The Sunken City Trilogy

by Phil Williams

  “Tell us what it’s worth, first,” Mix said.

  “And demonstrate that gratitude,” Fresko added.

  “I will arrange for your pardons,” Valoria said. “Believe me, that is more than generous.”

  “We could take this to Retcho,” Fresko warned. “See how he defines generous.”

  Valoria’s face turned to stone. “You bring shame to our society. To even suggest such a thing.”

  “We’re businessmen. Same as you.”

  Valoria grunted, looking from Mix back to him. Mix looked no better than a thug for hire, but Fresko saw Valoria’s eyes scanning his shirt, his tie. Now she’d deigned to look, she knew he was something else. She said, “Very well. There are other rewards we can arrange.” She stepped back from the moss as it sparked again. “How did you get Barton to do this?”

  “We didn’t exactly negotiate,” Mix said.

  “Then I assume you cleared up after yourselves?”

  “We left him to rot. The daughter, too. No sign of Fae interference.”

  Valoria raised an eyebrow. Without asking for details, she said, “That sounds far too vague. I don’t want them left to do anything. I want the job finished. I don’t reward incomplete work.”

  “With respect, he might still have his uses,” Fresko said, though Mix gave him a look that disagreed. “How else are we gonna put the Dispenser to use?”

  “That’s not your concern,” Valoria said. “All I need from you right now is their silence.”

  6

  There was a ferocious knock at Dr Mandy Rimes’ door. Any knock was usually enough to startle her into dropping whatever was in her hands, given the infrequency of visitors, but this was a particularly severe knock, causing her to scatter a project all over the worktop. She fussed towards the door with tuts, pushing her welding goggles onto her forehead, and called out, “Who’s there?”

  “Me,” came the gruff reply.

  She opened the door. It was just as well she’d recognised his voice, because she wasn’t sure she would have recognised his face in that state.

  “Oh heavens!” she cried, reaching towards Darren Barton, then taking her hands back. She stepped back, then out towards him, utterly at a loss for how best to respond.

  “Water,” Barton said, one shoulder digging in the wall for support. “Please.”

  Rimes scurried away with mild curses, knocking over a pile of metal on the way. She stopped to pick up a piece, then left it be, and spiralled back towards the tap to get water. In the time it took her to find a glass, Barton had managed to drag himself to one of her many cluttered work surfaces and had sat on a high stool. He leaned to one side, blood dripping from his forehead onto a gutted watch mechanism.

  “What happened?” Rimes asked, forcing the glass of water into his hands.

  “The Fae,” Barton said. Cracked blood ran down one side of his face, while the other had swollen like a balloon. One of his eyes was halfway closed, and his sodden ear was out of shape. Perhaps there was a piece missing. The rest of his body was little better, but it was so dark with blood that it was hard to see where the injuries lay. “It’s their technology.”

  “What is?” Rimes replied.

  “The plans you said Rufaizu had. It was a Fae device. That’s what Apothel stole. And it’s got them after me, got Grace...Grace kidnapped. You need to tell me how I can find them.”

  Rimes blinked behind her thick glasses. “Darren, you need medical help –”

  “So give it to me,” Barton said. “Then point me to the FTC.”

  Rimes gave a quick hum, hesitating between questioning him and helping. She chose the latter, scurrying to a small medical kit at the side of the room. She rummaged through the supplies, saying, “Are you sure they have Grace?”

  “Sure enough.”

  “They did this to you?”

  Barton shifted with effort and pain. “More or less. They needed electric weed. Needed me to get it. From a glogockle nest. There was...ten of them, maybe.”

  “It’s a miracle you’re alive.”

  “No miracle, just a necessity. They came in. Took the weed from me and drew the myriad towards me. But I got out. They didn’t give me enough credit. You know where they are, don’t you?”

  Rimes paused, holding a gauze pad to a gash on his forehead. “No. But I have been testing a device that might help. It’s a bad idea, though. The Ministry –”

  “Can rot,” Barton rumbled. “I’m getting my damned daughter back, and I’m burning them all to the ground.”

