothing that was worth achieving came without risks, and had Bird not said he was with the Sedition? The homunculus, Mephesch, who had delayed Sektis Gandaw’s Unweaving at Aristodeus’s behest was a member of the Sedition. He’d turned out all right, hadn’t he? After all, he’d given them the time they needed for Shader to prevail.
A rush of air from the distant forge bellows roused him from his thoughts, and almost without thinking, he started in its direction.
If Shadrak really did need his help, he had no doubt the stakes would be high. The assassin could handle himself, so this had to be serious. And while Nameless wasn’t worried about facing danger, he had the feeling he was going to need a new axe.
THE DEMIURGOS’S DISCIPLE
Shadrak let out an appreciative whistle. “Look at the jugs on that.”
Amid a shower of sparks and a billowing cloud of smoke, the near-naked Dame Consilia floated down from the ceiling above the stage. Well, not floated exactly; she was lowered from the fly floor. You could see two sweating stagehands paying out the ropes, if you knew where to look.
Shadrak knew, but he wasn’t looking anymore. He couldn’t take his eyes from those swollen breasts, barely covered by a wisp of silk. A ruby sparkled in her navel with reflected light from the lanterns above the proscenium. Beneath that, strips of diaphanous gold did little to hide her womanhood, leaving her long, graceful legs smooth and bare. Atop her head, her platinum hair had been wound up into two devil’s horns.
“Look, I tell you.” He kept his voice low; stuck well and truly to the shadows at the back of their box.
Albert was looking, but not at the stage. He hoicked his paunch to the loge’s low, velveteen wall. Obviously, standing was proving too much effort. “You watch the jugs; I’ll keep an eye on the husband.”
Shadrak followed his gaze.
Koort Morrow was in the box opposite. If he’d noticed Dame Consilia’s dramatic entrance, he was hiding it well. He was engaged in hushed conversation with the goons either side of him. All business, Morrow. Shadrak guessed that’s what made him the greatest threat to the Night Hawks. Maybe the only threat left.
Morrow held up a hand to the man whispering in his ear, long enough to take a bite of pie. Cherry pie. His favorite. Albert had it all filed away in his head, what people liked to eat, what they had a weakness for. That’s why he’d had some sent over to Morrow’s box, courtesy of Queenie’s Fine Diner.
“Enjoy,” Albert said, rubbing his hands together, and making it all too obvious, as far as Shadrak was concerned.
There was a flurry of movement up in the gods. Shadrak couldn’t see much without showing himself. Didn’t help there was a thick pall of weedstick smoke hanging overhead. Not just weedstick, going by the smell. He was sure there was a hint of sweetness in there; the pungent odor of somnificus.
“What’s going on up there?”
Albert took out his hanky to mop his brow as he glanced up, then straight back down at Morrow.
“Mal Vatès is here.” He leaned forward over the edge of the box, blocking what little was left of Shadrak’s view with his pinstriped arse. “Probably had a few too many after the inauguration.”
“Bit late, ain’t he? Seeing as this bollocks is for him.” Shadrak angled another look at the stage. Had to be better than what Albert was presenting him.
Well, maybe not.
Dame Consilia was dancing suggestively through a chorus line of muscular slaves, giving each a quick feel as she spouted some crap about the Abyss or something.
“Not every day you get elected First Senator of New Londdyr,” Albert said.
Shadrak shrugged to himself. Guessed it was a big thing to most. Hadn’t been exactly unexpected, what with Vatès’ predecessor, Reegers, getting into bed with the guilds. Not that it was such a bad thing. There’d been an agreement between the Senate and the Night Hawks, who pretty much accounted for ninety-per cent of all t
he shit that went down in the city since the Night of the Guilds. Problem was, Morrow had gone and blown the whistle on Reegers, and that left the Senate with nowhere to go but back to the polls.
“What is this shite, anyway?” Shadrak said, pressing himself back against the curtain at the rear of the loge. He noticed Albert’s hands clenching into fists and said, “Don’t look so eager. Someone will see.” Morrow had goons everywhere. Half the theater was his tonight; the other half filled with Vatès’ hangers-on.
Albert sat back in his chair and stole a quick glance at the stage.
