Kultus (7 page)

The North Spire. An opulent area full of ‘old money’. Packed with wannabe families just dying (or killing) to become Noble Houses. This one was obviously trying to spread his influence in a non-conventional way. Most likely his ‘congregation’ were made up of other stuck-up arseholes all trying to juice one another for notoriety and prestige. Anyway, this Trajian was obviously scared. It wouldn’t hurt to try and milk him for more information.

‘So what’s all this in aid of then? Trying to commune with Valac are you?’

‘N-no,’ replied Arkwright, still hanging like a fish on a hook. ‘It’s more of a w-wake we’re having.’ Blaklok’s brow furrowed. Was this one taking the piss? ‘O-our sect leader was murdered recently. Earl W-Westowe. This is just a celebration of his life.’

‘Well,’ said Thaddeus, lowering the knife. Arkwright gave a sigh of relief. ‘It looks like you lot might have upset the wrong bunch. Shows you what happens when amateurs get in over their heads. And as for you, Bates. You should know better.’

Tarquin Bates cringed, the grin on his face wavering. ‘I was just here to help them, that’s all. Just educating them a bit.’

‘And did you educate Earl Westowe? Is that why he ended up dead?’

‘That was nothing to do with me, honest. Rumour is he upset someone in the Cistern. Weren’t nothing to do with our… worship.’

Thaddeus looked around. They were all scared. Bunch of pretenders playing at demon worship. Where did they think it would get them? He considered giving them a warning; telling them that no good would come of it, no matter what they were promised, but it would do no good. This bunch would never listen.

No one ever did.

‘All right then, piss off,’ ordered Blaklok, jabbing a thumb towards the door. The gathered crowd needed no further encouragement and began to slink away. ‘Not you Bates.’

Tarquin Bates stopped mid-step.

Thaddeus grabbed the weasily figure by his gold cloak and dragged him to one side as the rest filed past.

This was a distraction, and wouldn’t help him in his task to secure the Key of Lunos, but Blaklok felt compelled to investigate further. If something was afoot, if there was a war brewing between cults, it would serve him well to know about it.

‘So this Earl. Upset someone in the Cistern, did he?’

‘Well that’s the rumour,’ said Bates, showing his array of tombstone teeth. Thaddeus smashed his face against the wall. It hit with a solid thump, knocking the grin, and some of those awful teeth, from Tarquin’s face.

‘Okay. Okay,’ said Bates quickly. ‘Rumour is it was a rival cult. But that’s just rumour. I wasn’t lying about the Cistern. You’ll find your answers there.’

‘What cult?’

‘I don’t know all the details, Blaklok. Give a man some credit.’

Thud! More of Tarquin’s teeth ended up on the floor.

‘Legion! And that’s all I know, I swear it.’

‘Legion? Never fucking heard of them.’

‘Well, you’ve been out of the game for a while haven’t you? No one knows much but apparently someone from the Cult of Legion was asking about the Earl a couple of weeks ago. Where he lives, what he’s into and all that.’

‘Who was asking?’

‘I don’t know his name.’ Thaddeus readied himself to smash Tarquin’s face in again. ‘But I know who does!’ Bates blurted, holding his hands up in supplication. ‘The Ring. They’ll give you a name, they know all the goings on down in the Cistern. That’s all I know, I swear.’

‘You swear? On fucking what, Bates? You’ve broken every coda there is.’ He let go of Tarquin’s robe and wiped his hand on his greatcoat.

‘Well. It’s been pleasant as usual, Blaklok. I’ll see you around.’

‘One more thing,’ said Blaklok. Tarquin stopped again, cringing in expectation of further violence. ‘The next time you feel like
educating
a bunch of prigs with more money than sense… fucking don’t. Understood?’

‘Yes, of course. Whatever you say, old mate.’

‘And get yourself a bath. You stink.’

‘That was next on my ‘to do’ list.’

Blaklok watched as Bates scurried away.

By the time he stepped outside, the congregation had dispersed into the labyrinth of the Trader’s Precinct. A couple of cloth-of-gold cloaks lay discarded in the square, but otherwise there was no sign of Valac’s postulant worshippers.

‘Are you gonna pay me, mister?’ Thaddeus turned to see the urchin standing behind him, his filthy face looking up expectantly.