  Rimes backed off, too chilled by his rage to argue. As he calmed, Barton fished in his pockets for something. He said, “There’s something else. Tell me what you know about this.”

  He pulled out a crumpled sandwich bag, faded in parts as though plucked from the gutter. He placed it on the table, its contents partly spilling out. It looked like a clump of earth. Rimes frowned, coming closer to it. The dirt suddenly glistened, bright blue in places, as though sparking energy, making Rimes jump back in surprise.

  “You held some back?” she asked.

  “Seemed damned important. What do you know about it?”

  “I only know of it. I’ve never seen electric weed in the flesh. As it were. I’m not sure anyone has. Darren. It’s a very strange power source. What did you say it was for?”

  Holly was barely surprised to see her husband was not home when she woke up, late. She was mad at herself for letting it happen. She was no kind of mother, being able to sleep at a time like that. But they had called all Grace’s friends, they had notified the police, they had driven through the streets, what else was there? Barton had done it all convinced this was no ordinary disappearance, and now he had gone, leaving Holly, in the new day, to think of her own solution. Fighting down the anger and the fear and the confusion, she forced herself to be calm. Told herself, in no uncertain terms, that this was a time to think rationally. The best way forward was to write a list of problems and possible steps she could take to overcome them.

  Daughter missing.

  Husband missing.

  Possible supernatural creatures responsible.

  Police no use?

  Each point seemed to present an impossible task, so instead of solutions she started to come up with more problems.

  Husband still lying.

  Possible relapse to radioactive drink.

  Horse playing a drum.

  He had taken whatever that infernal liquid was with him and buggered off back into his mystical world, alone, but she at least had a firmer grip on what it was she should be annoyed at him for. And that was partly satisfying. No more fears for his unfaithful gallivanting, though the fear that he was involved with unruly gangs was heightened. How could he have got Grace mixed up in it?

  The thought of Grace distracted Holly from her useless list of problems. She picked up a photo album she had created when Grace had been young. She smiled at how healthy and happy they had all looked. It was easy to create that impression in front of the camera. The memories were less than perfect. There were photos of Grace in Darren’s car. A photo of her sitting amid a pile of cables from some computing project he’d clearly botched. Then one with her grinning happily at the filthy bandage around the top of her head. She’d even looked happy then, after the accident. Daddy’s tough little girl. Darren hadn’t been so happy. Holly had been positively livid.

  That was the last time Holly had felt so afraid, she realised. Not just for Grace’s safety, but for her own. She had known, when Darren had told her their daughter was hurt, that his attention had been divided. He had somehow let it happen. He could not be trusted to be left alone with her.

  Holly looked at the injury in the photo and Grace’s unflappable spirit, and realised that she didn’t know the truth of what had happened that day. Darren said she had fallen off a stool. From what Holly had seen the night before, though, anything was possible. Had she been trampled by a riderless horse? Slipped on poisonous goo? What?

  Hol
ly slammed the photo album and huffed.

  There was something she could do. She had always been vigilant, and kept careful note of the new numbers in Darren’s phone. She said it was in case of an emergency; there was no telling exactly who she might need to call, if something terrible should happen. But there were lots of types of emergencies, and that included the sort that required her to keep track of strange ladies Barton might be in touch with.

  It was a line to cross, though. He had gone out with a plan, surely. He might come back, before she opened this particular Pandora’s box.

  Taking a rueful glance at the clock, gone 11am, she poured a glass of red wine to help make the decision. People were out of church by now, and they must have had a drink, so screw it. After the first few sips, she was already confident in moving forward.

  She scrolled through to the number she had resisted calling for years. She had contemplated deleting it so many times, but she’d kept it for the extra special days when she thought nothing would cheer her up more than shouting at someone who truly deserved it. Now, though, she hoped that the lady on the other end of the line might be able to help her. The one whose name she had cursed like a voodoo doll. She dialled Dr Mandy Rimes’ number.

