City of Hope and Despair (23 page)

  "Yes yes yes!" The lad had the nozzle over the ship's side, training it at one of his tormentors.

  Leon turned his attention to a small wheel in the same recess that had housed the hose, turning it rapidly. A belch of liquid leapt from the nozzle to dribble into the water, followed by another more sustained spurt, which soon developed into a stream. Even then, the hose's discharge still didn't reach as far as the skimmers, despite Squib's best efforts. They continued to circle, jeering all the louder.

  "Can't wait for this," Leon confided to Tom and Mildra, grinning maliciously.

  "But the hose isn't reaching them," a puzzled Tom felt obliged to point out.

  "That's the beauty of it – the hose doesn't need to. Watch."

  Even as he spoke, the first of the young skimmers went down, splashing into water that would no longer support him. Two more followed instantly, then another. The jeers had stopped, to be replaced by panicked screams and splutters of dismay. At least, the jeers from the water had ceased. Beside Tom, Squib now launched into a new apoplexy of jumping and fist-clenched air punching, firing off fresh volleys of ridicule and insult interspersed with cackles of unfettered hilarity. Even Leon was laughing and pointing, as the entire pack of youths floundered.

  "Oh this was worth waiting for," he said, wiping the corners of his eyes with pudgy fingers, "it really was."

  "What did you do?"

  "The hose was loaded with a chemical – something I cooked up myself. It lowers the viscosity of water, weakens its skin if you like, so that the skimmers just fall right through. The effect won't last for long, of course – the Jeeraiy will soon disperse the chemical and everything will go back to normal, but for once in their lives those heartless, brainless bullies have been given a taste of what it's like to be Squib; a skimmer who can't walk on water."

  The incident put both Leon and Squib in fine spirits for the remainder of the journey, which passed without any great incident. Tom was surprised at how quickly the mountains, which had seemed so distant, loomed above them; wondering how many days it would have taken to get this far without the Mud Skipper. His respect for the peculiar craft rose accordingly.

  "This is Pellinum," Leon said cheerily.

  The town enjoyed a spectacular setting, no question about that. Some distance behind it, a great curtain of waterfalls plunged down a mountainside, the rumble of their thunder a constant background noise, causing Leon to raise his voice.

  "Decent enough folk, but don't let them sell you any of their so-called religious souvenirs; tat, the lot of it. This early in the season you should be able to find yourselves a room cheaply enough, if you've a mind to enjoy a comfortable night before you go on, and I'd advise you to. There won't be much comfort in those mountains you're so determined to explore."

  Tom barely heard him. At that moment all his attention was focussed on the waterfalls, which had to be one of the most awe-inspiring sights he'd ever seen.

  They moored beside a long wooden jetty, which already had a number of other boats clinging to it like leaves to the branch of a tree, though none were as large as the Mud Skipper. Squib leapt off and secured them to a mooring. Before he'd even finished tying off, a group of children came charging along the wharf, yelling for Leon to sound the boat's whistle. Laughing heartily, the skipper obliged, tugging on a chain to vent three high-pitched toots of steam.

  "As you can see," he said, turning back to his passengers, "we're hardly strangers here." The man smiled broadly, clearly loving the attention. "This is as far as we go. Hope you've enjoyed your time aboard the Mud Skipper, and thank you, young lady for sorting out my leg. Never thought I'd hear myself say such a thing, but, Mildra and Tom, may the goddess be with you."

  It was Mildra's turn to smile. "And with you, Leon and Squib – not forgetting, of course, the magnificent vessel known as the Mud Skipper."

The marsh man pushed down on the pole with exaggerated care, moving his shallow boat slowly along the edge of a great mat of reeds and grasses. Around his feet lay a number of tubers and two fat fish – his original reason for being out in the boat, before he was lured away from fishing and foraging by the promise of greater reward. He planted the pole again with great deliberation, making sure it was firmly set before pulling on it to haul himself forward. The last thing he needed was to have the thing snag on treacherous roots which would inevitably be lurking just beneath the surface this close in.

  A plume of smoke hung above the site of old Gayla's village like some sombre exclamation mark. He didn't need to go any closer to know that the roofs and walls would be smashed and the buildings alight. There were bodies enough bobbing in the water to confirm this as a raid. The water surrounding the nearest one writhed with motion, as a shoal of tiny snippers fed. He could even see the occasional silvered flashes of individual fish as they darted in to tear off a mouthful of flesh with their razor sharp teeth before flitting away again, leaving room for the next, only to return a moment later for a further bite.

  He avoided the corpses that were obviously locals – they wouldn't have anything on them worth salvaging – and would normally have been going through belts and pockets of the raiders' dead by now, but he'd spotted one that was potentially even more valuable.

