City of Ruin lotrs-2

by Mark Charan Newton

  'What've you got for me tonight?' Malum asked.

  'A good haul. You wish to see?'

  Malum followed him towards the other merpeople. A shorter female had already opened a crate with her nails, and from it a soft glow issued. Amid the brine, shapes of deep-sea creatures flipped and drifted and gave out light. The other merpeople crowded around him, and he felt uncomfortable, still after all these years, with how alien they appeared.

  'You were right, these are good,' Malum confessed. 'This should keep Coumby's company happy for a while.' Such specimens were in high demand in the richer districts, even deep into an ice age where people seemed to prefer firelight for the added warmth. You had a biolume, you were showing off your wealth. It was a spurious market in which Malum supplied the merchants, since they daren't deal with the merpeople themselves. These invertebrate biolumes could then be sold on to the superior street traders, or even to the elaborate high-end stores in the Ancient Quarter, depending on the type of specimen in question.

  He whistled for JC and Duka to bring over a small box containing basic foodstuff and some sharp blades, and the two men displayed it before the gathered merpeople like a sacrificial offering.

  The aquatic people loomed over the contents, eagerly investigating what they'd been brought. They looked up, one by one, seeming happy enough, and nodding their approval.

  'Farewell, tradesman,' said the first one. They moved away, carrying their exchange load. Eventually they slunk back into the sea in neat bursts, until there was simply no sign of them.

  *

  Later, Malum went looking for the banHe, Dannan. He found him ensconced in his plush apartment that overlooked the harbour. Outside, as darkness began to dominate the sky, the streets subtly changed their texture. Dirtied workers or traders faded into their grim houses, before manifesting in the taverns with pocketfuls of cash, and no future to prepare for. A line of bars rimmed the harbour, all pretty much the same in their style and clientele, the latter merely intent on getting drunk and forgetting about the state of their city. Mention anything about forthcoming war and you were likely to attract a fist in your gut. You'd see more such violence along these parts, the cobbled waterfront that arced around a cluster of boats that the refugees from Tineag'l had abandoned. Fishing vessels could no longer manoeuvre so easily, to the detriment of the food stocks.

  Malum heard a moaning come from the upstairs room, like some enharmonic lament. He glanced up at the latticed window, where a lantern could be seen burning on the sill. What the hell is the damn freak up to?

  Although he'd never admit it openly, and even barely to himself, Malum was disturbed by Dannan. He'd never seen the witch-women of Villjamur, the banshees, but it seemed odd that they would shriek instinctively to herald a death. How could they sense that someone was about to die? It all seemed so unlikely. So if Dannan was a male version – something no one had previously heard about – did he not feel the same urge to scream? Did he have some strange powers? Malum's own vampyrism seemed a more real tic, something he had normalized and controlled.

  Dannan was simply a freak.

  The door opened and Malum turned back to face it. 'I need to see the banHe,' he announced.

  One of Dannan's gang, the Screams – a short, thin guy with black hair and stubble and a drooping white mask – peered back at him from the doorway. 'Why d'you wanna see him?'

  'It's urgent. Tell him it's about the commander of the army, about that meeting we had.'

  'Wait here.' The door closed.

  Malum shifted in the cold once again and it seemed far too long until the door reopened. They searched him first for weapons, he handed over a messer blade, then he was beckoned in.

  Escorted by three men in cloaks and masks, Malum hurried through the building, up a set of stairs sporting an ornate handrail. Lantern light exposed red fabric and furniture, bathing the interior in shades of blood. He had to admit that some of the decor was tasteful, if a little garish, with bold, gold-rimmed portraits of figures that seemed to hail from another world. One painting in particular was central to the room, depicting a figure with its back to a waterfront, holding its head in both hands, its mouth wide open in a scream, with textures of colour swirling all around into a deep orange sky. As if representing a state of existential angst, this painting seemed to come from another age entirely.