‘What do you mean?’ he asked.

‘The one with the beard said I’d get five shill afterwards.’

He obviously didn’t realise the danger he had been in. ‘On your bike. Count yourself lucky you didn’t end up dead and dumped in the river.’

The urchin’s face suddenly changed from innocence to rage. ‘Well fuck you baldy!’ With that he spat a gob of filthy phlegm Blaklok’s way and fled.

The spit landed some feet away.

Poor kid, thought Blaklok. Can’t even spit straight. What chance has he got in a place like this?

With that, he set off on the long walk to the Cistern.

CHAPTER EIGHT

There were a thousand ways into the Cistern.

On the murky city streets, steel manholes could be unbolted to reveal tunnels that would lead miles down into the subterranean hive. Certain buildings, disguised as reputable businesses or respectable residences, contained entrances within them that served as conduits to the various underground levels. Then there were the more obvious ways, such as the steam lift that Amelia and her men were now taking.

It was not a comfortable journey, and the noise was hellish, but it was by far the fastest way down. A cage of reinforced steel and wire mesh rattled as though in the grip of a gigantic, angry baby. It plunged ever downwards, screaming as it went and the three occupants were forced to hold on tight to the single railing that ran around the perimeter.

Amelia found the journey quite exhilarating. Though it was not a hundred percent safe, the chances of something going wrong were minimal, and even then very rarely fatal.

Her fantassins, Bounder and Hodge, obviously had contrasting opinions of the journey. Bounder was smiling from ear to ear, his enormous mouth displaying the biggest teeth Amelia had ever seen. Hodge, however, was almost crouched double, obviously fighting the desire to retch, his knees shaking and sweat pouring from his face.

When the cage finally came to rest with a violent hiss and a jetted release of steam, Hodge could not open the mesh gate quick enough. The journey had taken only seconds, but it looked as though Hodge had been at the mercy of a master inquisitor for hours. Bounder on the other hand seemed almost reluctant to leave the cage.

After Hodge had recovered and resumed his usual impassive visage, Amelia led them through the tunnels.

At first it was as though they had arrived in a huge sewer, the tunnel was a wide construction of crumbling brick with water of dubious origin dripping from above and plopping loudly on the moist floor. The stench was tremendous, and Amelia could barely comprehend why anyone, no matter how desperate, would want to live down here. But as they passed through the dingy tunnel, only intermittently illuminated by quivering gaslight, the stagnant atmosphere began to change. Noise began to filter down the passage, growing louder with every squelching step they took. The atmosphere grew less damp and the steam of their breath lessened as warm air began to pervade all around.

At the end of the passage was a huge steel door, open as though they were expected. Within, Amelia could see the real Cistern, and it filled her with disgust.

The three of them entered a scene of debauchery. Thick smoke hung in the air, a mixture of noxious and narcotic fumes blown from a dozen hookah. In the periphery of her vision, Amelia could see bare arses oscillating in frantic copulation, as heavy breaths and cries of ecstasy mixed with vile laughter and hushed conversation. And then there was the music, at once discordant and melodious… or perhaps just odious, banging like a klaxon call: hypnotic and monotonous and deafening.

As soon as she entered she was aware of a score of eyes upon her. Shadowed figures halted their conversations and slipped further into the confines of their booths. Dark faces turned away and slipped into the blackness, or summoned their tipstaffs closer that they might stand in the shadow of their protectors.

Amelia clenched her fists. Did this scum think they could be protected from her? She was the righteous wave that would one day sweep this spume away. There would be a time when the Manufactory would be free of such infection.

But that would have to wait.

For now she had other business.

She walked on, past the addicts and the dealers, the sheep and the wolves, deeper into the labyrinth of the Cistern. Every chamber she passed through was full of the depraved and debauched. The passages seemed endless, leading off into a veritable labyrinth, but Amelia knew her way, she made it her business to know. That was how you stayed ahead of the scum. Knowledge was power in the Cistern, not the strong arm of a hired thug. Knowing the enemy’s weakness, finding his lair, where he lurked in repose, unwary, unwitting. And if there was anyone Amelia knew who was unwitting, it was Trol Snapper.

