“You of all people should appreciate our work,” Moritat said, gesturing to the silent machinery all around them. “We have suspended our own operations in order to create the instruments necessary to fulfill our compact.” The necrotech’s smile broadened. “I’ve anticipated that you intend us to make a second attempt on your enemy’s life?”
“It’ll be harder than before,” Lorca said. “Vulger’s terrified. He’s locked himself up on his estate. The place is a fortress. He’s brought in a small army of syndicate men and mercenaries to protect him.”
Azaam ran her thumb across the razored edge of her knife, drawing a bead of blood. “They might be expecting an attack, but they won’t be prepared for it.”
Moritat picked another shred of skin from around the edges of the hose, this time nibbling experimentally at it before throwing it to the ground. “It is convenient that your enemy is so obliging as to stay in one place for us.”
“I told you, his estate is a fortress.”
“A fortress is naught but a prison viewed from another perspective,” the necrotech said. He stared across the masses of boring tools and digging equipment stacked throughout the cavern.
In gruesome detail, Azaam described for Lorca how they were going to turn Volkenrath’s refuge into his tomb. Lorca hung on every word, appreciating the insidious genius that would make a mockery of Vulger’s defenses and turn his own precautions against him. After hearing the blood hag’s plan, Lorca left the cavernous mine, intent on carrying out his own role. It should be an easy thing for the syndicate leader’s trusted lieutenant to play upon his chief’s fears and keep him within the supposed safety of his estate’s walls.
“Do you think he can be trusted?” Azaam asked after the gangster was gone.
Moritat scurried back to his experiment, taking his time as he considered the question. “No more than he can trust us,” he said at last. “He has allowed his ambitions to trap him within his own deceit.” The necrotech lifted a chunk of glistening black ore from the table, turning it over in his hand, watching the alchemical lamp reflect off its surface.
“Lich Lord Fulmenus will be pleased,” Azaam said. A hungry, almost desperate note crept into her voice. “The properties of this vein will propel your research to new heights.”
The necrotech laid down the nugget of ore. “Longevity without purpose is a thing devoid of value.”
The blood hag’s face twisted briefly in anger. Fear tinged her voice. “Have I not displayed my value? Has my magic not led you to new innovations? Have I not inspired you to new experiments?”
“Yes,” Moritat said, thrusting a probe into an almost shapeless lump of muscle. The tissue began to quiver and throb, reclaiming some lost echo of its extinguished life. “You have been a capable collaborator. But I must wonder how capable you should be if you were divorced from your mortality. It is that weakness which makes you such a zealous confederate. A sad irony.”
Azaam’s fist clenched about the gore-crusted grip of her blood razor. “You cannot deny me!” she cried. “I have done everything you’ve demanded! I—”
“And you will continue to do so if you expect me to extend your existence through my studies.” The necrotech didn’t even look up. “You will serve me faithfully and dutifully.” He thrust the probe deeper into the tissue, driving its necrotite tip to the core of the muscle. The lump of flesh shuddered, then burst into gory fragments.
Moritat chuckled, wiping bits of muscle from his skeletal face. “Defy me, Azaam, and I shall leave you to what few years your aged flesh has left to it. Perhaps I should even repurpose your remains. Your possibilities as a thrall might make a most intriguing line of research.”
The blood hag retreated from Moritat. The necrotech hadn’t been voicing a threat. He was simply expressing a new idea.
She knew from experience how dangerous his ideas could be.
Junkers Zahn bustled about Rex’s battered hulk, a continual stream of gobberish mutter spilling from his lips. Several times, the gobber threw up his greasy hands in complete frustration as he inspected the warjack. The black looks he directed at Rutger had all the accusation and rage of an animal lover who catches someone beating a dog.
Rutger shifted uncomfortably on the stool where Zahn had sent him. He felt he should be doing something to help the mechanik. “That’s where a spike pierced his hand,” he called to the gobber as Zahn’s examination turned from the warjack’s hull to its limbs. The gobber’s expression was almost murderous.