  Once upstairs, Malum was directed into yet another room. Dannan was seated by the window, slumped, as if drunk, in a chair that was more of a throne, and the same shade of red was everywhere, in the fabrics, the paintings, the lantern-shades. In his hand was a silver comb that he raked assiduously through his long hair. The smell of musk and something sweeter peeled away in smoky wafts from the incense burning on a metal plate in one corner. The men who escorted Malum dropped back to the edge of the room, in a manner that suggested they weren't at all comfortable being here. Malum was beginning to feel that way himself.

  Hunched, with her knees drawn up to her chin, a young woman was sipping cautiously from a bottle. She regarded him with a distant look in her eyes, then laughed to herself. She wore a dark outfit, with unfashionable ruffs and frills of lace, and her face held so much makeup that her skin was practically white like an albino's. Whether or not she was the current girl in Dannan's favour, he couldn't tell, but Malum entertained vague thoughts about what it would be like sleeping with her. And then he realized it would be the same with any woman these days. Frustrating.

  Dannan groaned, catching Malum's attention. He was clothed minimally in black breeches and what appeared to be a suede jacket with a hood pulled up from underneath. The angles of his face were prominent, and now and then his eyes would close as if he was in pain.

  'You all right?' Malum enquired, more wanting to say something than a question posed out of politeness. He raised an eyebrow at this strange performance.

  Again a groan, and Dannan lurched forward suddenly, in a posture that suggested he was going to vomit, but nothing came out of his open mouth. The silver comb skidded across towards the visitor. The banHe tried to cough, and strangely there ensued an intense silence, as if the room itself had become mute. Only then did Malum notice how sharp the banHe's teeth appeared, and his second realization was that there was almost a smile on the other's face, as if he was enjoying his pain.

  'Fine… thank you.' Dannan almost coughed the words.

  Malum turned to the other men. 'Does he need water?'

  'I'm fine.' Dannan's posture became a little more refined, and he leaned over towards the window, peered out left and right across the harbour. Then back at Malum, tiny red veins crisscrossing his eyes. 'Someone's dead, is all.'

  'What do you mean?' Malum said.

  'Out there.' He flicked his head in a gesture towards the window. 'Someone just died.'

  'The fuck do you know this? Is that why you weren't at the strike?'

  Dannan glared at him violently. His eyes never seemed to maintain any consistency in colour, and the more you looked at them the less you could define them. 'I just fucking know, OK. You got my men for the strike – you never asked for me.'

  'That's true.' Malum didn't actually know whether or not the banHe had been there – they were all wearing masks, and he was just guessing now – but the man's weird response to death certainly made Malum doubt his commitment to normal gang activities.

  'You haven't got any arum weed on you, have you? I'm all out.'

  'No.' Malum bent down to pick up the comb, noting its meticulous craftsmanship. He tossed it back casually. 'I came to see you about the albino commander, and that meeting we had. When he was wanting our gangs to help him.'

  'What of it?' Dannan again ran the comb once through a clump of hair by his ear then laid it on the windowsill delicately with his long, spindly fingers.

  'The commander is gay – he likes to fuck other men,' Malum revealed. 'I don't know about you, but I'm not going to have my lot working on the side of someone like that, if you know what I mean. My men fight for real m
en.'

  'Gay, you say?' Dannan replied, slowly regaining his composure. 'What d'you think we should do? More to the point, what's in it for my lot? My tastes ain't exactly mainstream.'

  'Dignity, honour, doing the right thing is what matters,' Malum suggested. To him it was totally unnatural for a man to perform those acts with another man. Malum felt he had something to convey to the commander. 'Look, I need to know if you've made a decision yet – if you lot were thinking of helping him out. When this war comes to the city, I mean.'

  'We was thinking about it. Maybe we'll need to fight just to keep what turf we've got here already. I mean, war's nothing more than a big fucking turf fight, ain't that right?'

  Malum grunted a laugh. 'Well, I guess so, yes. Look, we get on, our lot, you and me. We're similar – we're both not natural. We work together from time to time, dealing with the unions and shit. I want to teach this commander a lesson. I want to go back in there, tell him to shove his war, and I reckon I should get him set on. Fucking hate soldiers anyway, so I mean… you know, get him beaten up – made an example of. And, what's more, we need to put on another display like this, cos I've got traders moaning at me all the time, wanting relief from paying their protection taxes, the precious little darlings. No, I think one of these exhibitions of force can serve us well.'

