by Richard Ford
For the next five hours she worked, researching frantically, uncovering all kinds of skullduggery and misdemeanours, but of Thaddeus Blaklok she found not a trace. There was no mention of his name; no tattooed bulldog of a man involved in the occult had ever been brought to the attention of the Judicature in the last ten years. Either he had never been caught, or any trace of evidence against him had been purloined – whisked away by unseen hands, considered not for the eyes of a lowly Indagator.
Just as she was about to give up, just as the crick in her neck from bending low to stare into faintly scripted tomes almost made her scream, she suddenly found something.
It was a simple report of murder scribed by an Indagator Rush, who Amelia knew had retired from the Judicature a few years ago to end his days out in the Dolmen Precinct. His report contained details of the killing: a woman and her children, cut to pieces and partly consumed by a most vicious perpetrator. The murder had taken place beyond the city’s walls just less than a year previously, out in a small settlement to the north, which was curious in itself – Indagators rarely troubled themselves with crimes perpetrated beyond the limits of the Manufactory. Nevertheless, Rush’s investigations had led him across the length and breadth of the Manufactory in pursuit of his quarry until he finally had him cornered in the Cistern. Rush’s description detailed a large man with eyes like a shark’s, huge strangler’s hands and a body covered in mysterious sigils.
Whether this was the man she had been pursuing was unclear, but Amelia felt her insides start to knot as she read on. Rush had the man cornered, he and his tipstaffs had him bang to rights, but just before they could apprehend him he disappeared into the dark. Rush reported the loss of three men in the pursuit, all of them killed in a variety of gruesome ways, and their suspect was a man of exceeding guile and strength.
The similarity was too much to ignore. Surely this was him? Amelia flicked through the ledger looking for more details but was surprised to discover there were none. The murderer escaped, never to be heard from again.
This had to be her man, Blaklok. Perhaps he had lain low since murdering a woman and her children and for some unknown reason had decided to resurface.
The ledger contained no other details, and Amelia was frustrated by the dead end. Then she stopped, flicking back through the report. Perhaps the dead woman and her children would offer a clue to Blaklok’s past. Perhaps he had some link to them other than being the harbinger of their doom.
Frantically she thumbed through the pages, from the beginning of Rush’s report to the end, but there were no other details of the woman and her brood. This seemed odd to Amelia. Standard practice was to include as much detail in a report as possible, and for a man such as Rush to omit such information was curious indeed. With no further leads, Indagator Rush would have been the next logical line of investigation, but it turned out that the man had died of heart failure six months previously.
She had hit another dead end.
After placing the ledgers and reports back in their proper place, Amelia left the archives room and walked back through the Lexiconium. It was as she walked, noticing the eyes of two administrants fall upon her, that Amelia suddenly began to feel naked and vulnerable. It took some moments for her to realise that it was the fact that Bounder and Hodge were not at her side that elicited the feeling of exposure.
Bounder was still in the infirmary and, knowing that she would come to no danger within the walls of the Judicature, she had allowed Hodge to stay with him. At first she had felt a deep pang of guilt for having wounded her tipstaff – Bounder was a faithful underling and had proved himself invaluable over the past months. But his reaction to being shot in the line of duty had been most disappointing. He had looked at her with accusing eyes, as though it were her fault! Did he not realise that such things were bound to happen in the line of duty? It was all part of the job, after all. If she had been the one on the receiving end she would have considered it her obligation to take a round in the leg with a stiff upper lip.
Not so Bounder.
He mewled and cried, staring at her like a puppy that had been kicked by his master. It cut her to the quick to see him react in such a manner, and consequently she had been forced to leave him to his self pity. Hopefully, by the time she returned, he would see that there had been no other choice. Apprehending the criminal Blaklok was the only priority, no matter the cost.
‘Indulging in a little extra-curricular study are we, Indagator?’
The words hit when she wasn’t expecting them and a wave of nausea suddenly flooded over her.
