City of Ruin - Mark Charan Newton [76]
He declared, ‘I would like to see your commander.’
The guards laughed. ‘Yeah, right,’ one said, a chubby man with deep-set eyes and bad skin. ‘He don’t just see anyone unarranged.’
Bugger. Malum should have realized he couldn’t just walk in there, not at this time of night. ‘I’m Malum, of the Bloods,’ he explained.
‘Don’t care who you are, mate,’ the other stated. ‘We need to be expecting you.’
‘Fucksake, I’ve already met him before. Look, can you at least pass a message to him?’
The guards conferred. ‘Go on then.’
Malum continued. ‘Tell him that Malum of the Bloods has come to a decision about helping the commander out with the impending war. And tell him that his preferences as to men has been noted, and frowned upon. Make sure you get that men bit, though. I’ll be waiting outside the Victory Hole tavern at sunset tomorrow. He can meet me there if he wants to keep his rep intact.’
And with that, Malum turned and merged again with the cold Villiren evening.
NINETEEN
Wax cape bundled around his shoulders, Brynd marched through the dreary streets of Villiren back towards the Citadel. Another failed meeting with some of the self-appointed district representatives. When would they realize that if no one would help by joining the citizen militias, then they would have no houses left in which to take sanctuary?
Featureless stone facades lined a narrow iren, which seemed much poorer than many of the others. There wasn’t a lot for sale either – cheap incense, pots and pans and blades rusted by months of bad weather. Traders scowled at him from under decrepit canopies. Some bore wooden signs supporting the unions, or cursing some of the larger corporations – Broun Merchants or Ferryby’s or Coumby’s. Brynd learned that companies or individuals rented out space at the larger irens, taking in return a slice of the profits, but the traders couldn’t do anything about it – that was where everyone went to buy their goods, and Lutto himself had passed the relevant legislation in the first place.
Up ahead three figures, huddled on the ground, gaped up at his approach.
‘Commander Lathraea!’ the woman spluttered. She hastily handed a book she had been carrying the last time to one of the others, then made her way over. It was those same old cultists dressed in tweed. The woman herself was nearly as tall as him, but the other two – one with a moustache and the other bald – continued studying some of the designs they had made on the flagstones, weird script and cipher marked with chalk. They kept gesturing to each other erratically.
‘Yes, it’s uh . . .’
‘Bellis! Of the Order of the Grey Hairs, at your service. Sir, have you found any use for us yet? We’re still as active as any of those reckless young cultists who keep blowing themselves up. Years of expertise, you see.’
This bunch seemed mad and untrustworthy, and he had better things to be doing right now. And he could smell alcohol on her breath. ‘As of yet,’ he said, ‘the planning has been concentrated on less esoteric methods, I’m afraid.’
‘Oh well, we’ll be about if you need us. A shame really, as we can offer quite a bit, but if you insist on using those silly conventional methods then you go ahead, young man.’ She gave him a kind of salute, and he wasn’t sure if she was mocking him or not.
He gave a cautious smile and continued past.
*
Red sunlight streamed across the table in Brynd’s small studverlooking the harbour. Seagulls and pterodettes screamed outsidis window, circling the skies endlessly. Charts and maps papered alour walls of this room, lines of potential strategy marked on them iarious colours. Bold lines slashed across them like wounds. He’een studying the streets for