The White Towers (32 page)

Randaman stared at Narnok impassively for a few moments. Then he gave a beaming smile. He took a small step forward and patted Narnok on the shoulder. “I like you, Big Guy. You’ve got a fucking good sense of humour. You can stay.”

“Oh. So you’re letting me then, are you?”

“Yeah.”

“And what makes you think I won’t just lop off your grinning fucking head and stay anyway?”

Randaman gestured, almost languorously, to the darkened, hidden balconies lining both sides of the chamber. “Archers,” he said, and gave a sick little smile. “I’m sorry. You need to come with me or we’ll cut you down like rabid dogs in the street.” The smile stretched a little wider; like a cat that was pleased with itself, licking cream from its whiskers.

“And there I was, thinking you were a gentleman,” said Trista, tossing him a haughty look.

“Alas, dear love! These savage times force us into modes of address one would not normally embrace. I eschew all forms of antagonistic behaviour. Truly, I do. But as you have seen for yourself outside,” he gestured broadly, and his voice hardened. “We have to protect ourselves.”

“We’ll come with you,” said Narnok, brows furrowed above his heavy facial scarring, “but we keep our weapons.”

“You are hardly in a position to barter, dear boy.”

“That’s the deal,” said Narnok, frowning. “Else I’ll cut you down now and take my fucking chances with the arrows.”

“You think you could?” Randaman’s eyes were narrowed.

“You know I could,” growled Narnok, with a smile.

There was a moment of intense tension, then Randaman suddenly relaxed and stepped forward, slapping Narnok on the arm. “Of course, no worries, old timer. No need to be so grumpy about the whole show! Now, if you’d like to follow me,” and he turned, whilst Narnok was still blinking and grumbling and favouring the tight stitches, and Randaman offered his arm to Trista.

She linked with him, surprising even herself, and they walked down the ornate marble hall, connecting with long flowing corridors lined with rich oil paintings depicting the violent past of Vagandrak and its outlying cities, towers and lands; they moved past display cabinets filled with all manner of antiquity, Narnok shuffling along in his battered boots, his eye dark, the other empty socket itching him like a bastard.

Some of the archers padded down carpeted stairs leading from the deeply shadowed upper balconies, falling in behind Narnok and Trista. Narnok turned and stared at them. They were clad in black cotton, more like assassins than the kinds of archers Narnok knew, and they kept their notched bows
not-quite
pointing at the huge axeman.

Mola, with his growling dogs now on leads, came bellowing and snarling through the midst of the archers until he walked alongside Narnok, who gave him a curious sideways glare. Mola grinned at him, then winced.

“You suffering?”

“Aye. Chucked from a horse. Broke some ribs and my collarbone.”

“That pain suits you.”

“And you! What’s that? Sword wound?”

“Dagger, I think. Or maybe claws. It was a big battle. Hell, lots of big battles. I’m starting to think my whole life has just become one big battle, and I’m starting to get a little tired. Maybe I should become an onion farmer. Or something.”

“I know how you feel,” said Mola, rolling his neck and shoulders. Duchess took that moment to growl and snap at something that was apparently invisible, and Mola hauled her back with a snarl. “DUCHESS! DOWN!”

“I’m not sure who’s leading who,” grinned Narnok, suddenly. He burst into laughter, and Trista glanced behind, from where Randaman was explaining the ancestry of an encased and particularly fine set of pearl earrings hanging on a carved wooden head. “I knew, if I ever met you again, you’d still be hanging around with a bunch of dogs.”

“Well, that’s the thing about dogs,” said Mola, and it was his turn to smile. “They’re a damn sight more loving, more
trustworthy,
than any woman.” His eyes were gleaming. “How’s your wife, Narn? You married that fine filly, didn’t you? Kahuna. Black curls. Flashing dangerous eyes, if ever I saw them on a woman.”

“Katuna,” corrected Narnok. And stared at Mola, smile frozen; then dropping from his face like a widow’s veil. “Not with her anymore,” he mumbled.

“Seen Dek recently?”

“Oh yeah,” said Narnok, eyes gleaming. “Me and Dek had a good little chat, we did.”

“He still alive?”

“So you
did
hear, then. Grak’s Balls! Is there
any bastard
on this continent who hasn’t heard of my fucking woes?”

“You’re an Iron Wolf, mate,” said Mola. “We’re worse than any gaggle of fish wives.”

