The Clockill and the Thief Page 7

  Admittedly, the Fixer had saved Sin from Eldritch and sold him back to COG, but that was business – it didn’t mean Sin would be spared a second time when he walked into the lion’s den. The more Sin thought about it, the more perilous this reunion seemed, and he wished he’d come alone, or with the added backup of Staff MacKigh, as the Major had initially suggested. But someone in COG was still helping Eldritch, and they couldn’t be sure it wasn’t the Sergeant. Besides, bringing a fully-trained COG agent into his lair might be viewed by the Fixer as a threat, and that wouldn’t end well.

  Sin lifted his gaze to Zonda. “When we meet the Fixer, let me do the talking,” he said.

  Zonda pretended to lock her mouth and throw away the key. “I’ll be as silent as the grave,” she mumbled through closed lips.

  “And don’t promise him anything, don’t threaten him, and whatever you do, don’t back down.”

  “How can I promise him anything if I’m keeping my mouth shuteroo?”

  Sin rested his hands on his knees, the broad striped cotton of his trousers soft beneath his fingers. “The Fixer’s got a way of wheedling things out of you. Before you know it, you’ve given away a secret, done a deal or signed your soul over.”

  “Is that what you did? Made a deal with the devil?” Zonda leaned forwards, a slight frown on her face.

  “The Fixer ain’t the devil.” Sin’s hands flexed, gripping his legs. “He’s worse. Least Lucifer was once an angel. The Fixer, he ain’t never been good.”

  “He can’t be all bad. He saved your life.”

  “More times than you know. In the Fixer’s eyes that means he owns you.”

  Zonda drummed her fingers on the felt-covered dome of her bowler hat. “Are you scared of seeing him again?”

  “It would be a foolish man who walked into the Fixer’s lair and wasn’t scared.”

  “Well, I’m not a man,” said Zonda.

  Steam hissed from below the steamtram, and with a screech of rubber on metal it shuddered to a halt. Sin rose to his feet and offered Zonda his hand. “And you’re not scared, and that worries me.”

  The evening’s smog had been patchy on the main thoroughfares traversed by the steamtram, thin curling wisps to be pushed aside by the trundling beast. Now that they walked the narrow backstreets, enclosed between high stone walls and towering buildings, the nebulous clouds became thicker.

  Sin stopped and secured his goggles over his eyes. From beneath his bowler he removed a leather and brass respirator. “Hanley’s Hats is up ahead,” he said. “You don’t want to breathe the fumes from their glue.” He strapped the mask over his nose and mouth and waited for Zonda to do the same.

  A little further on, the smog took on a greenish tinge, an unhealthy concoction of smoke and noxious gas being pumped by massive bellows from the milliner’s factory. The cloying fumes tingled the exposed skin on Sin’s face. This was merely the by-product of an industrial process, not something intentionally created for harm. What must it be like to be a soldier cowered in a muddy trench in Fromagia, waiting for the explosion of a Teutonian shell that would envelop you in an unseen cloud designed to melt your skin and scour your lungs?

  The worst of the poisonous clouds behind them, they neared their destination. With its white mortar walls, twisted oak beams and bottle-glass windows, the exterior of The Bear Pit had a picture postcard feel to it. However, as many a tourist had found to their detriment, the clientele was anything but quaint. It was Coxford’s oldest and most dangerous pub. Some fifty years had passed since the last bear had been savaged in the arena, yet the pit remained in use, the noble beasts being replaced with a cheaper and more expendable commodity.

  “Stay close.” Sin lifted his goggles and stowed his respirator under his hat. Straightening his back, he pushed the metal-studded door open. A maelstrom of revelry washed over him, followed by the familiar scent of stale beer, stale bodies and stale vomit. His lips curled into a grin; he hadn’t realised how much he’d missed the place.

  A seething mob thronged around the bear pit, where two brutes, stripped to the waist, battered and bludgeoned each other. Nearer the bar a chaotic group of revellers chugged ale like there was no tomorrow. Given The Bear Pit’s reputation, for some of them, there wouldn’t be.

  “Oh my hat,” said Zonda, the squeak of her voice nearly drowned out by the ruckus.

