Mistworld (Deathstalker Prelude) (8 page)

CHAPTER SEVEN

Bitter Vengeance

BLACKJACK stood at his ease in Leon Vertue’s luxuriously equipped office, and listened calmly while Vertue shouted at him. The mercenary was tempted to look away and run his gaze over the fine paintings and tapestries that adorned the walls, but he didn’t. That would have been rude. Instead, he stared politely at the doctor, his face calm and impassive, until Vertue finally ran out of insults and began to calm down a little. Blackjack had served many masters in his time as a mercenary, and gave each of them the respect and attention they deserved, but even masters like Vertue were entitled to politeness. The doctor finally fell silent and leaned back in his padded chair, breathing harshly. He ran his fingers through his thinning hair and glared at the reports set before him on his desk. Blackjack glanced at the visitor’s chair, but didn’t sit down. He hadn’t been invited to. He stood at parade rest, staring straight ahead of him, and waited patiently for Vertue to get to the point. Vertue finally pushed the papers aside and transferred his gaze to the mercenary.

“Damn you, Blackjack, you’ve ruined everything. According to these reports, Investigator Topaz is already on our trail. It’s only a matter of time before she finds someone who can lead her to us.”

“None of our people will talk,” said Blackjack. “They’re too scared. I’ve seen to that.”

“You don’t know Topaz.”

“I can still kill her.”

“Not now you can’t,” snapped Vertue irritably. “If you’d killed her when you were supposed to, instead of hitting her damned husband by mistake, we’d have got away with it. As it is, we don’t dare touch her.”

Blackjack said nothing. He could have defended himself by pointing out he had no way of knowing Michael Gunn would be wearing his wife’s distinctive cloak. He might have mentioned the appalling conditions, with the fog and the hounds. But he chose not to. He had no interest in excuses, whether from others or from himself.

Vertue rose from his chair and moved away from his desk to stare out the window. Outside the wide pane of steelglass the evening mists lay still and heavy, enveloping the city in a featureless grey haze. Vague silhouettes of surrounding buildings showed dimly through the haze. Street lights glowed amber and gold and crimson, islands of light in an ocean of uncertainty.
She’s out there somewhere
, thought Vertue grimly.
She’s out there, looking for me
. He remembered Topaz’s cold, implacable face, and couldn’t repress a shiver. Topaz was an Investigator, and knew nothing of pity or honour or mercy. Vertue turned away from the window to face the politely waiting mercenary, and fought to keep his face calm and his voice steady.

“We can’t afford any more contact with the Investigator,” he said quietly. “Any further attempts on her life, successful or not, would only draw attention to her. For the time being, you leave her strictly alone.”

“That’s what I have been doing,” said Blackjack. “Did you bring me all the way here just to tell me that?”

“Hardly,” said Vertue coldly. “I have another assignment for you. You remember Taylor and Sterling?”

“Of course. The two Watchmen who provided us with information on the starport’s internal security. Is there some problem with them?”

Vertue smiled grimly. “It seems they feel they haven’t been paid enough for their services. Either we come up with more money, or they’ll feel it their duty to turn us in.”

“Leave it to me,” said Blackjack. “I’ll handle it. Do you mind if I kill these two?”

“Not at all,” said Leon Vertue. “But if you do, I want the bodies. Particularly the Hadenman.”

Blackjack nodded courteously, waited a moment to see if there was anything more, and then turned and left. Vertue watched him go, and shook his head slowly as the door closed quietly after the mercenary. The man was too cool, too controlled… and far too dangerous. Vertue knew Blackjack was no threat to him for as long as their contract stood, but no contract lasts forever. Vertue nibbled at a fingernail, then snatched his hand away. He frowned, and reluctantly made a decision. He leant forward and tapped a memorized code into the comm unit built into his desk. The monitor on the wall opposite turned itself on, but the screen remained blank. After a moment, a cold distorted voice issued from the speakers.

“Yes, Vertue. What is it?”

“I’ve given the mercenary his orders. He’ll take care of Taylor and Sterling for us. I’ve warned him to stay away from Topaz.”

“Good. We’re nearing a delicate stage in our plans, and Blackjack is becoming too conspicuous. As soon as he’s dealt with Taylor and Sterling, I think it would be best if he was removed from the picture.”

