Chaos Born Page 3

  Orella was usually in bed by this time of night, but the dim light said she might be open, if you dared to knock and disturb her. I debated popping my head in to say hello, but the light blinked out and I reminded myself the night was slipping away. Retrieving a key from my belt, I unlocked Blackgoat’s heavy door and stepped in.

  The interior was dim, lit by a gas lamp turned down low. Blackgoat’s storefront lay before me in tones of mulberry and teak. A glass counter displayed rows of daggers, while swords and shields adorned the walls alongside wall paintings of a variety of gods. A kitchen and courtyard branched off to the left, while a staircase sat at the opposite side of the room, stretching to the second floor.

  The Runners who worked for Gideon had turned the store into something of a lair, hanging out to play cards and gossip about jobs. Gideon had tried several times to shoo them away, concerned they’d frightened off customers. But mercenaries could be quite thick when the situation demanded it and Gideon didn’t have the heart to put his hoof down. Not to mention Orella’s habit of appearing at lunchtime with batches of spicy chicken gumbo to feed anyone who wanted a meal.

  Stashing my shopping behind the counter, I slung the retrieved satchel over my shoulder and pulled myself up the polished banister to the second floor landing. A short corridor led to an empty antechamber and a closed door. I thumped on it and there was a snort on the other side.

  “Lora. Is that you? Get in here.”

  Opening the door, I stepped inside. Gideon’s office was windowless and painted the colour of boiled asparagus. Dusty shipping collectables and novelty skeleton heads sat on high shelves and books were scattered in untidy piles on a faded rug. A small day bed was pushed against one wall, covered in unfiled contracts and crumpled sweet wrappers. A couple of armchairs with overstuffed cushions sat in front of his desk and a greasy oil lamp burnt sullenly, highlighting the tangled stew of paper and files.

  Gideon sat behind the mess in a high-backed, leather chair. He wore a smoking jacket and a cherry-red fez tilted to the side. A fluffy quill twitched between his hairy fingers, a pair of half-moon glasses perched precariously on his stub of a nose. A steaming china cup sat beside the oil lamp and the gentle fragrance of hot chocolate made my mouth water. I dropped the satchel on the desk. Gideon put down his quill with a sigh and opened it.

  Though he was a full-blood satyr, Gideon had put in considerable effort over the years to blend with human citizens. His twisted goat horns had been amputated and the stumps covered with a wild nest of steel-wool hair. Contacts had converted his slit pupils to a round shape, and surgery had given him a stub of a nose, rather than the flat two nostrils typical for his breed. Gideon liked to think he could pass for human, and therefore service a higher class of clientele. After all, respectable citizens did not associate with dirty full bloods or otherkin. No one had the heart to tell Gideon his disguise wasn’t fooling anyone.

  “Did you have any trouble?” His voice was full of growls and clicks.

  Flopping down on one of the overstuffed wing armchairs, I hugged a soft cushion to my chest. “No more than expected.” I told a half-truth. My expectations were always low.

  Gideon peered at me over the rim of his glasses. “How was the trip?”

  “I shopped. Got some nice things.”

  He gave a snort of disbelief, as if he considered it impossible to get nice things in the Outland, and peered into the satchel. “You checked everything was accounted for?”

  “Of course.” I ticked the items off my fingers. “Prayer beads, a small diary with rather boring entries, and a silver ring with the emblem of a skull wearing a crown.”

  Gideon pulled the diary out and flicked through it. I closed my eyes and rested my head back in the chair, enjoying being off my feet. The contents of the pouch were insignificant, considering what Gideon’s bill was going to amount to. He had an account with the tollbooth operators that entitled him to a discount, but it was still a price beyond most citizens. I figured rich folk could be as eccentric as they liked. As long as I got paid, I didn’t care to dirty the waters with questions.

  “It’s all here,” Gideon said. “Dare I ask what happened to Roper?”

  “I let him go.” I kept my eyes closed. Gideon could read me pretty well and I wasn’t keen on sharing what had really happened. I waited a moment, then opened my eyes, covering a yawn with a hand. Gideon made a fluttering motion at me. “You look exhausted. Go home and get some rest. Tomorrow at noon we meet the client at the Brown Bear Saloon. I want you there.”

