by Richard Ford
At the end of the passage was a huge steel door, open as though they were expected. Within, Amelia could see the real Cistern, and it filled her with disgust.
The three of them entered a scene of debauchery. Thick smoke hung in the air, a mixture of noxious and narcotic fumes blown from a dozen hookah. In the periphery of her vision, Amelia could see bare arses oscillating in frantic copulation, as heavy breaths and cries of ecstasy mixed with vile laughter and hushed conversation. And then there was the music, at once discordant and melodious… or perhaps just odious, banging like a klaxon call: hypnotic and monotonous and deafening.
As soon as she entered she was aware of a score of eyes upon her. Shadowed figures halted their conversations and slipped further into the confines of their booths. Dark faces turned away and slipped into the blackness, or summoned their tipstaffs closer that they might stand in the shadow of their protectors.
Amelia clenched her fists. Did this scum think they could be protected from her? She was the righteous wave that would one day sweep this spume away. There would be a time when the Manufactory would be free of such infection.
But that would have to wait.
For now she had other business.
She walked on, past the addicts and the dealers, the sheep and the wolves, deeper into the labyrinth of the Cistern. Every chamber she passed through was full of the depraved and debauched. The passages seemed endless, leading off into a veritable labyrinth, but Amelia knew her way, she made it her business to know. That was how you stayed ahead of the scum. Knowledge was power in the Cistern, not the strong arm of a hired thug. Knowing the enemy’s weakness, finding his lair, where he lurked in repose, unwary, unwitting. And if there was anyone Amelia knew who was unwitting, it was Trol Snapper.
They eventually reached their goal. The lock was a heavy, metal affair, set in a huge, reinforced door. A single shot from Hodge’s heavy carbine took care of it better than any key. Bounder was quick to kick the thing in, shoving it wide as he waded in, his huge cudgel swinging this way and that. As Amelia followed close behind she could not help but compare him to a knight of old, wielding his mace in the melee, every swing finding a target. Snapper’s men had no chance and those who were on their feet first were soon laid on their backs. A couple even reached for weapons but the barrel of Hodge’s carbine forced them to reconsider.
To his credit, Trol Snapper merely sat and watched the spectacle; his long equine face betraying little emotion. When he saw Amelia enter after her fantassins, he visibly relaxed. At least this was not an assault by a rival gang. Snapper knew well that the Judicature were more likely to show mercy than a rival Chamber of the Cistern. As long as it was only his men who were taking the beating, Trol would just relax and watch the show.
Amelia walked forward and sat in a chair opposite Trol’s large desk. ‘Hello, Trol,’ she said conversationally.
‘Indagator,’ he replied, with a polite nod. One of his men moaned on the floor, and she could see Trol’s eyes flicker with doubt, wondering if he was next. ‘Is this a social visit… or were you just passing?’
‘You know I like to drop in on the Cistern from time to time. When the air of the Manufactory seems too clean I like to fill my lungs with real filth.’ Amelia tugged at her leather gloves a finger at a time, removing them to reveal her slender hands. The nails were cut short and practical and the knuckles were well lined, showing a premature age. They were hands that had worked for a long time to lift her to the position she now sustained. And the work had been hard.
She reached forward and ran the middle finger of her right hand along Snapper’s desk. All eyes were on her as she silently regarded the end of her finger, rubbing it with her thumb as though smudging the filth she had just swept up.
‘Beuphalus? That name mean anything, Trol?’
‘Is it what they call that lovely scent you’re wearing?’ said Trol with a sardonic grin.
Bounder stamped down hard on the leg of one of his felled opponents. The man howled, then was silent. Trol looked unconcerned.
‘Earl Beuphalus of House Westowe,’ continued Amelia. ‘He met with quite a sticky end, Trol. Someone cut his heart out. Sounds like something you might have had a hand in.’
‘Please, Indagator. That hurts my feelings. I run a legitimate enterprise.’
‘Yes, I’m sure you can show me a full account of dockets and ledgers.’
