Episode Thirteen

When Dryden Heppac stole out to meet Lady Sosia Kemble, he always told his wife the same thing. He said he was visiting his friend Sebsen. It was a useful story. Sebsen was the only person to whom Dryden had confided his adultery. He was, and had almost always been, the only man Dryden trusted entirely. He would always supply an alibi if given enough notice. The story was also a credible one. Morran wouldn't believe her husband if he said he was going out to do voluntary work or night school classes or anything else of any redeemable value. She did believe that he was going to waste another few hours drinking bootleg rum, reminiscing about lost childhoods and bemoaning his fate. There were, after all, many more occasions when Dryden did genuinely call on Sebsen and do all of the above. He enjoyed these afternoons so much that the sometimes wondered why he bothered with Lady Sosia at all. Nonetheless, whenever she agreed to meet him he reduced his best friend to a mask again.
The story was useful for another reason. Morran was sharp with him before he left and even sharper when he returned. (He made sure he was always half-drunk and reeking of rum.) She wondered frequently why he couldn't manage a full day's work yet always found the energy to lift a bottle repeatedly to his lips. She lambasted idle husbands who drank through the family coffers. She raised complaints on a great many related themes. Dryden felt in some vague way that he deserved his liaisons with Lady Sosia. They were his compensation for having been cheated by life on many occasions. On a baser level, they were a way for him to treat somebody as badly as the gods had treated him. Yet he also believed, far more vividly and far more frequently, that he was doing wrong. And so he should be punished. Morran was attacking him for the wrong reason, and much more mildly than she would if she knew the truth. Nonetheless, she was given a moral superiority which she deserved.
Dryden didn't know what excuse Lady Sosia gave her husband. Or even if she bothered giving one at all. She boasted that they enjoyed an 'open relationship', whatever that mean, and had even once hinted that she told him about her lover. Dryden didn't know if this was true. He didn't really know anything which occurred before or after they met. He always contacted her to arrange the time and place but Sosia claimed the address he wrote to was owned by an 'intermediate.' That may have been the truth; or it may have been a device to prevent him ever visiting her home. He didn't know how she got to their meetings. He would surely have heard the gossip if an aristocrat's carriage was seen regularly in Jakks Way, where the smartest vehicle was usually a dray cart. Yet it was hard to imagine her walking any distance through the streets. She always arrived before and left after him mainly, he suspected, to keep him in ignorance. He didn't know a great many things about her, including why she kept meeting him.
She did, however. She had even submitted to another meeting in Kiely Alley, despite having declared the flat at that address unsatisfactory. Perhaps she thought he had overcome his qualms and agreed to pleasure her on the filthy cobbles. She followed him inside the tenement block, however, after they had exchanged their usual unaffectionate gestures. He sensed her irritation growing as he led her up the stairs. It built as the route became familiar, as it became increasingly obvious that he was taking her back to the same flat. Curiosity held her in check at first. Perhaps too a fascination that he had finally found the courage to disobey her.
With Sosia, though, petulance always triumphed eventually. When they reached the third floor landing, she stopped dead and issued a crisp,
"Heppac!"
Dryden did not turn round immediately. The landing had always fascinated him. Somebody in the past had actually tried to gentrify it, decorating the walls with murals of roses and lilies. As if it were a respectable building, as if the paintings would be lovingly retouched when they started to fade. The artwork which did come later also entertained Dryden. The words were fairly predictable but, as if to compensate, the variety of spellings were immense. One four letter noun was often attempted with only three letters, the final 'k' omitted. Presumably, like Dryden's surname, it would be pronounced 'fuch.' When Sosia was waiting for him in the flat he would always spend some time staring at the walls of the landing, another part of his mind debating furiously whether he should really enter.
"Heppac," she snapped, "Where are we going? Because I believe I made my feelings quite clear. That flat is not satisfactory." He turned but did not reply. "You were to find a place which met my needs," she continued. "Your message indicated that you had succeeded. Now I find that – and what are you smirking at, Heppac?"
"Have another look at it." He paused, then when she was about to begin another tirade added, "I've made a few improvements."
She opened her mouth but closed it again. A confused frown landed on her face. Then she nodded reluctantly. She was unbalanced. Dryden also felt dizzy as he led her to the flat, but his vertigo came from triumph. Just for a moment he had conquered her. And she was right: the thought of conquering an aristocrat was glorious. He felt himself growing stiff. And just wait until he had shown her those improvements…
They had worked remarkably quickly. Only a fortnight had passed since he gave the two beggars access to the flat. He made sure they were the right type of beggars. Not men made destitute by the fickleness of the gods and the cruelty of economics, men determined to scramble back to redemption. But ones who had drunk themselves into the gutter, who would drink whatever they could while lying there and drink away any chance of salvation. Dryden wasn't looking to give anyone a hand up. He was essentially hiring internal decorators. Still, he hadn't expected them to make quite so many changes in only a fortnight.
The stench of urine, both stale and fresh, struck him as soon as he opened the door. Most came from the rudimentary bed. Even from the doorway, Dryden could see that the tattered mattress was dark with moister. There were, however, also damp patches on the walls, a fresh pool slithering across the floor. The drunks seemed to have relieved themselves wherever they pleased. The chamberpot lay halfway across the room, upturned and empty. Presumably the sight of such a restrictive device had offended their sensibilities. Faeces was less evident in the stench but lingered there as a subtle undercurrent. As he surveyed the rest of the room. Dryden noticed a large lump in one corner and a few brown crumbs scattered around haphazardly. Then there was the vomit. It did not literally cover the ground. A few patches of relatively virgin boards still existed. There were, however, swamps of it almost everywhere, some growing old and crusty, some still possessing the slick gleam of the freshly laid. The engine of this destruction was also in evidence. Overturned flagons, scattered bottles. And a great deal of broken glass, giving the disgusting bog the tang of danger.
The drunks had done splendid work. For a moment Dryden thought they had succeeded too well. Sosia took a step back when he opened the door, pummelled by the physical force of the stench. She tiptoed forward again but her face was creased with disgust. She started shaking. For a second she swayed, as if she were going to faint. This is what the absolute bottom looks like, Dryden thought grimly. He believed she had only imagined it before.
Then whatever urge had perverted her upbringing, her basic human instincts, took over. Sosia took one long stride into the room and another. She looked around, carefully studying the destruction. To Dryden's horror she breathed in deeply, determined to experience every nuance of the bouquet. Finally she whirled round with an expression of pure delight and burst out laughing.
"Oh, Heppac!" she exclaimed. "You have done me proud."
She had always understood him. That was the rope which kept him by her heels. His own human instinct had been to rush out of the room and slam the door shut. His body was pumping bile into his throat, threatening to add another lake of vomit to the floor. When she started to laugh, however, when she gave her approval and he knew what that meant, his clockwork suddenly turned another direction. Instantly he grew stiff again.
He was on her tether… but he could pretend otherwise when he was inside her. She became his creature. And he was pushing this beast further and further downwards. This haughty, high-born, beautiful woman; he was dragging her after him as he walked through the sewer pit. As he thrust in and out viciously, he imagined the new depths he would take her to. She would become his chattel, his whore, to be sold to whatever dregs wanted her. And she squealed her delight, like the filthy animal she had become.
They avoided the urine-soaked mattress. When she lay face-down on the floor, she chose a rare patch which was untouched by any moisture. Her head was very close to a patch of vomit, however. She would have been breathing it straight into her lungs. It made her pant more heavily and squeal even louder. Perhaps next time she would be instructing him to push her across the floor though all the human emissions and they wouldn't mind when broken glass lacerated her skin. Next time, too, the flat would be overlaid with another week's filth. It would get ever more satanic and they would descend with it.
And the agents of the degradation? Dryden had ordered them out for the afternoon. He had been slightly surprised that they obeyed. Perhaps they wouldn't next week. Perhaps he wouldn't even give the instruction. That would really test this arrogant bitch wouldn't it? She had talked of screwing one beggar. How about two taking her at once while she writhed in their excrement? With Dryden watching, ordering them to treat her worst and worst… And this thought brought him to a climax impressive for a man of his age.
