Orcs (50 page)

Stryke pushed all that from his mind. He had something more important to occupy his thoughts.

Jup stood by the horses, talking with a couple of the grunts. He strode over to them.

Without preamble he told the dwarf, “I’ve decided.”

“We’re going for Coilla, right?”

“Right.”

“It must have occurred to you that this Serapheim character was lying. Or just plain mad.”

“I’ve given some thought to both. If he was lying, why?”

“As bait for a trap?”

“Too fancy a way of doing it.”

“Not if it works.”

“Perhaps. I still don’t think it’s likely, though.”

“What about him being insane?”

“I grant that’s more possible. Maybe he is. But . . . I don’t know, I just didn’t feel that. Course, human madness isn’t something I’ve had too much experience with.”

“Really? Take a look around some time.”

Stryke smiled, thinly. “You know what I mean. But what Serapheim said is the only clue we’ve had about Coilla.” He saw Jup’s face and qualified that. “All right,
possible
clue. I reckon Hecklowe’s worth a try.”

“What about that delaying us meeting up with Alfray?”

“We’ll have to let him know.”

“And what’s your decision on him?” Jup nodded toward Haskeer, sitting to one side by himself.

“He’s still part of this band. Only he’s on probation. Object?”

“No. Just a little wary, that’s all.”

“Don’t think I’m not. But we’ll keep an eye on him.”

“We’ve got time for that?”

“Believe me, Jup, if he causes any more trouble he’s out. Or dead.”

The dwarf didn’t doubt his captain meant it. “We should tell him what’s happening. He’s an officer, after all. Isn’t he?”

“For now. I hadn’t planned on breaking him unless he gets out of hand again. Come on.”

They walked over to Haskeer. He looked up at them and nodded.

“How’re you feeling?” Stryke asked.

“Better.” His tone and general demeanour indicated there was some truth in that. “I just want the chance to prove I’m still worthy of being a Wolverine.”

“That’s what I wanted to hear, Sergeant. But after what you did I’m going to have to put you on probation for a while.”

“But I don’t
know
what I did!” Haskeer protested. “That is, I know what you told me but I don’t remember doing any of it.”

“That’s why we’re going to keep an eye on you until we find out what caused it, or until your behaviour’s good enough for long enough.”

Jup put it less diplomatically. “We don’t want you going gaga on us again.”

Haskeer flared,
“Why don’t you —,”
then checked himself.

Stryke reflected that this might be a good sign, a flash of the old Haskeer. “The point is that we don’t need passengers and we certainly don’t need a liability,” he said. “Got it?”

“Got it,” Haskeer confirmed, more subdued again.

“See that you have. Now listen. That human who came here last night, Serapheim, said that Coilla was being taken to Hecklowe. We’re going there. What I want from
you
is to obey orders and act like a member of this band again.”

“Right. Let’s get on with it.”

Reasonably satisfied, Stryke gathered the others and explained the new plan. He gave them an opportunity to comment or protest. That drew a minor question or two, but nothing significant. He got the impression they were relieved to be doing something positive at last.

He finished by saying, “I need two volunteers to take the message to Alfray. But be warned; it could be a dangerous mission.”

Every grunt stepped forward. He picked Jad and Hystykk, mindful that he was about to deplete numbers even more perilously.

“The message is simple,” he told them. “Let Alfray know where we’ve gone, and that we’ll get to Drogan as soon as we can.” He thought for a moment and added a rider: “If from the time this message is delivered a week passes without sight of us, assume we’re not coming. In which case Alfray and his band are free to act as they think best.”

He broke the sober mood that brought down by ordering them all to get ready to move.

As they hastened to obey, he reached into his belt pouch and brought out the three stars. He examined them thoughtfully, then looked up and saw Haskeer staring at him.

“That means you too, Wolverine,” he said.

Haskeer waved and jogged toward his horse. Stryke slipped the stars back into the pouch and climbed on to his own mount.

Then they were on the move again.

They called Hecklowe the city that never slept.

Certainly the normal rhythms of day and night meant little there, but it was not quite a city. Not in the way of great northern settlements like Urrarbython or Wreaye. Or even the human centres of the south like Bracebridge or Ripple, which were still growing at an alarming rate. But it was big enough to accommodate a constantly shifting population made up of all Maras-Dantia’s elder races.