Trol paused, looking as though someone had just caught him with his hand in the money jar. ‘Beuphalus? Let me think. Skinny, glasses, nice threads? I think I may have seen him around.’
Again Bounder stamped down hard and again a moan peeled out through the room.
‘All right,’ said Trol, holding up his hands. ‘I’ve met your Earl, but I had no idea he was dead until you just mentioned it.’
Amelia stared at Trol for several seconds, and he stared back. She prided herself on being able to sniff out a lie, and for all his blustering attempts at avoidance, Trol looked to be telling the truth. ‘Where did you meet him?’
Trol adopted a pained expression, as though thinking of the answer was giving him a headache. ‘He would come down into the Cistern on occasion, looking for a good time. When he needed protection, some of my lads would provide it.’
Amelia glanced round the room at the shoddy collection of thugs, some standing helplessly, others lying prone. ‘Yes, they seem very good at the protection thing. Who else did he mix with? Anyone from the other Chambers?’
‘We looked after him exclusively. It pays to have the favour of the Noble Houses. You should know that better than anyone.’
The aspersion offended Amelia more than she showed. The suggestion that as an Indagator of the Judicature she would curry favour with the Houses was repellent to her. But she knew there were others within her organisation who bent over backwards for the nobles, only too happy to act as little more than lapdogs for the upper classes in return for the few scraps that were thrown from the overflowing tables of the privileged.
‘Who did he spend time with? Whores? Dealers? Anyone who would have wished him harm?’
‘What can I say, he was a popular man, very generous. Besides, we provided him with all the… friends he needed. What reason would there be to kill him? He’ll be sorely missed, won’t he, lads?’ Trol looked around at his men for their agreement, to which they nodded nervously, still staring at the rock steady barrel of Hodge’s carbine.
This was fruitless, and Amelia knew it. She could always take out her frustrations by ransacking Snapper’s den, and maybe she would even find something incriminating, but what use would it be? This bog-wallowing turd would only be less inclined to tell her anything the next time she wanted to question him.
Besides, she could wait. They would all get what was coming in the end, when the inevitable tide rose to consume their sins forever.
‘Well, it’s been a pleasure,’ said Amelia, standing up and pulling her gloves back over her fingers. ‘We must do this again sometime.’
‘The pleasure’s been all mine, Indagator,’ replied Snapper with a grin.
Amelia tried to avoid looking at him, knowing that locking eyes with his smug face would only encourage her to violence. She turned and walked from the room, as Bounder and Hodge backed out behind her and slammed the door.
Her frustration burned. There were no leads now, other than the ridiculous idea that Beuphalus had been killed in some kind of blood sacrifice. Amelia refused to believe that. Any notion that demonists were at work here would quite obviously have aroused the suspicion of the First Fane of the Sancrarium. Surely their representatives would have liased with the Judicature if there was even a hint of numinous involvement in the killing? Why would she have been left out of such an important loop if that were the case?
The further they retraced their steps through the Cistern, the more it bothered her. The unshakeable feeling that something was going on that she did not know about worsened.
And she hated not knowing.
Pleasure! How could they call this pleasure? It was decadence of the most lascivious kind. Self-delusion; a way to block out the world, to wallow in ravishment and intoxication.
‘I assume from the look on your face, this little sojourn was fruitless, Amelia?’
Bounder and Hodge both reached for their weapons as Amelia swung round to face the unexpected voice.
Indagator Surrey was sprawled on a chaise longue, a scantily clad woman with a heavily made-up face was puffing from an elaborate hookah by his side. In his Indagator’s uniform he looked oddly out of place amongst this rabble, but there was something about his demeanour that also seemed to fit in so well with the bawdy surroundings.
‘Making yourself at home, Indagator Surrey?’
‘Ssshhhh,’ he replied, with a grin. ‘I’m under cover.’
‘You’re a disgrace,’ she said, turning to leave.
‘Indeed, Amelia, but I’m further along with your case than you are.’
