by Richard Ford
Thaddeus nodded. It never ceased to amaze him how much information the Ring could gather, but then people rarely suspected children of being spies; they were often underestimated. It was a mistake Thaddeus promised himself never to make.
‘I know it,’ he replied. ‘What do I owe?’
The Chiseller grinned and held up a placatory hand. Thaddeus could see that one of his canines gleamed gold. ‘Let’s put it in the bank shall we. Save it for Ron.’
‘Later-on it is,’ replied Blaklok, standing. He turned to leave, then stopped. The Chiseller was still sitting and smiling. ‘I’d stay out of Betha’s for a while if I was you,’ he said. ‘It might get a bit messy.’
‘I’ll spread the word, Mr Blaklok,’ said the Chiseller, after draining his mug dry.
As Thaddeus left the Ring’s den he carefully checked his pockets, to ensure he still had everything he had arrived with.
Castor Cage could only be interested in the Repository for one thing – the Key of Lunos – that meant the Legion really were brewing something nasty. It also meant that Tarquin Bates had been a source of valuable information – would wonders never cease.
Blaklok couldn’t let this go. He knew his time was running out, that he had to get his hands on the Key as soon as possible, but if there were other interested parties it would behove him well to know about them. If this Castor Cage was meeting someone in regard to the Repository it wouldn’t hurt to tag along, would it?
The entrance to Big Betha’s was just a simple blue doorway in the side of a tunnel. There was no bouncer or sentry and nothing to give it away as a place of interest within the Cistern. Bouncers were not necessary at Big Betha’s; if your name wasn’t down you definitely weren’t getting in. Luckily, Blaklok was always invited.
As he turned the handle he felt the tingle run through his palm and forearm; a tingle of preternatural recognition. The door gave a sigh as he opened it, the wards placed there allowing him entry. This was a place frequented by the Community, and only they were allowed in. Blaklok had not been amongst their number for some years, and he was relieved he still held some clout, at least in a shady whorehouse.
The inside of Big Betha’s contrasted starkly with the tunnel that led to its entrance. Thaddeus could feel the plush carpet underfoot, could smell the fine mix of tobacco smoke and suede upholstery. The room grumbled with the murmur of hushed voices and he immediately felt at ease. Several patrons gave him a flaccid glance, but none seemed concerned at his arrival. It was a welcome change for Blaklok, so used was he to the running and the pleading that so often occured whenever he made an entrance.
Thaddeus walked up to bar and leaned against the polished oak top. It almost felt like old times and he had to catch himself before he threw off his coat and ordered a drink. Luckily, as he saw the ample form of Big Betha approaching, he remembered he was here on business.
‘Didn’t expect to see you in here again, Mr Blaklok. Word was you’d gone all puritanical.’
‘You should know better than to believe everything people tell you, Betha. I just came to relax and take in the ambience.’
‘A likely tale,’ said Betha, raising one painted-on eyebrow. She leaned against the bar, the tremulous flesh of her upper body moving independently of the tight scarlet bustier she was barely wearing. Had Blaklok not known her from old he would have found the fat bitch quite repulsive. As it was he had grown use to the old whore’s look.
‘As it happens I’m also looking for an old mucker of mine. Man by the name of Castor Cage. Any chance you’ve seen him?’
Betha gave a wry smile, seeming to know there was more to this than an innocent reunion. ‘As a matter of fact you’re in luck. Your old mucker’s over there.’ She pointed towards a shady booth in one corner. ‘He’s a regular of mine, though I’ve not seen so much of him lately. He popped in today for the first time in I don’t know how long. Seems a bit out of sorts at the minute. I think he might be poorly.’
Blaklok glanced over, and could just make out a figure sitting in the shadows. Betha continued to prattle on, but he was already striding towards the booth.
The hooded figure never looked up as he slid into the leather seat opposite. There was an uneasy silence for several moments as Blaklok stared at the man, his eyes trying to penetrate the shadowy confines of the hood and see the eyes beneath, but it was no use.
