Kal jerico sinners bount.., p.7
Kal Jerico: Sinner's Bounty, page 7
‘You had a mother?’ Yolanda said. Scabbs didn’t look at her.
‘She’s dead.’
Yolanda blinked and made to retort, but fell silent at a look from Kal. He didn’t know much about Scabbs, beyond the obvious. They were friends, of sorts, but not the kind who talked about anything save what was ahead of them. But he knew Scabbs was a half-breed. The child of a ratskin mother, and a father who’d claimed to be a dome-runner, before Momma Scabbs had staved in his skull with a full bottle of Wildsnake and taken to the tunnels with her son.
Scabbs hadn’t been cut out for the life of a ratskin. Too much of his father in him. But every so often, something deep in him reached out, and he got a look on his pasty, peeling face. He had that look now and Kal knew better than to stand in his way.
‘It’s not right,’ Scabbs said, to no one in particular.
‘What’s not right?’ Yolanda asked, clearly impatient.
Scabbs glanced at her. ‘This. Leaving an old man to starve. Or die of thirst.’
‘You once left me tied up in a rat-infested tunnel,’ she said.
‘In fairness, we left you a knife,’ Kal said. ‘But I’m inclined to agree with my pestiferous friend, here. Cruelty, thy name is Cawdor. Inventive bastards.’ He leaned over and spat. ‘At least the Goliaths will just twist your head off.’
‘And Eschers twist other things,’ Yolanda said.
‘Quiet,’ Scabbs said, and for once, Kal and Yolanda did. It was rare that Scabbs spoke in anything other than a sort of aggressive whine. But every so often, the voice of the man he ought to have been came out.
Scabbs stared up at the gibbet for long moments. Then, deliberately, he drew his knife and reached for the padlocks on the bottom of the cage. The old man caught his wrist. A face appeared from within the rags, muttering something in a downhive dialect. Scabbs replied in kind, if haltingly. He pulled himself loose of the old man’s grasp and reached again for the padlocks. Kal dragged him back quickly.
‘No.’ Scabbs turned, but Kal tapped his lip and pointed. Up on the slopes above, several hunched shapes crouched in the lee of a broken archway, watching the three bounty hunters. Cawdor gangers.
‘More to our left,’ Yolanda said.
Kal nodded. More Cawdor appeared, from the way they’d come. The masked fanatics had likely been shadowing them the whole time. And these weren’t children. They held their refurbished weapons with easy familiarity, and their gazes glittered fiercely behind their sinister masks. A quick calculation told him that there were too many to take, even if Yolanda had been willing to help. He glanced at her, and she shook her head slightly.
‘Not our business, Jerico.’
‘Yeah,’ he said. But the word tasted like poison. ‘Come on,’ he said, looking at Scabbs. ‘Leave it. It’s not what we’re here for.’
Scabbs resisted, but only for a moment. He slumped, sheathed his knife, and turned away. The old man continued to talk, his words tripping over each other, and Scabbs hunched further and further into himself. Kal and Yolanda followed him slowly, keeping an eye on the sentries.
‘Think they know we skipped on the tithe?’ Yolanda asked.
‘If they did, they’d let us know,’ Kal said. ‘Keep moving.’
The settlement gates were around the next bend. They had been made from the archway of some great edifice that had fallen from the levels above. It had sunk down at an awkward angle, and what had once been doors were now a drawbridge of sorts, controlled by a makeshift pulley system. Cawdor manned the gatehouse, and checked the wares of the travellers queueing up to enter. Kal and the others joined the shuffling line.
Another pair of gibbets hung to either side of the gate, high up over the queue. A woman – another ratskin, to judge by her clothes and tattoos – squatted in one, singing softly to herself. In the other, a mutie crouched, howling curses with a bifurcated tongue. He shook the bars of his cage until a Cawdor slammed the blade of his glaive against the bottom, and shouted him into silence. Scabbs started at the sight of the woman, and then hastily looked away. Kal watched him carefully, but said nothing.
As they got closer to the gate, Kal caught a whiff of rot. Bodies sewn up in bloodstained canvas shrouds lay slumped against the palisade walls. They had crudely written signs hung about their necks, declaring them excommunicate, heretics, murderers and ratskins. Flies clumped thick and loud, crawling over these gory signposts. Scabbs was tense, his eyes flat. Kal caught his elbow and leaned close. ‘Calmly,’ he murmured.