  “What?” I sat up quickly. “Why do I need to be there?”

  Gideon picked his quill back up and continued writing. “Don’t argue. It’s unbecoming.”

  I frowned. I liked getting paid, but hated meeting money. Gideon was the smooth talker and I always managed to insult someone. But I was too tired to argue tonight.

  “What are you doing?” I stood up and stretched my back.

  Gideon kept writing, not looking up. “I’m beginning a petition. Sending it to businesses in the local community.”

  Trying not to groan, I knew a lecture wouldn’t be far away if I didn’t excuse myself. Gideon’s pet project was petitioning the City Council for full-blood races to gain citizen’s rights within the city. A drum he’d been banging all my life. Not that I disagreed, but no one was going to listen to him. Things were the way they were and it was a waste of time for him to think about them and for me to listen to it. “I’m off then,” I said quickly. “See you tomorrow.”

  “Straight home, yes?” Gideon’s long fingers picked up the china cup in a dainty hold, little finger straight and all. “No side stops for a little drinky-drinky, or dice games, yes?”

  “I’m still grounded?” I asked wearily.

  “You are under curfew,” Gideon corrected, looking up at me. “Until I can arrange a sit down with Benjamin the Bloody and get the contract removed from your head. Until then, you are not to socialise. No gambling. No boozing. I mean it.”

  “Sure. I’ll go home to bed. I’m tired, anyway.” I yawned again, in what I hoped was a convincing manner.

  Gideon bent back over his letter. “See that it happens.”

  Chapter 4

  I should have headed straight home, but I had one more appointment to keep. I left my shopping bags stashed at Blackgoat and, ten minutes later, slipped into a smoky corner at Growlers Bar and Grill. My head buzzed pleasantly as I smoked a cigarillo, the warm smoke curling around my mouth, tasting of an exotic dark spice.

  Situated near the harbour and on the edges of Applecross, Growlers was a dangerous place to be in, if you were the law. Here, the beer was cheap and the City Watch stayed away from the less than legal gambling tables. It was reasonably roomy inside and a dice table sat in one corner, the bar opposite. Rough cut tables and chairs were strewn in-between and the floor was laid with sawdust to soak up any spilt beer and blood. A kitchen was out the back, but it was a rare soul who was brave enough to order from its menu.

  Tonight showed the typical trade: full of otherkin, sailors and a general scattering of degenerates. While I didn’t see anyone who would rat me out to Gideon, I kept my eyes sharp. The dice table was surrounded by a group of slick looking merchants, all playing Liar’s Dice and laughing as they swindled each other. My eyes shifted to three young men by the bar who were clearly from High Town, and had all dressed down for a dirty night out. They stood out in the crowd like broken thumbs, knuckles white around their tankards and faces fixed in tight grins.

  The cigarillo smoke warmed me against the chill of the room and I longed for a glass of good whiskey. Unfortunately, in a place like Growlers, one had to contend with the throat-stripping house beer, which I was working up the nerve to order.

  A bare-knuckled fight broke out to my left and I watched with idle interest, kneading my lame leg. The argument appeared to be over the ownership of a boat in the docks. Grunts and curses flew from spit-flecked lips and fists swung wildly, their aim hampered by dri
nk. Punters at the dice table became distracted by the entertainment and began to cheer. One enterprising fellow began collecting bets, while keeping a sharp eye on the humourless guard by the entrance.

  One of the brawling men yanked a knife from his boot and the crowd roared, turning bloodthirsty. The guard stirred and unhooked a short club from his belt. He approached the fight with a weary air of inevitability and thonked both men on the head with lightening fast blows. The men crumpled to the ground and the crowd’s cheers were cut short. People turned away with disappointed looks, while the guard stared at the crowd hopefully, tapping the club against his leg. When it became apparent that no one else wanted to cause trouble, he gave a sad little shrug and re-hooked the club to his belt. Dragging both men to the door, he casually hurled them off the second-storey balcony.

  A wind took the opportunity to fling itself through the open door, rattling the windowpanes and threatening the struggling fire by the bar. The smell of oncoming rain carried on the breeze and I inhaled deeply, enjoying the fresh sweet smell.