  A mousey-voiced woman answered. “Mrs Barton. How can I help you?”

  Holly paused a beat. She’d expected at least some surprise. “Have you seen my husband?”

  A pause. “No.” Rimes answered too carefully. She clearly wasn’t used to lying.

  “Is he there now?” Holly demanded, firmly.

  “He is not.”

  “Then where is he?”

  “I don’t know. He’s trying to save your daughter.”

  Holly froze. So it was real, then. The doctor knew about the threat. Darren was out there fighting. Something, somehow. Holly squeezed her eyes closed. “Tell me you know something. Tell me there’s a solution.”

  Rimes paused again. “Your husband is possibly the strongest man I know. If anyone can get your daughter back, he can.”

  Holly caught the trailing off of the final word, and prompted, “But...”

  “Strength alone is rarely enough.”

  7

  Pax sat on the upper floor of a minimalist café with cheap plastic seats and coffees the price of a meal. No wonder it was empty. Her back shielded her from the room so Letty could sit on the table in front of her, unseen. The wide window had a good view of the street, opposite Riley’s Bettor Off, from the junction to the right to the Tube station to the left. The pair watched pedestrians as Letty mused over locations they could go to, spread across the city.

  “There’s a water tower near the river,” she said. “Good place to hide a human. But you’d have to get them up the ladder.” The fairy muttered something else, dismissing the idea.

  “You honestly think they’d try and take Barton?”

  “Try and fail, probably. Yeah. But it’s gotta be somewhere they could hide him.”

  Pax inhaled deeply over her coffee. Alcohol would’ve been better, but it’d do. She took another bite of croissant as Letty mumbled random curses to herself. Pax broke a bit of pastry off and put it down next to her, saying, “You eat pastry?”

  Letty gave the croissant a glance, then twisted to look up at Pax, ready to come out with another insult. She resisted, though. She tore off a flake and took a bite. Chewing with her mouth open, she said, “Better than nothing.”

  “You’re welcome,” Pax said. Watching a local walk by, she tried to lighten the fairy’s mood. “Were you guys out here enjoying the company of high society? I made a grand playing a game run by a dentist out here once. He told me his shirt was worth more than the pot on the table. I won it off him. The shirt off his back.”

  Letty gave Pax a look like she wasn’t sure why she was being told this. She swallowed another mouthful of croissant and asked, “Was it?”

  “Huh?”

  “Worth more than the pot?”

  “No idea,” Pax shrugged. “Even if it was, who was I gonna sell it to? I gave it to Bees as a thank you for getting me in on another game. Never saw him wear it.”

  “Bees,” Letty echoed thoughtfully. She looked back out the window. “Yeah, we didn’t camp out here by chance. We took these pricks for everything they were worth.”

  “How?”

  “Every way you can think of. It’s a whole neighbourhood full of marks.”

  Pax smiled at the thought of these violent fairies somehow mugging the oblivious rich fools. “My mum, she used to send me property suggestions for out here. If you’ve got to live in that god-awful city, you could at least move to a nice area. My dad told her to stop encouraging me, though.”

  “Your dad. Was he a bit of a prick?”

  “Still is.”

  “Wears a suit and has a number-plate with something vaguely close to his initials?”

  Pax laughed. “That’s about right.”

  “Dumb fucking humans.”

  “Yeah?” Pax shifted over Letty, getting more comfortable. “Your parents were perfect? Assuming you’re not hatched from eggs or something?”

  “Ha ha,” Letty replied dryly. “My dad was a lunatic. He got in fights with literally every person he spoke to, like other people being alive just pissed him off.” She trailed off into the memory, her voice almost fond. Pax smiled at the fairy again.

  “I’m Pax, by the way. Since you never asked. Pax Kuranes.”

  “Jesus,” Letty laughed. “Your dad didn’t give you a chance, huh?”

  “It comes from the Roman goddess of peace.”

