by Jack Conner
“Just make sure they’re writing it all down. I don’t care if it doesn’t seem important. I want every in and out of a Member put to paper, and any other visit worth a damn.”
Jack nodded. “All the lads that can write’re on it. Think this’ll really do any good? I mean, what’re the odds scribbling about their traffic’ll tell us where the fuckin’ quakes are comin’ from?”
Stevrin blew out a column of smoke. “Just see to it. The Guild’s meetin’ with someone, and I aim to find out who.”
“Whatever. We need to sort this shit out fast.”
“Yeah.” Word had come today of another quake in Upper Lavorgna, even worse than the last. A chandelier had broken off at the Divinity, killing two Sisters and a john. Plus the yellow mist had killed more people in town, Stevrin wasn’t sure how many. Whatever it was, the situation was getting worse. Even the Div wasn’t safe.
Harry dashed in, drenched, rubbing his hands together. His usually mussed hair stuck in wet clumps to his head. “Shit, I think I’ve caught a bug,” he said, coughing. “Godsdamned weather.”
His voice did sound raw and wet. Stevrin indicated the ground. “Take a load off. Jack, stop hoggin’ the flask. Can’t you see Harry’s got the fuckin’ plague?”
Jack reluctantly handed the whiskey to Harry, who took a long pull, grimacing. “Aye, that’s better.” He offered Stevrin the flask, at the same time wiping his runny nose.
Stevrin took the flask and stared at the lip. He passed it back. “I’ve got another. What’s the good word?”
Harry spat off to the side. “Minister Hughes slipped off with his mistress again. She was waitin’ in the limo what came to pick him up. He went out the side entrance, as usual.”
“That it?”
“That’s it for real news, if that’s real. But we got trouble.”
“What kind of trouble?”
“McKinley’s boys. They’ve fucked us at the Temple of Our Lady’s Mercy.”
“They’ve been squawkin’ about that for days. Finally decided to do something?”
“Yep. Told the sisters we were whorin’ ourselves out and plannin’ on stealing the silver and shitting in the cupboard and cuttin’ the sisters’ throats in their sleep, or somesuch.”
“Bastards.” Stevrin let out a string of curses. He and his boys had been depending on Our Lady’s temple for bunking and shitting accommodations for the last week. When he’d arrived here the first day, he’d immediately realized this was going to be a long-term assignment and had ordered his boys to scout out a place they could use as a base of operations. The temple had provided just that. Unfortunately a local gang of boys run by Skint Went McKinley bunked there and ran their own operations out of the temple. The sisters thought they were just simple orphan boys out begging, and they frequently rose to the boys’ defense, even springing them from jail when the police routinely busted them. The sisters didn’t know that McKinley’s gang was the most ruthless pack of cutpurses in Lower Lavorgna. It was a tough area to work, but worth it for the lucrative hauls.
“We can’t allow them to oust us,” Stevrin said. “There’s nowhere as good as Our Lady for what we need. All the other temples and chapels’re too far away, or they don’t take in strays. The park’s out. The cops patrol here too often, and a shit trench’d be hard to hide on short notice.”
“What can we do?” said Jack. “McKinley’s gang’s bigger than our crew, and I doubt Agatha would loan us the whole Roost for all-out war.”
Harry grinned mirthlessly. “The eyes on the wall would get a helluva show if it came to that.”
“No, that won’t work,” Stevrin agreed, standing up and throwing down his cigarette, which hissed in the muddy ground.
“What’re you gonna do?” Harry said.
Stevrin scowled. “Where’s that rat-fuck McKinley?”
“Northside Knoll. His gang’ve got a tent-rig set up.”
“Then that’s where I’m going. Jack, get Hastings and his crew of bruisers together and meet me on the way. Harry, you stay here and conva-fucking-lesce.”
“Right-o,” said Harry, taking a swig.
“Will do,” said Jack, and rushed off into the rain.
