She closed her eyes and breathed the smoke in deeply as the sounds of the city swirled in her mind.
There had been a mist all that morning that was only now beginning to rise. Now that dusk was falling, the streamlines ignited and the coloured, thaumaturgically infused water within gave their soft glow to the city streets.
Maeve let her mind de-focus and she attempted to meditate on the hubbub around her.
She felt vibrations reverberate through the ornate wooden cab from the steady thump-thump footsteps of the mudgrunt that pulled her rickshaw with its giant hands. She opened her eyes and watched the rippling muscles of its back move beneath the bark skin. Patches of moss grew sporadically on its body and Maeve noticed that on its right shoulder a small family of birds had made their nest. Every now and then a pair of flitting sparrows darted out from the straw dwelling and went off to get food for chirping chicks. A few stray twigs and flowers dotted its hulking body like jewelry and a faint scent of damp rotting wood drifted back into the cab.
Despite the introduction of a tram system and various other mechanical modes of transport, rickshaws were a tradition in Free Reign that had never died out. Although the conjured earth elementals colloquially called mudgrunts that pulled them were not truly sentient, they were infused with an encyclopedic knowledge of the city’s streets, and would unquestioningly haul citizens to wherever they requested. Maeve loved to travel by open top rickshaw because it made her feel connected to the city with all its life and death.
Maeve was a Reigner through and through, and despite its faults she loved the city with all her heart. She loved the fact that she could awake at three in the morning and if she ventured outside could still eat at a hundred different restaurants then catch a theatre show. In the mornings she could sit at any number of pavement cafes sipping her coffee and reading the journal while different species rushed past on their business. It was diverse, culturally rich and sometimes confusing, but each sentient being in the city shared one common belief; the freedom to pursue their lives and dreams in their own way without persecution or fear. A city with one foot steeped in its ancient history and traditions and one in the modern age. Dealing with its problems was a complex balancing act, one that Maeve relished and took seriously. Her enthusiasm had not always gone down well with the old guard in the wardens. A traditionally conservative and non thaumaturgic organization, they often saw her boundless nervous energy to improve and protect the city as a little too sparky for their liking.
She sucked on the long blue rillo and blew silvery smoke out into the darkening city as she trundled along past trams and pedestrians.
Several things were worrying her. The idea of a Wraith in the city along with the Grimjade bullets the Vigilante was using meant that he was practicing death magic. This Vigilante had a purpose to his actions, and one she had not clearly identified yet. The rumor that Jonas Reach was back in the city and had would likely be planning an attack was even more worrying. She had studied his crimes over the years with a sickened stomach and knew that he would not hesitate to commit any atrocity in the name of his monstrous deity. All Reach had ever lacked was the ability to get his hands on a weapon powerful enough to commit the kind of mass murder he craved. Maeve was terrified that his possible return might mean he had gotten his hands on such a weapon, and the only thing powerful enough to damage Free Reign were precursor artefacts.
As a city with thaumaturgy at the heart of its culture, very few things relating to magic were illegal. Those on the list for very practical reasons included Death-magic, Demonology, and sorcery relating to precursor artefacts. Death magic was outlawed because necromancy had traditionally been a magic of war and destruction that had been used by some of the worst regimes in the world to perpetrate unspeakable atrocities. More than one attempt had been made throughout history to expand an empire using an undead army. Demonology was outlawed because the Old Gods only desire was the outright destruction of all civilization and they could not be allowed to slip through even the smallest crack, but on a smaller scale the use of it almost always drove the user insane.
Precursor artefacts were illegal for one very simple reason; they were often powerful beyond measure and almost nothing was understood about them. The greatest city states of the western world had signed treaties that any precursor artefact discovered would be officially registered and owned communally for research purposes. In the distant past, some cultures had been entirely eradicated through careless use of a poorly understood precursor artefact.