  'And how're you going to get the commander into our hands?'

  'Oh, I don't know. But people in this city need to know that he sleeps with men.'

  'Maybe we could get some cash out of him?' Dannan suggested. 'Blackmail. Some of my good men for backup and then we go halves.'

  'That's a good idea. We can get a lot of cash out of someone that high up in the military. We can just pick a stupid number, and he'll do his best to keep his secrets safe. But then we should beat him to death on the streets once we take his money.'

  Dannan ogled the girl in the corner for a moment, who seemed to be heading further towards uncharted territory inside her own head. 'Sure. You take control of this one, and let me know when you need my help.'

  'And are your lot intending to fight in the war?'

  Dannan paused thoughtfully, his gaze fixed on the girl transforming into something predatory. 'Not for the likes of him, no. If shit happens on a large scale, I'll ship out down south, maybe try another island. Getting too damn cold up this way, anyway.'

  *

  Satisfied that he had the banHe's street gang on his side, or at least not against him, Malum strode towards the barracks, through the streets, past the drunks and the whores and the addicts, then past the partygoers and the couples walking arm-in-arm, onwards through the nondescript streets of the city. It had snowed, then that stopped, and the evening now had a sense of calm about it, despite the hubbub audible from some of the more lively districts.

  He approached two soldiers standing at the entrance arch framing a massive quercus wood door set into one of the older stone walls surviving in Villiren. The men were wearing crimson uniforms under their dull metal body armour, and massive sheathed sabres hung from their hips. They chatted idly, unprofessionally, rubbing their hands and shifting their weight from foot to foot to stamp out the chill.

  He declared, 'I would like to see your commander.'

  The guards laughed. 'Yeah, right,' one said, a chubby man with deep-set eyes and bad skin. 'He don't just see anyone unarranged.'

  Bugger. Malum should have realized he couldn't just walk in there, not at this time of night. 'I'm Malum, of the Bloods,' he explained.

  'Don't care who you are, mate,' the other stated. 'We need to be expecting you.'

  'Fucksake, I've already met him before. Look, can you at least pass a message to him?'

  The guards conferred. 'Go on then.'

  Malum continued. 'Tell him that Malum of the Bloods has come to a decision about helping the commander out with the impending war. And tell him that his preferences as to men has been noted, and frowned upon. Make sure you get that men bit, though. I'll be waiting outside the Victory Hole tavern at sunset tomorrow. He can meet me there if he wants to keep his rep intact.'

  And with that, Malum turned and merged again with the cold Villiren evening.

  NINETEEN

  Wax cape bundled around his shoulders, Brynd marched through the dreary streets of Villiren back towards the Citadel. Another failed meeting with some of the self-appointed district representatives. When would they realize that if no one would help by joining the citizen militias, then they would have no houses left in which to take sanctuary?

  Featureless stone facades lined a narrow iren, which seemed much poorer than many of the others. There wasn't a lot for sale either – cheap incense, pots and pans and blades rusted by months of bad weather. Traders scowled at him from under decrepit canopies. Some bore wooden signs supporting the unions, or cursing some of the larger corporations – Broun Merchants or Ferryby's or Coumby's. Brynd learned that companies or individuals rented out space at the larger irens, taking in return a slice of the profits, but the traders couldn't do anything about it – that was where everyone went to buy their goods, and Lutto himself had passed the relevant legislation in the first place.

  Up ahead three figures, huddled on the ground, gaped up at his approach.

  'Commander Lathraea!' the woman spluttered. She hastily handed a book she had been carrying the last time to one of the others, then made her way over. It was those same old cultists dressed in tweed. The woman herself was nearly as tall as him, but the other two – one with a moustache and the other bald – continued studying some of the designs they had made on the flagstones, weird script and cipher marked with chalk. They kept gesturing to each other erratically.