Not here. Not now, when she was already feeling low.
Surrey was lurking just outside the Lexiconium, leaning against a marble pillar, his hands tucked casually inside his trouser pockets, that slanted smile creasing his smug face. She suddenly began to regret Bounder’s condition and the fact she had allowed Hodge to stay with him. This was just the kind of situation two burly thugs were designed to guard against; alone with Indagator Surrey, it didn’t bare thinking about. She suddenly wished she still had Hodge’s carbine to hand.
‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘I won’t tell anyone.’
‘What do you mean you won’t tell anyone? I have the proper authorisations.’ Her feigned indignation was perfectly acted, but Surrey only smiled wider. He was a good judge if nothing else.
‘Yes, of course you do. And I have been promoted to Grand Overseer.’
She tried to ignore him and turned away, heading off down the corridor towards the freedom of the Judicature proper but, like a bad penny, Surrey popped up again from around another pillar.
‘Still hunting our troublesome friend, are we?’
‘What do you mean?’ she said, stopping dead and turning to face that laconic smile. She had not once discussed Thaddeus Blaklok with Surrey, and how he knew about him was a mystery to her.
‘I simply meant the object of your investigation. Mr Blaklok, isn’t it?’
‘What do you know of him, Surrey?’ She took a threatening step forward and Surrey raised his hands in mock surrender. ‘If you’ve been sending me on wild goose chases with this occult nonsense so help me I’ll–’
‘Please, Amelia, calm down. I was merely making an innocent enquiry.’
‘I mean it, Surrey. What do you know? There are no records, no evidence. No one seems to want to talk about him and now he’s disappeared. Who is he?’
‘All I can say is you won’t find anything documented. You were lucky to track him down once. Now he knows you’re on to him you won’t find him again.’
‘What in the Pits are you hiding, Surrey? Tell me what you know.’
‘Perhaps I’ve said too much already.’ Surrey looked suddenly serious, something Amelia had never noticed in him before. He glanced around, checking that there were no eavesdroppers, then he leaned in close. Amelia could smell a faint whiff of alcohol and mint on his breath, and some unknown cologne wafting up from within his doublet that she didn’t find altogether unpleasant. At any other time she would not have let him get so close but now she was intrigued. ‘All I can say is that Blaklok is watched over by higher powers than the Judicature. Maybe higher than the Sancrarium itself.’
Amelia was suddenly sceptical. No mere street thug could afford such protection. She backed away from Surrey, thinking this a ruse just to get close to her.
‘You must think I’m one of your street-side doxies, Surrey. Blaklok’s a yob. A quite exceptional one, but a yob nonetheless.’
‘No!’ said Surrey, reaching out and grasping her arm. His grip was tight and his expression deathly serious. ‘He’s so much more than that. I don’t know much but I know this. It’s no coincidence he has re-emerged when there’s a demon on the loose. And my guess is that’s not the only Pit-borne menace the Manufactory’s got to look forward to before this whole mess is resolved. Take my advice, Amelia, stay out of it until the whole thing’s blown over.’
She pulled herself away, still able to feel the p
ressure of his fingers on her arm. ‘You’re mad, Surrey. Get some help. And leave the real investigation to those of us who are dedicated to the job.’
Surrey was smiling again. She couldn’t tell whether he had been acting concerned or if it was merely another ruse. ‘Well, if you’re determined to pursue this, I can’t stop you. If you really want Blaklok, there’s only one piece of advice I can give you.’
‘And what pearl of wisdom is that?’
‘Simply follow the carnage.’
With that he turned and set off down the corridor, whistling a tuneless dirge as he went, as though he had not a care in the world.
Amelia watched him go, at once tempted to follow him and hoping never to see him again. She settled on letting him go.