“Ruined,” he snapped, jabbing a long green finger into the gash. “The whole hand needs to be replaced.” Zahn waved his arm in the air as though trying to snatch hold of a cloud. “This is a complete loss!” He hopped down from the ladder he was using to reach Rex’s towering frame. He started pointing at the other damage he’d found, rattling off a catalog of injuries that seemed to incense him more with each addition. Rutger cringed before the gobber’s tirade.
“You should be happy about such good repeat customers,” Taryn quipped, turning away from the bin of cog wheels she’d been idly rummaging through. Her remark brought the mechanik storming toward her. She started to smile at the gobber’s display of outrage, but a closer look at his expression made her rethink her amusement.
“Because I enjoy seeing the ’jacks I sweat over being turned into scrap,” Zahn growled up at her. He spun around and glared at Rutger. “You should thank your gods Rex was even able to walk back here on his own!”
Rutger licked his lips nervously. He hesitated to ask the obvious question, which seemed to irk mechaniks at the best of times. Still, he found the words stumbling across his lips. “Can you fix him?”
The gobber paced back toward Rex, tugging at one of his ears as he considered the question. Rutger darted a hopeful look at Taryn, who sighed and nodded. They’d had a long talk about how far they could stretch their dwindling funds. There was only so much they could expect Zahn to put “on account.”
“We can pay fifty silverweight now and I can leave my hand cannon with you as collateral,” Rutger said.
Zahn shook his head. “Let me look first. We’ll discuss price later.” The mechanik pointed a finger at Rex. “I’ll need to take the cortex out. The chassis has extensive damage and will take a lot of work. I don’t want to risk smacking the cortex around while I’m making repairs.” The gobber waited expectantly for Rutger’s permission.
With extensive repairs such as Zahn was describing, it was a normal safety measure to extract a ’jack’s cortex, to eliminate any chance of its accidentally activating. Nodding in agreement, Rutger tossed the gobber the key to the service hatch behind Rex’s cortex.
Zahn caught the key in one hand, scurried back to his ladder, and climbed up onto Rex’s hull. A deft turn of the key had the hatch open. Fishing a bolt-driver from the tools dangling off his body, Zahn set to work. It was a few minutes before the mechanik climbed back down. The complex sphere of metal and crystal that acted as the warjack’s mechanikal brain was suspended in the claw of a small crane the gobber had wheeled over to help in the extraction. As he stepped away from the ladder, all the anger seemed to drain out of the gobber. Indeed, he wore an almost comical expression of embarrassment and apology when he turned to face his customers.
“Sorry,” the mechanik said. “I didn’t have a choice.”
The gate leading from the work yard into the street was suddenly flung open. Armed men rushed into the yard. More men appeared from the interior of Zahn’s workshop. Taryn eased her hands away from the grips of the magelocks she’d half drawn. Even with her pistols in hand, trying to defy a dozen armed combatants was a losing proposition. She darted a look at Rutger and saw her partner had reached the same conclusion. His arms raised in surrender, it was his turn to glare accusingly at Junkers Zahn. Pulling Rex’s cortex had cinched the ambush, removing the only thing that could have spoiled the trap.
A powerfully built man with the iron pectoral of a lieutenant in the Five Fingers Watch hanging arou
nd his neck stalked toward Rutger, a pistol clenched in his fist. Keeping the weapon trained on the mercenary, he pulled Rutger’s hand cannon from its holster and handed it off to one of the watchmen with him. With an equal display of caution, he repeated the procedure with Jackknife.
When the lieutenant turned toward Taryn, his eyes became as wide as saucers. In a blur of motion, the gun mage drew both her magelocks. Before anyone could get too nervous, she reversed her hold on the pistols with a deft flourish, presenting them butt-first to the stunned lieutenant.
She smiled at him. “Nobody would miss a mere lieutenant anyway.”
“But they would miss a captain.” The two prisoners turned their heads. A tall mustached man emerged from the darkened interior of Zahn’s shop. There was a precise, military bearing about him, the cool self-assurance of a commander secure in his authority. True to his words, he wore the jeweled signet ring of a watch captain on his left hand.
