Retribution Falls (14 page)

Frey, Silo, Pinn and Jez sallied out from the shadows and across the deserted thoroughfare, then slipped through the open gate. Silo went to the fallen man and quickly disarmed him while Jez did the same to Malvery’s guard. Rogin made a strangled sound of mingled fury and pain, but Silo crouched down next to him and tapped the barrel of a revolver against his skull.

‘Sssh,’ he said, finger on his lips.

Jez closed the gate and Frey kept his gun on the ginger-haired guard while Silo and Malvery trussed Rogin up. They gagged him with a length of rag and one of Pinn’s balled-up socks, which Malvery had chosen for additional anaesthetic effect. Then they carried him off to the nearby guardhouse.

‘Don’t worry, mate,’ said Malvery as they went. ‘The prognosis is good. The pain’ll pass in a few hours, although I’d suggest you send your loved ones out of town before you take your next dump.’

Frey scanned the house quickly. The curtains were drawn across the windows and no one seemed to have paid any attention to Rogin’s cries. If they’d heard him at all, they probably assumed it was someone on the street outside.

He didn’t dare to hope that all might be going well. That would only put the jinx on him.

‘Right, you,’ he said to the remaining guard, as Malvery returned. ‘I’ve got a job for you. Do it well, and you don’t get hurt. Understand? ’

The guard nodded. He was angry and humiliated, but he was mostly terrified. Probably his first time being held at gunpoint. Good. Frey didn’t want to shoot him if he didn’t have to.

Jez tossed Malvery his shotgun as he and Silo returned from the guardhouse. Malvery always felt better with a bit of proper firepower. He didn’t trust pistols; he thought them fiddly.

They assembled on either side of the heavy oak doors, beneath the stone porch. Frey dragged the guard up by his arm and stepped back, pistol trained on him.

‘Get them to open the door,’ he said. ‘Don’t try anything, if you want to keep your brains in your head.’

The guard nodded. He took a nervous breath and rapped on the door.

Frey’s hand was trembling, just a little. His throat had gone dry. He wondered if the guard knew how scared he was himself.

I don’t want to die.

‘Yeah?’ came a voice from inside.

‘It’s Jevin. Open the door,’ said the guard.

The door opened a little way. It was Codge, he of the long face and the patchy black beard.

‘What’s up?’

Frey shoved the guard aside and aimed his revolver point-blank at the white expanse of Codge’s forehead. Codge stared at him in surprise for an instant. Then he went for his gun.

Frey’s reaction was as instinctive as Codge’s had been. He pulled the trigger. Codge’s head snapped back; tiny beads of blood spattered Frey’s face. Codge tipped backwards and crumpled to the ground.

Frey wasted a moment on shock. He hadn’t wanted to fire. What was that idiot doing, going for his gun like that?

Malvery shouldered the door hard and it opened a little way before jamming against the dead weight of Codge’s body. Frey wriggled through the gap and into the hallway. There was a panicked moment as he found himself alone and exposed, face to face with a guard who had been too bewildered to react until now. The man’s hand moved for the pistol in his holster, but Frey’s weapon was out and ready, and he was faster. His arm snapped out straight, finger poised over the trigger.

Don’t.

To Frey’s relief, this one had more sense than Codge. He slowly raised his hands. Malvery shoved the door open the rest of the way, barging Codge’s corpse aside. There was a swell of women’s voices from one of the doorways leading off the hallway, crying variations of ‘Stop!’ But a guard came stumbling out anyway, naked from waist to ankle, his engorged penis waggling ridiculously. One hand was struggling to pull up the pair of trousers that tangled his legs, while he attempted to aim a pistol with the other. Malvery sighted and blew him away before he’d taken two steps.

Frey pulled the guard who had surrendered over to him, pressing the pistol to his back, using him as a shield. He disarmed his prisoner and tossed the gun aside as Malvery moved out of the way of the door and Jez and Pinn came in after him.

‘Silo?’ Frey asked.

‘Covering the guard outside,’ Jez replied. ‘Jevin, or whatever his name is.’

Frey was thankful that someone had the presence of mind to do that. He’d half-expected them all to come rushing in when he did.

He wrapped his arm around his prisoner’s throat from behind. ‘Where’s the other one?’ he hissed. There had been four guards inside, last time he’d visited. Without waiting for an answer, he called: ‘We got your friend here! Step out and you won’t get hurt! I’ve got no business with you!’

There was silence, but for the ticking of the clock that overlooked the hall. Then a voice drifted out from another doorway:

‘Bren? That you?’

