City of Ruin - Mark Charan Newton [186]
Lonely figures dawdled at street corners, caressing flick knives, but never looked his way. Women caked in too much make-up braved the cold, displaying a little flesh. They cooed and pouted towards him, outraging his deep sense of morality.
A gaunt-faced man with a shaven head and stubble shambled towards Nelum and demanded money. Another figure in a cloak sauntered in from the left, a cock-sure stride denoting this was a routine procedure.
‘I’ve nothing for you.’ Nelum dismounted and moved away from his horse towards them.
The cloaked man flicked open a knife and thrust it at him lazily, but Nelum batted his hand away, grabbed his wrist then broke his assailant’s arm across his knee. At that point the first thug jumped him with his own blade, drawing a faint line across Nelum’s cheek, before staggering away.
The man’s expression turned to surprise as he watched Nelum’s wound heal before his eyes. He began thrusting his knife aggressively, while Nelum darted this way and that, ducking appropriately. He then palmed the man’s forearm, sent the blade spinning from his grip, before he yanked the man’s wrist downwards and jabbed a vicious punch to his neck. He collapsed to one knee, clutching his throat.
A few of the whores further up the street laughed awkwardly before sashaying off into the darkness, and Nelum mounted his horse again, then rode away wondering just where on earth the priest had sent him.
*
He arrived eventually at a dilapidated shopfront adorned with a discoloured sign that read ‘Cheap Lunches’. Every other building up and down the street looked unlived in, redundant, yet he felt dozens of eyes observing him. Shutters covering windows, a boarded-up door, and Nelum was left wondering how he would get in. He dismounted, tethered up his agitated mount, then went around the back to find a door, on which he knocked loudly.
Eventually a hatch slid back, a pair of eyes regarded him, and someone asked his business.
‘The priest sent me,’ Nelum explained and, after a few more seconds of staring at those unblinking eyes, he added: ‘I’m here to buy some of your wares.’
The hatch closed, then the door creaked open, and Nelum was beckoned into the darkness by an old man wearing scruffy breeches. The place stank of either chemicals or cheap incense, and there was someone playing a piano in a far-off room, a gust of laughter accompanying. The man led him into a small but well-lit room resembling a grocer’s shop, with a counter and dozens of vials and bottles teetering on shelves – so much glass sparkling in the lantern light. Dozens of knives hung on one wall like rows of teeth of varying lengths. Ornamental masks lined another. Gemstones rested in boxes beneath the counter, amber, jade, topaz and a hundred varieties he didn’t recognize.
Nelum stared at the man and dropped several Sota discs on the counter. He was skinny with sallow skin, and his jaw narrowed dramatically to a point, which in this light made him look like he’d been cross-bred with a rat.
Laughter again from the other room.
‘I’m after some of your substances. Toxic substances in particular.’
‘Got all sorts here,’ the man replied. ‘What you after?’
‘Respiratory inhibitor,’ Nelum said hesitantly, remembering some textbook from his studies. ‘Cyanide, possibly?’
The man smiled, eyeing Nelum’s clothing, clearly realizing that he was a military man but still not commenting on the fact. This unspoken pact was reassuring. ‘That’s old school,’ he said. ‘An amateur’s choice. You’re a traditionalist, I see.’
‘Have you anything better then?’
‘ ’Course, lad. People come to me when they need a job doing.’
‘Well, I need a job doing well. Something to be injected directly into the bloodstream. And it needs to be tough, with no messing around. Distilled so it’s strong enough to kill many men.’
‘Bloodstream . . . Maybe haemotoxins? No, you might want