City of Dreams and Nightmare (7 page)

He looked at the queue, considered invoking the authority of his uniform to force a way to the front, and decided that he really could not be bothered. Why earn the resentment of everyone there only to be crammed cheek-by-jowl with them on a descent into hell? Better to walk.

Decision made, he headed for the nearest stairwell. A young girl, no more than three or four, stared at him as he passed and pulled at her mother’s arm.

“Look, Mum, funny guardsman.”

Her mother quickly clasped her by the arm and said, “Shush, dear,” before offering Tylus an embarrassed smile. “Sorry, she’s never seen a Kite Guard before.”

After that, Tylus walked with chin a little higher and back a little straighter, reminded that even this far from his own districts the reputation of the Kite Guard preceded him. At least no one had yet asked why an officer of the Kite Guard was bothering with the lifts at all instead of simply flying down the outside of the city to wherever he wished to go. Explaining the treacherous nature of wind currents as they met and swirled around the walls to the uninitiated was not a prospect he relished. Any thoughts he might have entertained of attempting something as reckless as that had been well and truly dismissed following his embarrassment the previous night.

He took his time descending through the city’s lower levels, falling into the steady, unhurried gait he used when walking the beat, dallying a while in the Shopping Rows – it was an age since he had ventured this far into the city’s lower reaches – but otherwise simply enjoying the unfamiliar surroundings.

Immediately beneath the Shopping Rows lay the market, which was the wellspring for much of Thaiburley’s food trade. Here fresh produce of every sort was bartered and sold, to be distributed throughout the Rows, where it would be cleaned, peeled, diced and sliced, processed, prepared, cooked, stored, combined and consumed in a thousand different fashions.

This was a new experience for Tylus, who had never ventured beneath the Shopping Rows before. Against his expectations, he found the place invigorating and exciting, with its constant hustle and bustle. Everywhere was movement, as broad carts laden with pallets of vegetables and others stacked precariously with cages of clucking fowl muscled their way through the streets, while trays of ice were rushed into the fish halls and lumbering oxen pulled heavier carts still. Prospective buyers were everywhere, wanting to peer beneath every cloth and into every container. A cacophony of sound surrounded him, as yells of “Mind yer backs!” and “Comin’ through!” mingled with those of the traders hawking their wares.

And the smells; oh, the smells. The richness of freshly roasted coffee assailed his nostrils one moment, the pungency of exotic spices the next. There was the ripe smell of animal dung to one side, the sweetness of ripened fruit to the other, as he strolled beside barrows laden with melons and brightly coloured citrus. He took time to wander through one of the fish halls, its oddly tilted floor damp with melted ice – tilted so that melt-water, blood, gore and scales could be readily washed away at the day’s end. The tang of the sea and of fish flesh was everywhere.

He remained vigilant, however, despite the distracting environment; conscious of how close he was to the City Below, which now lay immediately beneath his feet. Recent experience had shown him all too clearly what to expect from those who lived there.

Having sated his curiosity, Tylus eventually made his way to the designated stairwell. The market represented, in effect, the ground level of Thaiburley, flowing out beyond its walls and spreading into the meadow beyond; although even this was a deceptively simplistic assertion, since the city was built against and indeed into a great buttress of rock, a veritable mountain that both supported and helped shape the City of Dreams. The stairwell that Tylus now took was accessed via an arched doorway on the inside of the city’s walls. As he approached, a mother emerged, shooing two scrawny children before her. There seemed a furtiveness about them, though perhaps not. Perhaps the young Kite Guard’s perceptions were merely coloured by his knowledge of where they had come from and where he was about to go.

The stairs began immediately beyond the archway, descending in a long curve, the way lit by a series of flickering torches. Almost at once there was a noticeable change in the texture of the passageway, as the stairs carried him beneath the city walls and into the very rock they were built upon. He passed nobody else on the descent and, used to stepping from one floor to another within the city itself, was unprepared for the experience of an enclosed passageway. It felt as if he was making his lonely way into the depths of some mythical hell.

Was it his imagination, or could he smell something unpleasant as well? Was this what hell smelt like?

His relief when the tunnel ended was considerable. It had only lasted for a couple of minutes, but discomfort had made it seem far longer. The stairs now clung to a rock face in order to reach the floor of a vast cavern, and he caught the first view of his destination. A panorama of human habitation stretched before him – far more than he had ever envisaged. In its way, the view was quite awe-inspiring. One thing, unfortunately, had not changed with his emergence from the passageway: the smell. With growing horror, Tylus realised that the City Below stank.