“You mean kill him?”

“Certainly not, you damned fool! Do you want the whole Mercenaries Guild on our backs? I mean pay him off, get him a berth on a smuggler’s ship, and get him the hell off Mistworld as quickly as possible. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir. I’ll see to it. About the Investigator…”

“Forget her. Once Taylor and Sterling are dead, and Blackjack is safely offworld, there’ll be no trail left for her to follow. Don’t contact me again, Vertue. Your part in this is over. I’ll call you in future, should it prove necessary.”

The speakers fell silent. Vertue pulled a face at the blank screen and turned it off. He wasn’t some underling or servant, to be spoken to in such a manner. And it was unthinkable that the mercenary should just pick up his money and walk away unscathed after all the trouble he’d caused. Especially since the body bank was so short of raw materials.

•  •  •

Investigator Topaz picked up Marcus Rhine by his shirt front and slammed him back against his office wall. The cheap plaster cracked under the impact. Rhine clawed feebly at Topaz’s hands, his feet kicking a good six inches above the floor. Both his eyes were puffed nearly shut, but he could still see clearly enough to cringe when Topaz drew back her fist to hit him again.

“The name,” said Topaz. “I want the name of the man who murdered my husband.”

Rhine nodded agreement as best he could, and Topaz dropped him in a heap on the floor. She stepped back and seated herself gracefully on Rhine’s desk. Papers that had once lain in neat piles on the highly polished desk were now scattered across the floor. Some of the papers were spotted with blood. Rhine’s two bodyguards lay dead by the open door. For a man who made his living by threats, extortion, and violence, Rhine should have paid more attention to his defences. He should also have known better than to refuse to speak to Investigator Topaz. Rhine sat up painfully and leant back against the wall, gradually getting his breathing under control. He was a medium-height, rangy man with square, blocky hands and a great leonine head of tawny hair. He wore smart clothes in a sloppy manner, and though his face was painted in the latest fashion, his teeth were black and rotting. All in all, he looked very much like a rat with delusions of grandeur. His face bore the ritual scars of the Rhine Clan, but most of those scars were now hidden or distorted by blood and bruises.

“Talk to me,” said Topaz, and Rhine flinched.

“You must be mad,” he said thickly, blood trickling down his chin from his split lips. “When you attack one Rhine, you attack us all. My family will have your head for this.”

“To hell with them and to hell with you,” said Topaz calmly. “You’ve got a name, and I want it. You always know names, Marcus. And don’t threaten me with Clan vengeance; you’re not that important. You Rhines only exist because the Watch is usually too busy to waste time cleaning you out. You’re just a cheap little bone-breaker, Marcus, and that’s all you’ll ever be. Now give me the name.”

“Sterling,” said Rhine sullenly. “He’s a Watchman, part of starport security. Used to be a gladiator a few years back. He didn’t point the gun at your husband, but the word is he might know who did. You’ll find him at the Redlance.”

He cowered against the wall as Topaz got to her feet, but she just overturned his desk with a casual flip of her hand and then walked past him to the door without a glance in his direction.

“You’d better be right about this, Marcus,” she said quietly, and closed the door behind her. She walked unhurriedly through the wrecked reception area, ignoring the damage she’d caused. A buxom secretary sat slumped in a corner, groaning quietly as she felt cautiously at her broken nose. She’d made the mistake of drawing a knife on the Investigator. Topaz ignored her too, and made her way out onto the street.

She paused outside the door and breathed deeply, as though trying to rid herself of a foul smell. The freezing air burned in her lungs, but she barely noticed. Topaz had been trained to withstand far worse. Evening had fallen and the light was fading fast. It had just begun to snow again and the mists were growing thicker. The wind had dropped to a bare murmur and the fog lay heavily across the city. Topaz could barely make out the far side of the street she stood in. A typical winter’s night in Mistport. Topaz settled her sword comfortably on her hip and drew her handgun to check the energy level. The crystal was barely half-charged, but it was enough. She holstered the gun and strode off down the street. She’d never visited the Redlance tavern before, but she knew of its reputation. All the Watch did. If it was for sale, you could buy it at the Redlance. Drugs, whores, children, secrets… everything had its price.

