City Of Ruin (23 page)

He removed her clothing in the usual fashion – nothing new here – first lifting her outer garments off quickly, then getting down to her underwear. He kissed her neck: stubble on her skin. Her own guilt and his predictability soon removed any sense of excitement.

She closed her eyes and thought of Lupus.

‘Fucker’s gay?’ JC said.

‘No shit,’ Duka added.

It was snowing as the three of them stood hunched together in Port Nostalgia. The light from the two moons fell brokenly across the sea, as Malum focused on the tips of the waves, searching them for anything unnatural. He’d only recently returned from dropping off a bribe to members of the Inquisition to cover up after the boys had discarded some blood-drained corpses rather too recklessly, and he still had plenty of work ahead. Running the underground city was no luxury: it was hard graft, and he had to do most of the dog-work himself.

Dusk, and the streets were calmed after a full day’s trading – even the buildings seemed to be breathing a sigh of relief. The city was easing itself into night.

It always amazed Malum how – given the ice age – so much product could still be traded. Horses cantered through the emptying streets, and somewhere, as always, a firegrain pipe coughed streams of vapour into the icy air that plagued Villiren like a thousand ghosts.

‘So what we gonna do about it?’ JC shuffled from foot to foot to keep warm, both hands buried in the pockets of his hooded coat. Malum watched him and wondered if he was drunk again. The man always seemed to hide it so well – his inability to get through a day without touching the stuff. He’d been losing his fitness, and his freckled cheeks had puffed out of late. Malum might need to have a word with him sooner or later, even threaten him with expulsion if he didn’t get his shit together.

‘We can’t have a queer running things. You think we should tell other people? That is, Lutto and the likes?’

‘I suspect there’s not much point in that.’ Malum had not wanted to tell them about this discovery because he knew how revulsion would take over and come to the forefront of their minds. These were men who reacted to one thing at a time and, now the union issues were out of the way, and they had the cash in their pockets, they were free to concentrate on issues of a more personal nature.

‘Who the fuck would believe us, anyway?’ he went on. ‘Just be our word against his. No, I’m going to confront him about it, the albino, and we’ll see what he has to say. Prove himself that he’s a real man, not one of . . .’ Malum shook his head. ‘If he thinks I’m going to get the street gangs on board now, he’s got another think coming. If his army can’t fight their own stupid wars, then fine. We’ll just use the escape tunnels like everyone else.’

‘We should rough him up,’ Duka said. ‘Beat him to death, like. I mean, it’s sick what he does, ain’t it?’

Malum reaffirmed again that it was. He himself was disgusted that this could occur so high up in the military. It was certainly not what men did, was it, to stick their dicks into other men. He didn’t have much regard for the Jorsalir church, but they had established some codes of conduct that were certainly worth sticking to. So, yeah, maybe he should teach that commander a lesson, to show him what a
real man
was like. ‘Leave it with me.’

At that moment something shattered the surface of the water and glided up onto the dockside with an unlikely grace. Another followed, then another. Slender, and with a dark skin tone, the arriving figures shambled along the docks, their movements at first improbable.

‘Merpeople are here,’ he announced to the others.

‘Fucking freak me out they do,’ Duka grumbled.

Several more figures emerged from the background, and began hauling up crates onto the quayside. One approached Malum, and he strode forward to meet it. ‘Evening,’ Malum began.

Indigo skin stretched taut over thick musculature, thick gills splicing each side of his ribcage, the merman’s feet were webbed, and his hair resembled kelp or bladderwrack more than anything mammalian. He towered over Malum, dripping salt water. These were hybrids, beings that cultists had begun working on centuries ago, or else had grown from some ancient interbreeding, depending on what book you read. They lived mainly in the sea, sometimes staying the night in beach shacks on isolated shores or lurking in protected caves.

But for Malum they plummeted regularly to the pitch-black bathy-regions in search of biolumes. He had struck a deal with them long ago, to hunt for these biological light sources in exchange for guaranteed protection of their coastal dwellings, and supplying them with the types of land food they were addicted to, but could rarely stay above water long enough to gather for themselves.