Dame Consilia was approaching the ogling crowd at the front, bestowing a touch here and there on outstretched hands. Someone got overexcited and tried to get his face between her breasts. One of Morrow’s goons yanked him back and held him still while another broke his face. Stupid scut. But you had to admire his nerve.
When the dame continued her speech without any indication she’d been ruffled, Albert finally got round to replying. “The Demiurgos’s Disciple.”
“Never heard of it. What’s that, then? Quintus shogging Quincy?”
“Bent Horrigan,” Albert said. “They love him in the provinces.”
“Yeah, well, he can shogging stay there.”
“This is the infamous soliloquy of the succubus,” Albert said. “It’s supposed to give you an insight into what the ladies want, though why anyone would care about such things, I’ll never know.”
Shadrak strained his ears to catch what the dame was saying. Not that it mattered much, what women wanted, because they still wouldn’t want it from him. That was the trouble with being the height of a child. Didn’t help none he was white as a sheet, and most everyone found the pink of his eyes disturbing. Great for intimidation, but shit for all else.
“Load of bleeding bollocks,” he muttered, looking back at Morrow’s box when he saw Albert stiffen.
Morrow had turned green. His cheeks puffed up, like he was gonna throw. The two men beside him helped him from his chair and rushed him out the back of the loge.
Dame Consilia glanced over from the stage. Only for a second. She was a real pro, and instantly snapped back into her role. Except she fluffed a line and stood there like a lemon till someone prompted, “And what big balls you have, sir dwarf,” from the wings.
Murmurs rumbled about the auditorium, and all eyes shifted to Morrow’s empty box.
Dame Consilia struggled on, but her cheeks were red, and she kept glancing off stage.
“I’ll follow them outside, see if it worked,” Shadrak said.
Albert spun out of his chair to face him. “And why would you do that?”
“Just in case. You know…”
“In case I got the dose wrong?” Albert clasped his hands over his belly and tapped his thumbs together, like he always did when he was pissed off.
“I trust you, Albert. Really. It’s just the way I am. I have to check.”
Never leave anything to chance. Shadrak wouldn’t have gotten where he was today, if he’d not been so careful. He’d never have survived so long among the Sicarii in Sahul, never mind made it as boss of the Night Hawks and unifier of all the guilds in New Londdyr.
All but Morrow’s.
And that was about to change.
“Wait here,” he said, as he slipped through the curtain at the back of the box.
“If I must.”
The ruffle of the curtain was instantly followed by a swirl of dust motes in the corridor beyond. The air shimmered, and then there was another ruffle, this time from a brown robe that flickered into view, growing quickly denser, more solid. There was no face beneath the drooping cowl, just a blinding brilliance that made Shadrak throw a hand over his eyes. He couldn’t help it, and dipped his head, but his free hand still went to the grip of a flintlock, for all the good it would do.
“What the shog do you want?” he asked, before he could stop himself.
The Archon’s robe rippled, and flames erupted from where his face should have been.
Shadrak stumbled back into the curtain and dropped to one knee. He hated himself for it, but what else could he do? Save wait, and learn from each time the shogger put in an appearance.
“Leave your scheming and attend to mine,” the Archon said in his rustling voice.
“Busy,” Shadrak said. “Can’t you see that?” He stood and made to walk past, but the air in front of him took on the solidity of a wall.
“Our agreement is binding, Shadrak.”
“Tell me about it,” Shadrak said. It was a contract that had been sealed with irresistible bait. “So, how’s my foster mother? How’s Kadee?” He suppressed a scoff, partly because the last thing he needed was to rile the Archon; partly because he knew there was nothing to scoff about. He’d seen Kadee—or her ghost—that first time the Archon had appeared to him outside the plane ship. She was the carrot to the Archon’s stick, but if there was some chance she was really alive, some place he might find her, then he saw no choice but to play along. At least for the time being.
“It is perilous,” the Archon said. “Always perilous where she endures. But fulfill our agreement, and piece by piece, we will restore the rightful order and let the dead go back to being what they are.”
