His destination turned out to be one of the worst areas of the city.
The crippled and homeless huddled together in the bowels of the district, shelters and squats and makeshift camps. An anarchic repossession of a district constructed only a decade ago, but now worn down by the world. More than once on the way, he could have sworn he saw some unlikely beast, maybe one of the talked-about hybrids with grafted-on wings.
Lonely figures dawdled at street corners, caressing flick knives, but never looked his way. Women caked in too much make-up braved the cold, displaying a little flesh. They cooed and pouted towards him, outraging his deep sense of morality.
A gaunt-faced man with a shaven head and stubble shambled towards Nelum and demanded money. Another figure in a cloak sauntered in from the left, a cock-sure stride denoting this was a routine procedure.
'I've nothing for you.' Nelum dismounted and moved away from his horse towards them.
The cloaked man flicked open a knife and thrust it at him lazily, but Nelum batted his hand away, grabbed his wrist then broke his assailant's arm across his knee. At that point the first thug jumped him with his own blade, drawing a faint line across Nelum's cheek, before staggering away.
The man's expression turned to surprise as he watched Nelum's wound heal before his eyes. He began thrusting his knife aggressively, while Nelum darted this way and that, ducking appropriately. He then palmed the man's forearm, sent the blade spinning from his grip, before he yanked the man's wrist downwards and jabbed a vicious punch to his neck. He collapsed to one knee, clutching his throat.
A few of the whores further up the street laughed awkwardly before sashaying off into the darkness, and Nelum mounted his horse again, then rode away wondering just where on earth the priest had sent him.
*
He arrived eventually at a dilapidated shopfront adorned with a discoloured sign that read 'Cheap Lunches'. Every other building up and down the street looked unlived in, redundant, yet he felt dozens of eyes observing him. Shutters covering windows, a boarded-up door, and Nelum was left wondering how he would get in. He dismounted, tethered up his agitated mount, then went around the back to find a door, on which he knocked loudly.
Eventually a hatch slid back, a pair of eyes regarded him, and someone asked his business.
'The priest sent me,' Nelum explained and, after a few more seconds of staring at those unblinking eyes, he added: 'I'm here to buy some of your wares.'
The hatch closed, then the door creaked open, and Nelum was beckoned into the darkness by an old man wearing scruffy breeches. The place stank of either chemicals or cheap incense, and there was someone playing a piano in a far-off room, a gust of laughter accompanying. The man led him into a small but well-lit room resembling a grocer's shop, with a counter and dozens of vials and bottles teetering on shelves – so much glass sparkling in the lantern light. Dozens of knives hung on one wall like rows of teeth of varying lengths. Ornamental masks lined another. Gemstones rested in boxes beneath the counter, amber, jade, topaz and a hundred varieties he didn't recognize.
Nelum stared at the man and dropped several Sota discs on the counter. He was skinny with sallow skin, and his jaw narrowed dramatically to a point, which in this light made him look like he'd been cross-bred with a rat.
Laughter again from the other room.
'I'm after some of your substances. Toxic substances in particular.'
'Got all sorts here,' the man replied. 'What you after?'
'Respiratory inhibitor,' Nelum said hesitantly, remembering some textbook from his studies. 'Cyanide, possibly?'
The man smiled, eyeing Nelum's clothing, clearly realizing that he was a military man but still not commenting on the fact. This unspoken pact was reassuring. 'That's old school,' he said. 'An amateur's choice. You're a traditionalist, I see.'
'Have you anything better then?'
' 'Course, lad. People come to me when they need a job doing.'
'Well, I need a job doing well. Something to be injected directly into the bloodstream. And it needs to be tough, with no messing around. Distilled so it's strong enough to kill many men.'
'Bloodstream… Maybe haemotoxins? No, you might want to consider charged metals, but that can be slow – and usually it's ingested. You want to be able get out quick?'
'I do.'
'Hmm. You considered a blade rather than toxins?'
'That could be messy… I don't want to be involved in a simple fight, not if I can help it.'
The old man turned and looked at the shelves like he was searching for something in particular. 'Clostridium botulinum,' he breathed, and turned round with a small knife, holding it reverentially in front of him. He placed it on the countertop.
Nelum was impressed with the filigree of work: it was the most ornate and uncanny knife that Nelum had ever seen, with a marblelike handle and gold edging. Dark substances oozed beneath what appeared to be a transparent surface – no, the blade itself seemed to be constructed from some form of liquid, yet one capable of holding its shape.
'Using this won't be pretty, since Botulinum causes extreme paralysis and physical distortion. One of the most toxic substances I deal with. Myth has us believe that people used this to stop themselves from ageing – insane to believe that, but I've heard funnier things about the past… This is called a botulinum blade. Fabricated from the poison itself.'
'How can I trust that it works?'
'Who knows what they got up to in times gone by – but they was darker folk than in our own day. Now, wait here.' The old man stepped away to the back and Nelum was left with only the sound of laughter eerily drifting somewhere in the distance. He eventually returned with a steel cage, inside which a fat rat scampered aimlessly. Beckoning Nelum closer, he sat the cage down and poked the strange blade between its bars. The rat merely brushed up against the tip of the blade, but instantly it began to shudder, then convulsed, its entire body contorting and blisters forming under the fur. It finally collapsed on its side and Nelum realized it had died, but its body was still reacting violently to the toxin.
'I'll take it,' Nelum declared.
When the old man described a phenomenally high price, Nelum was forced to reach for a second purse of coins. The blade was wrapped up and boxed and slipped under Nelum's cloak, before he left the broken-down building to find his horse.
*
A knock on his chamber door, and Brynd jolted awake to find he'allen asleep across his missives. Zones across his shoulder and necad become bitingly stiff from the combat.
A messenger shuffled into the room, announcing more bad news.
There had been confirmation from the scouts that the enemy werndeed taking prisoners. Over a thousand citizens of all ages were noocked up in a warehouse somewhere in the west of the city, anhips were lining up to transport them to the north.
*
Later that night, Brynd asked Nelum to meet him in the obsidiahamber to discuss a possible mission to the warehouse. Lupus watanding by the far wall, studying maps of the area that the enemad captured.
The central table seemed increasingly an extension of Brynd himself, so much of his business was now conducted from here. This wasn't soldiering any longer, it was administration.
After explaining the news in detail he rested on his elbows and peered across at his lieutenant. The man seemed more agitated than he'd ever known, and it seemed he had not listened to a word just said. Brynd knew this to be totally out of character for him.
'Part of the Night Guard's duty is protection of the Empire's subjects,' Brynd said, by way of reminder. 'It seems there are many innocent civilians imprisoned and waiting to die, and I believe we must devise a way to get them out of there with minimal loss of military personnel.'
'Agreed.' Nelum frowned at the table. 'I'm sure I can come up with a strategy.'
Brynd wanted to do that himself, but as a gesture to Nelum, he backed down. 'If you wouldn't mind. So long as absolute stealth is integral to-'