‘It’s me, Charry,’ Frey’s prisoner replied. ‘They got a gun to my head. There’s four of ’em.’

Another long silence. ‘Alright,’ said Charry. ‘I’m coming out. Don’t nobody shoot. Nobody’s gonna shoot, are they?’

‘Nobody’s gonna shoot,’ said Frey, with a pointed glare at Pinn.

A rifle skidded out from one of the doorways, followed by a pistol and a knife. A young, swarthy-looking man emerged, his hands held high. Jez took him over to stand with the other prisoner. Silo came in from outside.

‘Where’s the guard you were covering?’ Frey asked, appalled.

‘Tied him up. Put him in the guardhouse with the other,’ said Silo.

‘Right, right,’ Frey said, relieved. He allowed himself to relax a little. ‘Should’ve thought of that myself.’

Pinn and Malvery exchanged a glance. Malvery looked skyward in despair.

‘Your boss is upstairs?’ Frey asked the prisoners. They nodded. ‘No more guards?’ They shook their heads. ‘The whores?’

‘In there,’ said Charry, indicating the room the half-naked man had come from. ‘Obviously.’

Frey looked at Silo. ‘You’re in charge. Anyone moves, shoot them. Malvery, you and me are going to have a word with Quail.’ As an afterthought, he added: ‘Bring your bag. I don’t want him dying before he talks.’

‘Right-o,’ said Malvery, heading outside to collect the doctor’s bag that he’d left on the porch.

Frey walked up to the whores’ doorway and stood to one side. The dead man with his trousers round his ankles had a comically astonished expression on his face.

We can all but hope to die with such dignity and elegance, he thought.

‘Ladies?’ he called. There was no reply. He stuck his head around the doorway, and drew it back rapidly as a shotgun blast blew part of the door frame to splinters.

‘Ladies!’ he said again, slightly annoyed this time. His ears were ringing. ‘We’re not going to hurt you!’

‘No, you’re bloody not!’ came the reply. ‘I know your sort! We give what we give ’cause we’re paid to! Nobody takes it by force!’

‘Nobody’s taking anything,’ said Frey. ‘You might remember me. Darian Frey? We were introduced just a few weeks ago.’

‘Oh,’ came the reply, rather less harsh than before. ‘Yes, I remember you. Stick your head out, let us have a look.’

‘I’d rather not,’ he replied. ‘Listen, ladies, our business is with Quail. We’ll be done with it and go. Nobody’s going to bother you. Now will you let us past?’

There was a short debate in low voices. ‘Alright.’

‘You won’t shoot?’

‘Long as nobody tries to come in. Specially that one who looks like a potato. He’s enough to turn a woman to the other side.’

Silo grinned at Pinn, who kicked an imaginary stone and swore under his breath.

‘Especially not him,’ Frey agreed.

‘Well. Okay then.’

Malvery returned with his bag. He took another swig of swabbing alcohol and stuffed it back inside. Pinn bleated for a taste, but Malvery ignored him.

They hurried past the doorway. Frey caught a glimpse of the whores, hidden behind a dresser with a double-barrelled shotgun poking over the top. They held a pair of white, pink-eyed dogs on leashes, for extra protection. One of the whores waved and made a kiss-face as he passed, but he was out of sight too quickly to respond.

He headed up the stairs, Malvery close behind. The coiled-brass motif from the hallway continued on the upper level, but here the walls and floor were panelled in black wood and lit by electric bulbs in moulded sconces. The place had a dark, grand feel to it. Frey was feeling pretty dark and grand himself right now.

As they approached Quail’s study they heard something crash inside. The sound of a desk tipping over. Presumably he was making a barricade. Frey remembered the bars on the windows from his last visit. They couldn’t be opened from the inside. Quail wasn’t going anywhere.

They took position either side of the door. Frey kicked it open and stepped back as a pistol fired twice. The door rebounded and came to rest slightly ajar. There were two coin-sized holes in the wood panelling of the corridor at chest-height.

‘Anyone comes through that door, they’ll be sorry!’ Quail cried. His attempt to sound fierce was woeful. ‘I’ve got a couple of guns and enough ammo for the whole night. The militia will be here sooner or later! Someone will have heard the racket you made downstairs!’

Frey thought for a moment. He waved at Malvery. ‘Give me the bottle.’

‘What?’ Malvery said, feigning ignorance.

‘The bottle of alcohol in your bag. Give it here.’