Had he been genuinely concerned? Was his advice genuine? One thing was for sure: following the carnage was just about the only thing she had to go on right now, so she guessed it was advice she had no choice but to follow.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The street was quiet as he waited outside the ramshackle building. From the shadows, Blaklok could see the comings and goings as the night drew on. Twilight beckoned and the well-to-do and the women and children steadily filtered away. Once the gaslights were lit and shadows began to bruise the streets the carrion hunters started to appear.
Shady figures peeled themselves from the dark, accompanied by painted women and brutish peons. They did a kind of slow dance around one another, stopping to converse before moving on. It was as though they were trying to leech from one another, looking for some weakness or advantage, and when they realised there was none they would move on. It was the way of the Manufactory’s night stalkers. In every district the moonlight would bring them out to do their seamy deeds in the dark.
This was all in Blaklok’s periphery. What he was really concerned with was the lofty apartment, elevated some way above the streets. A rickety staircase led up to a single doorway, well lit and open.
But no street whores or peddlers used this entrance for their trade.
They all knew this belonged to the Apothecary.
It wasn’t the Apothecary himself they were afraid of offending. It was his patrons. As Blaklok watched he saw half a dozen members of the Community come and go. Even the Deacon appeared, without his usual entourage, walking up the stairs without a sound to rap on the Apothecary’s door. Blaklok could see that the illumination around the entrance seemed to dim as the Deacon arrived, as though the light was afraid of him.
From his hiding place he watched it all. The bleeding and the aching had stopped a while back as he rested, but he knew that if he was going to complete his mission he would still need help.
That was where the Apothecary came in.
One thing he couldn’t do was take the stairs like the normal patrons – though normal might not quite be the word for them. If he was seen by the Judicature or a passer-by that would be the end of it, and Blaklok still had work to do.
As the moon began to reach its zenith, barely visible through the curtain of reeling smog, Blaklok heaved himself from his hiding place and made his way towards the apartment. It would usually have taken him little effort to scale a drainpipe, but in his current condition he felt like a geriatric negotiating a particularly tricky flight of stairs. From the rooftop, he saw the skylight to the Apothecary’s rooms, and stealthily made his way towards them. Silent as a tomcat, he crouched down, peering over the rim of the window to make sure he would not be disturbed once inside. He couldn’t see anyone amidst the clutter of the brightly lit room. The entire place was a mess; distillers bubbled on a long bench next to tables cluttered with vials and strange looking instruments. Books were packed onto shelves that lined the wall, fighting for space against the cobwebs that surrounded them, and Thaddeus was sure he could see things scuttling along the floor amidst the pattern of the dusty carpet.
He gently lifted the skylight and shifted himself in. It was a short drop to the ground, and Blaklok managed it without making a sound.
He could hear music emanating from within an adjoining room, and after padding quietly across the threadbare carpet Blaklok peered inside.
The Apothecary had his back turned, hunched over a bench, instruments working frantically at some contraption or other. In one corner a gramophone played a lilting tune – cellos and violins by the sound of it, but Blaklok had never been much into music.
Masked by the sound, he crept forward. Perhaps he could find some kind of healing salve and be gone before the Apothecary even knew he was there.
No such luck.
‘Good evening, Thaddeus,’ said the Apothecary, without turning around.
Blaklok let out a sigh of defeat, suddenly feeling more fatigued than ever. He looked around until he espied a wooden chair covered in a pile of books. Sweeping them to the floor he sat himself down.
The Apothecary turned, smiling a wide brown-toothed smile from within a mass of hair.
Blaklok had nothing against beards, but the Apothecary just abused the privilege – he was the most hirsute human being Blaklok had ever seen. Matted hair covered his head from the top of a high brow to cascade down his back. His curly brown beard started just below his cheekbones and covered him to his chest. But for that, he was a skinny wretch, and it was most likely that his hair and beard weighed more than the rest of him put together.
‘Well, you’ve certainly seen better days,’ said the Apothecary. Thaddeus nodded, lacking the energy to come up with anything witty to say. ‘Guess you’ll be wanting my help, then?’
