When, after suffering an hour of waiting for his enforcers, Berber Trigosi abandoned his abacus and his account books and searched for an explanation, a nervous drinks boy informed him that they had not been at the saloon all morning. Unsettling the lad with a generous tip rather than a thrashing for bearing bad news, Trigosi made another notch in his mental ledger and sent for Gruler Darcus instead. This was in any case an instance where a blunt instrument could best be applied.
"There is a purveyor of fictions," he told his earless, square-shouldered sledgehammer. "He has profited at my expense. In return, you will protect my reputation at his expense." It didn't matter that Darcus failed to appreciate the subtle ebb and flow of Trigosi's reputation. He understood his role in the broader scheme well enough. Trigosi acknowledged the usefulness of a weapon that could apply ingenuity and imagination to its work, but he greatly preferred the type that could be reliably loosed and forgotten - and easily replaced.
"You want him broken?"
"Indeed," said Trigosi. "I want him broken. Ruin his machines. Destroy his livelihood. Leave him only his life. Here is the address. You know it?"
"Yes, Boss." Darcus left without further comment. Loosed. Forgotten.
Trigosi permitted himself a moment of satisfaction. Fenchrow Battis had made only rare appearances on Trigosi's horizons before now. He was aware of him as a concept, an insect with malicious but ultimately negligible intent. The sensational fabrications of his broadsheets were calculated to titillate minds lacking interrogative capacity. Until he had printed his filthy speculations about the events at the Vine and Berry, he had played no role in Trigosi's world.
Now he would learn the price of admission to that exclusive circle.
***
The coach wheel struck a pothole, jerking Lynnis into startled wakefulness. She looked out one window and the other in a frantic scan for familiar landmarks. She thought she might have been in Barleyside, a small district of theatres and curio shops, but it was difficult to focus. Her vision swan. She slumped back against the padded leather backrest and struggled to clear the fog. The seats were smudged with blood. She tried to suppress her nausea.
With some effort the details of her flight came back to her. She had escaped the Coalface Hill estate through a hillside forest, just a few minutes ahead of the baying of packs of hunting hounds, no doubt whipped into a blood lust by the trail she had left. She had wrapped the silk curtains about herself like a shawl – not at all out of place in cool of an indifferent winter sun – and hailed the first coach. She had taken it to the docks, allowed herself to be seen alighting in front of a busy saloon, then ducked out of sight and caught another cab. She rode this back to the northern reaches of Fellport, then caught another west. Now her cash was nearly exhausted but her trail was almost certainly not replicable.
Recognising a fishmonger's stand, only two laneways east of the Moistened Cardinal, she stood on unsteady legs and rapped on the ceiling of the coach. The coachman drew his team up and ducked his head through the window.
“All right, Mistress?”
“This will suffice, thank you,” she replied with as much insufferable superiority as she could muster. “The steps, if you please, driver.” As the driver bustled off his perch and set a wooden stair block in front of the door, she wrapped the curtain about herself like a shawl, folded to disguise the worst tears. It was fortunate they were a blue that bordered on midnight. A lighter colour would certainly have shown up the bloodstains.
She exited the coach with painstaking care, paid the disappointed coachman the precise fee and walked for the nearest lane. No sooner had the cab clattered down the street and out of sight than she slumped against the wall in pain and exhaustion. The cobbled street seemed to tilt and turn. She closed her eyes and concentrated, but there before her were the eyes of a frightened girl. They stared at her through a mirror of steam, part plea, part accusation.
Lynnis sobbed, a wrenching gasp. How could this happen? To have failed was one thing. That disgrace could be expunged, wiped clean by success in the future. She had not assassinated the Blue Duke, but sooner or later he would die at her hands.
But this was different. A life stolen could not be returned. She had killed an innocent. Had the girl even been a credible witness, that might have mitigated her guilt. But Lynnis knew with a sick disgust that the girl had not seen anything she had not intended her to see. There was no reason for her to die.
She opened her eyes, blinking away the shame. A dog stared at her from the entrance to the lane. It was a hairy piebald cur with orange eyes and bared fangs. Its hackles were raised in defiance and it growled a warning. Perhaps it smelled her blood.
The frisson of sudden threat snapped her out of her despairing reverie. She glared back at the dog, walking towards it with inexorable deliberation. Its growl redoubled. She continue toward it and its will suddenly broke. The growl evaporated, its tail dropped between its legs and it scurried away .
Lynnis kept going, one foot after the other. She ignored the attention drawn by her meandering path and head wobbles. She ignored the likelihood that close scrutiny by any onlookers would reveal the extent of her injuries. She ignored everything except this simple thing: one foot after the other.