Scabbs nodded jerkily, but said nothing.
Yolanda frowned. ‘What’s with him?’
‘He’s spooked, that’s all,’ Kal said. In truth, he was wondering the same thing himself. It wasn’t like Scabbs to get lost in his own head like this for so long. Maybe coming to Two Pumps had been the wrong idea.
‘Too late to back out now,’ he muttered.
CHAPTER SIX
TWO PUMPS
Two Pumps was, charitably, a scav-hole.
Past the gates, the settlement spread out in a rough semicircle on the shores of the sump-waters. The stink of sump-mould and rotting fish and the sounds of commerce filled the air. The streets were sediment, and the buildings were made of scrap – or simply tents, strung along communal comm-lines that stretched to a central vox-caster, which was chained to a lonely pylon at the settlement’s heart.
The town bunched up at the bottom of a dried runoff, where hundreds of pipes had once discharged overflow waters. The constant stream of waters had carved the trail they’d followed, as well as a dozen others, all of which met in a single divot of ground, before spilling onto a sump-river that stretched out and down, into the depths of downhive.
Decades after the pipe-waters had dried and the river had receded, a settlement had sprouted, built on a heaving raft of refuse. The settlement had changed hands often, its population shrinking or swelling over the years. The one constant was the slime-trawlers and ferries that ran travellers and cargo to settlements and outposts along the sump-river.
Kal led the others through the dirty streets, one hand on the basket-hilt of his sword. ‘Watch your pockets,’ he murmured. Street-preachers stood on every corner, ringing tocsins or shouting badly translated scripture. Cawdor tithe-takers nosed around the merchant stalls, and cast wary glances at passers-by.
‘I thought thievery was against the Cawdor creed,’ Scabbs said, looking around.
‘Only when it comes to the faithful. Which ain’t us.’ Kal turned a hard stare on a group of gangers lounging on a nearby boardwalk. The masks the Cawdor wore were as unique as faces, if you knew how to read them. These weren’t familiar, but they were trying very hard to look as if they weren’t paying any attention at all.
Scabbs leaned close. ‘I can see why you think Zoon came through here,’ he murmured. ‘This place is lousy with zealots.’ He frowned and spat. One of the Cawdor stiffened, and Scabbs matched him glare for glare.
‘Easy,’ Kal muttered. It was as if Scabbs were looking for a fight.
Scabbs glanced at him, and then away. Kal watched him for a moment, wondering if he was going to do something stupid. His partner was normally fairly pragmatic. But he was unusually tense.
‘We’re being watched,’ Yolanda said, not bothering to modulate her voice.
‘Thanks, but I saw them,’ Kal said.
‘Not the Cawdor. The Goliaths.’ She indicated a stall selling fried meat, where a trio of bulky figures stood, talking amongst themselves. Every so often, one cut a glance towards Kal and the others, before quickly looking away.
Kal almost stopped. ‘Same ones we ran across in Spore Falls?’
‘Steelgate Kings,’ Yolanda said, nodding. ‘Irontooth Korg’s bunch.’
‘They’re a bit far south to be sightseeing.’
‘Must be following Zoon’s trail same as us,’ Scabbs said.
‘How do they know where he’s going?’ Yolanda’s hand fell to the hilt of her chainsword. ‘Should we ask them?’
‘Korg’s probably got his boys scattered through every settlement between here and Vat City. If he’s smart, he knows Zoon can only be heading one of two places – down, or out of the hive and into the Ash Wastes. Either way, he’s got to pass through Down Town.’
‘A Goliath – smart?’ Yolanda snorted. ‘It’s probably just bad luck.’
Kal looked at her. ‘I’ve heard enough about Korg to know he’s not a complete idiot. But he’s figuring things out faster than I thought. We might need to keep an eye on them. Wouldn’t want to get squeezed out of our bounty, would we?’
They pushed on towards the shore, where a handful of jetties and docks thrust out over the glistening waters. This makeshift wharf was cordoned off by a series of barricades and scrap-walls. While the Cawdor might control Two Pumps, the Sump-Men controlled the waters, and everything that travelled on them.
