City of Hope & Despair

by Ian Whates

  After Iron Grove Square Kat visited the three safe houses in the vicinity, but without success. There was no indication that the Tattooed Men had visited any of them within the past few days.

  It was then that she went to see the apothaker, to make sure she'd survived. The old woman was in fine spirits and even seemed pleased to see her, which Kat wasn't sure she deserved.

  The pair swapped stories, the apothaker going first, describing how she'd been in the middle of the crowd when the gates at Iron Grove Square had finally been opened, but she was still able to see the mob of armed men who waited there, forcing their way through the gates and cutting down several of the talented while pushing the rest back. They then broke down the doors to either side of the gateway and stormed into both adjacent wings of the building, while others stayed at the gate to keep the talented penned in.

  The apothaker had been among the surge of people who escaped when Kat charged the cordon of men and others followed her lead. She'd come straight home without discovering the outcome of events.

  It was then Kat's turn. She described all that she had been through that evening, including her sister's death and her fall from near the top of the grand conveyor. It felt good to tell someone this, almost as if the words that left her mouth and the accompanying images and feelings they conjured helped to ease a burden she hadn't even realised was there. None of which stopped her from quipping as she finished, "So much for your brecking good luck potion; didn't do me any good at all."

  "Really?" the apothaker asked. "You're still alive, aren't you?"

  Perhaps she had a point; many others weren't, after all.

  "The night time killings have stopped at any rate," the old woman reported. "So even if you didn't finish that thing for good, you must have done it some damage."

  That was interesting. Had the Thief fled back to the Stain? If so, she was presumably weakened, having claimed only Chavver after coming so close to being killed herself. Had they scared the bitch that much?

  "Oh, by the way, someone called here yesterday asking if I'd seen you," the apothaker continued.

  Kat felt abruptly tense. Brent?

  "One of your Tattooed Men," the old woman continued. "M'gruth, I think he called himself. He said that if I did see you, I was to say that he'll be at the Crooked Cockerel for the next few evenings."

  Kat knew the Crooked Cockerel; a tavern M'gruth had always been fond of. She found herself smiling for the first time since waking up at the Temple. At least somebody had faith in her still being alive.

  That evening, she found M'gruth where and when he said he'd be, and brought him back to the apothaker's. The old woman seemed glad of the company and Kat felt more comfortable talking where they couldn't be overheard. She listened intently as M'gruth filled her in on what had happened after she disappeared over the rooftops. It seemed that the Fang had come to the party mob-handed, but hadn't been overly choosy about who they recruited.

  "Must have been around sixty of them," M'gruth told her. "There were some real hard nuts among them but also some wetting-themselves cowards. Because of the way we were spread around the building, mobs of them caught our boys in ones and twos to start with, taking us by surprise. Sheer numbers told and we lost a few."

  "How many?"

  "Seven; eight including Chavver. Plus two that Shayna worked miracles to save but are still recovering, Rel among them."

  That was welcome news. Kat had thought Rel was done for when she'd seen him collapsed against the wall.

  "What about the Fang?"

  "Broke and ran once we were able to regroup; those that could. We counted thirty two bodies and reckon there were at least a dozen more injured who limped or crawled away."

  "The Fang have been throwing their weight around in the streets of late," the apothaker interjected, "but no one's seen hide nor hair of them in the past couple of days."

  Kat grunted. "That's something at least. What about the rest of the Tattooed Men?"

  "A lot of razzer activity in the aftermath, what with the fire and everything, so we decided to scatter and go to ground for a few days."

  Kat nodded. She might well have ordered the same under the circumstances, though it would have been handy to have the men readily available. As they continued to chat, she told the other two about Brent, a discussion which interested the apothaker, who thought the man Kat had seen in conversation with the sinister outsider sounded suspiciously like the client who had visited her immediately before the Soul Thief's attack, a certain Sur Sander…

  Kat drew the hood off their prisoner, not bothering to be gentle. The man, Sander, hadn't stopped snivelling since they first jumped him. He'd whimpered as they led him the short distance here, begged for mercy as he was forced to sit in the chair, and had now lapsed into simply crying, as his imagination doubtless painted goodness only knew what pictures of the fate awaiting him. Kat didn't imagine they'd have much trouble getting information out of this one.

  There was no question in her mind, Sander was the man she'd seen talking to Brent and a member of the Fang the night she'd been scouring the rooftops in search of the Soul Thief's lair.

  M'gruth threw her an apple. She smiled at their captive. Tears and snot ran down his face as he stared back, wide-eyed. She took a bite from the apple, tossed it a little way into the air directly in front of Sander, then whipped up the sword in her other hand to slice through the fruit as it reached the apex of its flight. Sander jumped in his restraints and cried out as the blade flashed close to his face. Two uneven halves of apple fell to the floor.

  "Now, Sur Sander, tell us about Brent."