In a way she was surprised when she leaned against a lead glass window, just for support, just for a moment, and realised that it belonged to the Moistened Cardinal.
***
“Chapel? He was at the August yesterday, but he stepped out between hands and didn't return. Left quite a weight of winnings on the table, as a matter of fact.”
Addenfarrow's annoyance gave way to suspicion with a draining sensation. His cousin had failed to keep an appointment, though that in itself was not at all unusual. On a typical Northday, he would generally call upon Addenfarrow at his offices an hour before their lunch engagement, flirting with his secretaries or cornering some unfortunate bureaucrat for a debate on angling techniques. If not, he would send a messenger with the details of where they would be dining. In such cases Felmore Chapel was invariably already there, demolishing a breakfast bottle or a gathering of Packjacks with equal ruthlessness. Today he could not be found at any of his usual haunts.
“Probably holed up with a dolly somewhere.” Addenfarrow made light of it and excused himself, leaving his companion chuckling like a fool.
Addenfarrow had promised to favour his cousin with a luncheon of significant, if not excessive indulgence. He had offered it as a reward for overcoming his reluctance to assist with the Trigosi business. That this gambit had succeeded, where the promises of indeptedness, the levering of moral arguments and the allure of succulent flesh had not, spoke volumes of Chapel's cultured priorities. And he was in no doubt that his cousin, whose wealth permitted only infrequent experiments in dissipation, had greatly anticipated the repast.
So where was he?
Certainly not with a woman. An implausible fiction concocted to dismiss his interlocutor. Had Addenfarrow not been there to insist upon it, it was wholly doubtful that his cousin would have defeated his natural indifference even long enough to spend himself on the dancer. Oh, certainly, he could indulge his more red-blooded companions when the conversation descended into boastful ribaldry, declaiming his rich history of sexual adventures with the most droll of them, but Addenfarrow knew these were mostly spur of the moment inventions. For the most part, Chapel was simply not interested in the fundamental art, in any of its permutations.
There was always the possibility that he had been drawn into a Packs game. He had been known to play well beyond the point of distraction, depriving himself – and often his unfortunate opponents - of sleep and food alike. Addenfarrow might well have considered it likely but for the enthusiasm his cousin had evinced upon their parting in the very early hours of the previous morning. He had raised the forthcoming meal in conversation so frequently it had become quite tiresome. It would be uncharacteristic for Felmore to so quickly replace one such obsession with another.
So where was he?
Addenfarrow paid a child to call upon Felmore's estate. Even as he dictated his message to the urchin, he suspected that the circumstances were more sinister than they appeared.
He resolved to use his now free afternoon to pay a visit to Dame Jasmin.
***
“I got your name from...some men of my acquaintance, Master. They recommended you without hesitation.”
Holthock was sure he was exactly conveying the impression of a nervous man attempting nonchalance without convincing effect. He had seen enough terrible acting to know it up close. He slurped at his ale bowl to disguise the slight tremble in his fingers.
The miscreant alongside him appeared not to notice his disquiet. “It would be better for them if you did mention their names, nor the one they might have given you,” he commented, licking the froth from the rim of his empty bowl. He tossed it on the bar, where it teetered briefly before dropping out of sight with a crash. “Now then, what can I do for you?”
Holthock steeled himself for the negotiation. Here, at least, he was on familiar ground. “Five men. They hurt someone. A woman.”
The man showed no signs that this moved him. “Go on.”
“She – that is, I want them to pay. Vengeance. That's what I want. A balance of the scales.” Holthock hurried on. “Can you do that for me?”
“I don't set things right,” sneered the man. “I just make them worse for someone else. How much vengeance are we talking about?”
Holthock showed him Sarema's money, to which he had added most of his own savings. He couldn't go back and face her if he didn't try everything he could.
The man looked the sum over speculatively. “Generous enough, I suppose. So who are these five men?”
Holthock told him.
The man stared back at him thoughtfully. Holthock sipped his ale, sweating under the inquisition.
Finally the man said, “No. I'm not the man you're looking for.” He cut short Holthock's half-relieved protest with a wave. “But I'll tell you who is.”
Holthock felt the pit of his stomach clench like a fist. It came to him that there was no turning back.
“Thank you Master Herok.”