He knew the way to the nearest Watch station, having checked the route before setting out. Nevertheless, Tylus soon discovered that seeing something on a schematic and being physically in the place were two entirely different things. He half hoped the relevant duty officer might have arranged an escort to guide him, since he’d contacted them about his arrival and wasn’t that much later than anticipated, but apparently not. The only people immediately by the stairway were a group of street-nicks who eyed him with smirks on their faces and whispered comments behind shielding hands.

He did his best to look assured and imposing as he strode past them.

Now, if memory served him right, the quickest way to the station was straight ahead, and then to turn right. He just hoped he could remember where to turn. A broad avenue led away from the steps. To his left stretched a long, low building, empty pallets stacked casually outside half-open doors; a warehouse by the look of it. A scrawny dog stretched out beside the pallets, watching him without raising its head. Beyond was a seemingly endless mess of cobbled-together shacks, apparently built out of whatever people could lay their hands on – scraps of wood, corrugated metal sheeting, boxes, cloth, wire, rope and goodness knew what else. As buildings went, these were sorry excuses. None of them looked capable of standing up to a strong sneeze.

A small girl ran up to him, as if to beg, but was called back by a barked command from a stoop-shouldered woman who presumably was her mother. She offered the Kite Guard a quick apology and then dragged the child back behind a curtain that masked the doorway she’d emerged from, scolding her all the way.

“What have I told you ’bout razzers?” he heard as they disappeared from sight.

Tylus was so distracted by this cameo that he failed to notice the street-nicks until they were all around him. Were these the same ones who had been hanging around the stairwell? Two of them were, certainly – he recognised them – but he thought that they had also been joined by others.

One bumped into his left shoulder in passing; apparently an accident, as if he had been pushed by one of his fellows, but Tylus doubted it. Alert for some trick, he wasn’t at all surprised to feel a feather-light touch on the right side of his belt, but even so was too slow. By the time he spun around, the offending hand was gone, taking his puncheon with it.

The youth skipped a few backward steps, now in front of the Kite Guard and flanked by the rest of the small gang, five in all.

“Give that back to me.”

“Come and take it, razzer.”

Boxing lessons may have been abandoned with the other accoutrements of youth, but Tylus still made a point of sparring regularly. Confronted with a situation like this, he immediately braced himself and raised his fists in familiar boxer’s stance, rising onto the balls of his feet in the process.

The youth holding the puncheon threw his head back and laughed, which was the signal for the whole group to snigger and jeer. Then, after tucking the club into his belt, the street-nick raised his fists in mockery of the Kite Guard’s posture. But it was just a mockery and no real defence at all.

Tylus danced forward, two quick steps, much to the further mirth of the onlookers. But it brought him within reach of his tormentor. He led with his left: one, two quick jabs to the face and then a third, which became the opening blow in a left-right combination. It was the right that packed the real punch. The Kite Guard doubted whether any of these grubbers had seen a real boxer before. Certainly the lad he was facing had no idea how to defend himself against one.

The street-nick collapsed backwards, to sit on the ground with blood streaming from his nose and a bewildered look on his face.

Tylus was still determined to reclaim the puncheon and knew he had to press his advantage before the rest of the gang recovered enough wit to attack him. Besides, he couldn’t resist – the lad’s chin was just too inviting. A quick step to readjust his balance and the Kite Guard lashed out with his foot, feeling satisfaction as the blow connected, knocking the street-nick onto his back, where he lay unmoving.

This might not have been in any boxing manual, but the kick had certainly proved effective enough.

The puncheon rolled loose. As Tylus bent down to pick it up, the largest of the street-nicks let out a bellow of rage and charged him. He swivelled and fired the puncheon. The club shot out, smashing into the lad’s forehead. At such close range and with the attacker’s own momentum adding to the force, the effect was devastating. The street-nick keeled over like a felled tree.

The puncheon snapped back into its casing and Tylus held it before him, brandishing it in the direction of first one of the two remaining street-nicks and then the other. Two…? He could have sworn there were five in the original group, but no matter; perhaps one had already seen enough and run off.

“Which of you grubbers is next?” he asked with practiced menace.

The pair looked quickly at each other and then back at him. He sensed it was in the balance, that they were undecided whether to attack or run. He took a step forward to help them make up their minds, thrusting the puncheon towards the nearest with renewed intent. That settled it. They both turned and fled.

Tylus felt elated. His first encounter with the dreaded street gangs of the City Below and he had survived. No, more than survived, he had triumphed!

He twirled his puncheon and holstered it with a flourish before sauntering off down the road.

The Kite Guard never saw the bowman. He had dismissed the fifth member of the gang far too readily. Fortunately for him, there were other eyes watching the confrontation; eyes that noted the point where one of the gang slipped away into the shadows.

