Needle Rain

by Cari Silverwood

  His thumping heartbeat quietened.

  Maybe his task was not so futile. He smiled grimly. A little help would be welcome.

  Laid out beside him was a row of long metal pieces, metal stock destined to become blades. He picked up the first, weighed it in his hand and pressed the tip against his wrist. Then he slid it in and along his arm between skin and muscle. Blood welled up and his flesh made a tearing sound as it parted. He gasped at the pain but kept his teeth clamped together and did not waver until the full fifteen inches had gone in. He pressed the small skin wound together until it closed over. And then he picked up the next piece and did it again. And again. And again.

  By the time he was finished he breathed in ragged gasps and his forearms and lower legs were ridged and lumpy. Gingerly he bent his arms at the elbow to wipe his face. Sweat dribbled in rivulets between his fingers and down his wrists to mix with the blood. He wiped the mess away with the inside of his tunic.

  This was Immolator garb – black hose, thin-soled boots, and a gray tunic edged with silver. Kengshee and Drager might like him to find less conspicuous garb, but if anything, that seemed a good reason to stay as he was.

  He stood up on the ledge. Time to finish this. He weighed up everything that could affect the outcome. Amora, though, how much could she help? Make his enemies love him? He shook his head at such silliness. He slipped back on the coat then crawled down the side of the building into the darkest of the shadows and made his way to Drager’s clinic.

  ****

  They gathered on a terrace rooftop that overlooked the clinic. No lights but still they were careful to stay mostly out of line-of-sight from Drager’s building and no one made excessive noise. One kept lookout while the others checked the distribution of weapons and armor – which mainly meant adjusting the position of a scabbard by a smidgen, tightening a cuirass strap, sliding a sword in and out a few times to check for sticking. Heloise noted it all, trying to stay calm and self-assured. She put a hand on the lookout’s arm.

  “Finn. What’s happening?”

  He turned. His eyes were utter dark due to the night-sight potion. They shared duties on using it, she knew. Once a year. More than that and you risked blindness.

  “From the shadows on the glass – maybe two at the front door. You could get one, but the others would see. Upper-story windows there’s a lookout. No matter where we go in they’ll see us. It’s like they know we’re here.”

  “How many?”

  “Can’t be sure. Three, four?” He cocked an eyebrow.

  “Plus Drager. Can we handle that?”

  Sonja looked thoughtful then nodded. “Sure. Long as we’re fast and get them by surprise.”

  “Then what about a wall entry?”

  Sonja spoke again. “Too noisy, love.”

  She went to comment on the ‘love’ but bit it back. Later. Besides, Sonja was right. The thumper could demolish a section of wall in seconds, but it was noisy. It would draw every guard down on them. No better than going through a door. Thumpers were meant for quick entry when customers barricaded themselves in. She rubbed her forehead, thinking hard and staring at the dark, squarish lump on the floor that was the thumper.

  In a corner of the rooftop, hidden by a column, Tinman was quietly checking his gheist weapon. The Toad, he liked to call it, courtesy of its large throat and bumpy texture. Which trinketologist had made it or the thumper, Uncle had never said. They were living proof that Uncle didn’t stint on equipment. Like all trink creations, the Toad was unique. It was half as long as Tinman and it did its job well.

  Heloise suppressed a shiver. The gheist ammunition across his shoulder glowed an eerie blue at night. Each cylinder contained the compressed ectoplasm of a ghost. Someone’s father or mother, maybe, definitely someone’s ghost. The explosive perforation of bodies with a thousand threads of blue ectoplasm didn’t bother most. It bothered her. Tinman’s gun was a last resort. It killed, always. She wrenched herself back to what Sonja had said.

  “Okay, then we’ll wait and watch. When things change, we’ll reassess. There’s plenty of time.”

  “Good.” Sonja nodded.

  “Yes. If we go in, you and Bull first. Then Finn, Marty, Rabbit. Tinman, at the back with me. We’re all in.” No one questioned her command. It was as she thought, Uncle had spoken only to her. She’d never get their respect if she held back. She flicked a glance toward the girl huddled in the corner. She’d not said a word since Sonja had told her that her father might get hurt if she chattered. When they’d picked her up from Drager’s house, she’d been alone sitting with only two packed valises. No nanny and she was packed for quick travel. Drager was planning to abscond, soon.