Thaddeus nodded again and the Apothecary stopped what he was doing and walked to one of the shelves. As he fumbled among the jumble he motioned towards what resembled a dentist’s chair in one corner. ‘Make yourself comfortable, Thaddeus. It looks like you could do with the rest.’
Blaklok was not in the mood to argue, and he gingerly made his way towards the chair, reclining within its leather confines. It smelt of mould, but the leather was the most comfortable thing he had sat on in almost two days, and to him it felt like rapture.
Within seconds the Apothecary was at his side bearing salve, bandages and a needle and thread.
‘How did you know I was behind you?’ Blaklok asked as the Apothecary went to work.
‘The Deacon mentioned you were waiting in the shadows. You can’t hide anything from that one.’
‘And you still left your skylight unlocked?’
‘How else were you supposed to get in? I know you never use the front door like normal people.’ He smiled at Blaklok, his brown teeth just visible beneath the curly hair of his beard. ‘Unlike the rest of the guttersnipes in this foul city, I’m not afraid of you, Thaddeus Blaklok.’
Thaddeus almost returned the smile. It was a novelty to hear someone say that. It made such a change from the usual begging and screaming he had to endure.
‘So, rumour has it there’s a real life demon on the loose. That wouldn’t have anything to do with you, would it?’
‘No,’ Blaklok replied. ‘That’s down to a bunch of part-timers who got in over their heads. But I suppose I’m the one who’ll have to sort out the shit.’
‘As always, Thaddeus, as always. I take it the demon’s responsible for most of this?’ The Apothecary waved his hand over Blaklok’s battered body.
‘Some of it. The rest is just general wear and tear.’
‘Quite. I’ve not seen you look this bad since the Clockwork Rebellion.’
‘This is nothing compared to that. This is–’ He suddenly winced as the Apothecary dabbed at his burned palms with a piece of moist gauze. ‘Before you do any more, you should know: I can’t afford to pay.’
‘Well, that would normally be a problem,’ said the Apothecary, not pausing in his labours. ‘But your account has already been settled.’
‘By who?’ asked Blaklok, but then he remembered his benefactors had their hands in all sorts of pies. ‘Never mind. I think I know who you’re talking about.’
‘W
ell, if you’d care to enlighten me I’d much appreciate it. Shadowy figures giving me coin just in case you show up isn’t the way I would normally expect business to be conducted. But the settlement of account was most generous, so I guess I shouldn’t complain.’
The Apothecary moved to Blaklok’s face, pausing, as though he didn’t really know where to start. After placing a slab of cold meat on one of Blaklok’s black eyes, he began to poke at the burns around his lips.
‘Hellfire residue. You have been in the wars,’ he said, picking at the ripe scabs with a pair of tweezers. ‘And here I was thinking you’d left all this behind you.’
‘I had,’ said Thaddeus. ‘But circumstances change.’
‘Indeed they do. But don’t you ever wish you’d stayed gone? You had an out and you took it. Not many would come back to this dump.’
‘As I said, circumstances change.’ Blaklok didn’t try to mask his annoyance, and the Apothecary duly halted his inquisition.
The pair continued in silence, with Blaklok reclining further into the leather seat to allow the Apothecary to administer his healing touch. Perhaps it was the smell of the healing salves or the comfort of knowing he was on neutral ground, but soon the pull of being stitched and the ache of having bandages applied to his cuts and scrapes faded, and Blaklok gave himself over to the solace of sleep.
Blaklok didn’t often dream.
When he did so he found himself plagued by night terrors – never more ferocious than those he faced in the waking hours – but terrors nonetheless. For this reason he had mostly managed to filter dreams from his sleep altogether, but on this occasion he dreamed an old and long forgotten dream.
He was happy.
The sky was not filled with smog and the stench of garbage. There was no cacophony assailing his ears. The clamour of unwashed, ungrateful souls did not surround him. There was no forest of concrete and pathways of stone pressing in on him from all sides.