The Sump-Men were a loose consortium of trawler captains and ferry-masters. They’d pooled their credits and bought enough armed scummers to ensure that the wharf remained an independent territory. Hard-faced guards patrolled the bulwarks, or stared insolently at the unhappy Cawdor gangers loitering across the street.
Dozens of touts were stationed along the river, shouting out prices and destinations. Queues of passengers were lined up before the barricades, awaiting permission to board the ferries that loomed out on the water. Some were travelling pedlars while others were pilgrims or gangers. There were probably even a few bounty hunters mixed in.
Yolanda whistled. ‘Look at that scrum.’
‘Let’s wait until it thins out,’ Kal said, watching as a fight broke out in the line. ‘I don’t feel like wading into that.’
There was a line of stalls along the opposite side of the street from the wharfs. Water-dealers, mostly, by the looks of things. Bubbling canisters connected to long pipes sat atop long counters. A few credits bought you a shot of fresh water – or what they claimed was fresh water – and a few more than that bought you the right to fill your own container for more gradual consumption.
Fresh water was one of the most valuable commodities in the underhive, and the guilders rationed most of it. But sometimes someone ran across an unclaimed geyser or drip, and exploited it until it ran dry or the guilders caught wind of it. Two Pumps was one of the few places this side of downhive where it was sold openly.
Every stall had its own guard, usually a ganger. Most of the water-dealers worked with – or for – one gang or another. And the gangs liked to protect their investment, especially in a settlement like Two Pumps, where Cawdor tithe-collectors prowled in substantial numbers.
Kal and the others bellied up to the counter of one such stall. Kal took a seat, Wotan sitting at his feet.
Yolanda traded a nod with the Escher ganger lounging at the end of the counter. ‘Magrill,’ she said. ‘Who’d you annoy to get hydro-duty?’
‘Pick a name,’ Magrill said, mildly. The Escher was tall and muscular, her hair plaited in multi-coloured braids. She leaned back against the counter, her fingers tapping at the pommels of the knives sheathed on her belt. ‘Haven’t seen you this far down in a while, Yolanda. Still reppin’ the Wildcats?’
Yolanda shook her head. ‘Gone solo.’ She glanced at Kal. ‘Or as good as.’
Magrill grinned. ‘Heard you got married.’
Kal straightened his coat and extended his hand. ‘She did. We’re very happy.’
‘Shut up, Jerico,’ Yolanda said, shoving him back into his seat. Then, to Magrill, ‘It isn’t what you think.’
Magrill laughed. ‘Doesn’t matter to me, Yolanda. He isn’t bad-looking, all things considered. I’ve seen worse men.’
‘Not by much,’ Yolanda muttered.
Somewhat insulted, Kal left them to it. He knocked on the counter. When no one appeared, he bent over and looked into the stall. A man lay snoring on the ground, a rag over his face. Kal kicked the stall, startling the sleeper. The water-dealer sat bolt upright with a curse. He tossed a glare at Magrill, who ignored him.
‘What’s the point of paying for guards if they don’t do any guarding?’ he groused, as he clambered to his feet. Kal smiled sympathetically.
‘Who watches the watchmen, eh?’
The water-dealer blinked owlishly at him. He was a heavyset man, with slabs of muscle already starting to turn to fat. ‘What’s that supposed to mean, then?’
‘Just something I heard,’ Kal said. ‘Shot of water.’
The dealer drew up a pipe and filled a greasy shot glass. Kal took a swallow.
‘Three credits.’
Kal spat the water back into the glass.
The dealer didn’t blink. ‘One credit for a rinse.’
Kal looked at Scabbs. His partner was paying no attention, staring at seemingly nothing in particular. Kal nudged him. ‘Pay the man, Scabbs.’
‘What?’
‘Two credits,’ the dealer said, blithely.
Scabbs frowned, but handed over the money. He took the shot glass and swigged it. Kal was about to say something, but decided against it. He followed Scabbs’ gaze, trying to see what had caught his attention. When he saw it, he grimaced. Dozens of scalps hung from a warning klaxon like bloody fruit.
‘Ratskins,’ Scabbs said.
‘How can you tell?’
Scabbs didn’t reply. Kal wasn’t good with words of comfort, but he tried to muster something suitably sympathetic.
‘Renegades,’ he said. ‘Maybe they were renegades.’
