by Anthony Ryan
“Gizzit!” the gaunt man snarled, darting closer to snatch the bottle from the northerner. He drew back in guarded puzzlement at his adversary’s lack of a reaction before turning to regard the object of his interest. They exchanged a brief glance of mutual decision then slowly began to advance towards the grate. The gaunt man attempted a smile which would have failed to instill trust in the most addled fool. His companion seemed incapable of such artifice and kept his features free of expression though his eyes shone with hungry interest.
“New arrival, eh?” the gaunt man asked. Lizanne maintained her unblinking, blank mask as they drew closer. To her slight annoyance they both stopped a foot short of the grate, crouching to peer at her through the iron bars. “Aren’t you lucky, dearest one,” the gaunt man said, his inexpert smile broadening to reveal an incomplete set of rotted teeth. Even amidst the fetid stink from the river Lizanne could still smell his breath. “Finding us here to greet you, I mean,” he went on, inching closer. “Decent folk are hard to come by within these walls.”
Lizanne said nothing, continuing to stare and bunching her fists in her blanket.
“It’s alright, dearest,” the gaunt man said. “No need to be feart of us, is there Dralky?” He glanced at his comrade, who gave an unsmiling shake of his head. Lizanne didn’t like the keenness of the larger man’s gaze, having hoped to find it more dulled by drink.
“The . . .” she began, adding a shake to her voice, “the constable said I need to go to the Miner’s Repose.”
The northerner gave a grunt of smothered laughter whilst the gaunt man managed to conceal a smirk before replying with an assured nod. “O’course he did, dearest. We know the place well. Work there most days, in point of fact. No mining for the Furies. See?” He turned to tap a finger to the yellow-and-red patch on his shoulder, Lizanne seeing it clearly now: a flaming match. “It’s like a club,” he continued. “A club for those with skills. You got skills, dearest?”
“Yes.” Lizanne’s eyes flicked from one to the other as she drew back a step or two. Appearing overly trusting too early was unwise. Men such as these might spend most of their lives several sails to the breeze, but they invariably shared an innate cunning and instinctive nose for danger. “I’m a seamstress,” she said, drawing back farther.
The larger man’s arms twitched as he restrained the impulse to grab at her through the bars, earning a warning glare from his friend. “Good,” he said, once again revealing the awful spectacle of his teeth. “That’s good. Skilled folk got value in here, y’see? You come on with us to the Miner’s Repose and we’ll introduce you to a nice lady who knows best how to make use of your skills.” He extended a bony hand through the bars, beckoning. “Come on now, dearest.” He was unable to resist the impulse to lick his lips as she edged closer. “Come on with me and Dralky.”
Lizanne crouched, reaching out towards the bars, making ready to push the grate aside, then stopped. “On second thoughts,” she said, returning the gaunt man’s smile, “I think not. You stink so much I’m amazed your friend here can stand to stick his cock in your mouth.”
As ever with the more low-rent thug, anger always outweighed cunning. They both lunged in unison, Lizanne dancing back as their hands shot between the bars to claw at her. The blanket unfurled in her hands with a snap, looping over their wrists before they had time to snatch their arms back. She exerted her well-honed muscles to good effect, drawing the knot tight with sufficient force to extract a pained shout from both men. They had time to voice a few expletive-laden threats at her before their shouts turned to screams as she stepped closer, jumping as high as the tunnel would allow to bring her weight down on their trapped limbs. She had never been particularly gifted in body-weight, so it took two attempts before she was rewarded with the satisfying crack of breaking bone.
“Now then, gentlemen,” she said, unknotting the blanket from their wrists and allowing them to collapse in sputtering agony, “let us have a little chat.”