  A body lay snagged in this bed of reeds, half in, half out the water. By his clothing it was obvious that this was neither a local nor a raider. A traveller, then; probably a pilgrim on his way to visit the goddess, which meant he would be carrying provisions and the means for buying more, not to mention whatever he might have brought to offer the goddess as tribute. Now there was a prize worth running the risk of a few grass roots.

  The goddess was smiling on him today, because no other small boats were here yet – he seemed to be first on the scene, but that wouldn't last. The smoke would be visible for many leagues across the flat openness of the Jeeraiy, and every marsh man with a boat was bound to be hurrying here as fast as they could row or pole. For now though, he had the pick, and he intended to make the most of such rare good fortune, starting with this pilgrim.

  The body was lying on its side. By edging the boat right up against it, he was able to half drag, half roll the fellow into the boat, deftly adjusting his own balance and footing to ensure the craft didn't tip over. This wasn't a big man, nor richly dressed, but who knew what might be concealed within his clothing? As the marsh man knelt to investigate, the corpse's eyes sprang open. Startled, he let out an exclamation and jerked back.

  Before he could think to do anything further, the suddenly very animated corpse's hands shot out and grabbed his shirt, pulling him downwards once more. At the same time, the man's face lunged up, headbutting him.

  Pain exploded across his temples. Caught by surprise, disorientated and hurt, the marsh man lost his balance and fell, vaguely aware that the boat was rocking dangerously beneath him. Somehow he landed in the boat and it hadn't tipped over, but this respite was short lived. Strong hands gripped his shirt, hauling him up, and the next instant he was flung through the air to crash heavily into the water.

  Instinctively he tried to suck in a lungful of air but took down a great gulp of foul water instead. He felt himself sinking and struggled to turn around, to get his feet beneath him and kick for the surface. Even as he did so, disaster struck. He felt his foot snag and entangle in the very roots he'd been trying to avoid with his pole. Panicking, he tugged and tugged, but the roots held firm. The water wasn't deep here, and he knew the surface had to be close above his head, yet with his foot trapped it might as well have been a hundred miles away. He was a marsh man. Surely he couldn't die like this?

  Knowing it was likely to be his final effort, he pulled for all he was worth, flexing his foot, and felt a surge of relief as his heel came free and the finger-like grip of those clasping roots reluctantly loosened. Suddenly he was shooting upwards, clawing at the water until first his hand and then his head broke the surface.

  Sweet air! He spluttered and splashed and gulped in as much as he could, all the while looking round in panic for his boat.

  Then he saw it, already some distance away and continuing to move further; the figure of the pilgrim standing straight and working the pole.

  "My boat," he gasped, trying to shout. "Come back, you brecking bastard, that's my boat!"

  But if the pilgrim heard him he gave no indication, instead continuing to move steadily in the direction of the distant mountains.

SIXTEEN

They came in ones and twos and clusters and groups. The talented. It was less than an hour until globes out. A team of lamp lighters stopped to stare, neglecting their duties as they watched this unprecedented surge of people. Normally most folk were safely indoors by this hour, but today there was a great flurry of activity. And the Tattooed Men were everywhere, knocking on doors, chivvying the reluctant or simply escorting. The lamplighters scratched their heads and conferred in muted murmurs, wondering what the breck was going on, but deciding it was none of their business and probably better they didn't know.

  A pair of dun-uniformed razzers, on their way back to the station after completing their final patrol of the day, stopped in their tracks and looked on, bemused. They wondered whether they ought to intervene, or at least enquire, but decided against the idea. There were Tattooed Men involved, after all, and who in their right minds wanted to interfere with them? So instead, in time-honoured tradition, they chose to scamper back to the guard station and report events to their superior. Let someone else decide what to do, if anything.

  All the little knots of people were converging on one place: Iron Grove Square, where Kat was already waiting. Two braziers had been lit, their hot coals glowing red through the lattice of black iron that held them, while the smell of roasting nuts wafted on the breeze. Kat was kept busy making sure everyone was given a hot drink or a mug of soup as they arrived. It wasn't really that cold, but the glow of the braziers offered comfort and a sense of homeliness which would be welcome once the globes were fully out, while a drink was the very least they could do.

  The apothaker came forward, accepting a mug of warm chocolate and offering Kat a confident smile in return. She had cleaned herself up and taken the trouble to dress smartly for the occasion. "Give her hell!" she said.

  "We will," Kat replied, trying to match the other's tone with a confidence of her own.

  As the apothaker moved away, Kat took the opportunity to look around her. The square was now dotted with people of all ages, shapes and sizes, standing in groups and chatting, or simply sitting and waiting. For once she felt proud of where she was from, of being a part of a community that produced folk like this; people willing to gather here despite the danger, displaying the sort of gutsy defiance that had seen the denizens of the City Below emerge from the blood and the horrors of the war unbowed and unbroken. They'd seen off the Rust Warriors and the Blade, and by Thaiss they'd do the same with this Soul Thief!

