City of Hope & Despair Read online

  Kat was positioned towards the right-hand tip of their line while Chavver would be holding the centre. Kat looked to her left, seeing M'gruth emerge from an alleyway, then to the right, spotting a shadowy figure at the extremity of a lamp's glow – Rel. They didn't pause, didn't acknowledge one another but moved on, again separated by intervening buildings until the next branching street or alley. In this fashion they advanced across a broad swath of the under-City.

  Something swept into sight, dipping down to head height and then away again, causing Kat to tense, but it was only a bat. In theory, she didn't need to worry about the brecking things this time out. Before the hunt began each of them had smeared some of Shayna's protective ointment to face and arms and other exposed areas of flesh. The unguent repelled the blood suckers to the point where none would come near them, or so the theory went. Shayna was tight-lipped about what actually went into her salve, proclaiming, "That's my pension, for when this is all over."

  She was probably right. Many of the under-City's inhabitants were paranoid about the bats and would doubtless pay handsomely for protection that actually worked. For her own part, Kat remained sceptical. After all, she'd survived down here for well over a year without the healer's salve and hadn't been attacked by the bats once, though there were always tales of street-nicks who'd been less fortunate.

  At least the ointment didn't stink, in fact what little smell it carried could almost be described as pleasant, which had come as a surprise the first time Shayna produced it. In Kat's experience, most lotions and potions that did you any good were guaranteed to smell and taste foul. She commented as much to the healer, who explained, "Bats don't hunt by scent, they use sound."

  "So what does this cream of yours do, then?" Kat wanted to know. "Shriek at them?"

  Shayna's response had been a simple knowing smile.

  Kat reckoned that either bats noses were more sensitive than Shayna was letting on, or the ointment did nothing more than bolster the wearer's confidence. Whatever her reservations, she didn't refuse the salve when it was passed around. Better to be safe than sorry.

  This time as she emerged from between two buildings and glanced across at M'gruth, it was to see him beckon her over. She felt a jolt of excitement and instantly turned and repeated the gesture to Rel, before sprinting across to join M'gruth. Someone along their line had caught sight or hint of their quarry and the hunt was about to begin for real. Kat was itching to move and could barely contain herself as they waited the brief seconds needed for Rel to join them. As soon as he did so they were off, funnelling in towards the centre of the line, as other groups would be. This was where the groupings designated by Chavver came to the fore. Now that the line had broken, they slipped smoothly into their allocated team of three – a pattern which Kat knew was being repeated up and down the line. Discipline came naturally to men raised to combat, men who had learned the hard way that teamwork could make the difference between life and death. This was exactly the sort of instinctive efficiency that gave the Tattooed Men their edge.

  Kat slotted in as if she'd never been away.

  As the line contracted inward they came to a figure who simply stood and pointed the way. Kat was so intent on the hunt she didn't even note who it was. Their team followed the finger, seeing the backs of another team a little way ahead, four in this one.

  Kat felt a heady mix of excitement, anger and elation welling up inside. Once before, not long after the Pits had been closed down, they'd hunted the Soul Thief and had failed to catch her. Kat was determined the bitch wouldn't escape her again.

  They ran through deserted streets, the under-City's inhabitants staying safely cosseted in their homes after globes out, as tradition down here dictated. They ran in virtual silence; there were no shouts, no outward sounds to indicate that their quarry had been sighted, just the gentle pad of feet on compact ground.

  Kat had forged a little ahead of Rel and M'gruth, unable to entirely curb her enthusiasm. The Soul Thief was close, she could sense it.

  In front of her, the group of four had stopped, hesitating by a shattered door, but only briefly. They were away again before she reached them. Pallid light seeped from the gaping doorway. Something had happened here. The murderous bitch had been at work. Instinctively, Kat drew her twin blades. A face appeared in the doorway, making her jump. An old woman.

  The face looked as startled as she felt. "You're one of them, aren't you? The Death Queens."

  Kat hadn't been called that in a long while. The title, which she'd once worn with such arrogance and pride, now sat uncomfortably. If she were a queen at all, then it was a deposed one. Something else struck her. Kat had heard the occasional old dear with delusions of grandeur affect an up-City accent before, but this one sounded genuine. Rather than the hesitant precision of the self-conscious imitator, she fancied she heard here the easy delivery of a natural speaker.

  Despite this curiosity Kat was itching to be gone, sensing that the Soul Thief was slipping further away with every passing second, but the woman refused to go back indoors and despite herself the girl felt sympathetic, fully understanding her loss. After all, she'd suffered in much the same way herself – a while ago perhaps, but the memory and pain were rarely more than a thought away. The woman thrust something at her, a small bottle, claiming it to be a potion for good luck or something. She would have scoffed at such things a few days ago, but that was before she'd cowered with Tom while a demon hound slobbered over them and the boy's ability had effectively hidden them in plain sight. The great beast never even knew they were there. So now she hesitated, sensing that the old woman believed her own words, and when she started muttering about talent and a child who was 'special', Kat began to believe a little as well. So she took the proffered phial, tucking it away in her clothing, which seemed to satisfy this self-proclaimed apothaker enough that she finally vanished back inside.

