City of Ruin - Mark Charan Newton [73]
But for Malum they plummeted regularly to the pitch-black bathy-regions in search of biolumes. He had struck a deal with them long ago, to hunt for these biological light sources in exchange for guaranteed protection of their coastal dwellings, and supplying them with the types of land food they were addicted to, but could rarely stay above water long enough to gather for themselves.
‘Greetings, trader.’ The merman’s speech, when it eventually came, was awkward and strained, yet still fundamentally human. It gaped at Malum like he was a curiosity, examining the under edges of his mask, trying to read him.
‘What’ve you got for me tonight?’ Malum asked.
‘A good haul. You wish to see?’
Malum followed him towards the other merpeople. A shorter female had already opened a crate with her nails, and from it a soft glow issued. Amid the brine, shapes of deep-sea creatures flipped and drifted and gave out light. The other merpeople crowded around him, and he felt uncomfortable, still after all these years, with how alien they appeared.
‘You were right, these are good,’ Malum confessed. ‘This should keep Coumby’s company happy for a while.’ Such specimens were in high demand in the richer districts, even deep into an ice age where people seemed to prefer firelight for the added warmth. You had a biolume, you were showing off your wealth. It was a spurious market in which Malum supplied the merchants, since they daren’t deal with the merpeople themselves. These invertebrate biolumes could then be sold on to the superior street traders, or even to the elaborate high-end stores in the Ancient Quarter, depending on the type of specimen in question.
He whistled for JC and Duka to bring over a small box containing basic foodstuff and some sharp blades, and the two men displayed it before the gathered merpeople like a sacrificial offering.
The aquatic people loomed over the contents, eagerly investigating what they’d been brought. They looked up, one by one, seeming happy enough, and nodding their approval.
‘Farewell, tradesman,’ said the first one. They moved away, carrying their exchange load. Eventually they slunk back into the sea in neat bursts, until there was simply no sign of them.
*
Later, Malum went looking for the banHe, Dannan. He found him ensconced in his plush apartment that overlooked the harbour. Outside, as darkness began to dominate the sky, the streets subtly changed their texture. Dirtied workers or traders faded into their grim houses, before manifesting in the taverns with pocketfuls of cash, and no future to prepare for. A line of bars rimmed the harbour, all pretty much the same in their style and clientele, the latter merely intent on getting drunk and forgetting about the state of their city. Mention anything about forthcoming war and you were likely to attract a fist in your gut. You’d see more such violence along these parts, the cobbled waterfront that arced around a cluster of boats that the refugees from Tineag’l had abandoned. Fishing vessels could no longer manoeuvre so easily, to the detriment of the food stocks.
Malum heard a moaning come from the upstairs room, like some enharmonic lament. He glanced up at the latticed window, where a lantern could be seen burning on the sill. What the hell is the damn freak up to?
Although he’d never admit it openly, and even barely to himself, Malum was disturbed by Dannan. He’d never seen the witch-women of Villjamur, the banshees, but it seemed odd that they would shriek instinctively to herald a death. How could they sense that someone was about to die? It all seemed so unlikely. So if Dannan was a male version – something no one had previously heard