She stopped in her tracks, turning to regard him, half wanting to leave him to his drugs and doxies, half wanting to set Bounder and Hodge on him.
‘Explain.’
‘Well, word on the street is there was a break in at one of the Manufactory’s more exclusive quarters. Something almost unheard of in this day and age. The residence of a man said to be something of a mover and shaker in the demonist community. Bit of a coincidence isn’t it? Two nobles with reputed occult connections, accosted in their own homes?’
‘Not this hocus pocus tripe again, Surrey.’
‘Well, the last time I looked, Amelia, you had no other leads. I can’t imagine the Judicature, or the Noble House of Westowe will be too pleased with your progress so far.’
She could have turned then. Could have left Surrey behind in this cesspit. But what did she have to lose.
‘All right, I’ll humour you this once. What’s his name?’
CHAPTER NINE
As Blaklok moved through the shadows of the Cistern he felt oddly comfortable in the cloying environment. The cramped tunnels meant that danger could only come from in front or behind and the echoing passages would give plenty of warning if someone was trying to give you the slip… or get the slip on you. Despite its reputation for being a hive of cutthroats and weird beasts, it felt like home to Blaklok.
There was one thing that he could not abide though, and that was the rats. Everywhere you looked they were just scurrying out of sight – that was if they even had the decency to scurry. Other times they would just sit and stare with their pink eyes, nibbling at the shit piled all around or fucking and fighting in plain view. Blaklok hated them, they were too quick by far and they stared at him. He hated being stared at by anything he could not stare out.
Of course, the Cistern was home to rats of a different kind; scavengers and thieves forced from the streets of the Manufactory to the realms of subterranea. The gamins of the streets were one particular unwanted pest, and if caught they would be placed in the labour houses, locked away from the world to slave until they were old enough to be pressed into service elsewhere. But down in the Cistern, the urchins were allowed to run riot… within reason. Sometimes the Chambers would organise a cull if the ragamuffins got out of hand, but that had not happened for years.
Most of these feral children fended for themselves or gathered in tight groups, but there was one gang that was organised, almost well enough to rival the lowliest of the Chambers. The Ring O’ Thieves, as it was known, was the eyes and ears of the Cistern. Its members would be quick to fleece the unwary, and even stooped to murder if the price was right, but they were loyal to one another and cared a great deal about the welfare of their fellows. It was this that Blaklok respected, and why he preferred to deal with them and not the Chambers.
He knew the Thieves’ burrow well, and had always been made welcome in years past. He only hoped that there was still a member of the Ring who was old enough to remember him.
As he crept up on the entrance to their lair in the dark, he could see the scraggy looking sentry they had posted nearby. The boy was young, nowhere near double figures, and he seemed a bit lax in his duties, more intent on fiddling with what was in his shabby trousers than watching out for danger.
Thaddeus stuck to the shadows, his boots matching the beat of the water that wept from the brick roof of the tunnel. Before the boy realised, a meaty hand was clamped over his mouth. He struggled, his hand flashing from his torn and stained trousers to the blade in his pocket, but Thaddeus quickly clamped his arm in an iron grip.
‘Knock, knock,’ whispered Blaklok in the boy’s ear, and slowly removed his hand.
‘I ain’t got nuffin mister, honest,’ squealed the boy. ‘You can check me if you wants.’
‘I’m not interested in anything you’ve got,’ Blaklok replied. ‘Now, present me to the Chiseller, if he’s still top dog around here, that is.’
The boy nodded eagerly as Blaklok released him from his iron grip, and quickly kicked a pile of stinking refuse aside to reveal a small metal grille, about four feet high. Two quick raps with a stick, followed by three slower ones and the grille popped open. The boy dashed in, and Blaklok stooped to follow, hearing the grille crash down with a clang behind him.
