Mistworld (Deathstalker Prelude)

by Simon R. Green

  “I can look after myself.” Donald stood up, unlaced his purse from his belt, and threw it down on the desk. It landed heavily with a solid-sounding thud. “There’s a hundred and fifty, in gold. As a retainer. You’re working for me now. Is that acceptable?”

  “Gold is always acceptable. And I was… fond of Jamie. All right, you’ve got yourself a deal. Just try not to get in my way too much.”

  “I’ll try,” said Donald. “Now can we please get a move on? I don’t want to be caught out on the street when night falls.”

  Skye sighed, and got to her feet. She picked up the purse and laced it to her belt, then smiled suddenly at Donald. “I always wondered where Jamie got his stubbornness from.”

  Donald Royal hadn’t been inside the Redlance for over twenty years, and was astonished to find the place hadn’t changed at all. It was just as ratty and disgusting as he remembered. The air was thick with the smell of sweat and urine and assorted drugs, and the unrelenting clamour hurt his ears. It was a wonder to him that anyone in the packed crowd could hear anything in such a bedlam. He made his way slowly down the stone stairway into the tavern, followed closely by the cloaked and hooded figure of Madelaine Skye. For reasons best known to herself, she had insisted on pulling her hood all the way forward so that it hid her face. Donald had decided not to ask. He didn’t think he really wanted to know.

  No one paid him any attention as he made his way through the crowd to the bar. Donald felt just a little annoyed about that. On the one hand, the last thing he wanted was to draw attention to himself, but then again there was a time, not that long ago surely, when his entrance into a place like the Redlance would have stopped everyone dead in their tracks. He smiled sourly as he forced his way through the press of bodies. It was only to be expected, after all; half the people here hadn’t even been born when he was busy making himself a legend. He stopped as Skye suddenly tugged at his arm and pointed out Pieter Gaunt, the new manager of the Redlance. Donald headed towards him, and was somewhat mollified when Gaunt recognised him immediately.

  “Well, Councillor, this is a pleasant surprise,” said Gaunt cheerfully, shaking Donald’s hand just a little too firmly. “What brings the famous Donald Royal to the Redlance? Looking for a little something to warm your old bones, perhaps?”

  Donald stared coldly at Gaunt. He didn’t like the man’s condescending tone in the least. “I’m looking for Donovan Shrike. Is he here?”

  “He might be. Depends on what you want with him.”

  Donald looked steadily at Pieter Gaunt, and something in the old man’s eyes took the mockery out of Gaunt’s face. For a moment, something of the old Royal legend lived again, and Gaunt felt a sudden chill shudder through him. He remembered the things he’d heard about Donald Royal in his heyday, and somehow they didn’t seem so unlikely anymore. The dark grey eyes locked unrelentingly onto his, and Gaunt swallowed dryly. This man is dangerous, he thought suddenly, and fought down an urgent need to call for his bodyguards. A cold sweat beaded his forehead.

  “I want to see Shrike,” said Donald Royal. “Point him out to me.”

  Gaunt started to nod agreement, and then the old man’s hold over him was broken as one of his bodyguards stepped forward to stand between him and Royal. Gaunt tore his gaze away, and leant back against the bar as the tension drained slowly out of him. He looked again at Donald Royal, and saw only an old man in a shabby cloak, but still he shivered as he remembered the dark grey eyes that had held him so easily. That man is still dangerous.…

  The bodyguard stabbed Donald in the chest with a stubby finger. “When you speak to Mr. Gaunt, you speak politely. Got it?”

  Donald looked at him warily, taking in the man’s great size and musculature. Madelaine was nowhere in sight. “This is a private conversation,” he said politely. “I don’t see any need for you to get involved.”

  “Tough. You looking for trouble?”

  “No,” said Donald, “I’m not looking for trouble.”

  “Good. Because you’re leaving; right now.”

  “I haven’t finished my business yet.”

  “Yes you have. I say so. Want to make something of it?”

  “I really don’t want any trouble. Just let me finish my business, and then I’ll leave.”

  The bodyguard smiled, and flexed his muscles. “I guess your hearing must be going. You don’t seem to be getting the message. You leave when I tell you to. Mr. Gaunt has better things to do than stand around listening to scruffy old men who think they can throw their weight about. Now, do you want to walk out, or would you rather go out on the end of my boot?”

