Chaos Born

by Rebekah Turner

  I bent over the decapitated arm, prying the gun loose from the rig. The weapon was a little Ruger LCP. Popping the magazine, I saw it was packed with nice shiny hollow point rounds. I punched the magazine back home and aimed the barrel at Roper’s head.

  “How did you do it?” Roper stared up at me, eyes full of fear.

  “I don’t know.”

  “What kind of monster are you?”

  “I don’t know,” I said again, then pulled the trigger.

  Chapter 2

  It was sunset by the time I got to a highway heading out of the city. I was driving a rented Pontiac Firebird with the windows wound down and was happy to be going home.

  Killing Roper wasn’t the worst thing I’d done and I didn’t feel too sorry about it. I’d grown up fast and mean on the streets of Applecross. My white hair and lame leg had made me a target for every bully on the block, so I learnt early on to fight dirty and that regret was for pansies. Still, Roper’s last words kept echoing in my head, so I flicked on the radio and found a funny little jazz station to distract me. I drove absently, listening to a lively clarinet solo and barely noticed when I turned off the highway onto an unpaved road that didn’t seem to lead to anywhere and no one would notice. The radio station faded to a metallic hiss and I switched it off. Pain twinged in my right shoulder at the movement, a reminder of the night I’d been forced to execute both my client and my co-worker. Not my finest work.

  My foot eased off the accelerator as I entered an area wooded with pine trees not native to the countryside. Glancing in the rear-view mirror, I managed to pick the exact moment the Outland sky vanished as I passed into a tunnel of overhanging trees. While it was spring in Thailand, Harken City was still seeing the end of winter, and the branches that stretched overhead were bare against the darkening sky.

  Driving a few minutes more along the tunnel of trees, I spied red brake lights ahead and eased off the accelerator. I braked behind a shiny BMW that was idling beside a candy-striped tollbooth. Its boom-gate was lowered, blocking the BMW’s way. The driver was leaning out of the car window, arguing with the booth operator. The driver of the BMW looked human, the tollbooth operator did not. He was a dark haired bear-man, his paw thrust out of the tollbooth window as he growled for the passage fee. From the snatches I heard, the driver was arguing about the amount being asked. I didn’t know why he bothered. The toll was always paid to the guardians of The Weald.

  I leant on the horn and ducked my head out the window. “Hello? While we’re still young?”

  The man in the BMW turned and forked his fingers at me in the sign of evil. I gave him my own middle finger salute and revved the Pontiac motor impatiently. With a final wave of general defiance, the driver tossed a heavy looking bag at the shaggy operator, who caught it easily. The bear-man opened the drawstrings, peering into the pouch, then punched a button to lift the gate. With a spray of loose stones, the BMW roared off down the road. I eased forward, braking by the tollbooth and fishing out my passport. I handed it over, careful not to touch the bears-man’s coarse fur.

  “I’m on the Blackgoat Watch account,” I told him.

  “Anything to declare?” His voice was hoarse and his eyes glistened like globs of oil. He ran a long pink tongue over black lips. I hoped he was trying to imagine what I’d look like naked, and not what I’d taste like. I winked my dimples at him, thinking of the cigars I had stashed under my seat. It was enough to warrant a fine if I was busted. I didn’t even want to think of what would happen if Roper’s ingenious little quick-draw rig and gun were found under the spare tyre in the boot. Importing weapons was one of the big no-nos. I’d been caught once trying to smuggle in five chrome-brushed Desert Eagle handguns. The fine nearly sent me broke and I ended up doing a three-week jail stint. Not that I’d let that stop me.

  “Nothing to declare,” I said cheerfully, drumming my fingers on the steering wheel and trying to look honest. The bear-man paused like he knew better, but then the boom-gates lifted. I accelerated forward with a sigh of relief.

  In the blink of an eye, I was home. The final transition into The Weald was like a small tug in the guts and a tremor behind the eyes. Then the striped tollbooth was just a small pinprick behind me. I drove along a dark road, leaning forward over the wheel as my headlights flickered, the magic of The Weald starting to interfere with the car’s mechanics. Gunning the engine, I turned right at a fork in the road. The lights of Harken City twinkled before me, gas lamps lining the outer walls like a string of golden jewels.

