Alameche shook his head. ‘I have no pets,’ he said truthfully. ‘Why don’t you tell me about some more rumours?’
‘Very well.’ Garamende refilled his goblet from a tall jug. He waggled the jug at Alameche, who shook his head. ‘As you please. Yes. Rumours. Tell me again what you think about our Leader’s speech the other night?’
Alameche studied his hands for a moment. Then he smiled a little. ‘You asked me about it at the time. You’ll hear nothing different now. Why?’
‘Because everyone’s talking about it, although possibly not in your hearing. Want to know what they’re saying?’
‘If you want to tell me.’
‘Bollocks!’ Garamende slapped the goblet down, raising a shower of droplets. They smelled of tar. ‘Stop playing fucking games. Want doesn’t come into it. I’m going to tell you because I think you ought to know. And as a result I’m probably going to end the week wearing my own arsehole as a necklace.’ He blew out his cheeks. ‘Here we go. A few people think he must know something they don’t, whether it’s a new alliance or some sort of super-weapon. They also say that if he knows, you know. Most of ’em think you probably knew first, and that this pet you say you haven’t got has something to do with it.’
Alameche nodded. ‘Do you agree with them?’
The big man looked at him for a long time. ‘Not sure,’ he said eventually. ‘But whether I do or not, there’s the other opinion.’
‘And that is?’
There was another pause. Then Garamende spoke, slowly and quietly. ‘That he’s lost his marbles and has therefore become a problem.’
‘Ah. And which do you believe?’
‘Well, now, there’s the thing.’ Garamende picked up his goblet, inclined it slightly towards his nose and wobbled it so that the drink swirled. Then he put it down again, gently this time, and looked up at Alameche. ‘I’m not sure it’s a case of either or. What if your master is indeed a lunatic and he really is in charge of something powerful?’ He shook his head. ‘Bloody awkward for you.’
‘Why?’ In his own ears, Alameche’s voice sounded dead steady.
‘Get a grip, man. You’re his creature, and in some ways he’s yours. Push comes to shove, if he falls you fall with him. Of course,’ and he picked up his drink again, ‘that’s always assuming you wait until he falls. Cheers.’ He upended the goblet.
Alameche stared out over the bay. The two main suns were down now. Only the dusty little disc of the Joker still rode low in the sky. If he tried hard, he could convince himself that a smudge of light on the horizon, right at the edge of his vision, was the Citadel.
He turned back to Garamende. ‘Is there any danger of a fall, then?’
‘That depends.’ Garamende leaned back in his seat and stretched. ‘On various things. You, for a start, and whoever you’re talking to. Don’t bother denying it, man. I might not be a member of the Cabinet but I’m not blind. And, of course, on other people.’
‘You know these people, do you?’ Alameche realized he had snapped out the words. He breathed out carefully, and added in a softer voice, ‘Because if you do, you’re not far from having to pick sides. How far do you trust them?’
‘Trust? Ha!’ Garamende’s belly shook. ‘I’d sooner trust my dick to write letters.’ He stood up. ‘Come on. I never showed you that last fish pond.’
He turned and stamped along the narrow walkway back to the terrace. Alameche stood up to follow him and almost fell. He was swaying. For a moment he thought his legs were unsteady. Then he realized. It wasn’t him; the walkway was swinging a little under Garamende’s weight. He shook his head and followed.
The fish ponds were strung out in a line along the edge of the terrace. They were recessed into the stone so that their edges were flush, and each one was about ten paces square. As he passed each one, Garamende listed the species it contained, although to Alameche they all looked the same – eels, and smaller fish, and crawling, darting things that existed only to be eaten, that were replenished at the rate of tonnes per week by unshod slaves whose bare feet had stained the terrace with sweat and the occasional darker smear that Alameche assumed was blood. The surfaces of the ponds flashed green under the dim Jokerlight.
Except for the last one.
‘What’s this?’ Alameche knelt by the pond. The water was a slick-looking pinkish blue, dead smooth apart from the occasional patch of shifting foam. He reached out his hand.
‘No!’ Garamende’s voice was sharp.
Alameche sat back on his heels. ‘What?’ he said.
