Kultus (6 page)

On the Earl’s arm was a fading tattoo in the shape of a stylised V. It was surrounded by a thorny vine that wrapped itself around the letter like an eager lover. It more resembled something one might find on the arm of a dockside swabber than an heir to the Noble Houses. She glanced round at her fantassins, showing them the tattoo.

‘Do either of you recognise this?’ she asked, hoping that the insalutary circles Bounder and Hodge were wont to move in might explain something about the marking. Both men looked at her with bewildered expressions. She made a mental note not to ask for their input in future – they were good at their jobs, but as sources of information they were as much use as a blank notepad.

Then she saw it. On the ground surrounding the body, what at first had appeared to be detritus on the ground was, on closer examination, a collection of man-made impressions. Amelia leaned forward, her head inches from the floor as she tried to decipher the strange devices. They were like nothing she had ever seen, and at first she thought they were part of some exotic language.

‘Transmundane script,’ said a voice she recognised.

Surrey was still here.

She stood and glanced at him, trying her best to disguise the fact that she had no idea what he was talking about. ‘I thought we had established this was
my
investigation.’

‘The writings of the occult,’ he continued. She wanted to punch him, right in that smug smile of his, but it would be most ungracious at this point. ‘I just thought you might not be familiar with it. Not to worry, most people aren’t. They find the whole ‘preternatural science’ thing a little disconcerting.’

Bounder and Hodge took a step towards Surrey, but he did not move, instead widening his smile all the more.

‘All right,’ said Amelia. At her words the fantassins stopped moving. ‘Are you suggesting this was done by a group of raving cultists? Or perhaps even a demon? Did it rip the Earl’s heart out and eat it?’

Surrey took a step forward, squeezing himself between Bounder and Hodge to stand beside her. ‘There are all kinds of depraved sects within the Manufactory, my dear Amelia. You know as well as I do that in our job we get to see all the best kinds of maniac. However, some say that there are those who can actually commune with the netherplanes. Able to call upon demonic agents to come forth and do their bidding.’

Now it was Amelia’s turn to smile. ‘There is nothing that occurs in the Manufactory that can’t be explained by bioscience and conventional wisdom, Surrey. You know that as well as I.’

‘What I know is that the Lexiconium does not just detail murders, rapes and robberies. There is a certain strongroom with journals piled to the rafters full of the weird and wonderful. Arcane mysteries, ancient manuscripts, forbidden dossiers detailing every aspect of this city’s secrets. Things that cannot be explained through the precepts of bioscience.’

‘You’ve been spending too much time at the Repository of Unnatural History. Either that or reading too many children’s tales.’

‘No,’ said Surrey, suddenly forceful. The mirth had gone from his face and he seemed deathly serious. ‘This is real. The infamous Earl here has quite obviously been partaking of the wrong kind of medicine, and he’s come a cropper. You would do well to heed the evidence before you.’

‘So you expect me, with the Manufactory full of crazies and footpads, to start my murder investigation by looking for a rampant demon? Surrey, you’re more stupid than you look.’

Surrey took a step back, holding up his hands in defeat, the sickly sweet smile back on his pretty face. ‘Have it your way, Amelia. But don’t say you weren’t warned.’

With that he turned and strolled away, but failed to give either of her fantassins a wink this time. She watched him go, right until he walked out of the door, just to make sure he was not coming back.

Amelia smirked. Forbidden dossiers? A strongroom in the Lexiconium? Who was he trying to dupe exactly? Surrey was obviously conspiring to throw her off the scent. He saw that this was a high profile murder; an heir of House Westowe. There would be much prestige granted to the Indagator who could bring the Earl’s killers to justice, and Amelia was not about to let Surrey be the one to stand in her way. This was simple murder; the Earl had gotten himself in too deep and paid for it with his heart. It was obvious his murder was a message. Otherwise, why leave the body where it could easily be found? If it was some kind of ritualistic slaughter surely they would have disposed of him in a more discreet fashion than this.

There was only one place to start, and that place was obvious. The Cistern was home to all the refuse of the Manufactory. A breeding ground for the city’s unwanted and tainted and fetid. It was also where you could buy anything you desired for the right price, and right now Amelia wanted information.