  'Yes, it's uh…'

  'Bellis! Of the Order of the Grey Hairs, at your service. Sir, have you found any use for us yet? We're still as active as any of those reckless young cultists who keep blowing themselves up. Years of expertise, you see.'

  This bunch seemed mad and untrustworthy, and he had better things to be doing right now. And he could smell alcohol on her breath. 'As of yet,' he said, 'the planning has been concentrated on less esoteric methods, I'm afraid.'

  'Oh well, we'll be about if you need us. A shame really, as we can offer quite a bit, but if you insist on using those silly conventional methods then you go ahead, young man.' She gave him a kind of salute, and he wasn't sure if she was mocking him or not.

  He gave a cautious smile and continued past.

  *

  Red sunlight streamed across the table in Brynd's small studverlooking the harbour. Seagulls and pterodettes screamed outsidis window, circling the skies endlessly. Charts and maps papered alour walls of this room, lines of potential strategy marked on them iarious colours. Bold lines slashed across them like wounds. He'een studying the streets for real, as well as these sketches, calculatinhe flow of troops needed in response to flows of attack. Probabilitief access and of restrictions: these were tight streets, and bottleneckould prove a weapon or a curse, depending on the situation. Sucariables he had committed to memory on the spot, then writteown instructions to be fed to other officers.

  According to garuda reports, the most likely method of attack would be a sea landing directly into Villiren's harbour – since the enemy was lining up directly opposite. Punctuating the shoreline for miles in either direction, he'd stationed small units to keep watch.

  A knock on the open door and Brynd glanced up.

  Nelum Valore stood before him, a lieutenant of the Night Guard. One of Brynd's closest comrades, they'd long served alongside each other and in the field, getting to know each other by instinct. His wide-muscled figure suggested someone who relied upon his strength to get by, but Brynd had instead come to value the man's ferocious intelligence, his keen eye for logic, his knack of looking through the gaps in the world he confronted. Nelum's swarthy figure seemed to add to the mysterious aura he gave off whenever he retreated into his mind during deep contemplation. In such uncertain times Brynd felt that Nelum should be ranked at the
top of any command structures.

  'Sir, the Okun.'

  'What about them?'

  The Okun had been captured on Tineag'l several weeks ago, in a small-scale skirmish that had led to the death of his friend and comrade, Apium, but ever since they had been in Villiren, they had proved unresponsive, locked away in darkness while remaining seemingly dormant.

  'They're up and alert now.'

  'How did they wake?' Brynd asked.

  'They were moved into a different cell yesterday,' Nelum replied. 'One with more light. They'd been showing marginal reaction to torchlight, so we suggested they might have preferences. And guess what? They appeared to react after being exposed to daylight, slowly coming to life. They even began to bleed again from their wounds. They're still locked up now, the two of them.'

  'Right, I'll come.' Brynd grabbed his sabre and followed the lieutenant from the room.

  *

  Brynd entered the metal-lined holding cell, with Nelum and guardtepping in behind him. He pulled his sabre free, uncertain of whaight happen – fearful, if he was honest, because he had no idea whao expect.

  They were still lying there, on the floor, massive and alien. Both creatures' flesh pulsated under their shells, slick juices seeping out of their skin, the black fluid pooling near his feet. The stench of them was rancid and more intense than ever.

  Two pairs of eyes opened and he lurched backwards.

  In that instant, Nelum and the guards were gripping their swords in readiness, but Brynd cautioned them to hold back. The Okun would most likely feel threatened in a new world, imprisoned like this, and they could prove more dangerous if undue pressure was applied to them.

  Nelum leaned over towards Brynd and he asked earnestly, 'Your thoughts, commander?'

  'Your guess is as good as mine. They're definitely alive, which is good. As long as they're alive we can examine them, and study them, for points of weakness to exploit in combat. Surely this must be our best chance of understanding the enemy? I mean to say, if a victory is possible, it might come from such a careful study. And perhaps they can offer more clues as to the nature of Earth – it's clear we're learning more and more about the Boreal Archipelago as time goes on. Apparently they came through some gate, from some other world. So much clearly exists that we don't understand.'