City of Dreams and Nightmare

by Ian Whates

  The figure on the screen raised an eyebrow. "Age has a habit of creeping up on all of us, Ty-gen, and nothing that behaves in such a fashion is ever likely to have our best interests at heart."

  Uncertain of how else to respond, the Jeradine nodded sagely, and reflected that he still had much to learn about the nuances of human communication.

  "I presume you didn't call me up merely to comment on my appearance?"

  "No, of course not. He was here - the boy you're so interested in."

  "Ah, good. You're sure it was him? Yes, of course you are, or you wouldn't be troubling me." The man immediately answered his own question. "Sorry. As I said, tiredness."

  "It was him," the Jeradine said. "Unless, that is, there are two boys running around the City Below who are able to hide effectively in plain sight."

  The man smiled, "Unlikely, at least so I hope. And where is the boy now?"

  "On his way home. I sent him in the company of someone I trust."

  "This would be the girl; your trading contact?"

  "Indeed." Mentally, Ty-gen berated himself. He should never have been lulled by the apparently frail image on the screen, should always remember that behind this weary exterior lurked one of the keenest minds he had ever encountered, certainly in a human.

  "Good. Then we have done all we can for the moment." The figure on the screen gave a sigh. "The pieces are in play. Now all we can do is hope that they fall in our favour. Thank you for your help, Ty-gen; in this and in everything else."

  The Jeradine bowed his head, a brief bob of acknowledgement. "I am, as ever, your servant."

  "You are, as ever, my friend," the human corrected. Then he moved a hand, reaching forward to the controls on his side and the screen went blank. From Ty-gen's perspective, the crystal array built into the wall became visible once more. He stared at the familiar construct for an unfocused second before turning the power off. He wished that he could feel as loyal and as certain as his words suggested, but instead felt that he had just thrown a youth to the wolves, with no guarantee of survival. Then there was Kat, whom he had come to know and grown genuinely fond of.

  He hoped fervently that the girl returned to claim his sculpture of the city but found he had no great confidence that she ever would. If either of the two young humans failed to live through the next few days it would be one further death on his conscience, a conscience already heavily burdened with too much loss and guilt.

  FIVE

  Dewar sat and waited. For company he had a small cup of scalding hot coffee, as strong and dark as anyone could wish for. He'd forgotten how much he missed this place, and the coffee. It was as if he had never been away. Haruk's stall still stood on its familiar pitch and the brew produced here was just as fresh and satisfying as ever. He thought he saw a flicker of recognition in the tall man's eyes, which was hardly a surprise; Dewar generally made a point of stopping off here at least once on his infrequent returns to the City Below. In fact, his instruction of "No syrup, just a twist of lemon" as the coffee was served had probably been unnecessary - Haruk had an excellent memory for customers' preferences - but he said it anyway.

  He sipped, sampling the bitter hit of the tar-dark brew on his palate and savouring the heat as it slid down his throat.

  Dewar could still remember when the coffee seller first arrived in Thaiburley, perhaps taking a particular interest because Haruk was, like himself, so obviously a foreigner. The man's tanned and weathered skin would have marked him instantly as such against the sallow complexions of the City Below natives even had he not possessed a pair of tribal scars beneath his left eye. This stranger, this outsider, had the audacity to try and set up business on the fringe of the market, much to the chagrin of the established stallholders.

  That first day had ended in a beating, with Haruk chased from the market square. But the next morning he was back, setting up a little off-market this time, in one of the broader streets leading to the square. People stopped to drink on their way through and evidently liked what they drank. That day too had ended with a beating and the stall kicked down, its candy-striped awning ripped and trampled.

  Surely this would have been enough for most men, but the coffee seller was nothing if not persistent, and the next morning found him in the same spot, the stall rebuilt and its awning cleaned, stitched together and defiantly back in place. Those who enjoyed his brew the previous morning did so again, and they were joined by others.