  She saw his eyes widen at mention of the name. "Wh... who? I don't know anyone called Brent."

  "Liar!" She screamed the word, thrusting her face forward until her nose almost touched his.

  He whimpered and shrank away.

  "I saw you talking to him a few nights ago." She stood up again. "Now, there are two ways this can go. Either you tell us the truth straight away and we walk out of here without harming you, or you continue to lie, we slice off your fingers one by one, and then you tell us the truth. It's your choice. I don't care either way, but I thought that you might have a preference."

  She brought the sword up, pressing the point to his cheek. The man was a mess, unable to take his eyes off of the blade She applied a little more pressure, pricking his skin and drawing a thin line of blood across his cheek. "So, what's it to be, eh, Sur Sander?"

  He was crying silently now, his body convulsing within the restraints. "You've no idea what he's like..." he almost whispered between sobs. "He'd have killed me if I'd dared to refuse. I had to do it."

  "Had to do what, Sur Sander?" Kat asked, her face still close to his though the sword had been withdrawn, her voice soft, almost soothing. "What was it Brent forced you to do for him?"

  "You know, you know!" he cried. "Else you wouldn't have brought me here."

  "We do know, yes, of course we know, but we want to hear it from you."

  "I… I can't… please."

  "Yes you can!" she screamed again.

  After a fresh sob, he tried to speak. "I…" The words emerged as if each and every one was an individual torment. "I led her… that thing… to them."

  "The Soul Thief, you mean."

  "Yes."

  "To the talented."

  "Yes."

  "What you're telling us is that this man, Brent, forced you to lead that abomination to the homes of the healers, the apothakers, the seers and the spirit talkers, to anyone who showed the slightest sign of real talent."

  "Yes, yes," Sander whispered, his eyes squeezed tightly shut. "You have to believe me… I didn't have a choice."

  "But he paid you, didn't he."

  Silence followed her words.

  "Didn't he!"

  "Yes."

  "There's always a choice, Sur Sander. You took this stranger's coin to betray your own kind. You became these people's clients, earned their trust, and then you
found an excuse to visit their homes knowing that death shadowed your footsteps, and your pockets grew heavier with each and every one. That was your choice"

  New sobs wracked the pathetic man's body. Kat felt nauseous. She wanted to slap him, to spit at him, to draw her swords and run him through, but refrained; not while they needed what he knew.

  "What else could I do? " Sander whined. "He's evil, pure evil… I'm sorry, I'm so sorry." This last was spoken in the direction of the apothaker, who had hung back, preferring to stay in the shadows, though she could still be seen.

  Kat couldn't bottle it up completely. "You disgust me."

  He hung his head, refusing to meet her eyes. Kat paced up and down in front of him, controlling the rage, resisting the urge to leap on this bastard and stab him, again and again. No wonder the Soul Thief had killed so many this time around. She'd had a guide. But who exactly was this Brent, was he really just hired help as he claimed? What was his connection, or his employer's, with the monster that had now killed both Kat's mother and her sister?

  She stopped in front of Sander's chair again. "And where can we find your friend Brent right now?

  "I don't know."

  "That's a shame. We were doing so well, and then you have to go and lie to me again." She looked up, to where a muscular figure stood behind the chair. "M'gruth, free his hands would you? And bring the right one forward where we can all see it. We'll start by taking off the little finger I think."

  M'gruth grabbed the prisoner's arm, about to comply.

  "No, no wait, please. Mill Lane, he's staying on Mill Lane."

  "That's better. See how easy it is? Now, whereabouts in Mill Lane?"

  "A tavern… a small place called the White Ox."

  Kat looked to M'gruth, who shook his head. He didn't know that one either. "And that's in Mill Street, you say?"

  "Mill Lane, not Mill Street, north end, on the conveyor side. But don't tell him you found out from me, please."

  He sounded genuine. She felt sure this was the truth in as far as he knew it. "Oh, we won't, don't worry. I doubt there'll be much conversation of any sort when we catch up with Sur Brent."

  Kat nodded towards the grim-faced M'gruth. The two of them headed towards the door. She didn't spare Sander another glance.

  "Wait, where are you going?" he called out. "You said you'd set me free if I told you the truth."

  "No, I didn't," Kat replied without stopping. "What I said was that we'd leave without harming you, and we are."

  "But I'm not leaving," the apothaker said, stepping forward. "At least not until you and I have had a cosy little chat about my Kara, about what you brought into my home and how you helped to murder her."

  "No, please, you can't leave me here… not with her," Sander called after them. "I told you everything you wanted to know… please!" Kat didn't blame him for pleading on that score. The apothaker might seem elderly and frail, but Kat had seen the look in the woman's eyes when they'd discussed the plan, and didn't doubt she'd make Sander pay for his betrayals.