The tunnel was cramped and Blaklok had to crouch low as he moved through it. It was hell on his knees but mercifully short, and came out into what first appeared to be a child’s playground in the most insalubrious part of town. Scruffy adolescents ran amok in a large room, whooping and screaming at each other like wild harridans. Their faces were filthy, but even the dirt could not mask their delight as they ran free, climbing, fighting and wassailing in a vast feral dance. It made Blaklok want to smile. He hadn’t seen so many bright and cheery faces in a long time.
As soon they got to the room, the boy who had led him here disappeared into the throng. The children nearest to Thaddeus suddenly stopped their merry making and simply stared. The reaction spread throughout the room, as the children seemed infected by a wave of stillness that emanated from Blaklok. He and the children regarded each other for several seconds, until a shout of ‘Cut!’ rang out from the other side of the chamber. Instantly the children were in motion again, running for hidden exits and crawling through tiny rat holes.
From the back of the room strode a rangy youth. He was dressed in a long coat that would once have been expensive, and he wore a battered pork pie hat, skewed at a jaunty angle. The Chiseller marched right up to Thaddeus and stopped, regarding him arrogantly as he chewed the inside of his cheek, as though assessing an intruder on his territory. Then, with a flourish, he grasped the hat from his head and bowed low.
‘Always an honour to have the great Thaddeus Blaklok in my house,’ he said. ‘How long’s it been? About five years?’
‘Chiseller,’ answered Blaklok with a nod. ‘Good to see you again.’
The Chiseller beckoned Blaklok to the back of the room where there were chairs and even a makeshift table made from hammered together crates. Blaklok seated himself in one of the chairs and regarded the Chiseller with an appraising stare. The boy had grown since they had last met, and though he was barely out of his teens he ran one of the biggest rackets in the Cistern, all beneath the noses of the Chambers. He deserved respect, despite his youth.
A young girl suddenly walked from the shadows, bearing a chipped teapot, and poured two cups of steaming brew. The Chiseller reached into his inside pocket and pulled out a rusty hip flask, pouring a generous draft into his own cup. He offered it but Blaklok raised a hand in refusal.
‘Oh, I forgot, you’ve changed your ways,’ said the Chiseller. ‘Healthy mind, healthy body and all that shit. Can’t see the point myself. Well,’ he raised the mug of tea and tincture, and blew the steam away, ‘what can I do you for?’
‘I need a name, is all.’
‘Well, names I can do
.’ The Chiseller slurped at his tea noisily. ‘Any name in particular?’
‘A man was in the Cistern recently, asking about one of the nobs from up top, a landed Earl name of Beuphalus. He has something to do with a cult called Legion. I need to find him.’
Chiseller snapped his fingers and a boy scurried forward. ‘Get me Snatcher,’ he ordered, and the boy quickly scampered away into the dark.
The smile never left Chiseller’s face as he enjoyed his brew. Thaddeus merely sat and waited, listening to the sounds of the underworld as they dripped and squeaked and moaned all around him. Within seconds, two sets of footsteps approached from the gloom, and Blaklok could see that the boy was returning, accompanied by another urchin, this one gaunt as a cadaver, his hair shaved to the skull but for an inch long tuft at the front. The boy stopped by Chiseller’s side, head bowed.
‘Mr Blaklok here, he wants some information,’ said the Chiseller, not even bothering to look at the boy, who Thaddeus could only assume was Snatcher. ‘Remember you told me you got a crown for telling some bloke about one of the nobs?’ Snatcher nodded vigorously. ‘Can you remember who the bloke was?’ Snatcher glanced at Blaklok, then leaned forward and whispered in the Chiseller’s ear. A smile crossed his face as he listened to the boy, then, when he had finished, the Chiseller signalled for him to leave. The two scruffy gamins rushed off quickly.
‘Geezer’s named Castor Cage. Apparently he was asking about this Beuphalus all over the Cistern, and didn’t care who knew about it. Snatcher says he’s back in the Cistern right now asking more questions. He’s interested in the Repository, you know, the one with all the funny fucking animals, and there’s a meeting planned with a bloke in Big Betha’s.’