  There was no turning back now; this was actually happening. Kat felt certain that the bait would be taken – how could the Soul Thief resist an opportunity like this? She only hoped the firepower they'd amassed would be enough to stop her. It had to be. For her sake, for her sister's, and for the sake of all these people gathered in Iron Grove Square.

  As more of the Tattooed Men started to arrive, their shepherding duties completed, Kat was able to delegate the serving of soup and hot drinks to others. Predictably, Shayna was among the first to offer, leaving Kat free to burn off some of her anxious energy by touring the perimeter and seeing for herself the preparations being made for their special guest.

  The square was bracketed on all four sides by what must once have been a grand building. Two storeys of interlinked galleries and passageways boxed in the inner courtyard known as Iron Grove Square. On the north side, the building was punctuated by an imposing arched gateway which granted access to the street. Two large wooden gates, held together by bands of heavy black iron, guarded the entrance. When they first discovered this place, the gates had been as dilapidated as the rest of the building, but the Tattooed Men had restored them. This evening, the gates stood open.

  The inner courtyard had been christened Iron Grove Square because of the metal sculpture of a tree which stood at its centre – now rusted, with leaves and branches missing, but still with enough form to hint at its former glory. A description which could easily be used for the whole of the City Below itself.

  The Tattooed Men enjoyed a largely nomadic existence, maintaining several safe houses scattered across the under-City but this was by far the grandest and the most important. The secluded courtyard aside, this neglected fragment of Thaiburley's past boasted one particular feature which made it ideal as their base of operations. Partially hidden beneath the rubble that littered the floor of the place, they had discovered a small stairway giving access to a cellar, and in that cellar they found a safe. Not just any safe, but the sort of substantial, solidly built strong room which the owners of banks got all excited about and which most financiers could only dream of. The door was a wonder in itself, for this was no blank-faced slab of immovable metal, but rather boasted a large indented central panel, which displayed an intricate mechanism of giant cogs and levers and wheels, of toothed discs and metal bars. Somehow, Chavver came into possession of the key, presumably found elsewhere in the house, though she'd never bothered sharing the details with Kat. The first time Chavver opened the strong room, all of them had been there, crowded into the cellar and on the stairs, craning to catch a view of the interlinking wheels and components, holding their collective breaths in hope that the system still worked, which it did, even after so many years of disuse. Slowly, the cogs turned, one triggering another, and the solid steel bars and rods had been drawn back, to leave the massive door free to be opened.

  Kat would never forget the smell that assailed them as the door was pulled wide. Within, they found a massive space, steel-lined and shelved but otherwise stripped bare; empty apart from one thing: the mummified corpse of a woman, which they had never been able to identify nor indeed explain.

  Despite their best efforts, a hint of that smell still lingered, and Kat had never felt tempted to go down and watch the door being opened again.

  She had no idea what sort of wealth the house's original owners possessed, what might require such extreme levels of security, but presumably it must have been substantial; either that or they were extraordinarily suspicious breckers. Of course, the key's discovery was crucial. Without it, the safe would have been no more than an impressive curiosity. With it, this became the perfect place for the Tattooed Men to store their carefully gathered arsenal, confident that the weapons would remain secure.

  That arsenal had been carried up from the cellar earlier and was now in the process of being deployed; the weapons checked and loaded, before they were dispersed around the building. Kat enjoyed a sense of grim satisfaction as she walked from room to room watching the Tattooed Men at work.

  As she turned a corner, she abruptly found herself confronted by a face so like her own; a little broader, a little rounder, with fuller lips, but unmistakably related. Charveve, who had been coming the other way. The two stared at each other, Kat wishing she was somewhere else but not about to give ground, and her sister looking as if she felt the same. Then Chavver said awkwardly, "I wanted a word."

  "What?" Kat must have misunderstood. Surely her sister hadn't just said that.

  "A word," Chavver repeated. "About Rayul. After you and that kid left us, he was taken; by one of the Dog Master's creatures."

  Kat was stunned. This was the first attempt her sister had made at any form of communication that didn't involve a blade or a threat in over a year. Kat had never really understood the intensity of Charveve's hatred. Yes, they'd rowed about the leadership of the Tattooed Men and yes those rows had turned nasty and even physical on occasion, but in the end she'd walked away. Kat had seen what their fights were doing to the group, to the people who were the only family either of them had known since their mother's death, and she'd refused to go on. She'd given in because she had to. Chavver was too stubborn to back down, no matter what the cost, so Kat did. She resigned herself to a life of looking out for herself, of being alone, for all their sakes. But that hadn't been enough for her sister. Chavver's enmity had pursued her into the shadows, banning any of the Tattooed Men from even talking to her and threatening dire consequences should she ever cross the group's path again, effectively cutting her off from any hope of support should she need it.

