City of Dreams and Nightmare

by Ian Whates

  In seconds it was done. For the first time in his life, he stood on ground carpeted in grass, and marvelled at the fact.

  Tom surfaced from frail dreams, uncertain what had roused him. The scent of grass was a memory which drifted through his mind only to dissipate once his eyes opened and focused on the present. His night-adjusted vision interpreted the room in shades of grey and black shadow. On looking for a darker shape which should have been lying beside him and seeing none, he bolted upright, gaze darting around the room; then he saw her. Kat's hunched black shape sat by the opened door, apparently staring out through the gap in the boards, though he couldn't imagine what at.

  "Is everything all right?"

  "Fine. Can't sleep, that's all." She spoke as quietly as he had; perhaps neither of them wanting to disturb the night.

  "What can you see out there?"

  "Ghosts, mainly. Don't worry though, they're my ghosts. Only I can see them and they'll never haunt anyone but me."

  He made an intuitive leap: "People you knew from the Pits?"

  She didn't answer immediately and he wondered whether the question had been too intrusive, but then she said, "Some. Among others."

  He felt he ought to follow up with another comment but had no idea what and didn't want to risk offending her by saying the wrong thing.

  While he struggled with this uncertainty, the girl asked, very quietly, "Do you believe in the Soul Thief?"

  Tom would have laughed under any other circumstances. Did she still think him a kid, a credulous child? He remembered tales first learnt at the same age as the city's level verse, stories of a pale-faced woman in tattered black robes, who would creep into homes in the dead of night and suck out the souls from unsuspecting children while they slept, before disappearing.

  "Of course not." Night-time in the City Below held enough very real mysteries and terrors without conjuring up imaginary ones as well.

  "I do," she said in that same wistful voice. "I've seen her. She took my mother."

  He stared at her back, trying to decide whether or not she was joking for all that she sounded serious, and wondering whether he dared ask. But he didn't. Partly for fear that she might then turn around and laugh, that she was teasing him, but mostly for the fear that she wasn't.

  Suddenly Kat moved, whipping her head around, black against almost-black. "Did you hear something?"

  He hadn't but now listened, straining to detect whatever she had. He heard it then; a fluttering, a faint whirring.

  "There's something..."

  The girl moved again, even as he started to speak. Not a hesitant rising to her feet, as if she were trying to locate something, but rather a savage spring from floor to standing in one explosion of movement, as if she knew exactly where it was.

  "Aagh! Nearly had you," she said.

  It was too dark for him to gain more than a vague sense of her movements, but he started at the abrupt bang, which must have been Kat's hand slamming against the wall, presumably carrying something with it, because the girl then proclaimed, "Got you!"

  He then heard her grinding her heel against the floor.

  "What was it, a bat?" Though he didn't really see how one of the blood suckers could have sneaked in unless it got past her as she sat with the door open.

  "Nah, too small, and anyway, it felt made rather than natural. I'm sure there was metal in there."

  "Something of the Maker's, then?"

  "Probably. Won't be worrying us any more, in any case, whatever it was. Best we try and get some more sleep." She came and laid down beside him again.

  "Good idea," he agreed, doubting that he would.

  On the roof of the cavern, eleven small drones had gathered, swarming around a bulky protrusion like bees around honey. The object that drew them was a sun globe, one of the many synchronised light sources responsible for granting this subterranean world a semblance of nature's night and day cycle.

  Not globes at all, the substitute suns had been named thus to strengthen the association with their celestial namesake. In fact, they were shaped like rounded humps, each one resembling a gigantic drop of water which had started to gather on a ceiling but not quite developed sufficient form or mass to drip down. Partial globes at the very most.

  This particular one hung almost directly above the attic room where two weary street-nicks had taken refuge for the night. The sun globes were secured to the cavern roof by an array of deeply sunken rivets and bolts and cradled in thick cabling. The system's designers had gone for overkill. After all, nobody wanted one of these things falling onto the streets. Referring back to Insint, the drones had calculated that if the rivets and bolts were removed in a certain order, and if the cables were cut at exactly the right time, then this globe would fall a fraction off centre and could be persuaded to impact with the attic room in question.

  This would be the work of many hours, particularly since there would now only be ten of the tiny droids available, one having gone to take over from its recently decommissioned fellow monitoring the two street-nicks. However, it was work that had already begun.

  NINE

  The doorbell's sonorous chime was the very last thing Magnus wanted to hear. Who could be calling at this hour? He toyed with the idea of ignoring it, but in the end sat forward, placed the bulb of warmed brandy on the table and rose to his feet. Unlikely perhaps, but this might prove to be important.

  It was at times like this that he most missed Dewar. Finding a temporary replacement was always an option, someone to act as butler, cook and valet, but so far he had resisted the temptation. There were too many sensitive matters unfolding to risk having a stranger in the house. Magnus was not without enemies, some of whom would jump through hoops and dance on the tip of a needle to place an informant so close to him. Besides, he was hardly ever home - working all day and dining out of an evening - so only in the very early hours or the very late ones, such as this, did he miss being attended to.