Malvery opened his bag reluctantly. ‘This bottle?’ he asked querulously, rather hoping Frey would reconsider.

‘I’ll buy you another one!’ Frey snapped, and Malvery finally handed it over. He snatched it off the doctor and pulled out the stopper. ‘Now a rag.’

‘Oh,’ Malvery murmured, divining Frey’s plan. He passed Frey a bit of cloth with the expression of one about to witness the cruel extinction of some lovable, harmless animal.

Frey stuffed the rag into the neck of the bottle and upended it a few times. He pulled out a match - one of several that had lived in the creases of his coat pocket for many years - and struck it off the door jamb. He touched it to the rag and flame licked into life.

‘Fire in the hole,’ he grinned, then booted open the door and lobbed the bottle in. He ducked back in time to avoid the gunfire that followed.

The throw had been pitched into the corner of the room - he didn’t want to incinerate Quail quite yet - but the whispermonger started howling as if he were on fire himself, instead of just the bookshelves.

Frey and Malvery retreated a little way down the corridor to another doorway, where they took shelter and aimed. Black smoke began to seep out of Quail’s study. They could hear him clattering around inside, cursing. Glass smashed, bars rattled. The smoke became a thick, churning layer that spread out along the ceiling of the corridor. Quail began to cough and hack.

‘You think this is gonna take much longer?’ Malvery asked, and an instant later Quail burst from the room, his good eye watering, waving a pistol in one hand.

‘Drop it!’ Frey yelled, in a voice so loud and commanding that he surprised himself. Quail froze, looking around, and spotted Frey and Malvery with their guns trained on him. ‘Drop it, or I’ll drop you.’

Quail dropped his gun and raised his hands, coughing. His smart jacket was smoke-stained and his collar had wilted. His sleeve was ripped, revealing the polished brass length of his mechanical forearm.

Frey and Malvery emerged from hiding. Frey grabbed the whispermonger by the lapels and dragged him down the corridor, away from the smoke and flames of the study. He slammed Quail bodily up against the wall. Quail glared at him, teeth gritted, defiance on his face. Frey saw himself reflected in Quail’s mechanical eye.

‘Right then,’ said Frey, then stepped back and shot him in the shin.

Quail screamed and collapsed, writhing on the ground, clutching at his leg. ‘What the shit did you do that for, you rotting whoreson?’ he yelled.

Frey knelt down on one knee next to him. ‘Look, Quail. I don’t have time for the preliminaries, and to be honest, I’m pretty unhappy with you right now. So let’s pretend you’ve already put up a spirited resistance to my questioning and just tell me: who set me up? Because if I have to ask again, it’s your kneecap. And after that I’m going for something you can’t replace with a mechanical substitute.’

‘Gallian Thade!’ he blurted. ‘It was Gallian Thade who gave me the job, that’s all I know! It came through a middleman but I knew something was funny so I traced it back to him. He’s a rich land-owner, a nobleman who lives out in—’

‘I know who Gallian Thade is,’ Frey said. ‘Go on.’

‘They said it should be you, specifically you that I offered the job to. But they said . . . aaah, my leg!’

‘What did they say?’ Frey demanded, and punched him in his wounded shin. Quail shrieked and writhed, breathless with pain.

‘I’m telling you, I’m telling you!’ he protested. ‘They said if you couldn’t be found, I could offer it to someone else, last-minute. The important thing . . . the important thing was that the Ace of Skulls was passing through the Hookhollows on that date, they knew that, and they wanted someone to attack it. Preferably you, but if not, any lowlife would do.’

‘You’re not in much of a position to make insults, Quail.’

‘Their words! Their words!’ he said frantically, holding up a hand to ward off further punishment. ‘Someone who wouldn’t be missed, that’s what they said. You’ll forgive me if I’m not thinking too clearly since you just shot me in my damn leg!’

‘Pain does cloud one’s judgement,’ Malvery observed sagely, crouched alongside Frey.

‘You’ve no idea what was on that aircraft?’ Frey pressed the whispermonger. He coughed into his fist. Time was getting short. The corridor was filling with hot smoke, and the only breathable air was low down. The militia wouldn’t be far away.

‘He told me jewels! He said he’d buy them from me if you came back. If not, he’d pay me a fee anyway. It was a cover story, I knew that, but I didn’t . . . didn’t find out what was underneath.’

‘You don’t want to speculate? Any idea why the Century Knights are all over me? Why there’s such a big reward offered that Trinica Dracken is involved?’