City of Dreams and Nightmare (23 page)

Again, telling them the number of gang members still at large gave the guards little they wouldn’t have discovered for themselves but it helped to build his credibility. So far, he hadn’t encountered his new informant and hoped the man was not a part of the raid; seeing the person who had so recently tortured and broken him at such an obvious disadvantage might prove too great a test for such a newly-forged sense of loyalty.

He was as surprised as anyone when Richardson came back with news of Lyle’s murder and wondered which of the Blue Claw was responsible for killing their own leader and why. Not that he’d miss the man, but he did fleetingly wonder whether the killing was down to whatever influence these devices were exerting or just a case of one of the gang’s lieutenants taking advantage of unexpected opportunity.

Richardson joined the small group that had gathered to contemplate the disturbing device and had as much to add to the discussion as anyone; which was precious little.

“Looks like the sort of thing the dog master might cook up,” the young guardsman observed.

“Not dog-like enough,” Able replied. Dewar could only agree. The dog master had always focused exclusively on the canine form. It was an obsession with the man to an extent which the assassin had never felt inclined to explore.

“There is someone else across the city who dabbles in similar things.” This from Johnson. “The Maker, I think he calls himself.”

Really? Two warped minds playing with similar perversions? Dewar had never heard of this particular denizen of the under-City and had always thought the dog master to be unique, in both his delectations and his skills. Was this ‘Maker’ a recent arrival, perhaps? It was worth looking into, certainly.

The street-nicks were marched back to the station, Dewar having little choice but to return with Tylus and the guardsmen. They made a strange procession which earned stares and even a few jeers from those they passed, people who were doubtless used to seeing the unusual. Word of the Blue Claw’s downfall would spread like wildfire through the streets.

Once back at the station, Dewar’s injuries were inspected by the guards’ medic, a portly, aging officer whose ruddy complexion suggested he might have been overly familiar with the medicinal spirit on occasion. The assassin was relieved to learn that his ribs had only suffered heavy bruising rather than any breakages, and stoically allowed them to be heavily strapped before rejoining the Kite Guard and his lackeys.

He arrived in time to witness the same medic attempting to remove the device from a decidedly reluctant street-nick, who kicked and screamed so much that it took three guardsmen to hold him face-down and bind him to the table. The lad fought as if his life depended on it, which indeed proved to be the case.

Evidently tiring of the nick’s struggles, the medic held a cloth over his mouth, knocking him unconscious. The medic then made his first incision immediately below the point where the lowest of the device’s legs connected with the boy’s back.

“Interesting,” he muttered as he continued, “it seems to have burrowed directly into the spine.”

Whatever this medic’s skills, they evidently did not extend to surgery. Dewar felt certain that he could have made a better job of this operation himself. Despite the efforts of the guardsman acting as nurse to swab it away, blood was soon everywhere. The nick died when the medic attempted to remove the spike from his spine, crying out immediately beforehand even through the anaesthetic.

All the operation left them with was a lot of blood and one dead street-nick, and they still had no clear idea what the devices were intended to do. Mind-control seemed to be everybody’s favourite theory, and certainly there had been something unnatural about the way the street-nicks attacked him, Dewar recalled, particularly the silence. Yet he was far from convinced. To him the idea made little sense. How could anyone direct so many individuals effectively, even if such a level of control were possible? One or two at a time, maybe, but there were a score or so of the Blue Claw and probably dozens more infected street-nicks spread throughout the other gangs if suspicions were correct. It would be impossible to oversee so many individuals unless victims became programmed automata, which clearly these Blue Claw were not. He suspected they still had much to discover on the subject.

He knew there would have to be an interview, and the task of conducting it fell to Tylus and his young side-kick, Richardson.

“What puzzles me,” the Kite Guard began, “is why Senior Arkademic Magnus would send his man servant to investigate anything, let alone a murder and its runaway suspect.”