  Dewar appreciated the man's resolute single-mindedness. He never seemed willing to accept defeat, always bouncing back no matter how frequent and forceful the discouragement. The assassin could not help but admire such determination, and he watched events unfold with relish and a growing respect. Not least, of course, because Haruk did happen to brew the best coffee around. Steadily, this stubborn outsider established his presence, initially earning tolerance and eventually grudging acceptance.

  Now, years later, Haruk's stall was an accepted part of the scenery. He was doubtless paying his dues to the local street-nicks and doing all the things that any resident of the streets was required to do. He had even branched out, providing at first crisp, dark biscuits and then adding small honeyed pastries as tempting accompaniment to the coffee. The area around his pitch had also gained a few rickety chairs and uneven tables along the way, an invitation for customers to rest their weary feet and their drinks, perhaps even to linger and enjoy a further cup or two. The furniture was arranged haphazardly in front of the stall, spreading into the street beyond like a pool of spilt milk.

  Dewar took another sip, aware that Martha was now late, but that didn't bother him. It was deliberate no doubt; her way of making a statement, of showing that she was still her own woman. Such minor rebellion was irrelevant. She would arrive soon enough and that was all that mattered.

  Martha was not Dewar's only contact here. He had been busy since returning to the streets, tapping old sources, not all of whom seemed overly pleased to see him. Doubtless some had assumed that his ascension to the City Above meant they were rid of him; if so, this morning must have come as something of a disappointment to them. One or two were reluctant to talk to him at all, but a modicum of gentle persuasion soon convinced these bashful souls that soft living had done little to change him and that reticence was not in the best interests of their health.

  Much of what he learnt as a result proved far more interesting than anticipated, if incomplete and tantalising. No one seemed sure of what was going on, though a few were willing to share their pet theories which Dewar dismissed as unfounded, unlikely and distracting. It was all whispers, isolated fact, overheard rumour and half-baked conjecture, but once all these elusive threads were pulled together, what emerged was distinctly disturbing, crackpot theories aside. It left Dewar in no doubt that there were things going on in the City Below that neither Magnus nor, he felt certain, anyone else in the Heights suspected. This seemed far more than the usual petty squabbles and spats; something fundamental was changing. It bubbled just under the surface, a pressure which simmered and steadily built. However, none of this was his prime concern. Dewar hoped to be finished and well away before whatever was brewing came to a head. The boy was his prime concern and, to date, no one appeared to know anything on that score.

  No, Martha was not his only source of information but she remained his most reliable one.

  He frowned down at the small cup, which was virtually drained - he always preferred to enjoy the drink as piping hot as possible. Should he get a refill now or leave it for a minute, wait for the girl to appear?

  Prompted by habit he looked around, checking his surroundings, making sure that everything was as it should be and nothing was out of place. All seemed to be in order. People continued to drift past in both directions, mostly with the casual, unhurried gait that spoke of routine rather than purpose. The curled-up figure two doorways down on the opposite side of the street still hadn't moved and Dewar still couldn't decide whether the man was dead or simply passed out,
though he tended to favour the former. A scrawny black and tan dog trotted by, pausing to look up at the assassin, hoping for scraps, but not lingering. The mutt moved with a fluid grace that suggested a wholly natural origin rather than one owing any debt to the dog master's tinkering.

  Dewar's attention was drawn back to the immobile man. He could have sworn he'd caught movement in the corner of his eye, though the body seemed to be in exactly the same foetal curl as before. The man was lying in front of a dilapidated and evidently unused building, a carcass of a dwelling; perhaps that fact influenced Dewar's assumption that he was already dead.