  “Lora?”

  With a start, I realised Caleb Haskett was standing over me. It had been a long time since we’d seen each other and age had only complimented his good looks. He took off his mud-splattered greatcoat and sat down opposite me, back placed unwisely to the room. He wore a Watchman uniform, the four gold stripes on his jacket shoulder announcing his rank as Captain. Now, Caleb always had been ambitious. Considering the nerve it took to wear his uniform in a place like this, I wondered if he’d turned stupid as well. Nervous eyes watched him and the dice game was quickly disbanded. The guard threw me an exasperated look and I flushed, wishing Caleb had the sense to be a little more discrete.

  “Thank you for meeting me Lora.” Caleb smiled. “It’s been a long time.”

  Puffing a few smoke rings, I shifted my boots to where he could see them, knowing he had always hated my love of Outland fashion. “Last time we saw each other, I recall you lecturing me about my inevitable descent to The Pit,” I said.

  He gave a short, bitter laugh. “In all fairness, Lora, you’d just killed a man in your kitchen. You’re lucky I didn’t throw you in jail. Again.”

  “In all fairness, he had it coming.”

  “The man was unarmed.”

  “The great big axe was a conversation piece?”

  “You had already disarmed him.”

  “Enough.” I took the cigarillo out of my mouth, and ground it out on the table. I’d been flattered and curious when Caleb had sent a message, requesting a meeting. He’d long since cut me out of his life. I leant back in my chair, observing him from under lowered eyelashes. Approaching middle age, Caleb still had that type of open, honest face that stood out in a crowd, especially this one. I watched as he turned in his seat, searching for the barmaid. He spied her chatting to a sailor with periwinkle blue tattoos on his arms and motioned at her with a gesture that demanded attention. Her eyes flicked to Caleb’s raised hand, and he indicated he wanted two beers. The barmaid’s eyes shifted to me. Making the forked sign of evil, she turned to the bar to get us drinks.

  I looked pointedly about the now subdued room. “Strange place to want to meet.”

  Caleb held a hand up, as if halting a barrage of questions. “I needed somewhere out of the way, I have a favour to ask. Something I want to keep unofficial.”

  “No small talk then?” I smiled. “I’m surprised you knew of this place. I thought you’d been keeping your nose clean in High Town, never to return.”

  Caleb frowned. “No one forgets where they came from. I grew up on the same streets as you.”

  “Not quite the same as me,” I murmured. Caleb’s father had been a wealthy oil import merchant who had lived in a respectable home that skirted the border of Applecross. Caleb had been a fearless kid who had loved to escape his nanny and explore. Our paths had crossed when he’d arrived one day in Abraham’s Alley, chasing a kid who’d stolen his shoes. Charmed by his clear blue eyes, I’d helped him get those expensive shoes back, though I’d gotten a cracked rib in the process. We had been friends for many years after that.

  The barmaid appeared, heaving two pewter tankards of the murky local beer. She set them down and took Caleb’s offered coin. Sneaking a sullen glance at me, she hurried away, back to the bar. Caleb wiped the rim of the tankard with his sleeve, then took a tentative sip. He grimaced, put the heavy cup down and pushed it away, lips puckered like he’d sucked a grapefruit. “Do you know the barmaid?” he asked.

  “Why?” My eyes skipped over to her automatically. She was behind the bar again, making every effort not to look at our table. I hoped she wasn’t one of Gideon’s conquests or spies.

  “She didn’t seem to like you much.” Caleb’s face was blank. “Maybe she thought you had your eye on her tattooed friend.”

  I took a long drink from my tankard, wincing as the cold, bitter taste washed down my throat. Watching Caleb over the rim, I felt irrationally annoyed he hadn’t noticed my boots. Warmth began to radiate from my chest from the strong brew. It eased the ache in my leg, which always grumbled more in winter. I could ignore Caleb’s personal attack, even though it stung. We’d had many fights after he’d joined the City Watch. He’d been forced to bail me out of jail a few times and I got tired of seeing the disappointment in his eyes when he looked at me. I placed my half-empty tankard down and gave him my best deadpan stare. “You notice her hair?”

