by Ian Whates
Tylus stood straight and found himself in the shadow of a towering stadium – the Pits, infamous home of gladiatorial blood sports and birthplace of the Tattooed Men.
The irony of the situation hadn't escaped him. Here he was at the very place that had shaped Kat and made her into the person she was, and tomorrow he would be striding out beside her, leading a dozen of the toughest warriors the under-City had ever known, warriors fashioned by these very same Pits.
Knowing the dark history of this theatre – which is what it had been, in effect – he still had some misgivings about making the Pits his new place of work, but he had to admit that the Prime Master had probably chosen wisely. Training facilities were already in place, as were any number of attendant buildings formerly used for housing the Pit Warriors and all the support personnel required to run the facility. Of course, much of the place needed to be gutted and some of it rebuilt, but work on that had already begun and this was better than starting from scratch. All in all, it was the ideal location for the new Kite Guard Training School. There was a pleasing sense of ironic justice in seeing the site of so many evil deeds turned into a facility for education, an establishment that might actually give something back to the under-City's society.
Tylus' thoughts switched for a moment to his parents, his mother in particular. Specifically he recalled the bitter sweet moment when he returned to the Heights sporting a captain's stripes. The squeal of delight and look of incredulous joy on his mother's face when he'd spoken of his unexpected promotion would live long in the memory. Not merely a single step up the career ladder, but a leap all the way from mere officer to captain in a single bound. Tylus was quite certain neither parent had ever imagined they'd see the day. His father's chest almost visibly swelled with pride, while his mother immediately began planning a reception at which to announce and celebrate the occasion, insisting he should attend. It was at this point Tylus revealed the second part of his news. He was to be stationed in the City Below. The speed with which expressions changed was almost comical, and the looks of dismay his words evoked were at least as memorable as his mother's initial yelp of joy.
Knowing her, he suspected his mama would still organise her reception, albeit in his absence – he had neither the time nor inclination to attend – and he had little doubt that discretion would come into play, with some judicious editing of his tidings ensuring that only the first part was ever reported and celebrated.
His reveries were interrupted by the approach of a stocky, solidly built figure in the mud and clay uniform of the city watch. Tylus recognised him immediately.
"Everything in order, sergeant?" he called to the craggyfaced man.
"All on schedule, sir. Had to give one of the foremen a right rollicking over some missing materials, but I think he's learned his lesson."
"Good. You'll keep an eye on him, I take it."
"Of course I will, sir."
Tylus was still getting used to that – being called "sir", particularly by a hard-bitten veteran like Sergeant Able. This was the man who had refused to provide any help when he'd first arrived in the City Below, before grudgingly lending him Richardson, the runt of the department, in what was undoubtedly intended as a joke but proved to be an inspired assignment. Despite that unfortunate beginning, Tylus liked Able. He was essentially honest – well, as honest as any officer of the watch down here was likely to be – hard working, resourceful and, for want of a better word, able. Exactly the sort of man the Kite Guard was looking for.
He beckoned the sergeant to follow him into the cabin which served as his temporary office until the permanent one was fully refurbished.
"Still don't know what I'm doing here," the sergeant muttered once they'd stepped inside.
Tylus didn't reply, instead opening a cupboard and taking out two glass tumblers and a bottle of ten year old Atlean whisky. Not the best vintage, but it would do. He poured two generous measures of the amber spirit and passed one tumbler to Able, picking up the other himself before dropping into his seat behind the desk.
The sergeant grinned – an unintentionally sinister expression – and raised his glass. "I've worked for many a worse officer, mind, but that doesn't alter the fact that I know breck all about flying!"
"That's not what I want you for," Tylus assured him. "The Guards will already have been taught everything they need to know about flying and gliding and fighting on the wing up-City. Little point in us bringing them all the way down here only to go over the same old ground again. What we're aiming for at the new school is a short, sharp shock, a course designed to show them what it's like to do real police work in some place where the streets are dirty and mean, where the miscreants don't recognise moral codes and won't show an officer respect simply because he's sporting a fancy cape and a puncheon."
Able snorted. "Well, I can do that all right, but do you really think a bunch of toffee-nosed cloud scrapers from up-City are going to pay any attention to the likes of me?"
"It'll be up to us to make sure they do, sergeant. Don't worry, I've already had a few ideas along those lines."
"Good, cos I'd hate to think I was wasting my time. Can't help feeling I should be out there now, helping to rein in the new gangs that are forming and moving into the old streetnick territories rather than kicking my heels watching a load of labourers at work. The watch is stretched thin enough as it is."
Tylus had to stifle a grin. He knew full well that the canny sergeant was still keeping his hand in, that a stream of officers and runners were constantly coming to and fro, bringing him updates and carrying off his orders. Tylus couldn't blame him. He had learned firsthand just how hard pressed the watch was down here in the City Below, and it wasn't as if any actual teaching would start for weeks yet. There was hardly enough here at the moment to keep both Able and Richardson occupied, so he couldn't begrudge the sergeant his dedication.