  “Follow my lead.” Sin squared his shoulders and walked towards the crowd. “KNIFE IN YOUR BACKS!” he shouted. Like Moses and the Red Sea, the mob miraculously parted, making a pathway to a low-arched door at the rear of the bar. Sin walked between the rabble of ruffians, cutthroats and drunks with a deliberate gait, staring down any who dared meet his eye and nodding to a few of the more important faces.

  Sin had proven himself to be a tough as nails scrapper on the streets, but he wasn’t naive enough to think the patrons were scared of him. While acting as the Fixer’s lieutenant he’d had status – disrespecting Sin meant disrespecting the Fixer. That wasn’t something you did in the man’s own lair, not if you wanted to leave in one piece. Although Sin was no longer in the Fixer’s employ, there was enough of a grey area about his standing to give people pause.

  The door swung open and Sin ducked inside, followed by Zonda. Tapestries and stolen paintings hung on the rough stone walls, while around the room a king’s ransom of shiny treasures sparkled in the light radiating from a roaring fire.

  An ogre-sized thug slammed the door closed and with an ominous clank slid the heavy iron bar back into place. His name was Johnny Knuckles and he’d been the Fixer’s enforcer since before Sin had joined the gang.

  “You want me to search them?” said Knuckles, his deep voice thudding around the sealed chamber.

  “No need. We’re all friends here,” said the Fixer, rising from behind an antique desk strewn with papers. His pockmarked face stretched into a wry smile. “Sin, me boy, I’ve been expecting you.”

  Of course he had. There wasn’t much that happened in the city that the Fixer didn’t know about, which was precisely the reason they’d come.

  “I’m not your boy any more,” said Sin. “Nimrod saw to that.”

  The Fixer slid alongside Sin and put a hand on his shoulder. “Nimrod may have paid me for services rendered, but you’ll always be my boy.” The Fixer’s grip tightened, the gesture more threatening than friendly. “Even those that betray me are my boys, right up to the moment I send them to our good Lord.”

  Sin swallowed, and his stomach constricted. “I didn’t betray you, Fixer, I had no choice.”

  “There’s always a choice, even if that choice is death.”

  Sin’s body tensed at the silken whisper of a knife sliding from the Fixer’s sleeve. He couldn’t stand up to his old boss, and he couldn’t escape. Better to accept the blade between the ribs and let it be quick and clean. He just hoped they’d let Zonda go free, or at least ransom her safely back to Nimrod for a tidy sum.

  The Fixer’s arm flashed forwards, and the knife squelched into Johnny Knuckles’ throat. The monstrous bouncer’s eyes looked down at the blade in disbelief, then he crumpled to the floor, gurgling.

  The faintest of yelps escaped Zonda’s lips.

  Releasing Sin’s shoulder, the Fixer placed a boot on the dead man’s face and tugged the knife free. “See, Johnny had a choice. He could have chosen not to tell the Red Blades you were back in the city. Instead he chose death. Simple, really, ain’t it?” He wiped the bloodied steel on Johnny’s jerkin, then vanished the knife beneath his jacket. “So, how can I help my favourite lieutenant?”

  Sin relaxed, but only slightly; you didn’t let your guard down around the Fixer. Johnny Knuckles’ twitching body was proof enough of that.

  “The man who skewered me with a sword. The one you saved me from. He’s back in town.”

  The Fixer nodded. “You want me to kill him?”

  It was an interesting question. Things would be a lot simpler and safer if Sin let his old boss handle it. But Major C wa
nted Eldritch alive. Then again, the Major wasn’t the one with a vindictive assassin on his tail. Eldritch and the Major had been friends in the Steam Cavalry. Maybe that was why the Major wanted Eldritch captured and not killed, why he was prepared to put Sin in the line of fire to do so. Sin’s gaze flicked to Zonda, who stood rigid beside him, her face pale as an icy dawn. No, the Major had assigned Zonda to the mission, too. He wouldn’t risk his daughter’s life simply to save Eldritch, of that Sin was sure.

  “We just need to know where to find him,” said Sin. “We can manage the rest.”