  This seemed an extreme reaction even for Charveve, and it had been more difficult to bear than anything Kat had suffered in the Pits. Now, she was beginning to understand, just a little. Jealousy. Of her, and of Rayul. Was that what lay at the bottom of all this: jealousy? The three of them were consigned to the Pits at around the same time and soon became firm friends. Yet Rayul had always been closer to Kat than he was to Chavver. She had become the glue that bound their little team together – the best friend of both. It was Kat that Rayul confided in, Kat that he talked to first. This had been the source of the occasional sulk and angry word even back then, but Kat had never dreamed her sister might harbour deeper resentments. Yet it seemed to fit.

  "Thought you should know," Chavver added.

  "Thanks, but I already knew."

  Chavver looked up sharply. "How?"

  Kat could have kicked herself. Why couldn't she have kept her mouth shut? She knew why, of course: because for once she wanted to be one up on her sister. Stupid, stupid,
stupid!
"I'll tell you about it," she said, "but not now. When this is all over."

  Chavver held her gaze for long seconds and then gave a curt nod. "All right, but don't think you're running away from this one. Soon as this is ended, we're having that conversation."

  Kat bridled and almost responded with a jibe of her own. A year ago she would have done, but there were more important things right now and she'd done a lot of growing up in the intervening months, so she simply smiled and said, "Look forward to it."

  Kat returned to the courtyard through one of the four doors – each wing of the building boasted its own – hovering in the doorway and simply watching. There was a great deal of laughter, the mood almost celebratory, and yet she could sense how fragile this was, the tension bubbling just beneath the service. It wasn't exactly forced bravado, but she suspected this atmosphere was only preserved because certain realities were being consciously avoided. She wondered how long the cheerful spirit would linger once globes were fully out.

  Somebody, a man, started to sing in a strong baritone. It was a song Kat vaguely recognised but one which she hadn't heard in years, not since her earliest days in the Pits. A second voice joined in, a quavering elderly woman's, rising to complement the man's, and then others followed. Before long the whole square was filled with a chorus of singing. Even those who didn't know the words recognised the tune and were able to hum along, including Kat. She smiled as the song ended amidst a babble of mutual congratulation. Perhaps she hadn't given these people enough credit and the high spirits would survive beyond globes out after all. Another song began almost immediately the echoes of the first had died away. Kat even knew the words to the chorus for this one.

  During the singing that followed, a Tattooed Man surreptitiously closed the twin doors to the arched gateway, effectively sealing in those in the courtyard. Others moved around the fringes of the crowd, lighting the bracketed lanterns which were dotted at intervals around the walls. The erratic glow from these lamps highlighted the faces of gargoyles and demons carved into the frames of doorways and gate, lending their faded features a sense of animation which made it seem they were observing those gathered in the courtyard with malevolent anticipation. Kat just hoped this wasn't an omen for what was to come.

  Despite the low-key nature of the Tattooed Men's actions, people noticed, and clearly appreciated the significance. Kat heard the singing falter as realisation spread through the crowd. But it resurged almost immediately, as several people – including, Kat felt certain, the original singer – made a concerted effort to sing louder and bring the melody back on course. She had no idea who the baritone was, but determined to seek him out when this was all over and thank him.

  Kat strained to spot the faintest sign of life behind any of the windows in the other wings – silhouette of a bald head, slight movement in the shadows, or a stray beam of light reflecting off uncovered metal. The flickering radiance of the lanterns made it impossible to see anything, though she knew the Tattooed Men were there. Waiting, even as she was.

  If she couldn't see the ambushers there was a good chance the Soul Thief mightn't either, though surely the monster was rational enough to recognise this as a likely trap.

  Kat carried the whip Annie had found for her clipped to her belt, though she wasn't sure why. In truth she didn't have much faith in it. She also had the apothaker's luck potion, which she trusted about as much. After a moment's hesitation, she took out the small phial, removed the stopper and knocked back the contents. A minty sweetness with a hint of cloves, chased down by a kick that might have been alcohol, trickled down her throat. She took a deep breath, drew her two short swords and squatted down to wait, her back against the wall. She wondered precisely where Charveve was now, knowing that her sister planned to be on the building's upper floor when everything kicked off, to get a better view. This was the moment they'd both been waiting for virtually all their lives. Or at least it promised to be, assuming everything went to plan.

  Kat occupied herself by trying to guess how the Soul Thief was going to get in here. Would she burst through the twin gates, sending shards of wood and iron everywhere, or would she come straight through the house? Clearly, they'd prefer the former, so had sealed and barricaded both the street entrances into the house proper as firmly as possible, but the Thief had proven many times over that doors in general were no great obstacle to her, so no one was taking anything for granted.