  “Do you know who I am?”

  “No. Don’t care much either. You should have walked while you had the chance. Now I’m going to have to teach you some manners, the hard way. I think I’ll start with your fingers.”

  He grinned unpleasantly, and reached out a hand to take Donald by the arm. Donald’s fist whipped out from under his cloak and slammed into the bodyguard’s gut, just above the groin. The bodyguard let out his breath in a brief, sobbing grunt. His face screwed up in agony, and then he collapsed on the floor. Donald slipped the heavy steel knuckle-duster off his hand, and put it back in his pocket. There was a sudden scuffling sound behind him, and he spun round sword in hand just in time to see Skye stab another bodyguard through the heart. Donald nodded his thanks, and turned back to face Pieter Gaunt. The manager of the Redlance looked at his two fallen bodyguards and shook his head sadly. He’d fully regained his composure, and if his face seemed a little pale, that was probably just a trick of the light.

  “I don’t seem to be having much luck with my bodyguards lately,” he said evenly. “It would appear you haven’t lost your touch over the years, Councillor.”

  Donald smiled. “I’m as good as I ever was, only nastier.”

  “So I see. Who’s your anonymous friend?”

  “Just a friend who prefers to remain anonymous. Where’s Donovan Shrike?”

  “He’s in one of the private booths, third from the left.” Gaunt gestured at the row of enclosed wooden cubicles at the far right of the tavern.

  Donald nodded politely. “Thank you. Please see that we’re not disturbed.” Sword still in hand, he moved away without waiting for Gaunt’s answer. Skye moved quickly in beside him, and Donald noted approvingly that she hadn’t sheathed her sword either. The heavy blade was a comforting weight in his hand as he approached the row of cubicles. The crowd parted before him and Skye and closed again after them, without ever once pausing in its various conversations. Drawn swords were apparently fairly commonplace in the Redlance. Donald stopped before the booth Gaunt had pointed out to him, and knocked on the closed door. There was no answer. Donald pushed the door open, and then came to a halt. A short, scrawny man lay slumped forward across the booth’s table. His throat had been cut. Blood dripped steadily from the table’s edge into a widening pool on the floor. Donald moved quickly forward into the cubicle, and pulled Skye in after him. He slammed the door shut, and then searched the booth for clues while Skye examined the body.

  “I take it that is Shrike?” he said tightly.

  “Yes,” said Skye. “He hasn’t been dead long.”

  “Somebody didn’t want him to talk to us. Gaunt?”

  “I doubt it. Not his style.”

  Donald gave up on his search, and looked thoughtfully at the dead man. “At least now we know we’re on the right trail“

  “There is that, I suppose,” said Skye. “Damn! He could have saved us a lot of time. Now what do we do?”

  Donald frowned. “No one will talk to us after this. They’ll be afraid to. But we’ve still got one name left, someone we know Jamie was working with.”

  “Leon Vertue.”

  “Right. It’s too late in the evening to go after him now, even assuming we could get past his security. And anyway, I want to do a little background work on him first. Maybe I can find some leverage to use against him. Give me your code number and
I’ll call you sometime tomorrow.”

  “No, I’ll contact you. My office doesn’t have a comm unit. Give me your private code, and I’ll be in touch.”

  Donald shrugged. “If that’s the way you want it.” He looked at Shrike’s lifeless body, and then looked away. Despite all the many deaths he’d seen down the years, it never got any easier. Sudden, violent death still sickened him, in his soul if not his stomach. In a way, he was glad. It meant he was still human. He’d seen too many killing machines in his time. They usually ended up killing themselves when they ran out of enemies. He turned and left the cubicle, and Skye followed him, carefully shutting the door behind her. They made their way back through the crowd and up the stairway, and out into the night.