  “Hey.”

  The girl looked up, eyes wide with fear.

  “Oh, my.” Heloise knelt beside her. “You scared?” The girl said nothing. “Look, everything’s going to be okay. Alright?” Heloise reached out and took her hand, feeling the tremble in her tiny fingers. “What’s your name?”

  Still nothing but then in the quietest of voices: “Leonie. Is my dada going to be alright?”

  “Sure he is. Okay?” Please, let that be true. Drager might be scum for leaving the girl alone at night like he had and for getting himself as screwed up as he was, but this girl loved him.

  Leonie nodded. “Thank you.”

  Why did that bring a tear to her eye? Heloise sniffed and hugged the child against her chest. For the first time she doubted, and she wondered if this was what she really wanted to do, because it was eating at her soul.

  ****

  At the clinic, Samos made a not-so-surprising discovery. Nine hearts beat within its walls, five more than there should have been – assuming the servants had been sent away, and that was likely. Reinforcements. But, worst of all, he wasn’t sure if one of the hearts was Pela’s. He inhaled deeply and through the pungent stew of street grime – dog stink and feet and toilet wastes – he smelt a hint of her perfume mixed with the distinctive musk of her skin.

  This new sense of smell, this heightening of his senses and thought processes, it was proving useful.

  She was in there, somewhere.

  The extra men, he had expected them. Still, it made him pause. Kengshee might follow through on their deal, but he didn’t think so. This was an ambush. Training said, you never walked into an ambush – not unless you could ambush them back.

  Well, he was going to try.

  ****

  The first moon was out by the time he knocked on the door. He still felt the fire inside, the burning of the needles where they connected in some ethereal network inside him, but now he had red-rimmed eyes as well. He pulled the hood in closer.

  “Your sword,” said a swarthy man at the door. A little muscle twitched next to his thick moustache.

  Samos smiled thinly. Nerves – he could hear the man’s heart going at a hundred beats to the minute.

  “I have none.” He let the man pat him down. He hadn’t come armed with anything like that. Besides, he could always borrow someone else’s.

  ****

  “Someone’s gone in,” announced Finn.

  “Who?” Heloise hunched over, peering round Finn but unable discern anything in the darkness. The street below was illuminated by two lanterns and by a brighter trink light but the clinic itself was poorly lit.

  “A man with a burnoose. The hood’s over his head. Wait. Hold on. Now there’s no one at the front door and the upstairs sentry has gone too.”

  ****

  There were two men just inside the door. One right, one left. Samos felt his eyes move in miniscule jerks as he scanned them – noting weapons, armor, height, and strength. Like Kengshee, they had a trace of Sungese. The giveaway signs: Dark-hued skin or a tilt to their eyes or a fineness of nose or mouth.

  He nodded to them then passed on through the beaded curtain and down the corridor, where there were more men, and then on down the spiral stairs. All the while he listened, looked, and noted, the facts filin
g away into neat columns in his head. Those he passed fell in behind him, trailing in a long, nervous queue.

  He swung round the last turn of the stairs, planted his feet on the floor. Three men down here. Five behind him. Three surrounded Pela – his Pela, with those clear blue eyes and that intoxicating scent.

  He remembered wading ankle-deep in the warm waters of the inlet with her holding his hand. She had laughed when he tripped her into the water.

  These men held knives and swords to her heart and throat. One, Mr. Kengshee, had his hand round her waist, crushing her sea-green dress.

  He spared a long, aching gaze into her eyes, though he yearned to speak. He glared. Damn them all. And he mouthed words anyway, I love you. She nodded, carefully, her chin above the point of a blade. Her eyes held fear yet also faith and he thought that she trusted him yet.

  Nine. He couldn’t take nine at once. Could he? He couldn’t take anybody while tied to a table. It was a problem he hoped he could solve. It was why he had reinforced his arms and legs with steel.

