Beluga Fay (Dragon Bone Hill) (17 page)

“You can’t go down alone.” Synon was adamant.

“If I take more than Simon here, whoever is behind this will disappear.”

“You know who is behind this, don’t you?”

“No.” This wasn’t a lie, but it was a distance from the truth. He’d no idea who was in the hold that night, or why they’d tried to kill him, but he did know what they looked like, and how good they were. Better than he’d been at the time, but times had changed. That’s what he’d been telling himself whenever he’d taken the opportunity to consider the possibility he was not alone. Everyone else had died in the explosion and fire. He’d not seen anyone swim ashore or get picked up by the gunboats or other freighter rescue craft. Pym repeated this again and again when he woke after a nightmare about that night—and these were not infrequent. One more reason he wanted out of the city—if this was who he thought it might be, then he was trapped. Eventually he’d be ferreted out, and when that happened, Pym was not certain what his chances would be.

“Then you have an idea.”

“Not even an idea—actually, less than a wild surmise.” Synon wasn’t satisfied but seemed to realize she was not going to have a say in this. Pym knew the lies and evasions where not helping: why he’d been on the freighter; why he’d swum ashore and not to another boat; why he repeatedly disappeared; what he intended to do next. As to the last, he had no idea. For the moment, he was comfortable finding solutions to problems as they arose—strategy was not possible when all of his goals were short term. “But I’m taking young Aglibut down to Arran, and we’ll look his source up. Did they say they’d wait down there for you?”

“At The Birder.”

“A bar and grill,” Synon answered, “in the south end of the fish market district. Mostly fishermen frequent the place—can get rough later at night.”

Nodding, Pym collected Aglibut and headed out.

They drove to the edge of the market district and hid the car in an abandoned garage. From the trunk, Pym took a sawed off shotgun, more clips for the automatic, and a strap to hold the shotgun under his arm. Simon had wanted a weapon too, but the fear on the kid’s face told Titus it wasn’t a good idea. There was the fact, as well, this was more than likely a setup, and he had a strong suspicion either Aglibut was stupid or in on it. Neither were good reasons to arm him. Simon didn’t argue and led the way down into the markets.

For all the trade that happened in the markets, and the amount of wealth that was generated daily, the place was as rundown as any district Pym had seen—excepting the Dead District, but that was a whole new level of depravity, One he wanted to give a wide berth. The smell of fish was heavy, and beneath this was the odor of sweat, unwashed bodies, and the putrescence of offal. Over the underlying currents of scent were the fishwives, hawkers, and barkers. Mixed in with the stalls, barrows, and carts were shell games, magicians, fortunetellers, thieves, dodgers, pickpockets, whores, and beggars. All were dangerous in their own way, but Pym was allowing the threat of the shotgun to swing loosely beneath his long, canvas coat.

“Is there a faster way to The Birder?” The narrow lanes were choked by barrows, carts, and stalls. Weaving in and out of these was the foul smelling crush of sellers, customers, security, and everyone else.

“The alleys are filled with thieves and murderers. Everyone has seen the shotgun and will want it—someone down there would try to take it from you. When that happened you’d kill them; then security would come.”

“That’s okay.”

“Not in the alleys it isn’t. Once they saw the weapons, they might try to take them or turn you over to government security forces for a reward.”

“Best we avoid that.”

Simon nodded and wound through the throng; Pym followed as best he could.

Occasionally, one or the other of the two lost the other. When this happened, Simon would wait until Pym caught up or shouted after him. Pym tried not to do this because he had already caught the attention of many in the market. Some would know who he was, others would know he was out of place and, definitely, foreign. No one, it appeared, seemed to want any trouble—most were making money and that would have them wanting to keep it all quiet. Still, there were a fair number who weren’t. Those he wanted to keep as uninterested or frightened as possible. Now and again, Pym was harangued by a whore but kept walking and never responded to the abuse. That much he knew before getting to the city. They’d all be carrying knives and would have had a fair amount of experience with these. Pass on, pass on—he did.

All the time the lanes appeared to be getting smaller and smaller, but the miasmic air was lifting until he could just catch a hint of the sea and the wind blowing north up off of the bay. Mixed in with this, once the fetid rancor of the market began to break, was the smell of diesel and coal smoke from the boilers of the freighters that would be anchoring in or departing the bay. None, for all he’d heard, put into the docks any longer—if they did, the gunboats would not allow them to leave until they completed a month of quarantine and two health checkups. Normally what happened was there were platforms where the food, medical supplies, and fuel were left, and these would be picked up once the freighter crews had returned to their ships. It was at this time squabbles broke out between the various elements of the city government. Sometimes these ended in gunfire or a knife fight, but for the most part, all proceeded as they were supposed to.

Then, abruptly, Lagarat market ended and the two stumbled, literally, into a broad street that was sparsely travelled and looked, from the crest of a hill, down onto the docks. Pym had not been back to these since the night he entered the city. Part of him was still afraid of being connected to the killing that evening. Since getting to know the city, this seemed unlikely, but he preferred to keep his distance. The docks did not have the reputation of the Dead District or Lumang Mapoot but its reputation was dark—and deservedly so, from all he’d heard.

“We close?” Pym asked, breathing deep and stretching. Turning, the throng of bodies closed the entrance to the southern market, and the air was still etched by the heavy smell of life and industry.

“Down a couple more streets, then a right.”

