Kal jerico sinners bount.., p.6
Kal Jerico: Sinner's Bounty, page 6
‘But you’re the one who wants to obtain my services – why?’
Forgan played idly with his badge. ‘Zoon stole something worth more than everything else in that place. Something I procured at great cost on behalf of another party. I want it back.’
‘Isn’t that what Jerico and the others are doing? Getting it back?’
‘Anything they salvage will be part of a general inspection.’
‘Ah. And there we are. I knew it.’ Baertrum sat back. ‘Whatever it is, you don’t want anyone else knowing about it.’ He waggled an admonishing finger. ‘Tsk-tsk, Forgan. Dabbling in the black market, are we?’
‘It’s not like that,’ Forgan said. He looked at Korg, as if seeking support, but the Goliath merely shook his head and looked away.
Baertrum held up a placatory hand. ‘No need to explain, my friend. My services are circumspect. I serve at the behest of the guilders, as always. Tell me what it is, and I shall acquire it for you.’
‘I can’t.’
‘Can’t, or won’t?’
‘It doesn’t matter. That information is not for you.’
‘Then how, pray tell, am I to reclaim it?’ Baertrum sipped at his tea. It had gone cold, and he frowned, setting it aside. ‘If I don’t know what it is, I can’t get it back.’
‘You won’t need to know anything about it to retrieve it. It’s sealed in a special container, marked with my personal sigil.’ Forgan snapped his fingers and one of his servants stepped forwards with a covered tray balanced lightly on his fingers. He whipped the cover off with a flourish, revealing a square device roughly the size of an autopistol magazine. Baertrum didn’t take it, and Forgan gestured for his servant to set the tray down.
‘What is it?’ Baertrum asked.
‘A ping box.’ Forgan picked the device up and weighed it on his hand. ‘A bit of old tech, but useful. It’s keyed to the binaric stamp that marks all of my properties. Simply wave it over a container, and it will identify the one in question.’
Baertrum took it, and studied it himself. ‘And how many of these are there?’
‘A handful. So try not to lose it. It cost me a small fortune to procure them, and I doubt anyone possesses the artifice to recreate them.’ Forgan smiled. ‘So you see, you need not know a single thing to reclaim my property.’
Baertrum nodded slowly, considering the device. ‘It will take some time. Jerico and the others have a head start, to say nothing of Zoon himself.’
‘But you can do it,’ Forgan said. He glanced at Korg, who was looking steadily at Baertrum. ‘He can do it.’ Baertrum wondered who he was trying to convince.
‘And what about Zoon himself?’
‘I want him,’ Korg growled.
Baertrum ignored him, and looked at Forgan. The guilder sat back, his expression unreadable. ‘Do as you see fit. I’m paying for the return of my merchandise.’
‘But you will honour the bounty-price?’
‘Alive,’ Korg said. He looked at Forgan. ‘I want him alive.’
Forgan frowned. ‘Far be it from me to say no to such a polite request. Fine. Yes. Bring in Zoon – alive – and there’ll be credits in it for you.’
Baertrum paused. ‘And Jerico?’
Forgan laughed. ‘Do as you like, Baertrum. I only mentioned him to pique your interest. Now that I have your attention, I couldn’t care less what happens to him or any of those other credit-skiving scummers.’
Baertrum nodded thoughtfully and pushed himself to his feet. ‘Well then. I thank you for the contract, guilder. I will recover your property, and bring both it and the perpetrator to you in one piece.’
Forgan’s servants showed Baertrum out. The streets were as crowded as ever, full of the base and the wretched. Somewhere, a klaxon began to sound. A rain of coolant fell from on high, pattering down across the rooftops of Steelgate.
He stepped into a handy doorway, and reached into his coat. He retrieved a silver case and flipped it open, revealing a line of thin cigarillos. He selected one, tapped it on the case, and thrust it between his lips.
He glanced back, picking out Forgan’s high-rise easily enough. The balcony was covered, and he knew Forgan liked the rain. They’d still be there.
‘Activate sub-augur delta-six,’ he muttered, around the cigarillo. He lit a match – an old-fashioned affectation – and touched it to the tip of the cigarillo as his remote augur systems cycled.