Dewar realised that in situations such as this, honesty was the best policy; up to a point. “I used to live in the City Below, so know the people and places down here, plus, I wasn’t always a man servant and possess skills other than butlering. After you left the senior arkademic’s home he got to thinking that perhaps I might have more success finding the lad through my old contacts than you would through official channels, so asked me to help. Knowing how close the senior arkademic had been to the victim, I naturally agreed to help.”

“But that still doesn’t explain why you didn’t declare yourself once you were here.”

“That was my decision. It seemed to me that if I was seen to be associating with the razzers, some of my sources might be less than forthcoming with what they knew. Better to work in total isolation.”

“So, explain to us again how you came to be at the Blue Claw’s headquarters.”

The interview continued in that manner. Truth, half-truths and omission worked so much better than outright lies. By the end of it, the assassin felt confident that the Kite Guard was unlikely to find fault with any of his answers. He judged that he had laid many of the man’s suspicions to rest, though perhaps not quite all of them. He was beginning to conclude that he had underestimated this Kite Guard. After all, this presumed buffoon had discovered enough to turn up at the Blue Claw’s headquarters not long after he had done so himself, and managed to persuade an overstretched city watch to accompany him mobhanded. That was no mean feat and was certainly a great deal more than he would have expected from the callow youth who presented himself at Magnus’s home. Perhaps the environment of the City Below suited him.

Jezmina continued to be a problem. Since she hadn’t been infected by the mechanical creatures, it was decided that she should not be put in with the other Blue Claw, but with so many nicks being detained the station’s cells were full to bursting, so for the moment the girl was manacled to the desk which the Kite Guard shared with Richardson.

As the three of them emerged from the interview room, two of the younger watch officers were chatting to the girl, broad grins on their faces, while Jezmina sat on a chair, hugging one knee – exposing virtually all of one shapely leg in the process, the one without the leg iron – her head cocked slightly to one side, as she smiled and batted her eyelids at the pair of them.

Able looked up at the same moment and spotted what was going on. “Hey, you two! Have you finished your reports yet?”

The two officers scuttled back to work.

Able frowned at Tylus as they passed in front of his desk and muttered, “We’re going to have to do something about that young minx sooner rather than later or I’ll never get any work out of this lot.”

Richardson paused at the sergeant’s desk and said a little hesitantly, almost as if he were afraid of speaking to Able, “My sister…”

“Done!” the sergeant said instantly. “Excellent suggestion, Richardson. Teaming you up with Kite Officer Tylus here has been the making of you. Take the girl straight round to your sister’s now.”

“But I haven’t even told you what my sis–”

“No buts, officer. You’re acting for the good of the department, and providing a poor unfortunate girl with a new start in life. Everyone’s a winner I’d say, wouldn’t you?”

Richardson looked anything but convinced. “I really think I should ask my sister first, sir.”

“Of course you should,” Able agreed. “Go round immediately and do so. In fact, take the girl with you to save time. And, Richardson…”

“Yes, sir?”

“Make sure your sister says yes.”

“What does your sister do, anyway?” Tylus asked as they left the sergeant and threaded their way through a busy squad room towards where Jezmina sat.

“She’s a seamstress; runs her own business making up dresses for a couple of the upmarket boutiques in the Shopping Rows. She’s got a few girls working for her at the moment and I thought maybe she could use one more.”

Dewar tried to picture Jezmina sitting demurely with a bolt of cloth in front of her and needle and thread in hand but completely failed to do so.

“So she’s used to handling girls then, your sister?”

“Oh yes, raised two of her own, plus she’s the oldest and brought all five of us up after my ma died, so she knows how to keep order. A bit of a dragon, to be honest; though don’t tell her I said so.”

Dewar smiled to himself. It sounded as if Richardson’s sister might be exactly what Jezmina needed. The girl had all but ignored the assassin since they arrived at the station, presumably dismissing him as a potential target for her charms after trying to split his skull open. Tylus and Richardson, however, remained viable prospects, and the two of them were getting the full treatment: coy smiles, wistful gazes, flirtatious giggles, pouts, hair flicks and body stretches with arms above her head, chin thrusting up and pubescent chest forward. Bearing in mind she was chained to a desk, it was remarkable how inventive the girl still managed to be. Dewar shook his head, enjoying the opportunity to watch an artist at work.