  Kat felt released, as if the woman's presence had somehow held her trapped and only once she'd withdrawn was the girl free to pick up the hunt once more. Rel and M'gruth had caught up with her, so the three of them ran together again.

  "You shouldn't dash ahead like that," the latter said, managing to sound both angry and offended.

  "You should try to keep up," was her retort.

  The night's stillness was shattered by a strange, piercing wail, sounding as if it were only a short way ahead. Kat broke into a sprint. She knew what the inhuman cry had to mean: the Tattooed Men had caught up with the Soul Thief, the monster that had sucked the life from her mother and turned her and Charveve into orphans; the creature responsible for their ending up in the Pits. She wanted to be there, wanted to be part of that bitch's death more than she'd ever craved anything in her life. So Kat ignored M'gruth's calls imploring her to slow down and instead ran for all she was worth.

  FOUR

  Dewar had to give the prime master credit. Here was quite possibly the most formidable man the assassin had ever encountered. He thought he'd found the best that Thaiburley had to offer in his former employer, Magnus – powerful, suave, cunning and ruthless. Yet in comparison to the prime master, Magnus was as naïve as a newborn hatchling and all his scheming and manoeuvrings amounted to nought. True, the senior arkademic had projected a sense of destiny and purpose, sufficient at least to persuade an ambitious man to throw in his lot with him, but the prime master was destiny personified. Furthermore, he understood human nature and the workings of the mind, knowing exactly how to bind Dewar to his cause – which buttons to press to ensure the assassin's loyalty. Not an astonishing feat, perhaps, but more than Magnus had ever achieved. Initially, Dewar worked for the senior arkademic because it had suited him to do so. Later, the burden of shared guilt over the various acts Dewar perpetrated on his employer's behalf bound the pair of them together, each dependent on the other's discretion. Such relationships were fragile at best, destined to collapse as soon as either party lost faith in the other. The prime master was not about to rely on such uncertain ha
lf-measures to secure his loyalty.

  When the old man interviewed him following his failed attempt to flee the city – meant as a temporary measure, a way of lying low and allowing things to settle before his return – the assassin knew at once that his future was on the line. Faced with the prospect of permanent banishment from the city, Dewar had listened carefully to all that the prime master had to say, noting the exact phrasing and inflections and seeing in them a glimmer of hope.

  Only then, once he was confident that he understood precisely what his options were, did he make his pitch, choosing each and every word with infinite care. "I understand why you feel reluctant to allow me to remain inside the city, but might there perhaps some way in which I could serve you initially outside the walls, and so prove my loyalty?"

  The prime master regarded him thoughtfully, the ghost of a smile played at the corners of his mouth, leaving Dewar in no doubt that this was exactly what the man had been waiting to hear. "Now there's an interesting suggestion."

  First Thaiburley's senior official dangled the carrot. "In many ways you're an enigma, Dewar. You clearly value your citizenship but have flouted our laws from the very first moment you arrived here. Now you propose to redeem yourself by performing some service outside the city. A strange proposition by any estimation.

  "Yet it just so happens that there is a small task which, if accomplished, might persuade me to overlook your past conduct and rescind your banishment."

  Dewar bowed his head respectfully. "I'll do anything, prime master."

  Then came the inevitable stick, which the prime master brandished with equal deftness. "I would require a small amount of your blood, of course."

  Dewar froze. "My blood? Why?"

  "Oh, nothing to worry about." The old man smiled and waved a dismissive hand. "Just a pinprick on a finger, that's all. You'll barely feel a thing."

  Dewar licked his top lip, a nervous habit he thought abandoned decades ago. "And why exactly would you need this blood of mine?"

  "A mere precaution, which I'm sure will prove redundant. You see, the service I mentioned involves you safeguarding the life of a certain individual as they undertake a potentially perilous journey. In the unlikely event that you should have a change of heart while fulfilling your task and abscond, or, worse still, should anything happen to the person you're supposed to be guarding, well, with a drop of your blood there isn't a corner of the world you can hide in where I won't be able to reach you."

  Dewar stared at the prime master. The man's smile remained as warm and guileless as ever.

  The assassin had seen some of the things arkademics could do and didn't doubt that masters were capable of a great deal more. He sensed that here before him was a good, a decent man, but he didn't make the mistake of assuming that this was an indication of weakness. Here was the person who was ultimately responsible for the whole of the city and everyone in it, who must be well used to making tough choices when such were required. After all, he hadn't hesitated in deploying the Blade to the under-City, where their very name was a dire curse.

  The assassin was not about to dismiss the threat couched in the old man's soft-spoken tone as an idle one.

  The prime master was speaking again. "I apologise now for taking such unnecessary precautions, but you do understand why I have to take them, don't you?"

  Dewar's own smile was thin and humourless as he nodded in agreement. "Of course."

  "Excellent! Oh, by the way, the person you'll be looking out for is someone I believe you're already aware of, a former street-nick by the name of Tom."