  “Except that’s not where you got it from. It’s not enough of a prick move for your dad.”

  Pax raised her eyebrows. “You’re good, you know? No, he took it from his university motto. Pax et Lux. You know the worst part? They weren’t even the first to use it. They copied it from a research centre in America.”

  Letty laughed harder, coughing out some croissant. “Classic. All right. Let’s do this. I’m Letty.” She held up her hand and Pax stared for a second. Minuscule as it was, the gesture was important – she took the tiny hand between her thumb and forefinger, as gently as possible, to shake it. Letty seemed satisfied, twisting away. “That doesn’t make us mates, though. You know, with the whole eating and kidnapping shit.”

  “I’d call it rescuing,” Pax said. “And don’t knock it yet. In other circumstances, I think we’d get along.”

  “In other circumstances?” Letty straightened her face, giving Pax a mock scolding look. “In other circumstances, I’d have taken you for everything you were worth.”

  “Sure,” Pax said.

  Letty flapped a dismissive hand at her, turning back to the window. She paused, though, a thought hitting her. “The research centre. That’s a possibility.”

  “What?”

  “For my boys. We’ve got a big room there. A good place for dealing with humans. But we haven’t used it for ages because...” Letty gave Pax a serious look. “...it’s not far from the FTC. In the circumstances, and being a dumb bunch of fucks, the boys might think that’s a good thing.”

  “Near the Fae city, whose location is a fiercely protected secret?”

  “Yeah, there.”

  “The sort of place the Fae might consider shooting a person for getting too close to?”

  Letty nodded.

  Pax was about to suggest trying the water tower first when a movement below caught her attention. She hunched suddenly, slamming her hand down in front of Letty to create a barrier before the window. Letty shot to her feet, shouting, “Are you fucking –”

  “Quiet!” Pax hissed. “They’ve seen me.”

  Casaria disliked West Farling. It was full of people who had graduated from the bohemian seeds of Ten Gardens into thriving better-than-thou wretches, looming over their inferiors with roots dug deep into the city. In the shiny SUVs and cashmere-scarved dog-walkers of West Farling, Casaria saw people immune to speeding tickets, who walked away from charges of sexual a
ssault by virtue of importance.

  Sam Ward lived somewhere in the neighbourhood. When he’d dropped her off after work one night, he’d asked why she didn’t live in Central, like him, in the action. She’d given him a pitying look, and hadn’t even bothered to answer.

  That said it all, didn’t it?

  Casaria wished he could fight these people, knuckle-to-knuckle out on the street. But there were cameras on every street corner and Neighbourhood Watch everywhere. He had devised a thousand plans passing through here, from a staged road rage assault to a simple balaclava mugging, but there were always flaws. The best he could do, instead, was to make sure any assignments he had in West Farling were taken slowly, to maximise the opportunity for the side effects of the Sunken City to deliver some damage to the area. With the help of an able partner, he mused, maybe he could come up with a better plan. Pax was bound to hate these people as much as he did; they clearly represented everything she opposed. But then, she was hardly full of enthusiasm for continuing their training.

  He put it out of his mind as he swung the car onto a high street’s overly high curb, across double-yellow lines. There were enough people here that if there was trouble with the Fae, he might be able to draw a few bystanders into the fray. Discretion was the Ministry’s principal watchword, but if it was a matter of national security, it might be possible that someone would get shot, or at least punched, for being in the wrong place at the right time.

  He was smiling at the fantasy as he got out and surveyed the betting shop, not listening to Landon’s complaints about the antagonistic parking job. Rufaizu had given Casaria an accurate address, as far as the shop name and street went, and there was the Underground station he’d indicated in the childish map he’d scrawled. The boy hadn’t taken much persuading. Maybe it was an old Fae hangout and he thought it wouldn’t do any harm. It was a start, though.

  Landon gave up huffing and ambled away to check the area.

  “Mr Casaria!” Gumg shouted over the roof of the car.

  Casaria turned to him with a severe look.