Death's Angels

Chapter Fifteen

They pushed deeper into the maze of winding alleys and courtyards. Rik was glad the linkboy knew where he was going because he himself surely did not. He wondered if he would be able to retrace the way in daylight. In the thick darkness, and with all the booze, space seemed to have altered in an ominous way. This part of town had not seemed so large the last time he had passed through it.

The old mansions had been built over, around and on top of, until the whole Pit was a crazy tottering pile of firetraps and tumbledown. Thick wooden buttresses reinforced walls and half-blocked narrow alleys. Wooden bridges ran between ledges and windows high up in the sides of buildings. Lean-tos and shanties grew out of walls and partially blocked what once had been streets. New huts filled the space that had once been the gardens of mansions and created a crazy webbing of new lanes and alleys which flowed back into the courtyards of the older structures.

More people sat around these courtyards, women with powdered faces and dyed hair sat in several doorways in positions of splay legged invitation. A group of drunks encouraged two brawlers in a distant corner with cheers and jeers. In some upper floor, a group of musicians played a wild jig while revellers hooted and yelled. The air reeked of booze and cheap perfume and midden heaps. In one cave-like grogshop a pig roasted on a spit. A small dog trotted round and round in a circle to power the mechanism that kept it turning.

“Probably the dog’s next,” said Weasel. “If it knew what we knew it would not work so hard.”

“You obviously know something too,” said Toadface. “I’ve never seen you work hard.”

“And you’ll never catch me doing it,” said Weasel. “The Scarlet Queen does not pay me enough to.”

Rik noticed other groups of men entering through different archways. It looked like they were not the only soldiers disobeying the Mourning Time edicts. Some of the cavalrymen had managed to find their way here too, despite being relatively recent arrivals.

“Did not take them long,” said Weasel.

“Word of a good thing travels fast,” said the Barbarian, as the others disappeared through the door of the Headsman’s Axe. The entrance was through a small doorway within the arch itself. A lantern glowed over the doorway so you would know where it was. The roar of voices could be heard within. The smell of tobacco, roasting beef and booze slapped them in the face as soon as they walked in and headed down the stairs. The main bar was in a cellar, and you got to it by rickety wooden steps. Another flight of stairs on the far side of the cellar led up to the private rooms that could be rented by the hour.

“Home, sweet home,” said Weasel rubbing his hands together. His tattered uniform drooped around him, making him look more like a scarecrow than ever.

“Ale, Shugh!” bellowed the Barbarian to the landlord. “Five beers — and one each for the rest of the lads!”

Leon and Rik moved to grab a table in the corner. Shugh poured the beers. A couple of swift ones and Rik felt good. He smiled benevolently at his companions, raised his tankard and pledged; “Death’s Angels of The Seventh!”

“Best damn regiment in the Queen’s Army,” said the Barbarian as they clinked beers.

“Let’s not get all sentimental now, lads,” said Weasel, but even he seemed pleased. Leon looked at Rik and said, “It’s not like the old days in Sorrow.”

Through the magic of beer Rik could see that quite clearly. In the Regiment you had comrades who you could more or less trust, and who more or less looked out for each other. You had to. It was men against the Terrarchs. Back in Sorrow it had been dog eat dog. The big ones ate the little ones. You could trust nobody. Anybody would sell you out either for gold or to get themselves off the hook with the law or the big gangsters like Antonio or White Eye. Rik had not realised quite how bad it was till he got used to being in the Queen’s Army. It was what he had grown up with and it had taken him a long time to realise that life in the Regiment was not like life on Cheap Street.

“Shadzar, the Place of Sorrow,” said Weasel. “Now there’s a city. Everything a man could want all in one place.”

The Barbarian glanced around and caught the glances of some of the rouged women over by the bar. “Everything a man could want right here,” he said. “Except the clean mountain air of the Northlands.”

The girls made their way to the table. Rik did not recognise them from his previous visits. They were both young and pretty. Their makeup was inexpertly applied. Either they were country girls fresh in town or they wanted men to think they were. Growing up in Sorrow had made Rik cynical as well as cautious. That and Sabena. Her betrayal had cut him very deeply.

“Buy a girl a drink,” said one of them as she plumped herself down on the Barbarian’s knee.

“I’ll buy you two if you like,” said the Barbarian. “What will you do for me?”

“Trying to get me drunk and take advantage of me, eh?”

“I am sure that will be difficult,” said Weasel, producing a deck of cards and beginning to shuffle. “Who is in?”

“I’m Lena,” said the more forward of the two girls. She had dark hair and a sunburned complexion. She was pretty in an open-faced sort of way. The other girl hung back, and was shyer, or at least wanted to seem that way. “This is Kaye.”