The two beggars didn't return that afternoon. There was another presence in the flat though. It departed as soon as the act was over, as Dryden was beginning his freefall into shame and Sosia was resuming her command over him. However, it remembered what it had seen.
Menoney was visiting Kiely Avenue to try and recover a loan. Debt collecting was far from his favourite task but his boss, Cepu Boldan, often insisted. "You tell them how much they owe," Boldan would say. "Then some of my head cases'll come round to show why they should pay it." This was, however, just Boldan trying to be humorous. He had a layered approach to reluctant debtors. First Menoney went with his limited repertoire of threats and menaces. If necessary, one of the accurately described 'head cases' followed. Occasionally Boldan would call round in person. That usually mean that the alternative to full and instant payment would be fatal.
Menoney disliked debt collecting because he believed himself too intelligent for it. He was also depressed by the depths of stupidity he encountered. If somebody had borrowed a sizeable amount of money from Cepu Boldan, couldn't they then afford anything better than a Kiely Alley dosshouse? And why didn't they realise that their most important task each month was repaying Cepu Boldan? A surprising number failed to, however, including Menoney's latest client. "Tell that fucker I've not got his money an' he can break me legs if he wants," was the response. Even when Menoney promised to relay the message verbatim and mentioned that the offer would be accepted, the man was intransigent. Oh, he was a drunk and a gambler, of course. But even dogs responded when they sensed danger approaching, even insects had instincts of self-preservation. It was disconsoling to see that some people had managed to evolve backwards. And it caused a lot of extra work.
The noises, seeping around a sloppily closed door, cut through Menoney's thoughts as he walked down the landing. He stopped. His schedule was tight but he believed he deserved a few minutes of free entertainment. He pushed the door open a little further and sidled his head round. The stench, almost as vivid as the squeals, hit him. It almost knocked him backwards. Couple of dossers going at it, he decided as he noticed the debris surrounding the bare, writhing bodies. Not that he disapproved but it never made an inspiring sight.
About to withdraw, he noticed the woman's face and checked. She was actually quite attractive, even with her eyes screwed shut and her teeth clenched. A little old but then Menoney preferred mature women. He studied her plump limbs and full, squashed breasts in admiration. He also appreciated the vigour which the couple were bringing to their act. Most beggars just seemed to get it done in as cursory and half-hearted a manner as possible. As if they really had better ways to spend their time and energy. Menoney gave the man straddling over his prey a short glance. At least, it was intended to be that. The briefest look to complete the picture before he focussed on the woman again. But it hooked something in his memory. Menoney stared more carefully, trying to reconcile the flushed, triumphant face with the meek and battered one he usually saw. He studied the image until his disbelief was finally conquered and he was sure that it was-
"Who?" Cepu Boldan snapped without looking up. He was sat in his plush office, studying a complex legal document with poorly concealed desperation.
"Dryden Heppac," Menoney repeated. "Lives on Jakks Way in one of Delpess' flats. Son's Stonnie Heppac. One of the lads we've got our eyes on."
"Yeah, I know him. What about him?"
"Well, I got a good look at the tart he was rodgering an' it sure as fuck weren't his wife."
"Ah, for fuck's sake." Boldan sat back violently and thrust the papers at Menoney. "Can you make head or tail of this crap? It's all fucking Elvish to me."
Menoney took them obediently. "What is it?"
"Property deed. Some old tosser in Ashel Street offered it up. Mr Delpess said, take it, something like that's way more valuable than gold. Except now I can't figure out what the fuck we've really got."
"Sorry, boss. I don't know the legal stuff. Get Delpess to have a look at it."
Boldan snatched the documents back. "Mr Delpess owns half the neighbourhood as it is," he said sourly. "I don't think I want him managing the other half."
Menoney noted with interest this rare show of rivalry between his boss and the landlord. "Why did the bloke give you the deeds anyway?"
"Why do you think? He couldn't make the payments. Only thing he had left to give us. Useless tosser. Which reminds me. How did you get on with your mark?"
"Yeah, we're gonna have to break his legs."
"For fuck's sake," Boldan snarled. "Is it worth chucking him out of the window?"
"Doubt it. No-one'd notice."
"Right. Fine. Have a word with one of the lads. I'll tell you this though. Next fucker worth anything who pisses us about is really gonna get it. This is happening way too often."
He bent over the property deeds again. That should have been the cue for Menoney to exit. He vacillated, however, debated with himself and finally said, " Boss, this business with Dryden Heppac-"
Boldan threw the papers across the desk. "What fucking business?" he snapped. "Why are you still banging on about that? What do I care what that old cripple does?"
"You don't think it's-"
"So he's shagging around? Good luck to him? If I were married to that fat old cow what's-her-face, I’d be doing the same."
"The other day," Menoney said patiently, "You told us to look out for blokes in the legit community we could influence. A nice bit of bribery, you said, or a nice bit of blackmail. This'd leave Heppac open to influence, don't you reckon?"
"Blokes with a bit of pull," Boldan cried. "Blokes with power. Not some clapped out old – well, whatever the fuck he used to do."
"His wife's getting friendly with those Tansons, I hear. Could get us some info on them."
"We've got Mr Delpess to give us info on the Tansons. He owns their pissing flat."
"Aye, an' what's he given us so far?" Sensing Boldan's temper about to snap completely, Menoney added quickly, "It were just a thought, boss."
"Fine. Great. Keep it up. Go have more thoughts. Go blackmail the old cripple. Go do whatever the fuck you want, just get out. I need to look at these damn deeds."
Menoney was already backing out of the room. His boss often struggled to think, at least in any patterns outside the old grooves. He tried, however. And through sheer persistence he generally succeeded eventually. That alone was what distinguished him from the role carved on his soul: a straightforward street thug. He remained one, but kept attempting not to be and often managed it. And that was gradually lifting his gang to pre-eminence amongst all the other street thugs in the locality. Plus he has me, Menoney told himself smugly.
Once Boldan stopped trying to understand legal documents and turn to what was possible, he would realise the value of Dryden Heppac. He would trudge to the point Menoney had reached instantly, guided by the markers set by his treasurer. Dryden the father of Stonnie Heppac. Dryden the neighbour of the Tansons. Two sets of people which the gang were hoping to influence and, ideally, recruit. The processes might go smoothly. However, at some point they might need a lever. Boldan would ask for one and Menoney wanted to have it already prepared and oiled. Anticipating a master's wishes: always easier if you have helped create them.
Menoney first asked a henchman to break the legs of the reluctant debtor in Kiely Alley. His next call was a little more delicate and a lot more rewarding.

Episode Twelve

When Morran's household needed fresh water, which they seemed to almost constantly, she took all the pans and buckets to the street pump herself. It used to be Dryden's task and he took an amusing amount of pleasure in carrying it out. Unlike most household duties, it felt like Man's Work. "I'm going to the pump," he would announce in the same bold tone which patriarchs in other societies used to declare that they were about to fell trees or hunt tigers. Since his back collapsed, however, Dryden no longer dared do any Man's Work. (Apart from the onerous duty, Morran added acidly, of lifting a full pint pot to his lips.) Stonnie ought to have inherited the job. But Morran found that haranguing her son into acquiescence and then ensuring that he came back with them rather than ditching them all and running off with his friends was far too onerous. It was easier to just do it herself. And it wasn't really too difficult, even though the pump was almost twenty yards down the street. Like most Jakks way women, much of her bulk was pure muscle.
Her trips to the pump were carried out very early. She had always been in the habit of rising when the sun did, which in May was around six o'clock. Immediately after dawn the air was still pleasantly cool. Sometimes she even felt a chill, a rare experience in the Cities at that time of year. And few other women shared her habits, which meant that she could get to the highly desired pump. She always derided the idle ways of her neighbours even as she thanked the Goddess Ella that she didn't have to wait in a long, sweating, grouching line of them.
Somebody else was up early this morning, however. As Morran tugged on the squeaking pump handle, sending globules of faintly cloudy water into a an, she spotted Zesheyek's husband Kriyas exiting his apartment building. She often did. He leaves before I'm awake, Zesheyek had told her, and sometimes doesn't get home until very late. Kriyas paused a moment to glance u and down the street, his usual habit. Then he turned left to head for Mistletoe Square, Dorlaf Avenue and, ultimately, Forgar. They exchanged their customary greetings as he passed the pump. Kriyas bade his neighbour good health. Morran wished him a pleasant day at work and once again resisted the temptation to demand what he actually did.