If such an object had been smuggled in to Free Reign then it was imperative that Maeve track it down. If it had fallen in to the hands of someone like Jonas Reach, then she had little doubt what he intended to use it for.
Reach would bring the city crashing down around everyone’s ears just for the sheer enjoyment of it.
Maeve extinguished her smoke and signaled the mudgrunt to halt next to a small coffee stall where she bought a strong Krazen brew that was as thick as mud. She took it to go and leaned back into the cab as it resumed its journey. The coffee was still too hot to drink so she gently blew on it, trying not let the scalding liquid spill onto her lap as the rickshaw went over uneven cobbled lanes.
The Farrak market was just opening as Maeve trundled past. The spices wafted across the air and the sizzle of oil crackled in the traditional cast iron pans of the street food vendors. Maeve’s rillo had sharpened her appetite and she felt her guts groan. She often got caught up in her work and forgot to eat and she suddenly found herself craving some skewered bavaki and drasba.
Because she rarely stopped working or moving, Maeve was thin as a rake, all wiry muscle and jutting hips, but it certainly wasn’t for lack of appetite. When she was a teenager her father had laughed at her and called her a bottomless pit. That was before his body was found on the tracks of the tram terminus.
Maeve put the memory of her father from her mind, and felt her mouth start to salivate as she passed some of the sizzling food stalls.
Beneath this smell was the slightly nauseating stench from the nearby Weirdweaver mills. For thousands of years the Farraki who ran the market had mastered a type of thaumaturgy focusing on infusing sorcery into various fabrics. They wove intricate carpets that could levitate and be directed at will. The Farakki tailors were famous for made to measure suits fashioned from skins of basilisk or cockatrice that imbued the wearer with one exotic benefit or another.
Farraki women were employed at the mills to soak the untreated fabric in thaumaturgic water from the springs. Their skirts pulled up, they stood up to their knees in sorcery saturated laundry and stomped up and down to soften it. Often the singing of the women as they worked could be heard over the bustle of the market.
Maeve sipped her coffee as the rickshaw turned down a narrow cobbled alley lined with bohemian cafes and bars. The exotic and candlelit eateries here were popular with both university students from her own alma mater, Free Souls College, and the officer recruits from Northgate military academy. Several hasty marriages had been instigated after too many bottles of cheap wine in one of those cozy hostelries. Maeve recalled a few tramcrash nights in there herself when she was seventeen.
The mudgrunt pulled the rickshaw out into a cobbled square decorated with brightly coloured flags. At its centre was a fountain where there stood a bright golden statue of an obese being on a throne with its arms spread wide. At the scattered tables outside the cafes lining the square, several dangerous looking men with long moustaches played cards and smoked. Their coats bulged with obviously concealed weapons and they eyed the rickshaw with suspicion as it ground to a halt at the foot of a flight of marble steps.
As Maeve alighted the cab, the men noticed her uniform and regarded her with a mixture of contempt and poorly concealed desire. Maeve patted the hulking mudgrunt on its tree trunk leg.
“Wait here. If I’m not out in half an hour, you’re free to leave.”
The earth elemental silently sank down onto one knee in the a
ccepted position. Maeve saw the men at the nearest table put their cards down and subtly pull back the corners of their coats to reveal the hilts of daggers. She lit a rillo and strode past the unsavory characters towards the foot of the steps.
She did not turn to look at them or break her stride as she passed but spoke clearly and confidently.
“Tell The Malashi that I’m here.”
As long as there had been crime in Free Reign there had been a Malashi.
There were several hundred of The Malashi race in various parts of the city, but only one was The Malashi.
Malashi were grossly bloated humanoids with canary yellow skin and long forked scarlet tongues that could taste two things; everybody else’s weakness and a shrewd deal. They were often found as croupiers in casinos and as bookmakers, although a few worked more honorably in some of Free Reign’s more prestigious banks. One could always tell if a Malashi worked at an establishment because of the specially made chairs built to accommodate their swollen frames, replete with a huge porcelain thunder mug beneath; Malashi were notoriously prone to bearing their yellow arses and shitting wherever they sat without a care.
