by Craig Askham
“Whatever you say, Rakeshi,” he mumbled, dipping his head to dismiss the guide. Language intricacies were too complicated for a soldier like him to be thinking too hard about. He just needed some heads to bang together; there wasn’t a soul on either planet who didn’t understand that language.
Heavyfinger was already walking away from the conversation, too bored to even become involved in it. Ironshoulder followed him, wondering if he’d spotted something they needed to check out. The tavern was busy, the gamers were drunk, and the Watchmen looked ready for a fight. Surely tonight was going to bring some form of violence? He crossed his fingers.
“We should check out the kolkka games,” Heavyfinger said, waiting for him to catch up. The minstrels chose that moment to start up their next song, which was immediately greeted with an approving roar from the room, so Ironshoulder bit off the reply he’d been about to issue. Heavyfinger and his gambling issues were becoming a pain in the backside; they were being paid to be out here in the main room, making sure none of these stupid gamers did anything that would draw unnecessary publicity to the company or, even worse, flat out reveal to the locals that they’d come here through a portal from a planet far, far away. It might not have been up there in the big leagues, with the flashy bounty hunters who chased down any gamers that decided they didn’t want to go home, but these were the kinds of reveal that could get the whole operation shut down. For good. No more holidays, no more air that could be inhaled without a mask, no more dressing up like Robin Hood. No more quests, no more wizards, no more dragons. No more bounty hunters getting paid their movie star salaries to drag rich teenagers back through the portals by their ears. Most importantly, no more money in Stillwater’s back pocket. This whole operation only worked as long as the locals didn’t catch on to what the aliens were doing. What they absolutely were not here to do, under any circumstances, was to line their own pockets with Aneiri duskets whilst they were on duty. Or, in Rurhol Heavyfinger’s case at least, empty his pocket and then go on to lose the tunic off his back. They were fixers. Keepers of the peace. Bringers together of heads.
On the other hand, of course, a little kolkka might not hurt anybody. It was going to be a little while yet before things started getting interesting out here. And, he was a much better kolkka player than his fellow fixer.
With a sigh, Ironshoulder followed Heavyfinger to a door in the corner of the room, draining the last of his ale as he went. Nisha appeared behind him as if by magic, clearing her throat to get his attention. He turned, and she handed him another shot of feijen. He took it with a grin, exchanging it for his empty tankard, and then plucked a full one from the serving wench’s other hand.
“Don’t leave without paying up this time, Givrok,” she warned. Her look was stern, but there was a twinkle in her pale blue eyes. “And if you lose all your money in there, I’ll be taking payment from you in other ways.” She arched an eyebrow suggestively, just in case he failed to take the hint. He flashed her his best grin, hoping it came across as endearing rather than lecherous. His blunt features usually leant themselves more towards the latter than the former but, as she was being so forward, he supposed it might not be too much of a problem. For a change.
“I feel a losing streak coming on,” he said, pleased with the speed of his witty response. Nisha grinned back at him, brushing that lock of loose red hair back behind her ear again.
“I meant I’ll break your legs with the mace I keep behind the bar,” she said, raising her voice as the minstrels embarked on the lively first chorus of the ever-popular Ballad of Firuza The Failure. The smile slid from Ironshoulder’s face as he tried to work out whether she was joking or not. She gave him no clues, just stared him down until he was about to turn and escape through the door Heavyfinger had left open for him. Just as he turned, she gave him a wink. “But only after I’ve ridden you like a pony, you big ugly bastard.”
Ironshoulder laughed, and it came out a little higher-pitched than he’d hoped. At the same time, he nearly walked headfirst into the doorframe. Grabbing hold of the worn wood to steady himself, and sloshing ale over himself in the process, he looked back over his shoulder to see who’d spotted his misstep. Nisha, of course, who looked very pleased with herself. Downing his shot of feijen, he screwed his face up and tossed the empty glass back at her in an attempt to look less clumsy. She caught it deftly in one hand, and it was then that he saw the Watchman over her shoulder, the one with the ponytail, staring at him as he thoughtfully stroked his sinister goatee.