‘Greetings, trader.’ The merman’s speech, when it eventually came, was awkward and strained, yet still fundamentally human. It gaped at Malum like he was a curiosity, examining the under edges of his mask, trying to read him.

‘What’ve you got for me tonight?’ Malum asked.

‘A good haul. You wish to see?’

Malum followed him towards the other merpeople. A shorter female had already opened a crate with her nails, and from it a soft glow issued. Amid the brine, shapes of deep-sea creatures flipped and drifted and gave out light. The other merpeople crowded around him, and he felt uncomfortable, still after all these years, with how alien they appeared.

‘You were right, these are good,’ Malum confessed. ‘This should keep Coumby’s company happy for a while.’ Such specimens were in high demand in the richer districts, even deep into an ice age where people seemed to prefer firelight for the added warmth. You had a biolume, you were showing off your wealth. It was a spurious market in which Malum supplied the merchants, since they daren’t deal with the merpeople themselves. These invertebrate biolumes could then be sold on to the superior street traders, or even to the elaborate high-end stores in the Ancient Quarter, depending on the type of specimen in question.

He whistled for JC and Duka to bring over a small box containing basic foodstuff and some sharp blades, and the two men displayed it before the gathered merpeople like a sacrificial offering.

The aquatic people loomed over the contents, eagerly investigating what they’d been brought. They looked up, one by one, seeming happy enough, and nodding their approval.

‘Farewell, tradesman,’ said the first one. They moved away, carrying their exchange load. Eventually they slunk back into the sea in neat bursts, until there was simply no sign of them.

*

Later, Malum went looking for the banHe, Dannan. He found him ensconced in his plush apartment that overlooked the harbour. Outside, as darkness began to dominate the sky, the streets subtly changed their texture. Dirtied workers or traders faded into their grim houses, before manifesting in the taverns with pocketfuls of cash, and no future to prepare for. A line of bars rimmed the harbour, all pretty much the same in their style and clientele, the latter merely intent on getting drunk and forgetting about the state of their city. Mention anything about forthcoming war and you were likely to attract a fist in your gut. You’d see more such violence along these parts, the cobbled waterfront that arced around a cluster of boats that the refugees from Tineag’l had abandoned. Fishing vessels could no longer manoeuvre so easily, to the detriment of the food stocks.

Malum heard a moaning come from the upstairs room, like some enharmonic lament. He glanced up at the latticed window, where a lantern could be seen burning on the sill.
What the hell is the damn freak
up to?

Although he’d never admit it openly, and even barely to himself, Malum was disturbed by Dannan. He’d never seen the witch-women of Villjamur, the banshees, but it seemed odd that they would shriek instinctively to herald a death. How could they sense that someone was about to die? It all seemed so unlikely. So if Dannan was a male version – something no one had previously heard about – did he not feel the same urge to scream? Did he have some strange powers? Malum’s own vampyrism seemed a more real tic, something he had normalized and controlled.

Dannan was simply a freak.

The door opened and Malum turned back to face it. ‘I need to see the banHe,’ he announced.

One of Dannan’s gang, the Screams – a short, thin guy with black hair and stubble and a drooping white mask – peered back at him from the doorway. ‘Why d’you wanna see him?’

‘It’s urgent. Tell him it’s about the commander of the army, about that meeting we had.’

‘Wait here.’ The door closed.

Malum shifted in the cold once again and it seemed far too long until the door reopened. They searched him first for weapons, he handed over a messer blade, then he was beckoned in.

Escorted by three men in cloaks and masks, Malum hurried through the building, up a set of stairs sporting an ornate handrail. Lantern light exposed red fabric and furniture, bathing the interior in shades of blood. He had to admit that some of the decor was tasteful, if a little garish, with bold, gold-rimmed portraits of figures that seemed to hail from another world. One painting in particular was central to the room, depicting a figure with its back to a waterfront, holding its head in both hands, its mouth wide open in a scream, with textures of colour swirling all around into a deep orange sky. As if representing a state of existential angst, this painting seemed to come from another age entirely.