  From the shadows of his private cubicle, next door to Shrike’s, the mercenary called Blackjack watched them go. As soon as he’d seen Donald Royal enter the Redlance, Blackjack had known Shrike would have to be silenced. He knew too much, even if he didn’t realise it himself. Blackjack looked thoughtfully at the hooded figure with Royal. It had been a woman’s voice in the cubicle, but he hadn’t recognised it. He’d better find out who she was. But first, it might be a good idea to run a check on Councillor Royal. He might be nothing more than an old man living on his legend, but he seemed to be doing all right so far. Maybe Vertue was right to be worried about him after all. Still, if worst came to worst, Councillor Royal could always have a little accident. It shouldn’t be too difficult to arrange. Perhaps a fall; everyone knew old men had trouble with stairs.

  Blackjack left the booth and strode confidently out into the tavern, to follow Donald Royal and his companion. It wouldn’t do for anything to go wrong at this stage; not when Vertue’s plans were finally nearing completion.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  * * *

  Gallowtree Gate

  CYDER stood alone in the wrecked bar of the Blackthorn tavern. The city Watch had been and gone, and the dead and the mindburned had been taken away. That had been three days ago, yet despite all Cyder’s efforts, the bar remained a wreck. The windows were cracked and starred. Deep gouges had been made in the panelled walls; they looked like claw marks, but no one knew what had made them. The great brass clock over the bar had stopped a few minutes after two. Its interior was intact and undamaged, but still the hands remained fixed in position. The tables and the chairs were gone; Cyder didn’t have the money to replace broken furniture.

  There were no customers; people were afraid to enter the Blackthorn. Cyder didn’t blame them. She hadn’t had a good night’s sleep since the devastation, and often woke trembling from nightmares she preferred not to remember. Cat had altered his sleeping habits to spend the nights with her, and she found some comfort in his arms, but even he couldn’t protect her from the dreams. It wouldn’t be so bad if she’d had some idea of what had happened in her tavern after she’d left. Out of all the victims, neither the living nor the dead had provided any answers. The brainburned were being treated in Mistport’s one and only hospital, but so far not one of them had responded to either drugs or espers. Their minds were gone. The autopsies on the dead all yielded the same result: death by heart failure. In the end, all deaths can be described as heart failure. Three days had passed since Cyder returned to find her tavern a charnel house, and still no one could tell her how or why it happened.

  Or why the four guests on the first floor had been driven quite insane.

  Something evil had come to the Blackthorn, and traces of its presence still remained. There was a permanent chill to the air despite the roaring fire. Even the quietest sound seemed to echo on and on endlessly. Oil lamps and lanterns filled the bar, but still the empty room remained dim and gloomy and the shadows were very dark. Cyder stared about her, and then put aside the broom she’d been pushing aimlessly about the floor. She had to face the truth. Even if there had been customers, she had little left to offer them. Nothing less than a total refitting could save the Blackthorn, and she didn’t have that kind of money. Cyder turned her back on the deserted bar, and made her way to the private stairway at the rear. She’d have to speak to Cat. She’d put it off as long as she could, but there was only one chance left to her now, if she wasn’t to lose everything. A chance she had to take, even if it meant putting Cat at risk.

  She slowly climbed the winding flight of stairs up to the tiny attic at the very top of the Blackthorn, wondering all the way just how she was going to break the news to Cat. When she finally pushed open the door, Cat was waiting for her, already dressed in his white thermal suit. His working clothes. Cyder smiled, and shook her head wryly. There were times when she wondered if Cat was a secret telepath. He grinned slyly back at her, and jerked his head at the shuttered window, asking if there was a job for him.

  “Yes,” said Cyder. “There’s a job for you, my dear. But this is going to be a tricky one, and I have to do some thinking first. Come and sit beside me.”

  She sat down on the bed at the far side of the room, and Cat came over to sit at her side. He slipped an arm round her waist, and she hugged him to her. More and more she found she needed the simple unquestioning support Cat offered her. Cyder had spent all her adult life looking out for herself, fighting off her enemies with ruthless skill, and making opportunities if there were none conveniently to hand. She never forgot a slight, and she never let a favour go unpaid. She trusted no one, cared for no one, was beholden to no one. It was a lonely life, but it was hers. And yet now all her vaunted cunning and business sense had come to nothing. Her fencing income had dropped to an all-time low, and her tavern was finished. What little money she had left dwindled day by day, and she was fast running out of options. Cat stared worriedly at her, and Cyder looked at him almost fondly. My poor Cat, she thought wistfully. All this time you’ve depended on me to do the thinking for both of us, and now, when it really matters, I haven’t a bloody clue what to do for the best.