  The engine coughed a few more times, then seemed to remember who was behind the wheel and smoothed out. Outland machines tended to work just fine around me, no matter where I was.

  Another secret I had.

  The Merry Widow Rental Yard sat just outside the outer city walls, a row of towing donkeys standing out the front. The car spluttered to a stop a few meters from the entrance and I got out. One of the goblin sisters who ran the yard came towards me, chewing on a toothpick.

  “You’ve got some luck, Lora Blackgoat,” she remarked, toothpick dancing along her blackened lips. “To get a machine this far past the tollbooth.”

  “You’d rather I leave it someplace else?” I raised an eyebrow, acting indifferent. The goblin sisters might have suspected my ability to use Outland mechanisms, but were well-known for their discretion.

  She gave a dry laugh. “Won’t hear a complaint from me, saves me poor donkeys a towing job.”

  Paying my bill with cash, I fended off offers to hire a horse into the city. Sure, I had shopping to carry and was wearing heels, but I was willing to pay the exorbitant private transport fees inside the city. A horse had trampled me when I was sixteen, which had fractured my pelvis and cracked my spine. It had taken me nearly two years to recover and fifteen years later, I still needed a cane to get around. It went without saying; I had quite the phobia when it came to horses.

  Donning a long coat that hid my Outland style clothes, I stashed Roper’s rig and gun in one of my shopping bags and set off down the crooked dirt path towards the towering city gates. The guards were well bribed by Gideon, and waved me through without asking to see my passport or citizen papers. Passing through the ivy-covered torrents that welcomed all into the city, I kept my eyes peeled for a rickshaw to hail.

  Harken City was a teeming metropolis city, stitched together by crooked streets, wonky lanes, secret courtyards and grey-stone buildings. In winter, the streets were always blanketed with fog or splattered with rain. Or both. I had a personal love for winter fashions, but my lame leg did not appreciate the cold, and so I was impatient for the warmth of spring to arrive. I would have taken a vacation to somewhere warm, if I could have afforded it. But the Bowley Street Boys would be looking for their monthly dues soon, and there was that pesky debt I had to the Daleman. Which meant I needed to work.

  It was early enough that some citizens still walked the streets, taking the twilight air: women with ribboned hats and gloved hands, walking with men dressed in greatcoats and fresh-brushed bowler hats. A light fog drifted aimlessly along the ground and tourists huddled under hissing gas street lamps, consulting their maps. A few horse-drawn hansom cabs rattled past me on the wide, tree-lined street, going fast enough that you always crossed with caution.

  A scattering of street kids scampered past and I felt tiny fingers brush my clothes. I snatched up a little hand that was trying to slip into one of my pockets and made a disapproving sound. The little pickpocket was otherkin. He squealed, pointed ears flushing as he struggled in my grasp. I wagged a finger and he poked a forked tongue back with a feline hiss. Letting him go with an easy smile, I watched as he ran down the foggy street to join his friends.

  A three-wheeled rust-bucket of a rickshaw rattled towards me, its clockwork motor making alarming clanking noises under the bonnet. I waved a hand and it screeched to a halt near me, engine ticking and whirring like an uneven pulse. The driver was a little goblin wearing a military coat and a white golf cap. He jerk
ed a stubby thumb to the backseat, indicating he’d take me. I clambered in and settled with relief on the tiny backseat, shopping bags at my feet, cane between my knees. I gave him an address and we set off at a teeth-rattling pace, my hands clutching the vinyl seat for balance.

  We drove east down Butchers Lane, the rusty smell of blood in the air which morphed to a cloying wave of vanilla as we passed Silk Street, where dress merchants kept their brightly painted shops. I held tight as we weaved around a group of pigs, then came to a stuttering halt.

  The driver twisted around, wiping a long, droopy nose. “Six halfers.”

  My eyebrows rose. “Bit steep, isn’t it?”

  “You arguing?”