The listening device he’d planted beneath the table was one of several hundred he’d scattered about the residences of his clientele. Wherever they met to discuss business, Baertrum planted a bug. It was a habit he’d picked up during his time uphive. Information was valuable, and a man in his position needed to know everything – especially what his clients didn’t want him to know.
A brief instant of static was followed by Forgan in mid-flow.
‘–and of course, he’s expensive. But he’s worth every credit, I assure you. For all his vices, Baertrum is highly skilled. He’ll be on Zoon’s trail before we know it.’
‘My boys are already on the hunt.’ That was Korg. ‘We know he’s heading downhive. If he’s like other Redemptionists, he’ll look for Cawdor enclaves to resupply in. That narrows things down plenty.’
Baertrum smiled. Korg was right. That narrowed things down quite nicely.
‘I have the greatest confidence in your reasoning, my friend, but I didn’t get to where I am without learning to hedge my bets.’
‘Do you trust him?’ Korg asked.
‘God-Emperor, no. He’s as crooked as they come. But he’ll do the job without skimming too much off the top. And that’s what we want. A proper adjurator. Not one of these downhive gunmen – no offence. Hunters like Jerico are as much criminals as the scum they hunt down.’ Forgan laughed. ‘Of course, we’ll renegotiate his fee to account for spillage, after he brings back the merchandise.’
‘No, I don’t think we will,’ Baertrum murmured. An old guilder trick, that. And one he’d long ago learned how to circumvent. He wasn’t angry. It was all part of the game.
‘And he will bring it back?’
Baertrum frowned. That was a new voice. A woman.
‘You have my most heartfelt assurances, Lady Jena. Baertrum has never failed me.’
‘Then this had best not be the first time. For your sake – and his.’
Baertrum’s frown deepened, and he took a long pull on the cigarillo, letting the calming smoke fill his lungs. He didn’t care for threats, even at a remove. But he could look past that, given the circumstances.
Whoever it was, they didn’t sound like a local. The polished tones said uphiver – or off-worlder. Possibly the original buyer of whatever Zoon had stolen. Or a representative thereof.
Finding out who they were would be the next order of business, once he had the item in hand. Forgan was a friend, of sorts, but this was business. Baertrum could potentially increase his profits by cutting out the middle man – or perhaps selling the item to someone else entirely. Forgan wouldn’t like it, of course. But he’d understand.
It was just business, after all.
CHAPTER FIVE
TITHE-PATH
The grating gave way after the second kick. It toppled from its frame and fell with a loud clang that sent the sump-gulls hurtling from their roosts. The flattish, pallid birds wobbled awkwardly into the upper reaches, murmuring in agitation. Kal climbed out of the pipe, careful to keep his coat free of the various effluvia that encrusted everything.
He paused and cast a wary glance around. A thin slick of oily water dripped from the access pipe and ran in dark rivulets through the soft mould that clung to the ground like a carpet. Toadstools tottered on split stems between sections of archaic ductwork, and he could feel the soft breeze of an air circulator struggling nearby.
Screes of broken machinery and rubble cascaded down to either side of the pipe and extended outwards like the slopes of a canyon – mementos of past hive quakes. As Hive Primus shifted and settled on its foundations, the lowest levels were steadily compressed into one another over the course of decades. Whole hab-zones had eroded and collapsed, sinking into the dust that rose steadily from hive bottom.
Kal didn’t care to think about it more than he had to. He wasn’t naturally claustrophobic – no one who grew up in a hive could be without going very mad very young – but the thought of all that weight pressing steadily down and down was enough to give him the sweats. He looked back.
‘Come on, it’s clear.’
Wotan was first, claws scraping along the pipe as he flung himself into the open. The cyber-mastiff turned in a slow circle, augurs twitching in a parody of an animal sniffing the air. Scabbs followed more warily, one hand on the autogun slung over his back.
‘I thought we’d never reach the end,’ he said. He watched the last of the startled sump-gulls vanish into the shadows above and smacked his lips as he clambered to the ground. ‘Gulls make good eating. Maybe we should try and catch one?’