Lieutenant Trask saluted as he handed his commander Taryn’s magelocks. Parvolo took a moment to study the weight and balance of the pistols, then returned his attention to the prisoners snared by his ambush. “Forgive the theatrics,” he said, bowing his head in contrition.
“I take it then that we are under arrest,” Taryn said.
Parvolo considered the point for a moment. “It was fortunate for me that you had such a bad time on Chaser. Otherwise, I might have lost valuable time tracking you down.” He smiled and waved his hand at Rex’s inert bulk. “Toros aren’t such a common sight that they go unnoticed. One of my men remembered seeing a Toro being brought into this repair shop shortly after the unpleasantness in Blood Alley.”
“What next? Blackstone?” Rutger said, again glaring at Zahn.
“That depends entirely on you,” Parvolo said. “You see, I’m not really interested in what happened on Chaser. I’m more interested in what’s been happening on Hospice.” He could see from the pallor that crept into the complexions of his prisoners that they knew precisely what he was talking about.
“Trask, take our friend the proprietor down the street,” Parvolo said. “He looks like a very dangerous person, so you’d better take your men with you.”
The lieutenant looked doubtful. He glanced suspiciously at Taryn and Rutger. “Are you sure, sir?”
Parvolo waved away Trask’s concern. “I’ll be quite all right. Follow your orders.” The captain waited until the watchmen and a very confused Junkers Zahn had marched out into the street and closed the gate behind them. Parvolo cocked his head to one side, listening to the withdrawal. “It’s not that I don’t trust my men, but in this city there’s no such thing as being overly cautious.”
“If you’re expecting a bribe, you’re dropping your bucket in a dry well,” Rutger said. “What money we have is tied up in Rex over there.”
“It’s true,” Taryn said. “Just this morning we were debating whether to have breakfast or get some coal for that thing.”
Parvolo laughed. “This is probably going to come as a shock, but trying to bribe an officer of the law is a crime. Even in Five Fingers, though I’m afraid many of my associates don’t share that viewpoint.” He extended his arm toward Zahn’s shop. “We can speak more freely inside. Less chance of being overheard.”
The interior of Zahn’s shop was a deranged fantasy of tools, parts, and components. The torso of a reasonably intact Talon dominated one corner of the room. An armature that might once have been inside the chassis of a Buccaneer hung by chains from the ceiling. Parvolo brushed aside the housing of a gearbox and seated himself on a table corner. Taryn and Rutger frowned at the stools and chairs strewn about the shop. All the furnishings were gobber-sized.
“Well, if you don’t want money, what is it that you’re after?” Taryn gave voice to the question vexing both mercenaries.
Parvolo appreciated the directness of her question. “I’m after you,” he said, “but not to drop you in Blackstone.”
“You’re after a favor,” Rutger said.
The captain nodded. “My men and I spent a very unpleasant night down at the Scrapyard, cleaning out the place. We found quite a few survivors. Many of them credited their escape to some rather impressive heroes. Only a few of them mentioned this charming lady,” Parvolo bowed to Taryn, “but all of them were adamant about a man with a Cygnaran accent and his Toro. You could even say that in some quarters of the city, these heroes have acquired a certain amount of renown.”
“You want to exploit that,” Taryn said.
“Just as much as I can,” Parvolo admitted. “I won’t claim I can pay you much. The watch has a rather tight budget. But I can arrange to have those posters on you rescinded. Your little friend from Rhul could be convinced to drop his complaint, maybe even remember that it was two other mercenaries he hired. You’ll have a clean slate as far as the watch is concerned. We’ll also make arrangements for your ’jack to be repaired.”
“And what’s this favor?” Rutger asked.
Parvolo rose to his feet, walking across the shop to where Junkers Zahn had a crude map of the city tacked to the wall. The captain tapped his finger against the spot where Doleth Island was depicted. “One of my best investigators vanished recently. His informants had been giving him tips about strange shipments being smuggled into the city. Rumors mostly, third-hand tales whispered by friends of friends, that kind of thing. Nothing substantial, only that somehow Vulger Volkenrath’s name was involved, that whatever was being brought in was being offloaded on one of his docks.” He clenched his hand and drove his fist against the island. “Then, after my man hinted to me he was going to get the evidence I needed . . . nothing. Vanished as though swallowed by the Wurm.”