***
Casimir had made good use of his morning. He had risen early, setting Lynnis to work on compositions for her debut that evening and breakfasting with the lordling manager of the Moistened Cardinal. Their small talk had been light and inconsequential, pleasantries and no more. Casimir prided himself on his discretion in the course of that conversation. He had evaded questions about himself and talked about Lynnis, her talents and career. He had declined a polite invitation for a lunch engagement, citing prior business, suggesting instead that perhaps Sir Bey would prefer the singer's company. He had not missed the note of eagerness in the lordling's agreement to ask her.
With his little songbird thus sufficiently occupied not to wonder at his whereabouts, Casimir had hit the road. From the little of Fellport he had seen so far, he expected that the docks would once again be the place to begin his search. To avoid the complication of encountering the sailors, he chose to start from the opposite end of its span to the pier where the Cenautic ship was situated.
He trawled taverns, bars, and even an incongruously high-class saloon, the Noon Pipe, though that latter was a distraction, since it was far too reputable to assist with his present purposes. At each stop, he would pause at the door and scan the room, analysing the patrons in turn. Those displaying colours, tattoos, particular styles of dress or anything else that sparked a suspicion of gang affiliation he rejected immediately. Likewise those who were curled around hookahs or wretchedly slumped over some steaming alcoholic brew were no use to him. Finally there were the otherwise respectable law-abiders who were obviously hunting cheap doxies, who were, like Casimir, only visiting this seamy world, and would depart it as soon as their lusts were slaked.
Casimir sought a precise kind of man: unscrupulous, obedient, strong. Foreigners were best, and the more recent an arrival the better. Men without influential friends or community ties to complicate things. He knew what he wanted, and over the course of the morning he had half a dozen handshakes toward his quota. By the time he had given them their first instructions and retired from the enemy territory of the docks to the relative safety of the market district, they had begun informally calling themselves the Golden Haired Boys.
Casimir grinned over his lunch. The name tickled him. He had promoted the hollow-cheeked ex-student who had come up with it to the position of his lieutenant. He couldn't quite recall the fellow's name, but he had taken to thinking of him as Skull for his appearance.
Real gangsters always used nicknames. He'd have to think up a good one for himself.
When he had dined on a tasty spiced lobster and washed it down with a mild Leph pale wine, he made a quick detour to the room he rented in Burling Row. The boy from the University had been hard at work. He proudly showed Casimir some indecipherable notes on the painstaking oil extraction process and as they fucked he babbled continuously about methods for crystallisation or systhesis with other intoxicants. Casimir endorsed his every suggestion with gusto, but privately didn't care as long he ended up with a saleable product.
Afterwards he rendezvoused with his new gang and led them to Icewater Avenue, where that filthy rodent Fenchrow kept his presses.
***
“Get her in here. Out of the way, all of you!”
Between them Bey and Nana bundled the swooning dancer through the kitchens and into the backstage waiting room, shooing aside the buzzing hands who watched with eager voyeurism and gossiped. They had staunched the bleeding from the worst of her wounds with some good linen surrendered only with the greatest reluctance by Mistress Breanna and then only when she had secured Bey's promise that they would be replaced forthwith. They bustled her into an easy chair, where she sat limp, her head lolling with careless disregard.
Incredibly, Mistress Chalcer persisted with her claim that there was no need to be making a fuss over her, that her obviously serious injuries were nothing more than minor inconveniences and that she would shortly recover her wits and be right as a tree. “It is nothing, you will see.” Her eyelids fluttered furiously as she spoke.
Bey was unconvinced. “Mistress Chalcer, stay your protestations, if you please!” he snapped. He hoped the stern command would catch her wandering attention. “You are clearly most grievously injured. As your employer I must insist that you submit yourself to our care.”
She made to resume her protests, but Nana interrupted her, saying “Shush shush! No frowns on your pretty face, silly butterfly. 'Arken to Sir Bey Bey. Do not be so naughty.” Bey winced, as much at the repetition of Nana's nickname as at the gruesome wound that was exposed as she took to Mistress Chalcer's bloodied blouse with a pair of her sewing scissors. The flat stomach and hip that became exposed was sticky with drying blood that concealed a spreading black bruise and an inconspicuous narrow hole at its centre. Bey hurried to avert his gaze as Nana mopped the blood clean. “My petite,” she exclaimed. “You 'ave been stabbed! Poor creature!”
Being treated as if she were a child seemed finally to have overcome Mistress Chalcer's distraction. Her eyes flicked open, suddenly alert and sharp. She seemed to recognise them for a moment, before her eyes rolled back and her faint returned. “Oh thank goodness,” she exclaimed. “I am safe at last!”
