Up ahead of Marysa, a woman began wailing hysterically.
As she approached through the murk she could see a blonde woman huddled on the floor, cradling a young child in her arms.
Just then a man in a sinister red mask approached and crouched down to speak to the distraught mother. Marysa paused, feeling self-conscious about watching the pair, as people flowed around them with their carts and luggage.
Is he going to harm her?
‘What happened?’ the man asked.
The woman was silent for a while, refusing to speak. There was fear in her eyes, as if she recognized him, and after the man asked again she replied, ‘My boy gets ill and we don’t have any food and . . . now he’s dead.’
‘How old was he?’ red mask asked softly.
‘Two years in only six more days. We was going to have a nice time, just me and him. His father left . . .’ She began to sob again, hugging her dead son to her chest, and rocking back and forth as if to soothe the corpse into an even deeper state of rest.
The man stood up, glancing briefly at Marysa and the others who had stopped to watch. A man behind grumbled at them to get out of the way.
Red mask’s gang had now assembled, a sizeable outlaw regiment waiting for their commander to speak. They wore feral masks. Metal glinted beneath their well-made cloaks. Many of them looked young, under twenty at least.
‘We’re going back,’ the man decided.
‘Boss?’
The man spoke firmly, did not even raise his voice. ‘We are going back.’ He lifted up his mask to reveal handsome features, which surprised her. ‘Give this poor woman some damn money and a decent cart and one of you – I don’t care who – make sure she gets out to safety.’
‘Why are we going back up there?’ demanded the redhead. ‘We do that, we all get killed.’
The boss grabbed the man’s collar and lifted him up onto his toes. ‘See the dead kid? How many more of those d’you think there’ll be if people like us don’t do something? I’ve changed my mind. Put word out, to round up affiliated gangs. Tell them, one of us goes down, we all go down together – that’s what we’re all about.’ He dropped the fellow, shoved his way back through the other men. They looked at each other, shrugging. No one knew what to make of this change of plan.
‘What difference can we make?’ the redhead called out after him, but it wasn’t any use.
The man in the red mask had vanished.
*
If they were going to do it at all, they would have to do it his way.
A hub of fifty or so Bloods soon became an aggregate of dozens: hundreds of masked fighters from the various gangs who, somewhere along the lines, had stopped caring only about themselves. Or maybe many of them had begun to understand just what it meant if they didn’t have a home, if they didn’t have others to intimidate, if they didn’t have rackets to engage in.
They now listened only to Malum, and their own leaders backed down. It was futile even for them to oppose this acrimonious band. Reluctantly the military had handed over weapons and armour, realizing that this change of heart was in everyone’s best interest. And, anyway, it wasn’t their city, this wasn’t their turf. It had always belonged to the gangs of Villiren and Malum wanted to keep things that way.
He was distantly aware of just how powerful he had become, but even that didn’t matter at all. He was a shattered man, and didn’t give a fuck if he got killed. People afraid of dying usually possessed something worth losing. It was possible that many of the other Bloods felt the same – all they had ever had was the gang anyway. They would do anything for him now.
He didn’t know how it happened, but ever since he had seen all these people underground, especially since he had seen the children with their haunted faces and tenuous futures, he had managed to focus his anger on the things that were invading his city.
The Okun and those red-skinned rumel.
Dirty relics and illegal blades and outlawed poisons, the gangs began to use every nefarious piece of equipment they could get their hands on. Archaic systems were established, a no-leader culture despite their reverence for Malum, and as a result they became surprisingly well organized, a rough but self-sufficient fighting unit, with no need for Imperial direction. Some of the more primitive, barbarous types were in their element, able to indulge finally in killing as much as they could. There was something strangely poetic about the freedom they now operated with.
While the Okun possessed an instinct for knowing exactly what was coming, the red rumel made easier targets. Unlike their allies, they didn’t fight as one, so their small patrols were easily hunted down by the feral gangsters.
