Kal jerico sinners bount.., p.10
Kal Jerico: Sinner's Bounty, page 10
Two Pumps had changed hands so often that it bore the imprint of at least five clan houses. Delaque, Orlock, Escher… they’d all had their turn, for a season or three. But right now, it belonged to House Cawdor, and to him.
Goeth had led his congregation for almost a decade. They were numerous, but not particularly noteworthy. Not all men were heroes, but the God-Emperor expected that they act as such. That was why they’d been chosen for this particular mission, here on the dark frontier. He had the guns and the ambitions to make this place into something the faithful could be proud of.
As he and his deacons passed through the narrow streets, people stopped and genuflected. He knew their faces, if not the names attached. House Cawdor had a surplus of warm bodies, and once certain of their zeal, sent the faithful out into the underhive to claim empty hab-zones and ruins – the places lesser souls had abandoned. There, they made a joyful noise and set about reclaiming such forgotten places for the God-Emperor. Crusades of productivity, as Goeth thought of them.
That had ever been the way of it, in this fallen world. As Hive Primus crumbled, it shed the sins of its population from on high, leaving the righteous to dig down into the very bones of the world. Goeth intended to do his part, in whatever small capacity the God-Emperor had chosen for him. Of late, that capacity seemed to be as a facilitator of greater men. Men like Desolation Zoon.
Messages travelled between Cawdor fanes through a variety of means. Sometimes it was a note etched into the feathers of a sheen bird, or a rote phrase engraved on the memory of a simple-minded penitent. Other times, an encrypted signal pulsed on the sacred cogitator at the heart of every holy temple, which only the proper spoken response would unravel. This time, it came down through the pipes on the northern slopes. A hammering echo that carried a story from the streets of Steelgate to the alleys of Spore Falls. Zoon is coming, it had said.
And so, Goeth had made ready. When the battered ore-hauler had rumbled through the northern gates, a ferry had been waiting. The vehicle had groaned and vented smoke as it climbed the loading ramp. Impact craters marked the hull, and while Goeth was no expert, even he could recognise a fuel-leak when he saw one. It was in bad shape, as was its master.
Zoon had come and gone so quickly that Goeth had barely had a chance to speak to the great man. But he’d shared his company for a time. It had been… illuminating. He was older than Goeth had first thought.
His robes had been threadbare and ragged, his armour badly in need of repair. The autopistols he carried had hung like twin anchors from his belt, and he coughed constantly. Matted grey hair spilled from beneath his iron mask, and he wheezed as he sat waiting for his vehicle to be loaded. He’d reminded Goeth of a fire burning low. It flared from time to time, but its life was growing short.
His followers were no better – those who were left. They were hard men and women, shriven and stripped back. There was no vice in them, no give – just sharp edges and the stink of burning meat. Especially the one called Clovik. His own followers had given the Redemptionists a wide berth, where possible. That much purity ate at even a faithful man’s certainties like acid.
They had prayed together, just before Zoon’s departure. Only a little prayer. No fire and promethium to it – just soft entreaties to the benevolent Emperor, on His throne of gold. Zoon was tired. The sort of tired that was the first step on the road to martyrdom. Goeth had seen it before, and it made him uneasy. He’d been almost glad when Zoon and his congregation had departed for Down Town.
The underhive was not a place for happy endings, especially for men like Desolation Zoon. And when that end came, it would be unpleasant indeed. Both for Zoon and everyone around him.
The stink of burning canvas brought him back to himself. He blinked and looked around. Vendors and gangers alike struggled to contain the blaze that threatened to engulf the wharf-side streets. Everywhere, people ran, emptying buckets of water or nightsoil on crackling flames. Alarms sounded, drawing more Cawdor to the scene.
There were bodies on the ground. Not many, but even one was unacceptable. Several of them had already been shrouded by their surviving comrades. It was considered profane to gaze upon that which the light of grace had fled. He gestured, and his deacons moved into the milling crowd, grabbing one of the Cawdor gangers – a gangly youth named Chebbs.
‘What happened here?’ Goeth asked, softly. He had no need to raise his voice. His followers knew that he was angry. The crowd drew back, leaving poor Chebbs hanging in the deacons’ grip.
