The City's son

CHAPTER 18

Steel yourself, Petris. Or, given the circumstances, should that be stone yourself? No, definitely steel. Stoning would be completely different. And painful. And tough to accomplish single-handed.

Of course, Petris reflected, if any of his flock caught him at what he was about to do, there would be no shortage of volunteers to chuck the first rock.

He was standing in a children’s playground in the middle of Victoria Park: a typically decayed seat of London infancy, with heavily graffiti’d slides, a climbing frame and four carved horses wobbling on rusty springs, grinning like they’d had too much ketamine.

He began to shiver, which, he told himself, was because the autumn chill had seeped into his punishment skin and definitely not because he was afraid.

After all, what did he have to be scared of? He was encased in granite armour two inches thick. His grip could tear steel-plate. He’d led warrior priests against scaffolding monsters and crushed them with his bare hands. What did he have to fear?

Well, a treacherous inner voice supplied, there’re the two thousand other bronze and stone-clad soldiers who can also tear steel. Let’s not dwell on what bits of you they might crush with their bare hands if they catch you, shall we?

Petris swigged down a pint of sewerspirit, wincing as the fermenting faecal taste filled his mouth. It was vile, but it was the strongest drink he could brew and the warmth of it was already drizzling into his muscles, its fug washing over his brain. He relaxed.

Cromwell had stumbled in on him as he’d been setting up the distilling apparatus. The bronze Roundhead had eyed the booze in the belljar and asked, ‘What’s the occasion, old man?’

Petris had given an unconvincing laugh. ‘Oh, I’m celebrating, you know: finally telling that jumped-up street-rat to swivel on his own railing.’

Cromwell had laughed himself, and even made the effort to tip his bronze helm to his high priest. Behind his stone mask Petris’ eyes had tracked the tip of Cromwell’s sword as he’d left the room.

What do I have to be afraid of?

As if in answer, one of the swings started to move back and forth. Cr-eak, cr-eak. It was difficult to see, but the space above the swing’s seat looked more solid than it had a few seconds ago. A vague human shape had appeared on it, black against the darkness, and now it kicked its legs and rocked the swing like a child. Slim fingers gripped the chains and viscous liquid oozed from under the fingernails and down the metal. A strong acrid smell pierced Petris’ nostrils.

Cr-eak, Cr-eak. Cr- The oil spread to the swing’s hinges and they stopped squeaking.

The black figure continued to swish back and forth, the silence now broken only by the drip-drip of the oil off his bare feet.

His teeth wanted to chatter but Petris grimly swigged from his belljar, swamping any circumstantial evidence of his fear in seventy-six per cent proof alcohol.

The swing came to a stop. ‘Petrisss.’ The name came on a hiss of chemical breath. Viscous liquids were drawn into threads between the dark figure’s lips as they parted.

‘Johnny. Always a pleasure.’

‘Iss that why you asssked my attendance?’ The sibilants ghosted on the air. ‘ Pleassure? You are notoriousss for itss purssuit — ssstrange then if our pressence iss ssuch a pleasure, how sseldom you sseek it out. One might ssuspect we of the sssynod… unssettle you.’

‘Oh, you always unsettle me, Johnny.’ Petris’ good humour was cinder-brittle.

‘I ssee.’ The black figure sighed. ‘Sspecify the sservice you would ssolicit, stonesskin,’ Johnny Naphtha said, inspecting his black fingernails where they held the swing. ‘And hassten — I hate to hurry you, but my pressence here isn’t helping the health of the herbsss, you undersstand.’ He pointed over Petris’ shoulder, and even in the dark, the priest could see the nearest tree sagging as the poisons dripping from Johnny Naphtha’s feet leached into the soil.

Petris gazed at that richness of death like a parched man at water fountain. ‘Who said I was looking for service?’ he croaked. He was hoarse with thirst.

‘Why elsse would you be sstanding here, ssqueezing your sstone into that abssurd vissage, and trying not to sspit your intesstines out in fear?’ Johnny Naphtha’s voice remained a quiet, courteous hiss. ‘ Of coursse you need ssomething. Everyone needss ssomething, that’ss why they come to usss.’

Petris tried for a smile. ‘Perceptive as ever, Johnny. Yes, I’d like to strike a deal, for a fair price.’

‘Alwayss fair, Petriss,’ Johnny Naphtha chided him. ‘We are the Chemical Ssynod. Our equationss alwayss balance. Ssymmetry iss in our blood.’

Petris drew a deep breath. ‘All right. There’s someone I want you to protect. The little twerp’s going to get in over his head with a nasty character and I think he’ll need guarding.’

Johnny sat back in his swing, considering the request. As he thought, he produced a cigarette lighter from the pocket of his oil-soaked jacket and began snapping the lid open and shut. ‘“There’ss ssomeone I want you to protect”,’ the acid hiss echoed. ‘ I, not we. Well, I ssuppose that answerss my firsst question: vizz, why the oh-sso-fearssome Pavement Priestss cannot protect their own people. Leaving only my ssecond, vizz, what causse is sso critical you would rissk being caught by your compatriotss courting me? I am intrigued now, Petriss; who is this persson? Who is sso contentiouss that you cannot even command your own Priessthood to guard him?’

Petris swallowed, and felt his Adam’s apple graze granite. ‘Filius Viae,’ he said.

‘Filiuss Viae,’ Johnny Naphtha echoed. ‘Ah. Sso I take it this “nassty character” is Reach?’

There was a long silence, broken only by the click of the lighter. Petris couldn’t take his eyes off it. Just one spark… all that oil. The very thought made him sweat into his armour.

‘A “ little deal ”,’ Johnny Naphtha said eventually. ‘Hmmph. Your sskillss in undersstatement are unparallelled.’ He sighed and straightened his oil-soaked tie. ‘I’m ssorry, old sstonesskin, I ssincerely am, but to battle Reach? You ssimply couldn’t afford our price.’

Petris started to argue, but Johnny Naphtha held up a hand. ‘The rissks in ssiding against the Crane King are conssiderable, as you are cognissant, and to be ssuccint, your ssuppliess of what interestss uss are already ssapped-’

‘What interests you?’ Petris interrupted desperately. ‘Johnny, you’ll commodify anything. Surely-’

‘Sssome ssecuritiess are more interessting than others,’ Johnny Naphtha cut him off without raising his voice. ‘A deal on thiss ssubject could not ssimultaneoussly sserve both of our interessstss. ’

It was brisk, blunt and brutal. The Chemical Synod were discreet to the point of deception, but they never lied. Their contracts were constructed so neatly that there was neither the need nor opportunity to cheat.

Petris stared at him in disgust, feeling exposed and humiliated. His stone felt a hundred times heavier as he turned and strode away, faster than he could really spare the energy for. His granite feet sank ankle-deep in the mud.

I’m sorry, Filius…

‘Let me know if you need anything elsse a little lesss exspenssive,’ Johnny Naphtha called brightly. ‘For the price of an eyeball, or a few happy memoriess, sssay… We have sservicess to ssuit all ssituationss.’

And then there was silence, except for the snap of his lighter and the swish as he started to swing again.