‘Castor Cage,’ he said finally. ‘You know me?’
The hood did not move. This one was tough. Either that or he had no idea who Blaklok was, and of that there was little chance; not down here, not in this kind of place. ‘Word is you’ve been asking questions. What’s your business with Beuphalus of Westowe? You the one as cut out his heart are you?’
There was a flicker of movement – the slightest of reactions that an unpractised eye might have missed, but not Blaklok’s.
‘No? Don’t know anything ’bout that one? What about the Repository? What’s up with that? Something there you’re interested in?’
Still no answer.
‘Don’t fuck with me, lad,’ Blaklok spat, his arm snapping out to grasp the hood. He had meant to grab Cage’s ear, to pull him forward over the table, but as his hand made contact he could feel no ear beneath the hood, just a hard leathery skull. Cage’s hand shot up, faster than Blaklok could have believed. Before he knew it, he was the one being grabbed, steely fingers biting deep into his wrist, harder than any human’s.
And then the table was gone from between them, sent spinning across the room, and Castor Cage was on his feet. The man was huge, standing what must have been close to eight feet tall, and he raised Blaklok high in his one hand, allowing him to dangle like a doll. Thaddeus caught sight of the face beneath the hood for a brief moment, eyes slit like a lizard’s, face mottled and rough. It was just the briefest of glimpses before he was sent hurtling across the room.
The oak bar slammed solid into his ribs, knocking the wind out of him, and he fell to the carpet, trying to suck in a breath that just wouldn’t come. Blaklok could hear the commotion, the shouts of surprise, Betha yelling across the room, drinks being spilled as people tried to escape the violence.
Still the air wouldn’t come and Blaklok tried to rise, tried to face Cage as he came at him again, but when he looked up the giant had gone. He just had time to see the blue door closing before his view was blocked by Betha’s gelatinous figure.
Blaklok looked up, able to do nothing more than rise to his knees and gasp in what little air would fit in his deflated lungs.
‘You’re barred,’ chimed Betha, that painted eyebrow rising higher than he had ever seen it before.
Well, that could have gone better, he thought, staggering to his feet. But then, as he felt the sting of his ribs, he reckoned it could have gone a lot bloody worse.
CHAPTER TEN
Geffle loved the snatch at Big Betha’s. He spent most of his time there, slurping it up and sticking it in, that was when he could afford it of course. When he couldn’t he would just sit in a corner and try to get a sniff, soaking it all up, feeding on it with his senses rather than his wet end. Today had been just such an occasion, a dry spell until he could manage to grift himself some coin. He had been happy to sit and soak it all in, nursing his glass of White-Eye and watching the tit as it sidled past, every girl ignoring him and focusing on the moneyed punters.
However, after several hours of the same-old-same-old, it was turning out to be a bit of a dead loss, and even Geffle was growing bored with the spectacle and preparing to take his leave.
That was until the big man walked in.
It was like a hush descended on the place as soon as he appeared through the door, all big and bald and black-garbed, sidling up to the bar like he owned the place. Geffle knew he was after something, as a Cistern-snitch he made it his business to sniff out the bizarre amongst the innocuous; it was how he earned a crust. There was always someone looking to get some information, and in the Cistern there was always news, and Geffle was usuall
y the man to get it. He had talent, a peeled eye and a pricked ear, and it paid to keep them tuned in at all times because you never knew when something would come your way.
And as the big man sidled in, Geffle got the feeling it was payday.
As Betha pointed him towards a booth in the corner, Geffle followed her gesture, his eyes seeing someone in a dark corner, someone he had not noticed before now. How could that be? Geffle noticed everyone; that was his bloody business. For someone to have entered Betha’s under his radar was a cunning feat indeed. Things were growing queerer by the second… and Geffle liked it.