The youth lifted his crossbow and took aim at the razzer’s back. From this range, he couldn’t miss.

Then came a tap on his shoulder, causing him to jerk around.

“Sorry, but I can’t let you do that,” Dewar said quietly.

He knew full well how he must appear to the street-nick – an unremarkable, slightly balding man of average height, no more threatening than any clerk or shopkeeper. He could almost see the shock at being disturbed drain from the youth’s eyes, an unconscious relaxing on seeing the unassuming source of this disturbance. Other emotions would soon follow, with anger the most likely. At that instant of maximum relaxation, before the kid could regroup, Dewar struck; both hands moved with lightning quickness, one to the back of the shoulder, the other to the opposite side of the face. Then he pulled them towards each other, like some staggered clap with palms that were never destined to meet. The street-nick was already looking around, over his shoulder. All Dewar did was turn head and neck even further that way – far further than nature had ever intended.

With an audible crack, the boy’s neck snapped.

He probably never even had the time to realise what was happening.

Dewar caught the bow as the body fell, wondering if it might prove of some use, but quick examination showed it to be crude and poorly made. He dropped the thing to the ground, where it snapped beneath his heels as easily as the lad’s neck had between his hands.

The assassin looked out to where Tylus’s retreating back could still clearly be seen. Word travelled quickly in the City Below. With a bit of luck, this incident would gain the cocky young Kite Guard enough respect to keep the street-nicks at bay for a while. Dewar certainly hoped so. He had enough on his plate without having to waste precious time playing nursemaid to an incompetent buffoon.

FOUR

Tom awoke to the sound of voices. If he suffered any disorientation it was fleeting; the memory of where he was and what had happened the previous night came flooding back almost at once. The Jeradine, Ty-gen, had proved true to his word, feeding Tom and finding him somewhere to sleep, even giving him some salve for his grazed arm, which was now feeling considerably better as a result.

Food had come in the form of a hot broth, which looked and smelt delicious. At first Tom hesitated, wondering what sort of food the flatheads ate and whether it might be unpleasant or even harmful to him.

Ty-gen evidently guessed the reason for his hesitation and offered reassurance, saying, “Don’t worry, I am used to human visitors. I could not eat this. You can.”

Tom’s doubts faded and hesitation crumbled in the face of the aromas that continued to engulf him, and he soon tucked in. The soup was piping hot, scalding his mouth at the first few mouthfuls, but that barely slowed him. Chunks of tender meat and vegetables and a lightly spiced broth proved just as enjoyable as the aromas had promised, and he wolfed it down as quickly as he could. The Jeradine sat and watched; not prying, not interfering, not saying anything, simply observing.

Tom hadn’t realised how hungry he was until the soup’s vapours tempted his nostrils, nor had he realised how tired he was until he lay down on the pallet in the back room which the flathead directed him to. A pallet that was cushioned with the softest bedding the young street-nick had ever encountered. He fell asleep at once.

Now, as he woke, he remembered Ty-gen’s perceptiveness in knowing why he hesitated before eating the broth, and he reflected on a great deal else – the little things the flathead had said and the questions he refrained from asking where another might have. Tom had never thought of them as intelligent – the Jeradine – never thought much about them at all, truth be told, but he was already developing a growing respect for this particular flathead.

His shoes were beside the pallet. Had he taken them off before falling asleep? He couldn’t remember. An insole had been placed inside the left, effectively plugging the hole that had developed during the night’s excursions. As Tom slipped the shoe on, wriggling his foot and getting used to this new sole, his suspicions returned. He wondered exactly what the Jeradine’s angle might be. One thing life on the streets taught you beyond any doubt was that nobody did anything for nothing and, so far, Ty-gen was simply too good to be true. What was the flathead after?

The voices claimed his attention. There were two of them. One was unmistakably the not-quite human monotone of Ty-gen’s box, the other definitely human; that of a girl. He rose and headed towards the sound, brushing aside the curtain that had been drawn across the doorway to lend the backroom a semblance of darkness. The Jeradine seemed fond of curtains, at least to judge by the front room’s walls, which were festooned with a variety of such, large and small.

The girl had been speaking but stopped in mid-sentence and stared at Tom as he entered.

She looked a little older than him, though not by much, and was clearly a street-nick through and through. The clothes said that much about her; in fact, they almost said it too loudly and Tom immediately began to doubt his initial impression. The clothing looked too good – too well made and too expensive for any real street-nick, even a gang leader. Was she some up-City kid playing at being a grubber? Yet something in her posture said otherwise and, while dressed to impress, the clothing was practical – the sort a street-nick would wear if they could afford to – and if they were tough enough to hang on to it.

