Kultus (12 page)

With a hiss, the little man had lit a taper, and ignited a small gaslamp. It bathed the room in yellow light that danced off the walls, and Blaklok was surprised to see how comfortable the room looked. A cosy looking armchair sat in one corner, and immediately Blaklok headed for it, not waiting to be invited.

The little man did not complain as Blaklok made himself at home, even smiling as he waddled across the room to close the door. The pain in Blaklok’s gut still ached and his jaw hurt, but at least his palm had stopped bleeding. He had also bruised his shoulder when Castor Cage had flung him across Big Betha’s but he was never going to let any of that show. Thaddeus merely sat and watched the little man as he turned and walked towards a small stove that sat in one corner of the room.

‘Tea?’ he asked.

Fucking tea!
thought Thaddeus. That seemed to be the answer to everything these days.
Leg fallen off? Have a cuppa. Dog dead? Have a cuppa. Soul been stolen by the Demon Prince of the fifth tier? Never mind, have a cuppa.

‘Yes,’ Thaddeus answered.
Well, if you couldn’t beat them…

‘My name is Quickstep, in case you were wondering,’ said the little man as he lit the stove. Thaddeus remained silent, although he had been wondering. ‘I know it’s an odd one,’ he said, turning and grinning from beneath the shadow of his flat cap, ‘but that’s because it’s not my real name.’

‘No shit,’ said Thaddeus. At any other time he would have beaten the crap out of the little fucker to find out the truth, but right now he just wanted to sit and drink his tea. Besides, most of the people he knew went by some alias or another. It didn’t really matter. And this Quickstep had just saved his life – or his nose at least.

Quickstep busied himself at the stove for a few moments until the screaming howl of the kettle signified it had boiled. Within seconds he turned, bearing two very different cups. One was a battered enamelled mug, white but for all the chips and scuffs on it. The other was a porcelain cup and saucer that looked as though they had been stolen from the tea set of some aristocratic antique dealer. Blaklok was presented with the battered mug.

‘I suppose you’ll be wanting to know what all this is about?’ asked Quickstep, sitting himself on the sofa opposite Blaklok’s armchair.

‘I suppose I will,’ he replied, taking a long sip of tea. The brew was still too hot and it burned his lips, but he didn’t let on.

‘Well, needless to say, the mission you’re on is an important one, but you knew that already.’

‘What do you know of it? Were you sent by–’ Thaddeus stopped himself before he said any more.

‘I represent parties who are interested in the Key of Lunos. As do you. Whether those parties are one and the same is not for me to say.’

‘Because you don’t know?’

Quickstep smiled and lifted his teacup from its saucer. He took a sip, lifting his pinky finger in a dainty manner. After a long draft he placed the cup back on the saucer with a resounding clink. ‘I think what we don’t know about all this far outweighs what we do. Nevertheless, I’m willing to tell what I know if you are.’ He raised an eyebrow suggestively.

‘Go on,’ said Blaklok, eager to hear what Quickstep had to say. Whether he would feel like reciprocating afterwards remained to be seen.

‘Very well. I represent the Fane of Zaphiel. We’re not quite as popular as the other Fanes, but we are still a loyal part of the Sancrarium.’

‘I’ve heard of you. But how have you heard of me?’

‘Oh, we might be small but our eyes and ears are large. Despite appearances the Fane of Zaphiel packs quite a bit of clout.’ Blaklok could not argue with that, particularly after seeing the mess Quickstep had made of Trol Snapper’s vault. ‘We have been watching your… progress. Needless to say, I was sent to put you back on track.’

‘What does the Fane of Zaphiel want with the Key of Lunos?’

‘Nothing,’ replied Quickstep. ‘But we realise that there are other parties – nasty, loathsome parties – who want the Key badly, and who would use its power for ill. We also know that you’re not one of those parties, so we are willing to help you.’

‘Exactly what ‘parties’ are we talking about?’

‘Well, you’ve already had an unfortunate run in with one of their representatives. Hopefully the next time you encounter the Legion you won’t take them so lightly.’

‘So it’s the usual is it? This Cult of Legion want the Key so they can open one of the gates and summon their demonic master? Wankers!’