Handsome Jan made room for Kaye next to him on the bench. Immediately he began to explain to her how attractive women found him. Kaye appeared to be doing her best to make him think she agreed. The ale kept flowing. Toadface was doing tricks with his tongue. Suddenly Weasel gave a start and took a second glance into a dark corner.

“Well, what have we here?” he said, rising from the table, leaving the cards on the table-top. Just in case there was trouble, Rik got up and followed him since the Barbarian seemed engrossed in his beer and his girl, and too busy to do his usual job of minding Weasel’s back.

Weasel made straight for the darkest corner of the cellar where a scared looking man drank alone. “I thought it was you,” he said. “Saw you coming back from the jakes.”

It took Rik a little time to recognise Vosh. The hill-man looked different, somehow more furtive and very pale. He flinched when Weasel spoke to him and fumbled at his pocket as if looking for a concealed weapon.

“It’s you,” Vosh said eventually and appeared by an effort of will to force himself to relax. From the glazed look in his eyes, Rik could tell he was very drunk.

“Who were you expecting, the Scarlet Queen? I have heard she sometimes pops in for a pint or two with the boys. Likes to see if she can find herself a likely lad to take back to the Amber Palace.”

“No. There are hill-men in town.”

“There are always hill-men in town. They come for the beer and the wine and the girls, as well as trade goods and bullets and powder.”

“You would know about that,” said Vosh, with a nasty twist of his mouth. “You and the Quartermaster.”

“Man can get his throat cut easy here in the Pit, Vosh. I would be careful about what I say if I were you.” That took all the wind out of Vosh’s sails. The defiance just spilled out of him leaving him looking deflated and very small.

“You should be careful too, Weasel,” Vosh said. “These are not just any hill-men. They were wearing purple plaid.”

“Am I missing something here?” said Rik.

“Blue plaid means they are of the Agante Clan,” said Weasel. “Same as our boy here.”

“So what?”

“So I am guessing that somebody knows who sold out our friends back in the mountains and has come looking to claim the blood debt. Am I right, Vosh?”

“That’s what I think.”

“So why should we be careful?”

“You don’t get it, do you, you half-breed bastard? Don’t think your kinfolk can save you.”

Rik was surprised by his own actions. He very casually pinned Vosh against the wall and began to slap him just hard enough to be insulting, not hard enough to do any real damage. “I’d be careful with my mouth if I were you, just like Weasel says.”

Weasel’s fingers bit into Rik’s shoulder as he pulled him away. For such a skinny man, he was surprisingly strong. Either that or Rik was drunker than he thought.

“I think what’s he’s trying to tell us, in his own charmless way, is that we are all marked by the blood debt.”

“You got it,” said Vosh. “Me because they think I sold them out for Exalted gold, you because you pulled the triggers on men who could not defend themselves.”

“Yes,” said Weasel. “That was wicked of us. No hill-man would ever do a thing like that.”

“Not the way you did. It’s one thing ambushing a man. It’s another killing men after setting demons on them.”

“We did something to offend your highly developed sense of honour then, did we?”

“Make jokes about it all you like, Weasel, but those men’s kin will follow you to the grave for vengeance.”

Weasel was looking thoughtful which worried Rik because it meant he was taking all this seriously. “Where did you see these men?”

“Here in the Pit today. I was just out for a breather when…”

“Did they see you?”

“No. I don’t think so. I ducked back in here, took a private room with one of the girls and left word I was not to be disturbed till evening.”

“Suddenly come into some cash have you?” Rik could guess where that came from. Doubtless the Exalted paid him a special bounty for leading them to the bandits.

“How do you know it was you they were looking for?”

“What else could it be?”

“Could just be your guilty conscience talking.”

“Could be, but I am taking no chances, and neither should you.”

“I’ll bear that in mind,” said Weasel. “Now, we’d better go. I’d invite you along but it’s a private party.”

“Don’t worry. I don’t need the company. Oh and Weasel, we have something we need to talk about?”

“I can’t imagine what that is.”

“Books.” Rik felt as if he had just been struck by lightning. His hand went automatically towards his knife. Weasel stood absolutely still. Rik could see death in his eyes.

“What do you mean?” Weasel asked, leaning closer until his face was almost pressed against Vosh’s.

“I was there when you two and your big friend found the books,” said Vosh. He was sweating but there was a drunken confidence in his voice.

“What books would those be?” asked Weasel. His tone was absolutely level.

“The wizard’s books. In the mine. I was there, after the fight. You didn’t see me, but I saw you. I heard you too.” Rik remembered that he thought he had heard something back then. It seemed he had.

“I sincerely hope you have not been shooting your mouth off about this,” said Weasel. “That really could be bad for your health.”

“All I want is a share of whatever you get. I am not greedy.”

