The first signs of returning sensation came after about two minutes (possibly more), a kind of tingling itch emerging on the sole of her left foot and on her back between her shoulder blades. They were maddeningly unscratchable until pins and needles took over, spreading from limb to limb, and Dervla found that she could make whispery sounds in her throat. She could also make small movements with her hands and feet so she twisted one foot under her, which was enough for her weight to cause her to overbalance. Toppling over, she landed on her side, knocking her head against the solid floor and provoking a wordless grunt of pain.
Someone must have heard her because footsteps came hurrying up and a curtain flap was ripped aside, followed by Pyke’s outraged voice:
“What the hairy hell’s going on here? Where’s Ustril?” He paused. “Ans, see where she is.”
Dervla felt Pyke’s hands lifting her, while straightening her legs out and offering hushing noises when spikes of cramp made her gasp. By the time she was sitting on an upturned, grubby plastic box, clearing her throat and trying to frame answers to Pyke’s dumbass questions, Ancil was back, looking grim.
“No sign of her, Chief.”
“You can’t be serious—she’s nearly ten feet tall!” Pyke snarled. “No one that big vanishes without a trace …”
Ancil spread his hands, his features expressing an inward anger. “There’s no other pathway out of here, Chief, it’s a dead end …”
Dervla forestalled Pyke’s next broadside with a weak wave of a hand, and a croaked whisper. “She used a hidden exit … some kind o’ trapdoor … anyone got some water, something to drink?”
Moleg appeared with a cylindrical flask which he uncapped and handed over. Dervla drank thirstily, surprised to find that it was slightly carbonated with a faint sweet flavour. Ah, blessed relief.
“Where’d she go, Derv?” Pyke said. “Any idea?”
“I didn’t see it, me being frozen by her stupid, skagging wee stungun … but I heard her messing around behind me, sounded like she used some kind of concealed trapdoor. She was shuffling around a bit, then there was a squeak that sounded like hinges and she was gone.”
Pyke nodded, then glanced at Ancil. “Escape hatch—find it.”
“Fine-tooth comb, Chief.”
As Ancil, Moleg and Kref began a detailed fingertip search along the back wall, Pyke dragged over an empty cable drum and sat down beside her.
“So, what in the name of the gutter gods went on here?” He stared at the robed, mummified corpse on the camp bed. “I assume this was her partner.”
“When did you guess, about them?”
“Not long after we got to her base.” He shrugged. “It just felt too big and full for one person and she … she looked like she was in mourning. That and the usual hunches. C’mon, you’ve got a story to tell so spill.”
And so she did, laying out the highlights of the fairly one-sided conversation she’d had with the Sendrukan scientist. Pyke’s eyebrows shot up on hearing that Ustril and her consort had been secretly planning to gather a haul of artefacts with which to barter for Ustril’s return from exile, and when Dervla recounted the message that Saljyn left behind, about a “unique artefact,” Pyke leaned back, hands raised in a gesture of frustration.
“Damn me! Another one chasing these treasures that Van Graes is after! Who’ll show up next—Imam-Pope Shango III?”
“Hey, Chief!”
Pyke and Dervla turned as one and saw Ancil balanced on Kref’s shoulders and holding a long pole at a steep angle. Once he was sure of an audience, Ancil lowered the pole till its point rested on one hull panel, then he pushed. Dervla laughed as it swung inwards with a faint creak.
“Nice bit of lateral thinking, there, Ans,” Pyke said, giving Dervla a sidelong glance. “And she gave no clue about what to expect on the inside, huh?”
“Just that it was called the Steel Forest, and that we might find it a bit of a challenge.”
“Well, it’s where we’re going—you fit and ready?”
She sighed deeply, rubbed her face then scratched her scalp. “I really could do with about three showers, one of those bluebeef dinners we had on Ashazoaz 4, a double PG2B on the rocks, and clean clothes. But I guess I’ll have to make do with the tasteless chewy ribbon we laughingly refer to as field rations. And I’ll be good to go.”
“That’s the stuff, m’darlin,’” he said with one of those winking grins that Dervla occasionally found attractive. “All we need to do is deal with Raven’s goons while letting our Sendrukan turncoat lead us to the rest of this key.”