  Dewar struggled to keep his face passive, feeling simultaneously shocked and amused, and undecided about which reaction was the stronger. He had just been charged with safeguarding the life of the very lad he'd originally been sent into the City Below to kill.

  As if that particular irony were not enough for any man to have to deal with, the prime master had another surprise up his sleeve, casually revealed to Dewar as he was leaving the man's presence, having donated a few drops of blood.

  The prime master suddenly said, in the manner of a man who had almost forgotten to ask, "Incidentally, is there anyone among your network of informants in the underCity you would like me to keep an eye on in your absence? Anybody who you feel might otherwise be vulnerable?"

  Dewar paused and looked back at this deceptively frail man, this cunning manipulator and consummate politician. The question left the assassin in no doubt that somehow the old man knew all about the retribution he had dealt the bargeman Hal on Marta's behalf. Dewar had left the slimy brecker bleeding his life away in an alley close to the runs; one more unsolved murder for the local razzers to puzzle over – just another night in the City Below – but he didn't doubt that someone of the prime master's abilities could identify him as the perpetrator should he be interested enough to investigate. Evidently, he had.

  The assassin found himself strangely reluctant to answer. He had a choice here and it wasn't one he relished. Before making it, he was going to have to do something he'd been trying to avoid: analyse what he truly felt for Marta, if indeed he felt anything at all. She was, after all, a whore; a particularly pretty, young, and spirited one, granted, but still a whore.

  He licked his upper lip again, much to his own annoyance, and said, as nonchalantly as he could manage, "Thank you, prime master, but not really, no." Then he added, as if he too were susceptible to afterthoughts, "Though, having said that, there is one girl, now that you mention it; a tavern wench by the name of Marta – she means nothing to me personally, you understand, but she's had a particularly rough time of it lately, and she did provide the information that led me to the Blue Claw, which in turn set events in motion. I do feel she probably deserves a certain consideration."

  "Marta," the prime master repeated thoughtfully, as if memorising the name. "Very well. And she operates where?"

  "Around the market area, at the fringes of the runs," Dewar replied, seeing no harm in playing the prime master's game but wondering what advantage he was handing the old man even as he did so. "As I say, no real matter, but since you asked…"

  "No, quite understood. From what you say, the city owes this girl a considerable debt. I'll make sure she's safe in your absence."

  "Thank you." Dewar felt completely off-balance, his thoughts rattled and fragmented, as if he had just been outclassed in a mental fist fight and was still reeling from a series of well-placed blows. This was a feeling completely alien to him, a man who took pride in his self-control. He forced his thoughts into order, and, as his mind began to regain some semblance of equilibrium, was suddenly appalled by his own words. He had just made himself vulnerable in a way he would never have believed. Did Marta really matter that much to him?

  Apparently, yes.

  Tom was finding sleep frustratingly elusive, perhaps unsettled by the gentle yet unfamiliar motion of the boat. Dewar seemed to suffer no such problems and, to judge by the regular rhythm of his breathing, had dropped off almost at once. But then Dewar had been busy almost from the first moment they came aboard, making himself useful to the crew by helping with this and that, while Tom had simply spent the day watching the river go by and waving at people on the banks. He would have helped, if asked, but had a feeling he would only have been in the way.

  For him, this first day away from Thaiburley had been a wonderful, exciting, almost magical experience. He'd especially enjoyed it when they'd passed other barges going in the opposite direction, particularly the first time one of the great vessels came surging towards them, looking from a distance as if it were going to meet their own boat head on. Only as the other craft drew nearer did the illusion evaporate, as it became clear the two boats would slip past each other with a good deal of water between them. The barges were invariably heavily laden, carrying loads either to or from Thaiburley, and so were restricted to the deeper channels towards the centre of the river; hence the illusion of imminent collision. Crew members would sometimes pause to ack
nowledge their counterparts with curt greetings and the odd good-humoured insult.

  Much of the comment coming their way had to do with Kohn. The giant sat at the prow of the boat, the only area of deck large enough to accommodate him.

  His sightless eye stared towards the riverbank and Tom wondered what he 'saw' and whether the experience was as enjoyable for the Kayjele as it was proving to be for him. Somehow, he felt it was, and he sensed in the giant a kindred spirit at a level he could never have put into words.

  The most convenient place to position himself, where he wouldn't be in the crew's way, was close to Kohn, and the pair of them had spent long hours sitting beside one another, neither making a sound while they soaked up the experience and 'watched' the world go by. He found the great solid presence beside him oddly comforting, and began to regret some of the less than charitable thoughts he'd harboured concerning the giant earlier. After they had sat there for most of that first day, their silent communion growing, Kohn reached into his jerkin and pulled something out. It was a pendant, a great orange-brown stone, faceted and shaped like a teardrop, which hung around the giant's neck via a simple leather thong. Kohn leaned forward, holding the stone towards Tom without taking it off. The boy sensed that this was a display of trust, that Kohn was sharing a confidence. He reached out hesitantly and took the stone in his hand. It was surprisingly warm to the touch, almost as if generating its own heat, but Tom guessed this was because the pendant was habitually pressed against Kohn's body.