  Caleb glanced over his shoulder, searching the room before spying her behind the bar serving drinks. “Why?”

  “Not very observant for a Constable.” I pretended I hadn’t noticed the ranking on his jacket, knowing it would rankle.

  “I’m a Captain now. I was promoted a few weeks ago and have an office in Piccano Square.”

  “Piccano Square? You don’t say.” I drained the rest of my beer then banged the tankard down. “What was in the barmaid’s hair?”

  Caleb thrust a hand through his hair, eyebrows drawing together. “Hellfires, Lora. I don’t know. Lice?”

  “Hilarious.” I found myself leaning forward, as if trying to catch his smell, something to bring back a glimpse of the past, a time when anything had seemed possible. But the air was full of sour sweat and testosterone, so I caught nothing to rush back old memories. Leaning back in my chair and feeling somewhat disappointed, I laced my fingers behind my head. “She’s got a plait, woven with black thread. Surely you remember the traditions of the craft wielders here?”

  “It’s been many years since I’ve had to think of such things,” Caleb said. “Where I come from now, magic and such dealings are considered taboo.”

  “Black thread announces she’s trained to teach darkcraft,” I reminded him. “White indicates a lightcraft teacher.”

  Caleb smiled, but the good humour fell short of his eyes. “I remember now. And no one likes poor Lora, because she’s a Witch Hunter for the Order of Guides.”

  I wondered why he was trying to piss me off. “You’re quite catty for someone who asked for this meeting. Why don’t you tell me what you want then we can both be on our way?”

  Caleb cleared his throat, the previous brashness softened by sudden uncertainty. “How does Gideon fare these days with his business? Are you still in his employment?”

  “Why?” I laughed. “Looking for night work? You don’t strike me as the type to sell your services to the highest bidder.”

  “Don’t make fun of me.” His eyes glinted in a way that made me feel uneasy. It spoke of something dark lurking just beneath the surface. I took in his furrowed brow and hard eyes and wondered what had tarnished this white knight. I had the horrible idea he was going to threaten me. I didn’t respond well to threats.

  “I wasn’t making fun,” I said carefully.

  He leant forward, elbows on the table, steepling his fingers. “I’ll be honest, Lora. I need your help. I’d do anything to—” he stopped abruptly, his jaw jamming up tight, lips thin. His eyes flashed with something I’d seen in client
s: helpless rage.

  I leant forward and placed a hand over his, relishing the warm contact. “Alright. Tell me what you need and I’ll see if I can help.”

  He removed his hand after the moment went too long. “Did you hear what happened at the Church of Saint Pendergrast?”

  I tucked my own hands into my armpits, an old comforting gesture from my childhood I never could seem to shake. As long as it wasn’t thumb sucking, I figured it was all right. “Sure,” I said. “A Regulator went bonkers in a Higher Path church. Or beserked. Or whatever it’s called. Killed a few priests. Not the first time The Order has had to clean up after their pet nephilim.”

  The crime had been a gruesome one, even for Applecross. Regulators were either hired soldiers or nephilim: creatures that were part human, part-angel and all fucking nuts. I never pried into Regulator business, or anything that smelt remotely of the ruthless order they served, the Order of Guides. The militant arm of the powerful Church of Higher Path, The Order had authority to hunt and execute craftusers who used darkcraft spells. It was a shaky law, if you ask me. Who didn’t have a use for a handy hex up their sleeve? For that matter, how did one go about proving someone used darkcraft? Sure, there were some obvious signs, like sacrificing virgins, summoning hellspawn, or wearing excessive amounts of black eyeliner. But more often than not, the line was blurry. I wasn’t particularly talented in the craft, but I knew enough darkcraft to protect myself. Did that make me guilty in The Order’s eyes? I hoped not. Their trained Witch Hunters used the craft for violence, but their style of magic was different, and stank like disinfectant.

  “Is that all you know?”

  “What else is there?”

  “I have reason to believe the Regulator was in league with a darkcraft wielder.”

  “That would be odd,” I said. “I thought nephilim were unwaveringly loyal to The Order.”

  “They are. Which is why this is unusual. Apparently there were darkcraft spells written on the floor in the priest’s blood.”