Some lived there permanently. They were mostly purveyors of vice, excess and usury. Not least among these were slavers and their agents, who found it convenient to be located in a place where a river of life constantly flowed. Although unrest was forbidden, all other kinds of crime had become common in Hecklowe. Many held this was another baleful effect of the incomers’ influence, and there was truth in it.

These thoughts passed through Coilla’s mind as the trio of bounty hunters hustled her out of the inn at dawn. They found the streets as crowded as they had been when they arrived the evening before.

After Lekmann warned her, again, about not trying to escape, Aulay had a question for him.

“You sure we’re going to get more for her from a slaver than Jennesta?”

“Like I said, they pay good for orcs as bodyguards and such.”

“Crossing Jennesta’s not a good plan,” Coilla put in.

“You shut up and leave the thinking to your betters.”

Coilla glanced at Blaan, vacant-eyed and slack-jawed. She looked at Aulay, with his patched eye, bandaged ear and splinted finger. “Yeah,” she said.

“Suppose she’s lying about the Wolverines being here,” Aulay said.

“Will you give that a rest?” Lekmann retorted. “This is the logical place for them to be. If they’re not, we’ll still make a profit selling this bitch, then we can carry on searching somewhere else.”

“Where, Micah?” Blaan asked.

“Don’t
you
start, Jabeez!” Lekmann snapped. “I’ll figure something out if it comes to that.”

They fell silent as a pair of Watchers lumbered by.

“Let’s get on with it, Micah,” Aulay pleaded impatiently.

“Right. Like we agreed, you’re going to search for orcs. They’re trying to sell something, remember. So look in the bazaar, the gem traders’ quarter, the information barterers’ neighbourhood— anywhere they might find a buyer.”

Aulay nodded.

“Meanwhile, me and Jabeez are going to look for a new owner for her,” Lekmann went on, jabbing a thumb at Coilla. “We’ll see you back here no later than noon.”

“Where you going?”

“To the east side, to look up a name I heard. Now move your arse, we ain’t got time to burn.”

They went their separate ways.

“What do you want me to do, Micah?” Blaan asked.

“Just keep an eye on the orc. If she gets smart, crack her.”

They made Coilla walk between them, even though that irritated pedestrians in narrower streets. Coilla drew glances from passersby, many of them wary. She was, after all, an orc, and it was well known that orcs were best dealt with respectfully.

“Question,” she said.

“Better be worth my breath answering,” Lekmann replied.

“Who’s this slave buyer we’re going to?”

“He’s called Razatt-Kheage.”

“That’s a goblin name.”

“Yeah, that’s what he is.”

She sighed. “A damn goblin . . .”

“Not much love between orcs and goblins, eh?”

“Not much between orcs and just about anybody, shit face.”

Blaan sniggered. Lekmann shot him a look that put a stop to it.

Lekmann transferred his glare to Coilla. “You’ve got any more questions, just fucking forget ’em, all right?”

They turned a corner. A small crowd had gathered around a pair of fays having a loud argument.

Fays were said to be the offspring of unions between elves and fairies, and were generally regarded as cousins to those races. They were insubstantially built, with spiky, slightly upturned noses and black button eyes. Their small, delicate mouths had tiny rounded teeth. They weren’t a naturally belligerent race and certainly weren’t designed for combat.

These two were reeling drunkenly. They shouted at each other and aimed feeble blows. It was unlikely either was going to be hurt unless they fell over.

The bounty hunters laughed. “Can’t hold their liquor,” Lekmann mocked.

“It was
your
kind that brought this sort of behaviour to Maras-Dantia,” Coilla told him with withering scorn. “You’re destroying my world.”

“Ain’t yours no more, savage. And it’s called Centrasia now.”

“Like fuck it is.”

“You should be grateful. We’re bringing you the benefits of civilisation.”

“Like slavery? That was almost unknown until your race came. Maras-Dantians didn’t
own
each other.”

“What about you orcs? You’re born into somebody or other’s service, aren’t you? That’s serfdom, ain’t it? We didn’t start
that
.”