  Drager was here, as far away as possible, in a corner opposite the stairs. He looked fatter somehow and wore a black suit stitched with little gold swirls. When he moved he chinked and a steel gorget showed at the neck. Beneath the suit was armor.

  “Hello, Mr. Samos. I trust you are well.” He spoke quietly but there was a fevered gleam to his eyes.

  “Spare me, Drager. I have your information on how to make Immolators.”

  “Then please lie down.”

  Samos barely hesitated; it had to be. He could move fast but Pela would still die. The cool of the table sank into his back. If they stepped away from her for a moment, that was all he needed. He stared at the ceiling as they fastened the manacles at wrist and ankle. A leather strap went over his forehead. Subtly he tugged at the manacles, feeling the bounce of the metal and more resistance than there should be. Something was wrong.

  “You test them?” Kengshee sang out, his face poking round from behind Pela. A thin red line scored her throat above his sword. “I took the precaution of adding some fine steel to the restraints. Just in case.”

  Drager came closer. Two yards away, Samos estimated.

  “I’m an honest man, Mr. Samos. As soon as we have the memory worm I will release you and Miss Pela. This I swear. As long as you have dealt fair, I will be able to deal fairly with you. Agreed?”

  Samos stared back. Truth rang in those words, but Drager wasn’t really in charge. It was Kengshee and he feared what Kengshee might do. Where was the help of the goddess? He measured his new strength against the metal and wasn’t sure he could tear loose.

  From the floor above came faint timber creaks and tapping noises. Weren’t all Kengshee’s men down here?

  He swallowed before he spoke. “I have nothing for you. I’m sorry. The worm was not turned on, but I beg you to release Pela, unharmed. Please.”

  “What?” Drager stepped nearer the table.

  Samos gauged distance and timing. The swords and knives wavered and moved away from Pela, just enough.

  This is it. The moment.

  He lunged upward, straining at his bonds. The leather strap about his head snapped. The manacles sliced in, crushing skin flat, then cutting deep until the steel of the manacles hit the metal inserts...and stopped.

  Drager leaped back.

  The others strode nearer, swords high.

  He grunted, yelled, and with his back arching he pushed harder at his bonds. Blood swelled his face, every muscle in his body was taut and fighting but nothing shifted. Nothing. Gasping, he collapsed and lay there with his chest heaving and pain pulsing through his limbs. He closed his eyes. He’d failed.

  “Enough!” Kengshee commanded. “Drager, check the memory worm. See if he speaks the truth. Someone bandage those wounds before he bleeds everywhere. If the worm’s empty we’ll get him back to the ship. Drager – can’t you stick a needle in him to keep him quiet?”

  “No. It would set up interference with the rest of the needles.”

  Samos opened his eyes. He licked his lips. “Let her go and I’ll walk to the ship.”

  “I’m not stupid, Samos. Without her we’ve no guarantee you’ll behave. Have we? You’ll find we have enough chains to keep even a green Immolator quiet.”

  What could he do? He didn’t look at Pela. The shame of his failure was too much.

  He owed it to her. Her eyes shone with unshed tears then one tear tracked, shiny, down her cheek. He tried to speak with his eyes, praying the meaning showed.

  We’ll get out of this. I promise.

  Then he did look away. There were enough tears already.

  They strapped his forehead down again and wrapped bandages round his wrists and ankles. Drager leaned close. His fingers touched Samos’s ear and the needle and worm pulled smoothly free. A buzz in his ear, a faint tingle, and that was it.

  “I’m sorry,” Drager whispered. “But there was no other way.” He rested a hand on Samos’s shoulder for a moment and his other hand dropped to the side where Samos couldn’t see. The forehead strap loosened.

  He turned his head and glared. “You’re sorry?” He struggled to put his anger into words and found nothing that would do. “Why? Why?”

  Though his mouth opened, Drager said nothing and he only shook his head.

  “Well?” snapped Kengshee. “Is it there?”