“Yes, yes, you are in the Moistened Cardinal now, perfectly safe,” he soothed. “You gave us quite a shock. I believe I may have to offer some of our customers refunds. Some of them were quite distressed by your condition.”
He meant it as a joke, but she was struck with an expression of great horror. “Oh, Sir Beyda, it is the most terrible thing. I am ashamed, I tell you, to have brought such ill luck on you. You must dismiss me at once, of course.”
“You are quite delirious, I assume,” he smiled. “I cannot countenance striking you from the books before you have played so much as a note. That would be bad business.” He was pleased that this cheerful observation provoked a fleeting smile. “Now then, what mischief has befallen you?”
She did not respond immediately. She gasped as Nana prodded at her wounded hip. “It is not so bad,” pronounced Nana. “The blood is no more flowing. I will sew it closed. Good as new. I will get needle, yes, and whiskey?” At a nod from Bey, she departed, circumspect for once, though Bey suspected she would be hovering outside the door with one ear pressed to the keyhole in just a moment.
“Now then, Miss Chalcer, if you please? I have a duty to those in my employ and I do mean to get to the bottom of this.”
“Lynnis,” she replied. “Please call me Lynnis. In Corphena only one's elders are called 'Mistress', Sir Beyda.” She smiled, a charming expression despite the scratches and cuts on her face and lips. “You make me sound like a maiden aunt.”
Bey was starting to wonder if he would need to resort to threats to get the dancer's story. “You were attacked?”
She nodded hesitantly, still reluctant to venture details. He maintained his expectant gaze. Eventually she said simply, “I was attacked.”
“By whom, pray?”
“Two men, sailors I think. They had knives,” she added redundantly. When he did not respond she went on. “They stopped me in a lane, on a pretext of asking for directions. When I explained that I am a stranger to Fellport, they took hold and carried me into an alley.”
“What were you doing walking about unescorted?” Bey was astonished. He had known many independently-minded women, but this smacked more of foolish disregard than strong spirits. “You might have been killed!”
“They didn't mean to kill me,” she said with spite. “They made the most horrific suggestions about my – my virtue. I became fearful and struggled with them. In his lust, one of them fell and hit his head. The other stabbed me, but I ran and escaped him.”
“You ran?”
She glanced at him with appraising eyes. “My peril gave me wings.”
“Indeed,” said Bey, growing suspicious. “Very well, we must locate Master Meldaran at once and then summon the Sentry.” In fact he had no intention of doing the latter if it could be avoided. He had good reasons to dislike courting the attention of the law.
Her reaction was quite startling. She snatched his wrist in a fierce grip and cried “No! No! I beg you!” There was real fear there, he saw. He took her hand in his and gently pulled it away, turning it up to show her the thin line of fresh blood on her split palm.
“You were assaulted,” he said.
“They – they are long gone,” she said. “Please do not involve the Sentry. I could not bear it.” She did not meet his eyes. If she had she could not have missed the scepticism drawn on his face. She acknowledged his unspoken request for more information by saying, “In my home, there are men in uniform called the Rakers.”
“Rakers?”
“They serve her Majesty Queen Paracastra. They are her eyes and her ears. They ask questions. They root out her enemies. They do not wear their uniforms when they do this. Any stranger might be a Raker.” She seemed to be looking at some point on a distant horizon. “They wear the uniforms only when they come for you. When they name you an enemy of Corphena. And those they take away are never seen again.”
“You are afraid of them?”
“Only a fool or an informant is not afraid of the Rakers in Corphena,” she replied bitterly. “My brother... He was a singer. One night he became drunk while entertaining some friends and ridiculed the Lord of Jetherrary in a ditty. One of them must not have been such a friend because the next day he was taken. The Rakers came in their black uniforms, and they beat him with his own instruments in the street. When he was unconscious they put him in a carriage and drove off. The same day, Casimir and I vowed to flee.”
She looked at him with pleading eyes. “Tell, Cas, of course he must know,” she conceded. “But I cannot bear to be interrogated. Please do not call upon the Sentry, Sir Beyda.”
Bey was hardly a stranger to evasion and deceit. He knew most of what he had just been told was a complete fabrication, but he was hardly about to argue with her conclusion.
“Of course, if that is your wish I will respect it,” he said graciously, mostly for the benefit of Nana, whose attempts at stealth beyond the closed door were meeting with modest failure. “And I am sure Mistress Nana will have you fixed in no time. You cannot possibly dance on that leg, so perhaps this evening you will favour our guests with a song or two?”
She beamed with gratitude. “Of course, Sir Beyda. Nothing could keep me from the stage.”
Bey thought, she's running from something dangerous.