‘B-bounty hunters,’ Chebbs said, tugging nervously at the edges of his mask. ‘They – they freed the witch from her gibbet and set the fire and – and killed Brother Wimple when he tried to detain them…’
‘Told you,’ Cozz said.
‘Doesn’t count,’ Hieronymus replied. ‘Wimple didn’t start it.’ He shook Chebbs slightly. ‘Did he?’
‘Release him, Brother Hieronymus,’ Goeth said, as he sank to his haunches and drew back the shroud from one of the bodies. Wimple lay in a shattered heap beneath it, his head tilted at the wrong angle and his eyes fixed on the Emperor’s glory forevermore, amen. ‘Brother Cozz, put the crowd to the question. See if Brother Chebbs left anything out.’
He studied Wimple’s slack features.
‘Mark on the jaw. Single blow.’
‘Wimple was a good fighter, whatever else,’ Hieronymus said.
‘But not smart.’
‘No. Definitely not that, Emperor rest his soul.’
Goeth hid a smile and glanced at the rest of the bodies. They had perished in the usual fashion – the scorching signified lasweapons. ‘Bounty hunters,’ he murmured.
‘Maybe they were hunting Zoon?’
‘Then why free the witch?’
Hieronymus scratched his chin. ‘Opportunism?’
Goeth flipped the shroud back over Wimple’s face and stood. ‘Maybe. Or maybe something else.’ He looked around. The faithful were watching – waiting for him to pass judgement. He sighed inwardly. It was time to give them a show.
‘How?’ he growled, letting his voice carry over the crackle of the flames. ‘How did one of the faithful come to perish so?’
‘A monster,’ another Cawdor said. Murmurs of assent followed, as masked heads nodded and candles flickered. Goeth snorted. A stupid answer, but an expected one. For the layman, unholy things were behind every unfortunate occurrence.
‘And then this… monster escaped on a ferry?’ he asked.
Shifty glances followed this query. Goeth nodded and glanced at Hieronymus.
‘I want the pict-feed for the wharf and all surrounding streets. I want to know the faces of every heathen involved.’
‘I know one already,’ Cozz said, as he rejoined them. He hiked a thumb towards the crowd. ‘From the description, it was Kal Jerico.’
Goeth tensed. ‘Jerico.’ He’d never had the misfortune to encounter Jerico, but he knew those who had. It was whispered that the great Redemptionist, Cardinal Crimson, had been driven mad by Jerico’s persecution.
Cozz nodded. ‘From the sounds of it, he was heading downhive.’
Goeth frowned. ‘Where?’
‘Down Town.’
Goeth tugged on his finger-bone necklace. ‘Scav. Hieronymus, forget the picts. I need you to get a vox-blurt to Zoon before he gets out of range – if he isn’t already. We need to let him know the guilders have loosed the hounds on him.’ He crooked his finger. ‘Cozz. Come with me.’
‘Where are we going?’ Cozz asked, as he fell in beside his leader.
‘I need to speak to the Sump-Men.’
‘Those heathens?’
‘Those heathens pay us a substantial tithe,’ Goeth said, mildly.
Cozz grunted, but said nothing. Goeth took his meaning regardless. It irked some among his flock that they had to share the fruits of this small garden with those who did not share their faith in the almighty Emperor. Many wished to drive the Sump-Men out, with fire and blade, and take control of the wharf.
But there was precious little beyond momentary satisfaction to be gained in that, Goeth knew. Without the Sump-Men, the wharf would be abandoned, and the settlement with it. The traders and travellers, with their tithe-credits, would vanish, leaving Two Pumps to sink into obscurity. Goeth had no intention of letting that happen.
The bulwarks that separated the wharf from the rest of the settlement were less crowded than normal. The smoke that hung thick and black on the air might have had something to do with it. Or perhaps it was the watchful presence of several Cawdor gangers, loitering highly visibly nearby. Goeth gestured to one.
‘Brother Bezic. What news?’
Bezic hurriedly fell into step with them. ‘They wouldn’t let us through, Pastor.’
‘Did you think they would?’
Bezic shrugged. ‘It would have been neighbourly of them.’