The snow on the ground had been trampled into slush by the crowds that still filled the narrow streets. Most of them were workmen hurrying to get home before the real cold began, but there were also hordes of beggars and street traders, trying for one last coin while the temperature permitted. The mists curled sluggishly as the bitter wind murmured among the stone-and-timbered buildings, and thick icicles hung unmelting from every gutter and window ledge. The passers-by were all huddled in thick furs and heavy cloaks, and Topaz drew more than one startled glance as she strode through the streets in her formal Investigator’s uniform. Her thick navy blue cloak covered only a long robe of silvercloth, and her face and hands were bare. Topaz took no harm from the cold, and within her heart she was warmed by her own unrelenting fury. Michael was dead. Her husband, the only human being she’d ever cared for, was dead; murdered. And she would have a vengeance for that death.

The Redlance lay deep in the rotten heart of Thieves Quarter. There were those who saw the Quarter as a single sprawling slum, infested with all the worst kinds of villains, but in reality it was no worse than any other part of the city. It was just a little poorer than most, and a lot more obvious. The Watch Commanders kept saying they were going to clear out Thieves Quarter once and for all, but somehow there were always other, more important things for the Watch to do. And besides, when all was said and done, Mistworld was a planet full of criminals, for only the Outlawed ever came to Mistworld. As long as you didn’t rock the boat too much, nobody cared. For those who got out of hand, the Watch enforced the law, and the law knew no mercy. But there are always those who think themselves above the law, and they need their own private places to do business. Places like the Redlance.

Topaz strode grimly on through squalid streets and filthy back alleys until finally she came to the Redlance tavern. It looked like any other tavern in any other street; a small, nondescript building with a single flickering oil lamp to mark the swinging sign above its door. The stonework was discoloured and pitted from long exposure to snow and fog, and the two small windows were both securely shuttered. Just another tavern… but the Redlance’s door gave it away. Seven feet high and four feet wide, the huge slab of ironwood was studded with intricate patterns of gleaming steel. The Redlance’s door was designed to keep people out, and it did so very efficiently. Topaz stood before the door a moment, and then struck it once with her fist. There was a barely perceptible hum as the minicamera over the door swivelled to look down at her.

“You know who I am,” said Topaz. “Open the door.”

There was a long pause, and then the door swung slowly open and Topaz entered the tavern. A deafening roar hit her like a fist as she stepped inside, and the stale air was thick with smoke and sweat. Topaz stood at the top of the narrow stairway leading down into the tavern, and looked out over the packed crowd in search of the man she’d come to see.

The constant noise broke against the bare stone walls, which threw it back again. Laughter, insults, and the cries of bravos nerving themselves to fight mixed one with the other in an unrelenting assault on the hearing. Men and women from all ranks and stations stood side by side, drinking too much and laughing too loudly. An average night for the Redlance. Topaz moved slowly down the stairway, keeping one hand on the butt of her gun under cover of her cloak. No one paid her any attention beyond a brief, sideways glance; in a place like the Redlance everyone was careful to mind their own business. Topaz stopped halfway down the stairs and frowned thoughtfully. There was no trace of Sterling. Topaz considered searching through the crowd for him, but immediately discarded the idea. She wasn’t in the mood for a slow, polite line of enquiry. She made her way with careful grace down the remaining stone steps, worn down and polished by countless booted feet, and headed through the milling crowd to the bar at the rear of the tavern. Everyone made way for her without having to be asked. They knew who she was. A few men looked as though they might object to her presence, but one look at her cold determined face was enough to convince them not to press the point.

On reaching the bar, Topaz glanced unhurriedly about her until she spotted Pieter Gaunt, the owner of the Redlance. Gaunt was tall and muscular, with a shock of dark curls surrounding a bland, amiable face. His clothes tried hard to be fashionable, and almost made it. He was at least fifty, but looked thirty from a distance. He was known to have murdered seven men, three with his bare hands, and rumour put the count much higher. He made some of his money from drugs and prostitution, for old times’ sake, but most of his income came from the acquiring and selling of information. Topaz’s mouth twitched. Gaunt was about to undergo a new experience: the giving away of information for free. She loosened her sword in its scabbard and made her way through the crowd towards him. At the last moment, a large and extremely muscular bodyguard stepped forward to block her way. His right hand hovered over a sheathed short-sword, and his left hand held a spiked knuckle-duster.