Return of the Crimson Guard

something in a language unknown to Possum and withdrew. He spun but she was gone. So quick! A mage as well; and damned good.

Turning back, he caught the one wrapped in black swathings staring right at him. He took a breath to call but she ran, disappearing into another tenement. He cradled his front with a gasp; that sudden breath hadn't been a good idea. When he looked up again another lone Claw had entered the garbage-strewn enclosure. This one wore grey cloth, her short black hair uncovered. Great Fanderay! Yet another one! And another female to boot! Where were they all coming from? The Claw knelt to examine the fallen Avowed. Possum limped to the shattered rear door.

By the time he reached the Guardsman this third mystery woman was of course gone. He shuffled to the fallen Avowed. A hand at the man's broken neck assured him that the man was indeed dead — asphyxiation, Possum assumed, from feeling his crushed larynx.

He straightened from the corpse. Intriguing mysteries, yes, but all would have to wait. He studied the glow of flames brightening the night sky, black smoke billowing from nearby. Time to reassert some measure of control — if possible. And find a healer too. He probed the slit across his front gummed with drying blood, and grimaced; yes, definitely the closest he'd yet come to the end of his career. A wave and an opening to darkness appeared. Possum stepped through delicately.

Coming up the Way of Opals, Nait and the harbour guard met a wagon headed the opposite way. A tarp covered its contents and the drover was afoot, pulling on the tack of the two harnessed oxen. His face glistened with sweat and his eyes were wide with terror as he nodded to Sergeant Tinsmith. Up the road fires looked to be gathering Strength in the fine tailoring district. ‘How goes things?’ Sergeant Tinsmith called to the man.

‘Very good, sir. Very good. Just trying to save some possessions from the fires.’ He pulled two-handed on the yoke, muttered feverishly to the oxen.

‘I meant with the battle,’ Tinsmith said.

Men and women came running down the street carrying bundles and baskets. A crying child was being dragged along by her shirt-front. The man blinked at Tinsmith. Oh, that! Have no idea. Sorry. You'll have to reach the Gemcutters’ Bourse for that.’

‘The gemcutters?’ said Nait. ‘They're fighting there? Sergeant, please, we've to get a piece of that’

The man clenched both hands in his hair and he stared pleadingly at the oxen. ‘There's some kind of riot in the district. Something about protection fees. Move, you great anuses!’

Tinsmith raised an eyebrow. ‘I'm sorry…?’

The man yanked on his hair so hard it was as if he was attempting to raise himself from the ground. ‘Not you — them! Why won't you move? Please! Come ow.’

‘Maybe we can help,’ offered Hands.

Tinsmith glared at her. To the man, ‘Good luck.’

‘I'll fucking kill you!’ the man yelled at the oxen.

Honey Boy tapped a finger to the side of his head. Least nodded, the fetishes tied in his hair jangling. As they moved up the Way of Opals the stream of refugees grew so congested they had to push to make any headway. It occurred to Nait that toe-to-toe fighting was not why he'd signed up with the harbour guard, but it looked like that was exactly where the sergeant was taking him unless he could think of something quick. It also occurred to him that he'd seen that fellow before. And recently too. He pushed his way to Tinsmith's side. ‘Something strange about that fellow and his wagon, sir.’

‘That there certainly was.’

‘I mean, he was probably on his way to the harbour, don't you think?’

Tinsmith slowed. ‘What tells you that, Nait?’

‘Just a hunch.’

Tinsmith shook his head. ‘Not good enough, Nait.’ He waved a go-ahead to a glaring Hands.

‘I've seen that scraggle-haired fellow before, sir,’ Nait called.

‘Where was that?’ Tinsmith called back.

‘On board the Ragstopper.’

Sergeant Tinsmith stopped. He turned to Nait. ‘You sure?’

‘My nose tells me so.’ He tapped the side of it.

Hands sneered. ‘He just doesn't want a sword shoved up it.’

A comment similar in kind occurred to Nait but Tinsmith waved for silence. He stroked his grey moustache. ‘OK. Let's check it out.’

He raised his voice, ‘Load crossbows! Spread out!’ Hands signalled a reverse.

They found the wagon not too far down the way from where they'd left it. The drover ignored them, yanking on the harnessing. He was weeping. Tinsmith walked up, followed by Hands, Nait and Least.

‘You with the Ragstopper?’ Tinsmith called out.

The man jumped as if stabbed. He spun, dragged a sleeve across his face. ‘What? Why? Who're you?’

‘Sergeant Tinsmith, harbour guard. Are you with the Ragstopper? Is that cargo?’

The man wrung his hands. ‘What's that? Cargo? No, of course not.’ He climbed up on to the seat, took up a whip. ‘Now, I have to go. Goodbye!’

‘Oughtn't we…’ began Hands. Tinsmith waved for her to wait.

The man cracked the whip over the oxen. ‘Go! Run! Move!’

Tinsmith, Hands and Nait watched him. Nait moved his toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other. ‘What'cha got back there, friend?’

He stared at them, then threw down the whip. ‘Nothing! Just some supplies.’ He clambered up on to the load of tarped boxes. ‘You have no right to stop me. This isn't the harbour. Go away!’

Tinsmith sighed, looked up and down the street, watched the citizenry streaming past on their way to the waterfront to escape what might burgeon into a firestorm. ‘Looks to me like this wagon represents a blockage in a public thoroughfare. Therefore, by the power invested in me as a public servant and enforcer of civil writs, it lies within my authorization to have this conveyance seized and impounded.’

On his hands and knees on top of the piled boxes, the fellow stared down at them. ‘What?’

‘Least, Honey Boy, get this wagon off the main road.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Least. He waved Honey Boy to him and the two yanked the oxen by their nose rings into the mouth of an alley. The man threw himself flat, hugging the tarp.

‘No! You mustn't! You don't understand — it's mine! Mine!’

‘Keep your invoice?’ Nait asked with an evil grin.

The fellow rolled off the back. His hands went to his hair, yanked furiously, then flew out wide. He ran down the street, waving his arms, shrieking, ‘Noooooo!’

Nait and Tinsmith watched him go. ‘Oughtn't we…’ said Hands. Tinsmith just waved the thought aside. He turned to the wagon.

‘All right, let's take a look.’ They untied the tarp, threw it up, lowered the gate. Boxes. Identical boxes of dark wood piled four deep in six rows. Nait examined the latches of the nearest. There didn't appear to be a lock plate or a keyhole. He pulled out his knife. ‘How do you open these things?’ He jammed the point of his knife into the wood.

Tinsmith suddenly knocked the knife flying from his hands. Nait glared at his sergeant. ‘What?’

‘Blame my nose,‘ Tinsmith said. ‘Now stand back. I seem to remember seeing boxes like these back in my old days with the marines in Genabackis.’ He stood up on the lowered gate and gingerly felt at the twin latches of one of the top rear boxes. These gave easily. Kneeling, his face close, he lifted the lid a finger's width. Nothing happened. He stared inside for a time, motionless.

‘Sergeant?’ Hands asked.

Tinsmith cleared his throat. ‘Corporal, how close would you say those fires are now?’

‘A few blocks — getting closer.’

He closed the box, jumped down. ‘Back up the oxen. Get ‘em moving. Now.’