  The Fixer sucked in a breath through the side of his mouth and tilted his head back. It was a gesture with which Sin was well acquainted. A prelude to an expression of how difficult and, consequently, costly the task in question would be.

  “Finding Eldritch isn’t going to be easy.” The Fixer rubbed his face where the pockmarked scarring was particularly deep.

  Sin smiled. He’d not mentioned Eldritch by name. “Come on, boss. I’d be deeply disappointed if you didn’t already know his whereabouts.”

  “You’ve got me there, boy.” The Fixer clapped Sin on the back. “I have my reputation, mind. People will think I’ve gone soft if I start doing favours for free. Doubly so if it’s for one of my own who left me. Quid pro quo. You know the rules.”

  Zonda turned to face the Fixer. “Whatever you want, we’ll do it. It’s imperative we find Eldritch.”

  The villain’s eyes widened, gleaming brighter than his gold-toothed grin.

  Sin thrust an arm across Zonda, pushing her backwards. Too late – the damage was done. “She didn’t mean it, Fixer, she don’t know the rules.”

  “That doesn’t matter. A deal’s a deal. My word is my bond, as the good Lord taught us.” The Fixer rubbed his hands together, a look of delight on his face. “And her words were whatever you want, we’ll do it.”

  Unlike the sharks that patrolled the ceiling of Sin’s room, Zonda’s walls were decorated like a tropical reef. The aquariums recessed into the coral were populated with glowing plants that swayed rhythmically, as if gripped in a pulsing tide. Luminous fish darted and dived among the rippling seaweed. The impression created was that of a mysterious undersea grotto. A design touch that, since their narrow escape from drowning in the lake, Sin found unappealing. He tapped at the aquarium glass and a large lobster scuttled away. “I told you not to promise the Fixer anything.”

  “I didn’t know I was. I thought we’d have to shake on it or something.” Zonda paced the hotel room, fiddling with a leather strut on her armoured bodice.

  “The Fixer don’t do the shaking hands thing. Says that’s for the gentry, who ain’t likely to slip a knife in your ribs while you’re up close.”

  “So, what do we do?”

  Sin slumped into a chair. “I guess we break into the stronghold of the gang that wants to kill me, find their boss and deliver the Fixer’s message.”

  “You make it sound so simple.”

  “Nothing to it. I survived the house of a thousand deaths, I’ll survive this.”

  Zonda bit her lip, chewing at the skin. “I always die horribly in the house of a thousand deaths.”

  “Which is why you’re not coming with me.”

  “What do you mean I’m not coming?” Zonda stopped pacing and glared at Sin.

  “This is what I do. I’ve had a lifetime of training on the streets,” said Sin. “I can take care of myself, but I can’t be watching your back. I couldn’t save you in the house of a thousand deaths and I might not be able to save you in the Red Blade’s tower.”

  “That’s not fair. This is my fault. I got you into this.”

  “Eldritch got me into this. The Fixer weren’t never going to give us the information for free. It’s just the price of doing business.” That was only partly true. They were always going to have to cut a deal with the Fixer. However, Zonda’s rash words had let the Fixer name his own price, and it was a high one.

  Sin slid from the chair and stood in front of Zonda. He wanted to tell her how much he cared for her. Like he’d never cared for anyone before. She was his best friend, maybe even more than that. He forced down the words that struggled to escape his throat; now wasn’t the time. Perhaps if he survived the next few days, he could be more honest, but until Eldritch was dealt with neither of them needed the distraction. “Besides, when I say you’re not coming with me that doesn’t mean we don’t require your specialist skills.”

  “We?” Zonda echoed.

  There was a knock at the door and Stanley sidled into the room. “You wanted to see me, brother?”

  Putting an arm around Stanley’s bony shoulder, Sin said, “Long story short, I need to break into Red Band.”

  Stanley let out a long, low whistle. “You don’t do things by half, do you?”

  “Fixer’s orders.”

  “This ain’t a COG thing?” Stanley shrugged away from Sin. “’Cos I’m done with the old life. New leaf an’ all that.”

  “It’s kind of a COG thing. The Major’s cleared it.”

  “It’s supposed to be a secret mission.” Zonda stepped between the boys.

