And then it hit him. Hard in the back of the head.
He was sent smashing to the ground, doubled over in pain. Stars formed round his head, and groaned. He squinted upwards, at his assailant, who stood, cosh still in hand, over him.
“Like my little drawing, Pouchii?” The assassin hissed. Pouchii knew he was an assassin. Only an assassin would wear a black suit in the middle of South Saliman.
“Yes.” Pouchii croaked. “You can do some more once I’ve put some shackles on you and taken you down to the station.”
“I suppose you know what happens next.” The man drew his gun.
“Oh, yes.” Pouchii grinned, and sunk his teeth into the man’s leg. He howled, the gun shot up into the air, and went off.
The explosion was deafening in the rebounding confines of the concrete, and both men stumbled apart, Pouchii getting to his feet. The gun itself skittered for a moment on the steel balustrade, and then tittered over the edge, into the street below.
The man scowled. And then he charged Pouchii, silent yet menacing, circling the policeman. Pouchii moved fast, his hand slapping the cosh down, whilst the other cracked in between the assassin’s eyeballs, making them spin. He did it again, and again, until his fist was slick with blood. It shook with adrenaline.
Suddenly, he was Rosium-only-knows how many miles away, twenty years ago. The blood had brought it all gushing back. And the gunshot. There were plenty of them here. He glanced down; the mud was squelching under his feet, and also the enemy-soldier-next-to-him’s feet. Those feet were sliding backwards under the pressure of Pouchii’s fists. The soldier’s screams mingled with the howls of battle, the neighs of horses, the roar of artillery. Pouchii smiled, and twisted. The soldier’s jaw dislocated, and he threw him down in to the mess of bodies crawling to escape.
Even as he crawled, Pouchii gunned him down. The man squirmed, howled, as his insides flopped from him. The soldier half stood, then hauled himself over some sort of invisible cliff, and toppled out of sight, into death. Then, even as the trumpet signals started to drift through to withdraw, Pouchii slowly realised his reality. He drifted back through time and space, into a dark concrete corridor. He saw the blood pooling over the edge of the steel balustrade, across the floor, and onto his battered fist. And he saw the gun gripped tightly in his own hand.
He grimaced, crossed over to the balustrade, and peered out into the gloom of the Saliman night.
There was definitely a body down there. Either that or someone had dumped a large quantity of butchers waste. Pulling out his radio, he spoke clearly into it.
“We have a situation. One dead assassin. My house.”
Only then did he holster the gun and turn, with a frown, back to the graffiti.
Twenty minutes later he was sitting in his flat, still shaking ever so slightly. It was a grim place – dark, grey and disturbingly modernist. He had a single room, with a giant armchair sat in the corner like an old sack of potatoes, a hardboarded off toilet and a few pictures scattered across the walls. He’d undone the top two buttons of his jacket and shirt, and was now slowly dismantling his gun on the plastic topped table in front of him, his mind clicking over as he did so.
He flipped out the recoil spring and placed it carefully on the table, bouncing it slightly as he did so between forefinger and thumb. The guide rod followed it.
His mind was thinking over the graffiti. It had been so clearly aimed at him – no-one else used that particular corridor that late at night, and the scene was so reminiscent of what had actually happened to Takka that it suggested the assassin was part of the murder. The thought made him shudder as he clicked out the trigger pin. He had almost followed the viscount to the grave.
But then there had only been one assassin, and he had been very unprofessional – he had made himself visible and actively left evidence in the form of the graffiti. If Pouchii had been carrying out his murder, he would have hit himself with a sniper bullet from the neighbouring tower block. Much easier. It was almost as if the assassin hadn’t really wanted to kill; more to deliver a message. But what was that message – Takka was dead? Stop the investigation? You’re next?
Perhaps it was a bit of all three. But even that was confusing – Pouchii wasn’t even sure that the dead man was Takka, and, if he wasn’t, wouldn’t it make more sense to just tell Pouchii that it wasn’t him? If ransom was what was wanted, people were bound to pay up – Takka was a liked man – and if it wasn’t, Takka’s disappearance was more likely to be publicly announced, which would create what Pouchii saw as perhaps the only other motive – panic.
Pouchii sighed, and popped out the stirrup pin. He clicked it down on the table, and stared at the disassembled machine before him. Gazing over the oily lumps of elegant metal, he pondered it. Quite how something so beautifully ugly could be so brutally dainty astounded him. The little pins and springs slotted so neatly together that he found himself constantly twiddling and caressing it. It was somehow the most fascinating thing he had ever possessed. It also disgusted him. That was partly why he found it so interesting.
Pouchii yawned, then glanced at his watch. Time to crawl into his armchair and settle back to sleep. He’d done enough thinking for today.
He turned his eyes back to the disassembled gun on the table. His fingers flittered across the parts, expertly twisting and slotting, clicking and snapping. Soon it sat at his table, alongside him.
He glanced at his watch again. Twelve seconds. Not bad.