• • •
Lizanne encountered little trouble finding the Miner’s Repose. She had followed Constable Darkanis’s advice and waited for darkness before exiting the tunnels, choosing another entrance well away from the river. True to his description, the sign hanging above the door was an illegible, mud-spattered square offering no clue to the name of the raucous tavern it guarded, but the directions provided by her two greeters had been sufficient to guide her steps. She lingered outside for a short while, listening to the loud but largely laughter-free babble seeping from the lit windows. It consisted mostly of the raised voices of men engaged in competition or argument. Cards, drink and women were always a potent combination. Amidst the general din she detected the faint sound of a pianola being played with unexpected artistry, recognising the tune as the Mountain Breeze Cadenza from Illemont’s third concerto, a classic of North Mandinorian composition.
I wonder if they know the full piece, she thought, hefting her sackcloth-wrapped bundle and making her way inside. It would be nice to hear it again.
The interior of the Miner’s Repose was thick with the scent of cheap tobacco and hazy with smoke from a poorly maintained chimney. Overall-clad men stood around in thick clusters, earthenware tankards in every hand as they jostled and exchanged dull-voiced conversation. Thanks to Dralky and Jemus she knew the ground floor of the establishment was for drinkers only, those who either couldn’t afford or had no interest in the entertainments found on the upper floors. Predictably, the conversation grew more muted as Lizanne made her entrance, many falling silent to regard her with various expressions of lust, some desperate, others resentful as it was never pleasant to want something you couldn’t have. One man, a stocky fellow with a jaundiced tint to his skin, took a large gulp from his tankard before starting towards her, then coming to an abrupt halt as a strident female voice rang out from the bar.
“Y’know the rules, cock-brain!”
The stocky man hesitated a moment, teeth bared in a grimace of frustration as his gaze roamed Lizanne from head to toe before he retreated back into the crowd.
“Eyes on your drinks, lest you want me to fetch Anatol down here,” the female voice continued, the crowd parting to allow a tall woman in a red skirt and surprisingly clean lace blouse to make her way through. She approached Lizanne with a confident stride, coming to a halt to tower over her by at least ten inches. She stood in silent appraisal for a long moment. Lizanne took note of the burn-scar marring the flesh around the woman’s right eye, the socket filled with some kind of smoothed yellow crystal. She had the fine bones and length of limb that would have made her a sought-after fashion model in a corporate holding, but for the scar.
“Constable sent you, I’m guessing?” she asked, Lizanne recognising a Corvus accent, though not as coarse or thick as Hyran’s. “Which one?”
“Darkanis,” Lizanne replied.
The woman gave a satisfied nod. “Good. He doesn’t charge as much as the others. I’m Melina.” Her good eye went to the sackcloth bundle in Lizanne’s hands. “What you got there?”
“It’s for Electress Atalina. May I see her please?”
A twitch of puzzled amusement passed across the tall woman’s lips. “That’s not how it works, love. She’ll see you when she decides it’s time.”
“It’s from Dralky and Jemus. They said it would settle their debt.”
Melina’s brow creased into a frown. “How d’you know those two cock-brains?”
“They were kind enough to give me directions.”
They stared at one another for some time. Lizanne had known this to be a dangerous woman at first glance, her eyes detecting the outline of a concealed knife beneath her blouse. It was also safe to assume she had more secreted about her person. But Lizanne also judged her smart enough to recognise someone equally dangerous.
“If you waste her time,” Melina said finally, “she’ll make you work the first week with no
pay and no wash-bucket.”
“Understood.”
“Your funeral.” Melina turned and started towards a staircase at the rear of the bar, Lizanne following and paying scant heed to the many eyes tracking over her. “What’s your name, love?” Melina asked as they climbed the stairs.
“Six-one-four.”
“Forget that shit. Need a name if you’re gonna work here. Doesn’t have to be your real one, not that it makes a difference either way. Best make it pretty though, customers prefer it. No Grubnilas or Egathas in the Miner’s Repose.”
“Krista, then,” Lizanne said. A name she had used before but those still alive to relate the tale were far away.
“Bit ordinary,” Melina said. “Get more clients if you go for something noble. It’s where I got mine. Princess Melina. It’s from an old tale about some silly tart who agrees to marry the King of the Deep.”
“I know the story,” Lizanne said. “And Krista will do.”