“Well, let’s get moving,” Dervla said, standing up. “Before my infectious, super-charged enthusiasm runs dry! Shall we?”
CHAPTER TEN
It was well into the pitch-black throat of the night by the time Pyke and T’Moy reached the Raskol Boxhouse. Rather than risk the better lit streets that cut through well-patrolled districts, they had opted for a route which snaked in among dilapidated blocks and crumbling rookeries. Now they hunted back in the deep shadows of a stinking alley with the mazy murk of the Ithlyr slums at their backs. Across a wide, muddy road the high walls of a succession of properties marked the boundary between Ithlyr and the neighbouring artisans district. The glows from lanterns in private gardens were visible through the leafy branches of fruit trees or well-sculpted masses of verdant bushes, and the occasional outside wall-lamp shed meagre light on the main road.
The Raskol Boxhouse was not quite the last building in the street before it came to a dead end beneath the city walls. It was a two-storey stone building with the main entrance off to one side, near one of the corners. An iron staircase sloped up from the same corner to a landing and a door to the guardroom. Hanging oil lamps shed flickering haloes at the front where a solitary Gomri guard, spear sloping at his shoulder, patrolled back and forth.
“Hmm, risky,” said Pyke. “Not much cover available. We ain’t creeping up on this place.”
“Can we not just claim the right to enter and inspect the booth?” said T’Moy. “You have the key and the lease.”
“That only permits access during business hours,” Pyke said sardonically. “So it looks like we’ll have to try the stealth approach.”
“Surely the whole vicinity makes stealth almost impossible.”
“Ah, but I’m thinking of the stealth of appearances and assumptions. Put it this way, if that scrawny guard sees yourself, a tall brawny horse warrior, striding along the street towards him, what d’ye think his very first assumption will be?”
T’Moy nodded. “He’ll see me as a threat.”
“Exactly, whereas I look like a townie, I’m dressed for the part, and when I head his way I’ll be sure to trip over a paving stone for dramatic effect. So while I’m getting him bogged down in talking about how I have a lease and a key, you’ll be sneaking up the backstreets to a concealed spot near the boxhouse rear. What’s vital is getting the other guard to come out of the guardroom and down to the front—there’s bound to be rocket flares set up on the roof to raise the alarm, so if one of those goes off the city watch will come running. And that we don’t want.”
T’Moy looked left and right along the mostly deserted night-time street. “What direction should we approach from?”
Pyke jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. “We’ll dogleg back and along a short ways, just to that low-lit stretch and take it from there.”
Together they went back down the alley then turned along a back lane in the direction of the city centre. Minutes later they had crossed over into the artisan district where their paths then diverged. While T’Moy skulked off round to the backstreets, Pyke made his way up the main road, making no attempt to soften his footsteps, coughing and whistling loudly as he walked. His plan for gaining access to the boxhouse was a bit nebulous, but then improvisation was the best half of any plan. All he had to do was put on some kind of annoying yet non-threatening performance which would draw the second guard down to street level so that T’M
oy could then wade in.
The guard out front was puffing on a pipe while patrolling up and down. Pyke had the auction-house lease out and was trying to give the impression of an absent-minded newcomer to this part of town, while keeping tabs on the guard’s progress from time to time. It was only when he drew near to the side alley opening right next to the boxhouse that he looked up and got his first clear view of the Gomri guard with his pipe.
It was Vrass.
That was when Pyke actually did trip over a jutting paving stone and pitch forward onto the still muddy street. Outstretched hands were scratched and grazed, and he cursed himself as the guard Vrass rushed to help.
“Careful now, citizen—you need to watch yer footing round this part of Granah, eh?”
From his time on the Isle of Candles Pyke remembered that Vrass had a line of pale tufts right down his snout, like this guy, and an asymmetrical patch under his left eye, just like this guy!
Talk about an added complication! We’re gonna have to drag Vrass back to the statues, and still get inside the boxhouse and open that booth—and where is T’Moy?
As Vrass helped him to his feet he cast a glance along the alley and glimpsed T’Moy peering wide-eyed round the rear corner of the adjacent building. T’Moy mouthed “Vrass!,” Pyke gave a sharp nod and switched his attention back with smiles and effusive gratitude.
