City of Ruin - Mark Charan Newton [29]
‘We ain’t tested them yet.’ JC glanced behind him, where Duka reappeared lugging a small chest. With a grunt he dumped the box at Malum’s feet, and then looked up at him expectantly.
Malum rummaged carefully among the collection of odd-shaped metallic devices.
Customers were always stupid enough to buy pirated relics. They sought the dream device, the object that could improve their lives. Punters were even prepared to kill themselves – literally – for the chance to own some magic. Markets in the city thrived on ordinary people being selfish, and for the last ten years his gang had thrived on exploiting such weaknesses, making money through whatever nefarious means he could contrive.
‘You did good, guys.’ Malum lightly punched Duka in the arm. ‘Even if they don’t work, we can still get a decent price for them.’
*
Two hours later, Malum sat coolly across the table from the albinommander, only being here out of curiosity rather than any sense outy. They were gathered in the obsidian chamber, with its viecross the sea towards Tineag’l. In the distance, a garuda was curvinhrough the air. Up on the walls cressets of burning oil were spaced at regular intervals between hunting trophies: gheel heads glaring down on proceedings, their triple-forked tongues hanging out as if hungrily.
The albino commander gave a slight smile that betrayed his need for Malum to play nicely . . . while Malum vaguely wondered if albino blood tasted any different from that of normal humans. The commander’s pallid features seemed to provide the most subtle of masks, but for Malum his expressions were clear to interpret: here was a man looking to bargain.
Two Night Guard soldiers, blond and black-haired, stood at the back with arms folded, behind their commander as if to enforce his air of authority. Another half a dozen of them sat on benches around the edge of the room, in carefully informal postures. Malum read this as a signal for everyone to stay relaxed.
Dannan had arrived late, obviously deciding to saunter here at his own leisurely pace – either that, or too messed-up on drugs to notice what the time was. With harsh and angular features, the pale banHe deported himself with surprising neatness and elegance. Malum loved to test him occasionally to see if it was all an act, but the banHe always stayed true. Malum had once caught him engaged in some occult ritual centring on a bowl of blood, three naked women, various body organs, and an old book of rituals he assumed were cultist. And close members of his gang suggested that they’d witnessed the banHe getting stabbed, manically and repeatedly, but there was little or no sign of wounding afterwards, and at the time of the attack, Dannan had simply laughed it off. The banHe was here now representing the Screams, a guild with a thousand men in its ranks. Usually these gangs comprised a dozen men at the top, and everyone else working for them, but Malum’s group was much larger, as was Dannan’s, yet these two were the only leaders present.
Lutto, the portreeve of Villiren, suddenly blundered through the door still wrapped in a thick green cloak, and clutching a sheaf of papers under one arm. There was something comically duck-like about his gait, and his cheeks were flushed; and despite the chill there was a constant, sweaty glow to this panjandrum’s demeanour.
‘Sele of Jamur, Commander Brynd! Dannan and Malum, my greetings, gentlemen.’
The albino greeted him formally, correcting ‘Jamur’ to ‘Urtica’. Each of the gang leaders gave a disinterested nod.
‘You gang types,’ Lutto chuckled, as he squeezed himself into a chair next to the commander, and then spilled his papers across the table. ‘Will you not remove your mask for this meeting?’ Lutto asked, as he cleared them up.
‘No,’ Malum snapped. ‘Just tell us why’re we here?’
‘Ah, straight to business,’ Lutto announced. ‘A man after my own heart!’
‘Leave me out of your heart,’ Malum growled. ‘Or are you into fucking men these days, you queer?’
Malum then noticed a flicker of darkness cross the albino