When it catches her, he warned himself, be elsewhere.
***
Ductio had given him precise instructions, but under the circumstances Jedlow had felt obliged to disregard them. A number of times during the morning, the Magistrate had woken and made some impossible and usually surreal demand. Everything from “Bring me those fucking clouds there” to “Feed the copper pot, it's looking tired” to “When does the ballet end?” had been barked from the floor of the buggy, usually framed by the most dramatic snores.
Fearful for the Magistrate's health, Jedlow had returned to headquarters and, with the help of some junior guardsmen with whom he had trained, he had helped Ductio to his office on the top floor of the Sentry wing. During the awkward climb of the central staircase, Ductio had recovered consciousness of a sort, and had loosed a barrage of abuse, invective and undifferentiated enmity, much of it at the expense of his fellow officers of the Sentry. Staff Sergeant Kilritch came in for particular attention, as did Ductio's counterpart, Magistrate Broden. Embarrassed and justifiably afraid for their careers, the junior guardsmen had redoubled their efforts to drag the swaying, profane Magistrate to his quarters.
No sooner was he set, fast asleep again, on his rudimentary and uncomfortable cot than a faint but clear scream penetrated the morning. Recognising that the sound came from deeper within the manor, Jedlow began to shout “Alarm! Alarm! The Duke!” at the top of his lungs. His companions scattered, racing to the balcony and stairs to spread the alarm. Ductio shouted “Fuck off with that hammering!”, but Jedlow was already running for the antechamber that marked the no man's land between the Sentry headquarters and the Duke's home.
He had never been through the solid brass door before, but his path was clear. Within line of sight down a long, plush-carpeted and richly decorated hall, Staff Sergeant Kilritch was swearing violently and drawing a belt knife. He disappeared out of the hall. Jedlow ran full tilt, clawing open his long coat to retrieve his dirk from its scabbard over his heart.
“Staff!” he called, but there was no reply. More screams came from up ahead. Men this time.
As he closed he could see the doors had been kicked open with great violence. One had thrown its hinges, the other was half-closed and half-splintered from the blow that had rendered it open.
He drew the dirk into a stabbing grip and sucked in a deep breath. He changed the angle of his run and vaulted somewhat sideways into the room.
Kilritch was standing at the end of a long pool, all the weight on one foot. He had a crossbow loaded and raised to his eye. At the far end of the pool was Duke Vormura himself, naked, on his knees, blood running in rivulets over the fingers clutched at his throat. Jedlow took in the view in an instant and reacted without thought.
“Staff! No!” He dropped into a charge and rammed into Kilritch's back. As they collided he caught a flash of movement behind the Duke, something moved near and through the windows. The bolt loosed and speared a window, shattering it as the two of them tumbled together and rolled into a wall. A looming stuffed bear teetered with the impact of the two men against its frozen feet, but it remained standing.
“Fuck the Saints, Guardsman!” swore Kilritch again. “Get after her!”
Her? Jedlow followed Kilritch's pointing finger and ran uncertainly to the window. Below, a figure was hanging with both hands from a sling, entangled in the upper branches of a fruit tree. As he watched, the figure released one hand, so that the sling unwrapped itself with a whip crack and the figure vanished. “There, Masters. I see her!”
Below, the figure appeared again beyond the outline of the trees, stumbling away from the manor downhill towards the wall of conifers that surrounded the estate on the uppers slopes of the western and northern hillsides. Even at this distant, Jedlow realised that it was, in fact, a woman. There could be no mistaking the shape of hips and torso. For a moment he thought she was bald, then he understood that the unusual shape of her head was caused by a bandage or wrap that concealed her features.
“She's running for the forest!”
Kilritch staggered up behind him and confirmed for himself. “She's hurt,” he observed with satisfaction. “Guardsman, get to the hound pens and tell Voose to get the dogs on her fucking arse. Get going before I remember you buggered my shot. Now!”
As he fled the room, he heard the Duke moaning, his voice different again. “Charmaine,” he wailed, forlorn and despairing. “What will I tell Charmaine?” Jedlow didn't know who that was.
To his great surprise, he saw Ductio coming down the hall. “Where?” was all he said. Jedlow pointed and continued running before he could be given a conflicting order by the Magistrate.
***
A series of crashes snapped Battis Fenchrow from his dreamy dozing.