Stevrin, who, as the exalted leader, boasted a somewhat ragged umbrella, opened it up and marched off alone into the park. Trees loomed all around him, dark and slick. Water, carried on the wind, sprayed his face. Thunder cracked overhead, and lightning lit up the white dome of Parliament to the east and the spires of the Bank to the west.
A slim shape darted out at him from the darkness, and Stevrin jumped. One hand flew to the pocket where he kept his knife.
“Hi!”
“Oh,” he said, relaxing. “It’s you.”
“Hope I didn’t startle you,” Vallie said.
“Naw.” He kept walking. She fell into step beside him. “What’re you doin’ out here?” he said. “It’s four in the mornin’. Shouldn’t you be workin’?”
“No. I had the shift from seven to one.”
He glanced sideways at her. It was very dark, with no light but lightning coming from above. Electric lamps stood here and there throughout the park, but they were not everywhere, and they were far apart. Just now he could see some vague blue-white light seep in through the foliage, but it wasn’t much—just enough to outline one of her soft cheeks and the sheen of one large dark eye. She was made up, he saw, and for a moment he wrestled with the reality of what she had been doing till one.
“You came here alone?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
“Through the subway?”
“That’s right.”
“Shit!” He wheeled on her. “That ain’t safe. Gods, girl, what were you thinking?” She couldn’t weigh more than ninety pounds.
She looked up at him with her big waif eyes. “You act like you really care.” Her voice was soft.
He started to say something, failed, and kept on walking. After a moment, she fell back in beside him.
“Where’s Hastings?” he said.
She didn’t answer, not at first. “I’m not Hastings’, you know.”
He didn’t answer.
“You could come visit me, you know. At the Divinity. I’m trying to build up my customer base.”
“Having trouble with that, are you?” He couldn’t keep his tone from sounding short.
She punched him lightly on the shoulder. She’d been spending too much time in the Roost. “No,” she said, her voice emphatic. “I’m doing quite well, actually.”
“Aren’t you ... you know, a little young for all that?”
“Madam says these are my prime earning years. She charges more for me, because I’m young. My split’s pretty good, too.”
“It’s disgusting. You should have stayed in the Roost.”
“And live off gruel and burned eggs? No thanks. I don’t mean to stay poor.” There was an edge to her voice when she said this. “Anyway, you could come visit me.”
“I like women, not girls. Besides,” he added hastily, “and no offense, but I don’t want to end up on Hastings’ shit list. And what makes you think I have the money to afford you, anyway?”
She looked at him sidelong. “I know you do favors for some of the Sisters sometimes. I know it’s you bringing Myena opium.”
He started. “How’d you hear about that?”
“You know how it is. Sisters talk. But you are, aren’t you?”
Reluctantly, he admitted, “I was. Not anymore.”
“Oh? Why not?”
He wanted to snap, but held himself back. “Because I saw what it did to her.” The memory was vivid, and painful. He heard his voice grow thick at the recounting. “I ... I didn’t realize, but one time I saw her ... curled up in her own filth.” He balled his fists. “Never again. If I knew who was running it for her now I’d beat them with their own ripped-off cocks.”
Vallie walked a little closer to him. He could smell just a trace of flowery perfume. “Sorry,” she said. “I di
dn’t mean anything by it.” A long silence passed. The rain began to lighten. “Well, if you don’t have the money, that’s okay. I didn’t really want you as a client anyway. What are you doing tomorrow night?”
For something to do with his hands, he lit a cigarette.
“Why so nervous?” she said. “You’ve been with loads of girls, I thought.”
“Uh ... not that many.”
“But some.”
They were on a rise, with a fine view of the surrounds in the thinning rain. Partly to change the subject, Stevrin gestured to the Bank of Ulsric to the west. It always amused him to see the bank, and sickened him too.
“Once that was the Temple of Justice,” he said. “Did you know that?”
“Really?”
“Yeah. The Temple of Olos. All Parliament members were required to be devotees.” By the cracked columns and signs of once-crumbled masonry, Stevrin could see how well-attended justice had been in its final years in Lavorgna. Yet by the gold fittings, expensive patches, and gleaming, reinforced doors he could tell how well the Bank faired now. “Inside there’s a white marble statue of Olos, Lord of Justice.”