  A crippled girl approached him. She was hunched on a small, low wooden platform, a miniature cart made mobile by a quartet of oversized wheels, one per corner. She powered the cart with synchronised pushes from her two arms, reaching forward and hauling against the ground like an oarsman digging into the water to pull a rowboat forward. One leg was thrust out before her; a stump that ended at the knee, the truncated limb wrapped in a swathe of material which may once have been vivid green before it became so grimy. It was impossible to tell whether the other leg was whole or not, since it was folded beneath her as she sat. The girl, no more than ten or eleven, might have been pretty were it not for a scar which crossed her forehead diagonally above the left eye, ending at her ear. The ear was mangled and half torn off. It was clearly an old wound. She wore her hair pulled back, so that the scar was fully visible, displayed as if it were some sort of trophy. The conspicuous blemish made a vivid counterpoint to the girl's amputated leg.

  Dewar watched her approach with a mixture of amusement, fascination and surprise. Beggars were few in the City Below these days, had been since the Ten Years War which had ended generations before. He knew his history and was aware that tourism had flourished here before the conflict, but while the trade had re-established itself and even grown in other parts of Thaiburley, it had never really done so here, resulting in few pickings for the professional beggar, which this girl clearly was. Before the war, beggars had apparently been plentiful, organised into gangs in much the same manner as the street-nicks. In those days, it was not uncommon for mutilations such as the girl's to be self-inflicted, or inflicted by the men behind the beggars at any rate. Surely no one still went to such extremes?

  The girl reached him and came to a halt. "Please, sir, my mother's sick, can you spare a few coins for-"

  She was interrupted by Haruk, who rushed from behind his counter, shouting at the girl and gesticulating for her to be gone. His stick-thin frame looked almost menacing as raised arms caused his robes to billow out, increasing the coffee seller's apparent size.

  The girl turned away reluctantly, pushing herself towards the market with surprising speed once she built up momentum, and leaving an insult trailing in her wake as thanks: "Brekkin' foreigner, why don't you go back where you came from?"

  Hardly original; it was an over-used barb which had become blunted and ineffectual a long while ago. After a mumbled apology in Dewar's direction, Haruk returned to the counter, muttering in a language Dewar didn't recognise. The incident did cause him to reflect, though, on how times had changed. The girl had clearly singled him out. He was now an outsider here and that fact was obvious to all.

  There! Movement again from the curled figure, torso and arm; there was no mistaking it this time, though it had only been a twitch. Then a reptilian head appeared from the body's far side and a spill dragon clambered up to sit on top of the man, its snout glistening with fresh blood. The scavenger repositioned itself so that only hind legs and tail were visible as it went back to feeding.

  Dewar snorted; so much for movement.

  People continued to pass the dead man without sparing him a second glance: there was nothing unusual here. Somebody would alert the razzers at some point and the body boys would appear, to carry the corpse away and dispose of it in the usual fashion, depending on who was paying the most for human parts at present.

  One woman did pause, to give the body a cursory once-over, but she then continued on her way without attempting a closer examination. Presumably the street-nicks had already relieved it of anything remotely valuable.

  He glanced back towards the market square and spotted Martha at last, though he almost failed to recognise her. Dewar thought he had seen the girl in all her moods, but he had never seen her looking like this. She was hunched over, with a shawl clutched tightly about her, as if to provide protection from the cold, though the temperature was anything but. Gone was the familiar provocative strut, instead she moved with a careful deliberation which suggested that each step was an invitation to pain. There were bags under her eyes and a ripe bruise on one cheek, though she had attempted to hide it with makeup. All in all she looked worn out and used up, a mere shadow of the haughty, long-legged beauty he remembered.

  She dropped into the seat opposite him, clearly glad to do so.

  "You look like shit," he told her.

  "Thanks. You always did know how to turn a girl's head."

  "What happened?" His eyes focused on her bruised cheek.

  She shrugged. "Some of the sailors can get a bit rough once the liquor's inside 'em."

  Dewar knew from experience that Martha had no problem with things getting a bit rough. In fact she positively enjoyed it, which was one of the things that first attracted him to her. This particular episode must have been a good deal more than that.

  "Are you all right?"