Malum himself was armed only with his messer blade and crossbow, and sauntered behind a group of gang members until they had cornered their enemy against some old factory wall, then he’d push his way to the front, fangs protruding, to watch the fear in those black eyes as crossbow bolts thudded into them at any attempt to escape.
Finally, he would slit their throats and thrust his maw forward to drink their blood.
*
On the third night after the gangs had become embroiled in the fighting, some insane genius released from their cells all the cultistbred monstrosities, the ones used for arena combat, and his followers rode them through the narrow streets to plough straight into large clusters of the invaders. The enemy’s synchronicity didn’t deter the hybrids in the least. Unable to register any kind of fear, and bred without susceptibility to pain, these monsters did not suffer from any hesitancy.
Creatures many feet tall, endowed with multiple limbs, thick hides glistening with scales, advanced, all teeth and violence, to bombard the sturdy ranks of the rumel and Okun. They tore through whatever streets they cared to, sectors that had already seen days of fighting. They killed late into the night.
As Malum and his colleagues looked on from afar, tenement blocks were now being appropriated in the name of the gangs, and it wasn’t long before it was mooted that some of these buildings were no longer Imperial territory.
And by the next day they’d be designated as autonomous zones – pirate territory. The first such enclave lay in the heart of Saltwater, offering a fine view over much of the fighting, and during the next day it expanded into former enemy territory in Scarhouse. Such reoccupation of the invaded city – including the Shanties, Althing, Scarhouse, and the Wasteland – could potentially stretch for miles along the coastline.
This new realm would have no emperor.
FORTY-EIGHT
Some distance from the front line of fighting, Nelum again found Priest Pias in the Jorsalir church. This holy place was redolent with incense and history. Breathing it all in, it brought him great solace to be away from the pressures of war. It was somewhere he might find a moment of blessed silence.
A few days of combat had passed, but he found the priest still there, lighting candles in front of the opulent tapestries hanging at the far end of the church, whispering verses to himself.
The old man peered over his shoulder as he heard Nelum’s boots scuffing on the marble tiles. ‘Ah, my holy soldier,’ the priest called out, turning to regard the tapestry once again. ‘I am deeply happy to see you have survived – clearly, Bohr smiles favourably upon you.’
Nelum approached the priest and kissed the jewelled ring on his extended hand. Here indeed was a magisterial figure. ‘I’m surprised to find you still here. Wouldn’t it be prudent for you to leave the city?’
‘I find that in such troubled times, I am busier than ever. The shepherd’s flock swells in number whenever death is easier to envisage – it has always been the way of things.’ He gave a knowing half-smile. ‘People need comfort, so I am here to provide it.’
‘I can understand that,’ Nelum replied.
‘I have been hoping you might have news for me on your wayward commanding officer.’
Nelum paused, pondering the right thing to say. Every day he’d looked for the right moment to arise, but there
were always too many others around. Even in the obsidian chamber they were rarely left alone together. Nelum had even tampered with Brynd’s saddle, loosening the girth so it would slip round during combat, but that hadn’t succeeded either. And he had meanwhile suffered his doubts, tested and questioned his motives. He could barely sleep because of the stress. ‘It isn’t easy, you know, waiting for the best opportunity. Sometimes I can’t help thinking it is not the right choice of action.’
The priest nodded, but Nelum could sense some dissatisfaction in his manner. A vague sense of shame washed over him. How could he let down a Jorsalir priest, of all people?
‘He’s a very effective warrior,’ Nelum offered, hoping the priest might review his stance on this matter. ‘He’s helped kill so many of the enemy so far, and his training and strategies have primed the army to the best of their abilities.’
‘That may be so, but should we permit sinners of this kind to go free on the streets to pollute the minds of others? He does not count in the larger scheme of things. You could assume his role very easily . . . Walk with me now, for these are not matters for discussion in a public place.’
