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  ‘No,’ said Surrey, suddenly forceful. The mirth had gone from his face and he seemed deathly serious. ‘This is real. The infamous Earl here has quite obviously been partaking of the wrong kind of medicine, and he’s come a cropper. You would do well to heed the evidence before you.’

  ‘So you expect me, with the Manufactory full of crazies and footpads, to start my murder investigation by looking for a rampant demon? Surrey, you’re more stupid than you look.’

  Surrey took a step back, holding up his hands in defeat, the sickly sweet smile back on his pretty face. ‘Have it your way, Amelia. But don’t say you weren’t warned.’

  With that he turned and strolled away, but failed to give either of her fantassins a wink this time. She watched him go, right until he walked out of the door, just to make sure he was not coming back.

  Amelia smirked. Forbidden dossiers? A strongroom in the Lexiconium? Who was he trying to dupe exactly? Surrey was obviously conspiring to throw her off the scent. He saw that this was a high profile murder; an heir of House Westowe. There would be much prestige granted to the Indagator who could bring the Earl’s killers to justice, and Amelia was not about to let Surrey be the one to stand in her way. This was simple murder; the Earl had gotten himself in too deep and paid for it with his heart. It was obvious his murder was a message. Otherwise, why leave the body where it could easily be found? If it was some kind of ritualistic slaughter surely they would have disposed of him in a more discreet fashion than this.

  There was only one place to start, and that place was obvious. The Cistern was home to all the refuse of the Manufactory. A breeding ground for the city’s unwanted and tainted and fetid. It was also where you could buy anything you desired for the right price, and right now Amelia wanted information.

  ‘I think we’ve seen enough,’ she said, moving away from the body, forcing herself not to glance back in case the Earl’s glazed and staring eyes happened to catch hers.

  As Amelia left the body behind she began to relax, feeling more comfortable within the confines of her uniform and with her men at her shoulder.

  Wrong kind of medicine indeed.

  The next time she saw Surrey she would ensure that he would be the one needing the medicine!

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  He had let Tarquin Bates off the hook, but only to see if he could land a bigger fish. There were few who could say they had escaped the clutches of Thaddeus Blaklok with not a mark to show for it, and it was unlikely that Tarquin would be one of those few.

  Blaklok kept to the shadows, hugging the filthy brick of street corners, watching from the dark as Tarquin made his way through the arterial highways of the Manufactory. The little shit knew something more than he was telling, and Blaklok was going to find out what it was.

  The easy trail that Tarquin left led all the way to the Trader’s Precinct, a collection of old storehouses and derelict shop fronts that had been used in bygone years for distribution and barter of goods from the river-barons. Now the river trade was dead and the only thing that pervaded the streets of the Precinct was the stench of the stagnant waterway.

  The streets became quieter the further towards the Precinct they got, until they were all but deserted. Tarquin must have had serious business indeed if he risked crossing through this part of the city alone. The Precinct was now home to all manner of waifs and moochers, and Tarquin Bates hardly seemed the type able to defend himself against a determined ruffian. Nevertheless, Bates continued on his merry way, seemingly ignorant of any danger as he wended his way through the filthy streets. As Blaklok followed he realised that there was either a strong fetish watching over the little reprobate or the scum of the Precinct were familiar with Bates and somehow willing to give him a wide berth.

  Thaddeus himself cared little for the robbers and footpads of the Trader’s Precinct. Usually a threatening look was all that was needed to keep trouble at bay in the Manufactory’s dives and ghettos, and here would be no different. It was strange though, that he never once saw sign of any street stalkers or cutthroats. The Precinct was not somewhere he often frequented but still, its reputation preceded it.

  Ahead he could see that Bates was headed towards one of the large wooden storehouses that backed onto the river. It was a tall, imposing building that dwarfed all the others in this particular square. Tarquin strolled across the centre of the plaza, now strewn with debris, where once traders would have noisily bartered their wares.

  An uneasy feeling suddenly crept into Blaklok’s gut as he watched the lithe figure reach the storehouse and knock out a strange beat against the small door. Seconds later it opened a chink, then wider to allow Bates entry.

  Blaklok slipped around the outskirts of the square, taking care to stay out of sight of the storehouse. There could be any number of eyes watching from within the rickety building, and he wanted to get the drop on whoever was inside.

  When he was within twenty feet he could hear a droning chant emanating from within the wooden confines. It was a dolorous sound, and immediately Blaklok’s skin began to bristle in anticipation. A ritual was taking place, and by the sounds of it there were plenty of people present.

  He crept round the back of the building, his breathing as shallow as possible lest the stink of the river made him balk. The building was in a terrible state of disrepair, and it was unlikely he would be able to make a stealthy approach due to the creaking wood. Oh well, it would just have to be an unstealthy approach then, wouldn’t it.

  Black boots stomped up onto the porch that surrounded the rickety building. The chanting was growing louder, and Blaklok could only hope that it disguised the sound of his approach.