They ascended to the first floor where men clustered around the gaming tables in various states of excitement or despair. In the corner a slender young man sat playing a pianola, the tune now far more simple and jaunty than the cadenza she had recognised outside. Despite its simplicity, the player still managed to convey an effortless artistry as his hands floated over the keys. Most of the surrounding tables were given over to the traditional Corvantine card and dice game of Pastazch, with a couple of spin-wheels for those who preferred a more random method of losing money. Bets were placed using wooden chits, the length of which determined the value. After some judicious questioning Jemus had been particularly helpful in educating her on the system of currency adopted in Scorazin. One sack of mined minerals formed the basis of exchange, the length of the chit reflecting the value of the contents. Copper, being the most valuable, earned a five-inch chit, whilst pyrite earned four, sulphur three and coal two. Chits could be subdivided into shorter sub-units; half-sack, quarter-sack and so on. It was all surprisingly logical and, according to Jemus, worked well as long as you had the ore to back up the chits. “Anyone caught faking a chit will find himself tied to a pole with his guts around his neck on Ore Day,” he had said, offering a desperate and ingratiating laugh which had singularly failed to stir any sympathy in Lizanne’s breast.
“Welcome to the Sanctum of Earthly Bliss,” Melina said as they ascended to the top floor. It consisted of a circular chamber with a seating area of velvet-cushioned couches surrounded by a series of rooms. About a third of the doors were closed and a few employees lounged around in various states of undress. They were all heavily painted with rouged lips and cheeks, making it hard to judge their age, though Lizanne put the youngest at no more than sixteen and the eldest at close to fifty.
“New meat, Mel?” one asked, a chunky woman with a mass of auburn curls sprouting from her head in the manner of an unkempt bird’s-nest. She stepped closer to Lizanne, cigarillo dangling from her lips and an open steel flask in her hand. “Do yerself a favour and sod off to the mines, darlin’,” she advised. “I can tell you ain’t got the backbone for this.”
“Shut it, Silv,” Melina snapped, staring hard at the chunky woman until she averted her gaze and retreated to the couches. “This way,” Melina told Lizanne, moving to a corridor opposite the staircase. “Don’t mind Silvona,” she said. “She just doesn’t want the competition.”
A large man rose from a chair beside a door at the end of the corridor as they approached. He stood tall enough that his head was only an inch or two shy of the ceiling and had the broad, irregular features of a prize-fighter. The impression was heightened by the concave nose he revealed as he turned and bent to press a kiss to Melina’s cheek.
“This is Anatol,” she said, clasping and releasing the large man’s hand in a sign of genuine affection. “He’s mine, so hands off.”
Lizanne took careful note of Anatol as he looked her over, finding none of the dull-eyed desperation that had been writ so large in the faces of Jemus and Dralky. “She’s no whore,” he said to Melina in a soft voice that nevertheless retained a certain rumbling quality.
“Darkanis sent her,” Melina replied with a shrug.
“Then he should have looked closer.” Anatol angled his head, eyes narrowing as they tracked from her face to the bundle she carried. “What’s that?”
“It’s for the Electress,” Lizanne repeated.
“Jemus and Dralky’s debt,” Melina elaborated. “So she says anyway.”
“Need to see it before you see her,” Anatol said, extending a shovel-sized hand.
A quick glance at his face told Lizanne the folly of arguing the point so she handed the bundle over. He pulled the sackcloth open and peered at the contents for a moment, his only reaction a soft grunt of satisfaction. He closed the sack and once again extended his hand, staring at Lizanne in expectation until she handed over the knife she had taken from Dralky and the weighted leather sap she had taken from Jemus. “And the rest,” Anatol said.
“This was a gift,” Lizanne said, handing him Darkanis’s penknife. “I’d like it back when I leave.”
“And you’ll get it,” he said, turning and knocking on the door, “if she lets you.”
After a short delay an irritated voice sounded through the door. “For fuck’s sake, Anatol, it’s late.”