  Deciding I was too tired to use my dimples, I forked over the appropriate amount. You never argued with a rickshaw driver. Once you got on their blacklist, you never got off.

  Twilight had set in by the time I stood outside Taunton Pawnbrokers. It was a small shop on a street dominated by crowded noodle bars and street vendors selling cheap meat of questionable origins. I pushed the door open and a silver bell tinkled overhead.

  Inside was neat and organised. Artefacts from all continents of The Weald sat organised on shelves: exotic musical instruments, stiff top hats, books, vases and a whole wall dedicated to china figurines of farm animals. I knew the heavily taxed Outland wares were stored in a private room out the back, through a hidden door.

  Taunton himself stood behind his glass counter, arguing with a fat man in a rumpled blue suit and grey bowler hat. Taunton was a wiry guy with a shiny bald head and a mild expression that could slide to sinister in seconds. He wore a double-breasted cream vest with a silver brocade cravat and a pocket-watch chain looping around the front.

  The fat man was speaking in a dialect that was clipped and fast, obviously not a local. Taunton’s eyes moved to meet mine, then flicked back to the fat man. He said something quietly in the same sharp language. The fat man sucked in some air and turned. Taunton murmured a few more things. I didn’t understand what he was saying, but heard him say Chopper, so I caught his drift clear enough. I didn’t like playing the thug role much, but sometimes it was good business to act the part when asked.

  The fat man snapped a few more words and Taunton tilted his chin at me, the smallest of gestures. I dropped my shopping bags, freeing one hand, the other still on my cane. Flashing dimples at the fat man, I reached behind me and pulled my throwing knife. I flicked my wrist and sent the blade flying. Now, I was aiming for the floorboards between the fat man’s feet, but the blade dug into his left shoe with a soft thok.

  The fat man howled and I winced, mouthing an apology to Taunton. He shot me an exasperated look and hurried around the counter. The fat man had pulled the dagger out and was now hopping around, clutching his wounded foot. Taunton pushed the man towards the door, speaking sternly. The man sobbed a few things, then he was gone and Taunton was locking the front door, flipping his Open sign to Closed.

  “You only needed to scare him.” Taunton walked back to behind his counter. “Not really hurt him.”

  I walked to the counter, scooping up the throwing knife and tucking it back into its pouch. “My bad.”

  Taunton pulled the pocket-watch from his coat, checking the time with a sniff. “I’m quite sure you remember I prefer you call ahead to make appointments, Lora.”

  “Sorry, I forgot.”

  “I’m quite sure you didn’t.” Taunton tucked the pocket-watch away and fixed me with a stern look. “I have another appointment in ten minutes, so you’ll have to make it brief. What do you have?”

  I pulled Roper’s gun and rig from the shopping bag, placing it on the counter. “What can I get for this?”

  Taunton rolled his eyes. “A mechanical rig? I could get a tinker here to make one if I had the mind to. You’d have to pay me to take it, Lora.”

  “What about the gun?”

  He shook his head. “Someone smuggled a large shipment into the city two weeks ago. All the collectors are flush with Outlander weapons, which are only good for scrap.” Taunton picked up the gun, jacking back the trigger several times. Each pull just gave a click, as if the gun was empty. It wasn’t, of course, but that was just what happened to Outlander machinery in The Weald. Taunton put it down and tapped his nose at me. “Now, if you were to bring me a functional semi-automatic weapon, we’d be talking some serious money.”

  It was my turn to roll my eyes. The weapons trade was a booming business, with every tinker in The Weald trying to come up with a device that would trump the cumbersome wheellock pistols and flintlocks.

  With a regretful sigh, I pulled out the box of cigars I’d smuggled across the border. “How about these?”

  Taunton lifted the lid and gave me a small sympathetic smile. “I don’t recognise the brand, darling. Quite frankly, they look a little cheap.”

  “They weren’t that cheap,” I said, feeling miffed. “Can’t you help me out?”

  Taunton closed the lid of the cigars. “I heard about your bills.”

  “Yeah? So?”

  He gave me a withering look. “What were you thinking? Getting involved with a character like Joseph Daleman?”