He woke again at half six next morning. The roar of pedestrians feet clumped up through his window, and the smells of blood wafted up from the pavement below. Clearly they hadn’t managed to move the dead assassin before he had started to stink.
Pouchii trusted that the police who had come to deal with it had heeded his other order more swiftly. The DCI knew that it was essential to stop news of the disappearance and possible death of the viscount getting out, so he had been quick to make sure that the graffiti the assassin had left be cleared off the wall outside his flat sharpish.
Pouchii yawned. He shouldn’t think so hard so early in the morning. It wasn’t healthy. And, anyway, he had a meeting with Lord Sethlon soon, and there would be plenty of time to voice ideas then.
He stood, his bones creaking with the effort. He slotted his gun into its holster, and fastened a few buttons on his uniform. All it took from there was a slight tightening of the belt, and he was pretty much fully dressed.
He crossed to a plastic table in the corner of the room, and filled the kettle with some bottled water sitting by the sink. He didn’t trust South Saliman water, even if he was boiling it before he drank it. He stuck the ugly black thing on the range, and let it slowly work itself up to a whistling boil as he rubbed the crackling dust of sleep from his eyes.
He took the kettle off the heat and poured it into a chunky mug that was both chipped and plain. His hand dipped into a jar sitting on the side and he withdrew a few brown granules which he added to it. He didn’t believe in caffeine. This stuff was just plain old chocolate. That had never harmed anyone.
He downed the mug in one, grimacing at the both the strength and bitterness of the chocolate, and the heat. The second he had finished the last few dregs, he hung the cup back on it’s stand. There wasn’t much point in washing it. That way the water would probably get him.
Pouchii crossed the room, with a sigh, to a large cabinet on the wall. He slid the door open, and, with much rehearsed deftness, he slid a revolver from within and let the door swing shut.
He walked into the middle of the room, and stood there as he slotted a single bullet into one of the six chambers, and one of his fingers flicked against them, making them spin as one, the grey metal flashing silver in the early dawn sunlight.
He gazed down the barrel, as he raised it to his forehead. His finger touched the trigger.
Who would miss him? No one in these worlds. And it would stop this endless torrent of death and despair that seemed to cloak the Saliman he kn
ew. And it would stop him killing anyone else, like that foolish assassin. It wasn’t particularly the death that had worried him, but the flashback…
Ah, well. He need this little break that was all, and if the gods of chance saw fit to give him one, then he would take it with both hands. And, if not?
There was always tomorrow.
His finger twitched.
Then there was a shout at the door.
“Post!” A hearty shout from the local postman broke through Pouchii’s reverie. He let the gun slip to the table top, and crossed to the door, composing himself as he did so.
“Yes?” Pouchii forced a smile on as he opened the door.
“Dispatch post from the Universe of Rock for DCI Pouchii.” The postman smiled, jovially.
“That was quick.” The DCI held out his hand. “Thank you.”
“That’s alright, sir.” The postman handed him an official looking grey envelope, and headed off down the corridor to deliver more of the bits of paper in his sack.
Pouchii walked back into his room, closing the door behind him. He certainly hadn’t expected the Rockian Blood bank service to get back to him this fast on the results of the blood they had sent them from the corpse in the backstreet. It was either bad news or… Well, bad news, really. Takka was either dead or missing. Neither was to be preferred.
He ripped across the top, and withdrew a single sheet of paper. Typical Rockians, he thought. They were never ones to mince words. All it said was, quite simply; “Negative. This not Viscount’s blood. Unsure about source of blood.”
Well, that was confusing. Who was the dead man? Where was Takka? And what on Saliman was…
His thoughts were cut off as a man dressed all in black catapulted through the window in a shower of glass shards and landed hard on Pouchii’s cheap carpet. Rosium only knew how he had managed to jump through Pouchii’s window, seeing as he was on the fifth floor.
He hissed, and drew a dagger.
Pouchii felt himself move, almost in slow motion, to the table. His hand went down to the surface, and, even as the assassin prepared to throw the dagger to kill his target, Pouchii raised the revolver and prayed.
As he pulled the trigger, there was a moment’s utter silence.
And then there was a colossal explosion, and the bullet that had been destined for the DCI whipped across the room, dazed and confused.
The assassin was hit full in the face. As he fell to the floor, his lifeblood splattered the grey walls. Pouchii stood there, watching him die, for what seemed like… well, what was a lifetime.
Then the door burst open, and Lord Marcus Sethlon, the 11th Duke Klagen stood framed in the doorway, almost out of breath, his sword draw.
“What…Who…Why?” The duke looked shocked, but his sword point did not waver.
“Simple, my lord.” Pouchii turned to him, smiling. “That is how you deal with bullets with your name on them.” He paused for a moment to let it sink in. “Shall we go now?”
Sethlon simply nodded.
They descended the steps together, Sethlon moving with a certain grace. He had sheathed his sword now, and it hung ready at his hip.