“Wirio’s Balls,” he muttered, moving swiftly into the kolkka room and pulling the door closed behind him with a bang.
Two
The kolkka room was at the very back of The Chirping Cricket, and it was a welcome place to be after the stifling atmosphere of the main room. The door at Ironshoulder’s back was thick enough to mute the noise next door to a manageable level, making it possible for the room’s occupants to converse without needing to shout. Magefire torches sat in sconces along three of the walls, illuminating flickering circles of burgundy plaster from waist height up, and charred wooden panels from the waist down. At the far end of the luxurious room, floor-to-ceiling windows had been slid away on metal grooves to integrate the immaculately-kept garden into the entertaining space. The same flagstone theme continued from the main room, all the way through the kolkka room, until they became the patio. Where the flagstones ended, manicured lawn took over, the border between them guarded by two free-standing torches positioned just far enough away from the room to prevent heat rolling in. Kamikaze moths circled in elaborate games of dare, unable to resist the pull of the simple magefire spells. Raised flowerbeds circled the garden, home to dozens of the chirping crickets that had given the tavern its name. Behind the flowerbeds was the stone wall that bordered the property, almost obscured by the row of small trees standing fractionally taller. Finally, the dark silhouettes of buildings in the next street loomed protectively over everything, pale moonlight just managing to poke through the gaps. It was tranquil, one of the rare places Ironshoulder could stop and take a moment to appreciate. It was a style reminiscent of Earth before the pollution ruined the air; minimalist and symmetrical, small spaces and clean lines. There was a good chance the owner of the tavern was a gamer, hankering after a slice of life he or she had heard their parents talking about when they were kids. Ironshoulder wanted something similar, eventually; it was why he was still living in a dormitory in the London Stillwater building in spite of his generous salary. A little place over here would do him nicely, maybe somewhere even warmer like Arunkumar, with sliding doors and an outside room he could breakfast in whilst he topped up his tan. All in good time.
“You going to stand there all night, or you going to sit your backside down and play?” Heavyfinger’s amused drawl interrupted his reverie, drawing his mind back to the moment. Who was he kidding, anyway? His Stillwater discount made spending his free time on Vangura achievable, but the same number one rule applied to him that applied to the rest of the rich pricks he was here to keep an eye on; Stillwater does not offer an emigration package. Ever.
“I like listening to The Ballad of Firuza,” he lied. “Stop spoiling it for me.”
“Well, you’re making the place look untidy.”
Someone sniggered in the background, drawing Ironshoulder’s gaze and immediately rousing his ire.
“You’re messing with the feng shui,” said the owner of the snigger. Ironshoulder and Heavyfinger rolled their eyes at each other. Ironshoulder pushed himself away from the door and strode in the direction of the voice, covering the distance in a handful of heartbeats. With six and a half feet of gym-built muscle looming menacingly over him, a second snigger died an anti-climactic death at the back of the idiot’s throat. Lekan, according to the name floating above his head. Just one name, as if that was all he needed. Dressed like some kind of baron in a silver-threaded brocade outfit with lacy cuffs poking from the sleeves, either he’d cultivated his long hair wi
th curling irons before he stepped through the portal, or he was wearing a wig that rippled over his ears like waves.
“There’s no such thing as feng-shui over here, you fucking spaniel,” Ironshoulder growled, leaning over him so only the other gamers on his table could overhear. “Think about the words you use before you say them, otherwise I’ll haul you back through the you-know-what by your ears, if I can actually find them underneath that stupid wig.”
Lekan rocked back in his comfortable, head tilting towards his chest and turning his double chin into a triple. His eyes were wide, and the reaction caused the others sitting around the kolkka table to erupt into laughter. This seemed to upset Lekan more than Ironshoulder’s threats scared him, and he forced himself forward again in an attempt to recover some respect. His eyes narrowed, and he cleared his throat.
