Savage City, page 20
Florin, speaking in a voice that was little louder than a breath, whispered a single word into the guard’s ear.
‘Anything?’
The man shrugged.
Florin squinted into the night, all of his senses straining. Katerina had agreed to let out a single shriek as she allowed herself to be taken. But there hadn’t been so much as a muffled cry or more than a hint of movement in the grey stew of the fog.
Maybe Lorenzo had been mistaken, Florin thought. Maybe he’d just dropped the thread.
Maybe.
In spite of Katerina’s strictest instructions, he pushed past the sentry and into the street itself. Nothing moved. The only change that had taken place since darkness had fallen, was the new smell that had insinuated itself into the rotten stench of the street. It was acrid, and curiously inorganic, like the chemicals that wafted around the engravers’ district.
Florin held out his hand in front of his face and realised that he couldn’t see it.
Ah, to the hells with it, he thought. This is madness.
‘Katerina,’ he called, his voice sounding defiantly loud after the hours of silence.
There was no answer, and Florin silently scolded himself for the twinge of panic that flared in his chest. After all, he’d only been told off by her a few moments ago.
‘Katerina!’ he repeated, raising his voice as he marched purposefully across the street. ‘The fog’s too damned thick. We’ll try this another night.’
Still no answer.
‘You might as well speak up,’ Florin said, then paused as his fingers brushed against the wall on the opposite side of the street. The wall she should have been standing against. ’I’m going to keep talking. Why not call me an idiot now and have done with it?’
He tried to keep his voice light as he felt his way along the wall, fingertips trailing along the damp surface.
‘Come on, Katerina. I’m serious.’
Silence.
‘This isn’t funny,’ he said, voice sharpening with anger.
He glared around into the darkness, brows furrowed. Then he looked downwards, his gaze drawn by the suggestion of something pale lying on the ground.
He knelt down beside the patch of colour and brushed a fingertip across it. When he realised what it was, that unfamiliar tug of panic returned; the terrifying sense of a world sliding out of control.
The thing on the ground was Katerina’s woollen shawl.
‘Katerina!’
Florin bellowed out her name. But although he cried out so loudly that something seemed to tear in his throat, the only response as the fog swallowed her name was some distant barking.
Across the street, the gates swung open and the swirling currents of the fog began to glow in the light of a torch. It illuminated both Lorenzo, who carried it, and the crowd of unhappy faces that followed him. The men’s heads seemed to float like disembodied apparitions in the liquid sea of fog.
‘What’s up, boss?’ Lorenzo asked, slipping back into the honorific of their first acquaintance.
‘She’s gone!’ Florin wailed, eyes wide in the darkness.
‘Which way?’
Florin was about to swear at his comrade for asking such a damn fool question. Then he paused. In the torchlight he could see the timber frame that Katerina had been waiting by. It was perhaps a dozen paces away from where he’d found her shawl, which suggested that she had been taken in that direction.
Katerina had planned to leave a trail of markers, just in case they did lose her, but the shawl wasn’t one of them.
Unless, of course, it was.
For one agonised moment, Florin balanced on a razor’s edge of indecision. Then he snapped out his judgement.
‘I think it’s this way. Lorenzo and the first six, you come with me. Butcher, take your lot the other way in case I’m wrong.’
‘Shall we douse the torches, like Katerina said?’ the Butcher asked, his earnest face shining with moisture.
‘No, damn that. In fact, damn all of it. Let’s just get her back.’
‘Right you are.’ The big man nodded happily, and without a further word the two groups pelted off into the murk in desperate search for their missing leader.
Within seconds, Florin came upon a new dilemma, in the shape of a crossroads. Seizing a torch from one of the men, he rushed over to one of the roads and, bent double, started to search the muddy ground for any clue as to which way Katerina’s captors had gone.
But despite the slurried condition of the Sump’s unpaved roads there was no sign. One footprint looked the same as another, and there were none of the scraps of cloth Katerina had planned to drop.
