Retribution Falls - Chris Wooding [48]
“Nobody’s taking anything,” said Frey. “You might remember me. Darian Frey? We were introduced just a few weeks ago.”
“Oh,” came the reply, rather less harsh than before. “Yes, I remember you. Stick your head out, let us have a look.”
“I’d rather not,” he replied. “Listen, ladies, our business is with Quail. We’ll be done with it and go. Nobody’s going to bother you. Now will you let us past?”
There was a short debate in low voices. “Alright.”
“You won’t shoot?”
“Long as nobody tries to come in. ’Specially that one who looks like a potato. He’s enough to turn a woman to the other side.”
Silo grinned at Pinn, who kicked an imaginary stone and swore under his breath.
“Especially not him,” Frey agreed.
“Well. Okay, then.”
Malvery returned with his bag. He took another swig of swabbing alcohol and stuffed it back inside. Pinn bleated for a taste, but Malvery ignored him.
They hurried past the doorway. Frey caught a glimpse of the whores, hidden behind a dresser with a double-barreled shotgun poking over the top. They held a pair of white, pink-eyed dogs on leashes, for extra protection. One of the whores waved and made a kiss face as he passed, but he was out of sight too quickly to respond.
He headed up the stairs, Malvery close behind. The coiled-brass motif from the hallway continued on the upper level, but here the walls and floor were paneled in black wood and lit by electric bulbs in molded sconces. The place had a dark, grand feel to it. Frey was feeling pretty dark and grand himself right now.
As they approached Quail’s study, they heard something crash inside. The sound of a desk tipping over. Presumably he was making a barricade. Frey remembered the bars on the windows from his last visit. They couldn’t be opened from the inside. Quail wasn’t going anywhere.
They took position on either side of the door. Frey kicked it open and stepped back as a pistol fired twice. The door rebounded and came to rest slightly ajar. There were two coin-size holes in the wood paneling of the corridor at chest height.
“Anyone comes through that door, they’ll be sorry!” Quail cried. His attempt to sound fierce was woeful. “I’ve got a couple of guns and enough ammo for the whole night. The militia will be here sooner or later! Someone will have heard the racket you made downstairs!”
Frey thought for a moment. He waved at Malvery. “Give me the bottle.”
“What?” Malvery said, feigning ignorance.
“The bottle of alcohol in your bag. Give it here.”
Malvery opened his bag reluctantly. “This bottle?” he asked querulously, rather hoping Frey would reconsider.
“I’ll buy you another one!” Frey snapped, and Malvery finally handed it over. He snatched it from the doctor and pulled out the stopper. “Now a rag.”
“Oh,” Malvery murmured, divining Frey’s plan. He passed Frey a bit of cloth with the expression of one about to witness the cruel extinction of some lovable, harmless animal.
Frey stuffed the rag into the neck of the bottle and upended it a few times. He pulled out a match—one of several that had lived in the creases of his coat pocket for many years—and struck it off the doorjamb. He touched it to the rag, and flame licked into life.
“Fire in the hole,” he grinned, then booted open the door and lobbed the bottle in. He ducked back in time to avoid the gunfire that followed.
The throw had been pitched into the corner of the room—he didn’t want to incinerate Quail quite yet—but the whispermonger started howling as if he were on fire himself, instead of just the bookshelves.
Frey and Malvery retreated a little way down the corridor to another doorway, where they took shelter and aimed. Black smoke began to seep out of Quail’s study. They could hear him clattering around inside, cursing. Glass smashed, bars rattled. The smoke became a thick, churning layer that spread out along the ceiling of the corridor. Quail began to cough and hack.
“You think this is gonna take much longer?” Malvery asked, and an instant later Quail burst from the room, his good eye watering, waving a pistol in one hand.