Iron Jackal
THE IRON JACKAL
A Tale of the
Ketty Jay
Chris Wooding
GOLLANCZ
LONDON
Contents
One
A Needless Gunfight
–
Rooftops
–
His Final Words
–
Frey Gets Kicked in the Face a Lot
–
A Little Misunderstanding
‘O
n reflection,’ Crake said to Frey, as they huddled behind an upturned table, ‘this wasn’t one of your better plans.’
‘It’s hardly the bloody time, Crake!’ Frey snapped back. He ducked as a shotgun blast chewed away the edge of the stone-topped table, peppering his face with grit. Blinking and wiping his eyes, he checked on his crew. Malvery and Jez were pressed up against some pillars, which were decorated with an increasingly bullet-ridden snakes-and-lizards motif. Pinn crouched near a small ornamental fountain that trickled with water.
‘I’m just saying,’ Crake continued, as he reloaded his pistol, ‘that maybe walking into a den of drug addicts while brandishing weapons and shouting wasn’t the best way to go about things.’
‘Tell you what, Crake. If I’m still alive in ten minutes, you can head up the inquiry. How’s that?’
‘My point is . . .’ Crake replied, then cringed as another volley of bullets chipped along the tiles and turned a nearby cushion into a cloud of feathers. ‘My point is, I’ve noticed a certain lack of healthy cowardice in you recently, Cap’n. And I’m concerned it’s going to get someone killed before long. Specifically, me.’
‘Well, we can’t have that, can we?’ said Frey. ‘Can we talk about this later, though? I’m trying not to die.’
There was a lull in the gunfire. Frey took the opportunity to snatch a quick look at the room. The den was like a cross between an exotic temple and a whore’s bedroom. Pillars and statues gave the place a certain serene gravity that was ruined by the overstuffed settees and gaudy decor. Complex pipes sat in the centre of round stone-topped tables, which had thankfully turned out to be bulletproof. Patterned screens separated off private areas. The air was fogged with sweet smoke, which was making Frey feel a little dizzy and ever so slightly euphoric. Most of the smokers and den attendants had fled when the gunfire started, but there were still some Samarlan addicts huddled in the corners of the room, saucer-eyed and gibbering. Their evening had gone seriously wrong.
Ashua Vode was on the far side of the den, shooting at them from cover and being generally uncooperative. There were four men with her, all Vards. Mercs, Frey reckoned. Two were with Ashua behind the drinks bar, one behind an upturned settee, one behind a pillar.
‘We just want to talk, Miss Vode!’ he called. ‘No one has to get hurt!’
She gave a cynical laugh. ‘You can talk to my revolver, if you like.’
‘We’re not here to kill you!’
‘Sure you’re not! And I suppose Jakeley Screed didn’t send you, either.’
‘I don’t even know who—’ he began, then ducked as the man behind the pillar took a shot at him. Malvery fired his lever-action shotgun and the merc’s outstretched hand exploded in a red splash of blood and gristle. He lurched back into cover, screaming at the top of his lungs.
‘Real friendly,’ called Ashua from her hiding place. ‘Quite the pacifist, aren’t you?’
‘Oh, piss off,’ Frey said. ‘He shot first.’
‘Kedley! You okay? Kedley, mate?’ someone was shouting.
The man who had just lost his hand could only howl.
‘You rotting bastards!’ A merc popped up from behind the bar, a revolver in both hands, firing wildly. Frey kept his head down, waiting for him to run out of bullets. The moment he did, there was a sharp crack from Jez’s rifle. Frey peeped out in time to see him stumble back against the shelves behind the bar, a ragged hole just under his nose. He collapsed in a noisy avalanche of smashing bottles.
‘You’re not doing much to change my mind, here!’ Ashua called.
Frey didn’t bother to answer. Ashua was on edge, possibly high and, despite her bravado, she was clearly terrified. Why else had she surrounded herself with hired guns? She was expecting someone to come after her. Nothing Frey said would make a difference.
Maybe he should have been a bit more subtle. Getting into a needless gunfight wasn’t the smartest thing he’d done today. He’d just wanted to make an entrance. He’d planned to stride in there at the head of his crew and awe the room. But the mere sight of them had sent Ashua and her men reaching for their guns, and they’d opened fire before Frey could say a word.
He took a moment to size up his opponents, looking for an advantage. He’d only caught a glimpse of Ashua before the gunfight began. Despite having plenty of attitude, she didn’t look like much. She was slight and boyish and surprisingly young, with short hair that was a muddy shade of ginger. She wore shabby mechanic’s trousers covered in pockets, and a pair of battered boots. There was an elaborate tattoo surrounding her left eye, a swirling, branching pattern that spread along her upper cheek and curled onto her brow. The tattoo and her accent pegged her as a street rat from the bombed-out slums of Rabban. What he couldn’t understand was what she was doing here, in the back streets of Shasiith, a city in the Free Trade Zone of Samarla.
Then again, he was beginning to wonder what he was doing here himself.