Florin turned back to where his men waited and cursed. There weren’t enough of them as it was, and he knew that if he divided them up again, even if they did find Katerina’s captors, they’d be hard pressed to do anything about it.
Once more there was that painful moment of uncertainty. Once more, Florin decided on the least worst course of action.
‘Right, there’s no sign of her. We’re going to split up. You three go left, you three go right, and me and Lorenzo will go forwards. If you see anything, especially if you find one of her markers, start making a noise. We might end up close enough to help each other. All right?’
The men muttered their assent and headed off.
One of them paused before the night swallowed him up to call something back over his shoulder.
‘Go with the Lady,’ he said, and the call echoed back from the other group.
But Florin didn’t hear them. He and Lorenzo had already gone, pelting down the street ahead.
Within moments they came to another junction. Florin wiped a sheen of sweat and mist from his forehead and groaned miserably.
There was no way they’d be able to find anybody in this rat-run. No way at all.
And anyway, who could be sure that the filthy things that had taken Katerina would use the street? They’d shown a horrible cockroach skill in scurrying up to the rooftops. Maybe they were racing from one row of thatch to the next even now, with Katerina’s body grasped in their filthy claws, razored teeth slavering at the thought of how sweet her flesh would taste…
No, he told himself. Don’t think about that now.
‘Lorenzo,’ he said, almost pleading. ‘what are we going to do?’
‘Keep on going,’ the older man replied promptly.
‘Yes, but where? Every twenty feet there’s another road.’
‘Just keep going,’ Lorenzo said, sounding strangely confident, ‘and have faith in the Lady.’
Even in the midst of his panic, Florin felt his mouth drop open in amazement.
‘Don’t tell me that you’ve bought all that stuff too?’ he asked, not quite believing what his cynical old villain of a friend had just said.
Lorenzo just shrugged. ‘What else can we do?’ he asked, and led off.
What else indeed, Florin thought, and set off into the darkness after him.
Rafael followed Wallaf reluctantly back into the tangled streets of the Sump. Not content with vomiting all over the place on the way to the cart, their captive had even soiled himself when they’d finally rolled him over the tailgate.
Despite his good nature, it had all been too much for Rafael. He’d given the dirty swine a good beating before setting out again. The fact that the victim had remained unconscious throughout meant that it had only taken a moment, and that was just as well. As soon as they’d dropped their charge off, Wallaf was itching to be away.
Personally, Rafael couldn’t see the point in the rush. They wouldn’t get any more gold for carrying more bodies than anybody else. Not that Wallaf had the brains to realise this. Even now, the idiot seemed almost on the verge of breaking into a run.
‘Wallaf,’ Rafael whispered, catching up with his comrade and laying a hand on his arm.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing. But let’s go a bit slower. I’ve got something in my boot.’
‘All right. I’ll wait while you take it out, but hurry up.’
Despite the impatience in his voice the slaver came to a stop and Rafael cursed silently. Now he was going to have to go through the pantomime of removing his boot.
‘Just a minute then,’ he whispered, trying not to sound too miserable. Leaning against one wall, he fumbled about with his buckle, wondering how long he should draw this out for. But even as Wallaf began to complain about the delay, both men heard the clatter of approaching footsteps.
They didn’t need to discuss how to respond. Whoever was coming was obviously both healthy and alert. He wasn’t alone, either. Barely a second after the two slavers had heard his footsteps, another set joined them.
Although, thought Rafael as he sidled up against the wall, maybe that wasn’t a bad thing. After all, who would run through a blinding night like this? A thief, perhaps, or an assassin.
Whoever he was, he was obviously being chased by the second man.
Rafael laid a hand on Wallaf’s arm, his whisper almost inaudible beneath the clattering feet of the approaching men.
‘We’ll let the first man go past and then grab the one who’s following him,’ he suggested, his breath warm in Wallaf’s ear.