  She seemed momentarily taken aback, as if such a question was the very last thing she expected from him, but then nodded. "Comes with the territory."

  Which was true enough, he supposed; a working girl always ran the risk of violence every time she went with a new punter. Those like Martha who operated without a pimp relied on experience, instinct and luck to avoid the occasional dangerous customer. Sometimes, that simply was not enough.

  "This was last night, I take it?"

  "Yeah."

  "Does he have a name, this sailor?"

  "What's with all the questions?"

  "Oh, nothing. I was just thinking that I might have a use for a man who's handy with his fists; especially one who'll be sailing out of the city in a day or two and so out of reach of the razzers."

  The girl snorted. "That's the Dewar I know and love. See a woman beaten black and blue and all you think to do is admire the thug's handiwork. For a moment there I thought you might have grown yourself a heart since movin' up-City."

  He favoured her with a tight smile. "You should know me better than that."

  "True."

  He bought her a coffee and a pair of honeyed pastries, refreshing his own now empty cup at the same time.

  "So, to what do we owe this honour, then?" She licked her fingers, having wolfed down one of the sticky pastries in the blink of an eye. "You leavin' the luxury of the Heights and comin' back to this cesspit? Can't be here for your 'ealth, that's for sure, so what are you after?"

  He couldn't help but smile. With a mere mouthful of food and a few sips of hot drink inside her, the girl was already showing signs of regaining her customary spirit and fight. They grew them tough in the City Below.

  "I need some information."

  "You don't say."

  "A boy, a street-nick, found his way up to the Heights last night and involved himself in matters that don't concern him."

  "Brecking Thaiss, you're joking!" The girl laughed. "How?"

  "It seems this lad has a particular knack of hiding."

  Her eyes narrowed. "Really?" He could see that her mind was already working on the problem. "Don't suppose you've any idea which gang?"

  "No, but it must have been one more or less local to here. He went up the wall."

  "Only two stairs he could've used then, which means he must've made a deal with one of the gangs holding 'em." The second pastry vanished. "Important is it, all this?"

  "No, of course not, I came all the way down here on a whim."

  She grinned. "That's what I thought.
You'll be paying well, then."

  "Assuming the information merits it, yes."

  "Have I ever let you down?"

  "Not yet, and now would not be a good time to start."

  "I'll see what I can find out."

  "Good."

  "Might take a while, mind."

  "No it won't," he assured her.

  "These are difficult times. There's a lot of unrest - rumours of gang wars and worse. Street-nicks keep turnin' up dead, so many of 'em that even the razzers have started to fidget on their fat arses and take notice."

  That was an interesting little titbit. While it confirmed much of what he'd already heard, this was hardly going to change anything. "And this should concern me because...?"

  "I'm just sayin' that it mightn't be as easy to find things out. People are wary and I'll have to tread carefully, that's all."

  "Tread as carefully as you like, just so long as you tread swiftly." With that, he sat back and stretched; a deliberately dramatic gesture. "Time we went to your place now, I think." The girl wasn't the only one who could make a statement. "I could do with a little relaxation."

  She nodded. There was no resentment in her eyes, no bitterness, just acceptance.

  Tom was conscious that there were far more Jeradine about than there had been in the early morning, though most appeared to be doing little of anything. Some were sprawled on benches, others sitting on seats, all generally loitering with no apparent purpose. It made him uneasy. Their faces were raised towards the cavern roof as often as not, which he couldn't understand.

  "They're warming up," Kat explained, evidently noting his interest. "Soaking up the heat and energy from the sun globes. Ty-gen says it's essential, that they all have to do it."

  This reminded him uncomfortably of spill dragons. You could often find larger specimens of the carrion lizards hauled out on some rock or other by the Thair, basking in similar fashion. This comparison to the opportunistic reptiles troubled him; he didn't want to think of Ty-gen, who had been so kind, in such terms, but he couldn't help it.