‘Don’t touch.’ Garamende knelt down next to him, but a little further from the water. Something about his posture made Alameche inch backwards. ‘Why?’ he asked.
‘You’ll break the oil layer.’ The big man looked at him seriously. ‘The oil layer stops them smelling you. Break it and they’ll get your scent, and once they’ve done that they’ll have you.’ He stood up and felt in a pocket. ‘Look, I’ll show you. But for fuck’s sake stand back. And take this.’ It was a smooth pebble. ‘When I say, and not before, lob this into the middle of the pond.’
Alameche took the pebble. ‘What are you going to do?’
‘Feed the buggers.’ Garamende reached into his other pocket and brought out a handful of something that struggled against his grip. He held it out towards Alameche, who could only see a mass of writhing fur. ‘Sand rats, see? Ideal snack. Ready? Now!’ He threw the little creatures up into the air above the pond. Alameche tossed the pebble into the centre. It plopped through the oily surface and sank.
The pond erupted. A forest of tiny, sleek, golden, dart-shaped bodies flashed up into the air, meeting the falling rats like missiles.
Right at the upper edge of hearing, there was a tiny, terrible, composite scream. Alameche covered his ears. Then the mass of bodies fell into the pond, the thick oil rippled and lapped back over the surface, and there was silence.
Alameche looked at Garamende. ‘What are they?’ he asked carefully.
For once Garamende didn’t grin. ‘On their home planet they’re just called the Nightmare,’ he said. ‘Half fish, half insect. They’ve got these hooked mouth parts. Once they’ve got them in you, they shoot stomach acid into the wound. Speeds up digestion, the scientists say.’ He looked at Alameche and shrugged. ‘Don’t look at me like that, man. I didn’t invent ’em, any more than you invented acid baths. But I can use ’em.’ He reached out and put a hand on Alameche’s shoulder. ‘That’s what I know about trust, you see? It needs backup.’
Alameche nodded. ‘I see,’ he said, eventually. ‘You confide in me, and I seem to have all my skin. This is trust?’
Now Garamende did grin. ‘Oh, I think you and I are above all that.’ The grin widened, so that his teeth glinted yellow in the Jokerlight. ‘Long may it last. Eh?’
Alameche opened his own mouth to reply, but he was cut off by loud shouts from further along the terrace. Garamende looked round. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘The rest of the party. Come on.’ He paused, and looked worried. ‘I hope you like fish?’
Fish was one way of putting it.
‘Three . . . two . . . one . . . now!’
The partition between the two tanks slammed open.
Alameche felt an elbow dig into his ribs. He looked round, and saw Garamende leaning towards him. The big man put his mouth against Alameche’s ear and shouted over the noise of the crowd. ‘Word to the wise, man. Put your money on the green.’
‘Really?’ Alameche looked towards the tanks, where two bow-wave ripples were converging. ‘The black one is far bigger.’
‘Bigger? What the fuck does that have to do with it? Look; see?’
There was a moan from the crowd. The two huge eels clashed, wrapping around each other and spinning in a blurred knot of muscle and a fountain of water. Droplets splashed on to the table in front of Alameche, staining the white surface with pink spots. He frowned, looking close, then relaxed. The blood seemed to have missed his plate.
As f
ast as they had met, the two eels separated. They began circling warily. Red threads wisped away from the head of the black one and were mopped up by the little floating filter-globes that kept the water clear enough for the spectators to see.
Garamende nudged him again. ‘See? Green! That beast was old and wily in my father’s day. She had her first full circle a century ago! Get your bets in, man.’
Alameche nodded, and waved at one of the hovering accountants.
The Great Eel was a genuine native of Taussich as far as anyone could tell, which made it unusual enough to begin with. It was powerful, aggressive and very long-lived, but what made it truly unique was the fact that it grew one set of two hundred and thirteen teeth for life, and they were made of silicates. Very durable, and above all very sharp.
The outcome was inevitable. For thousands of years, Great Eels had been bred and selected for their fighting abilities. They used their armoured heads as clubs, their muscular, prehensile tails as whips and their whole bodies as constrictors, generally fighting to the death. It was a tradition that the teeth of the losing eel would be extracted and implanted in circles around the head or the tail of the winner.