‘They weren’t,’ the water-dealer interjected. He spat onto a rag and began to polish the hydro-canister. ‘Ratskins started coming up about two weeks back. Standoffish, like you’d expect. Acted like they were running from something.’
‘And then they ran right into the Cawdor.’ Kal shook his head. House Cawdor had a bounty on ratskin scalps. He’d never been tempted to try and collect – it didn’t pay much, and he had some standards.
The water-dealer nodded. ‘Yeah. Serves them right, coming up here where decent folk are trying to make a living. You know how much hydro I lose, when they’re around? They think everybody’s got a right to clean water. Crazy, ain’t it?’
‘Maybe they just think it rightfully belongs to them,’ Scabbs said. Kal shot him a warning glance, but Scabbs ignored him. ‘They were here first, you know.’
‘Well they ain’t here now,’ the dealer said, eyeing Scabbs sidelong. ‘You look a bit rattish yourself, friend. Cawdor don’t pay much for half-breeds, but they do pay. So I’d keep such talk to yourself.’
Scabbs made to go for his knife, but Kal stopped him. ‘Walk it off,’ he muttered. Scabbs stepped back from the counter and sloped off through the crowded streets. Kal watched him go, and noticed that the Goliaths weren’t the only ones watching them.
A tall, bulky shape, wrapped in robes, head hidden beneath a hood, stood at the other end of the street, near another water-stall, studying him. When whoever it was realised that Kal was watching, they didn’t act startled, or look away. Instead, they nodded, as if in greeting, and turned back to whatever they’d been doing before.
Somewhat unsettled, Kal turned to the water-dealer. ‘Another shot – on the house.’
‘What?’
‘I just saved you from getting your belly opened. It’s the least you can do.’
The dealer looked at Magrill.
‘Give the man a shot, Dufe,’ she said, not looking at him. ‘Put it on my tab.’
Dufe glowered, but did as she said, slamming the shot down in front of Kal. Kal smiled and took it. He turned on his stool, intent on savouring the water. He preferred Wildsnake, all things considered, but fresh water was a delicacy he’d experienced little of since coming downhive. Mostly you got recycled hydro, if that. Piss-water, pumped from the septic sluices and strained clean. Or boiled sump-water.
As Kal sipped at the water, he scanned the crowd. The Goliaths were standing in a surly knot, having staked out part of the queue for themselves. The hooded figure was nowhere in sight, and that made him nervous. He hadn’t recognised them, but that didn’t mean anything. He smiled slightly. The name Kal Jerico was known throughout the underhive.
‘Maybe they’re an admirer,’ he murmured.
‘What are you babbling about?’ Yolanda said, elbowing him. Kal nearly spilled his water. He glared at her, and finished it off in a single swallow.
‘Nothing. Finished catching up?’
‘What? Oh, you mean Magrill. She runs with the Bloodmaidens, out of Spoilheap.’
Kal frowned. ‘I’ve heard of them. Why have I heard of them?’
Yolanda grinned. ‘My namesake used to be their leader.’
Kal whistled as he realised who she meant. ‘Yolanda Skorn. Helmawr’s rump, there’s a name to conjure with. I haven’t seen her since that thing in Cable Heights.’ He paused, as bad memories flooded back. Skorn was a lunatic. ‘Don’t tell me she’s lurking around somewhere,’ he said.
‘Nope. Not her.’
Kal pinched the bridge of his nose. He felt a headache coming on. He’d been sober too long. ‘Who?’
‘Grendlsen.’
‘Grendl Grendlsen?’
‘You know any other Grendlsens?’
Kal sat back. ‘He’s after Zoon?’
‘Magrill didn’t know.’ She looked around. ‘Speaking of runts, where did Scabbs get to?’
‘I sent him to go cool off.’
Yolanda shook her head. ‘What did he do now?’
‘It doesn’t matter. I handled it.’
‘You better hope so.’ She gestured. ‘He’s this close to becoming a liability.’
‘Scabbs is a lot of things. But a liability isn’t one of them.’ He paused. He could still taste the fresh water on his tongue. ‘He showed me the ropes when I was fresh down from the Spire, and without anything to back up my talk.’ He looked at her. ‘Spire-born are pretty vicious little bastards at that age – trained to kill, but not taught that our prey might fight back. Coming down here was quite the culture shock for little Kal. I was robbed twice in as many hours – once by Scabbs. That’s how we met.’
