rose the Citadel, the imposing edifice where Malum was now headed. Saltwater and the Deeping lay just a few streets to the south, both districts dominated by the Screams. Further out on the opposite side of the wings there was Althing, and then Scarhouse south of that, a quarter where many decent traders lived. And beyond that, tucked just behind Port Nostalgia, with its harbour-front hotels that the Freeze had closed down, lay the Shanties, a district where the fishermen and stevedores lived, largely in poverty. And finally the various shades of the city, known collectively as the Wastelands – though they hadn't been wasteland for thirty, maybe forty years at least. Multicultural niches had been established there, various pockets of exiles creating their own sense of belonging, like the Folke quarter or the Jokull district – unofficial names that meant little to the city's developers. Beyond that again was the dark Abies-strewn Wych-Forest, a place that was eaten into constantly by the urban crawl outwards. And raising a peak within the foliage was the Spoil Tower – a pile of refuse so high it had become the highest point locally, harvested eagerly by gulls and the homeless.
Villiren was broken up into distinctive patches of territory, undrawn lines running across unnamed streets. Which you either dare not cross or else you were obliged to defend. This territorialism gave Malum and his gang a sense of belonging and, as in most major cities across the Boreal Archipelago, there was an underground complex of tunnels and excavated caverns for them to hide out in.
In fact, Malum did most of his work out of part of this basement network. In Villiren, you needed to ascertain the way down there from someone who trusted you. Then, a sidestep out of sight, followed by a downward journey from a certain corner of the Ancient Quarter. Such passageways were scored right through the heart of the city, guarded well by cloaked figures who knew their way around a blade.
Sporting three-day stubble, under his black surtout he wore a thick woollen tunic with the hood drawn up and his red bauta mask in place. A messer blade at his hip, he took the steps two at a time.
Eventually he came to the heart of the complex that was the Villiren underground. A gangland zone, a no- man's-land, the place was constantly lit by a string of lanterns and biolumes, long passageways connecting cavernous dust-filled spaces in which the ancient houses were barely still standing, faded posters nailed to their doors. These stone facades remained only because the authorities were too scared to come down here and rip them apart.
Voices came to him through the hubbub as a few masked men nodded in his direction, or even stood up to give him vague acknowledgement. Others turned back to their tables, their faces anonymous behind their masks.
This place was a sort of decrepit tavern extending into a former marketplace, and had become a hang-out for mainly the two largest street gangs in Villiren – the Screams and his own, the Bloods. You could buy yourself the best of anything down here. Blades and drugs, ultra-strong alcohol and women, as well as decent cuts of reindeer and seal, or the more nutritious types of seaweed, for variety.
Three of his youngest recruits, none of them older than twelve, stood giggling over a crate of porno-golems. 'Put those fucking things down!' Malum shouted. 'They're not for you. Get out of here.'
He cuffed one lad around the ears and the three scampered off. Sighing, he realized his work here was endless.
Two of his men sauntered over to him, JC and Duka. The young red-headed brothers had been there from the beginning, when his business activities had turned to the darker side of life. Always ready to hand when he needed men to call in credit or clear up debts, they'd become his surrogate family early on, turning from callow boys into men he could trust. More to the point, they too had been bitten.
JC and Duka were now in their late twenties, and equally tall, but JC always wore a black mask while Duka wore none. They could almost have been twins, otherwise, but JC had tribal-motif tattoos all over his neck and chest, and possessed the most ferocious blue eyes, while his brother's were green. JC therefore looked the tougher of the two, but in reality he was more mellow, even slightly spiritual, and this helped to disguise his alcoholism. The brothers had been through a lot together – turf wars and smuggling and suffering bad drug trips, and they treated Malum like a wiser, older brother. They came from a vast family and Malum had always been welcome at their table after he was first bitten – they helped to set him straight again.
He now greeted them both in hand-slang, fingers and palms crossing according to the old code.
JC spoke first: 'Malum, how's it going? Thought you was working with those soldiers.'
'Not until midday,' Malum growled. 'I was hoping to meet up with Dannan first. Seen him anywhere around?' The man he spoke of was the bastard son of a banshee, a man who consequently called himself a banHe.
'Not seen him,' Duka confessed, burying his hands back in his pockets.
'Anything important?' JC slurred, and Malum could detect an alcoholic glaze in his eyes.
'Some union activity we need to interrupt. And I just wanted to make sure we're in agreement before we go to meet the soldiers.'
Duka muttered, 'None of us give a damn about what those soldiers are up to.'
'We might not have a choice in the end, and that's what I'm afraid of. Don't even know what it is they're fighting. They suspect trouble's on its way here so who knows what they'll want from us.'
'Hey, will you need us all to fight too?' Duka said.
Malum wasn't a military man, and he had no concern about the Empire. His own turf was all he cared about. 'Forget about it for now.'
'Right,' JC muttered. 'Hey, last night we got ourselves a crate of pirated relics off a dealer who said he'd just been to Ysla.'
'Where's he now?' Malum asked.
'Dead,' JC replied, as Duka disappeared down one of the nearby passageways. 'We dumped him in the harbour last night with his coat pockets full of masonry.'
'You drink him first?' Members of his gang had a habit of draining their victims before Malum himself could get to question them.
'Nah, he smelled of bad blood – cultist-tainted or something.'
Malum grunted a laugh. 'Are the relics any good? I don't want any of us killing ourselves for no good reason.'
'We ain't tested them yet.' JC glanced behind him, where Duka reappeared lugging a small chest. With a grunt he dumped the box at Malum's feet, and then looked up at him expectantly.
Malum rummaged carefully among the collection of odd-shaped metallic devices.
Customers were always stupid enough to buy pirated relics. They sought the dream device, the object that could improve their lives. Punters were even prepared to kill themselves – literally – for the chance to own some magic. Markets in the city thrived on ordinary people being selfish, and for the last ten years his gang had thrived on exploiting such weaknesses, making money through whatever nefarious means he could contrive.
'You did good, guys.' Malum lightly punched Duka in the arm. 'Even if they don't work, we can still get a decent price for them.'
*
Two hours later, Malum sat coolly across the table from the albinommander, only being here out of curiosity rather than any sense outy. They were gathered in the obsidian chamber, with its viecross the sea towards Tineag'l. In the distance, a garuda was curvinhrough the air. Up on the walls cressets of burning oil were spaced at regular intervals between hunting trophies: gheel heads glaring down on proceedings, their triple-forked tongues hanging out as if hungrily.
The albino commander gave a slight smile that betrayed his need for Malum to play nicely… while Malum vaguely wondered if albino blood tasted any different from that of normal humans. The commander's pallid features seemed to provide the most subtle of masks, but for Malum his expressions were clear to interpret: here was a man looking to bargain.
Two Night Guard soldiers, blond and black-haired, stood at the back with arms folded, behind their commander as if to enforce his air of authority. Another half a dozen of them sat on benches around the edge of the room, in carefully informal postures. Malum read this as a signal for everyone to stay relaxed.
Dannan had arrived late, obviously deciding to saunter here at his own leisurely pace – either that, or too messed-up on drugs to notice what the time was. With harsh and angular features, the pale banHe deported himself with surprising neatness and elegance. Malum loved to test him occasionally to see if it was all an act, but the banHe always stayed true. Malum had once caught him engaged in some occult ritual centring on a bowl of blood, three naked women, various body organs, and an old book of rituals he assumed were cultist. And close