“I know Olos,” she said quietly. “Magnar’s father.”
“I don’t know about that, but the statue stands in the main room. Back when it was Olos’s temple he carried a sword in one hand and a scale in the other.”
“I’ve never seen a sword,” she protested. “I’ve been there, and I’ve never seen one.”
“That’s right. When the bank took over, they changed it. They left the scale but took out the sword and replaced it with a sack of gold.”
“Oh.” She thought about it minute and said, “You know, that’s kind of sad.”
He nodded. “The old gods are on the way out. The new ones are small and green and papery, and there ain’t enough of ‘em.” Such was his practical thinking, though, that he couldn’t decide if that was a bad thing or a good thing. After all, what had the gods ever given him? He supposed Madam Agatha would hold a different opinion. However, he wouldn’t object to a little cold hard cash.
Vallie shrieked. She flew against Stevrin and clung to him tightly. He could feel her heartbeat against his ribs.
He too started as a large shape emerged from the darkness before him. It was a nightmarish figure, surely enough—a large, fat man, pale as a worm, dressed in black rags, with one eye missing, its socket a wicked pit of gnarled tissue, and a harelip twisting his full, sensuous lips into a horrid leer.
“For fuck’s sake!” Stevrin said. “Could you wear a fuckin’ bell or somethin’?”
“I apologize,” Duncan lisped, but he did not sound very apologetic. And he did have reason to be haughty, Stevrin had to admit. He was the only member of the crew that Stevrin had personally requested accompany them. That’s because he was in charge of the pigeons, which had proven handy bearers of messages over the last few days. Stevrin had boys posted on all the available building tops in the area, and they signaled each other and the pigeons via flashlights and luminous alchemical tubes when it was dark or raining.
“Is there news?” Stevrin asked.
“I just received word from the south team that three long black autos have been pulled up before the main east door. One of the coaches bears the flags of Archminister Barnes.”
Stevrin raised his eyebrows. “Interesting.” Maybe the Archminister was at last meeting with the mysterious outside party LeBon’s letter referred to. “Wonder what the old bastard could be up to this time of night ...”
“Feasting on the young, no doubt.” Duncan’s one eye fastened on Vallie as he said this, and she burrowed more deeply into Stevrin.
Stevrin mouthed the words “Fuck you” at Duncan, then said, “Have word sent to all the teams to get ready and follow the convoy when it moves. And have some of the better-spoken lads dress up so they can hail a cab if need be.”
“I will see to it.” Duncan’s pale skin glistened with moisture, and water danced and roiled in his dark eye socket, as if there were a phantom eye there still, glittering with malice.
“Keep me posted,” Stevrin said.
Duncan vanished back into the shadows.
“Who was he?” Vallie asked, taking a deep breath.
Stevrin thought she was taking far too much advantage of the situation. He gently disentangled himself.
“The Lord of Bird-Shit Hall,” he said. “Ah, here we are.”
Jack and six large boys waited ahead. Hastings stood out like a mountain among foothills. Seeing him, Stevrin made an effort to put some distance between himself and Vallie. The other boys were all large and looked as though they could take care of themselves. Good. When Stevrin had arrived here on the first day, he’d realized that not only was this a longer-term job than he’d thought but that it was a much larger one, too. He’d asked Madam for more boys, and she had sent all he’d asked for and more. At first he had worried that so many orphans would be conspicuous loitering around City Square and had had nearly half the gang dress up in the finest duds the Divinity’s wardrobes could provide. Stevrin had shortly realized, however, after watching the mostly illiterate, uneducated boys pose in fancy attire that this strategy was far more eyebrow-raising than the alternative. Besides, by that point he’d already run afoul of McKinley and knew that such gangs were not unheard of, even in posh Lower Lavorgna—though they were certainly more rare, and more respectful of the status quo.
Now McKinley was the problem.
“Let’s teach that cocksucker a lesson,” Jack said, and the other boys echoed him. Hastings grunted and smacked a fist into a meaty palm.