‘They are not our neighbours, brother. They are our tenants. Take the others a safe distance back. Somewhere out of sight.’
Bezic hesitated, but only for a moment. He turned and whistled, twirling a finger. The others drifted out of sight, and Bezic followed.
Cozz frowned. ‘Not a good idea.’
‘No? You’ll like this even less.’ Before Cozz could reply, Goeth made his way to the bulwarks. The men on guard tensed. He recognised one of them – a former Orlock named Maderno. Maderno nodded in cautious greeting.
‘Pastor Goeth.’
‘Let me through,’ Goeth said, calmly. ‘I want to see your employers.’
Maderno hesitated. He was no fool. He knew that if Goeth was here, it was a matter for the Sump-Men. But he was paid to make sure nothing and no one bothered them. Goeth nodded, in understanding.
‘No weapons,’ he said. He took off his gun belt and handed it to Cozz. ‘No tricks. I just want to talk.’
‘Let him through, Maderno.’
The voice was soft, but carried, despite the clamour of the wharfs. Maderno turned. Past the guards, he saw a man clad in a fur coat, his shaved head marked by an intricate latticework of tattoos. The newcomer had a pair of tiny spectacles with smoked lenses perched on the bridge of his nose, and an ornate cylinder stub-pistol with bone grips holstered on his belt.
‘Caspius,’ Goeth said, as the guards dragged the bulwarks aside. ‘You’re looking well.’ He stepped forwards, and Caspius came to meet him.
‘Hello, Goeth. You know you’re not supposed to cross the barricades. That’s the law.’
‘There is no law save that made by the God-Emperor,’ Goeth said, looking around. ‘In any event, I came unarmed.’
‘So I see.’
Goeth smiled. ‘Besides, you could have said no.’
Caspius shrugged. ‘But I didn’t. Why are you here?’
‘You know why.’ Goeth tossed a meaningful glance back at the still-burning shacks and stalls. ‘Your men abetted a heathen.’
‘Paying customers,’ Caspius averred.
‘Going to Down Town.’
Caspius hesitated, then nodded.
‘Zoon went to Down Town,’ Goeth said. ‘Then, you already know that.’
Caspius nodded. It had been one of his ferries – he owned three – that had transported the Redemptionist downriver. Caspius was not a religious man, but he was faithful, in his own way. Mostly to credits.
‘Jerico and the others will be following him.’
Caspius grunted. ‘How do you know?’
‘Why else would they have come here?’
‘Good point.’ Caspius rubbed his shorn scalp. ‘Why does it matter to me?’
‘It doesn’t. But it does matter to someone we both know.’ Goeth looked out over the water. It was cold, here. Something about the green waters sucked heat from the very air. Scabrous rats scuttled about the lower jetties, their bodies covered in crystalline cysts.
Caspius nodded slowly. ‘Ah. You’re a bit late. I already reported Jerico’s presence to Nemo. My apologies.’
Caspius was one of Nemo’s spies. So was Goeth, to an extent. Nemo was probably a heathen, but he paid Goeth well to keep him informed about various comings and goings in Two Pumps. It kept Caspius honest, if nothing else.
‘And did you also report what Zoon was carrying in that ore-hauler of his?’
Caspius frowned and took off his spectacles. He cleaned them on the edge of his coat. ‘Something valuable?’
‘Immensely.’
‘What is it?’
Goeth looked at him. He didn’t actually know if there was anything valuable aboard the hauler. But there was no harm in making Caspius believe that he knew.
Caspius smiled and put his spectacles back on. ‘Of course. My apologies. I still don’t see…’
‘Nemo doesn’t know Zoon’s ultimate destination. But I do.’ Nemo hadn’t been interested in stopping Zoon, thankfully. Goeth wasn’t sure what he’d have done, if the spymaster had asked him to try. But he was interested in Jerico – that was common knowledge, among men like Goeth and Caspius.
‘And you didn’t tell him?’
Goeth shrugged. ‘He didn’t ask. Besides, it’s worth more than he’s paying me. But Jerico will figure it out soon enough, as will every other bounty hunter this side of the Big Spill. If Nemo were quick, he might be able to get there first. If he were interested.’