There was a shrill screech, and a flutter of feathers descended. Kal flicked one off his shoulder. ‘Something up there obviously agrees with you. Come on. Two Pumps is just past the next overflow pipe.’
‘That’s what you said three pipes ago,’ Yolanda growled, as she dropped to the ground. ‘Are you certain this is the right direction?’
‘You saw the map.’ Kal peered down the path. The trail leading away from the pipe was old, and didn’t seem to have been used in some time. Which was strange. The last time he’d come to Two Pumps, traders and dome-runners had used the access pipe fairly often. Then, it had been a few years since he’d come this way – he supposed it could have fallen out of favour with the local pilgrims, in that time.
‘The map might be wrong.’ She paused. ‘What’s with the dog?’
Kal looked down. Wotan was standing stiff, head pointed towards the narrow trail ahead. A low, thin growl trickled from his vox. Kal recognised the signs. There was someone up ahead, past the bend in the path. He frowned and gestured silently to the others. Yolanda nodded, a slow grin spreading across her face. Scabbs hastily readied his autogun.
Kal drew one of his pistols as he edged forwards. He heard the soft clatter of rubble behind him, as Yolanda went up a slope. He whistled and Wotan bounded ahead, barking loudly. The cyber-mastiff sprang around the bend, and Kal heard shouts, as well as the crack of a stub-pistol. He glanced at Scabbs. ‘Cover me.’ Then, without waiting for a reply, he sauntered after his pet, spinning his weapon by the trigger-guard.
Around the bend was a structure made out of scrap, sprawling across the gap between the rubble slopes. Half-walls of corrugated tin extended to either side of a central portcullis made from a repurposed bulkhead that was more rust than iron. Lit braziers dotted the path before the bulkhead, casting a pale orange glow over everything.
Suddenly, the path’s lack of recent use made sense. Kal knew a toll gate when he saw one. Anyone with a gun and a hankering to extort credits could set one up in the wild stretches between settlements. Given the lines of scripture painted across the walls, and the knock-off Ministorum relics mounted atop the portcullis, he guessed this one had been set up by one of the local Cawdor ministries. They were the lowest of the Clan Houses, but the most populous and by far the most widespread, this far from the major downhive settlements.
Wotan bounded among a group of scrambling, yelling gangers, snapping his steel jaws at every tatter of clothing that came in reach. A stub-pistol snarled again, and Wotan paused as the slug flattened itself against his armoured skull. Kal snapped off a shot and the gunman yelped as the las-bolt sizzled across his wrist. He dropped his weapon and clutched his injured hand to his chest. All eyes turned towards Kal, who raised a hand in greeting.
‘Afternoon,’ he said, loudly. He whistled sharply, and Wotan sat, awaiting further orders. His jaws twitched every so often, as if trying to dislodge the scraps of cloth caught in his teeth. Kal studied Wotan’s opponents.
There were five of them, all wearing rags and tatters, their faces hidden behind crudely stitched masks. The Cawdor thought it sinful to expose their faces in public. Nooses hung from around their scrawny necks, like grisly medallions, and several had lit candles mounted atop their heads in special holders. Their weapons looked as if they had been rescued from a scrap-heap – autoguns held together by pipe-tape and bandages, and polearm blunderbusses.
One of them darted out of Wotan’s reach and flung up a hand.
‘Halt, in the name of the God-Emperor and the Thane of Cawdor,’ he screeched.
Kal realised that they were barely more than children, under their masks. House Cawdor started young. Most of the underhive did, but this lot took it to extremes. They even rounded up snatchlings from the orphanariums and put them to work. Nothing went to waste. Kal smiled and gestured to the structure.
‘This is new.’
‘Tithe path,’ one of the youths said. His voice warbled and cracked. ‘Five credits.’
‘Apiece?’ Scabbs said, stepping into view. ‘That’s robbery.’ He had his autogun aimed in a general sort of way. Not threatening, but not friendly either. It didn’t pay to be either, until they knew how much the toll was.
‘It’s for the God-Emperor,’ another youth said. They looked worried, now that there were two guns facing them. Or maybe it was just because Wotan was still sitting among them, waiting for Kal’s whistle.
Scabbs snorted. ‘Then let Him ask me for it.’