The wide, plush corridor suddenly expanded into a vast exhibition room filled with all manner of artefacts, tapestries, even ancient carriages used by a procession of royalty and preserved, here, gleaming in reds and blacks and golds. Narnok glanced up at the vaulted ceiling, a criss-cross of white arches with intricate paintings mastered within, and giving the chamber an even more regal aspect. Huge pillars supported the high arches, and Narnok’s gaze swept around the chamber, and the history of the realm, coming to stop at a makeshift camp that had been erected
here
, inside the vast museum’s main exhibition hall.

“Odd place to camp,” said Narnok, stepping forward.

Randaman shook his head. “Not at all. We have access to food and wine from the museum’s stores, we have almost unlimited weaponry,” his arm swept towards the military quarter of the museum hall where all manner of suits of armour, pikes and spears and long swords, from a multitude of historic periods, sat on display, alongside some heavy ballistae and siege engines towering up towards the high arched roof. “If we need them. Come and meet the gang.”

“The gang?” said Trista.

Randaman gave a nod, eyes glittering. “Yes. The Red Thumb Gang.”

Trista, Narnok and Mola exchanged a glance, then followed Randaman. As they approached, the talking stopped. There were about thirty present and Narnok’s eyes swiftly swept over the group, searching for notable figures in the Red Thumb hierarchy; he had a few enemies, and his entire body was tense, and quivering, until he realised nobody recognised him.

Slowly, Narnok released a slow breath and glanced sideways at Mola, who gave a noncommittal shrug.

“We have some new… survivors,” said Randaman, smiling and gesturing. “Here, we have the delectable Trista, travelling with… I’m sorry, Big Man, I didn’t actually ask you your name?”

“Narn,” muttered Narnok softly. “Old buddy of Bardok here. Go way back. Ducking and diving. You know.”

“I’m sure that I do not,” said Randaman. “However. Let us give some proper, formal introductions.”

The Red Thumb gang members had sat up a little, from where they centred around a central camp area for serving food. They were like a group of big cats, following a feeding frenzy. Full, and lazy, but idly curious about the next kill. A small fire burned in a controlled ring of rocks. On this, a pan of something sweet-smelling bubbled and Narnok found his nostrils twitching. By all the gods, I’m fucking hungry, he realised, but then turned his attention back to the group of killers. His eyes swept them and he shivered. These were the scum of Zanne underground, if truth be told; the largest, singular gathering of cut-throats, back-stabbers, jewel thieves, coach robbers, rapists and murderers known (or probably, unknown) to modern Vagandrak. And here they were, lazy as lords, full on the spoils of the conquered city. Narnok felt suddenly sick.

“…a fine meal,” Randaman was prattling. He gestured with a flourish that was really starting to get on Narnok’s nerves. He glanced at Mola, who was feigning disinterest as his huge dogs sat, panting at his feet. “Now, then, for the benefit of our new, er,
guests,
first we have Badograk! Badograk, stand up and say hello!”

Badograk rose ponderously to his feet. He was easily as big as Narnok, his arms huge rolls of muscle. He had black eyes, stubble and a shaved head. He carried a large battle-axe in one thick-fingered paw, and he watched Narnok with unflinching interest. Narnok knew exactly what the Red Thumb gang member was thinking; it was an appraisal. A weighing up. Almost, a challenge. The man couldn’t help it. Narnok knew; he was doing it himself.

“And that, there, is Veila.” A slim, athletic woman sat perched on her pack. She was pretty, lithe, and very feminine. Her hair was long, and black, and knotted into a braid that fell down between her well-defined shoulder blades. She wore surprisingly little for a warrior, a revealing of too much flesh for Narnok’s liking, and she had pointless high boots made more for cavalry. She nodded towards Narnok.

“Scar-face,” she said, and flashed him a smile with small white teeth.

Narnok felt himself reddening, and ground his teeth, saying nothing.
Was she mocking him? Toying with him? He wouldn’t take it, just fucking wouldn’t take it
and he felt his temper rise immediately and he gripped the haft of his axe tight as his temper started to boil when Trista stepped forward, her hand resting lightly on his forearm, and he glanced down at her beautiful, sculpted face with its gorgeous blonde curls, and her smile said: don’t worry, we’ll kill them all, afterwards. He smiled. And relaxed.

