by Luke Arnold
“Well, ain’t that something. You wouldn’t know where to find him, would ya?”
“Sure. He’s usually around The Afterlife Lounge. If he’s not there, it shouldn’t take me too long to track him down for you.”
“How about that? Ain’t today our lucky day?”
When I knocked off work, I led the guys down into the Sickle and through the alley that would take us to The Afterlife. There was a split second of cold understanding when I took a step forward and they didn’t follow. I couldn’t even turn my head in time. The blow came from the right and as I stumbled, the guy on the left pushed me to the ground. I passed out after a few kicks but when I came to, I couldn’t move.
It turned out that I’d misheard the conversation. The two gentlemen worked for Hank, who wasn’t happy to hear that I’d been throwing his name around town like I was his best buddy. I needed to be taught a lesson and Hank needed to make an example of those who used his name too lightly.
I’d been beaten up before. I’ve been beaten up plenty of times since. But this was different.
I was hung upside down from a chain in the back room of Hank’s casino. First, I was just there to keep Hank entertained. He used my body as a punching bag or my mouth as a cigar holder. But as he got bored, or called away on business, my usefulness was extended to anyone else in the room.
Hank’s casino was a twenty-four-hour operation, meaning there was always someone around to mess with me in some new and twisted way. The lack of sleep became the worst part. That’s what makes you crazy. That and all the blood that was building up in my head, making it feel like my eyes were about to explode from the pressure.
They might have, in time, but a couple of Hank’s cronies got too carried away, seeing how far they could swing me around the room. I don’t know if my head hit a wall or the chain snapped but I was dumped back on Main Street with my brains coming out my nose and the side of my head feeling way too soft.
When someone stopped to help, I had just enough life in me to ask to be taken to Amari.
I don’t remember being carried through the city but I do remember getting to the gate of the Governor’s mansion and the doorman trying to turn me away. He kept saying Amari wasn’t there, but I wouldn’t listen. Eventually, Hendricks came out of the house.
Amari was the real nurse but Hendricks knew a thing or two about medicine. He stopped the bleeding and used some kind of magic to seal up the cracks in my skull.
He didn’t do much for the pain, other than ply me with alcohol. I ended up somewhere between tipsy, concussed and comatose, with my head in his lap as he recited old war stories to try to keep me awake. When I did sleep, it lasted for days and he was gone by the time I woke up. The Governor kicked me out as soon as I could walk and I had to wait months before I could thank Hendricks for saving my life.
I have a few injuries that have never gone away, like the click in my left knee and the sharp pain in my chest. They’re annoying, but they make sense, and I know how to deal with them. Hank broke something inside my head and I’m still not sure if Hendricks was a good enough nurse to put it all back in the right place. It’s not like I can strap it up or stretch it out. I can’t even see it. But I was left with this awful feeling that something in me didn’t heal right.
I hadn’t been back to the Sickle since. It was the dark heart of Sunder City, twisted and dangerous but somehow vital. I thought I’d seen the last of it. Turns out it only took a kind-hearted widow with a sway in her step to make me wander back down to crazy town.
19
I came down Tar Street, eyes low and ears cocked, till it hit the intersection of Sickle and Fifth. There was music coming from somewhere around the corner. The foot traffic was sparse and everyone walked at that deliberate speed where you wanted to keep moving but couldn’t afford to look like you were afraid.
Three Humans dragged a Warlock out of a bar and slammed him into a brick wall. I wondered if it was just normal Sickle business or if word had got out about Rick Tippity’s murders and it was making people nervous. I walked away so I wouldn’t have to think about it.
The face of the Sickle was a beaten-up block of stone called The Rushcutter, made from gray boulders and mud. It started out as a bunkhouse then evolved into an elite bar, a bordello, and finally a casino. The façade was the only piece of the original building that remained: flat-faced and intimidating like a beaten guard dog.