‘If only it were that simple,’ replied Quickstep, with a frown. ‘The Legion won’t stop at summoning one demon. They are named well. If they are not stopped the Manufactory will have more than its usual infestation of rats and almsmen to worry about.’

Blaklok gripped the mug, rubbing his thumb over the rough scuffmarks as he thought about the implications of what he had been told. The Legion wished to release their horde into the Manufactory. Conceited fools. What did they hope to gain? What did any demonist hope to gain other than immortality and power. They would learn their lesson the hard way, like all their kind inevitably did. Getting bummed by your demonic master was never pleasant.

‘Any suggestions for getting my hands on the Key?’ he asked.

‘The Repository is well guarded,’ Quickstep replied with a grin. ‘But I’m sure a man of your–’

He stopped suddenly, his head flicking toward the open window, the fragile cup and saucer falling from his fingers. Blaklok watched them fall, tumbling towards the stained carpet and releasing a limp splash of brown brew.

Then the window imploded.

Both men were showered with glass and shards of the wooden frame, and instantly Blaklok was on his feet. Quickstep had leapt up in time to meet a hulking robed figure as it shot through the empty window frame and loped forward on powerful limbs. Blaklok barely had time to register what the creature looked like – lean and muscular with ridges on its leathery flesh and spines on its back that protruded through its blood red robe – before Quickstep had smashed the thing in the face with a balled fist. The beast was knocked backward with a howl, curling up and grasping its wounded snout, as a second robed creature crept into the room. This one’s advance was more measured, and it seemed to be focused on Blaklok. He recognised the baleful eyes that stared at him with a hateful glow.

It was Castor Cage.

Thaddeus took a step forward, intent on settling the score with this weird hybrid of man and monster, but more robed creatures were already creeping in behind, grasping the broken window pane and pulling themselves into the tiny room.

‘I suggest you make yourself scarce, Mr Blaklok,’ said Quickstep, moving in between Thaddeus and the advancing beasts. ‘Your task is more important than brawling with these foul monstrosities.’

Blaklok stared at Castor as he skulked forward, fighting the longing within to launch himself forward and settle the score. But he knew Quickstep was right; he had to concentrate on retrieving the Key of Lunos. The Cult of Legion would have to wait until later.

He turned and ran for the door. As he moved he heard an enraged growl, as the creatures bounded forward. Once again, Quickstep let loose his own brand of fury, and Blaklok could hear the uproarious racket as a battle royale ensued. He didn’t look back as he ran down the corridor and away from the fray. Heads began to pop out of darkened doorways, lured by the sounds of violence, but not one of them would leave to investigate. The inhabitants of the Manufactory knew better than to stick their noses in where they weren’t needed.

Back on the gaslit streets, the chill night air made Thaddeus long for his greatcoat, and he couldn’t get back to Mrs Fotheringay’s boarding house quick enough. Quiet as death he opened the front door and padded down the hall towards his room. It wouldn’t do to wake the old trout at this hour; the last thing he needed was her whining about him keeping odd hours, especially when he had a robbery to plan.

As he reached his door, Mrs Fotheringay suddenly appeared at the end of the hallway like a ghostly apparition, her hair in curlers and her face covered in some enriching balm. It made her look even more gruesome than usual.

‘Ah, Mr Blaklok. Out late this evening, I see.’

Thaddeus nodded curtly, fumbling his key in the door, desperate to open it and be free of the carping harridan.

‘It’s just that I expected you earlier,’ she continued.

Thaddeus nodded again, then felt cold relief wash over him as the key clicked into place and released the door’s deadbolt.

‘Only you had visitors earlier.’

He opened the door, then froze.

‘Visitors?’ he asked, deigning to turn and look at the wrinkled prune, standing there in her hideous paisley nightgown.

‘Yes, a trio from the Judicature, said they needed to ask you some questions. Led by quite a charming young lady, actually. I let them in your room, hope you don’t mind.’

Thaddeus heard the heavy
clack-click
of a carbine being cocked.

Its wielder was standing in his room, the weapon pointed right at his face.

A woman stood to the gunman’s right wearing the crisp grey uniform of an Indagator. Her expression was reminiscent of a cat that had just clawed its very first mouse.

