Quartz (2 page)

“Your guard,” he said conversationally, as the men spun and fixed him with the barrels of their guns, “needs a shift in the stocks, a whipping, and demotion to mine work. A child could’ve gotten past him.”

He turned down the collar of the coat he’d pilfered on his way to the theater, and briefly showed the fist-shaped badge pinned there. Their eyes widened, showing glistening whites. Behind Rafe, the guard entered the room, his footsteps quick and his breathing harsh. The stazi captain, stocky and balding, shook his head and made a cutting gesture, and his men lowered their weapons.

Rafe ignored them all and knelt at the window. The theater’s portico was the most brightly-lit area of the whole square.

“Anyone go in?” he asked, quiet but authoritative, a tone of voice he’d picked up as an officer in the Oakhaven army.

“Just the traitors, sir,” said the stazi captain. “The two we know.”

Furin and Berlioz had been discovered, then. Or betrayed.

“Good. Lay low till I give the word. I’m going in to see what I can get out of them”—he let his tones modulate back to those of an Oakhaven gentleman—“complaining about the lack of light, and my poor dark vision, and the soot and what it’s done to my coat.” Rafe fastidiously dusted his coat as the stazi laughed in a nervous way that told him they didn’t think he was very funny. “Think I’ll make a good Oakie?”

Without waiting for an answer, Rafe pointed a finger at the captain. “You. Your name?”

“Er… Gorvich, sir.” The man was all but bowing.

“Don’t move. Sit tight. Do not bungle this operation.” He let his gaze linger on the young guard lurking in the doorway. “Go back to your posts.”

He left on silent feet, feeling them trying hard not to watch him go. He kept his posture confident, all the while wondering just how he was going to warn the dissidents, get their information, and get them all out of the jaws of this trap.

There was trash in the portico.

Rafe sidestepped it, and reached out a hand. His fingers brushed against cool marble, glided over its surface, found rusty hinges, splintered wood and a gap. He went inside, boots crunching over rubble. The light from outside did not illuminate the darkness so much as reveal its different textures, the shadows amidst more shadows.

Rafe felt his way along the wall, stumbling over debris. He went past one doorway, a skeletal staircase like the rib-cage of a sea monster, two nooks, and then into the theater itself. He paused, scarcely breathing. Velvet darkness blindfolded him. His ears buzzed with heightened alertness.

He listened.

A startle of movement, a catch of breath. A shushing sound, a smack of flesh meeting flesh.

The snick of a weapon.

Rafe’s mouth was dry; he hadn’t had anything to drink for most of a day. He licked his lips, pursed them, whistled. A jaunty tune, turned to a ghost in this dark of ages gone by.

“Who’s there?” The voice was hard-edged.

“The one you were to meet. The man from across the mountains.” Rafe strained, but could make out nothing besides two indistinct forms. “We must leave. The stazi are watching this place.”

A second voice, shrill with fear, “Ah! I’ve heard the whistles! The tramping, searching, poking—”

“Quiet, Morvis.” The first voice, like a block of granite, quashed the other’s rising hysteria.

Morvis. That was a new name. Rafe spoke to the first voice, the in-charge one. “Who are you? Furin or Berlioz?”

“Furin was taken.” Berlioz’s voice was bleak. “And it seems so will we be.”

Morvis let out a sob.

Rafe shook his head, though the others couldn’t see. “There are back ways out of this place—I explored them just yesterday. I’ve bought us some time. They won’t follow me in for a while. We can lose them among the buildings—surely you have safehouses?”

A sound, half-gasp, half-laugh, from Morvis. “You? How can you help us? You’re a fugitive! They’re looking for you. You both. They’ll find you… and me, if I go with you. Why should I go? Why did Furin bring me into this?” His voice grew loud. Rafe lunged and grabbed Morvis’ arm. Fingers clawed at his face. Rafe fended them off and twisted. The man cried out and Rafe shook him. “Quiet! You’ll bring the stazi down on our heads!”

“This filthy darkness!” sobbed Morvis. “We can’t see a thing! We need light!”

“I have a lantern.” Berlioz fumbled with something.

Rafe released Morvis, but stayed close. A small orange light bloomed and Rafe saw Morvis’ sweat-sheened face, wide-eyed, double-chinned, soft and pudgy. The rest of the man did not inspire confidence: paunchy with doughy hands that fluttered uselessly. Berlioz was older and grayer, like weathered rock. He held the lantern low, the light mostly shuttered, shielded with his body.