“A host of thanks, good sir!” he babbled. “Truly, t’was my own daft fault, not looking where I was travelling …”
“Not a problem, citizen,” said Vrass-the-guard. “What’s your destination? Perhaps I can point you in the right direction.”
“Very kind of you,” Pyke said. “I seek the Raskol Boxhouse—I have in my possession a valid lease and a key—”
“And you’ll be wanting to have a look at the contents, right?” Vrass shook his head. “Sadly, citizen, there’s no entry to the boxhouse permitted outside of ordinary business hours, that’s between ten in the morning and five … hang on, what’s all that about back there?”
Guard-Vrass was interrupted by raised voices coming from the shadowy backstreet where T’Moy had been moments before. Pyke thought about making his excuses and leaving but before he could say anything the guardroom door at the top of the stairs opened and the second guard came out onto the landing. He was a burly type with a thick neck and a shaved head.
“Oy, you!” he bawled, pointing down at the backstreet. “Leave him alone!”
Assorted insults and mocking voices were the only reply, prompting the guard to reach inside the guardroom door for an impressive looking cudgel. Then he came hurrying down the stairs, grim-faced and determined.
“Bunch of sots and topers from the Carver’s Arms,” he told Vrass. “Lend us a hand, eh, Virl?”
Vrass/Virl gave Pyke a resigned look. “You better hurry along, citizen—could get a bit ugly soon. Come back in the morning and we’ll attend to your needs then, all right?”
Pyke nodded, raised a hand in farewell and started back the way he’d come. A few steps on he glanced back, saw the coast was clear, then sprinted along to the next alley, dashed down it and headed for the backstreet corner. During which he fumbled madly in his satchel for the short weighted club he’d bought back in the Nightmarket.
Luckily he was ready with his club as he rounded the corner and cannoned into the large back of someone standing there in the shadows, yelling and gesticulating. Unluckily, the stranger was built like a breeze-block bollard and one of his meaty hands was brandishing an uprooted fence post. Pyke just had time to duck as the fence post came swinging around, causing a palpable gust as it passed over his head. There was an overwhelming stink of ale and ripe sweat, intensified by the big fellow’s wordless roaring. Ignoring the full-strength, senses-challenging stench, Pyke stepped in closer, rammed the weighted club into the man’s unprotected midriff then aimed a deadly kick at his right knee. There was an awful crack and the brawler went down with a strangled cry, wheezing for breath as he rolled on the ground, clutching his leg.
Pyke paused only to snatch up the fence post before lunging along the half-lit backstreet. Up ahead, T’Moy was trading blows with a short, squat Shylan armed with a cut-down billhook that was rather longer than the snapped-off length of spear which was all that the Bargalil had left. Pyke slowed to a walk, took aim and hurled the fence post—it caught the Shylan full in the face and blood spurted as he staggered back. With a swift glance over his shoulder, and a nod, T’Moy pressed home his advantage.
A few paces further on, the second Raskol guard was slugging it out punch for punch with a bald, bare-to-the-waist man whose chest and back were covered in elaborate tattoos featuring clenched fists. Pyke was just drawing near when the bald fighter dodged past the guard’s defence and landed a crippling blow on his chin. The guard spun once and went down in a heap so quickly that Pyke nearly missed the hard-knuckled fist that was coming his way. He shifted enough for it to graze his ear, and then he found himself grappling with a gouging, biting, snarling adversary. Pyke did the only thing he could—stamped on the man’s foot, grinding his heel in with all his might.
The tattooed bald tough let out a howl, eyes wide as he staggered back against the boxhouse wall, providing an easy target for Vrass/Virl who nipped in and smacked him on the head with the haft of his spear. The point of which suddenly came round, aimed at Pyke.
“You’re the citizen I was talking to just moments ago!” he said. “And now you’re back here, laying out these brigands like an old stager? What’s your game?”