He had been idly fantasizing about an incensed mob gathered around the steps of the Martello, waving copies of 'Today in Fact!' and shouting in furious unison “Down with the Blue Duke!” There he was at their fore, arms raised, eyes shining with revolutionary fervour, declaring the downfall of the bloated aristocracy and the ascendancy of the common people. They raised him above their heads and bore him to the summit of Coalface Hill and installed him there as their new Caesar For Life. Caesar Fenchrow, Beloved of his People.
A hammer struck his chest as he jolted awake. There was someone in the press room, causing a dreadful clamour. Muffled voices laughed and swore. He threw on his dressing robe and tiptoed to the door to listen.
“I'm hurt,” said a voice behind him. “After all we've shared you don't have a word of greeting?”
He whirled in surprise. There was a man seated on his writing desk, sipping a tumbler of his best applejack, leafing idly through his papers. It took a few moments to place him as the Corphenite manager from last Oilday, the one with the yellowpetal oil and the enthusiasm. He had the same cocky self-assured expression that had both attracted and repelled Battis when they first met. “Meldaran? What is this?”
“You remember me? I'm flattered. Your memory must be as remarkable as your appetite to recall so many callers. What was it this morning, some pretty little laundry girl trading for some advertising space? It smells like a bordello in here.”
Battis was still thinking fuzzily from drowsiness and alarm but he didn't miss the menace in the Corphenite's voice. “Listen, what do you want? I've given you the names you wanted.”
“Oh indeed?” Meldaran affected confusion. “Well, am I mistaken or did one of those names belong to a fat bald ape with no sense of humour and, as I have subsequently discovered, a reputation for violence? It does make me wonder about the veracity of the rest of your list.”
From the next room there was the groan of a mass of a heavy object straining against some restraint, then abruptly there came several pings of flying metal and a sudden crash. Wood splintered, metal scattered. More rhythmic crashes and grunts of exertion followed. “My presses!” Battis shouted in dismay.
In a flash Meldaran was upon him, slamming him back against the door. “Forget your fucking presses, friend. You've got other problems.” Battis moaned, feeling a cold blade pricking at his stomach.
“Wh- what do you want?”
“I already told you what I want, Batty,” Meldaran said. “I want to meet people who want to pay me make them feel good. I made you feel good, didn't I? Just a little smear on the tongue and you're anyone's, aren't you Battis?” Meldaran's body was pressed against him, their faces an inch apart. His expression was cruel, mocking. “Are you getting excited, Battis? Like a bit of danger, do you? Do you want to feel it again? Want your heart to open up, free as a bird? The skies opening, stars singing, the universe alive.” The point of the knife was inflaming his side with tender scratches. Meldaran's free hand was between them, stroking. “Together we could make that happen, yes?”
Battis licked his lips, trembling with fear and anticipation. Is that all this was? A game of seduction? A sport of threats and power and control and submission? “What do you want?”
“A partner, Battis,” cooed Meldaran, his eyes green chips of stone. “A man who knows what's what. A receptive man. An ambitious man. A man of character and conviction.” His voice was an urgent whisper. “You're wasting your time with this broadsheet shit of yours, your petty sedition and banal scandals. You make enemies, and what does it profit you? We can do much more together, yes?”
Battis nodded, red with humiliation and eager with longing. His heart ached for his beloved broadsheet, lost to him forever. “You've always wanted this, haven't you? You creep at the fringes, always watching. Too afraid to be a part of it. Scared to get your hands dirty. That's why you write your sordid little stories and dream of better days.”
Meldaran's breath brushed his face. “This town is waiting for us, Battis. Waiting for us to take it away from all of them: the nobility, the merchants, the gangsters. We can control her. Shape her, move her, make her whatever we want. All you have to do it want it badly enough to say yes.”
“I – I don't-” He faltered. Then, without truly understanding what was being offered and asked, he found himself agreeing. “I'll do it. Yes. Whatever you ask, Cas.” He felt horror and elation. This was a demonic pact, he knew without question, but all the same he was drawn to this bargain like a leaf in a maelstrom. Every escape path would led to the same inevitable end.
Casimir Meldaran smiled, a mischievous boy's grin of malice and guile. The flat blade of the knife skidded across Battis' back, raising a shiver. He held up a small bottle with a cork stopper, dangling it before Battis' eyes.
“Then let's celebrate,” he said, and kissed him.
***
The search for the Duke's would-be assassin had grown beyond Jedlow. He had soon found himself surrounded by a cacophony of baying hounds, bellowing guardsmen, search carriages and confusion. Ductio had not emerged from the manor. In the chaos any possible contribution by Jedlow was evidently overlooked. Before long he was more or less alone and at a loose end. He felt he ought to be helping, but beyond taking orders he wasn't sure what he had to offer.