A successful fighter might accumulate ten or twenty full circles of lethal teeth around each end of its sinuous body during a career which could easily last a century. The green eel had so many that Alameche couldn’t count them.
The accountant had made it through the crowd. He bowed slightly. Alameche gave his instructions and then, when the man raised his eyebrows, repeated them tersely. The man blanched and hurried away. Alameche saw him draw several similar-looking men into a huddle. It probably wouldn’t take long for them to sort it out. He waited.
Smoke was drifting over the ponds. Somewhere behind them, long fire pits had been lit. The losing eels would be eaten later. It would be an expensive meal, for someone: Alameche had heard that a good Great Eel could be worth the value of a country estate.
Yes. Money. He caught the eye of the accountant, who nodded. Now it was just a matter of wait and see.
The crowd surrounded the ponds. Garamende had thrown the eel fight open to all comers – although ‘all comers’ up here still meant a select group. The front row sat in recliners, tilted a little forwards so they had a good view down into the water.
The recliner next to Alameche creaked as its occupant shifted. He was a fat, pasty man whom Alameche recognized vaguely. The man leaned towards him. ‘Hodil, my Lord. A privilege to meet again.’
Even at this range and with the smoke for competition, Alameche could smell the man’s sweat – a sour, unhealthy, fearful smell. The smell rather than the name triggered his memory: Hodil had been a minor courtier, dismissed for some equally minor fault. He nodded, and then pointed at the pond. ‘Have you bet?’
Hodil shook his head, making his chins wobble. ‘Not yet,’ he said. ‘I am uncertain, to be frank. I believe I saw you place a wager, Lord. Can you advise me?’
Alameche leaned closer. ‘Wiser heads than mine recommended the green,’ he said. Then he pulled his head back before he had to inhale.
Hodil’s eyes widened. Then he nodded vigorously. ‘Thank you, Lord! I will take your advice. If I can find . . .’ He faltered, looked around, and then brightened. ‘Ah! Here, sir!’
Alameche followed the man’s gaze and saw an accountant walking towards them. He thought the man looked less than enthusiastic.
He became aware of Garamende, leaning towards him again. He turned, matching the lean.
‘Our friend Hodil is heavily mortgaged, and the accountants know it.’ Garamende paused to smile at some new arrivals. ‘A single unfortunate investment could put him beyond the reach of rescue.’
Alameche raised his eyebrows. ‘Indeed? Well, well.’ He turned to watch as the accountant approached Hodil. Certainly the transaction seemed to take longer than necessary; Hodil was animated, his porcine body seeming to lift out of the recliner as he tried to reinforce his point, whereas the accountant seemed unmovable. Alameche made up his mind. He reached out and tapped the accountant on the shoulder. ‘Excuse me?’
The accountant turned, began to scowl, blinked, and then bowed.
Alameche waved him up. ‘The gentleman there?’ He indicated Hodil. ‘You may accept his business with confidence.’ He watched long enough to see Hodil’s face light up, while the accountant’s fell. Then he turned away, and stared at the pond.
The two vast fish – he supposed eels were fish – were still circling, in a kind of dance that looked unpleasantly erotic. The crowd was getting impatient; someone threw a coin into the water. There was laughter, and more followed.
Then the green eel – erupted. There was no other word for it, thought Alameche. The creature’s body lashed like a severed cable and lifted its whole length out of the water in a boil of foam, curling as it did so into an upturned crescent with its tail poised at the highest point and its head almost in the water. The laughter stopped, and was replaced by a collective intake of breath.
For a moment the eel seemed to hang in the air. Then its head and the front third of its body fell back into the water, and its rear half cracked with the force of a braided steel whip.
The jewelled tail struck the water immediately above the head of the black eel with an impact that Alameche felt in his chest. It was a beautiful, stunning, lethal coup de grâce that threw up white waves in the pond and soaked the onlookers. They stood up and began to applaud, and Hodil gave a cry of delight.
Then they fell silent. The waves were clearing, but the water in the pond was still writhing like a boiling pot.
