City of Ruin - Mark Charan Newton [97]
Judging by the curl of his lip the priest seemed to like that remark. ‘I appreciate the difficulties. We need his skills in the coming crisis – I understand. We must think of the citizens. So for now, let him help us, but presently we should dispose of him. Meanwhile, do keep me informed.’
Nelum bid his farewell to the priest, kissing the old man’s fingers before retreating outside into the cold, then a hard slog through heavy snow, past the homeless and on to his next destination, wondering when might be an appropriate time for him to engineer the fate of his commanding officer.
*
‘I’m seeking a man called Malum,’ Nelum explained to the barman, dropping a couple of coins on the counter. The tavern was dingy, a real spit-and-sawdust joint, with currently barely a customer in it. Two old men sat in companionable silence at the far end of the room, which stank of stale beer.
The return glance the barman gave him said he either knew Malum or at least knew of him. He slung down his cloth and leaned over the bar. He glanced to either side before grunting some directions, then he leaned back and said sourly, ‘That’s all I’m telling you.’
Nelum nodded, thanked the man, and headed out into the street, where he hailed a fiacre. But when he mentioned the location, the driver refused to take him there directly, only to somewhere close by.
‘That’s fine,’ Nelum agreed, wondering at the mystery surrounding this gang leader.
It was a bone-rattling ride across the cobbles of the city in a once-plush carriage, whose dignity had long since faded. Snow brushed against the window as Nelum became lost in his own thoughts. He still tortured himself about what he must do, weighed up what the priest had said and what he himself felt was right.
The fiacre came to a halt and he turned to pay the driver, before regarding his surroundings. As the carriage sped away, he decided this area was not all that bad. Buildings were much the same wherever you went in this city, but this was a comparatively clean area, with a wide plaza, and a concentration of decent shops. A cold wind stung his cheeks as he moved on, studying his surroundings, following the route outlined by the barman.
Three doors along from one intersection, he knocked loudly on a door positioned between what looked like a shop selling erotic garments and another selling knives. The door opened and a scruffy youth demanded, ‘Fuck you want?’
‘I need to see a man called Malum.’
‘Well, he don’t fucking want to see you.’
Another voice from behind, ‘Get away from there, kid. Who is it?’ A red-haired man shambled up to the door, with his shirt unbuttoned. ‘Yeah?’
‘It’s urgent that I see Malum. I’ve got money.’
‘Sure you have.’ The redhead looked him up and down. ‘Looks like you’re a soldier.’
‘Can you ask him, please?’
A lingering pause, then the man stepped away, leaving the vicious-looking kid to watch over him. Nelum decided to wait, uncertain what was going on, but eventually he was beckoned inside.
Two minutes later he found himself sitting at a table surrounded by gang members deep underground. They watched him suspiciously, as a man with a red mask sat down opposite.
‘Boys said you were asking for me,’ grunted the man, whose mask was some hideous tribal item, giving him an additionally sinister edge. The outer rim of a bruise could be discerned just underneath it.
‘That’s right. I understand that you received some information regarding the commander of our armies.’
‘Fuck should I help a soldier?’
Nelum felt frustrated at his ridiculous arrogance. ‘I understand you suspect the albino has certain . . . preferences.’
‘He fucks men, you mean?’
‘Is it true?’
‘Come on now, soldier. I’m not giving information without getting some back. You all fucked off to some conflict last night – why were those warning bells ringing? What does it mean for this city?’
Nelum hesitated for a moment, then revealed the details about the skirmish. ‘Ultimately, last night’s incident means there’ll be an increased military presence out on the streets. So. Is it