“Honest, sir guard, there is a perfectly simple explanation to all this,” Pyke said, hands raised as he slowly moved to the side, trying to draw Vrass/Virl’s scope of view away from T’Moy who was half sprawled and staring up at Vrass with a look of bafflement. His own adversary lay unconscious nearby and T’Moy was looking a little worse for wear as he tried to regain his feet.
“You can stop your moving about!” said Vrass/Virl. “I’m not listening to any stories until I get some reinforcements …” He glanced at his insensible fellow guard, who was stretched out in the alley mud, and prodded him in the leg. “Kerig! Kerig!—wake up, you idiot!”
That was when T’Moy wrapped an arm around Vrass/Virl’s neck and began applying pressure. Pyke moved in quickly to pry the spear out of his grip, watching closely for the moment when the choking hold brought the blackout. He slapped T’Moy’s upper arm and the Bargalil released Vrass/Virl, easing him down to a sitting position against the side of the boxhouse.
“It is Vrass,” said T’Moy. “I wasn’t sure.” He looked at Pyke. “This complicates matters.”
“You don’t say!”
“What do we do—carry him to the statues in Qalival Square, then come back?”
Pyke shook his head. “No time. Some of these drunken pukes will have stirred themselves by then and would be looking out for us. Maybe even get the city watch involved. What we need to do is bind and gag the other guard, stick him back in the guardroom, then we truss up Vrass and haul him along with us while we get into the boxhouse and unlock that booth. Okay?”
T’Moy sighed and nodded, then they got to work. From the guardroom Pyke dug up some lengths of rope with which they bound Vrass and his companion hand and foot, along with ripped-up pieces of guard shirt for gags. After the other guard was safely stashed away upstairs. Pyke and T’Moy took Vrass/Virl round to the boxhouse entrance which was unlocked with keys lifted from the guardroom. Once inside, they locked themselves in and leaned against the wall for a moment to catch their breath.
There was only a solitary, long-burn candle flickering on a shelf next to the door. Pyke used a taper from a box on the shelf to spread the flame to a couple of sconce torches, which lit the place up quite well. Just then Vrass/Virl came round and started making muffled grunting and snarling noises while struggling against the ropes. Pyke took out his weighted club, knelt down on the stone flags and poked him in the chest with it.
“Okay, look, not going to sugar
-coat it for you—we need you to lie there nice and peaceful, like, otherwise I’ll need to smack you round the head with this to get the same effect—d’ya get me?”
Their rope-wound captive sagged in resignation, and nodded.
“That’s good,” Pyke said. “As soon as we finish up here we’ll cart you over to the memory statues and you’ll be brand-new …”
While Pyke was dealing with Vrass, T’Moy had taken a torch from one of the sconces and was examining some metal lettering on the rough masonry wall near the foot of a set of wooden stairs.
DOWNSTAIRS: 1–24 UPSTAIRS: 25–45
At Pyke’s insistence, T’Moy picked up Vrass and slung him over one shoulder before climbing the steps. Closer examination of the layout revealed that every lockbooth had a pair of lockboxes positioned next to it, and lockbooth 29A was located over at the side wall, next to lockboxes 29B and 29C. Vrass/Virl was placed sitting up against the opposite row of lockbooths as Pyke produced Sergeant Dalyak’s key, won at the auction earlier. He and T’Moy exchanged a look before he slid the black iron key into the lock.
The lockbooth door was smaller and narrower than a normal door but was built from some kind of heavy wood overlaid with rivetted iron bands. And the moment it cracked open Pyke caught a whiff of decay that went straight for his gag reflex. Gritting his teeth, he gave the door a hefty tug and with hinges protesting it swung open.
Sure enough, there it was—a dead body, male, age thirties, maybe, dressed in dark, grubby work clothes, half lying, half sitting on the booth’s floor. When T’Moy moved to step inside Pyke held him back.
“It’s a murder,” he said. “It’s part of the puzzle. We need to make sure we don’t tread on any clues.”
“You mean like the hole?” T’Moy said, pointing.
There was indeed a hole in the floor, half hidden by the corpse, half concealed by a piece of thin wood left by whoever had done the deed. Pyke and T’Moy dragged the unknown corpse out and laid him on the floor a few paces away. While this had been going on, Vrass/Virl had gone quiet, still and wide-eyed.
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