There wasn’t a lot of traffic, in or out, but the expressions were all the same: hopeful on arrival and sweating with shame when they left.
The bouncer was tall and wiry with metal-capped teeth and a sad mustache made of too few hairs that all grew in different directions. I didn’t want to linger out on the street so I pulled down my cap, put my hands in my pockets and sauntered up to the entrance.
The bouncer grabbed the brim of my hat when I tried to pass. I caught a glimpse of the thin dagger on his belt before he pulled my eyes up to his face.
“What you here for, fella?” he asked, with a voice like a schoolyard bully.
“Fifteen minutes, two drinks and one big win.”
He pulled open my jacket to search my belt for scabbards or steel. It was half-hearted. Insulting, actually. He waved me inside with a dismissive flick of his wrist.
It smelled like an ashtray’s acid reflux. Pipes, old beer, sweaty pits and no ventilation. At least it was warm. I came through a curtained corridor into the main room. Seven dice tables were being circled by serving girls and quiet gamblers. The decor was a lot of brown pretending it was red and a lot of stains pretending they were part of the pattern. A lone piano player was hunched over an upright, tapping keys warily as if one of them might bite back.
There was a long bar on the southern wall with two servers: a one-armed male Ogre and a tattooed lady Werewolf. When the Ogre walked off with a tray of drinks, I took a seat.
“Whiskey, neat,” I said, throwing out a bronze coin and turning to take in the room.
Gambling always seemed stupid to me. If winning a one-off handful of cash will change your life, then you really can’t afford to be losing any. If you can afford to lose, winning won’t matter so why bother at all? Everyone essentially knows this, but there are two things that make us look past the logic: alcohol and superstition.
Elves weren’t typically drinkers. Hendricks was an anomaly in that way (and many others). It was only after the Coda that other members of the High Race turned to the bottle. If Harold Steeme had gone down that road, I was pretty sure Carissa would have noticed. I figured it was far more likely that he’d tried to cash in on a few years of bad luck.
Good gamblers can separate math and emotion. Bad gamblers look for ways to make them align. After the Coda, when so much was taken, folks who believed in karma could make the argument that they were owed a big return. Every bad thing that happened only brought them one step closer to the day when it would all come tumbling back.
A man like Harold might have followed that hope to the very end of the line.
I didn’t know enough about him to guess which sport would tickle his fancy. The dice games being played here were all based on luck. No strategy. Just anxiety. Money was counted desperately, hidden in shaking hands. Drinks were ordered to calm nerves, not raised in celebration. There was a door beside the bar that made me shiver: one of those rooms where you come out walking funny or not at all.
“You’re new here,” said the server. Good. Always better to let them talk first.
“Yeah, a friend recommended this place.”
“Really?”
She was right to be suspicious. Over in the corner, a woman was crying into her handbag.
“Yeah, his name was Harold Steeme. You seen him around?”
Her face stayed the same but her irises squeezed her pupils and her clawed fingers rapped against the bar. I’d already outed myself. I might as well have told her straight out that I was gonna be trouble. The world went quiet and neither of us blinked.
�
�No,” she said finally.
I nodded, eyes always up.
“Oh well.” I lifted my glass to my mouth and just before it covered my eyes, she looked over my shoulder. Shit. My glass went back down before I took the sip. “Thanks.”
The one-armed Ogre was already approaching; a well-dressed, walking concussion with one clenched fist. I put a table between us to cut him off.
“Sir,” he growled.
“I was just looking for a friend.”
There was no point even reaching for the brass knuckles. They’d barely put a dent in his concrete head and I had a feeling there were others coming to join him.
“Sir!” He tried to grab my shoulder but I spun away. I wasn’t gonna get dragged out back so they could break my bones one by one. I might risk my life ten times a day, but I still care how I die, and there are better places for it to happen than a homemade torture chamber behind a shitty gambling house.