  The lie was about to unravel. Once Drager swallowed the worm segment he would know. Did he realize that the knowledge would change him? Make him a supremely valuable commodity? Fear shuddered through him. It made him and Pela far less valuable. Perhaps, to Kengshee, that made them worth killing.

  Carrying the memory worm and needle cupped in his palms, Drager walked slowly to the chest containing the other needles. He knelt, swaying as if off balance a moment, then he extracted the needle from the worm. He snapped a segment from the worm, raised to his lips, and swallowed.

  The room was quiet.

  Drager raised his head. “It’s there. The information. He was lying.”

  “Release me then, Kengshee, you have what you wanted.” Probability of success, he calculated, less than ten percent.

  Kengshee laughed.

  It was as he dreaded – too dangerous alive. Maybe they’d just leave them both here, restrained, while they escaped. A kind man would do that. A kind and stupid man. Why would Kengshee leave anything to chance?

  As he watched with dulled vision, Kengshee shoved Pela to her knees, took a handful of her hair, pulled upward. Her hands were bound behind her, her neck exposed to the sword he raised above his head.

  “No!” It was Drager, standing, hands by his side. Muscles twitched in his neck. He was swaying again, as if drugged. “No. Don’t do this. They can...”

  Amused, Kengshee lowered the sword. “Drager, be quiet. Unless you’d like to go without somm?” He glanced sideways. “Ahh, though in a way you’re right. This way there’s too much blood and I haven’t time for bathing.” He sheathed his sword and placed his hands around Pela’s neck. The muscles in his hands and arms tightened. Pela gasped.

  There was terror in her eyes. Forgive me, Pela, Samos thought, for he could never forgive himself.

  One of Kengshee’s men came for him, sour-faced, with a steel chain dangling from his fist. Samos swallowed. It would take a long time for an Immolator to die from strangulation. Distantly he realized Drager was shouting and struggling with someone. The man had a conscience. It made no difference. Kengshee’s hands stayed on Pela’s neck; her face darkened and her gasping becoming a desperate rasp.

  The floor above boomed.

  With an explosive crack, a section caved in, spraying splinters, timber, dust and a multitude of men. Swords, arms, knives went swinging. Others poured down the stairs. The air, already fogged with dust, filled with screams and curses. Kengshee had released Pela and wrenched out his sword. She lay in a sprawled heap. Men and women danced, fighting with blade clanging against blade. Drager went past, stopped a se
cond with one hand stretched toward Samos, then he was gone. A girl waving a sword, with horror stamped on her face, arrived and pulled repeatedly at one of his manacles.

  With a dull clunk and a click, he was free. No time for finesse. He undid the rest and ran for Pela, ramming and brushing past obstacles. Cradling her, he breathed life into her mouth.

  Another boom rent the air. A gheist gun hurled sizzling streaks of blue, spinning men around and slamming them into walls. Blue threads gouted from their every pore, their limbs convulsed, and a rictus of terror contorted their faces.

  C H A P T E R S I X

  “Okay.” Heloise stood, assimilating the information from the lookout. The sentries had gone from the front door. They could take Drager’s house. There was risk but it was small.

  Rule something-or-other: Command means commanding. She sniffed, and somewhere inside herself she felt a subtle shift, a difference. Uncertainty gripped her. Hells, she didn’t want to do this any longer. It made her sad and weary.

  “Sonja? Bull? What do you think?” She couldn’t see their faces but she felt the surprise. The hesitation before Sonja spoke said it all.

  “Love, that sounds like opportunity.”

  “Sure does,” said Bull. “Fighting in the streets, in the dark...”

  Tinman continued, “Street-fighting’s good for when you want to kill everybody. But us...” You could hear him grinning. “We just want to talk the man out of doing something stupid. And I seriously hate having to use this damned thing.” He hefted Toad.

  She checked the determination on their faces. And so it was settled. “Okay. We go.”

  They climbed down to street level, double-checked the entry, and slithered in like lowdown snakes – or that was Sonja’s assessment. The entire ground floor and upper story were empty. The door leading to a downward-spiraling staircase was open and sound echoed up the stairs.

  “That’s my dada,” Leonie whispered in Heloise’s ear.