Under soaring arches, and between stout columns, Nelum followed the priest into a small, musty room near the front of the church. Ancient texts covered in mould and dust lay heaped in piles, and Nelum could see enough from their spines to know that these were rare works indeed – many not even written in Jamur script.
‘Is this your study?’ Nelum asked.
‘Of a sort. We keep all sorts of forgotten books here, and there is a small group of us documenting their significance.’
‘Are they not all recorded?’
‘Many were lodged in the libraries of various monasteries and churches across the Archipelago, but because of recent occurrences, we are now being more cautious about whom we entrust with them. Now, please . . .’
Pias gestured to a large wooden chair standing next to a sturdy table. He lit a cresset as Nelum sat down, still feeling vaguely anxious. The sharp features of the elderly priest’s face were exaggerated by the light.
The priest wandered over to a set of shelves to retrieve a small, cream-coloured volume. He opened its age-tattered pages while continuing the conversation. ‘I’m going to talk to you about something called mantraism, of which you won’t remember anything after you leave. I won’t patronize you, but enough to say it is one of our most ancient and secret arts.’
‘I’m not sure I understand what—’
The old man began chanting, a cycle of words, adopting old tones Nelum had never before heard, and whatever language it was, the words repeated themselves. Occasionally the priest seemed to stop speaking but the sound of his voice amazingly continued. Over and over again the incantation looped, and Pias now spoke on top of it, reading from the book, layering and harmonizing everything he uttered.
And, in the middle of all this, Nelum heard in urgent tones: ‘Think how highly you would be regarded for having cleansed this world of such a corrupting influence. Your commander’s kind is not natural. Men should lie only with women since it’s for creation. Anything else . . . No, it cannot be. Lieutenant, try not to think only of this one lifetime, but where your soul will proceed in the next – you will be rewarded for this. So often we think only of this existence, when there are many more to consider. So you will, you must, find an appropriate time, and then you will begin to feel an absolute urge to kill your commander, and thus rid this world of such an abomination . . .’
The flow of words eventually slowed to a halt, leaving an agonizing silence inside Nelum’s head. He could remember nothing, could feel nothing, as Priest Pias loomed above him smiling.
‘Are you feeling all right?’
‘I’m sorry, I must have missed some of what you were saying. The pressures of the war must be getting to me.’
‘I do understand. We were merely discussing your commander.’
Brynd. That queer had to die. ‘I see.’
*
On his departure, the priest handed him a piece of paper inscribeith an address, saying it would help. Nelum stole off into the night.
He rode his horse to the location indicated, on the eastern fringe of the city, part of the new-build sectors. Satisfyingly it put some more distance between himself and the fighting, but he needed to be quick: people would begin questioning his absence.
Icy sleet tingled on his skin, yet there was a curious warmth to the air, as if the ice age was being repelled by natural elements, and this wasn’t meant to be.
His destination turned out to be one of the worst areas of the city.
The crippled and homeless huddled together in the bowels of the district, shelters and squats and makeshift camps. An anarchic repossession of a district constructed only a decade ago, but now worn down by the world. More than once on the way, he could have sworn he saw some unlikely beast, maybe one of the talked-about hybrids with grafted-on wings.
Lonely figures dawdled at street corners, caressing flick knives, but never looked his way. Women caked in too much make-up braved the cold, displaying a little flesh. They cooed and pouted towards him, outraging his deep sense of morality.
A gaunt-faced man with a shaven head and stubble shambled towards Nelum and demanded money. Another figure in a cloak sauntered in from the left, a cock-sure stride denoting this was a routine procedure.
‘I’ve nothing for you.’ Nelum dismounted and moved away from his horse towards them.
The cloaked man flicked open a knife and thrust it at him lazily, but Nelum batted his hand away, grabbed his wrist then broke his assailant’s arm across his knee. At that point the first thug jumped him with his own blade, drawing a faint line across Nelum’s cheek, before staggering away.