She was dressed from head to toe in black – boots, tight fitting trousers and a light, sleeveless top which, tucked in, showed an athletic but definitely female figure. Tom instantly focused elsewhere. Every item she wore looked clean, new even, including the black leather belt with its silver studs, though the handles of twin knives that hung from it did not; they were well worn and had obviously seen use. Street-nick, he felt certain, if quite unlike any he was used to.

The girl had also been appraising him, though her own inspection was far swifter. Tom felt he had failed in some way and was already dismissed from her thoughts.

“Ah, Tom. You slept well I trust?” Ty-gen greeted him. “This is Kat.”

Girl and boy exchanged perfunctory nods of acknowledgement. Her eyes were dark, he noticed; perhaps appearing more so due to their being set against her spiky black hair and choice of clothes. Not as dark as his own, but even so…

Then he noticed the object on the table in front of the Jeradine.

“What’s that?”

Without thinking, he snatched it up. Smooth beneath his fingers and oddly textured. Almost like glass, yet not quite.

The girl moved as he moved, either to stop him or to take it back, but she was restrained by a gesture from Ty-gen, and instead contented herself with a snapped, “Careful with that. It’s valuable.”

Tom barely heard her, caught as he was by the small statuette in his hand. It was a depiction of a leaping fish, sculpted from a clear crystalline substance, the like of which Tom had never seen before. Holding the figure carefully by its base – a stylised wave – he turned it around so that it caught the light, glittering and winking at him.

“It’s beautiful,” he said.

“Thank you,” the Jeradine said. “I made it; quite literally.”

Tom looked at him for an explanation.

“We Jeradine are dissimilar from your people in many ways. Our bodies work differently to start with. We cannot metabolise certain elements of the food that is vital to us, and we excrete those elements as a crystalline gel.”

“He means they shit the stuff,” Kat cut in.

“Not exactly, but it’s true that the khybul,” here the translator produced a guttural sound that was almost unintelligible, “is a by-product that we have to regularly purge from our systems.”

“And this icky-gel stuff hardens into crystal,” Kat explained, evidently growing impatient with the wordy explanation and choosing to talk to him in a far friendlier manner than Tom would have expected, given her initial disdain. Perhaps she wasn’t so different after all.

“Indeed,” the Jeradine confirmed. “But before it completely solidifies there is a brief period when it is malleable. Khybul-sculpting has long been a tradition among my people. Apparently, there are those who value our little efforts.”

“Too right. People up-City can’t get enough of the stuff, especially what’s turned out by the very best Khybul-artists like Ty-gen here.” Kat produced a fair approximation of the guttural ‘khybul’ sound. She then laughed; a brief bark of glee. “Course, I doubt if anyone tells them exactly where it comes from. Can you imagine it – the rich and the mighty paying a fortune for Jeradine shit?”

In truth, looking at the crystal fish, Tom could well believe it. “And you fence these for the…Jeradine?” He’d so nearly said “flatheads”.

“For Ty-gen and a few of his friends, yes.”

“For a cut?” His initial awe at the girl’s apparent persona was fast evaporating. She was just another street-nick on the make after all.

“Of course.”

It was a neat set-up. Tom was jealous of this Kat, he realised. Why had such a simple, hazard-free way of making a living never landed in his lap? He eyed her speculatively, trying to see something special in her, anything that might explain why she enjoyed so much good fortune when he didn’t.

The girl’s hand drifted casually towards the knives at her belt. “Don’t go getting any funny ideas, street-nick. This is my pitch, you keep your grubby hands off.”

“Kat, keep a civil tongue,” the Jeradine admonished. “I’m sure the lad entertains no such thoughts, do you, Tom?”

“Course not,” Tom replied, guiltily.

The girl watched him through narrowed eyes, clearly unconvinced.

“I need you to do something for me, Kat,” the Jeradine said, “but first there’s something I want to show you.”

He turned to one of the curtains that adorned the walls and pulled it aside. Behind was an alcove and sitting on the shelf within was the most beautiful object Tom had ever seen.

“Thaiss!” Kat exclaimed, echoing Tom’s thoughts precisely.

They stared at a khybul sculpture, but one as far beyond the leaping fish as that was from some stick figure drawn in the dust. It stood perhaps four times the height of the fish – still not particularly large, but infinitely more intricate and detailed. It was a castle, a city: layer upon layer of walls topped with an array of miniature turrets and towers.

Tom didn’t need to be told what it was. “Thaiburley,” he exclaimed, his voice barely above a whisper.