Somehow the intended victim had evaded the death blow, and now the two eels were entwined, turning over and over in a queasy pastiche of a lovers’ knot. Where their bodies broke the surface they writhed with muscle, and the heads and tails flailed and thrashed. Alameche found himself perched on the edge of his seat, the breath harsh in his throat. Next to him, he could hear Hodil panting.
For a long moment the bodies rolled and plaited. Then one of them tensed and straightened, with the other wrapped round it in a constricting spiral. There was a gasp from the crowd. The eel that had straightened was the green. Its mouth, rising out of the water, was open in a rictus of angular teeth, and its eyes were bulging and wide.
There was a moment’s silence. Then the crowd leapt to its feet. Alameche found himself joining them. After a moment he realized that there was a gap to one side of him. He looked down and saw Hodil slumped in his seat.
Garamende’s elbow dug into his ribs. The fat man was grinning ruefully. ‘Something of a reverse,’ he said. ‘Sorry about that. Did you lose much?’
Alameche shook his head. ‘No. I won much.’ He saw Garamende’s eyes widen, and added, ‘I am very bad at taking advice. Especially when it seems obvious. And besides, it may be useful.’ He nodded towards Hodil.
‘Ah.’ Garamende raised an eyebrow. ‘Perhaps you’re right. Look,’ and he pointed to an approaching group of accountants. ‘They come, beaks open, seeking carrion.’
‘Ah, yes.’ Alameche studied the group for a moment. Then he leaned close to Garamende. ‘I think I will watch their technique for a while. I might learn something.’
The other man laughed softly. ‘You might learn all kinds of things, you old bastard. But by the end of the night I bet you’ll have taught them something too.’
Alameche sat back. ‘Perhaps. Let’s see.’
Hodil hadn’t tried to leave. He remained slumped in his recliner, one arm swinging listlessly. Alameche had half expected him to make an appeal, but he seemed beyond even that. Or possibly above it, in the end.
It was almost a generous thought. He silenced it, laughing inwardly at himself. Then he watched.
The group closed around Hodil. Alameche could see nothing but turned backs, but even those were radiating trouble. The conversation, if that was the right word, went on for a long while. Every now and then the bodies shifted and he caught a brief glimpse of Hodil. He was genera
lly making a resigned gesture.
Then the conversation came to an abrupt halt. The ring of accountants stood up all at once and backed away, leaving one standing in front of Hodil. He had something that looked like a genuine antique piece of paper in his hand, and he held it out in front of him as if he was about to read a proclamation.
‘The Honourable His Grace the Duke Verrasetes Prisp of the Tribe Hodil! You are declared in default of debt, to the extent of seventy-four million standard on this instance. Other instances are noted.’ The man cleared his throat. ‘By statute here writ, your estates, goods and titles are held forfeit . . .’
Alameche felt Garamende’s elbow in his ribs. He raised an eyebrow.
Garamende’s voice was a hiss. ‘Hell’s ring-piece, man, what are you waiting for? That’s a pre-packaged wrap-up. If he gets to the end of that little speech old Hodil’s estate will be entwined in the Defaulters Court until his grandchildren are dead of the pox. Speak up, or there’ll be nothing left to speak for.’
Alameche nodded. He turned towards the declaiming accountant. ‘Ah, excuse me?’
The man lowered his paper. ‘My Lord?’ His voice was testy, and Alameche made a note to find out his name.
‘My apologies,’ he said. ‘It had slipped my mind that My Lord Hodil and I were betting in tandem.’ He waved a hand. ‘Use my account.’
‘Indeed, my Lord.’ The man looked flustered. ‘Excuse me. I will need to confirm . . .’
‘Of course you will.’ Alameche looked away.
It didn’t take long. There was a hurried conversation among the accountants. Then the one with the paper turned back and held it out to Alameche. ‘My Lord? The debt is transferred.’
Alameche took the paper and nodded. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘No doubt you are busy?’
The man flushed and bowed himself away. Hodil watched him go, and then turned to Alameche, his face even paler. He gripped the arms of his recliner and rocked backwards and forwards until he had enough speed to stand up. His loose robes hung damply on his vast body, making him look like a sack. He gave a quick, nodding bow. ‘My thanks, Lord. You have saved me.’
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