  A door was set in the side of the storehouse and it hung almost off its hinges. It must have once been a sturdy barrier, but now it was merely an annoyance, a troublesome obstacle and heavy with it. Blaklok muscled the door inwards and stepped over the threshold, immediately surrounded by blackness. The droning voices were echoing all around, but Thaddeus could not yet see anyone.

  He moved further inside until he saw a weak yellow light emanating from around one corner. As he stole forward he tried his best to be light footed, but, as predicted, the weak floor creaked under his weight. Despite the noise, no hooded acolytes came screaming from out of the dark, nor were there baleful eyes staring at him from the shadows.

  As Blaklok reached the corner, he could see the first of the congregation. They wore robes of cloth-of-gold and nodded their heads as they chanted, rocking back and forth.

  ‘Valac serviam. Valac dominus. Valac patrem. Valac omnipotentum. Valac invicta.’

  And so the chant went on, endless ramblings to a dark god. Blaklok had heard of Valac, a minor President of Hell, but who were this bunch of pretenders? Real demonists didn’t wear gold robes and they certainly didn’t gather in places like this where anyone could just waltz in.

  Blaklok couldn’t see Tarquin Bates anywhere in the room, he must have donned one of those ridiculous robes and joined in with the droning. Well, the least Blaklok could do was let them finish their worship before he introduced himself to the flock.

  After several minutes it seemed that they were going to carry on forever, and Blaklok began to reconsider his generous offer of allowing them to finish. Just as he was about to introduce himself, one of the robed figures at the front strode forward, taking centre stage. The mantra to Valac suddenly stopped, leaving an annoying ringing in Blaklok’s ears.

  The one at the front held up his arms, his hood falling back to show his face. A short, well-trimmed beard followed the line of his chin, and Blaklok was sure he had eyeliner on. The man didn’t say a word. From a side door appeared two more of the gold robed acolytes, guiding someone between them. From the shadows at the rear of the room, Thaddeus could see it was a small boy, most likely a street urchin from his scruffy garb and filthy face.

  In silence, the bearded leader circled the boy three times, then the child’s arms were held out by the two figures who had brought
him to the stage. There was a murmur of sound from the assembled crowd, they seemed excited, anticipating what was to come, and Blaklok started to get an uneasy feeling in the pit of his gut. Perhaps this bunch was a rabble of pretenders, but they obviously thought they were the real deal. Things were going to get nasty in a minute, and Blaklok was not just going to watch.

  Quick as a flash, the head man pulled a knife from within his robes. There wasn’t enough time to cross the room, too many people in the way. Thaddeus looked around for something, anything to use as a weapon. Lying next to his foot was a rusted canister, and he swiftly knelt to pick it up. Liquid sloshed around inside it. Good, he thought, it would give the thing some impetus.

  As the leader raised his knife high, there was an expectant hush. Blaklok’s grunt as he threw the can was heard by almost everyone, and they looked around in time to see the rusted canister fly above their heads; all but the head man, who was still intent on his target. Before he could bring the knife down on his young victim, he took the canister full to the face. The clang of rusty can on nose was drowned out by his yelp of surprise.

  One of the robed figures turned as Blaklok stepped out of the dark.

  ‘Defiler,’ he shouted, lifting an accusatory finger. Blaklok drove his fist into the man’s face, dropping him where he stood, leaving a cloth-of-gold heap on the floor.

  As the congregation turned to face him, Blaklok could see that they were all ordinaries, not the lean hungry-eyed fanatics who were usually associated with the worship of demons.

  Thaddeus took two more swings, but these were not fighters, and when two more of them hit the ground the rest were instantly cowed. He looked towards the exit and saw a stooped figure trying to slink away.

  ‘Where are you off to, Bates?’

  Tarquin Bates froze, then turned, giving his insipid grin.

  ‘What is the meaning of this?’ shouted the bearded man, grasping his bloody nose. His gold robe had fallen back and Blaklok could see the expensive attire beneath.

  ‘I’ll ask the fucking questions,’ replied Thaddeus, strolling forward through the crowd, which quickly backed away. ‘No one minds a bit of religious worship and all that, but blood sacrifice? That’s a bit strong for a bunch of part-timers like you, isn’t it?’

  ‘This?’ said the man, pointing at the urchin in front of him who was beginning to look bemused. ‘It’s not real. We weren’t going to go through with it.’

  Thaddeus looked from the bearded man in front of him to Bates, who seemed on the verge of turning tail and fleeing the building. ‘You expect me to believe that?’ By now Blaklok had reached the front of the room, and stood in front of the head man. With a deft snatch he grasped the knife from his hand and hooked one of the bearded man’s nostrils on the end of the blade. ‘This looks real enough to me. Name?’

  ‘Erm, T-Trajian Arkwright. Of the North Spire Arkwrights,’ he replied, not daring to move lest the blade slice him a wider nostril.

