City of Dreams and Nightmare (20 page)

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 shown 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.

Dewar then took over, lambasting those who had been on watch for their inadequacies and explaining in detail how he had slipped past them with such ease.

In doing so, he hoped to keep the nicks off balance, to not give them the time to ask such awkward questions as why none of them had ever encountered Lyle’s old friend before. Jezmina’s support was invaluable. She backed him up and appeared suitably attentive to the obviously unwell Lyle.

Again the girl played a clever game, producing a faultless performance for the Blue Claw’s benefit and doing all that he had asked of her, and yet she was probably whispering support to Lyle behind his back and would doubtless claim later that she had co-operated only because she had to. With those doe-eyes of hers, he felt certain she would get away with it too.

Being so ill, Lyle then retired to his quarters, though not before leaving strict instructions that he was not to be disturbed under any circumstances. Once back in the private room, Dewar injected his prisoner with a sedative before securely binding and gagging him.

This allowed him, in effect, to step into Lyle’s shoes, directing the Blue Claw’s activities, with the ever-present Jezmina to endorse his authority. The plans for that day, which Lyle had been only too happy to share with him, required just the slightest of amendments to ensure that he wouldn’t need to leave the building at all.

During the time he spent with Lyle, the assassin had learnt all he could of the Blue Claw, its members and the gang’s structure. He now put that knowledge to good use. The first thing he did was to organise the distribution of the previous night’s spoils, putting Barton in charge of that job. He then systematically ensured that all the gang’s lieutenants were occupied overseeing some task or other, even taking time out to show the nicks who had been on night watch exactly how he had slipped so easily past their defences, so that they could be on guard for similar intrusion in the future. It was no skin off his nose to do so. He had no intention of coming back here again.

Once he had every single member of the Claw organised doing something, he returned to Lyle’s quarters, Jezmina beside him. He didn’t yet trust the girl sufficiently to let her out of his sight.

He unlocked and opened the door, ushering her through in front of him before relocking the door once they were inside. As soon as he turned from doing so, Jezmina leapt on him, pressing her lips to his.

Again the girl managed something remarkable, catching him completely by surprise, which was a rarity. He took hold of her hair and pulled her off him, not stopping to be gentle, while his other hand shot up to grasp her throat.

“Try something like that again and you’re dead!”

She stepped back, away from his grasp, and flicked her hair. A mischievous smile played at the corners of her mouth. “If you say so.”

He went to say something, but thought better of it.

“It doesn’t alter the fact that you kissed me back, just for an instant there, before you could stop yourself. Deny it, say what you want, but we’ll both always know that you did.”

She said this with such conviction that he almost believed it himself. She turned around and sashayed slowly away, every provocative step an invitation and a challenge.

Dewar stared after her in amazement, reminding himself that she was just a child, while wondering whether she had ever really been a child. He thought back to when he first surprised her in these rooms, to the timid, wide-eyed girl who had trembled and cried and submitted so meekly to being bound. Had any of that been genuine, even for an instant? Looking at her now, he very much doubted it.

The assassin was tired at a time when he couldn’t afford to be, when keeping a clear head and sharp mind were vital. He had been up all night and knew that sleep could only be postponed for so long. Taking a nap now was a risk but a calculated one, and less dangerous than making a costly error later through lack of concentration.

Lyle was still completely out of it and ought to remain that way for most of the day, which just left Jezmina to worry about. He led her to the bed, ignoring her inevitable comments, and tied both her hands to the series of stylised iron poles which formed the headboard.

“If this is how you like it, you should have said earlier.” The girl maintained her flippant monologue.

This was hardly the most comfortable of positions for her, but it would have to do and in any case wouldn’t be for long. He couldn’t run the risk of anything beyond a brief nap and there was too much still to do in any case. He told the girl that if she kept her mouth shut and behaved herself, he might consider not tying her up the next time. It was a lie, but one which sounded plausible and seemed likely to hold her.

So he slumped into a chair, got comfortable and hoped that weariness would win out over his racing thoughts.

Dewar awoke refreshed and clear-headed, knowing that the nap had given him the energy he needed to keep going for now. He untied Jezmina, who appeared to have fallen asleep herself, and the pair of them headed back towards the main rooms.

As soon as they stepped into the common room he sensed that something had changed. Barton was there along with perhaps a dozen of the others, but their posture was too casual – they were trying overly hard to seem relaxed, the effort to do so undermining their intent.

Without any noticeable signal, street-nicks converged on Dewar from all sides. He wondered where he had slipped up, what error had given him away. Jezmina vanished immediately, ducking back out the door. There were several ways he could react to the situation, but decided to start by trying to brazen it out.

“What the breck is going on here?”