  Part of him regretted not setting up a means of communication with his agent, but it was too risky. Whatever method they employed would have been open to interception and he couldn't risk being implicated in any way. He knew he could trust Dewar to get the job done but he hated being uninformed. The man had only been gone a day and already Magnus was fretting, wondering what progress had been made.

  As he left the comfort of his study and entered the comparative chill of the hallway, the bell rang again. Whoever this was, they clearly did not number patience among their virtues.

  He arrived at the door and squinted through the spyhole. Though he had no preconceptions, what he saw still managed to surprise him. He didn't recognise the man's face as such but he certainly recognised the uniform: hooded tunic, white with purple trim, the most frequently seen semi-formal attire of the council guard. Magnus drew back from the door, horrified. Were they here to arrest him? A dozen possibilities chased each other through his thoughts. Had they somehow found out about Thomas - was there another witness only recently come forward? No, he would have sensed any such observer. Perhaps some other clandestine manoeuvring had been uncovered, though it seemed unlikely; he had been so, so careful. What then?

  Taking a deep breath to compose himself, he adopted the winning smile that had served him so well through the years and reached towards the door. He would act the outraged innocent and brazen it out, whatever the accusation.

  Two guards confronted him; big men who seemed to loom threateningly in the entranceway. He was aware of more guards behind them. Yet even as Magnus said, "Can I help you?" the pair parted, stepping aside to allow a further, slighter figure to step forward.

  The smile slipped from the senior arkademic's face and all he could do was gape.

  The man revealed by the respectful guards may have edged beyond the limits of middle age but his face still shone with vitality and his movements were smooth and assured. "Perfect!" the newcomer exclaimed, then laughed. "To see such a renowned politician as yourself at a loss for words is a rare
treat, Magnus."

  "Prime Master," the senior arkademic recovered quickly, bowing his head in respect. He felt he could be forgiven for a moment of less than perfect composure under the circumstances. After all, it was not every day that the ruler of the city council, in effect the ruler of all Thaiburley, came knocking at your door. "Please, come in." As if he had a choice.

  Magnus stepped back and allowed the prime master to enter, preceded by one of the council guards and flanked by another. The balance, four as far as Magnus could see, remained outside, taking up station at the door.

  "What happened to that charming manservant of yours?"

  Magnus was instantly on his guard; the man was as observant as ever, nothing escaped the prime master's sharp eye. "Taking a leave of absence - a family bereavement, quite unexpected."

  "How unfortunate."

  "I've been meaning to sort out a replacement, but I haven't had the time. There's always so much to do."

  They reached the study. The two guards remained outside while the senior arkademic and his guest entered.

  "Your dedication does you credit, Magnus, but this will never do," the prime master said. "We can't have you neglecting yourself for the sake of the city. I'll send one of my own staff over to cover until your man returns."

  Magnus was horrified. He could think of nothing he wanted less. "That's most kind, prime master, but really there's no need. I spend so little time here anyway."

  Magnus lifted the carafe of fine brandy, with an enquiring glance towards his guest, who nodded.

  "All the more reason you should be properly looked after when you are here. I'll brook no further discussion on the subject. My man will be at your door first thing in the morning."

  What could he say? "Thank you, prime master, that's most generous." So much for keeping prying eyes away. He handed a bulb of freshly poured brandy to his guest, who was settling into the armchair opposite his own.

  The prime master swirled the amber liquid in its bulbous glass and breathed in the warm, caramel vapours, smiling his appreciation. "Excellent! You always have had exquisite taste."

  The pair saluted each other with their glasses, locking gazes for a second, before sipping the potent spirit.

  "To what do I owe this unexpected honour?" Magnus asked.

  "Oh, I merely wished to express my condolences on the death of Senior Arkademic Thomas. I know the two of you were close. Something of a protege of yours, I believe."

  "Indeed." Magnus stared down at his glass as if in melancholy reflection. Straight to the point. What did the man know? What did he suspect? "It was a terrible business. I felt so helpless."

  "Yes, you were there, of course. A pity you couldn't have intervened and prevented this awful tragedy."

  Magnus knew his part in this well, but it had never been more important that he play it to perfection. He placed his glass down, very deliberately, sighed and said, "I only wish I had arrived sooner, that I had been closer when the murderer struck. As it was, all I could do was watch as Thomas toppled over the wall, and the boy responsible was away before I could stop him. I conjured a spy-eye and sent it after him, then dashed to the wall, but Thomas had gone, of course. I was too late..." He paused, shaking his head for dramatic effect.

  "Yes, I've seen the images from your spy-eye," the prime master said.

  Had he now? That was interesting, and hardly reassuring. Magnus had no idea the most powerful man in Thaiburley was taking such a keen interest.

  "Let us hope this Kite Guard you've assigned can find the lad and bring him to justice."

  "Indeed," Magnus replied, offering a tight smile and trying hard to remain calm. His visitor seemed remarkably well informed.

  "Well, thank you for the excellent brandy."