  Even after the door was shut behind them, Kat could still hear his desperate, whining voice, though the sound didn't bring the satisfaction she'd hoped for, not when set against all the loss she'd suffered of late. Still, there was every chance that the anticipated meeting with Brent would prove of greater help on that front.

  Once outside the building Kat stopped, turning to M'gruth. "Wait here, would you? See that the old woman gets home safely." Night time in the under-City was not a place anyone her age should be abroad without protection.

  M'gruth wasn't happy with the idea. "You can't take him alone, Kat. You've seen him fight. He stood toe to toe with Chavver and held his own."

  "True," Kat admitted. "I've seen him fight. Tell me honestly, M'gruth, in a no-holds-barred scrap between me and Chav, who do you think would have won?"

  He shook his head, as if about to duck the issue, then he looked her in the eye and sighed. "Truthfully… I don't know. You're both formidable. Chavver was a little stronger, you a bit quicker…" He shrugged.

  "Exactly. I'm quicker, and Brent's never seen me fight. He's going to gauge me by what he knows of my sister."

  M'gruth didn't seem convinced. "And you think that's going to be enough?"

  "It will be, don't worry." She smiled, placing a comradely hand on the larger man's shoulder. "This is something I have to do, M'gruth. Alone."

  "I know," he said after a pause.

  "Just look after things this end for me. I'll see you before morning."

  With that, she turned and walked away. Thirty paces later she heard a series of muffled sounds. Surely they weren't screams? No, couldn't be. They'd have to be really loud for her to have heard them from this far away. They certainly sounded like screams though.

  Kat knew Mill Lane – a stubby passage which ran between Mill Street and the Whittleson Road, close to where the grand conveyor terminated at the Whittleson factory, but she'd never registered the presence of a tavern there. The buildings were two storey and the walls appeared to be grimy and dark, which added a claustrophobic sense to an alley which already seemed too narrow. There it was – a small sign sticking out from above a door otherwise indistinguishable from any of the others. Through the flaking paint she could just make out the crudely painted image of an ox. This looked exactly the sort of place in which a person could hide away without being noticed. The tavern was not yet open, so, stopping under the sign, she dropped one hand to her belt close to a sword hilt and then rapped twice on the door with the other.

  Kat was fully attuned to the rhythms and nuances of the City Below; she knew how the world worked and so summed up the man who answered the door in a flash, reckoning that bravery would not prove his strongpoint. He opened the door a fraction and poked his head out.

  "Is it a room you'll be after, little 'un?"

  Long lank greasy hair framing an angular leatherskinned face which was dominated by a pair of small, darting eyes, all preceded by what had to be the worst breath Kat had ever encountered.

  "No," she replied, pushing the door further open, forcing the man back and doubtless surprising him with her strength. "Information."

  He was retreating rapidly towards a small bar and presumably either a sword or staff that lay hidden behind it. "I… I don't know nothing," he assured her. "Now stay back! I'm warning you, I've got friends among the razzers."

  Kat doubted that, doubted he had much in the way of friends anywhere. She laughed. "Fine, you call your friends and I'll call mine: the Tattooed Men."

  He stopped in his tracks and stared at her, clearly reassessing who stood before him. He ran his tongue over his upper lip and then said, "What do you want?"

  "There's a man staying here, name of Brent; an outsider, from the East." She wasn't sure why she'd added the last, except that the words of the odd man from the chophouse came back to her. "Tall, thin, wears an unusual brown coat."

  "Hah!" The man laughed, showing a missing front tooth. "Was staying here, you mean."

  "He's left, then?" Her heart sank. That had always been the danger – that Brent had fled the city straight after Iron Grove Square.

  "Oh, he's left all right, though not by choice. The razzers came and took him yesterday afternoon."

  The razzers? "Some of your friends, were they?" He looked sheepish. "Did they say why?"

  "What, explain themselves to the likes of me? Probably the same reason they ever do anything, because somebody paid them to."

  True enough, but who else would be interested in Brent?

  "So what's so special about this Brent anyway?" the man asked slyly.

  "Trust me, you really don't want to know."

  Kat walked away from the White Ox with a mounting sense of frustration and anger. In a way this reminded her of the Pits, where she had been completely at the mercy of others. Once again she felt manipulated and used. There were things going on around her which she didn't understand, and whenever she tried to discover what they might be
she found only more questions at every turn. It was time to regroup the Tattooed Men. Once she had them properly organised she intended to seek out a certain Kite Guard and find out what he knew, if anything. One way or another she was determined to get some answers.

  NINETEEN

  Tom couldn't decide whether he should consider this a particularly large village or a small town. The houses seemed to be crammed into the canyon, straddling the river, with a wooden bridge connecting the crowd of buildings on the far side to the nine or ten that he and Mildra were approaching on this side. It was late in the day, and the prospect of spending a night with a roof over their heads added an extra spring to Tom's step.