“Over there is Shafta.” A young lad sat, rocking back on a chair. He wore the clothes of a young ruffian, all browns and blacks, dark colours to help him blend with the night shadows. His clothing was threadbare, his hair a tangled mop of brown, but his blue eyes were bright and intelligent and the steel of two long knives glinted at his belt. He couldn’t have been more than thirteen, yet he nodded at the newcomers, as if from one equal to another.

“Dag Da,” gestured Randaman, to a wild-haired woman with skin the colour of ebony. She wore an array of random armour pieces, they were later to discover had been taken from those she slew, and her long bony fingers held a staff, each end of which was finished with long, razor-sharp spear heads. Her eyes were deep brown, large in her rounded, almost plump, face; but there was no mercy there, just a long fall into oblivion clutching your own excised entrails.

Randaman went through the rest of the group, and Narnok and Trista were polite, as the Red Thumbs weighed them up, and they in turn considered these cut-throat vagabonds who had somehow clubbed together and survived the worst excesses of the elf rat takeover of the city.

Randaman gestured them forwards, and they sat, were offered a bowl of sweet stew cooked by Dag Da, who watched their faces intently. Narnok wolfed his food down with a large spoon, and Trista picked daintily through as the black woman’s intense gaze watched closely for any sign of dissent.

“Fabulous!” boomed Narnok, finishing his plate and smacking his lips. He looked over at Dag Da. “You’re a damn fine cook, woman. I’ve not tasted anything like that since the campaign south in Oram, beyond the Plague Lands.”

“I am satisfied, then,” said Dag Da, voice curiously soft. And she smiled, with both lips and eyes, and Narnok felt like he’d made a new friend.

Shafta, who’d sidled over, nudged the big man.

“Yes, lad? What is it?”

“Well, axeman, if you hadn’t liked her cooking – Dag Da’s, that is – she would have cut your throat. Probably when you slept.”

Narnok stared at the young boy. “You serious?”

“Aye.”

“Nice company you’re keeping.”

Shafta stared at him, with deadly serious eyes. “It’s a sign of the times,” he said, without a sliver of humour.

The Red Thumbs were idly sharpening swords, and seemed relaxed. Randaman asked Narnok and Trista a few more questions, and seemed satisfied with Narnok’s answers; he’d been in the army, then dishonourably discharged after felling an officer with a hefty right hook. Randaman liked that bit. They all did.

Outside, night fell. It was easy to tell, because sections of the ceiling had globes of opaque glass and they saw the fast-fading light.

“Tell me what you saw out there,” said Randaman, sitting cross-legged on a blanket. Behind him sparkled a case full of diamonds. Surprisingly, his band of cut-throats had chosen not to loot it and Narnok pointed this out. Randaman shrugged. “I could take those any day of the week for the last three years. Where’s the challenge in taking them now?”

“So you see theft as a challenge?” rumbled Narnok.

“Of course. It’s a game.”

“Tell that to the robbed.”

“Oh, Narn, don’t be so stuck-up,” said Trista with a tinkling laugh, and brushed a stray blonde curl from her face. Randaman looked at her every move; enraptured, just a little.

“
So,
how did you come by the museum? Bardok says you did a lot of fighting out there. Got cornered by the elf rats and had to fight your way free. Is that true? We don’t see many who’d survive a horde like was on the streets yesterday.”

Narnok shrugged. “We don’t die easy,” he said. “We came up through the sewers. We was staying with my uncle south, amidst the foothills of the Skarandos. Thought we’d come looking for warmth and pleasure during the winter months; the Skarandos is no place for fun during the harsh, weak blizzard months. Just snow and chopping bastard wood. I’d have more fun fucking my sister.”

Randaman nodded in understanding.

“So we trek north, no drama, and arrive at Zanne. Everything’s quiet, and dark, like. No answer at the gates. I was once chased by the City Watch here after a pub brawl, had to make a quick exit, went out through the sewers so I didn’t get my head coshed. Through the tunnels, and out down a long pipe. I smelt like shit, but at least avoided three years at His Majesty’s pleasure in Breakneck Prison. Ha ha.”

“Ahh, yes, Yoon’s Severe Policies.” Randaman gave a bleak smile. “Brought in hanging for us lot,” he said, with a lean and narrow smile.

Narnok bit off the words before they escaped past his lips: hanging’s too fucking good for you lot.