As the blasphemy left his lips, a blunderbuss came up. Kal whistled and Wotan caught it by the barrel. The cyber-mastiff closed his jaws and the weapon crumbled between his teeth. Kal drew his second pistol.
‘If you’d restrain yourselves for a few moments, I’m sure we can reach some mutually satisfactory understanding of the current situation.’
The Cawdor youths looked at one another.
‘What?’ one said.
Kal levelled a pistol at the speaker. ‘Stop playing up or I’ll shoot you.’
He heard the click of weapons being readied and saw several more Cawdor moving across the top of the walls. One of them hefted an arbalest – a crude, explosive-throwing crossbow. The youth who’d demanded the tithe grinned, revealing crooked teeth.
‘The God-Emperor protects. And the price has gone up. Ten credits apiece.’
‘The God-Emperor drives a hard bargain,’ Kal said.
‘The hardest,’ the youth agreed. ‘Ten credits, and you get to go back the way you came. And take your… thing with you.’ He made to kick at Wotan, but seemed to think better of it. Kal smiled.
‘I have a better offer. Let us in, and my wife won’t kill your friends.’
The youth’s eyes narrowed. Before he could speak, there was a shout from the tin walls, and the sound of something heavy falling over. The Cawdor turned as one. Yolanda stood atop the wall, arbalest braced against her hip. The rest of the gangers lay at the foot of the wall in a heap. Whether they were unconscious or dead, Kal couldn’t tell. Knowing Yolanda, it was a bit of both.
Yolanda lifted the arbalest and sighted down its length. ‘Drop your weapons,’ she shouted, gleefully.
One of the Cawdor spun to glare at Kal. ‘If she fires that thing, you’ll die too!’
‘She doesn’t care,’ Kal said.
‘I don’t care,’ Yolanda called out.
‘See?’ Kal added. ‘I’d do what she says. And then I’d consider finding an easier line of work. Maybe go back to picking through midden-piles.’ He pushed past the gangers, Scabbs following warily in his wake. He snapped his fingers and Wotan fell into step with him. As they approached the portcullis, Yolanda activated whatever mechanism there was for opening the bulkhead, and it swung wide with a slow, dolorous groan.
Behind them, a youth snarled. ‘You won’t get away with this. Two Pumps is a stronghold of the faithful, now. Everyone must pay the tithe. Especially heathens!’
Kal didn’t turn around. ‘The way I see it, we did,’ he called out. ‘After all, the lives of the faithful are worth more than mere credits.’ As they passed through the bulkhead, Kal slammed it shut, and spun the lock into place. Yolanda jumped down to join them. She patted the arbalest fondly.
‘I think I’ll keep it.’
‘Feel free,’ Kal said. ‘It’ll probably blow up the first time you fire it. The Cawdor aren’t known for their engineering ability.’
Yolanda frowned and looked at Scabbs, who shrugged. ‘Just make sure you give me some warning before you use it,’ he said. She tossed the weapon aside with a look of disgust.
The path meandered across long metres of broken ground, and grew wider as it flowed into other trails. Kal wondered if there was a tithe-gate for each one. If so, whichever gang was running Two Pumps nowadays was likely getting rich.
The hillocks of rubble to either side rose and fell, and Kal could see the remains of sub-structures and collapsed buildings. There were bodies, too. Most of these hung in iron gibbets from high cross-beams mounted over the path at irregular intervals. The bodies inside were invariably burnt and blackened. The Cawdor had unpleasant ways of dealing with enemies, heretics and anyone else who got on the local church’s bad side. Really, it was just one way, and that way involved some form of burning the poor bastards alive.
But sometimes they didn’t, and that was almost worse.
As they passed beneath one creaking gibbet, a withered arm shot from beneath what Kal had assumed was nothing more than a mouldering pile of animal skins. A hand caught at his hair, before sliding off and retracting. An aged voice mumbled something incoherent in a voice like broken glass, and Scabbs stopped, staring at the gibbet.
Kal looked at him. ‘What is it?’
‘I know that song,’ Scabbs said, softly. ‘It’s an old ratskin hymn. My mother used to sing it to me.’