As the big man walked towards the booth, Geffle slipped from his position in the corner and moved closer, keeping to the shadows, never looking directly at his mark. That was the secret you see, if your eyes were not on them they’d never know you were there, they wouldn’t get that prickly feeling at the back of their neck warning that someone was following them, and they wouldn’t turn around and spot you. It was a clever trick Geffle had learned from a Sandlander who had managed to make his way into the Manufactory. Geffle remembered the lessons the Sandlander had taught him well, right up until he had gutted the wrinkly vagrant. Even now he still wore the Sandlander’s hempen belt under his shirt as a reminder of the good times.
When the big bloke had sat down opposite the mystery man in the booth, Geffle took up position right behind them. Now was the listening time; making sure you were stock still, blocking out the ambient noise and focusing on the voices. Well, the voice anyway, because the fellow in the shadows didn’t seem to want to say much.
Whenever you couldn’t quite hear a conversation it was always the names that stood out the most. Geffle heard two amidst the muffled noise; Castor Cage and Beuphalus of Westowe. Only one of those he had heard of – Earl Beuphalus, one of the nobs from upstairs. Geffle bristled with excitement as soon as he recognised it. This could be valuable indeed if these two were plotting. He knew Trol Snapper looked after the Earl, and if Geffle had uncovered a plot from a rival Chamber, Trol would pay hearty for the skinny on it.
Trying his best to suppress his excitement, Geffle turned his attention back to his marks. The tingling he was feeling inside was just like the thrill he felt when he was eavesdropping on a courting couple. He loved that the best, listening from the dark when they didn’t know he was there, hearing for her gasps of passion to peal through the shadows while Geffle held his cock in his hand, stroking himself stupid. This was much the same – except for the part where he was pulling his old man – and he stretched his hearing as far as it would go to try and learn more. But there was no more to learn.
The heavy table went flying across the room and the sounds of a scuffle replaced the low voice of the big man. He had obviously changed tack: time for talking over, time for fighting started.
Geffle was already underneath the table at his own booth just in case. Well, you never knew did you, it wasn’t worth getting a flying glass smashed in your face just for a better view.
He expected the big man to come out fighting, to have the other in a headlock or some such, but that wasn’t the case. Like he was being shot from a cannon, the big bald one came flying out of the booth, slamming against the bar and sprawling to the carpet. Geffle smiled; he didn’t look so hard now, all in a heap and gasping for air. He quickly tried to get a glimpse of the other figure who had been in the shadows but he was already gone, through the door and away before the dust had even settled. Now there was a wily one, Geffle thought. He would be sure to try and get some lessons from that one if the opportunity ever arose.
He stayed under the table until the commotion was over. Betha, as ever, wasn’t too pleased with the disruption in her place, and sent the bald bloke on his way once he could stand.
Geffle tried to look as insouciant as possible as he moved up beside her at the bar. She regarded him with her usual disdain, but Geffle could handle that. As long as he kept spending his coin in her place she was happy to let him patronise her.
‘Who was that then?’ he asked conversationally.
‘You mean you don’t know Thaddeus Blaklok?’ she said.
Geffle was as surprised as Betha.
Thaddeus fucking Blaklok.
So that was him. Legendary strongarm, dabbler and all round cold bastard. Word was he was out of the game nowadays, but things must have changed. Obviously he had run out of money, that happened to them all eventually. Speaking of which, Geffle would never make any cash standing round in Betha’s bordello.
With a curt nod he was out of the door, in time to see the back of Blaklok heading hastily down the tunnel to his right. Geffle made after him, trying to keep as discreet a distance as he could but he quickly reconsidered. If this Blaklok was as good as the legends said it wouldn’t be long before he realised he was being tailed. That was the last thing Geffle needed. Besides, the big man was heading towards the Pits, and that was a place Geffle knew he wasn’t welcome. He decided it was time to make some money.
The route to Trol Snapper’s lair was an easy one, and Geffle almost sprinted all the way there. He was known in the Cistern, particularly around Snapper’s Chamber, and he passed without incident. What he expected when he got to Trol’s place was certainly not what he got.
Even before he arrived at the door he could hear Snapper’s voice raised high, growling and barking like he was wont to do on occasion. Geffle half turned, not wanting to disturb Trol when he was in such a mood, but the promise of coin was just too alluring.