‘I think we’ve seen enough,’ she said, moving away from the body, forcing herself not to glance back in case the Earl’s glazed and staring eyes happened to catch hers.

As Amelia left the body behind she began to relax, feeling more comfortable within the confines of her uniform and with her men at her shoulder.

Wrong kind of medicine
indeed.

The next time she saw Surrey she would ensure that he would be the one needing the medicine!

CHAPTER SEVEN

He had let Tarquin Bates off the hook, but only to see if he could land a bigger fish. There were few who could say they had escaped the clutches of Thaddeus Blaklok with not a mark to show for it, and it was unlikely that Tarquin would be one of those few.

Blaklok kept to the shadows, hugging the filthy brick of street corners, watching from the dark as Tarquin made his way through the arterial highways of the Manufactory. The little shit knew something more than he was telling, and Blaklok was going to find out what it was.

The easy trail that Tarquin left led all the way to the Trader’s Precinct, a collection of old storehouses and derelict shop fronts that had been used in bygone years for distribution and barter of goods from the river-barons. Now the river trade was dead and the only thing that pervaded the streets of the Precinct was the stench of the stagnant waterway.

The streets became quieter the further towards the Precinct they got, until they were all but deserted. Tarquin must have had serious business indeed if he risked crossing through this part of the city alone. The Precinct was now home to all manner of waifs and moochers, and Tarquin Bates hardly seemed the type able to defend himself against a determined ruffian. Nevertheless, Bates continued on his merry way, seemingly ignorant of any danger as he wended his way through the filthy streets. As Blaklok followed he realised that there was either a strong fetish watching over the little reprobate or the scum of the Precinct were familiar with Bates and somehow willing to give him a wide berth.

Thaddeus himself cared little for the robbers and footpads of the Trader’s Precinct. Usually a threatening look was all that was needed to keep trouble at bay in the Manufactory’s dives and ghettos, and here would be no different. It was strange though, that he never once saw sign of any street stalkers or cutthroats. The Precinct was not somewhere he often frequented but still, its reputation preceded it.

Ahead he could see that Bates was headed towards one of the large wooden storehouses that backed onto the river. It was a tall, imposing building that dwarfed all the others in this particular square. Tarquin strolled across the centre of the plaza, now strewn with debris, where once traders would have noisily bartered their wares.

An uneasy feeling suddenly crept into Blaklok’s gut as he watched the lithe figure reach the storehouse and knock out a strange beat against the small door. Seconds later it opened a chink, then wider to allow Bates entry.

Blaklok slipped around the outskirts of the square, taking care to stay out of sight of the storehouse. There could be any number of eyes watching from within the rickety building, and he wanted to get the drop on whoever was inside.

When he was within twenty feet he could hear a droning chant emanating from within the wooden confines. It was a dolorous sound, and immediately Blaklok’s skin began to bristle in anticipation. A ritual was taking place, and by the sounds of it there were plenty of people present.

He crept round the back of the building, his breathing as shallow as possible lest the stink of the river made him balk. The building was in a terrible state of disrepair, and it was unlikely he would be able to make a stealthy approach due to the creaking wood. Oh well, it would just have to be an
un
stealthy approach then, wouldn’t it.

Black boots stomped up onto the porch that surrounded the rickety building. The chanting was growing louder, and Blaklok could only hope that it disguised the sound of his approach.

A door was set in the side of the storehouse and it hung almost off its hinges. It must have once been a sturdy barrier, but now it was merely an annoyance, a troublesome obstacle and heavy with it. Blaklok muscled the door inwards and stepped over the threshold, immediately surrounded by blackness. The droning voices were echoing all around, but Thaddeus could not yet see anyone.

He moved further inside until he saw a weak yellow light emanating from around one corner. As he stole forward he tried his best to be light footed, but, as predicted, the weak floor creaked under his weight. Despite the noise, no hooded acolytes came screaming from out of the dark, nor were there baleful eyes staring at him from the shadows.

As Blaklok reached the corner, he could see the first of the congregation. They wore robes of cloth-of-gold and nodded their heads as they chanted, rocking back and forth.