They eventually reached their goal. The lock was a heavy, metal affair, set in a huge, reinforced door. A single shot from Hodge’s heavy carbine took care of it better than any key. Bounder was quick to kick the thing in, shoving it wide as he waded in, his huge cudgel swinging this way and that. As Amelia followed close behind she could not help but compare him to a knight of old, wielding his mace in the melee, every swing finding a target. Snapper’s men had no chance and those who were on their feet first were soon laid on their backs. A couple even reached for weapons but the barrel of Hodge’s carbine forced them to reconsider.

To his credit, Trol Snapper merely sat and watched the spectacle; his long equine face betraying little emotion. When he saw Amelia enter after her fantassins, he visibly relaxed. At least this was not an assault by a rival gang. Snapper knew well that the Judicature were more likely to show mercy than a rival Chamber of the Cistern. As long as it was only his men who were taking the beating, Trol would just relax and watch the show.

Amelia walked forward and sat in a chair opposite Trol’s large desk. ‘Hello, Trol,’ she said conversationally.

‘Indagator,’ he replied, with a polite nod. One of his men moaned on the floor, and she could see Trol’s eyes flicker with doubt, wondering if he was next. ‘Is this a social visit… or were you just passing?’

‘You know I like to drop in on the Cistern from time to time. When the air of the Manufactory seems too clean I like to fill my lungs with real filth.’ Amelia tugged at her leather gloves a finger at a time, removing them to reveal her slender hands. The nails were cut short and practical and the knuckles were well lined, showing a premature age. They were hands that had worked for a long time to lift her to the position she now sustained. And the work had been hard.

She reached forward and ran the middle finger of her right hand along Snapper’s desk. All eyes were on her as she silently regarded the end of her finger, rubbing it with her thumb as though smudging the filth she had just swept up.

‘Beuphalus? That name mean anything, Trol?’

‘Is it what they call that lovely scent you’re wearing?’ said Trol with a sardonic grin.

Bounder stamped down hard on the leg of one of his felled opponents. The man howled, then was silent. Trol looked unconcerned.

‘Earl Beuphalus of House Westowe,’ continued Amelia. ‘He met with quite a sticky end, Trol. Someone cut his heart out. Sounds like something you might have had a hand in.’

‘Please, Indagator. That hurts my feelings. I run a legitimate enterprise.’

‘Yes, I’m sure you can show me a full account of dockets and ledgers.’

Trol paused, looking as though someone had just caught him with his hand in the money jar. ‘Beuphalus? Let me think. Skinny, glasses, nice threads? I think I may have seen him around.’

Again Bounder stamped down hard and again a moan peeled out through the room.

‘All right,’ said Trol, holding up his hands. ‘I’ve met your Earl, but I had no idea he was dead until you just mentioned it.’

Amelia stared at Trol for several seconds, and he stared back. She prided herself on being able to sniff out a lie, and for all his blustering attempts at avoidance, Trol looked to be telling the truth. ‘Where did you meet him?’

Trol adopted a pained expression, as though thinking of the answer was giving him a headache. ‘He would come down into the Cistern on occasion, looking for a good time. When he needed protection, some of my lads would provide it.’

Amelia glanced round the room at the shoddy collection of thugs, some standing helplessly, others lying prone. ‘Yes, they seem very good at the protection thing. Who else did he mix with? Anyone from the other Chambers?’

‘We looked after him exclusively. It pays to have the favour of the Noble Houses. You should know that better than anyone.’

The aspersion offended Amelia more than she showed. The suggestion that as an Indagator of the Judicature she would curry favour with the Houses was repellent to her. But she knew there were others within her organisation who bent over backwards for the nobles, only too happy to act as little more than lapdogs for the upper classes in return for the few scraps that were thrown from the overflowing tables of the privileged.

‘Who did he spend time with? Whores? Dealers? Anyone who would have wished him harm?’

‘What can I say, he was a popular man, very generous. Besides, we provided him with all the… friends he needed. What reason would there be to kill him? He’ll be sorely missed, won’t he, lads?’ Trol looked around at his men for their agreement, to which they nodded nervously, still staring at the rock steady barrel of Hodge’s carbine.

This was fruitless, and Amelia knew it. She could always take out her frustrations by ransacking Snapper’s den, and maybe she would even find something incriminating, but what use would it be? This bog-wallowing turd would only be less inclined to tell her anything the next time she wanted to question him.