“I suggest you remove yourself from my personal space, young man, before I call for the Watch to have your steroid-pumped body kicked onto the street where it belongs.” The room went silent. Not just Lekan’s table, but the whole room. Even the handful of patrons standing out on the lawn, puffing happily on their pipes. Taking encouragement from being centre of attention, the middle-aged pretend Lord drew himself up even straighter in his seat. “And yes,” he continued, the hint of a cruel smile curling his lip, “I’m aware that there’s also no such word as steroid in the Aneiri language, but I’m also quite certain there’s no breed of dog on this planet called a spaniel. So stick that in your pipe, and fuck off somewhere else to smoke it.”
Ironshoulder nodded, remembering the point a few seconds ago where he’d merely had his ire roused, and trying desperately to get back to that place. Nope. Wasn’t going to happen. He grabbed the foppish gamer by the collar of his extravagant shirt, and yanked him forward until his cheek was touching the table. In one smooth motion he grabbed a knife from one of the many secreted upon his person, and plunged it into the table top, skewering him to it by his frilly fabric.
“We’re off to a terrible start, Lekan,” he told the trapped man, in a low tone. “Say goodnight to your friends, it’s time to leave.”
The other patrons of the kolkka room started murmuring to each other in disbelief at the sudden change of atmosphere in the room. Heavyfinger approached, shaking his head.
“Not really how we do things, Givrok.” His muttered warning cut through Ironshoulder’s red mist like a hot knife through butter. “What you’ve done there, my friend, is ruined a perfectly good kolkka table.”
“P…please, can we talk about this?” Lekan’s piggy eyes had almost popped out of his head, and he gripped the edge of the table with both hands, bracing himself to strain against his restraint. “I’m sorry if I caused any offence, sir. Truly, I am. Why don’t you let me buy you a drink, or seven?”
Ironshoulder leant even closer and placed a hand on the hilt of his knife. He stared into Lekan’s scared eyes for a few seconds, and then swept his gaze slowly around the rest of the gamers at the table. They suddenly stopped finding everything quite so funny. When he knew he had their full attention, he opened his mouth to speak.
“Lots of City Watch here tonight, lads. On duty.” He paused, and pointed at the door they’d just come through without looking away from his reluctant audience. “One of them, in particular, is going to walk through that door in a matter of moments. I don’t know him, but I know his reputation. He’s suspicious of everyone and everything, and he’s been locking up gamers by the dozen these past few weeks. Anyone who arouses his suspicion, doesn’t matter how. It’s costing us a small fortune in bribes to get you all released, and we’re not always getting there in time to stop him asking his questions. About the way you speak, and where you come from. Your background, your family, your reasons for being in this city. The kinds of questions you don’t have detailed answers to. Not the detail that stands up under torture, anyway. You know what I’m trying to tell you?” Another pause, whilst he looked around at each of them and waited for them to nod their understanding. “Good.” He yanked the knife free and slid it back into its sheath under his tunic, just as the door handle started turning. Most of the patrons in the room had already grown bored of a conversation they could no longer hear, and had gone back to their kolkka games, assuming the excitement was over and there wasn’t going to be any bloodshed for them to enjoy, after all. The volume in the room started rising. As the door opened, the gamers seated around Lekan’s table turned to look, as one. Ironshoulder banged his fist onto the leather-covered table top, but not too hard to arouse suspicion from the newcomer who was indeed, as predicted, the ponytailed Watchman. As he slid confidently into the room, he left the door open for three of his colleagues to follow.
“Should we leave?” one of the gamers whispered, fearfully. Ironshoulder shook his head, keeping his eyes off the Watchman but clapping a friendly hand down onto Lekan’s shoulder as if was merely conversing with a long-lost friend.
“Absolutely not.” He gave them a grin that showed plenty of his whitened teeth. “We’re not here to spoil your fun, chaps. We just need you to not get arrested tonight, if that’s okay?”