A black powder stain and some twisted metal was all that remained of the door handle. As Geffle gingerly pushed the steel door open, the volume of Trol’s tirade grew louder. He was railing at his men, three of whom looked as though they’d just had the shit kicked out of them. His wide wooden desk, which usually looked so pristine and ordered, was in disarray, papers flung every which way as a result of Snapper’s ire.
Trol turned, focusing his rage on a man sitting in the corner, a bloody bandage wrapped around his head, his face looking all sullen and lost. ‘And you! Fucking useless ape. The next time I tell you–’
He suddenly spotted the miniscule figure framed in the doorway. Everything seemed to stop, even time, as Geffle was caught in Snapper’s glare. Immediately he knew he had made a mistake, but he had been so eager to make a report and possibly glean a reward that he had thought the risk worth taking. Now, as Trol bore down on him, he regretted his avarice.
‘What the fuck do you want!?’ screamed Snapper, turning his attention from his sullen thug to the stranded figure of Geffle, who stared blankly like vermin in the cross hairs of a longrifle.
‘I-I was just–’
‘Get the fuck out you little shit.’
Geffle turned, eager to escape, grasping the corner of the big steel door to pull it closed behind him.
Then he stopped.
It was like a little voice was speaking at the back of his head. It was a voice that belonged to his greedy, selfish side, the side that wanted to eat something other than fried rat and wanted to suck on those tits at Big Betha’s rather than just watch someone else doing it. It was usually less commanding than the self-preserving, pusillanimous side of his nature that had kept him alive for so long down in the Cistern, but on this occasion it was starting to win out.
‘I’ve got news,’ said Geffle, before he had even realised it.
Snapper stopped. Despite his fury, Trol knew that when Geffle came with information it was not to be spurned. ‘Then what are you fucking waiting for? Come in.’
Geffle gave a half smile and entered the room. It was a mess, with hefty men sitting around looking sheepish, but he did his best to ignore them.
‘There’s been an altercation at Big Betha’s,’ he said. ‘A fight, two big ’uns, monsters they were. One of them was big and bald but the other, well, I never got to see much of him.’
Trol regarded Geffle with his small blue eyes, and gave an insightful nod. ‘So, you’ve come all this way, and interrupted my mee
ting, to tell me about a barfight in some fucking spunk-covered hook shop? Are you trying to get fucking killed, Geffle?’
With that Trol picked up the nearest heavy object, which happened to be a hat-stand bereft of the requisite hats, and flung it in Geffle’s general direction. Geffle ducked, hearing the clatter of the stand behind him, and looked up in time to see Snapper bearing down, big hands outstretched.
‘They were talking about Beuphalus, the Earl of Westowe,’ he blurted, eager to finish his tale before Trol could throttle him. ‘He’s one of your nobs isn’t he? I thought you’d want to know.’
Trol Snapper stopped, his meaty hands inches from Geffle’s throat. ‘What else did they say?’ he asked, seeming to suddenly calm.
‘All I got was names, then they started fighting, but it was a bit one sided.’
Trol turned and strolled back to the other side of the room, obviously deep in thought. Geffle looked around, unsure of what to do next. He really wanted to ask for cash, but so far Trol wasn’t letting on how valuable the information had been.
‘They must have had something to do with it,’ said Trol, to no one in particular. His men nodded their agreement, and Geffle frowned, unsure of what he was referring to. ‘Who were these men?’ he said, directing his question back to Geffle.
‘One of them was Castor Cage, I’ve never heard of him, but Betha said the other one was called ‘Blaklok’. I followed him a ways down towards the Pits, but I thought I’d best come and tell you before he got any deeper.’
Trol smiled amiably. It always perturbed Geffle, how fast Snapper could change from raving maniac to Mr Nicey in the blink of an eye.
‘You did right, Geffle, my little mate,’ he said.
‘Right enough to earn some recompense?’ asked Geffle, quick as a shot.