She rather liked Kriyas. He was always polite, if somewhat formal, towards her. She knew that he treated his wife decently. Zesheyek had never complained and Morran was skilled at spotting signs of abuse even among stoical wives. She wished, however, that she knew how he actually made his living. Half of Jakks Way worked in Forgar, of course, but all at the workshops. Kriyas had denied they employed him with a supercilious tone hinting that he believed he had found something better. That, together with his erratic hours, suggested he had a proper profession. Yet he was a poorly educated farm boy with no connections. He wouldn't have become a lawyer or even a clerk. He was also young, naïve, desperate for money and prone to delusions of being more cunning than he actually was. And secretive. Even though he earned very little and never returned with any blood on his clothes, Morran still though he had dropped into one of the Cities' many illicit trades.
She was pragmatic about these. Some, such as forgery or smuggling, were necessary ways for people to earn a living. They only harmed a government which passed laws solely in the interests of its own excessively rich members. Morran was, however, always aware of possible consequences. And unduly confident farm boys unversed in the ways of the Cities tended to be the ones who got arrested first. Zesheyek's position was already dangerously precarious. She didn't need a husband trying to be sharp.
She had once admitted, in a conversation draped with insinuation and metaphor, that she suspected Kriyas was breaking the law. The notion didn't seem to worry her particularly. That was, Morran believed, because she didn't understand the Cities either. She was still thinking in terms of Notruf, where illegal trades started and ended with poaching and gin stills. The Cities had taken them to uncharted new lands, as it did with all forms of activity. It had made them complex, sophisticated, sometimes unrecognisable. A man could be working regular hours, sitting at a desk all day – and actually committing treason. True treason as well. The blend which would earn him a brief meeting with the noose at Swallow Square.
Morran saw Zesheyek later the same morning. The elder woman was heaving down rather than hauling up this time. Dragging, amidst much muttered cursing, a heavy weight of cloth in her old handcart which was eternally on the verge of total collapse without ever making good its promise. Zesheyek was no more composed. Also pausing outside her door, she seemed to be trying to observe the whole street at once while staying unseen herself. When Morran bawled a friendly "Zesh!" she jumped in apparent terror. Though relaxing slightly when noticing her friend, she still approached her reluctantly.
"Morning," Morran nodded. "Just on me way to kick some sense into me contractor."
Zesheyek, still taking regular looks over her shoulder, spared the handcart a glance. "Have you finished another batch?"
"I wish. Got a right load of shite dumped on me. Cloth that comes apart soon as you put a needle through it. Reeks of damp too. Mrs Amecco, she got given the same. No way we can shift owt we make with it. So I'm taking it back an' telling the contractor, buck your ideas up. Exploit us, fine, rip us off, super. But don't bugger us about. Taking Mrs Amecco's at the same time. Well, you know what she's like. Nice woman but a spine made of jelly. You off… No, you ain't off shopping, are you? Where you off to?"
Zesheyek moved closer. Muscles on her face were twitching Morran noticed, and her hands were kneading together restlessly. She looked like she had been crying recently. "I'm just… We got a note, you see. I've got to go and see our…The man we asked to… You know, that business I told you about. He… he needs to see me."
Morran finally understood. And she reflected how poor Zesheyek was at subterfuge. She really should have invented a euphemism for her private investigator. The Busy Bloke, Our Mate With The Nose… Anything would be better than these pauses which begged to be filled in by a passing eavesdropper. Especially when uttered by a woman almost bursting apart with guilt.
"Oh aye," Morran said neutrally. She nodded towards Mistletoe Square. "You heading that way? Me too. Let's walk together." The handcart started squealing and lurching as they set off. Morran tightened her grip and ignored it, however, treating it as she would a disobedient child. "An' you're off to see him alone?" she asked neutrally.
"Kriyas didn't want me to," Zesheyek replied wretchedly. "But he only sent the note yesterday and said he needs to see us right away. Something about how he'd be leaving the Cities for a while tomorrow. You know how he needs to be… be elsewhere sometimes. And Kriyas tried getting off work but he couldn't so..."
"Stopping down in Southmarket ain't he, this bloke? Aye, well, that's one thing. Plus there's the type he is."
"He seems, I thought he seemed nice enough when I-"
"If he were nice," Morran said grimly, "He'd have picked another trade. No, I reckon I'm coming with you. Wouldn't want you going into Southmarket alone at the best of times an' this sure ain't one of 'em."
Zesheyek grew even more agitated. "But you can't… I mean, Kriyas might… And you said you had to talk to your contractor-"
"You'll have to wait for me. Don't worry. If I can't sort out this damn nonsense in five minutes flat I ain't the woman I was."
Mistletoe Square was unusually empty. It was not a market day or even one of the many more unofficial market days. Mr Golting was there, however, manning his usual stall on his usual pitch. Apparently lost in a reverie, he came to life suddenly as the women walked past. "A fine morning to you, ladies," he called out. "And how lucky you came at this moment. I've two splendid pumpkins, just two left from the whole batch, with your names on-"
"Don't bug us now," Morran warned. "I'm having one of my 'don't trust any men' days."
Mr Golting remained cheerful. "Ah, seems to be that sort of day every other day, don't it?"
"Aye, I'm getting 'em more an' more."
Morran's contractor operated from premises on the corner of Dorlaf Avenue. She did not, as promised, resolve her dispute inside five minutes. It was nearly half an hour later when she emerged from the house. In her defence, though, she required over ten minutes to find the man and another fifteen to get him to see her, leaving only five minutes to shout at him. And she did indeed batter him into submission during that time. She exited the house without the defective cloth and with quite a substantial reimbursement. Not quite the amount she had hoped for but much more than the contractor, who had not tried cheating Morran Heppac before, ever dreamed he would have to pay.
Zesheyek waited outside and recovered her composure while she did. It was the same process as when she first told Morran about her plan. Panic about involving another person, something forbidden by her husband, dominated at first. Yet that was only temporary. The anxiety was soon obliterated by her relief at having Morran by her side. Somebody who was obstinate and worldly and eternally reassuring. Who was far stronger than Zesheyek thought she was and probably stronger than Kriyas too.
Zesheyek wanted to take her friend's arm as they walked through the intimidating bustle of Dorlaf Avenue. Morran was still pushing her now-empty cart with both hands, however. At first she used it as a broom to clear a path through the busy pavements. Increasingly, however, she kept it close to her body, clinging to it with an ever-tightening grip. It became a comfort blanket, a piece of Jakks Way to safeguard her on her journey. Perhaps she thought that in extremes it could serve as a weapon. They both needed their reassurances, Zesheyek in Morran and Morran in her handcart, to let them cross the bridge and enter Southmarket.
Jalkin was a city with very definite right and wrong sides. The River Brulos weaved an approximate north-south through it. You tried very hard to live on the west bank. On the east there was a remarkably degenerate artists' colony. There were a lot of large, sinister warehouses. There was the cattle market of Drayers Square ringed, none to subtly, with slaughterhouses. And there was Southmarket.
Before the Triple Cities were constructed, Southmarket was the only settlement in the area where Jalkin now stands. It is wrong, however, to revert to the usual cliché of saying that the city was 'built up around it.' The original Southmarket had been a farming hamlet. None of its cottages or seed barns were allowed to remain when Jalkin arrived. they were ripped down and replaced by the usual precarious tenement blocks. However, Southmarket in 1334 did offer some sort of testament to the past. It looked like all poor districts did before Christoté liberalised, before taxation allowed some sort of poverty relief and infrastructure development. None of its buildings had enjoyed even the half-hearted improvements of those in Jakks Way. They were basic, grim, damp and dangerous. Grills covered almost every window, excrement covered the roads. The few street pumps never worked; water had to be drawn from the nearby, heavily polluted, Brulos. Guardsmen were rarely seen during daytime and never at all at night, surrendering to the gangs. There were no amenities, no industries, few shops and little hope.