Morvis gabbled as they picked their way towards the stage, past rows of scarred wooden benches. “Furin was my flatmate. I knew he had found something big, could tell from the look in his eye when he came back from that last survey. He told me that if I joined him, I could get away from here. That the stazi would never know, that Oakhaven would take me away. Then… several weeks ago, I came home from my shift and he was gone. There was nothing out of place, nothing missing, but I knew
they
had been there. The Secret Fist. I knew that they had taken him. They’d made sure to leave everything the way it was supposed to be. Furin’s bed made, sheets tucked in, boots lined up by the door.” Morvis’ head drooped. “Furin
never
made his bed unless there was an inspection.” He shuddered.

Berlioz broke in. “Others were taken too. Men I trusted, men who’d been part of the resistance since the earliest days. Taken who knows where. They found us. I don’t know how. We were so careful.” His voice cracked with despair.

“The information,” prompted Rafe.

Berlioz grabbed Rafe’s collar. “You have to help us! I won’t tell you anything unless I have Oakhaven’s support against the Protector and his cursed Fist.”

“Calm down.” Rafe gently detached the man’s grip. “We are your friends and cousins. I’ve been authorized to offer you ten thousand marls through Clearwater banks—”

“Marls! We don’t need mere marls. We need weapons, an army at our backs!” Berlioz’s shoulders slumped and he stopped. “It’s too little, too late,” he mumbled, almost to himself. “It’s all for naught.” When Rafe took his arm and tried to urge him on, he didn’t respond. The lantern dangled from his slack fingers and Morvis snatched it before it fell.

A coward and a strong man crushed with failure. Was there any difference between them now? These were not the allies Rafe had hoped to find.

Morvis fiddled with the lantern. Unshuttered, an orange eye glowered through the darkness.

Right through a gap in the otherwise boarded-up window.

“Don’t!” Rafe grabbed for the lantern. Morvis recoiled.

Whistles ripped the air.

Fear and relief chased each other over Morvis’ face.

“You—” Rafe’s fists clenched. Morvis backed away, but Rafe hit the floor instead. Bullets sprayed around them; there was a stench of sulfur in the air. Rafe struck out at the lantern, knocking it out of Morvis’ hand, and sent him tumbling into the seating area. Oil hissed and sizzled. Rafe smothered the flames with his sleeve.

A body thudded to the ground.

“Berlioz.” Rafe crawled over to the other man.

“I’m done for,” gasped Berlioz. “The resistance is no more. It’s up to Oakhaven now.” He thrust something at Rafe, something sweaty and papery that crumpled in Rafe’s hand. His breath, tainted metallic with blood, hissed in Rafe’s ear, “Pyotr. Find Pyotr in Moon Alley.”

“Here!” shrieked Morvis. “He’s over here!”

“Halt! I order you, in the name of the Protector, to halt!”

Rafe, crouched over, ran blind towards the stage. Unknown things jabbed into his thighs and stomach, caught his ankles, pinched his toes. Something twanged as his foot hit it. Curses filled the air behind him.

“That way!” Morvis, shrill and indignant. “He went back…” Gunshots cracked. Rafe hunched, making himself a smaller target, and slammed into the stage. He grabbed the edge, scrambled up, and ran across. He half-fell, half-rushed down the stairs at the back.

Good thing he’d memorized a map of this place.

A headlong flight down a corridor, then down some more stairs. Acid air rasped down Rafe’s throat and scoured his lungs. His muscles burned.

Rafe tripped, rolled down the last flight of stairs and clanged into metal. Pipes—huge, rusty, long disused. Water pipes, sewer pipes, heating pipes.

The way underground.

Rafe groped, following the tangle of pipes to where they sprung out from the ground. A large grate was set in the floor. Rafe tried the latch but it was rusted shut. He jiggled the grate, but the weakened hinges still held. He found he still held the paper Berlioz had given him in one slick hand and thrust it into a pocket.

Footsteps on the stairs, light and confident. Only one person. Rafe pounded on the grate in renewed frenzy, clawed at the latch and hinges. Then he turned and rose in one swift movement, lunging at his pursuer, committing his whole body to the tackle.

He found empty air. Rafe took the fall on his shoulder and crashed into a pipe. His temple clanged against metal. Fireworks exploded in his head.