  He placed the glass, still tinted with the amber of un-drunk liquor in its bowl, on the table opposite Magnus's own. "The hour is late and I shan't detain you any further. I merely wished to express my sympathies and reassure you of my continued support and good wishes."

  Continued? Magnus had never been aware of the man providing him with either. "Thank you for taking the trouble to do so, prime master."

  His distinguished guest departed, collecting council guards in stages as he went. "And don't worry," he said on the way out, "my man will be here first thing tomorrow."

  Magnus stared at the front door for long seconds after it had closed, wondering what that was all about. He turned and walked back to the study, deep in thought. A number of things were certain. The prime master had never gone to the trouble of visiting him at his home before. He knew altogether too much regarding the investigation into Thomas's death. He did not do anything without good reason.

  No matter how Magnus added those facts up, the sum emerged as an uncomfortable question or two.

  Was the prime master suspicious? Had the visit been meant as a warning? Was its intent purely to unsettle Magnus?

  If the latter, it had succeeded admirably.

  The night was an unusually quiet one. Lyle finished the few jobs that needed attending to in record time. The Blue Claw had embarked on just a single small outing in the early evening, which didn't require his presence, and there were no more planned for that night. He'd put Barton, his most reliable lieutenant, in charge of the job - a raid on a large warehouse which stood at the edge of the docks - some minor pilfering, nothing more. The importers turned a blind eye to such things - they knew the game - but even so a delicate balance had to be struck. The street-nicks took enough to make it worth their while but not so much that it hurt the commercial interests to the point where business felt obliged to react. As with most everything in the City Below, it was all a matter of give and take, while being careful to never take too much.

  Barton could be relied on to carry out the job efficiently, if only because it gave him one more thing to boast about. This was the lad's only major failing: attention seeking. He valued the good opinion of his fellows far too much. Otherwise, he was dependable and efficient. That combined with his popularity made him someone to keep an eye on. Lyle was no fool and knew that of all his lieutenants, Barton was the most likely to challenge him for leadership of the Claw at some point. As the lad grew bolder and more confident, the day when he would do so grew ever closer. But it hadn't arrived yet.

  He waited to see the boys safely home, congratulating them on a job well done. The proceeds consisted of preserved food stuffs brought in by barge and waiting for transport to the City Above: pickled fish, dry cured meats, salted beef and other such, all of them easily shifted. Lyle inspected and stashed the goods with considerable satisfaction. All that remained was his usual late night inspection, checking to see that everything was secure and the lookouts were still awake and alert. The Claw were not especially at odds with any other gangs at present, but he still insisted that a proper watch was maintained. You could never be too careful.

  Happy that all was in order, he headed for bed.

  The day's only disappointment had been Tom's failure to return. It was getting to the point where he might have to accept that the boy had failed and been caught or, more likely, killed. It would be a shame to lose one of his more gifted thieves, but this had been a long shot at best, the chances of success remote. Besides, he had been well paid, which meant that the whole gang would benefit from one boy's sacrifice.

  It also removed a potential rival for Jezmina's affections. Not that Tom was ever that much of a rival, of course. The girl had even been complicit in persuading him to accept the impossible challenge of raiding the Upper Heights in the first place; a clear enough indication of where her loyalties lay.

  Perhaps now that Tom was out of the way it was time to admit how things really stood between the two of them, though perhaps not. Jezmina was so good at playing the wide-eyed innocent and Tom was by no means the only member of the gang she had wrapped around her little finger. It was good entertainment value if nothing else, so maybe he would leave things as they were for a little while yet.
/>   One advantage of being in charge was having his own room, a place where the other gang members would only dare disturb him if something of genuine importance had cropped up. The one exception to that rule ought to be waiting for him at that very moment. The thought of her welcoming arms, her tender kisses and her soft, yielding body quickened his step.

  This building had belonged to the Blue Claw for years, decades even. Nobody remembered or cared how it came to be in their possession. An old mansionesque building left over from more prosperous days when the docks had thrived, it was one of several such properties, mostly derelict, which clung to the corner of the docks; buildings which had, against all reason, avoided being swamped by the shantytown of the Runs.

  Valuing his privacy in the brief moments allowed him, Lyle had chosen his quarters with care. A short corridor separated them from the communal areas. His hand reached the brass knob and pushed the door open. The room was in darkness, which was unusual. He whispered her name, "Jezmina?"

  "Here." Yet her voice, even though barely above a whisper, sounded odd, strained.

  "Is everything all right?" He reached for the wall lamp, familiarity guiding his hand to it almost at once.

  "Fine."

  His thumb pressed down on the switch, grating flint against flint. At the second attempt it sparked and he watched that tiny crumb of flame drop to ignite the oil.

  In the lamp's wan glow he saw Jezmina sitting in a chair, eyes wide with fright, staring at him.

  "Why are you sitting in the d...?"

  No, she was not staring at him as such but rather past his shoulder.

  As that realisation sank in, he felt the presence of the intruder behind him and the jab of cold steel at his throat. He stopped speaking, stopped moving.