Pouchii should have recognised the name instantly. The Sethlon Sword and Steel Company was one of Saliman’s biggest employers. One of her oldest companies too. The Sethlons had controlled Saliman’s sword and armaments market for centuries, and it was little surprise that the present Lord Director of the company carried one of his own fine swords. After all, the motto of the Sethlon family was clear in the minds of most blacksmiths; “the sword is mightier than the man.”
Sethlon glanced across at Pouchii. The DCI looked untroubled by the body that was now beneath his window. Most other men the duke knew would be, at the least, scared by his own capabilities, but Pouchii seemed cool and collected. It sent a shiver down Sethlon’s back.
It was Pouchii who broke the awkward silence.
“So, how did the interviews go last night?” He asked, casually.
“Alright.” Sethlon smiled faintly as they came to the bottom of the stairs and turned out into the street. Pouchii made as if to get his bicycle from his lockup, but the duke motioned him to a carriage that had pulled up by the pavement. “We’ll go in my little cart, if you want. It’s quicker.”
Pouchii nodded. The ‘cart’ was much more than that. It was bedecked in black and gold scrollwork, and had the Sethlon coat of arms on the side; a gold spire, set within a black shield. Footmen stood round it, all armed with Sethlon swords and bedecked in black and gold. Two horses stood patiently for their lord.
“The Sethlons don’t do things by halves, do they?” Pouchii smiled.
“What use is half a sword?” Sethlon grinned, and then climbed up the three steps into the main body of the carriage as a manservant held open the door. Pouchii followed.
“So, can you reconstruct that evening for me?” Pouchii asked the lord, sitting down on the plush black silk seats as he did so.
“I’ll try.” Sethlon began as they jerked into motion through the cobbled streets, moving slowly because of the crowds of pedestrians. “So, from what the Lords told me, the whole evening must have started around five o’clock. The Guests arrived on time, except the King and Queen, who were already there, as it was in the palace. So, all in all, there was Earl Cavidir, Duke Catchbridge, Earl Von Kanstien, Viscount Masala, Earl Panstoke, the Earl of Saliman, Lady Rosium, and the King and Queen. They had a meal, with four courses, from around five thirty to seven thirty. The Queen then called them all into the throne room – which is one of the most secure rooms in the palace, by the way – and proposed her little plan, to get government to vote itself out of existence. That was about eight o’clock, and Earl Von Kanstien had left by then, which puts him out of the way for that particular motive, or so it would seem.”
“I don’t know. Earl Panstoke is very well connected to Kanstien, so he could have passed the message on.” Pouchii butted in.
“Possibly. Panstoke is married to Kanstien’s sister. But he is still a fiercely independent man, and I doubt he would have passed on the news to Kanstien as the Queen instructed the Lords in that room not to tell anyone, and Panstoke is still loyal to his monarch.”
“I thought that both of them were members of the anti-monarchist party?”
“They are, but Kanstien takes it a little more seriously than Panstoke does. I think he is mainly a member because his father was, and Panstoke was even more loyal to his father than he is to the Queen. So I reckon we can rule out Kanstien. Oh, and also the Lady Rosium. I mean, if she was the killer, it would probably be difficult to do anything about it, as she’s a goddess.”
“True.” Pouchii thought for a moment. “So who does that leave us with?”
“Cavidir, Catchbridge, Panstoke, the Earl of Saliman, the King, the Queen, or a palace servant.” Sethlon counted the people off on his fingers. “Cavidir and Catchbridge are both very loyal to Takka, so I can’t imagine them doing it, but I suppose they could have done. It would make more sense for it to be done by a royalist to support the Queen’s proposal – so the Earl, Panstoke, one of the King’s men, or one of the Queen’s.”
“That would be the obvious conclusion.” Pouchii frowned. “But what if someone wanted to remove the monarchy? Surely the anarchy and chaos that would follow us accusing the Queen of murder would help the Anti-monarchist cause?”
“But Kanstien would be the most likely for that, and he had left early by the time the Queen had made her announcement.”
“What if it meant that other, moderate anti-monarchist groups like the Equalitists would win? If Takka’s own party would have benefited…” Pouchii searched for a meaning.
“Then that puts Cavidir and Catchbridge in the limelight.” Sethlon clearly didn’t like it.
“Or it could explain why a corpse was used that wasn’t Takka’s.” Pouchii was starting to smile like a man who had just cracked something.
“It wasn’t?” Sethlon looked surprised.
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“No, I got some blood test results back from the Universe of Rock today. He has a different blood group.” Pouchii handed Sethlon the letter from inside his uniform pocket. “So, getting back to my point, what if Takka faked his own death and disappeared? Then he could reappear later, and claim back Saliman, once the Queen is dead and beaten. His party gets into power and the Queen falls.”
“I suppose it’s possible.” Sethlon still didn’t look sure.
“Ah, well.” Pouchii sat back in his seat, exhausted. “Remind me to get some proper sleep tomorrow.”
“Is your apartment safe now? If not, I can find a safe house for a few days.”
“That would be useful. For now, though, we need to go and see that police officer.”
The Viscount Connection Page 3