Most newly arrived immigrants, whatever Mrs Coplan's complaints about Jakks Way being swamped, got dumped in Southmarket. Or in another of the Cities' slum districts, Astor Square in Forgar or Yaleth's Brekklinside. Some managed to haul themselves out after a few years. The rest remained in the pit, paying phenomenal rents for a tiny and decaying flat, unable to find an employer who would look at them, wondering what had happened to the vision of gold and marble which was the Triple Cities. Because they hadn't arrived there, not truly. As Morran walked past the tattered women and the naked children playing in filth, she felt she had left the Cities. Not, she told herself sternly, because the women were talking in half a dozen different languages and the skin of the children ranged from albino white to virtual black. Or, she then conceded, not only due to that. Because she didn't feel safe. There were many areas which she wouldn't enter at night. During the daytime, though, the whole of the Cities ought to have been hers. It belonged to her because she was part of it. But districts like Southmarket had been cast away, freed from all civic and moral laws. Her only protection here was Zesheyek and her handcart.
"This mate of yours we're off to see," she said to distract herself. "He any good?"
"I… I don't know. He seemed to know what he's doing."
"Guess that's summit we might be about to find out. You only met him once before, you say?"
"Yes."
"Aye, well, I'll give him a look. It's a trade with a lot of chancers, I hear. An' he can't be doing too well for himself," Morran added sourly, "If he can't afford to stay anywhere better."
"He's not in the Cities for long. He moves about a lot, I think. And I suppose if you're… if you're in his line of work…"
Not much frightens you, Morran thought. Not even Southmarket. Not even the vile alley which held the private investigator's lodgings. A sliver between buildings where the shadows almost turned the day into night and unnamed liquids virtually flowed over the cobbles. As they splashed along, trying not to retch from the smell, Morran thought how far she was from Jakks Way. Not just because of the foreign land which had engulfed her. Because of the man lodged in its depths and the mission he was carrying. The scheme which Morran had blundered into with her usual blustering altruism, treating it as she did all the usual imbroglios. It was not, however. It was strange and frightening and had possible consequences she barely dared contemplate. That characteristically impulsive gesture earlier, insisting on accompanying Zesheyek to the meeting, had taken Morran further from home than she had ever been before. The handcart hopped and bounced on the cobbles but she clung to it as tightly as she could.

"Well," she said afterwards. She used a very traditional tone which made that one short word convey a great deal. Disdain, contempt, disappointment – and the grim satisfaction at being proved correct. "Well, I dunno about that." Again, an expression which many local women used. It meant Morran did, in fact, know about the meeting and didn't approve at all.
They were sat on a rock in a small, nondescript quay by the Brulos. On the west bank, the right bank, of course. Neither woman had wanted to stop until they crossed the river again. However, they found that they were unable to face the long, anarchic haul of Dorlaf Avenue without a sit down first. Southmarket, land of terrors, stood directly across the waters. It wasn't quite invisible but was hard to notice, overshadowed by the line of tall warehouses which began just to its north. From the river, east Jalkin always looked like a fortress.
"What I reckon," Morran continued, "Is your mate's been taking your money an' doing nowt with it."
"He said he's not finished yet," Zesheyek protested.
"Well, he'd better get a move on," Morran said, glancing at her friend's swelled belly. "'Cause the day ain't far off now. An' I got the impression he reckons he's done pretty much all he needs to. An' I reckon he's got pretty much nowhere. What were all that he were banging on about, all them servant girls an' dairymaids which your lord got knocked up?"
"He explained about that, didn't he? Said hit established… what was the word, precedence."
"Precedence? What good does that do you? We know what that lord's like. He's a lech. He knocks up his servants, he knocks up his farmer's daughters, he-" Morran stopped. 'He knocked you up' she was about to tell Zesheyek. Which was a truth her friend had confessed but still hated to hear. "So what good does that do?" Morran said instead, redirecting her tirade. "We say all that to your lord, he'll just say, 'prove it.' An' your mate over there can't do that, can he? He's been snuffling around Notruf for months an' what's he found? Some poor lasses with bastards on their hands. A few servants who can account for your lord's movements the night he called on you. Anyone who'll come over here to the Cities to say any of that? Don't reckon so. Notice how our mate tried covering up that part too?"
"He did say he hoped-"
"To go back to Notruf to get 'em to change their minds? Aye, well, good look to him. Truth is, everyone over there's scared shitless of your lord. An' you ain't got enough to bribe some courage into 'em. An' even if he gets someone to testify, it still ain't gonna be good enough. Our mate's been coming at this the wrong way. He's been trying to collect witnesses for a court case. You know an' I do that there's no way you can afford to take this to court. It can't drag on. You get one punch an' that's it."
"I know."
"So what I'm thinking is this. Get rid of our bloke over there an' hire someone who can really pack a blow."
Morran smiled in satisfaction. Already her sense of bewilderment was fading. The case no longer felt alien to her. She was taking command of it, dragging it into frameworks which she understood. To further the process she had to change it. One step would be to replace Zesheyek's investigator with somebody she knew herself.
Not that she didn't think this necessary anyway. The detective probably wasn't a conman but he was still a waste of time. He was a fop, Morran believed, and an actor. Maybe his funds were low, maybe Southmarket did indeed hold no terrors for him. But she thought he had picked the address solely for dramatic effect. He had presented his 'discoveries' like a mummer in a bad melodrama, the bombastic delivery hoping to disguise the paucity of the words. Morran also sensed that he was enjoying himself.
All of this would be fine for most of the nonsenses which detectives were hired for. Adulteries, inheritances, industrial espionage – let the fops mess about with them. Zesheyek, though, needed somebody who took her life seriously.
"But we can't," she cried. "I mean, we… it's too late now…" The objections were purely instinctive, however. she too was calming down. As Morran took the case in her arms it was being taken away from Zesheyek as well as the investigator. All control was sliding away from her; and her relief at losing that weight was immense.
"No it ain't," Morran said decisively. "Our mate over there's got some distance. You're paying him on an hourly basis, ain't you? You up to date?"
"Yes, more or less, but-"
"Then just settle up with him. An' say, let's have the files, ta for your work, have a nice ride home love. Easy."
"But who else can we… If we hire someone local they won't know anything about Notruf. That's why we went to-"
"Aye, but he's already dug up the Notruf side of things. Dug it to death if you ask me. This ain't gonna get played out in Notruf, is it? Gonna get settled here in the Cities. We need someone who can handle that."
"Hiring someone else, though… It means someone else knowing."
Morran gave her a sympathetic look. "You're gonna have to face that sooner or later," she said gently. "More an' more folks are gonna know an' eventually everyone will. Your lord might've noticed summit's up already. If he got wind of our mate snooping around back home." Zesheyek shuddered. Morran wondered how afraid she still was of 'her lord.'
"Who can we go to?" she asked in a tight voice.
"Off the top of my head, I'd say ask Myran Smithson for a recommendation. 'Cause he might play the respectable little herbalist but I know he's got some funny mates stashed away. Either that or go straight to the Tansons an' see if they're interested."
"The Tansons?" Zesheyek repeated in horror. "But I don't know them at all. And they look so… They seem…"
"Aye. They ain't, I reckon, but I grant you that they seem that. I'll have a word with Myran Smithson, then, soon as I can. Don't worry. I won't use your name. An' even if he guesses, he can keep his mouth shut when he's asked to."
"Kriyas won't like this. He didn't want anyone else involved."
Morran shrugged. "Up to you if you tell him just yet."
As soon as she said that, they both knew that Zesheyek wouldn't. Not just yet. Kriyas too had been excluded. For the moment, Morran was in sole command. So another layer had been added to the deception which Zesheyek was practicing against Kriyas. It was remarkable how thick they grew simply because she had a strong friend and a weak husband.
"You're going to ask Mr Smithson for..?"
"A recommendation." Morran nodded. "Aye. Any dodgy characters he knows are looking for some work. Though chances are he'll just say, why not speak to that scary looking couple who've just moved in upstairs from you."

Episode Eleven

"You know," Yaxi began. She then paused to take a mouthful of rice and beans. Her status in the improvised family known as the Tansons was such that the other two were prepared to wait and see what she believed they knew. "You know," she began again after swallowing, "I thought we'd pretty much agreed on this."