"That's one of the things we'll be doing before long – supplementing the watch with Kite Guard patrols. Just imagine it, hunting someone through the Runs with watch officers on the ground and Kite Guards in the air, working together in a coordinated search."
"Now that would be something worth seeing," Able conceded.
"Look, bear with me on this. I know it's a bit frustrating at present, but in a little while I'll have you rushed off your feet. You'll look back on these quiet days with wistful fondness. For now, though, all I ask is that you oversee the building work and make sure there's no slacking while I'm off in the Stain chasing monsters."
"Yeah, well, good luck. I don't mind admitting that I wouldn't swap places with you on that one, not for anything."
Able drained the last of his whisky, placed the glass down firmly on Tylus' desk and took his leave. "Time I went to check on that foreman again, just in case he thinks I've forgotten about him."
Drinking alone had always struck Tylus as a uniquely morose pastime, and he was tempted to abandon what remained of his own whisky once the sergeant had gone, but after the way he'd humiliated himself in front of Kat earlier, he decided to make an exception just this once.
No sooner had he taken a further sip from his glass than there came a smart triple rap at the door. Startled, Tylus hurriedly cleared the two glasses and the bottle away into a drawer, before calling out, "Come."
Even as he pushed the drawer shut he felt bemused by his own actions. After all, he was in charge here, and if he wanted to have a drink in his own office, why shouldn't he? Yet he still felt like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar, which was ridiculous, particularly as he knew full well whose knock that had been.
Another figure dressed in the brown and orange of the city watch came in, this one taller and considerably younger than the sergeant. Tylus felt a certain degree of pride at how far Richardson had come in a very short time. Oh, he knew the man himself deserved most of the credit, but Tylus felt he'd played his part in giving the young officer a break and inspiring the man's burgeoning self-confidence.
Wher
eas Able always wore the mud and clay as if born to it, not so long ago Richardson had looked anything but comfortable in his uniform, as if the collar perhaps chafed a little and the trousers were a tad too tight at the groin. Tylus had seen that awkwardness disappear bit by bit during the time he'd been here, and today there was no sign of it at all as Richardson strode into the office and stood before his captain. This was a man on a mission.
"Yes, Richardson?"
"I wanted to ask you a favour, sir."
Sir? Richardson never remembered to call him sir. "Go ahead."
"Well, ehm… I was hoping you might stand beside me, sir. You see, I'm getting married."
Tylus couldn't have been more surprised if Richardson had declared himself to be a Jeradine in disguise. "What…? Congratulations! Who's the lucky girl? No, doesn't matter, I'm not going to know her in any case."
"As a matter of fact you do, well… you've met her at any rate. It's Jezmina, the girl who used to run with the Blue Claw, the one I took away from the station to work for my sister."
"Jezmina? But she's…" just a kid.
"Young, I know. But we've been spending quite a bit of time together lately, what with her bein' at my sisters and all, and, well, she's a really sweet girl and… she's just so beautiful."
All of which might be true, but when Tylus thought of the girl the image that came to mind was of a manipulative and opportunistic little strumpet, for all her tender years and innocent expression.
"I'm delighted for you," he said. He managed to keep the smile in place but couldn't resist asking, "How old is she, by the way?"
"She doesn't know," Richardson admitted, a little forlornly.
Doesn't know?
"She was orphaned at a very young age, you see, and no one keeps any records of births, not down here. So she might even be older than she looks… I mean she acts older than she looks."
No argument from Tylus on that score. Jezmina was certainly far more mature than her physical appearance suggested – she would have needed to grow up quickly to survive on the streets with a pretty face like that – and she knew exactly how to make the most of the elfin beauty the gods had blessed her with. Within minutes of arriving at the watch station she'd had a couple of the officers running around after her with their tongues hanging out. Manipulating men seemed second nature to her, but it never occurred to Tylus that Richardson would fall under her thrall, not to the point of wanting to marry her at any rate.
"This is all a bit sudden, don't you think?" he ventured.
Richardson pulled a face. "That's what the Thaistess said."
"You've already been to see a Thaistess?" How far had things progressed? How much damage was already done?
"Well, I wanted to check… what with Jezmina being so young, that the Thaistess would be happy to join us before the goddess. If she hadn't been, there are always other temples, other religions, you know."
"And was she?"
"Yes. I mean, she didn't say so immediately, asked me to bring Jezmina in to see her. I left them alone so they could have a chat. Never seen my angel so nervous, I can tell you, but I kept saying there was nothing to worry about, that once the Thaistess saw how mature and sensible she was, there'd be no problem."
It struck Tylus as far more likely that the Thaistess would have realised how far away from being an innocent maiden Jezmina was and what a savvy and worldly-wise creature had been brought before her, that far from her needing protection, any prospective husband was likely to; but he limited his response to, "And was there?"