  “A girl’s got to have some excitement in her life.”

  “Do you know what he does to people who can’t pay their bills?”

  “Lets them off with a warning?”

  “You know why they call him The Hacksaw, don’t you? It’s not because his mother thought it was a cute nickname.”

  “I can take care of myself.”

  Taunton’s eyes dropped to my boots. “And what hideous Outland outfit are you wearing today? You’ll never meet a nice man wearing those kind of clothes. It’s a wonder you don’t get accosted on the streets.”

  “I get accosted all the time,” I said defensively. “So, you can shut the fuck up.”

  “And then there’s the matter of your filthy sailor mouth. You’ve the morals of an alley-cat, Lady Blackgoat, and one of these days, you’re going to find yourself in the kind of trouble you can’t insult, drink or fist fight your way out of.” Taunton gave another sniff. “It’s no wonder you’ve grown to be a bitter spinster.”

  “Who’s bitter? I’m a free woman wearing expensive boots,” I snapped. “Now, can you take this quick-draw rig or not?”

  Taunton tapped his chin, expression turning thoughtful. “Maybe I could give you a five.”

  I did a double take. “Are you serious?”

  “Lora, you understand my clients have sophisticated tastes. If you want a good score, you must bring me something worthwhile.”

  “Alright, alright.” I shoved Roper’s gun and rig back into my shopping bags. “I’ll see what I can come up with.”

  Taunton gave me a condescending smile. “I have complete faith, Lady Blackgoat.”

  Chapter 3

  Leaving Taunton’s shop, I set out south, heading towards Abraham’s Alley. My cane clicked against slick cobblestones, and pedestrians weaved around me. Behind me, the wealthier districts, nicknamed High Town, were sprawled to the north of the city. Grand houses were built on ground that inclined up, affording the rich an expensive view of the sea. Standards in civility dropped as you headed south, where merchants had their warehouses and the crowded harbour yawned out into Cutter’s Bay. The district of Applecross was dead centre in the slums of the city, beating like a dark heart.

  It took fifteen minutes to reach Abraham’s Alley and by the time I got there, I was out of breath. The shopping bags hurt my hands, and my lame leg was lanced with sparks of pain.

  The narrow alley was crowded; lined with trinket stalls, doomsday criers, fortune-tellers and hex-pushers with reptilian eyes. Grubby peddlers hawked illegal herbs and cursed jewellery, while pawn shops offered discounts for body parts if brought in fresh. Curiosity-shops displayed pickled animals and mounted monkey paws, while the antique bookshops and picture dealers announced closing down sales. Homes sat on second floors, lit with glows of life.

>   The night crowds heaved around me as I plunged onward, some looking for entertainment, others for misadventure. A couple of regular stallholders hid smirks behind their hands. After word had gotten around of how I’d beheaded my last client, I’d become as popular as an open day at a funeral home. I supposed I shouldn’t have let it bother me so much. I’d always been an outcast. White hair was linked with the Witch Hunter gene that traditionally affected males. I wasn’t a Witch Hunter. Aside from visual clues, I was unable to sense a witch or warlock. I’d certainly never had the urge to hunt them, as I’d heard was the case with real Witch Hunters. A sort of bloodlust, as it was once described to me. The only lust I had was for hard liquor and a hot dice game. This didn’t stop others from making assumptions. My mother had been an Outlander, my father a mystery. As a child, I used to fantasise he was a king of a distant land and would one day come for me. By the time I was eight, I thought perhaps he’d be a prince who would send for me. By the time I was thirteen, I had downgraded the dream to some slob I was thankful had never darkened my doorstep.

  I stopped outside a two-storey building with flaking blue paint and white gables. A street lamp lit a sign cut in the shape of a broadsword, which hung from a pole above the door. The words Blackgoat Watch were scrolled along the blade in red paint. My hand on the latch, I glanced over at the dim light shining out of the shop next door, which had large bay windows and closed curtains. The shingle read: Arcania Apothecary. This was the trade shop of Orella Warbreeder, my adoptive mother.