‘Thaddeus Blaklok, I presume?’ asked the Indagator.

But it was quite plain that she already knew the answer.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

From the outside, the Ministry of the Judicature was as grey and stern as its walking, talking representatives. Bare, weathered stone walls surrounded a building covered in interlocking walkways that linked sharpened spires and crenellated turrets. It was a grim edifice of rock and iron, whose exterior matched the austere corridors within.

The building teemed with stiff doubleted Indagators, armoured fantassins and sullen administrants, but none paid Blaklok any heed as he was led through the panelled corridors and down staircases embossed with intricate engravings, his hands chained behind him. The place was spotless and there was a stench of polish and disinfectant more overpowering than any infirmary Blaklok had ever had the misfortune to enter.

Within the bowels of the Ministry, it was an entirely different scenario. The further they sank into its depths, the more the buzz of hushed conversation was replaced with an eerie quiet, occasionally interspersed with a distant cry of pain, until the only sound was the soft clicking of Indagator heels. The disinfectant smell was traded for the stench of piss and shit and damp, but after the Cistern it was almost welcome.

All the while Blaklok was looking for his out, his need becoming ever more desperate the further into the depths of the structure they went. But these three were seasoned, they knew exactly what they were about. At every step there was a heavy carbine pointed at his head, his hands were bound and his chaperones kept a generous distance from him in case he happened to attack. Every time Blaklok thought he had an edge, or could see an opportunity for escape presenting itself, it was gone as quickly as it arrived.

That pissed him off no end.

By the time he got to the interrogation cell he had run out of chances.

Blaklok was manacled to a high-backed metal chair, and his situation was suddenly becoming all too reminiscent of Trol Snapper’s vault. Torture and an endless line of monotonous questions were imminent, Blaklok could tell. When would these people learn they couldn’t get anything from him? Pain was irrelevant, an abstract concept and meaningless to a man who didn’t feel it. When you were not motivated by hope, when you knew your future was even more bleak than one wracked by constant pain, you were never going to break.

‘Thaddeus Blaklok,’ said the woman, standing in front of him. There were no other chairs in the room, that way the interrogators were always standing above you, looking down, keeping you small. ‘I’m curious as to why I can’t find any trace of you in the Judicature’s archives?’

‘Beats the shit out of me,’ replied Blaklok, trying to retain an air of nonchalance. It was difficult though; this woman had a keen look to her, despite her youth. Something about her was getting under his skin. The two tipstaffs that stood to either side of her looked intimidating enough but they were inconsequential, there was nothing behind their eyes but violence. But she was something else.

‘I’m hoping that beating the shit out of you won’t be necessary,’ she said. ‘Although from what I’ve heard it’s not an attitude you share.’

‘Just get to the point, love. I haven’t got all day.’

‘Have you somewhere else to be?

‘What the fuck’s it got to do with–’

He was cut off by a steel banded cudgel playing a drumbeat on his thighs. Blaklok clenched his teeth against the pain, never taking his eyes off her.

So much for the violence not being necessary.

‘Why did you kill Earl Beuphalus?’ she asked conversationally.

‘So you’re trying to pin that one on me are you? Typical fuck–’

The cudgel hit him in the ribs. It wasn’t hard enough to crack one but it still cut him off mid-sentence. And Thaddeus hated to be interrupted.

‘Let’s say I have a strong hunch,’ she continued. ‘If not you then who?’

‘How the bloody hell–’

He was stopped by a punch to the jaw.

‘Shit! You fuck–’

Followed by another.

‘You cunt, I’m go–’

And another.

Blaklok fell silent.

His mouth and nose were bleeding, and this bitch didn’t seem to care what answers he was going to give until he told her what she wanted to hear. For now it was time to retreat.

Her questioning went on for almost an hour, the same old sounds interspersed with a cudgel blow or a fist on flesh, but Blaklok took it all silently. He was deep inside now, listening from within a cavernous hole, watching and waiting.

When it was finished they dragged him to a cell. By then he was too weak to overcome them, even when they un-manacled his wrists.

He lay on the floor of the cell for untold minutes. It was time wasted but Blaklok needed it to bring himself out of his torpor. Besides, it was a well deserved break from the incessant beatings he had been taking for the past two days.