‘I don’t know…’ his comrade said, shaking his head. ‘I mean, why bother?’
Rafael almost told the truth, which was that a fresh captive would give them an excuse to go back to the wagon, where they could hang round until the night’s work was finished.
But, knowing Wallaf’s predilections as he did, he realised that another reason was needed.
‘Remember the boss said he’d pay extra for independent captures?’
‘Only if they didn’t bring any trouble.’
‘This won’t bring trouble. Anyway, think of what a gold crown would buy at Madame Gourmelon’s.’
Wallaf thought. As he did so, the currents of the fog began to glow a muddy orange as the running man’s torch came into range. He lowered his eyes and waited in silence as the man stumbled around a pothole and bolted blindly past him.
‘All right,’ he hissed, reaching a sudden decision. ‘We’ll take the second one.’
‘Good. I’ll trip him, and when he’s down you give him a whack on the head.’
Wallaf rumbled his assent as the second set of footsteps approached. They were slower than the first, and even through the fog-quilted air, the slavers could hear the painful wheezing of their target’s breath.
He sounds exhausted, Rafael thought. Excellent.
And with that he slunk forward to intercept the slowing runner.
He intercepted him sooner than he’d intended to. This one wasn’t carrying a torch, so Rafael had nothing to go on but his sense of hearing. Unfortunately, sound was little more reliable than sight in the reeking stew of the fog, and before Rafael could turn to grapple with him, his victim had run into him. The accidental impact knocked Rafael to the ground and tore a cry of pain from his lungs.
Even so he had the presence of mind to grab the runner around the legs as he collapsed. The man cursed as he fell, then yelled something out into the night. When the two of them hit the ground he too called, summoning Wallaf. Somehow, the idiot seemed to have gotten lost in the fog.
A fist clipped his shoulder, a lucky shot that would have knocked him senseless had it connected, and Rafael cried out again.
‘Wallaf!’
Even as he called, he heard the sibilant hiss of steel being drawn inches from his ear.
Adrenaline exploded through his system and he snatched upwards. His fingers found scrawny biceps above bony elbows and he tightened his grip, surprised at how small his victim was.
But even though there was no bulge of muscle, his opponent was damnably strong. He twisted and turned, wriggling like a netted eel, and even as Rafael felt his grip loosening, a knee jabbed into his side.
‘Wallaf!’ he called again, desperation tightening his voice into a scream.
And there, suddenly, was the shape of a saviour. Looming up through the fog he blundered towards the two struggling men, his form a faceless blur in the fog-smeared light of a sodden torch.
Rafael opened his mouth to tell the imbecile to hurry up when he realised that Wallaf didn’t carry a torch.
With a sudden burst of energy, he released his would-be victim’s arms and kicked him away, scrabbling to his feet as he did so. The flare of a torch swung past his left ear and he sprang away from it, felted boots slipping on the cobbles as he turned to run.
Before he could escape, bony fingers closed around his ankles and yanked them from under him. He shrieked as he fell, Wallaf’s name once more on his lips. This time, though, it was more of a curse than a plea.
The filthy coward had obviously deserted him.
Rafael didn’t manage to break his fall.
Instead he broke his elbow.
It cracked on a cobblestone, shattering as easily as frost, and he screamed with pain. Tears spilled from his eyes as he rolled onto his back, and unconsciousness hovered nearby, as seductive as a soft bed after a hard day.
He fought the lure of oblivion and scrabbled back to his feet. But it was already too late. Strong hands seized his weakening limbs, and the blur of knuckles ended both his struggles and his pain.
‘I think that he’s awake,’ Florin said, prodding their captive with the toe of his boot. He lay on the broken cobbles where he had fallen, as still as a corpse apart from the trickle of blood that leaked from his nose.
‘I don’t know,’ Lorenzo frowned and bent down to check the man’s bonds. They had used the rope that they’d found coiled around his waist to tie him up. It wasn’t until they’d done so that they realised that, concealed beneath the hemp, the slaver had also been carrying three sets of manacles.