"No, she did brilliantly; must have done, because afterwards the Thaistess said she'd be happy to conduct the ceremony. So, anyway, as I said, I was hoping you would do me the honour of standing beside me."
How could he possibly refuse without offending this man he'd come to regard as a friend? "I'd be delighted to," he said, with a growing sense of impending doom.
"Thank you!" Richardson rushed forward, clasping the Kite Guard's hand. "That means a lot. It won't be for a few weeks yet, so you'll have plenty of time to get back from the Stain."
Get back from the Stain? What a charming way to dismiss the living hell Tylus was bound for in the morning. He watched the man who'd acted as his assistant since he first arrived in the City Below float out of the office on a cloud of blissful infatuation and sweet delusion. As he did so, resolve hardened. Tylus wasn't about to stand by and let a good man like Richardson be taken advantage of and emotionally disembowelled by a callous and calculating gold-digger, which was all he could think Jezmina to be. It seemed that he would have a very different battle to look forward to when and if he returned from the Stain. Wonderful.
THREE
Tylus paced up and down before the row of deep blue liveried figures. Six of them: a sergeant and five officers; his men, at least for the duration of the mission. He recalled the many times he'd been where they were now, in briefings, either standing to attention like this or sitting attentively, never dreaming that one day he'd be the one out at the front doing the talking.
"I don't want to see any discourtesy," he said, his gaze sliding from one face to the next. "We work as a team. Yes, they come from the City Below whereas you're from the Heights. Yes, they look outlandish with their interlinked patterns of tattoos while you look dapper and proper in your pristine blue uniforms, but don't be fooled. These are intelligent and extremely capable men.
"Do you know where we are? Have you any idea what this is?" He swept an arm wide to take in the looming presence of the Pits' amphitheatre, which stood dark and brooding in the sun globes' dawning light.
Nobody responded, heads remained rigidly facing forward.
"Well? Speak up, anybody?"
"The Pits, sir!" the sergeant, Whitmore, replied.
"Exactly right. The Pits, where warriors were pitted against the deadliest animals the world has to offer, where champion fought champion to the death, where life expectancy was measured not in decades but in days and weeks. The men you'll be working beside today are the winners of this darkest of all theatres. They're the ones who survived the horrors of the Pits and walked away to tell the tale. Some of them were there for years. So when you look at the man beside you and feel tempted to sneer at his barbaric appearance, at his primitive, unsightly tattoos, just stop to think for a moment. Reflect on the fact that the more elaborate and extensive those tattoos the more bouts a warrior survived, the more he triumphed. Today you will have the honour of working alongside some of the deadliest fighters Thaiburley has ever produced, professional killers whose skills were honed in the fiercest environment imaginable. They deserve your respect and by Thaiss they'll get it! Do I make myself clear?"
"Yes, sir!" six voices declared in unison.
Tylus pursed his lips, doubting his stirring words would make a jot of difference. He recalled his own deep-rooted prejudices when he first arrived in the City Below. If asked, he would have denied they existed; only once they were fully dismantled was he able to recognise that they'd been there in the first place. These lads would be no different, however well-intentioned they might be. Their entire upbringing would have constantly reinforced their sense of superiority over those who dwelt in the under-City. It was going to take more than mere words, no matter how stirring, to overturn something as ingrained as that. Only experience could do the job; but experience had to begin somewhere, and these six were about to receive a baptism of fire.
"Sergeant, you and your men follow me." With that Tylus spread his arms, allowing the cape to unfurl. He felt lighter immediately, as if the cloak were eager to carry his body skyward and lift him above the rooftops. Seeing no reason to deny it, he bent his knees and leapt, soaring upwards. Behind him, the other Kite Guards did the same.
There hadn't been time for him to get to know these men properly. He'd been assured they were among the best the Guard had to offer and had no reason to doubt that assessment, but it wasn't the same as knowing the man at your back and being confident of how he was lik
ely to react in a given situation. Still, they had the weaponry provided by the arkademics plus the new slings, which they had evidently trained with, and there was no doubting that his little troop maintained a tight formation in flight. He felt irrationally proud of them as they soared over the rendezvous point just short of the Stain and came in to land in neat order. Surely those waiting couldn't fail to be impressed.
If so, they masked it well.
"About time you got here," Kat snapped.
"Hardly our fault if you decide to be early," Tylus responded.
Tattooed Men were milling around, while half a dozen ebony giants stood statue-still in a row before the crumbling wall of a derelict building. The Blade.
Tylus went to talk with the man who had come to see them off: the Council's newest member, Master Thomas, supposed victim of the apparent murder that led to the Kite Guard being assigned to the under-City in the first place.
"Sorry the Prime Master can't be here in person," Thomas said. "There's a developing situation in the Heights which he can't afford to leave."