Stevrin nodded, but inside he wasn’t so sure. Having Hastings and his bruisers along ensured that McKinley couldn’t take him without it getting nasty, but who’s to say McKinley was opposed to a spot of nastiness?
“C’mon,” Stevrin said, leading the boys forward. “You stay here,” he told Vallie. Reluctantly, she nodded.
He noticed Nimfang hanging around Jack and the boys and said, “Aren’t you supposed to be looking out for cops?”
“Sorry, Stev. Couldn’t miss this.”
“Great.” Stevrin could tell by Nimfang’s smile that there was some sort of bet going on. He wondered if he was favored or not. Probably not.
The group fell in behind him.
Coming up to him, Jack whispered, “I’ve got a gun.” He patted the bulge under his armpit. “In case we need it.”
“Better hope we don’t. McKinley’s gang will have guns, too, but more of ‘em. If you use that, we’re all dead.”
Jack nodded grimly.
Strange red lights winked through the trees, and the sounds of talking drifted out. Stevrin passed through a bank of undergrowth and came upon what the boys called Northside Knoll. Frayed red tents jutted up between towering oaks. Iracai lanterns strung between them. Fashioned of red paper around alchemical, red-burning lights, the lanterns looked like little blobs of glowing blood in the night. They threw a red, pulsing film over everything.
“Step right up and make a selection!” one particularly large boy shouted, striding back and forth before an open tent. Stevrin immediately recognized Skint Went McKinley—blond and ugly, with feral green eyes that seemed slightly slanted. Several nervous-looking men and women, some quite young, in expensive clothes—obviously residents of the neighborhood—stood shuffling their feet in an informal line before the tent. Stevrin had to step to the side to see just what was contained inside.
“Shoulda known.”
“Fuck,” breathed Jack.
Inside the tent clustered hundreds of vials on rickety tables. Some of the vials glowed. Alchemical agents, Stevrin knew.
As he watched, one girl, she couldn’t be more than thirteen, wearing too much make-up and dressed in expensive clothes, reached out a trembling hand and picked up a vial that glowed amber. Stevrin noticed splotches on her skin and boils on her lip. She trembled so badly she could barely stand.
“Addicts,” he sa
id, staring at McKinley’s clients. “All addicts.” He knew the Guild kept the gentry docile with pricey alchemical drugs, but some delved too far in that direction and needed harder, more dangerous substances. The Guild supplied that, too, but through black market channels only. Apparently Skint Went McKinley was one of their facilitators.
“That’s right, get your uppers! Get your downers!” shouted the beefy young man. “Get the things that make you tick!”
The young girl with too much make-up started to hand over her cash to McKinley, and Stevrin said, “I’ve seen enough.”
He stepped out of the shadows. With startled oaths, Jack, Nimfang, Hastings and the other boys stepped out behind him.
“This way!” he shouted. “Coppers, they’re over here! Hurry! I’m lookin’ right at ‘em!”
McKinley’s customers bolted. Stevrin couldn’t resist a smile as he saw the girl drop her vial and disappear into the trees. In moments all the addicts had vanished.
McKinley, dumfounded, turned from the shadows his customers had disappeared into, then to Stevrin. Slowly his face turned bright red. Of course, everything was tinted red from the hanging lanterns, but his face was doubly so.
“Magnar be fucked,” he hissed. His large hands turned to fists at his side. Then, growling, he snapped, “Boys!”
There had been a few boys hanging about, looking as unobtrusive as possible, just enough to keep the customers from getting out of line. They rushed to McKinley’s side, but they weren’t alone. From out of two other tents came a tide of boys. Most looked to have been drinking and playing cards, trying to stay dry, and they did not look pleased at being turned out.
“What the fuck were you thinkin’, ruining my business?” McKinley yelled, spittle spraying from his lips.
At all the commotion, the remaining tents opened, and disoriented addicts came stumbling out, syringes in some hands, pipes in others. They took one look at the brewing confrontation and shambled off into the woods, some of them falling over on the way.