Anatol turned the handle and opened the door a fraction, dipping his head through the gap to speak in carefully respectful tones. “New arrival, Electress. Says she’s here to pay off Jemus and Dralky.”
A short pause then a sigh. “What the fuck,” the voice said, the tones clearer now. Lizanne was surprised to find it largely free of an accent, almost cultured in fact. “Bring her in. Never too late in the day for a good laugh, I always say.”
Anatol opened the door and stepped aside, gesturing for Lizanne to enter. “Hands in view at all times,” he warned as she passed by. The room was large and striking in its contrast to everything Lizanne had seen of Scorazin so far. A bookcase stood against the far wall and velvet drapes hung over the windows. An extensive mahogany desk sat in the centre of the room, behind which one of the largest women Lizanne had ever seen reclined in a leather armchair, her bare and impressively broad feet propped on the desk. She was leaning forward to run a metal rasp over the feet, grunting a little with the effort.
“Pardon me,” she apologised as Lizanne came to a halt before the desk. “I’m a martyr to me corns.”
Lizanne noted again the incongruity of her words and her accent. Like a countess speaking the words of a street-walker, she thought. She said nothing, keeping her hands at her sides and watching the large woman file powdered skin onto the desk. Lizanne put her age at somewhere past fifty, brows heavy and shoulders broad. She wore a sleeveless dress of violet-hued silk, the flesh on her arms wobbling as she went about her ablutions. Despite the excess weight Lizanne could see the innate strength in her, reckoning she might even pose a challenge to Anatol in a test of brute force.
“When did you get in?” the Electress asked, the rasp still filing away.
“A few hours ago.”
“A few hours, eh? And you’ve already managed to extract payment from the worst two shit-stains in the Furies. Impressive.” She turned to Anatol. “What’s she got?”
The huge man moved to the desk and placed the bundle before her along with the knife and the sap. The Electress groaned as she removed her feet from the desk and set the rasp aside before unwrapping the bundle. She took a moment to view the revealed contents in expressionless silence before raising her gaze to Lizanne. “One but not the other. Where’s Dralky?”
“He had a thicker neck,” Lizanne replied. “My arm got tired and it was getting late.”
“Then how do I know he’s not still out there somewhere?”
Lizanne turned to Anatol. “I need to reach into my clothing.”
He exchanged a glance with the Electre
ss, who gave a nod of assent. “Slowly,” Anatol said.
Lizanne undid the first three buttons on her overalls then reached inside to undo the cloth she had wrapped around her midriff. Unlike Jemus, Dralky had possessed a full set of teeth, although about half had been fashioned from gold. The Electress gave a huff of satisfaction as Lizanne placed the teeth on the desk. “Was going to make him pull them out himself with pliers,” the Electress mused. “Or get him and Jemus to fight to the death. Hadn’t quite decided.”
She leaned back in her chair, keeping her eyes on Lizanne but speaking to Anatol. “Get her a seat. Then leave us alone.”
Lizanne tried not to enjoy the comfort of the padded leather chair as she sank onto it, the first time she had experienced the sensation since leaving Corvus.
“What’s your name?” the Electress asked.
“Krista.”
The large woman’s mouth twitched a little. “No it isn’t.”
“Melina said it didn’t matter.”
“Not for most of the new arrivals who fetch up on my door, but I’m sensing that you’re a special case.” She reached for a silver-plated box on the desk and extracted a cigarillo. “Get these from the guards,” she said, striking a match and lighting up. “One of several favours they do for me, ’cos of what I do for them. Wanna know what that is?”
“I would assume you bribe them,” Lizanne replied.
“I do.” Smoke billowed as the woman smiled. “And a greedy bunch of bastards they are, apart from Darkanis, but he still expects to wet his beak now and then. You’d be surprised how much an off-the-books sack of sulphur ore will sell for. But it’s not just that. I enjoy certain privileges because I understand the need to keep this place orderly, or as orderly as a place filled with the worst scum in the empire can be.”
She paused to turn the box towards Lizanne, raising a questioning eyebrow. “No thank you,” Lizanne declined.