Malashi culture revered cunning and profit over all things. They had their own outlawed version of chess called Stingemmi where players sacrificed body parts in lieu of carved pieces. Fingers and toes were pawns, ears were rooks, genitals bishops, and their beloved prehensile tongues were the slimy scarlet kings. A Scissorman stood patiently beside each player during a match ready to expertly snip the sacrificed appendage after each move. The game epitomized their high regard of strategic thinking and low regard for mercy. As such, the being they regarded as their alpha was always the most ruthless, double dealing, two faced, slippery character amongst them. He ascended to a very particular place in their society because he innately epitomized their ideals. Whatever his birth name, he ceased to be a Malashi, and became The Malashi.
In Free Reign The Malashi had occupied the role of king bookmaker, patron saint of every unlicensed gambling house, brothel and Opaque den for centuries. Maeve knew her city’s history reasonably well, and prior to joining the wardens she had never quite understood how such a creature could maintain a vast underground empire of illicit dealings and still have completely legitimate connections within government, big business and industry. It was as if he was regarded by the city as some form of harmless lucky mascot.
Because of the incredible balance The Malashi straddled between dark and light, they were always the perfect person to turn to for information. Unfortunately for Maeve, The Malashi knew the value of information all too well. If she wanted to find out about these rumors of an all-powerful and destructive precursor artefact in Free Reign, she knew that The Malashi would only proffer it in exchange for some vital element of her soul.
As Maeve ascended the steps to the double doors, she was relying on one thing.
That fat yellow bastard has his fingers in every pie. I can’t trust him on much, but I know he doesn’t want to see Free Reign destroyed any more than I do.
Maeve showed her warden’s pass as she passed the bouncers on the door.
Inside, she was greeted with the aftermath of what looked like a gargantuan party.
The interior of The Malashi’s salon was spacious and opulent. It had once been a local government building and still bore the officious grandeur of marble pillars and wide staircases.
Creatures of varying descriptions lounged about in semi-conscious states on sofas and cushions. Bottles and pneumatic water pipes lay scattered about the floor and there was a fug of narcotic fumes hanging in the air. Several smart suited gangsters stood at the bar drinking shots and smoking. They gave her at most a cursory glance and resumed their secretive conversation.
A raucous rose up in one corner of the room. Maeve walked over to where a crowd had gathered in a loose circle. Touts were taking bets and a motley group of people were waving notes in the air. In the centre of the circle two scarred men were circling each other. Maeve wasn’t sure how long this bare knuckle fight had gone on for, but the two fighters were covered in blood and barely able to stand. With what looked like the last of his strength, one of them threw a curving hooked that sent his opponent crashing to his hands and knees. The crowd went wild as Maeve passed, demanding bets be settled so they could get back to the bar. Maeve headed there herself and ordered a shot of Old Tawny. She sipped it and smoked as a slim suited man addressed the assembled.
“Please be standing one and all for the Grand Duke of Fuck, Muck, and Luck. Reigners, I give you your Malashi.”
The motley guests parted to allow transit of a veiled litter carried by four brutish attendants.
Maeve watched the bloated yellow creature being ushered in and placed upon a dais. A glass of wine was poured and handed to him which he took in a fat hand. Someone lit his rillo and placed it in a long holder then slotted it between his moist pouting lips.
He lay there on his portable sofa, waving casually to the guests as they cheered him and then resumed their secret dealings in scattered groups.
The Malashi’s red eyes surveyed the room and Maeve had little doubt that he could identify every single party guest by both name and what he could blackmail them with. When his eyes settled on Maeve she raised her glass and quietly toasted. With a camp little wave he gestured her over. She knocked back her drink and sauntered across.
Here goes.