“A representation of the city, yes,” the Jeradine confirmed.

“I never knew you could do anything this complicated,” Kat said.

“Oh, you’d be surprised what we can do with the khybul when we put our minds to it.”

“You’ve been holding out on me.”

None of them had reached out to touch the figure, not even Tom, who feared that this crystal city might prove too fragile and would break beneath his clumsy fingers.

“You want me to sell this for you?” Kat asked. “It’ll fetch a fortune.”

“No, not for me. It’s yours, to sell or keep as you choose.”

“What? You’re breckin’ kidding me! Why would you simply give me something like this?”

“In return for a favour, an errand completed,” Ty-gen told her calmly.

“Go on.” She was suspicious now; Tom saw that much in the narrowing of her eyes, the tilt of her head. She was no doubt wondering what task could be worth such a prize. So was he, for that matter.

“Tom here has some distance to travel and I would like you to escort him back to his own part of the city.”

“I don’t need minding,” Tom snapped, appalled at the suggestion. The words
Especially not by a girl
rattled around his head but fortunately did not escape his lips. At the same time, he didn’t want to seem so helpless, not to her.

Kat just stared at him, her lips pursed into a thin line.

“I don’t doubt you are capable, Tom, but this is not an area of the city you’re familiar with. Kat here knows the gang territories, who is to be trusted and who avoided, and she can guide you away from the other dangers that lurk in the shadows, things which the unwary traveller might never even know were there until it was too late. Then, when you get closer to your own home, you can do the same for her, helping Kat avoid the pitfalls specifically associated with your part of the city. Together, you are stronger.”

Tom thought of the traffickers, the needlers, the dog master and the web wife, and he wondered what their equivalents were in this part of town. The fact was that he simply didn’t know, which meant that the Jeradine might have a point.

“And if I babysit him home, you’ll give this to me, no strings?” She nodded towards the sculpture.

“That is correct.”

She shook her head. “I still don’t get it, this is beautiful, but…” Her attention returned to Tom, looking him over critically. “Do you run with anybody?”

He nodded. “The Blue Claw.”

“The Blue Claw? Their territory’s on the far side of the Runs, isn’t it?”

Again, he nodded.

“Thaiss, you’re a long way from home, kid.”

“That much I know.” He bridled at being called kid but bit his tongue and didn’t complain. Despite the knee-jerk indignation he’d originally felt, he was swiftly coming around to Ty-gen’s way of thinking. This strange girl might just offer him his best chance of getting all the way home and the last thing he wanted to do was antagonise her before she’d even agreed to do so.

Kat turned back towards the Jeradine. “What makes you think I won’t just take him halfway home and then dump him?”

“Because I trust you. And because I would know if you did. I’d see it in your eyes.”

For a second, the pair locked gazes. It was the girl who looked away. She gave a wry smile. “True.”

She rubbed her chin thoughtfully; an action that seemed far too old for this wild, intimidating girl. “You know there’s not another being in the whole of the city I’d do something like this for without taking payment up front, don’t you?”

“But what would be the point?” Somehow, the flat voice of the translator conveyed a genuine sense of surprise, or perhaps that was simply Tom reading too much into things. “You could not take the crystal with you and it is imperative you leave immediately.”

“The point?” She laughed. “We really are different species, your people and mine, aren’t we?”

“Undeniably.”

She shook her head, as if not entirely comfortable with a decision already made. “I must be mad.” She glanced again at the crystal sculpture before letting out a long sigh. “Very well, I’ll do it.”

“Thank you, Katarina.” This time there could be no mistaking the affection in the synthesized words.

“Kat,” she said sharply. “Nobody calls me Katarina.”

The flat, alien head bowed in apology. “Kat,” he corrected himself.

Tom watched this final exchange with interest, his curiosity piqued. There was a story hidden in those words somewhere, he felt certain.

“Come on then, kid. The sooner we set out the sooner I can be back.”

“First let the lad have a drink of something, Kat. He has had nothing since rising.” Tom was grateful for the Jeradine’s delay; in truth he was parched. The girl merely scowled, as if this were the most unreasonable request in the world, and then fidgeted impatiently while he gulped down some fruit juice and followed it with a glass of chill water.

“Ready?” she asked as Tom tipped back his head and drained the last drops.

He thanked the Jeradine in parting, words that had to be spoken hurriedly, so impatient was the girl to be on her way.

“Shouldn’t take us more than three hours or so,” Kat said, almost to herself. “With a bit of luck I can still be back and under cover before it’s fully dark.”

“One thing,” Tom said quickly. “The Blood Herons…”

“What about them?”

“Probably best if we steer clear of their territory.”