I came out the door and hit the streets before the bouncer got wind of the commotion. My heart and stomach were heaving but I pushed through the pain. I ran for two blocks then I jogged for two more and eventually I found an alley that was dark and quiet where I could throw up, spit and cry.
What a goddam amateur. I’d managed to show my face, reveal my hand, kick up a stink and prove that I’m a coward in under five minutes.
The Sickle. Anywhere else I would have been fine, but I just kept flashing back to the feeling of my skull being split in two. If that happened again, I wouldn’t have Hendricks around to fix me up.
I told myself that it was long ago, when I was wet behind the ears and still learning about life outside the walls. I wasn’t an errand boy anymore. I’d slayed monsters, led armies, traveled the world and torn it to pieces. I’m the Man for Hire now. I get kicked in the teeth for breakfast and break my nose for lunch. I don’t turn chicken just because one little street has a few bad memories.
I couldn’t go back in The Rushcutter. Not ever. But I knew that every place on Sickle would have the same effect.
I needed to rig the deck in my favor. I needed something up my sleeve to strengthen my nerves and kick-start my mojo. So, I went back to my office and opened the bottom drawer. I tucked the machine into my belt and buttoned up my shirt.
I felt better already.
It was too obvious, though. If a bouncer checked my belt, I’d have some explaining to do. So, I went back to East Ninth Street, into the leather store, and asked about the chest-strap in the window that was made to hold hidden daggers. Could it be adapted? Of course it could. I showed him the machine and paid him enough not to ask any questions. We workshopped the design till it sat snug under my ribs on my left side. I checked myself out in a mirror and the sling was invisible when I wore my coat.
I felt much, much better.
The pipe dug into my side if I hunched over too much, so I stood up straight and tall like I was ready to take on the world.
Then I went across the road and bought the fucking rabbit hat.
20
I took a long walk downtown so I could meet the Sickle from the blade instead of the handle. Not a route I’d recommend unless you have a miracle strapped to your side that makes you feel invincible. With the soft padding of the lion’s pelt against my head, I forgot all about the wound. I chewed a Clayfield as I came around the corner and I wasn’t afraid to make eye contact.
Half-Ogre. Bald. Blond beard; that’s what Mrs Steeme had said.
I approached an underdressed woman coin-first and gave her the description. She told me I might find him in Sampson’s so I tipped my new hat and headed further into the curve.
I stared men down. I walked tall and didn’t rush. I looked into alleys and doorways and the others turned their eyes away from mine. It was all an act, but what did that matter? Everyone was willing to play along.
Sampson’s was a tall and narrow gin joint whose front was made from sheets of rusted iron. I looked the doorman square in the eye and he let me through without even checking my belt.
It was just as cold inside as out. The roof was high and the iron wasn’t doing anything to keep in the heat. Five card tables were each dedicated to a different game, and the croupiers and servers were wrapped in fur (some wore coats, others had grown their own).
At the back of the room, under intentionally dim light, a round, red velvet table held prime position. Sitting on one side, chewing a toothpick, was a Half-Elf in an expensive suit. The ageing process hadn’t cut through his good looks entirely like it would have if he’d been full-blooded. He had salt-and-pepper hair and so many creases in his forehead it looked like he kept it in his back pocket. On the other side of the table there was a bald Half-Ogre whose blond beard had been trimmed into three prongs. All his muscles were blown up like carnival balloons and his suit looked ready to burst.
I walked straight towards their table. Not so fast as to set the whole place on edge. Like I knew them. Like I’d been invited. They didn’t notice me until I pulled an unused chair from the card table and sat down.
“Gentlemen,” I said, giving my attention to the well-dressed Half-Elf who I assumed was in charge. “My friend is missing. I heard a rumor he crossed your path. How about you tell me what happened before I have to disrupt all these nice little games.”
The Half-Elf’s eyes went from me to his muscle, and the Half-Ogre raised a hand from his glass.