  Cat sensed her despair, and gently pulled her head down onto his shoulder. He held her firmly in his arms and rocked her back and forth, as though soothing a worried child. He wished he had words of comfort to give her, but there was nothing in his throat but silence. He gave her what ease he could, and waited for her to find her strength again. Sooner or later she would work out what to do, and he would go and do it for her.

  Cyder buried her face in his neck, her thoughts drifting tiredly from one vague hope to another. She needed money, and in a hurry. She could always send Cat out to do a spot of roof running, but she didn’t like going into jobs blind. A successful burglary needed to be planned days in advance, with every danger weighed and allowed for. And even then, there were far too many things that could go wrong. If Cat were to get caught on a job, she’d be very upset. He was her main asset now. She frowned fiercely. She didn’t like the direction her thoughts were heading in, but as far as she could see, she didn’t have any other choice.

  It was all Steel’s fault, anyway. The only reason she’d been away from the Blackthorn when all hell broke loose was because she’d been trying to promote a little business with Port Director Steel. They’d worked well enough together in the past, but this time all he’d offered had been a chance at fencing some of the loot he expected to acquire from the Balefire. And even that would have to wait till it had cooled down a little. Cyder scowled. She couldn’t afford to wait; she needed the money now. All Steel’s fault; if she’d been at the tavern when things started to go wrong she might have been able to do… something.… She sighed regretfully. No matter which way she looked, she kept coming up with the same answer: the only remaining deal that could help her now. A deal not without its share of risks… She sat up straight, and gently pushed Cat’s arms away from her. He saw the business look on her face, and obediently sat alertly beside her, waiting for instructions.

  “I have a job for you,” said Cyder slowly. “There’s no risk involved, as long as you’re careful. I want you to go and meet a man for me. His name’s Starlight, Captain Starlight of the Balefi
re. At the tenth hour, you’ll find him in the Gallowtree Gate cemetery, in the Merchants Quarter. He’ll show you a sample of his merchandise. If it’s a good enough quality, report back to me, and I’ll set up a meeting to arrange the transaction. Now, watch yourself on this one, Cat. Legally speaking, Starlight won’t be allowed to take anything with him from the Balefire; all valuables should have been turned over to the port as docking fees. So, anything Starlight has, he must have smuggled off the landing field. And since Port Director Steel is known far and wide as an extremely suspicious man, the odds are Starlight is being very carefully watched. The Captain assured me he could shake off any tail long enough for this meeting, but I don’t want you taking any chances, Cat. If Steel discovers we’re trying to cut him out, he’ll have our guts for garters. If you spot anyone, anyone at all you don’t like the look of, don’t try and make contact with Starlight. Just get the hell out of there and come straight back to me. Got it?”

  Cat nodded. All in all, it seemed a simple enough job, as long as he watched his back. He kissed Cyder goodbye, did it again because he enjoyed it, and then moved quickly over to stand before the shuttered window. He activated the heating elements in his suit, checked they were all working correctly, and then pulled the cowl up and over his head. Cyder unbolted the shutters and pushed them open, wincing as a blast of freezing air rushed into the room. Cat pulled on his gloves, ran his hands quickly over his body to check he hadn’t forgotten anything, and then stepped lithely up onto the windowsill. He nodded to Cyder, and reached up and grabbed the two steel hoops set into the stonework above the window. He took a firm hold, flexed his muscles, and then swung out of the window and up onto the roof. The shutters slammed together behind him.

  The sun had gone down into evening, but the real cold of the night hadn’t begun yet. Cat padded cautiously across the snow-covered tiles to perch on a weather-beaten gable. He stared calmly about him, getting used to the cold and judging the gusting wind. The mists were heavy, and there was a feeling of snow in the air. Not the best of conditions for roof running. Cat shrugged, and grinned to himself. The worse the conditions, the better he was hidden from prying eyes. It all equalled out. He crouched thoughtfully on the gable, looking for all the world like a ghostly gargoyle. A thought came to him, and his grin widened. If he was going to meet Starlight by the tenth hour, he was going to have to cover a hell of a lot of ground in a short time. And there was only one sure way of doing that.…