Zokou, disconsolately pushing her own dinner around her bowl, mumbled, "Yeah, but-"
"Before we came to the Cities we decided – well, not actually what to do. 'Cause something that ambitious would be laughable. But what we weren't going to do and this kind of came top of the list. You, missy, weren't going to go out alone and get spotted till we'd got you sorted out. That was, like, pretty unambiguous wasn't it? I understood it, didn't you, hon?"
The last remark was addressed to Radav. From his nominal place at the head of the family table he was observing the scene in a detached manner. He nodded. "Aye. Not much else, but I got that one."
"And one semi-millisecond after we go out and leave you alone, what happens? Whoosh. Heels lost in a cloud of dust, out you speed-"
"But no-one did see me," Zokou interrupted. "I checked no-one was about."
"You kind of sure bout that? 'Cause they say each street's got a thousand eyes and, boy, you'd better believe this one's got a thousand and one mouths."
"OK, they could've seen me coming out of the building. Not out of this flat though. I checked the corridor was empty this time. They wouldn't connect me to you and I don't see…" Zokou trailed away. Just say you're sorry, an inner voice was telling her, and move on. Neither Yaxi nor Radav would hold a grudge. They weren't even angry with her now. They were just mimicking the forms. In all the months since they had careered into her life and adopted a stance sometimes as her bodyguards, sometimes her tutors and sometimes her foster parents, she had never witnessed that emotion. She had watched them fighting for their lives, and her life. She had seen them cut creatures in half with one swing of a sword and slay monsters with a single, precisely aimed arrow through an eye and starving and wounded, close to desperation and close to death. But never angry. Certainly not with her, and for such a trivial cause as her disobeying an instruction. Which wasn't the only reason why she loved them so much but remained a compelling one. So she said, "Sorry." And when Yaxi then continued the argument, Zokou knew that was simply because she was enjoying it.
"Why did you have to sneak out and see the marvels of the Cities anyway? We showed you the marvels of the Cities when we got here. You know, that's them. Like 'em or lump 'em."
"You whisked me round at top speed in the carriage. Half the time you had a blanket over my head."
We cut eyeholes in it, didn't we? And drew a little smiley face on it."
"Aye, we never told you 'bout that last bit," Radav said.
"Why's it so important I stay hidden anyway?" Zokou demanded.
Yaxi sighed. "Don’t' wind me up while I'm eating, Zok. If I get pissed while I'm swallowing something, I tend to choke on it. And that's so not a sight you want to see while you're eating."
"OK, I know about keeping it secret about what… what I can do. But why can't anyone know I'm living with you?"
"Well, there's a few reasons," Yaxi said. "But the main one, which, you know, I have explained before is that as a couple, me and fatso here fit. Guys take one look at us and think, OK, got 'em sorted out. We're, well, we're thugs. We're the dudes who hang round the taverns and join the mercenary gangs and sometimes get hired to do the tasks you so wish governments wouldn't keep doing. even us renting a swish pad like this, people can sort of understand that. They'll be guessing we've just done a big job, probably the sort where the wages are kind of locked inside a bank vault. So we fit. But you so, so don't, sweetie. They take one gawp at you and they'll start thinking, what the hell's going on? And then they might, you know, start asking questions."
"I can do all that stuff too," Zokou said a little sullenly. "You've been showing me how."
"Yeah, we all know that but no-one else does and they wouldn’t' guess it if they tried for a year. I mean, look at you."
Look at her. Zokou's features were pretty and slightly unusual. She had long, fine hair, very high cheekbones and eyes which were very round in the middle and tapered at the outer edges. She had the same weather-beaten cast to her skin and hard-wearing comfort to her drab clothes as Yaxi and Radav. She was built far smaller, however, having clearly spent most of her sixteen years scrabbling for food. Nor did she seem a natural member of a street gang or even a brothel. She was somehow too asexual for the latter and too timid, even inside the flat, for the former. She looked like a young apprentice to a seamstress; that is, a genuine seamstress.
"Well, if you look so tough and I look so puny, you could say you've kidnapped me," she ventured.
"That one'd kind of get a hole punched in it if they saw you, you know, coming and going as you pleased," Yaxi countered. "I don't want to be a hard-on about this but we've got to manage appearances here. And until we figure out what the hell to do about yours, you'll sort of have to keep yourself under wraps for a while. Otherwise this thing we laughably call 'a plan' might get one of its legs knocked out and just tumbling right down-"
"You ever gonna eat that or just wave it around?" Radav interrupted. He indicated Yaxi's food, piled onto her spoon but neglected for some time now.
"Excuse me. In the middle of an oratory here."
"You're never owt else. Amount you talk during dinner, it's no wonder you never get fat. Burn off more calories than you swallow."
In reply, Yaxi brought her spoon back and catapulted the rice at Radav's face with pleasing accuracy. "Don't taunt an archer, hon. Everything's a potential missile to us."
Zokou smiled, sitting back and letting the memories of the day pour through her. She was, she realised, still slightly dazed. She wasn't a country girl seeing a city for the first time. She had been born in Port Blacksheln, a vast sprawl which clung to a lot of the coast of another continent like a malignant tumour. But Port Blacksheln was far different to the Triple Cities. It had no industry, no parks, no avenues, no spectacles. It had no real law and barely a government, simply one man whose gang was slightly bigger than anyone else's. The only thin astounding about Port Blacksheln was its squalor and its capacity for violence.
The Cities were more than a hamlet writ large, however. They ran the greatest and richest country in the world. And they were not shy about advertising this fact. Still unsure of herself, unwilling to explore strange byways, Zokou had mostly revisited sites she had already seen. All were worth another viewing. Huwdone House, base of the federal government, a vast and unearthly cube of white marble and black windows. Parliament Square which stood in front of it, with its sombre mansions and dizzying chequerboard paving stones. Vellers Square close by, where two great trading routes collided in a deafening band which splashed every colour, most of them lurid, across the buildings. The Lewis Avenue sector in the north-west, hosting the shrill, brash townhouses of the wealthiest people on earth. The astonishing markets of the Milliks Triangle sector, where every item ever made, hunted, fished or grown could seemingly be purchased.
That was merely in Jalkin. Zokou had gone to the city of Yaleth too as well, to walk between the 'giant's handrails' of the Reckstag Bridge which crossed the River Brail. To see the Tukas Halls of Justice, once a king's palace, now wrestled into the services of a democratic government by an armlock which still didn't hide its menace. To gape at the Church of Garrath on top of Royal Hill, the gigantic logical conclusion of a religion obsessed by spectacle inside a land with the same tastes. Finally to Forgar to see one of the dynamos of each edifice. The creatures by the river generally called workshops but which looked like fortresses. Sardacs the tailors, the Ocheverry Printing Works, the Zierlona carpenters, Charlac Carriage Makers; each one accumulating more fame and profit through the scale of their production than the most skilled craftsman ever could.
Yes, they had shown her all this when they first arrived. They hurried from one sight to another, however; and if they didn't actually put a sack over her head then the shutters on the carriage were always half-drawn. Zokou was left with a montage of amazing images which didn't make sense, didn't fit together and didn't seem real. By exploring on her own she hoped to start the first steps towards comprehension.
She failed in that respect. Standing at the foot of each vertiginous structure, it was even harder to believe that mankind alone could ever build anything so great, so beautiful or so dreadful. But she was able to learn a little more about the Cities. Her walk had reminded her that it wasn't simply about the architecture. The people were different too. And they were almost amazing. What struck her most of all was their freedom. She noticed the most vivid examples, the ones whose notoriety had spread. The demagogues bawling slanderous obscenities outside each Town Hall. The vendors almost on the doorstep of Huwdone House selling newsheets containing detailed criticisms of the actions of Huwdone House. The street performers often enacting what was basically unapologetic pornography. Yet Zokou sensed the liberty everywhere. In the way men and even women moved and talked, in their stride and their demeanour. There was a certain amount of belligerence there, an awareness that their freedom had to be defended constantly. But their confidence didn't come from their weapons – to her amazement, Zokou saw that almost nobody was armed. It flowed from a sense of what they belonged to.