The man’s expression turned to surprise as he watched Nelum’s wound heal before his eyes. He began thrusting his knife aggressively, while Nelum darted this way and that, ducking appropriately. He then palmed the man’s forearm, sent the blade spinning from his grip, before he yanked the man’s wrist downwards and jabbed a vicious punch to his neck. He collapsed to one knee, clutching his throat.
A few of the whores further up the street laughed awkwardly before sashaying off into the darkness, and Nelum mounted his horse again, then rode away wondering just where on earth the priest had sent him.
*
He arrived eventually at a dilapidated shopfront adorned with a discoloured sign that read ‘Cheap Lunches’. Every other building up and down the street looked unlived in, redundant, yet he felt dozens of eyes observing him. Shutters covering windows, a boarded-up door, and Nelum was left wondering how he would get in. He dismounted, tethered up his agitated mount, then went around the back to find a door, on which he knocked loudly.
Eventually a hatch slid back, a pair of eyes regarded him, and someone asked his business.
‘The priest sent me,’ Nelum explained and, after a few more seconds of staring at those unblinking eyes, he added: ‘I’m here to buy some of your wares.’
The hatch closed, then the door creaked open, and Nelum was beckoned into the darkness by an old man wearing scruffy breeches. The place stank of either chemicals or cheap incense, and there was someone playing a piano in a far-off room, a gust of laughter accompanying. The man led him into a small but well-lit room resembling a grocer’s shop, with a counter and dozens of vials and bottles teetering on shelves – so much glass sparkling in the lantern light. Dozens of knives hung on one wall like rows of teeth of varying lengths. Ornamental masks lined another. Gemstones rested in boxes beneath the counter, amber, jade, topaz and a hundred varieties he didn’t recognize.
Nelum stared at the man and dropped several Sota discs on the counter. He was skinny with sallow skin, and his jaw narrowed dramatically to a point, which in this light made him look like he’d been cross-bred with a rat.
Laughter again from the other room.
‘I’m after some of your substances. Toxic substances in particular.’
&n
bsp; ‘Got all sorts here,’ the man replied. ‘What you after?’
‘Respiratory inhibitor,’ Nelum said hesitantly, remembering some textbook from his studies. ‘Cyanide, possibly?’
The man smiled, eyeing Nelum’s clothing, clearly realizing that he was a military man but still not commenting on the fact. This unspoken pact was reassuring. ‘That’s old school,’ he said. ‘An amateur’s choice. You’re a traditionalist, I see.’
‘Have you anything better then?’
‘ ’Course, lad. People come to me when they need a job doing.’
‘Well, I need a job doing well. Something to be injected directly into the bloodstream. And it needs to be tough, with no messing around. Distilled so it’s strong enough to kill many men.’
‘Bloodstream . . . Maybe haemotoxins? No, you might want to consider charged metals, but that can be slow – and usually it’s ingested. You want to be able get out quick?’
‘I do.’
‘Hmm. You considered a blade rather than toxins?’
‘That could be messy . . . I don’t want to be involved in a simple fight, not if I can help it.’
The old man turned and looked at the shelves like he was searching for something in particular. ‘Clostridium botulinum,’ he breathed, and turned round with a small knife, holding it reverentially in front of him. He placed it on the countertop.
Nelum was impressed with the filigree of work: it was the most ornate and uncanny knife that Nelum had ever seen, with a marblelike handle and gold edging. Dark substances oozed beneath what appeared to be a transparent surface – no, the blade itself seemed to be constructed from some form of liquid, yet one capable of holding its shape.
‘Using this won’t be pretty, since Botulinum causes extreme paralysis and physical distortion. One of the most toxic substances I deal with. Myth has us believe that people used this to stop themselves from ageing – insane to believe that, but I’ve heard funnier things about the past . . . This is called a botulinum blade. Fabricated from the poison itself.’
City Of Ruin Page 42