“Shog’s that supposed to mean?” Shadrak said. Let the dead go back to being what they are! Dead is what they are. What Kadee was. He’d seen her waste away before his eyes. Every instinct told him what the Archon had shown him was some kind of trick, like the illusions in the wizard’s quarter. But he couldn’t help it. What if there really was some hope? Hope he’d see her again. Since she’d passed, he’d been nothing. Nothing save a hitman, and that wasn’t anything Kadee would have been proud of.
“Give me more. More to go on, or I’m through.” It was tough talk, and Shadrak knew he was messing with fire, but sometimes you had to goad your enemy to find out what he had.
Rather than the explosion Shadrak had expected, the Archon’s blaze retreated into the shadows of his cowl. He let out a long, sibilant breath and then nodded. “The creature that came for you on the rooftops, before you left for the Perfect Peak—”
“The thing with the gun?” Even now, he often saw it out of the corner of his eye, started at the slightest movement from the shadows. It had been fast, so fast, and yet he’d beaten it. Just. That was the thing about years and years of killing. You became honed to it, took every glimmer of opportunity, even if it wasn’t exactly playing by the rules. Surprise had been on his side, but in a fair fight, he doubted he’d still be there to tell the tale.
“A Thanatosian, captured by Sektis Gandaw,” the Archon said. “A killer from Thanatos, the dark world, the stealer of souls.”
“That’s where she is, Kadee? On this Thanatos? But how—”
“The passage of the dead has been dammed since the dawn of time, by the formation of the Abyss. None of you go where you should when you pass from this world. The worst are held fast by the Demiurgos in the deepest strata of his realm, but those who resist his pull lie closer to the surface. There, they are vulnerable to the poachers. More than that, I do not know.”
So, the Archon had limits. That was good to know.
“In the way I measure time,” the Archon said, “Thanatos is a newcomer to this cosmos, and it had no existence in mine. It is… a mystery.”
“But you’ve been there, right? You know how to get me there?”
A round of applause came from the auditorium, and by the sounds of it, people were starting to leave.
“Quickly,” the Archon said, “your target will be among the first out.”
“Tell me about it,” Shadrak said. “He’s probably backstage feeling up that tart of a wife of his by now.” Truth was, Morrow was more than likely choking on his own vomit while his internal organs turned to soup.
“Your real target,” the Archon said. “Mine.”
The ruffle of the curtain behind him alerted Shadrak to Albert peering out with eyes as big as plates.
“Oh,” Albert said. “Sorry.” With that, he slunk back inside the box.
“Yeah?” Shadrak said, turning back to the Archon. “And who’s that, then?”
“The man this play should have been named for.”
“The Demiurgos’s Disciple?”
“Indeed,” the Archon said. “The newly elected First Senator. Mal Vatès.”
THE NEXT HIT
“Hurry!” the Archon’s voice urged inside Shadrak’s head. “The timing is perfect.”
Shadrak glided past the open doors of the dressing rooms, no more than a shifting shadow. The clink of glasses, the shrill giggles of chorus girls followed him. He caught more than one glimpse of bare flesh as they flung down their costumes.
Perfect, my arse. Too much was down to chance. Nothing had been planned. The only way hits like this went was tits up.
Dame Consilia rounded the corner in front of him, a thin man on one arm, fat man on the other. Both were dressed in lilac togas, and both kept tripping over their own feet due to their eyes never straying from the dame’s flushed face. She wasn’t looking where she was going, either; eyes all teared up, lips pouting, chin quivering.
“Any news?” she said, loud enough that everyone in the dressing rooms would hear. “Koort. Take me to him.”
Shadrak brushed past, and if they noticed, they probably took him for one of the freaks from the warm-up act. Just the thought of it fired his blood. If he’d had the time, he’d have knifed them for the slight, imagined or not, snobbish shogwits.
“Fellah,” Kadee’s warm voice spoke in his mind. Her presence was fleeting, no more than smoke in the wind. “It’s not them, it’s you.”
Like you don’t tell me every two minutes. It was all him. Always was. He knew she meant well, but being told you’re a paranoid scut was as helpful as shite on a mop head.
Course, there was no telling if it was Kadee, or just his own shogged up thoughts. His brain hadn’t been right since she died. Maybe the Archon was playing on that. Thanatos! Yeah, right. Chances of her being there, if it even existed, were the same as for him being taken up into the Blessed Halls of Araboth, body and soul.