  Sin didn’t make friends easily. Before he joined COG, he didn’t have any friends at all. At the palace Stanley had always had Sin’s back; other than Zonda he was the only person Sin considered a true friend. “There’s no way to break into Red Band without making an impossible climb,” Sin told Zonda.

  “And I’m the best monkey-man in the business,” boasted Stanley.

  When Sin had been in the Fixer’s gang, they’d always used Spider Evans as their monkey-man. The Fixer was miserly with his money, except when it came to business; then he never compromised. Stanley was an excellent climber, but Sin needed to be sure he was up to the challenge. “The only person I ever heard tell of climbing Red Band was Spider Evans.”

  “Spider Evans was full of horse-dung,” Stanley scoffed. “He never climbed Red Band. Not to the top, anyways. Like you say, the climb’s impossible.”

  “If it can’t be climbed, why do we need you?” challenged Zonda.

  “It’s only impossible until somebody does it.” Stanley thumped a fist against his chest. “And with the aid of some specialist equipment, that somebody is going to be me.”

  “Nimrod’s footing the bill,” said Sin. “The Major’s already sent Mr Clark with some of the items we requested. I can tweet for more. What do you need?”

  “This ain’t off the shelf stuff. I’ll have to pull in a few markers.” Stanley took a finely engraved pocket watch from his jerkin and flicked it open. “Shouldn’t take more than a couple of hours, tops, to get it sorted. I’ll meet you by Gallows Mound at midnight.”

  Sin adjusted his pack and slunk deeper into the shadow of the gallows. Across the cobbled market square loomed the Red Blades’ fortress. It had once been a cannon tower, defending the city, until Coxford had grown beyond its boundaries and technology had rendered fixed guns obsolete. Some thirty feet in diameter, there were no windows and only one door at the base of the thick stone walls. Designed to withstand a prolonged assault, the door was not an option for entry.

  The rough granite walls would have made for an uncomplicated climb if it wasn’t for a band of smooth iron encircling the midsection of the tower. Some fifty feet above the ground, and three times the height of a man, the rusted red metal gave the tower its name, and ensured a climbing assault was impossible. Or impossible until now, Sin hoped.

  Stanley stole into the shadows. On his back, a small mechanical rucksack the size of a beer crate let out a trickle of steam. Four circular brassanium and Indian rubber discs occupied the sides of the pack, a sturdy handle attached to each. Hoses trailed from the centre of the discs to the back panel of the device, where a conspicuous dent marred the moulded litanium.

  “Where’d you get it?” said Sin, rapping his knuckles against the machine.

  “Previous owner no longer needed it.”

  A trickle of steam escaped a pressure
gauge that didn’t sit quite flush because of the dent.

  “No longer needed it because it was damaged?” said Sin.

  “Sort of. You know how I’m the best monkey-man in the business?” asked Stanley.

  “You may have mentioned it once or twice.”

  “This belonged to Spider Evans, whose position I took. It’s sort of a dead man’s shoes thing.”

  Sin ran his fingers over the device. The litanium was pleasantly warm from the microboiler contained within. “And he taught you how to use this?”

  “Not exactly. Let’s say I’m hoping to learn from his mistake.” Stanley reached behind him and grabbed the handle of one of the plates. He handed it to Sin and took another one for himself. “You press this tight against the metal, then operate the vacuum.” With his thumb, he depressed a lever on the handle. The plate hissed and the rubber pipe jerked. “It’s safe as houses until you release the switch, or the boiler fails.”

  Sin activated his own plate and felt it twitch in his hands.

  “What’s the red button for, and why don’t I have one?” said Sin, gesturing to the clamp in Stanley’s hand.

  “That’s for emergencies. Don’t worry about it.”

  Sin quashed the urge to question Stanley further. He wanted to know how often Stanley had used the device and how the dent in the litanium had come about. However, he had a feeling Stanley would dodge the question, much as he had done with the red button.

  Sin replaced the disc, clipping it onto the pack. He rested a hand on Stanley’s shoulder. “Before we start, I just need to check . . .”

  Stanley brushed his hand away. “It ain’t natural. It’s not how I work.”

  “But it’s how I work. So, did you put it on?”