“It’s
become
slavery. You tainted it with your ideas. It used to be a good arrangement; it let orcs do what they were born for. Fighting.”

“Talking of fighting . . .” He nodded to the other side of the cobbled street. The fays were brawling, sending ineffective punches at each other’s heads.

Blaan laughed idiotically.

“See?” Lekmann taunted. “You barbarians don’t need lessons in violence from us. It’s already there, just below the surface.”

Coilla had never been so in need of a sword.

One fay produced a hidden knife and began swinging it, though both combatants were obviously far too drunk to offer a really serious threat.

Then a pair of Watchers suddenly appeared, perhaps the ones they’d seen earlier; it was impossible to tell. Coilla was surprised at how fast they moved. It belied their cumbersome mien. Three or four more homunculi arrived, and all of them converged on the fighting fays. They were so drunk, so busy with each other and so taken by surprise by the Watchers’ speed that they had no time to try running.

The fragile creatures were overwhelmed and held by powerful arms. They were lifted bodily, their tiny legs kicking in impotent anger. Little effort was required to disarm the one with the knife.

As the crowd looked on in silence, two Watchers stepped forward and took hold of the squealing fays’ heads in their massive hands. Then, in a matter-of-fact, almost casual manner, the fays’ slender necks were snapped. Even from where they were standing the bounty hunters and Coilla heard the crack of bones.

The Watchers trudged off, bearing the corpses of their victims like slack rag dolls. Wiser about Hecklowe’s level of tolerance, the crowd began melting away.

Lekmann gave a low whistle. “They take law ’n’ order serious round here, don’t they?”

“I don’t like it,” Blaan complained. “I’ve got a hidden weapon too, like that dead fay.”

“So keep it out of sight, then.”

Blaan continued grumbling and Lekmann carried on haranguing him. It diverted their attention from Coilla. She seized her chance.

Lekmann was blocking her path. She rammed her boot into his groin. He groaned loudly and doubled up. Coilla took the first step of a run.

An arm like an iron barrel band clamped around her neck. Blaan dragged her struggling into the mouth of an adjacent alley. Watery-eyed and white-faced, Lekmann limped in after them.

“You bitch,” he whispered.

He looked back towards the street. Nobody seemed to have noticed what was going on. Turning to Coilla he delivered a swingeing whack across her face. Then another.

The briny taste of blood filled her mouth.

“Pull something like that again and to hell with the money,” he snarled, “I’ll kill you.”

When he was satisfied she’d calmed, he told Blaan to let go of her. Coilla dabbed at trickles of blood from her mouth and nose. She said nothing.

“Now
move
,” he ordered.

They resumed their journey, the bounty hunters keeping close to her.

Nine or ten twists and turns later and they entered the eastern quarter. If anything the streets there were narrower and even more jammed. It was a maze, and difficult for outsiders to navigate.

As they stood on a corner waiting for Lekmann to get his bearings, Coilla’s eye was caught by a tall figure moving through the crowd two or three blocks away. As on the day before, when she’d thought she’d seen a couple of orcs, it was a fleeting glimpse. But it looked like Serapheim, the human wordsmith they’d encountered on the plains. He’d told them he had just left Hecklowe, so why return? Coilla decided she was probably mistaken. Which was quite likely as all humans looked the same to her anyway.

Then they were off again. Lekmann took them to the heart of the quarter and an area of winding high-walled passageways. After a tortuous journey through these shadowy lanes, where crowds were very much thinner, they came to the mouth of an alley. At its end and to the side stood a building that had once been white and handsome. Now it was grimy and dilapidated. The few windows were shuttered, the sole door had been reinforced.

Lekmann got Blaan to rap on it, then nudged him aside. Having waited a full minute they were about to knock again when a viewing panel was slid aside. A pair of yellowy eyes scrutinised them, but nothing was said.

“We’re here to see Razatt-Kheage,” Lekmann announced.

There was no response.

“The name’s Micah Lekmann,” he added.

The disembodied eyes continued staring at them.

“A mutual friend cleared my path,” Lekmann went on, patience thinning. “Said I’d be welcome.”

The silent inspection lasted another few seconds, then the panel was slammed shut.

“Don’t seem too friendly,” Blaan commented.