Then he remembered Ductio's instruction. Admittedly it had been issued in a state of advanced inebriation, or something much like it, but Jedlow allowed that it had made some sense and so decided to follow it.
Nobody had dared to second Magistrate Ductio's cab for the search parties. Jedlow had no such compunctions, seeing as how the Magistrate wasn't currently using it. And anyway, he was on the Magistrate's business. Before he could give himself time to reconsider, he was on his way. The Sentry were out in force. He must have passed three or four patrols, all groups of at least two armed guardsmen, their unease plain to read on their faces. One of the groups tried to stop him and demand to know whether there was any news, but he told them he was on Ductio's business and warned them not to keep him from it. That was the only interruption on the way to Icewater Avenue.
As he drew the cab to a halt outside Fenchrow's unassuming house-cum-factory, Jedlow's already wound nerves twisted again. Two days ago there had been a stained glass window depicting a bold warrior poet – who bore a striking effect to Battis Fenchrow - proselytising to a troupe of sword-waving enthusiasts. Now shards of the same window spread outwards across the avenue, terminating at a large metal cog, toothed and greasy and abandoned in the road. At the door that bore the emblem 'Mstr Fenchrow's Discerning Daily Broadsheets' stood a large man with a rough-trimmed beard and a gap-filled mouth. He squinted suspiciously at Jedlow as the buggy pulled up.
“Master Fenchrow ain't receiving visitors today,” the man informed him gruffly as Jedlow stepped down from the driver's board. “So hoppit, right?”
Jedlow might have preferred to comply, but after all he had his orders. “This is- er, is official business of his Duke the Grace,” he asserted, then realised he'd muffed it. “Er, I mean, stand aside for the Duke's Sentry. Er, please.”
The man appeared unmoved. Jedlow conceded that his directive might have lacked the proper note of authority. Recalling his training, he smiled politely, said “Of course, master, I understand perfectly. Sorry to have bothered you” and crunched the end of his truncheon into the man's throat. He followed through, bringing his knee up into the gasping man's groin, then again into his stomach. The he gave him a good truncheon tap behind the ear, just for luck because he didn't want him getting up.
“Thanks for your cooperation,” he muttered, stepping over the man and peering into the house through the remains of the window. Inside, two men stood with a complicated piece of machinery on the floor between them and were trying to pry it apart with crowbars. Around them were scattered the shredded remnants of Fenchrow's printing presses, smashed into useless scrap.
Jedlow didn't hold much regard for his odds of charging in and overcoming two men with steel bars in hand. Besides, there was no sign of Fenchrow. Caution prevailed. He circled around the building to the Camel Lane side, shunted himself over the wooden fence with the help of a drainpipe and snuck into the narrow passage that ran along the back of the house. Three narrow windows lay at ground level, allowing thin slants of the feeble alleyway light into half-subterranean rooms.
Jedlow dropped to his knees, ignoring the cold damp that seeped into his trousers. He peered into the first window and saw that it lay opposite the broad printing press room. Inside the two crowbar men had completed the destruction of the printing presses. One was pouring lantern oil about the shop floor. The other was tapping gently at a door that led further into the house.
Jedlow shuffled quietly along to the second window. He recalled the room – Fenchrow's office. Though at the moment it seemed better described as his bedchamber. Just below the window, Fenchrow lay on the small cot that he had seen propped against a wall on his previous visit. The emaciated publisher wore only a rumpled shirt, which he was crumpling with both hands in apparent ecstasy. Tears were rolling down his face and his toes curled and uncurled like a baby's. Jedlow grimaced. His tastes had never run to men, and even if they had he could not imagine this would be an appealing sight. This was just pathetic.
Beside Fenchrow was another man, pulling on tight breeches. His back was to Jedlow, but there was no mistaking the mop of blonde curls that fell about his shoulders. Hair like that was uncommon enough in Murburan for Jedlow to assume that this must be the much-sought Casimir Meldaran. He fell back behind the wall so that his head was nearly invisible to the men in the room. He stilled himself, straining to catch their conversation.
“Tell me, Batty,” Meldaran was saying, “who else could be persuaded to join our little enterprise? I am thinking of someone in a position to convey it to willing customers. Perhaps someone with a stable of fetching and obedient girls and boys at their command. Not too scrupulous, yes?”
“I know just the man, Cas,” simpered Fenchrow. “A saloon owner. He would be perfect. Gentrified, respectable, but I happen to know his finances are foundering. He invested badly last summer, lost several cargoes to misfortune – storms, piracy, the Leph embargo. All he has left is his saloon, and that's struggling. He's not the most sympathetic man, doesn't know what people like. Hires unpopular acts. Jugglers are his particular favourite.”