Florin toyed with one of them now, the clink of the chain links the clearest thing in the murky torch light.
‘He’s awake. Notice how awkwardly he’s lying? If he was unconscious he’d have rolled into a more comfortable position.’
The two men studied Rafael’s rigid form suspiciously.
‘Perhaps you killed him,’ Lorenzo said, and kicked the captive thoughtfully. ‘Why did you have to hit him so hard?’
‘The thing was,’ Florin said, sarcastically, ‘that if I’d let him kill you I’d have missed your sunny disposition.’
Lorenzo spat into the fog. ‘That’s true,’ he allowed.
For a moment, the two men stood in contemplative silence, the only sound the clinking of the manacles Florin was toying with.
‘Well,’ Florin said what both of them had been thinking. ‘There’s no doubt about him being one of the kidnappers, but I don’t see any sign of whiskers or a tail.’
‘Maybe the rat-things work in partnership with men?’
‘No.’ Florin shook his head. ‘That wouldn’t happen. Who’d trust such revolting creatures?’
Lorenzo grimaced. ‘You mean the humans or the monsters?’
Florin glanced at him and winked. ‘See what I mean?’ he said. ‘How would I have survived without such sweet-natured observation? Anyway, we’ve got no time for this. Let’s wake our friend up and ask him some questions.’
‘If he’s wakeable.’
‘Oh, he’s wakeable all right,’ Florin decided. His face hardened as he got down on his haunches beside the man and, despite the fact that the miserable wretch had probably had a hand in Katerina’s disappearance, he had to steel himself for what he was about to do.
‘Hey you,’ he said, waving the torch back and forth over the man’s determinedly shut eyes. ‘Wake up.’
Rafael remained still. There was no way he was going to give up his desperate attempt to avoid the unpleasantness that was to come. He was debating whether or not to start snoring when Florin addressed him again.
‘Wake up,’ he said, ‘or I’ll cut your ear off.’
The slaver swallowed, then cursed himself for the lapse. Could his captors have seen his adam’s apple rise and fall? Would they…
The touch of a knife, the steel as cold as the grave, silenced his thoughts. It rested on the sensitive skin in the fold between ear and scalp, and almost as soon as he was aware of what it was, Rafael could feel the sting of its first, tiny cut.
‘Don’t hurt me,’ he whined, eyes snapping open. Two figures, made large by his terror, loomed over him. He whimpered at the sight of them and his bladder loosened.
The one holding the knife wasn’t so bad. It was his comrade. His features, distorted by the torch-lit glow of the fog, seemed scarcely human.
‘Please don’t let your goblin hurt me either,’ Rafael whimpered. The whites of his eyes shone with tears as he gazed at Lorenzo, as petrified as a rat caught in a cobra’s glare.
‘Charming,’ Lorenzo muttered, but Florin wasn’t to be distracted.
‘You’ve got something of ours,’ he told his captive, his face a careful blank, ‘and we want it back.’
‘No, I haven’t,’ Rafael jabbered. ‘No. Not me. I‘m no thief! I was just out to get some air when your… your friend ran into me. It’s all been a mistake. A terrible mis–’
‘Be quiet,’ Florin told him. ‘Just tell us where you’ve taken the woman you snatched, and I’ll let you live.’
A dozen stratagems rushed through Rafael’s head, each wilder than the last. Why did things like this always have to happen to him?
‘Of course, the longer it takes you to tell me, the less you’ll want to live,’ said Florin and, with a sudden turn of his wrist, he sliced a strip of flesh from the top of his captive’s ear.
Rafael screamed, a surprisingly shrill sound for a man. Then, when he’d finished screaming, he started to sob.
Florin and Lorenzo looked on, unmoved.
‘Now then,’ Florin said, the calmness of his voice giving no clue to the burning impatience which beat in his chest. ‘Tell me where she is.’