Once upstairs, Malum was directed into yet another room. Dannan was seated by the window, slumped, as if drunk, in a chair that was more of a throne, and the same shade of red was everywhere, in the fabrics, the paintings, the lantern-shades. In his hand was a silver comb that he raked assiduously through his long hair. The smell of musk and something sweeter peeled away in smoky wafts from the incense burning on a metal plate in one corner. The men who escorted Malum dropped back to the edge of the room, in a manner that suggested they weren’t at all comfortable being here. Malum was beginning to feel that way himself.

Hunched, with her knees drawn up to her chin, a young woman was sipping cautiously from a bottle. She regarded him with a distant look in her eyes, then laughed to herself. She wore a dark outfit, with unfashionable ruffs and frills of lace, and her face held so much makeup that her skin was practically white like an albino’s. Whether or not she was the current girl in Dannan’s favour, he couldn’t tell, but Malum entertained vague thoughts about what it would be like sleeping with her. And then he realized it would be the same with any woman these days. Frustrating.

Dannan groaned, catching Malum’s attention. He was clothed minimally in black breeches and what appeared to be a suede jacket with a hood pulled up from underneath. The angles of his face were prominent, and now and then his eyes would close as if he was in pain.

‘You all right?’ Malum enquired, more wanting to say something than a question posed out of politeness. He raised an eyebrow at this strange performance.

Again a groan, and Dannan lurched forward suddenly, in a posture that suggested he was going to vomit, but nothing came out of his open mouth. The silver comb skidded across towards the visitor. The banHe tried to cough, and strangely there ensued an intense silence, as if the room itself had become mute. Only then did Malum notice how sharp the banHe’s teeth appeared, and his second realization was that there was almost a smile on the other’s face, as if he was enjoying his pain.

‘Fine . . . thank you.’ Dannan almost coughed the words.

Malum turned to the other men. ‘Does he need water?’

‘I’m fine.’ Dannan’s posture became a little more refined, and he leaned over towards the window, peered out left and right across the harbour. Then back at Malum, tiny red veins crisscrossing his eyes. ‘Someone’s dead, is all.’

‘What do you mean?’ Malum said.

‘Out there.’ He flicked his head in a gesture towards the window. ‘Someone just died.’

‘The fuck do you know this? Is that why you weren’t at the strike?’

Dannan glared at him violently. His eyes never seemed to maintain any consistency in colour, and the more you looked at them the less you could define them. ‘I just fucking know, OK. You got my men for the strike – you never asked for me.’

‘That’s true.’ Malum didn’t actually know whether or not the banHe had been there – they were all wearing masks, and he was just guessing now – but the man’s weird response to death certainly made Malum doubt his commitment to normal gang activities.

‘You haven’t got any arum weed on you, have you? I’m all out.’

‘No.’ Malum bent down to pick up the comb, noting its meticulous craftsmanship. He tossed it back casually. ‘I came to see you about the albino commander, and that meeting we had. When he was wanting our gangs to help him.’

‘What of it?’ Dannan again ran the comb once through a clump of hair by his ear then laid it on the windowsill delicately with his long, spindly fingers.

‘The commander is gay – he likes to fuck other men,’ Malum revealed. ‘I don’t know about you, but I’m not going to have my lot working on the side of someone like that, if you know what I mean. My men fight for real men.’

‘Gay, you say?’ Dannan replied, slowly regaining his composure. ‘What d’you think we should do? More to the point, what’s in it for my lot? My tastes ain’t exactly mainstream.’

‘Dignity, honour, doing the right thing is what matters,’ Malum suggested. To him it was totally unnatural for a man to perform those acts with another man. Malum felt he had something to convey to the commander. ‘Look, I need to know if you’ve made a decision yet – if you lot were thinking of helping him out. When this war comes to the city, I mean.’