Tylus seemed entirely immune to the girl’s ploys, perhaps he had a girlfriend back in the Heights or perhaps he was simply too absorbed in being a Kite Guard to entertain such distractions. Richardson, on the other hand, was notably flustered in Jezmina’s presence, almost tripping over himself to fetch her some water when she declared she was thirsty and visibly blushing when she rewarded him with a dazzling smile. Despite the girl’s circumstances and her age, people, or rather men, continued to react to her as if she were anything but a young girl.

Dewar knew first-hand how powerful her allure could be, and he knew full well how the City Below could affect children – forcing them to become adult before their time in order to survive – but watching this girl, even while admiring her audacity and application, a part of him was saddened by the spectacle, he realised.

He was more than a little relieved when Richardson led her away, leg iron still in place despite her pleas. Dewar only hoped for the young guard’s sake that his sister lived nearby. The less time Jezmina had to work on the lad’s hormones, the better.

As she left, she finally looked directly at him; the first time she had done so since hitting him over the head. Her mouth formed a fragile, uncertain smile, which he thought might have been the first wholly genuine expression he had seen from her, and she said, “’Bye. It was fun.”

Was it? Not from where he’d been standing.

On the face of it, everything was proceeding according to plan, yet Magnus couldn’t shake the feeling that this appearance was deceptive. As threatened, the prime master had sent his man round first thing that morning. Magnus had responded to the doorbell’s chime to find a tall, slender and impeccably presented individual standing there; a man whose manners promised to be as faultless as his appearance. Yet there was something in the fellow’s attitude which made it clear that this was all a little beneath him and that taking care of a mere senior arkademic was his idea of slumming it. Despite this, Magnus welcomed him with as much grace as their respective positions required, and so ushered this undoubted spy into his home.

He left for the assembly hall a little earlier than usual, no longer entirely comfortable in his own home, feeling that his personal space had been invaded.

The morning proved a busy one. Magnus knew his remaining time in the assembly was short and wanted to be sure of his power base before moving on. Too many people had a tendency to forget how important the assembly was once they’d been elevated to the prestigious rank of master. Of course the council of masters was where the ultimate power rested, but the chief instrument of their authority was the assembly, and the degree of responsibility and decision making that devolved down to the lower body was considerable in its own right. Magnus had established himself as one of the major players in the city’s secondary tier of power, and he had no intention of letting go of the reins here once he was promoted to the council.

So the morning had been spent cementing alliances and ensuring that things would continue to run smoothly in his absence. Once he had hoped that Thomas might be the man to deputise for him following his ascension, but that had been long ago and subsequently their paths had diverged. It still stung that Thomas should choose to stand with that harridan Syrena, the assembly’s self-appointed moral conscience, and oppose him. After all he had done for the younger man, even nominating him for the assembly in the first place. No point in dwelling on that though, it was all wind past the walls now.

In theory, the assembly broke for lunch at the same time every day. In practice, the break was when much of the real work was done: the bargaining, the deals, the courting of the uncommitted. As things stood, Syrena and her allies lacked the credibility or support to seriously challenge his scheduled ascension, particularly without Thomas. He fully intended to ensure things stayed that way, so was wooing those neutrals who, over recent weeks, had displayed signs of sympathising with the harridan’s position.

Somehow, Syrena had caught wind of an incident in his past – the proverbial skeleton in the closet. Quite how she had stumbled across the information was something he would dearly love to know. Not that it was important, since the accusations of his corruption lacked any firm proof. Thomas was the only person who might have leant them some validity – a conversation he had been a witness to some years ago suddenly taking on new significance – but, of course, Thomas was no longer available to corroborate anything.