The mercs were easier to figure out. They hadn’t been in Samarla long: they weren’t tanned enough to be expatriates. She’d probably found them in a bar, drinking away the profits of their last assignment. The way they fought marked them as enthusiastic rookies, not hardened pros. They were low-lifes. And Frey could deal with low-lifes.
‘Hey!’ he shouted from behind his table. ‘Fellers! One of you is dead, and there’s another who’ll have to scratch his arse left-handed for the rest of his life. That leaves two of you who can shoot. There’s five of us. And we’re better with our guns.’ He paused for them to digest the situation, and so they could listen to their friend sobbing from behind the pillar. ‘You’re not gonna be able to spend that girl’s money when you’re dead.’
‘You shut your mouth!’ Ashua shouted back, before yelling at the mercs: ‘He’ll kill us all if he gets the chance!’ But nobody was firing any more, and Frey knew he had her companions’ attention.
‘My name’s Captain Darian Frey,’ he said. ‘You might have heard of me.’
He waited. Just when the silence was becoming embarrassing, a gruff voice spoke up from behind the bar. ‘I heard of you. Captain of the
Ketty Jay
. Recognised you from the broadsheets.’
Frey felt a glow as his ego warmed up.
‘Don’t talk to him!’ Ashua snapped. ‘He’s out to trick you!’
‘I heard of ’im too,’ said the merc behind the settee. ‘He took on the Manes at Sakkan. And that fat one with the walrus moustache is the crazy doctor.’
There was the boom of a shotgun, and the edge of the settee blew off. The merc squeaked and crushed himself into a ball.
‘Malvery! Settle down!’ Frey barked.
‘Sorry, Cap’n,’ Malvery said. ‘Accident. Must be these fat fingers of mine.’
‘Now, everyone be nice!’ said Frey. ‘Here’s the deal, fellers. You can put down your guns and walk out of here. Maybe you’ll give up your payday, but ask your friend there without the hand if it’s worth it. We just want to talk to Miss Vode.’
‘No one’s giving up! We’ll die first! Right, boys?’ said Ashua.
In response, a pair of pistols skidded across the floor from behind the settee. The remaining merc lifted a shotgun into sight and lobbed it over the counter of the bar.
‘You bunch of chicken-arse traitors!’ Ashua screamed, close to hysteria. Then she sprinted towards a door at the back of the den. Pinn sprang up and aimed his pistol, but Jez lunged over and grabbed his arm.
‘We want her alive, remember?’ Jez said. ‘She can’t talk when she’s dead.’
‘
You
talk and
you’re
dead,’ Pinn sulked, which, Frey had to concede, was a fair point.
‘Cap’n,’ said Malvery. ‘She’s getting awa—’
‘I
know
!’ he yelled. He’d been torn between chasing after her and the fear of running out into the open, in case the mercs had more guns. Malvery’s prompt was the spur he needed. His pride wouldn’t let him cower; not after they’d recognised him from the broadsheets.
‘Cover me!’ he shouted, and came out from behind the table at a run.
Malvery bellowed at the mercs. ‘Keep your damn heads down if you don’t want ’em blown off your shoulders!’
The mercs obeyed. Not many people argued with Malvery at full volume.
Frey pursued Ashua through the door, and found himself at the bottom of a square stairwell, warm and dim. He could hear Ashua’s boots echoing above him as she ascended.
The stairwell was tight, built around a hollow centre. Several storeys above, evening light filtered down from a squat, open-sided tower. Frey caught glimpses of movement above him: a bare arm, a flash of ginger hair. At one point, Ashua stopped, having heard his footsteps. She looked down the stairwell.
‘Bugger off and stop following me!’ she shouted, and fired a few shots into the gloom. Frey pressed himself against the wall until he heard her boots tapping upwards again.
By the time he got to the top he was out of breath, and the heat had increased noticeably. The tower was little more than a cap for the stairwell, with an arched doorway leading out onto the flat roof of the building. Ashua was already some distance away.
‘Hey!’ Frey called. ‘I need to talk to you!’
She swung around with a sarcastic and slightly desperate chuckle. ‘I told you,’ she said, ‘you can talk to this!’ Backing away, she raised her revolver, and squeezed off two more shots. The third time she pulled the trigger, the hammer fell on an empty chamber.
Frey waited a moment in the shelter of the stairwell, suspecting a trick. She pulled the trigger a few more times, more in hope than expectation, then shoved the revolver back into the waistband of her trousers. She looked around for a way to escape. There wasn’t one.
Frey stepped slowly out into the open. The sun was low in the foreign sky, painting the horizon in seething shades of red and yellow and purple. A landscape of rooftops spread out around him, a massive, stunning clutter of balconies and spires. Domes shone gold in the evening light. In the distance, a hexagonal stadium reared above its surroundings, rising from a sea of tumbledown apartment buildings. Most of the roofs were flat and strewn with junk: weary chairs, bits of boxes and washing lines. The one he was standing on had a chicken coop built from wood and strips of beaten metal. Long shadows reached through the surly heat, stretching across a scene of grubby magnificence.