‘
Valac serviam. Valac dominus. Valac patrem. Valac omnipotentum. Valac invicta
.’

And so the chant went on, endless ramblings to a dark god. Blaklok had heard of Valac, a minor President of Hell, but who were this bunch of pretenders? Real demonists didn’t wear gold robes and they certainly didn’t gather in places like this where anyone could just waltz in.

Blaklok couldn’t see Tarquin Bates anywhere in the room, he must have donned one of those ridiculous robes and joined in with the droning. Well, the least Blaklok could do was let them finish their worship before he introduced himself to the flock.

After several minutes it seemed that they were going to carry on forever, and Blaklok began to reconsider his generous offer of allowing them to finish. Just as he was about to introduce himself, one of the robed figures at the front strode forward, taking centre stage. The mantra to Valac suddenly stopped, leaving an annoying ringing in Blaklok’s ears.

The one at the front held up his arms, his hood falling back to show his face. A short, well-trimmed beard followed the line of his chin, and Blaklok was sure he had eyeliner on. The man didn’t say a word. From a side door appeared two more of the gold robed acolytes, guiding someone between them. From the shadows at the rear of the room, Thaddeus could see it was a small boy, most likely a street urchin from his scruffy garb and filthy face.

In silence, the bearded leader circled the boy three times, then the child’s arms were held out by the two figures who had brought him to the stage. There was a murmur of sound from the assembled crowd, they seemed excited, anticipating what was to come, and Blaklok started to get an uneasy feeling in the pit of his gut. Perhaps this bunch was a rabble of pretenders, but they obviously thought they were the real deal. Things were going to get nasty in a minute, and Blaklok was not just going to watch.

Quick as a flash, the head man pulled a knife from within his robes. There wasn’t enough time to cross the room, too many people in the way. Thaddeus looked around for something, anything to use as a weapon. Lying next to his foot was a rusted canister, and he swiftly knelt to pick it up. Liquid sloshed around inside it. Good, he thought, it would give the thing some impetus.

As the leader raised his knife high, there was an expectant hush. Blaklok’s grunt as he threw the can was heard by almost everyone, and they looked around in time to see the rusted canister fly above their heads; all but the head man, who was still intent on his target. Before he could bring the knife down on his young victim, he took the canister full to the face. The clang of rusty can on nose was drowned out by his yelp of surprise.

One of the robed figures turned as Blaklok stepped out of the dark.

‘Defiler,’ he shouted, lifting an accusatory finger. Blaklok drove his fist into the man’s face, dropping him where he stood, leaving a cloth-of-gold heap on the floor.

As the congregation turned to face him, Blaklok could see that they were all ordinaries, not the lean hungry-eyed fanatics who were usually associated with the worship of demons.

Thaddeus took two more swings, but these were not fighters, and when two more of them hit the ground the rest were instantly cowed. He looked towards the exit and saw a stooped figure trying to slink away.

‘Where are you off to, Bates?’

Tarquin Bates froze, then turned, giving his insipid grin.

‘What is the meaning of this?’ shouted the bearded man, grasping his bloody nose. His gold robe had fallen back and Blaklok could see the expensive attire beneath.

‘I’ll ask the fucking questions,’ replied Thaddeus, strolling forward through the crowd, which quickly backed away. ‘No one minds a bit of religious worship and all that, but blood sacrifice? That’s a bit strong for a bunch of part-timers like you, isn’t it?’

‘This?’ said the man, pointing at the urchin in front of him who was beginning to look bemused. ‘It’s not real. We weren’t going to go through with it.’

Thaddeus looked from the bearded man in front of him to Bates, who seemed on the verge of turning tail and fleeing the building. ‘You expect me to believe that?’ By now Blaklok had reached the front of the room, and stood in front of the head man. With a deft snatch he grasped the knife from his hand and hooked one of the bearded man’s nostrils on the end of the blade. ‘This looks real enough to me. Name?’

‘Erm, T-Trajian Arkwright. Of the North Spire Arkwrights,’ he replied, not daring to move lest the blade slice him a wider nostril.