His challenge had no effect. The street-nicks continued to close in, not saying a word. So much for plan A.

Without any further preamble, four of the youths leapt towards him, coming in from all angles. He didn’t wait for them to reach him but charged towards the one immediately in front, punching the lad, spinning and kicking at another. Hands reached for him. He twisted, punched, shoulder-charged, kicked and gouged. They outnumbered him but he had a few things going for him – experience, training and, over the majority of them, size. Also, there was the fact that no knives or other weapons had been drawn, which suggested they were intent on taking him alive. The fight was being conducted in virtual silence, which leant it an eerie, unnatural quality; the grunts of exertion and the creaks of disturbed furniture being the only sounds.

One of nicks hooked a leg around his and tripped him while another clung to his back, an arm around his throat. Knowing he was on the way down, Dewar threw himself backwards, carrying the kid behind him and landing on him as hard as he could. The lad let go. A kick flashed towards his face before he could do more than half turn away. His lip split and started to swell at once. He tasted blood, but still caught the foot, twisting it viciously, to hear and feel the crack of fractured bone. The resultant scream of agony was the loudest sound since the fight began.

Another kick came in to his side but he rode this one, using its momentum to help lift him back to his feet. One of the larger nicks threw a punch, but he ducked and bobbed, so that the fist flew over his shoulder, barely grazing an ear on the way through. He responded by shoulder-charging his assailant even as the punch went past, knocking him down, but there was another one in the way immediately. This one he dealt two short, sharp jabs to the kidneys with his right hand, while blocking a punch from somebody else with his left.

The nick he had knocked over tried to bear-hug his legs and pull him down again, but he kicked out once, twice and persuaded him to let go. Another kid was sent flying with a swipe of his left arm, demolishing a small table as he landed, only to come back at the assassin wielding one of the table’s legs as a club.

Somewhere along the line Dewar had taken a blow to the forehead. Blood found its way into his left eye, stinging and raising tears which half-blinded him. Several blows rained in as he risked a quick wipe to prevent more blood trickling down while frantically blinking to clear the moisture. He took a blow from the table leg and felt a rib either crack or take a severe bruising.

He dared not draw his own weapons for fear of escalation: holding off a dozen nick’s fists was one thing, dealing with as many knives was another matter altogether.

Four or five of the nicks were now out of the action, either unconscious or too injured to continue fighting, and Dewar felt confident he was winning when the door at the far side of the room burst open and a fresh batch of the Blue Claw came charging through, led by Bull, one of the gang’s lieutenants, whose physique lived up to his name.

The assassin knew when he was beaten. Seeing these new arrivals eager to join the fray he turned, shrugged off the grappling hands of a couple of nicks, and ran for the door which led back to the hallway and eventually Lyle’s quarters. He kicked off the most persistent nick, hurtled out of the room and pulled the door shut, clutching the handle to prevent it from being opened. It wouldn’t hold for more than a handful of seconds, but he was already reviewing in his mind the easiest exit to reach from here. Escape route decided, he turned to run, only to see Jezmina already in the process of swinging something from above her head towards his. Before he had a chance to react, it connected.

Pain careened around his skull in jagged shards. He collapsed to his knees, fighting to stay conscious, and it was at that moment that the air reverberated with a piercing shriek. It shot right through him, the loudest sound he had ever heard, and evidently at the perfect pitch to cause maximum discomfort and pain. At first Dewar assumed the sound was inside his head, a bizarre consequence of the blow, but he saw Jezmina with her pretty face screwed up, hands pressed to her ears, almost doubling over in her attempts to escape the agonising noise. He was forced to cover his own ears, even as he toppled fully to the ground.

He lay there in a foetal curl, the palm of his right hand supporting his ear, cheek pressed to the floorboards. From this position he saw feet; a whole crowd of booted feet, razzers’ feet, approaching on the run. Only then did he finally concede that perhaps he was not going to escape after all.

Tom and Kat were making good progress and the girl still insisted she was confident of getting him home in plenty of time for her to return to the Jeradine quarter before nightfall when their journey was interrupted by a deep, mournful tolling from ahead of them. It was a sound immediately recognisable to any resident of the under-City: the body bell.

A death cart made its way slowly down the centre of the road, pulled by a pair of enormous oxen, their horns festooned with black ribbons and their backs draped with the traditional black cloth. This seemed to be their day for oxen, and bells. First the fire tenders and now the death cart. The beast on the right bore the bell, a great brass thing, suspended from its neck by a thick corded rope, ringing out its wail for the departed with every step; a far deeper and less strident clamour than the fire tenders’ had produced. Clothed in black robes which extended from their high hoods to their ground-brushing skirts, two body boys accompanied the cart, one on either side, directing and keeping abreast with the oxen.