The Black Lung Captain - Chris Wooding [142]
The wind whipped along the narrow spaces between the buildings, blowing the powdery snow ahead of it. Frey wiped his eyes, trying to catch sight of his target. There! A clatter of empty petrol containers, somewhere to his right. The boy had tripped over them.
“Hey! I’m not going to hurt you!” he yelled. Unless I have to run my arse all over town to catch you, that is.
The boy could shed some light on things, perhaps. Like what had happened to the Century Knights. Like where everybody had gone. Like how to find Almore Roke, Grist’s old crewmate.
Frey ran to the corner and saw another alley, wider than the last, heading between the houses. The overturned petrol containers were still rolling on the stony, frosted ground. At the end was the boy, his mouth in an O, terrified. He was waiting to see if Frey had followed him. When he saw the chase was on, he disappeared round the corner.
“Come back!” Frey called, as he put on an extra burst of speed. “I just want to talk!”
“Cap’n!” Silo was calling after him. “Cap’n, wait!”
But Frey couldn’t wait. Not if he was going to catch that boy. He rounded the corner and skidded to a halt. The boy was gone. In his place were six men crouched behind an overturned cart, their rifles leveled at him.
Ambush. Frey stared at them in shock.
“Bugger,” he said.
He felt his arm wrenched hard. Silo pulled him sideways just as the rifles opened up. Bullets chipped at the walls and whined through the air. He was yanked back around the corner, out of the line of fire, where he tripped and fell to the ground.
“I seen less obvious traps in my time,” the Murthian said.
Frey ignored him. “Oi!” he yelled at the gunmen, scrambling to his feet. “What did I do to deserve that?”
“Darian!” Trinica called. He looked to where she was pointing. Another six men had appeared at the other end of the alley, blocking them in. They had rifles too, aimed and ready to fire.
“Whoa! Whoa!” he shouted in alarm, holding up his hands. “Don’t shoot!” He looked around at his companions. “Guns down, everyone. Let’s not make the nice people nervous, eh?”
They laid their weapons on the ground, making no sudden moves. The men approached suspiciously. They were grubby, their faces seamed and lined, and they wore heavy, tatty clothes.
“They ain’t mercs,” said one.
“Just ’cause they ain’t wearin’ the uniform, don’t mean they ain’t workin’ for the company,” argued another.
The first man waved the barrel of his gun toward Trinica. “Mercs don’t use women, far as I know.” He raised his voice, calling to the men around the corner. “It’s alright! We got ’em!”
Frey saw the six men who’d fired on him come swaggering round the corner. “Anything I can do?” Jez said in his ear. She’d been listening on the Ketty Jay.
“Stay put,” he whispered. “Too many of ’em.”
“No whisperin’!” snapped one of their captors.
Frey decided that they weren’t in imminent danger of being killed by someone with an itchy trigger finger, so it was time to get some answers. “Who are you lot, anyway?” he asked.
“We should be askin’ you that.”
“We’re visitors. Looking for someone. Whatever little spat you’ve got going on here, it’s no business of ours.”
“Lookin’ for someone? Who?”
“Feller named Almore Roke. You know him?”
There were exclamations of surprise and horror and a clatter of rifles being primed. Frey stared nervously at the cluster of barrels pointed at his head. “I take it you do?” he said, his voice small.
“I knew they was in league with Roke!” one of the men said.
“I’m not in league with anybody!” Frey babbled rapidly. “I’m after a man called Harvin Grist. I heard Roke used to be on his crew. He might know where Grist is. I just want information, that’s all! No need for the guns! No need for the guns!”
There was silence as they considered him. Frey was aware that his credibility in Trinica’s eyes may well have suffered following his less-than-manly display, but he decided he’d rather be alive than brave.
“They’re mercs!” piped up a high voice. Frey saw the skinny boy who had lured