Yaxi and Radav possessed it too. They were Christotans and the Cities, after all, was simply the epitome of Christoté. Strip away their bows and swords and they would still be free. And they offered Zokou the same rights. Just as she had been preparing to shatter her childhood liberty with a life of drudgery, they had shown her the road out. Under their protection, to some extent, and under their tutelage. However, every time they chastised her she sensed them waiting and hoping for her to defend her independence.
"You know," she began cautiously, "I saw a lot of wizards around today. Or at least, men-"
"Yeah, I'm gonna stop you there," Yaxi said. "And ask if these 'wizards' were sort of guys in fairground tents with a hell of a lot of sequins and signs saying 'The Amazing Montou: Gods Are Astounded By His Powers.'"
"Well, OK, mostly. But they can't all be frauds, can they?"
"Er, just one question in return here. Why not."
"We could try talking to one or two at least. If your friend… If you can't find him or something. It can't do any harm."
"Hmm. People messing about with magic without really knowing what they're doing. I wonder, can that possibly, possibly do any harm?"
"Remember that damn great desert we crossed?" Radav said. "They reckon that were made by folks messing with magic."
"So it wasn't the sun then?" Zokou returned.
"A pretty neat zing there," Yaxi smiled. "But that aside I think we'll stick with the 'our guy or broke' plan for now. And if we really can't find where he's skulking, well…"
"We're buggered," Radav suggested.
"So I've got to hide in here till you find him?" Zokou demanded.
Yaxi glanced at her husband. "No, I suppose not. I guess we went a little bit, you know, insane on that diktat. If you really want to make a grand coming out, blowing kisses at the neighbours and the alley cats, the street's yours."
"I never wanted-"
"Yeah, I know. But if you want, you can come with us to dinner at the family who live downstairs the night after next."
"Some nosy woman, her husband and three screaming brats," Radav said. "Should be a real treat."
Zokou glared at them. "You were gonna sneak off to a party and not even tell me?"
"I think the plan was to kind of camouflage it as another trip to the Last Drop Inn, wasn't it?" Yaxi asked Radav, who nodded.
"For the love of… How many times have you done that before?""Well, this would've been our first," Yaxi grinned. "And hey, given that, we're pretty good at it aren't we?"

Episode Ten

Jakks Way – the district rather than the street – was a creature of indeterminate size. Only in two directions were its borders conclusively fixed. To the west it abruptly ended at The Tonelays, that grim and hermetically sealed enclave whose denizens worshipped a strange, savage god and tried to only ever speak to each other. Eastwards an equally vivid marker was provided by Dorlaf Avenue, the chaotic paradise for shopkeepers which sliced Jalkin neatly in half. Up and down though, matters were more ambiguous. Was one still in Jakks Way as far north as Yashin Close? If one ventured southwards to Kakran Crescent? Some would claim so. Others preferred to squash the neighbourhood into a tight rectangle, with Clock Street forming the southern frontier and the eponymous road the north. Jakks Way had an official existence, of course, the fiefdom of the local praetor, but over time that had proved no more solid. The boundaries squirmed from election to election, depending on who was deciding them and how it would benefit them.
If there were no definite edges then there was no centre either. Although Jakks Way did, in most people's perception, have a cultural heart at least. Mistletoe Square, where the markets were held, where the fairs sprung up, where folks gathered on every fine day to gossip and argue. Ses Netrasso was one of the few who held an alternate view. In certain ways, for certain people, the real heart of the district lay further west, on the corner of Jakks Way and Fountain Avenue. Where stood the Last Drop Inn, the pub which he owned.
Since inheriting the Last Drop five years ago he had been tempted to remove the ambiguity by relocating to Mistletoe Square itself. It would have been feasible. Property everywhere in Jakks Way was cheap but especially on that notoriously odiferous, rowdy square. After making a few tentative enquiries, however, he realised he wouldn't be allowed to get away with this. The Last Drop Inn was a neighbourhood pub and so was tightly encased with custom. It stood on the corner of Fountain Avenue. It always had, it always would. Likewise, young Ses was only allowed to own it in the moral as well as legal sense because the Netrasso family always had. Not always, he discovered, but for six generations and that was enough. Sufficient, certainly, for Ses to be accepted despite the consensus that he was a quarter the man his late father had been.
Part of this low-key but constant hostility came because of his regular attempts to make improvements. The feelings were reciprocated because of his customers' inability to accept that improvements did, in fact, improve things. Ses Netrasso tried introducing more entertainments on evenings. The regulars complained that all these bards singing lies at them interfered with them speaking lies to one another. He tried invigorating the drinks range. They stuck to their appalling local brews which either tasted of treacle or nothing at all. He made the interior a little more hygienic. They moaned that they had no rushes or sawdust to spit on anymore. So the Last Drop remained humble and mundane, totally overshadowed by the Black Dog, the Calderdale, the garish taverns of Cuelon Road, a hundred other establishments on the Cities' legendary pub scene. And Netrasso had spent five years almost but not quite selling up and going somewhere his talents might be appreciated.
Several factors had prevented him so far. One of the few which he would admit to was that the Last Drop was a fine building. It looked exactly right for a Cities tavern. Externally it was half timbered, with two great bay windows thrusting out impertinently. There was a single great lounge at the front, its gloom providing shade in the summer and its hearts heat in the cooler months. Behind this were a few private drinking rooms for business deals or certain entertainments which Netrasso might allow initially and then deliberately know nothing about. Netrasso and his burgeoning family had ample, comfortable quarters upstairs. They shared them with their servants but not any overnight guests, because the Last Drop was a tavern rather an inn. The pun had just proved too tempting. It looked the archetypal pub from its foundations to its chimney and even the fact that it wasn't built as a pub increased its perfection. No true establishment in the Cities carries out the function for which they were originally intended.
Another source of compensation for Ses Netrasso was a diluted version of one of his father's maxims: "Every man in here a friend." Mr Netrasso senior had in turn been an archetypal innkeeper, a Jakks Way man from birth to death, and almost meant what he said. He may not have actually liked all his customers but did love them with the possessive familiarity of family. Ses didn't yet have his father's ruddy complexion or barrel stomach, though both were arriving. He had a more cynical view of the world, which was expanding as quickly as his body. But he partly agreed with his father in this instance. Most nights everyone in the Last Drop was at least known. Sometimes that thought brought pleasure. At worst it was a comfort. He didn't have to cope with the transient scum who drank at the Cuelon Road pubs, the migrants and adventurers and refugees and out-and-out criminals. The Last Drop did attract scum, and at the end of a Saturday night they could cause trouble. But Netrasso knew most of their threats and brawling were just postures, and predictable ones at that. It helped.
Netrasso gazed around the saloon now, halfway through a Saturday evening, and felt the reassurance again. The nosiest group was probably composed of Stefan Amecco and his cronies, all let off the leash once a week by their wives on the understanding that it would be clipped back on just as tight the next morning. Roaring at each other, taunting each other, pretending that the last twenty years hadn't occurred and brought its distressing changes. Their role models, in a reversal of what was supposed to happen, were the gaggle of genuinely young men. Including Stefan's son Jerich, they were almost as loud and turned their semi-serious hostility outwards not inwards; notably in catcalls towards anyone of vaguely feminine appearance. The one woman spared was old Kalinka, supping port after port by the bar. Because Kalinka was old and because she was again enacting her inexplicable but convincing impersonation of a lunatic. The bar stools seemed to attract the old timers. Half a dozen veterans slumped on them, as they did almost every night, with the unapologetic airs of people who had survived a great deal and now deserved some sort of reward. The corners of the room, meanwhile, collected the dregs. Cepu Boldan, his cronies and their tarts were filling one with the aura of men who owned the place. Boldan sometimes gazed around with the expression of one who wished he did. Another of Netrasso's reasons for not abandoning the Last Drop – he would almost certainly be forced to sell it to Cepu Boldan.