“Very good.” The voice was female, low and amused. “Now that you’ve proven you’re still full of vinegar, Grenfeld, shall we get out of here?”

Rafe fought to see past the swirl of pinprick lights in his vision. Faint light came from tiny windows set high in the wall. He made out a hand extended to help him. He took it.

A strong pull brought him to his feet. Rafe had only an instant to note that the woman was almost as tall as he was before she dropped to her heels by the grate. Four snaps and the grate protested as she shoved it aside.

“How do you know my name? Why are you helping me?” Rafe rubbed his aching shoulder.

“You really want an explanation now?”

He heard distant crashing and the sound of running footsteps. “No.”

“Then follow me.” She slipped down with boneless grace, unhesitating. Rafe took another mouthful of burning breath, hissed as pain flared in his abdominal muscles, and clambered down the iron ladder after her.

Of course, it had to crumple under his weight halfway down.

Eli Gorvich stood stiff and sweating as he gave his report in a toneless voice. He was not a man given to nervous fancies, but he was well aware of how he’d been tricked by the Oakie. Even worse, he knew the reputation of the Shadow. “The grate in the old boiler room was uncovered. He must’ve escaped into the underground tunnels.”

The Shadow had his head tipped back as he examined the theater’s ceiling. “Remarkable. One can almost see Haust’s murals through all that grime and soot. There! I think that might be the kayan binding the Dragon Salerus.”

Gorvich squinted but even though industrial lamps flooded the theater with hot white light, he could barely make out the ceiling, much less any pictures on it. “If you say so, sir.”

“I must see if I can have them cleaned,” mused the Shadow. “I trust you’ve set your men after our fugitive?”

“Yes, sir.” Gorvich stuck out his chest and tried to look enterprising.

“I thought so. Quite a waste of manpower. They’ll all get lost and we may never recover any of them. This is a task for the machines.”

Gorvich deflated.

The Shadow patted his shoulder, no doubt noticing the tension in Gorvich’s muscles. “Never mind. The chances of Grenfeld dying down there are very good. And the chances of his being found by the machines are even greater. The situation may yet be salvaged. Now, how about you and I go and have some tea and biscuits? It has been a rather trying evening.” Gorvich tried not to let his eyes widen in horror at this less-than-delightful prospect.

“Help… me.”

The Shadow looked down with comical dismay at the blood-soaked pile on the floor. “Morvis, isn’t it? How very careless of you to get in the way of those bullets. No, don’t touch those.” A hand had reached out to pluck at his tightly-fitted bone-white trousers. “Stains are so hard to get out.” The Shadow stepped on Morvis’ groping hand. Bones crunched. Morvis gave a small scream.

Gorvich winced. “What shall we do with him, sir?”

The Shadow sighed and addressed the wounded man. “You were supposed to keep him occupied until we got here, Morvis. Surely you could’ve held on to him. Your dead weight—ha! note the pun!—would’ve slowed him down considerably. Alas, you have outlived your usefulness. Luckily for you, that state of affairs won’t last long.”

Gorvich’s face felt as if it had turned to stone. He pulled out his pistol. It wasn’t the first time he’d had to do this, but this time it would a mercy for the poor sod.

The Shadow raised his eyebrows. “My dear Gorvich. Do put that way. Any more noise might seriously weaken the supports and I do want that mural.”

“But…” Gorvich gestured towards Morvis.

“Oh, him? There’s no need to waste a bullet on him. He’s going to die regardless. Come away now.”

Gorvich dared not protest. Morvis began pleading, then screaming, but the Shadow herded the stazi out, and they took all the lights with them.

The ragged cries of
mercy! mercy!
followed Gorvich all the way into the square.

“W
HO ARE YOU
?” R
AFE
trudged after the woman, ankle-deep in hot sticky muck. Her progress through the slush was barely a tickle at the edge of his hearing. In spite of himself, he was impressed, but he thrust that aside in favor of the adrenaline-fueled anger that kept both exhaustion and terror at bay.

She half-turned, a dim figure lit by the luminescent growth on the tunnel walls. “Like you, I was invited to the meeting with Furin and Berlioz.” Her accent was hard to place. Those cool crisp tones and that blandness of expression could’ve belonged to any well-educated woman.

“Do you represent another state? Clearwater, perhaps? Was the resistance looking to sell Blackstone military secrets to the highest bidder?”

“They need funds in order to overthrow the Blackstone regime. Surely you can sympathize with their plight?”