The captain paced back toward the two mercenaries. “Then we have a monstrous incursion by Cryxian horrors. Somehow the fiends of the Nightmare Empire appear in the city. What do they attack? Why, a fighting venue operated by Vulger Volkenrath of all people.” Parvolo shook his head. “There’s a connection.”
“You sound like a man who still lacks proof,” Taryn said.
“Which brings us to the favor you’re going to do me,” Parvolo said. “Volkenrath is terrified. He’s holed up on his estate, surrounded by a small army of thugs and sell-swords. He’s obviously aware of the attack on the Scrapyard. He was probably there when it happened. He usually is. Either way, he certainly knows about the two heroes who prevented the carnage from descending into a complete massacre.
“I want the two of you to offer your services to Volkenrath. One of his syndicate men owes me a few favors, so I can finagle an introduction for you.”
“And then?” Rutger asked, feeling he already knew the answer.
Captain Parvolo matched the Cygnaran’s stony gaze. “Once you’re in Volkenrath’s good graces, I want you to find that proof I need. Keep your eyes and ears open. If there’s a connection between Vulger and Cryx, I want you to find it.”
Taryn shook her head. “We put ourselves between a crime syndicate and monsters from a nightmare. In return, you agree not to throw us into Blackstone and arrange to have Rex repaired.” The gun mage smiled coldly. “I should think preventing a total massacre at the Scrapyard would have already earned us that much consideration. Surely even the watch can dole out some extra compensation for operatives who are putting their lives at stake to preserve law and order.”
“No money,” Parvolo said. “We’re on a budget, and my post at least doesn’t supplement our incomes with graft. Do we have a deal or not?”
Taryn raised her hand, motioning Rutger to silence. “I want our agreement in writing.” A cold glint came into her eyes as she thought of Udric and their contract with him. “And I want a notary present to witness everybody signing it.”
Parvolo had described the estate of Vulger Volkenrath as a fortress. As Taryn and Rutger were admitted into the place, they decided he didn’t know the half of it.
The estate was situated in the affluent Terraces District on Bellicose Island, the northernmost
of the large islands on which the city of Five Fingers had been built. The district consisted of layers of terraces cut into the gentle slope rising from the southern shore. Many of the lower terraces were given over to stacks of overpriced apartments and packs of townhouses that looked like they’d been squashed together by an angry giant. Toward the top of the slope, however, looking out across the island toward the mainland, the sprawl of walled estates began to make its presence felt. Among the largest of these urban compounds was the one that had fallen into Vulger’s clutches. He had acquired the estate either through blackmail or gambling debts, depending on who told the story. All the stories agreed, however, that the estate represented the last holdings of a once-mighty Ordic noble family.
Vulger seemed to have made considerable changes to the place. A second ring of perimeter wall had been added, topped with jagged bits of broken glass, and the ten-foot gap between walls gave over to a deep trench with what smelled like oil lining the bottom. The gatehouse was like a small fort, fitted with monstrous oaken gates two feet thick and reinforced with steel. Armed guards stood both within the gatehouse and on its roof, which sported a number of gaps that looked to Taryn just the right size to drop a grenade onto somebody’s head.
A vast flower garden lay beyond the walls, but for all its size there was neither bush nor tree to provide any visitor with shade . . . or cover. The marigolds and daisies didn’t deceive the two mercenaries walking down the limestone path. They could see the watchtowers rising from the building’s roof, the profusion of steel-shuttered windows that stared from the face of the home. The area had been cleared as a killing ground, a hundred yards fully exposed to the mansion. Any invaders who tried to cross the garden would find themselves met by a murderous fire.
“Vulger’s a man who plans ahead,” Taryn said, noting the partially exposed pitfall in one of the flower beds.
Exiles in Arms: Night of the Necrotech Page 9