The gang were the only ones who could not be comfortably handled by Hielach, the 'Noriscan' bouncer leaning beside the door with his cudgel. And they would not turn violent. Not Saturday night violent, aggression caused solely by drink and egotism. Boldan was a psychopath but despite – or maybe because of – that quality, he practised and enforced discipline. His men struck after careful planning and struck in dark alleys. And that was a good example of knowledge bringing comfort. Netrasso could survey a room containing some fairly menacing characters and be assured that none would threaten –
Then two people entered who shattered that protection. Strangers in every sense. Though one was a woman, both looked like they belonged in the Cuelon Road taverns. Guards for the big merchant caravans; or perhaps part of the reason why guards were employed. The din in the saloon only dipped for a second but the newcomers were being studied, assessed. Something about the way they moved, the manner in which they carried themselves, conveyed a warning. The woman was quite stunning, Netrasso noticed as she approached, in a masculine way. Yet not even the most inebriated of the young men called out an invitation as she limped past.
"Hey," she grinned at Netrasso as she sat on a stool. "I've heard that there's a beer in the Cities so watered down and foul that you're guaranteed to barf up before you can get drunk on it."
"Clarwater." The man rolled his eyes at the landlord. "She knows it's called clarwater an' all. She just likes doing the line."
"Whatever. Anyway, I fancy trying it again. Do you kind of do it here."
Netrasso nodded. "Finest clarwater in the Cities."
The woman raised her eyebrows. "A-a-a-and is that, you know, saying much?"
"Not really," he admitted, smiling. "Pint and a half then?"
"Let's go with two pints. I want to try the vomiting experience side by side with the husband. Though I've a bit of a bad leg so I might not make it to your toilets in time. Will it be a problem if I heave up all over your floor?"
"Won't be the first, won't be the last."
"Cool. And, you know, kind of gross too. I'm Yaxi Tanson, by the way, this is my husband Radav. We moved in a couple of weeks ago. We've been quiet as – what are guys as quiet as around here?" she asked Radav.
"Otters."
"Oh, yeah. Still not sure about that one but let it go. So we've been quiet as otters up till now. But we couldn't resist checking out the folk singing stroke multiple stabbing experience here at the Last Drop Inn. Hey, do both of those really go on?"
Netrasso shrugged. "This is a quiet enough place."
"Yeah?" Radav said. "Have to see what we can do about that."
"Now, hon," Yaxi chided playfully. "What was our first rule when we moved here?"
Radav sighed. "Don't wind up the locals."
"And what was our second rule?"
"Don't wind up the locals."
"And what was our third rule…"
Netrasso relaxed, though only slightly. The Tansons. He had heard of them, of course. All Jakks Way seemed to have been talking about them the last fortnight. All he actually knew, however, was the tiny amount of information gleaned by Mr Delpess and the other morsel extracted by Morran Heppac. The rest came from widening circles of guesswork and rumour which grew more unfeasible as the drifted away from their origin. One account did seem accurate. The discrepancy between the Tansons' fearsome appearance and their amiable conversation. But Netrasso knew that both could be façades concealing characters entirely different again.
His eyes wandered around the saloon again. Calli Horstice had stolen in at some point, he noticed. She was sat in her usual posture, hunched on a bench with a martyred expression while some tiresome drunk lectured her on politics. Calli never used to come within twenty yards of the Last Drop. She was one of the few Jakks Way residents to make real money – doing what, Netrasso had no idea – and not flee the neighbourhood immediately after making it. Instead she affected the manners of a local queen, the epitome of respectability and good manners. A year ago, though, she had used her riches to become the local praetor, a minor official who runs the day-to-day affairs of a district. Now she had to prove herself to be one of her people. To win their vote again she had to copy their customs and ways; and that included entering taverns to be lectured by tiresome drunks. Observing the same process engulfing a praetor of the previous generation, Netrasso's father once remarked, "Politics. Drives any man to drink."
The landlord's smile dissolved as his eyes turned back to Cepu Boldan's table. The gang leader had seen Yaxi and Radav too. He was studying them. He was muttering to his men and they joined the examination too. Not a hostile assessment, but one blatantly open and almost pleading for a challenge. The Tansons didn't notice at first. Finally Radav spotted Boldan. He said something to his wife and they both turned towards the table in the corner. They returned the gazes for perhaps ten seconds, no more; and Netrasso had never seen anybody so apparently unaffected by Boldan's attention. Then the couple swivelled back again.
"Yeah, that's kind of disgusting," Yaxi announced, pushing away her third-drunk pint of clarwater beer. "I think I'll just take it as read that I'd barf up on that pretty soon and switch. You got anything which is very strong, sold in teeny-weeny glasses and is pretty much transparent?"
"We sell Dragon's Breath," Netrasso said, hoping to shift one of the new drinks which his regulars refused to touch. "A rum distilled up in the Brown Hills, admired by many connoisseurs-"
"OK, sounds good. Dragon me. Hey," Yaxi added after taking her first sip and making an appreciative noise, "Who are those guys sat in the corner? You know, the ones who seem to be trying to work out what size clothes we take?"
Netrasso leant closer, a slight but significant movement which he had copied from his father. "Right, you see the middle aged woman on the bench at the far side of the room. Calli Horstice. Our local praetor. She thinks she runs Jakks Way. She doesn't. Sat in the corner are Cepu Boldan and his gang. They do."
Again the pair did a simultaneous swirl towards the corner. Boldan was still looking at them. The Tansons turned back even sooner, however, and their apparent lack of interest was just as absolute. Netrasso studied them himself for as long as he dared. He had seen false bravado before, false nonchalance, false almost everything. He didn't believe that the couple were faking anything. They just weren't frightened of Cepu Boldan. Netrasso could guess how much this would frustrate the gang leader.
"One of those deals, huh?" Yaxi said. "You know, I heard no single gang kind of ruled these streets with sword and mayhem."
"They don't have overall control, true," Netrasso replied, wishing that Yaxi would keep her voice down. "There's still some jostling for position. But Boldan's the strongest and he's getting stronger." He paused, then added, "What I'm saying is, don't be antagonising him and expect another gang to pull you out of trouble."
"Hey now, do we look like we want to antagonise anyone?"
"That'd break the first, second and third bloody rules of our bloody code of conduct," Radav said heavily.
Netrasso was glad that a customer pulled him away then. He felt he had risked quite enough trying to aid people who clearly wanted no assistance. His relief turned to pleasure upon seeing that the visitor to the bar was Calli Horstice. She was looking harassed. Netrasso had been trying to monitor the conversation at her bench amidst the cascade of voices in the saloon. It wasn't too difficult. The voice of Armace in particular, an opinionated boor among opinionated boor, kept clapping down as regularly and repetitively as a printing press.
"…now, no-one's blaming you, lass," he would say. "You needed yoursen a patron. Fair dos. One of the proper politicians. You're just an arse-feeder right now, ain't you? But now your bloke's been caught with his trousers down an' you're buggered. Might as well admit it."
The praetor would make some inaudible protest and Armace always answered with, "Now, you know it's true. He were caught with them fat fingers o his right in the till an' he can't say otherwise. So you're buggered 'less you can find another patron. Just admit it, lass."
Now Calli was saying, in a rather bemused tone, "This round seems to be on me." She rolled off an extensive list of drinks and added to Netrasso, "And one for yourself too."
"I'll get the girl to carry it across." He looked at her, took pity and said, "Stay here till it's ready if you want though."
Calli smiled. She glanced nervously at the Tansons, decided to ignore them as completely as they were her and told Netrasso, "I'm sure it's really not as bad as it looks. What we were talking about over there, the business with the Councillor."
Councillors are one step up from praetors, officials elected to collectively run Christoté's towns. Any praetors with ambitions, which Calli Horstice probably did have, attaches themselves to Councillors or to Emissaries, their rural equivalent. Any Councillor looking to build a power base welcomes them. Any especially corrupt Councillor accepts bribes from praetors to hurry through legislation relating to particular neighbourhoods – the crime which Calli's patron had just been accused of regarding the Westgate district. And any cynical electorate then starts wondering if the rest of the Councillor's clientele, even if apparently innocent so far, has been offering their own little presents. Netrasso had to remark, "It looks bad though."
"Well, of course at this stage it does. But nobody really knows anything yet. There will be an inquiry and I'm glad of that. Because I'm sure all it will show is that the Councillor made a few silly mistakes of presentation."
"That's not too good either, is it?" Netrasso replied, leisurely pulling tap handles and letting the beer surge into pint mugs.