“Nobody likes jugglers,” observed Meldaran.
“I know,” babbled Fenchrow eagerly. “He can't convince any of the trend setters to visit his club. It infuriates him. He'd do anything, Cas, I know it. Just speak to him.”
Jedlow didn't understand what they were plotting, but he had been a mischievous youth recently enough to know a conspiracy when he heard one. But what to do? He could not hope to arrest them and get them out past the two saboteurs in the next room. Even to do that, he'd have to break the window and jump into the room. He didn't much fancy bleeding to death from glass cuts while these two kicked him senseless. He needed some help.
“It's a pity,” remarked Meldaran, “that you didn't send me to him in the first place, Battis. He sounds a much better prospect than Boss Trigosi.”
Fenchrow screwed his face in abject remorse. “Oh, please forgive my little prank, Cas,” he begged. “It was just an amusement, a tease. I'm sorry it caused you inconvenience.” “Did you know he had two of his villains follow me? No? I count myself quite lucky to have evaded a beating or worse,” he remonstrated. Meldaran rose from the bed and began gathering his discarded clothes. “But I forgive you your indiscretion. How were you to know that we would soon be business associates, rather than strangers? Let us consider the matter closed.” He finished his dress and located a small wall mirror by the bed. He began to fuss with his hair. “So what's the name of this prize rooster of yours?”
Fenchrow's relief was tangible. “I'll never forget this, Cas. Bless you, thank you. I-”
“Battis!” Meldaran interrupted. “The name?”
“Sir Udo Herronvale, of the Chattering Casket. He is quite- urk.” Fenchrow stopped speaking abruptly and tapped distractedly at his throat. His fingertips shone red. In evident confusion he rolled his head towards Meldaran, who was calmly wiping his knife on the mattress of the bed. As he moved, a wave of blood gushed from his neck and washed off the bed in a gruesome waterfall. Battis tried to raise himself but overbalanced instead and rolled onto the floor with a slack thump.
“Fuck!” Jedlow scrambled to his knees in shock. Inside, Meldaran's satisfaction vanished in shock. His eyes rose to the window and met Jedlow's. He swore as well.
Jedlow was on his feet in an instant, clambering over the wall with a burst of strength. As he landed in the side alley, he surprised a large man carrying a sack, which was dropped with a steely clank.
“Master!” he gasped. “There has been a murder. I want you to summon the Sentry, quickly! Take this whistle, here!” He thrust the silver object into the man's hand. “Take it to the nearest street! Blow it as hard as you can, the guardsmen will come. Send them to this shop! Do you understand? Hurry!”
Throughout, the man had stared at Jedlow with dumbfounded incomprehension, but at last he nodded and said “Right you are.” Jedlow turned, drawing his truncheon in one hand and dirk in the other. If he could take Meldaran's men by surprise then he-
Something heavy struck him on the head and he crashed to the ground. His one fleeting thought was that it had made a sound a lot like a sack of metal bars.
***
Darcus pocketed the silver whistle, which look like it might be worth a simoleon or two, and stepped over the youthful guardsman. He did not entertain the notion that he should complete the job and kill the boy. Boss Trigosi's order had been quite specific and he didn't like surprises.
He rounded the corner just as three men ran from Battis Fenchrow's printery. He paid them no attention. Likewise the glass littering the alley barely registered. Nothing to do with him. He stepped through the ruined front door and studied the scene within.
Three large printing machines had been thoroughly demolished. Their metal gizzards were scattered about the ink-stained workbenches. Shelves full of boxed lead letters had been knocked to the floor. Shreds of paper were everywhere. The floor was greasy with oil. On one central bench a pyramid of broken wooden stools, oil-soaked paper and various tools was burning briskly. As he watched, the flames spread across the bench and spilled down its sides. Thick smoke began to blacken the air.
Indifferent to the fire, Darcus scanned the room and located a door. He circled about the expanding blaze and turned the knob.
“H-help me.” A man, both hands clamped to the side of his neck, lay in a mess of his own blood. He had apparently tried to cross the small office to the door but his strength had failed him.
Darcus said “Battis Fenchrow?”
The man blinked helplessly and gargled, “Y-y-y..” He raised one dripping hand and reached for Darcus' support.
Darcus knocked the proffered hand gently away and closed the door.
Thinking to himself that this was the easiest job he'd ever been assigned, he left before the air got too smoky to breathe.