“Of course.” Lekan was beaming, already the first to recover his composure. The look on his face was oily and fake, and Ironshoulder could almost see the cogs turning in his head, searching for a way to turn this situation to his advantage. He closed his eyes, dreading to think what the smarmy bastard did back in the real world. Some sort of arms dealer, perhaps? Or, even worse, a politician? He tried to force his own cogs to a similar speed, knowing he needed to remove this little toad from the tavern without arousing suspicion. He had a bad feeling about the whole situation; the City Watch, or at least certain factions within it, had never been so close to discovering the alien tourism pervading their world as they were right now. It was a dangerous game, and one that would get all the more dangerous should any of the locals discover one or more of the portals. The cogs were starting to steam a little, and it took a moment to realise that Lekan was already in the middle of following up with another, equally obsequious platitude. “…we can do to help. The last thing we want to do is to ruin the game for everybody else.” He gave a false shudder, following it up with a fake humph. “Nobody wants to be that guy. Consider us all on our best behaviour for the rest of the evening, officer.”
Ironshoulder straightened up, dead sure the Watchman’s eyes had been boring into the top of his head as it had been lowered toward the gamers. Finally, he shifted his eyes so they met with the newcomer’s. The Watchman gave him a polite nod and a smirk that implied he knew exactly what was going on here. Ironshoulder returned the nod, keeping his expression neutral. Nothing to see here. Removing his hand from Lekan’s shoulder, he started walking away.
“Don’t call me officer,” he quietly retorted over his shoulder, using Heavyfinger’s hulking presence to block the words from the Watchman’s view.
“Right you are,” Lekan drawled back, and Ironshoulder gritted his teeth as he exchanged a worried look with his fellow Stillwater agent.
“Relax,” Heavyfinger said, handing him another shot of feijen that he hadn’t even noticed him appropriate. He paused briefly with the rim of the glass perched on his bottom lip, before tipping his head back and letting the fiery liquid burn its way down his throat. “I suggest we make that your last one of the evening?” He made it sound like a question, but Ironshoulder was well aware of the implicit warning. He nodded his head in agreement, his earlier good mood banished and probably not coming back until at least the end of his shift. He was a man of action, noted for his decision-making under pressure. It was what had gotten him the job as a Stillwater fixer. That, and his questionable moral code.
“Relaxing,” he said, trying to force out as much tension as he could with the accompanying sigh. “We should stay close to that Lekan idiot, though. When this all goes tits up, I guarantee he’ll be the reason for it.”
He looked back around at the idiot in question, who brought two fingers to his temple an
d gave him a lazy salute before rolling his dice onto the kolkka table and smiling greedily at the favourable outcome. Heavyfinger followed the look, and tugged on his arm.
“Come on, let’s go and join a game at another table. We look more suspicious than a pair of nuns doing squats in a cucumber patch. No wonder the nice Watchmen followed us in here.”
He took off before Ironshoulder could decide whether or not he’d ever seen a cucumber on Vangura, ignoring the Watchmen in question as he sauntered past them towards a table on the threshold of being outside. It was close enough to keep an eye on Lekan, but far enough away that the Watchmen would have to split up if they wanted to keep an eye on both parties at the same time. Rather us than the idiot gamers, Ironshoulder thought, and pulled up a chair at the table. Pulling out a handful of duskets from the heavy purse at his belt, he shook his head disapprovingly as he counted them out. Heavyfinger shrugged as if to ask what was wrong, even though he definitely already knew. Ironshoulder paused in his counting, and fixed him with a glare.
“No cucumbers,” he mouthed.
Three
As soon as it was his turn to roll the dice, Rurhol Heavyfinger forgot he was on duty and lost himself in the game. Ironshoulder watched as the fine sheen of sweat appeared almost instantly along his hairline, and couldn’t help but wonder what financial mess his friend had gotten himself into this time. He always seemed to owe money to some loan shark or other, and they all seemed more inclined towards extending his limit rather than having their thug collectors return empty-handed and broken-boned. More fool them for lending to him in the first place, he thought.