"Oh well, if you're another one who thinks he should be strung up from a tree because he doesn't come across well, so be it," Calli snapped. "I don't think it will turn out half as bad as it seems now, that's all. And I can appreciate the Councillor's point of view as well."
Netrasso relented. "Always two sides to every story, ain't there?"
"And he's been in a difficult position for some time now. It's a terrible job, for one. He was only given it because he's the most junior member of Jalkin Council. Highways & Amenities… It's a dreadful department to run."
"One street cistern gets blocked, one drain backs up, and it's your head they want," Netrasso murmured with a smile.
He had relented, he was even sympathising now, because he had started musing about power. And he realised that he and Calli Horstice were in a similar position. In one sense, they were the most powerful people in the Jakks Way neighbourhood. The only residents to run successful businesses, after all – or legal successful business – and both occupying roles of considerable influence. They had sensed this and often competed for sole dominance. Especially before Calli's election, in the period when she shunned the Last Drop and tried presenting herself as the only legitimate pole which respectable people should cluster around. A claim he tried negating by wondering loudly just what her secret investments were funding.
Only from one angle, though, did they stand so high. Because there were different forms of power. Netrasso knew the greatest of all. The anonymous, secretive medium where words alone could wreak vast changes. Calli had acquired a tiny slice of it now. And if she gathered more and more she would leave him far behind. She wouldn't just control the neighbourhood. She could sit in a meeting, another meeting and another and finally transform Jakks Way utterly. Enrich it immensely or, conceivably, destroy it.
But another method of power couldn't be disregarded. If only because it made a landlord tell newcomers, "She doesn't rule this district. He does." The ability to impose your will directly on a situation. Calli had to endure being hectored by men whom she despised, had to listen to ill-disguised slanders directed against herself. She always would, in one forum or another, however high she scrambled. And so would Netrasso. He must endure the same bores and the same fatuous opinions night after night. In an inn which he supposedly owned yet couldn't change the way he wished.
Nobody told Cepu Boldan how to run his business, however. Nobody told him anything he didn't wish to hear. Netrasso glanced at the gang leader again, sat at the far side of his table. In the corner which he effectively owned for as long as he was there. He couldn't be approached without his permission. His sentinels would spring up if anyone came near; and unless they brought an apology and a reason which he cared for, they would be evicted rapidly. Netrasso noticed Calli looking towards the corner too. She knew who Boldan was. She knew a great deal about him. Everyone in Jakks Way did. Naïve and rarefied though she was, she knew and she wanted him destroyed. But until she achieved that, he held dominance whenever they met. If he ordered it, she would probably drop onto all fours and bark like a dog. There might be consequences eventually; she might one day acquire sufficient amounts of the greatest type of force. In this situation, though, Boldan controlled her. Netrasso knew that he himself would be on his hands and knees with one command; and so would everyone else in the pub.
Or perhaps not quite everyone. Perhaps not Yaxi and Radav Tanson. That was why Boldan seemed obsessed with them. They hadn't reacted in the right way. They hadn't shown fear or respect or, really, much interest. Stupidity maybe, or misguided arrogance. But also perhaps because they had power of their own, the same direct form which Boldan wielded. As much? Boldan didn't know yet and there was uncertainty, anger of course but also just a little fear emanating from the corner. He liked to be sure about everything, Boldan. He would always twist an arm to see how badly it was broken.
"I notice, Mr Netrasso, that the door to your back room is bolted again," Calli Horstice remarked abruptly. "I trust the reason isn't what I fear it is?"
"'Fraid so, Praetor Horstice," Netrasso smiled. "Drains backing up again something rotten. Whole room smells like a sewer pit. Thought of complaining about it to your Councillor friend as a matter of fact. If he's got any free time right now."
"So there are not, in fact, any people in there tonight?"
"Can't imagine who'd want to be in there with that stink."
"Perhaps men who enjoy partaking in games of chance?"
"Well now, I don't have a gambling licence, do I? So that would be illegal." Netrasso's smile broadened as he thought: don't try over-compensating on me. That won't work. Not until you come here with a lot of warrants, a lot of Guardsmen and a kick that break a bolted door down.
Calli had none. Neither did she have any excuses left to loiter by the bar. The barmaid was taking the last of her drinks back to the bench. So the praetor had to follow, her poise that of a noblewoman walking to the gallows. Back to the men who had just had five minutes to compose fresh hectoring and fresh slanders. Netrasso watched her wearily retake her place, turned and found himself staring into the face of Menoney. His smile crumbled instantly.
Menoney – perhaps the only one close to Boldan who seemed to have any sort of intelligence. Which didn't make him any less vicious and didn't really mean he was, in fact, intelligent. A lance of fear stabbed through Netrasso as the man glared back. Then it turned into confusion as Menoney started rapping out a drinks order. None of Boldan's men ever came to the bar. They bawled out on the frequent occasions they were thirsty and Netrasso sent a barmaid over. And the girl, after delivering the drinks, would have to endure her bottom being groped, her breasts being fondled, sometimes worst if the night was growing old. And she had to go back every time the gang called out again and never protest. That was the law and one major reason why the Last Drop Inn struggled to keep staff for long.
Here, though, was Menoney collecting the glasses himself. As Netrasso dexterously poured the ales and rakis, he realised why. Menoney was looking straight at Yaxi and Radav. Of course – if a puzzling new element appeared then a scout, one with a certain amount of acumen, would be sent to study it closer. That was the first step. Boldan wouldn't come personally, not yet. That belonged to a later stage, one of many in the surprisingly complex dance which Boldan could dictate. Netrasso assumed Menoney was simply there for reconnaissance. However, the man then nodded at the Tansons and said,
"Get them what they're having an' all."
Yaxi gave him her brilliant smile. "Hey, no shit? Thanks."
"Courtesy of Mr Boldan," Menoney told her gruffly.
"Mr..?"
"Boldan. Mr Cepu Boldan. He's over in the corner."
Again the slow, simultaneous swivel on their stools. They actually acknowledged Boldan this time. But the raising of the glasses and the cries of thanks seemed pure courtesies; and perhaps delivered a little facetiously. Boldan responded with a regal wave. Netrasso thought he detected the same uncertainty in it.
"See what I'm on about?" Radav said to his wife when they had turned back again. Then to Menoney: "She keeps reckoning we're all a bunch of tightwads up here."
"Yeah, yeah," Yaxi responded. "Look, the facts are in general terms-"
"You're wrong, woman. Just admit it."
"All I'm saying is, you know, a few ripe bananas don't make the whole crate sweet."
"A few…" Again Radav addressed Menoney. "I've been with this lass ten years. I still can't make hide nor hair of her bloody similes."
"That was actually a metaphor, hon. You so shouldn't throw in the big words if you don't know what they mean."
"Balls. You can use them two syn… syno-"
"Oh, please don't try and say 'synonymous' after three pints again. We'll kind of be sat here all night. Besides, you're talking right out of your ass. It's only a simile if you say something's 'like' something else."
"Well, that's what you were doing. Like a crate of bloody bananas or whatever."
"Ah, but I didn't, you know, actually say it was 'like' them."
"What, so just because you say 'like,' a metaphor becomes a simile."
"It's the magic word. Turns one thing into another like it was a sorcerer. See? Now that was a simile for you, right smack between your eyes."
"That's bloody stupid."
"I don't write the rules, hon. I'm just the gatekeeper." She turned to Menoney. The gangster was waiting for his order to be finished and listening to their babble with clear exasperation. "Back me up here, big guy," Yaxi smiled. "Can't go running around calling a simile a metaphor unless you put a 'like' in there, can you?"
The intellectual of Boldan's gang glared at her for a moment. Then he growled, "Fucking well call it whatever the fucking hell you fucking want." He grabbed the tray of drinks, sloshing them in the process – which would probably cost him when he got back to the table – and stalked away. Netrasso had to turn his back until he had conquered his urge to laugh.
"You know what we kind of just did, hon?" he heard Yaxi say in hushed tones.
"Aye. Pretty much knackered our first, second and third rules.""Seems that way. Ah well. When we get onto grammatical terms, strong men so have to hide beneath the tables till we're done."