Nodding, Titus turned and strode across the street in the general direction Simon had pointed. On the other side of the wide road, he stopped and waited for Aglibut to catch him up; doing so he took in the bay, dotted with freighters and the frothing wakes of the high-speed gunboats used by the blockade. Their function was more than just preventing escape, but making certain the rules of the quarantine were strictly followed by the freighter crews. The opportunity to make a lot of cash with minimal risk was difficult for many to avoid. Smuggling out people was only the most obvious. They sometimes ran weapons, drugs, fuel, and anything else the wealthy wished to procure.

As a result, cargoes were always inspected before these were permitted off the ships, and ships would again be inspected before they were allowed to leave the bay. This would periodically lead to exchanges and arrests—even the deaths of freighter crew members. Looking down on the bay and at a distance, it was all very beautiful and peaceful. Titus knew it was anything but this, still these moments were precious to him—moments when where he was and what was happening faded and he could simply enjoy being alive and free. There were a lot of reasons to be happy about that last bit. As Simon stepped up behind him, the last thought closed itself off and he was back on the docks. “Lead the way.” Aglibut stepped forward and they walked down the sparsely populated broad street. Turning right, the sunlight was shut out by the high buildings on either side. These leaned forward, as he remembered from his first evening, and appeared about ready to topple over. Nonetheless, they held.

These streets were cobbled, whereas the broad street was done with tightly fitted paving stones. The cobbled lanes, Pym didn’t quite see these as streets—even if he’d brought the car down here, he’d not have been able to fit down one of these. The lanes were broad enough alone, but they were littered with trash bins, carts, stalls, and the occasional knot of what appeared to be traders haggling over something or other—his Tagolam still wasn’t up to the idioms of these men. As they approached and brushed by the two of them, Pym watched them carefully, but none had any interest in the pair. Then they were turning left and right again. “Much further?”

“Round the next corner—on a wide street.”

Pym nodded and followed behind. Occasionally he allowed his right hand to reach for the automatic to make certain it was loose in the holster. If they got inside and there was trouble, the sawed-off wouldn’t be all that much use, and it would take out not just the target but anyone else in proximity of the spray. The handgun would be a better choice, unless everyone was a target—the last was a real possibility.

Then Simon stopped and pointed. “The Birder.” It had a typical sign hanging outside of it over the entrance. This was painted with a white and blue bird, something similar to a swallow but different enough as to be something else or a stylized interpretation of it. The painting was either impressionistic or crude with its sloppy wings and the ragged, shit-brown branch in its mouth with liquid leaves daubed at irregular and suspicious points along this. Outside, next to the entrance, was a low wood bench—no armrests, no back—the seat was worn and split along the grain of the wood. On this sat an old man—a rotund old drunk whose head, with a long yellowish-grey beard, hung lifelessly forward. Pym would have thought him dead if it’d not been for the snoring. As they stepped up, the old man broke wind loud and long but never woke or moved in response.

As the air filled with a mephitic ooze, they stepped through the door. Pym was laughing, but the kid didn’t get the joke. Titus could have told him about expectations and the grey lives of the northern hemisphere, but there’d be no point—he’d have nothing to reference it. “Who are we looking for?”

“Kanor.” Scanning the room the kid frowned. “Not here.”

“Simon...”

“Don’t panic—the barman should know where they are.” The wound toward the same rough, scored, and stained bar he’d seen that first night on the docks. The whole district was geared toward making as much money as possible from those that could least afford it. As a result, the architecture was little more than shanty, while the furnishings were kept until they literally fell to ruin. The bar was nowhere near the green side of its best-by date. The barman, on the other hand, looked little better than that sleeping on the bench. “Seth.” Aglibut called over from near the center of the room where he was still looking about.

“What?” The basso voice suited the barrel chest, which was, nonetheless, eclipsed by the protuberant gut, which had the man pushed back from the bar.

“Where’s Kanor?”

“Lunch—raw fish.”

“You know which stall?”

The man shrugged his shoulders. “You could have a drink and wait—said he’d be back soon.”

Aglibut looked to Pym who shook his head. The bar had too many doors in and out to defend if he was being set up. Waiting here would only give Kanor, and whoever they were working for, time to set them up—if they’d not yet done so.

“Check back later.”

The barman didn’t respond, but turned to serve another customer.

“You know where that is?” Pym asked as they stepped outside. The air had cleared, but there was a generally sour smell coming off the old mariner.

“Yes, but we’ll have to go back to the market, and it will be tight this time of day.”

“Let’s go.”

“If you’re worried about anything, it might be better to wait.”

“Here?”

The kid nodded.

“Not a good place.”

Simon raised his eyebrows at this, but Pym could not believe he was that stupid and turned back toward the markets.

“We could get some lunch down here—somewhere else?”

Titus had to wonder if Aglibut were setting him up, but somewhere else didn’t sound like it. How would they find him? “No, I want to get this over with.” It might have been he was simply hungry—looking at the kid, which made sense. However, there was no time. If someone was looking for him, Pym wanted to know who this was and if it were the same crewman from the Beluga.

It had been lucky Pym had brought the kid along because he would have almost certainly gotten himself turned around not only in the side streets of the dock but the labyrinthine network of pathways in the market. “You sure,” Pym asked, “it’s the Arran Market?”

“Only one that does raw fish.” Simon continued ahead of him, down one row of stalls and up another. By the time the kid had told them they were getting close, Titus had no idea where they were or how to get out. The smells of the place were in some ways worse than the other markets. Here there were all the odors of the unwashed made worse by the smells of cooks and the increased sweat working over stalls and stoves. On top of this, one of the staples of country were fermented vegetables, and these created a unique body odor and flatulence made worse by the close quarters of the food courts at lunchtime.