Up close Maeve thought that the being looked much sicker and rougher than from a distance. He clearly wore thick foundation and eye makeup to disguise pockmarks and custardy boils. Spidery blue thread veins mapped his citrine skin and his breath came in damp wheezing gusts. He gave her a smile and displayed rather sharp looking teeth the colour of verdigris. Maeve caught a scent from his skin that turned her stomach. He offered her a little wave.
“Well well if it isn’t the straight arrow. Didn’t think this party would be your scene, Inspector Scurlock. Aren’t you more of a ‘cup of cocoa and curling up alone in your lodgings with a good book’ type?”
Maeve glanced at the sycophantic courtiers that lounged around The Malashi’s dais, chuckling at his every word.
“Yes, law books mainly. I see about twelve being broken in this room already.”
The Malashi held out his flabby arms and offered Maeve a petted lip.
“So why am I not in manacles, officer?”
Maeve fixed his blood filled eyes with her own icy blue.
“Because I don’t carry giant comedy handcuffs big enough to go around your fat wrists, Malashi.”
He stared at her like a malevolent devil for a few moments and then burst into laughter. His entire body rippled like a lemon jelly. He eventually caught his wheezing breath and playfully waggled a finger at her.
“Do you know, Inspector, you’re a real guilty pleasure of mine. Sure, you’re a pedantic, morally incorruptible, niggling little bitch, but that’s part of your charm.”
“Thank you, your subtlety is part of yours.”
The Malashi leaned his bulk forward on his sofa and his buttery belly hung over the edge, threatening to drag him off.
“I’ll level with you girly. I’ve tugged my little yellow worm thinking about you on a number of occasions. Wondering what your skinny little body looks like under that boring officious exterior. You make that uniform look almost stylish. In fact, I might milk the cow while we’re talking, if you don’t mind.”
Maeve looked him up and down. He wore only a nappy-like loincloth but she could not work out the mechanics of how he would have sex at all. She was trying not to think about it, which rarely works.
“That’s one thing my cuffs won’t have a problem getting round.”
He batted his lashes and offered her an effeminate grin.
“Promises.”
Maeve peered around the room at the half conscious partygoers.
“Is this fundraiser to pay for treatment for your venereal diseases?”
The Malashi waved his hand in a dismi
ssive gesture.
“No actually it’s some boring charity thing. There are a couple of mayor’s aides here somewhere drinking all my wine. Fucking parasites. So what brings you here into the interesting part of town, Inspector Scurlock?”
“Jonas Reach.”
The Malashi’s smile vanished. He glared around at the few courtiers still remaining by his couch and gestured them to leave. They bowed and hurriedly departed, leaving Maeve alone with the creature. Finally he turned to her and sipped his wine. His red eyes peered at her over the glass.
“What about him?”
“I hear he’s back in the city. And he has big plans for his return.”
The bulbous creature gave an unpleasant sneer and took a big drag of the rillo in its long holder. Maeve continued to find him oddly feminine for such a large creature.
“Jonas Reach is not my kind of scoundrel, warden. Not for years. I heard he was dead. But dead or alive, not my sort.”
“You mean since he had his ‘spiritual awakening’?”
The Malashi snorted.
“He is a fanatical demon worshipping zealot whose only involvement in crime is to raise funds for some cataclysmic act of mass destruction. Have you ever spent any time around religious zealots, Inspector? They’re so fucking boring. Terrible party guests.”
Maeve regarded him for a long moment and then nodded.
“I was hoping that you’d be as concerned about him as I am. I see I’m right. Perhaps you’re more civil minded than I thought.”
The Malashi burped and shook his bald head.
“Oh don’t be so naïve, Inspector. I just don’t want profits to fall. Can’t milk this city dry if there’s no city to milk, can I?”
Maeve offered him a wry grin.
“I think that’s partly an act. You were raised here in the city like I was. As revolting as you are, you’re a Reigner. You actually do believe you’re a vital part of the community.”
He blew a puff of smoke at her and flicked his ash on the floor.
SMOKE AND BLADES Page 6