Caspius nodded slowly. ‘If he were, what might such information cost him?’
‘Double the bounty on Zoon’s head.’
Caspius whistled. ‘That’s a lot of credits, Goeth.’
‘It takes credits to make a home.’ Goeth turned away. ‘Tell Nemo to pay the credits into the usual account. Once he has, I’ll personally lead whoever he sends right to Jerico and Zoon.’
‘Personally?’ Caspius sounded surprised.
Goeth didn’t turn back. ‘Where his flock wanders, so too must the shepherd lead.’
CHAPTER TEN
NEMO
Baertrum Arturos traversed the crooked streets of Steelgate, looking for someone who didn’t wish to be found. It was a familiar feeling, and one he enjoyed. The thrill of the hunt, and all that. It was why he had decided to make the underhive his home in the first place.
Initially, he had only descended into the filth-strewn depths in pursuit of a debtor. He had fully intended to return to the middling glories of Hive City upon the man’s capture, but something had compelled him to stay. There was a strange sense of freedom down here. The laws of polite society had no sway on these mean streets.
As he walked, he wondered if it had been the same for Jerico. It was an open secret that the bounty hunter was one of Helmawr’s by-blows, by way of some off-world trollop. Had he found life in the Spire so cloying that the underhive seemed preferable?
‘Maybe I’ll ask him,’ he murmured. Whatever Forgan thought, Baertrum didn’t hate Jerico. Hate implied respect. No, he despised the bounty hunter. Despised him for who he was, and what he’d done. And not just because Jerico had made things awkward for him in Deepway.
The thought of Deepway nearly caused him to bite through the end of his cigarillo. Jerico and his motley crew had snatched a valuable commission right out from under Baertrum’s nose, leaving him empty-handed and red-faced. His reputation had suffered considerably. It had taken him months to recoup his losses and regain face.
Reputation was everything down here. A man lived or died by it. And Baertrum prized his reputation the way a miser prized wealth.
He pulled the edges of his coat tighter about himself as the rain klaxons sounded, alerting the citizens that a new deluge was about to begin. The rain was potent enough to stain the flesh an ugly green if it remained on you for too long. Baertrum wasn’t against a bit of bodily modification but he wanted to pick the colours himself, at the very least.
He spotted what he was looking for a moment later. The flickering sign of a grog house, sitting off-angle along a narrow street. Always the same sign, whatever settlement you happened to be in. And always in the heart of said settlement.
‘Like a spider crouched at the centre of his web,’ he murmured.
A rat ran across his path, squealing. He stopped, and heard the scrape of metal on pavement. Whoever had been following him for the past hour had revealed themselves at last. He smiled. Good. He’d been getting bored.
His hand fell to his needle pistol. He drew it and spun, light on his feet. A hololithic targeting glyph blinked into focus over his eye, and potential targets were illuminated in yellow. Bulky shapes in the rising chem-fog. Two of them. Goliaths.
‘I don’t like being followed, gentlemen. Kindly step into view, else I’ll be forced to perforate your thick hides.’ Baertrum raised the needler for emphasis. The shapes hesitated. His smile widened. ‘I assure you that I can see you quite clearly.’ He fired a shot at the feet of the closest of them. The whining needle-dart struck the pavement and ricocheted off into the smog. ‘See?’
The moment stretched. But as he contemplated shooting one of them to emphasise his point, the two Goliaths stepped closer, hands away from their weapons. One was a hulking giant, even among a clan of such, likely the result of too many growth stimms. The other was fairly innocuous-looking, as Goliaths judged such things.
‘Korg sent us. Said you might need muscle.’ The bigger of the two slapped his comrade in the chest. ‘This is Horst. I’m Big Sledge.’
‘Big… Sledge?’ Baertrum raised an eyebrow. ‘How colourful. Well, Mr Sledge…’
‘Big Sledge,’ the Goliath corrected.
‘Big Sledge – forgive me – I work better alone.’
‘Forgan said you might say that. Korg said we was to convince you otherwise.’ Big Sledge smiled. It wasn’t a pleasant expression. ‘The Steelgate Kings got a reputation to protect. So we’re coming with you.’