Weasel gave him a cold smile. Suddenly he looked very frightening. “You’ll get what’s coming to you.”

Rik did not trust this little hill-man as far as he could throw him. He wondered if they could just push him outside now and stick a knife in him. A quick glance around convinced him there were way too many witnesses for that.

“Keep your mouth shut about those books until you hear from us,” said Rik. “If the Inquisition get us, we’ll make sure you burn too.”

Vosh paled. Sweat beaded his forehead. “Don’t worry about me, half-blood bastard. See you keep your own lips sealed.”

Rik fought down the urge to punch him. He wished he had not had so much to drink. He could feel events starting to spin completely out of control. Weasel pointed two fingers at Vosh’s forehead and made the gesture of a man firing a pistol.

“We’ll talk about this in the morning,” he said. “Until then see that you keep your mouth shut or the Inquisition will be the least of your worries.”

Rik looked around nervously. He was glad the hubbub of the tavern drowned out their voices. It would not do to have anyone hear them discussing the Inquisition.

Weasel began shouldering his way through the crowd back to their table.

“What did you make of that?” Rik asked.

“He’s full of shit and drunker than a barrelful of monkeys. Next thing he’ll be screaming about pink wyrms coming through the walls. One way or another we’ll need to keep his mouth shut.”

Weasel was silent for a long time when they got back to the table, and his silence made Rik uneasy. Rik glanced back over his shoulder. Vosh showed no sign of moving. Instead he was ordering another beer. He looked too scared to go out into the dark and Rik did not blame him. If he left the Axe now, he would have three Foragers on his trail and his life would not be worth a coin-shaver’s farthing.

The local apprentice lads glared at the Foragers. There was no love lost between them and the soldiers but things didn’t really start to go wrong until the other bluecoats took a hand. The trouble started innocently enough when Leon made another pledge to the Seventh, the best damn regiment in the Queen’s Service, and one of the newly arrived cavalrymen strode across to take exception to this. The Barbarian’s contribution to the debate was a swift punch to the rider’s face. The combat became close and general. The Foragers, the other soldiers and the local apprentice lads all getting involved in melee while the landlord and his seven stout sons started to heave the brawlers up the stairs and into the streets.

Somehow, not quite sure how he had got there, Rik found himself in the muddy roadway, shouting; “Keep your bloody ale. I never wanted it anyway.”

Moments later he discovered that Leon and Weasel were there with him. The Barbarian came crashing out a few heartbeats after that with two of the landlord’s sons, each muscled like a blacksmith holding his arms, Shugh’s massive arm locked round his throat, and a couple of the barmaids clawing at him for good measure. A swift shove saw him sprawling in the mud at Rik’s feet. He could hear titters of laughter from around the courtyard.

“Had enough, eh?” the Barbarian shouted. “I’ll take any ten of you soft southerners.” Rik began helping him up.

“That’s an excellent bruise you have there,” the Barbarian said.

“Almost as good as your black eye.”

“I say we take our custom elsewhere,” said Weasel. “They obviously don’t appreciate gentlemen of our refinement in the Axe these days.”

“What about Toadface and Handsome Jan,” said Leon.

“I saw them disappear upstairs with the two tarts when the fighting started.”

“Where’s Hopper?”

“He’s hopped it! What do you expect,” said Weasel.

“Bloody typical,” said the Barbarian. “They were exactly the same back in the mine. Serve them right that they won’t get a share of the treasure.”

Rik dug his elbow in the Barbarian’s ribs. Fortunately Leon had not noticed. He was too busy vomiting in the open sewer that ran down the middle of the narrow archway. Weasel leaned forward and whispered something urgently in the Barbarian’s ear. The big man nodded sheepishly and began to dust off his uniform. All he succeeded in doing was transferring the mud from his clothing to his hands.

“I think we should go back in there and sort those bastards out,” he said, apparently having given the matter deep consideration.

“I think we did that already. The last I remember you were banging that corporal’s head off the table. You had already pitched a couple of the others over the bar. Broke a few bottles of rotgut. I think that’s what the landlord really objected to.”

“After all the coppers we’ve spent in his tavern,” said the Barbarian. “There’s gratitude for you. There’s loyalty.”

“This is all very well,” said Weasel, “But it’s not getting us any closer to another drink. I say we pick up Leon and get on our way. The girl’s at Mama Horne’s will be waiting for us.” He gave Rik a wink. Rik had not forgotten what he had said about making some enquiries there earlier. Once again, he felt his dreams of sorcerous power slipping through his hands, but in his present drunken state he found he cared less.

“That sounds like a plan,” said Rik.

“Just wait till I get my hands on Hopper, Toadface and Handsome Jan,” said the Barbarian. “I’ll teach the bastards to run out on a good fight.”