“Keep your hands on the table, big guy,” I said. “Or you’ll be using them to drag yourself out of here.”
Both men raised their eyebrows and smiled like they were pretending to be impressed. The Ogre didn’t drop his hand straight away, but turned it over, palm up and open, and gestured towards his companion.
“Please excuse me, Thomas,” he said, in a voice more educated than I’d expected. “This matter does sound urgent. Here is your key. Someone will come up to your room shortly to make sure everything is in order.”
“Of course,” replied Thomas, taking the key from the table, standing and smoothing out his suit. “Thanks for your time, Sampson. You’ve really saved my neck.”
When the Half-Elf was gone, I looked up at the Ogre and felt my confidence slip away.
“You’re Sampson,” I said.
“And you’re very rude.”
He picked up his glass of wine to have a sip but stopped halfway to his mouth. Then he gestured inquisitively, as if he was asking for my permission to move his hands again. That pissed me off, and some of my confidence came back.
“Harold Steeme,” I said.
He took a sip and put his glass back down.
“What about him?”
“He owed you money.”
“He owed a lot of people money.”
Footsteps approached from behind me. Sampson looked over my shoulder and I spun around, rising from the table and reaching into my coat for the machine – until I found myself face to face with a rosy-cheeked girl holding a tray. She jumped back, startled, and the Ogre swore behind me in his upper-class accent.
I looked back and realized that I’d knocked the table, tipping Sampson’s drink into his lap. People were staring and staff were on the approach, but Sampson waved them away.
“Phara, please pass me your towel.”
The nervous waitress handed Sampson a cloth and he dabbed himself down.
“A normal person would leave after a display like that,” he said.
“I just want to—”
“If you’re going to stay, order a damn drink.”
There wasn’t anything else to do. I turned to the girl.
“Burnt Milkwood.”
“Sure. What about you, boss?”
“I’ll have the same. And bring more towels.”
She strode away, and I was left standing over the increasingly unimpressed owner.
“Sit down and stop being so agitated. You’re making me nervous.”
I searched the room first. The security guards weren’t pulling out their batons or making eyes. The card
games were back in swing and it didn’t feel at all like someone was waiting to sock me. So, I took a seat.
“What’s your name, then?”
“Fetch Phillips.”
“And Harold is your friend?”
From the tone of his voice, he already knew it was a lie.
“I’ve been hired by his wife to find out what happened to him.”
“How strange. It was Mrs Steeme herself who told me that he’d passed away.”
“And you took her word for it? With outstanding debts on the table? You would’ve been back the next day to break her door down if you hadn’t found some proof that he was really dead.”
Footsteps behind me again. I didn’t jump up this time, but I turned. Phara placed two milkwoods on the velvet. Then, we all waited.
“What’s the problem?” asked Sampson.
“People have a habit of slipping things into my drink. Since you’re not calling over the boys to drag me into the back room…”
“Good grief.” Sampson wiped a hand down his face till he was pulling on his beard. “Just pay the girl so we can get on with this.”
“Three bronze coins,” said Phara warily.
I pulled out the bits and handed them over.
“That wasn’t so difficult, was it?” said Sampson, as Phara scampered away. “So, do you want to swap drinks or will you trust me when I say that there’s nothing in them expect sap, liquor and spices?”
I picked mine up and took a sip. It was damn good. I told him so.
“See? Now, why would I waste my time dragging you out back, cutting you into pieces and throwing you in the canal when you’re a decent paying customer? Look around, Mr Phillips.”
He waved a graceful hand and I twisted to take in what he was showing me. Five tables. Four customers, each nursing warm drinks and playing minimum bets. No music. No heating.
“Do you think I can afford to rough up my patrons? Or pay goons to administer my beatings for me? We are a business, Mr Phillips. A struggling one. We’ve resorted to renting out rooms to keep the lights on. So please refrain from stabbing any of my staff, they are all quite invaluable and I am rather fond of them.”