  The North Spire. An opulent area full of ‘old money’. Packed with wannabe families just dying (or killing) to become Noble Houses. This one was obviously trying to spread his influence in a non-conventional way. Most likely his ‘congregation’ were made up of other stuck-up arseholes all trying to juice one another for notoriety and prestige. Anyway, this Trajian was obviously scared. It wouldn’t hurt to try and milk him for more information.

  ‘So what’s all this in aid of then? Trying to commune with Valac are you?’

  ‘N-no,’ replied Arkwright, still hanging like a fish on a hook. ‘It’s more of a w-wake we’re having.’ Blaklok’s brow furrowed. Was this one taking the piss? ‘O-our sect leader was murdered recently. Earl W-Westowe. This is just a celebration of his life.’

  ‘Well,’ said Thaddeus, lowering the knife. Arkwright gave a sigh of relief. ‘It looks like you lot might have upset the wrong bunch. Shows you what happens when amateurs get in over their heads. And as for you, Bates. You should know better.’

  Tarquin Bates cringed, the grin on his face wavering. ‘I was just here to help them, that’s all. Just educating them a bit.’

  ‘And did you educate Earl Westowe? Is that why he ended up dead?’

  ‘That was nothing to do with me, honest. Rumour is he upset someone in the Cistern. Weren’t nothing to do with our… worship.’

  Thaddeus looked around. They were all scared. Bunch of pretenders playing at demon worship. Where did they think it would get them? He considered giving them a warning; telling them that no good would come of it, no matter what they were promised, but it would do no good. This bunch would never listen.

  No one ever did.

  ‘All right then, piss off,’ ordered Blaklok, jabbing a thumb towards the door. The gathered crowd needed no further encouragement and began to slink away. ‘Not you Bates.’

  Tarquin Bates stopped mid-step.

  Thaddeus grabbed the weasily figure by his gold cloak and dragged him to one side as the rest filed past.

  This was a distraction, and wouldn’t help him in his task to secure the Key of Lunos, but Blaklok felt compelled to investigate further. If something was afoot, if there was a war brewing between cults, it would serve him well to know about it.

  ‘So this Earl. Upset someone in the Cistern, did he?’

  ‘Well that’s the rumour,’ said Bates, showing his array of tombstone teeth. Thaddeus smashed his face against the wall. It hit with a solid thump, knocking the grin, and some of those awful teeth, from Tarquin’s face.

  ‘Okay. Okay,’ said Bates quickly. ‘Rumour is it was a rival cult. But that’s just rumour. I wasn’t lying about the Cistern. You’ll find your answers there.’

  ‘What cult?’

  ‘I don’t know all the details, Blaklok. Give a man some credit.’

  Thud! More of Tarquin’s teeth ended up on the floor.

  ‘Legion! And that’s all I know, I swear it.’

  ‘Legion? Never fucking heard of them.’

  ‘Well, you’ve been out of the game for a while haven’t you? No one knows much but apparently someone from the Cult of Legion was asking about the Earl a couple of weeks ago. Where he lives, what he’s into and all that.’

  ‘Who was asking?’

  ‘I don’t know his name.’ Thaddeus readied himself to smash Tarquin’s face in again. ‘But I know who does!’ Bates blurted, holding his hands up in supplication. ‘The Ring. They’ll give you a name, they know all the goings on down in the Cistern. That’s all I know, I swear.’

  ‘You swear? On fucking what, Bates? You’ve broken every coda there is.’ He let go of Tarquin’s robe and wiped his hand on his greatcoat.

  ‘Well. It’s been pleasant as usual, Blaklok. I’ll see you around.’

  ‘One more thing,’ said Blaklok. Tarquin stopped again, cringing in expectation of further violence. ‘The next time you feel like educating a bunch of prigs with more money than sense… fucking don’t. Understood?’

  ‘Yes, of course. Whatever you say, old mate.’

  ‘And get yourself a bath. You stink.’

  ‘That was next on my ‘to do’ list.’

  Blaklok watched as Bates scurried away.

  By the time he stepped outside, the congregation had dispersed into the labyrinth of the Trader’s Precinct. A couple of cloth-of-gold cloaks lay discarded in the square, but otherwise there was no sign of Valac’s postulant worshippers.

  ‘Are you gonna pay me, mister?’ Thaddeus turned to see the urchin standing behind him, his filthy face looking up expectantly.

  ‘What do you mean?’ he asked.

  ‘The one with the beard said I’d get five shill afterwards.’

  He obviously didn’t realise the danger he had been in. ‘On your bike. Count yourself lucky you didn’t end up dead and dumped in the river.’

  The urchin’s face suddenly changed from innocence to rage. ‘Well fuck you baldy!’ With that he spat a gob of filthy phlegm Blaklok’s way and fled.

  The spit landed some feet away.


  Poor kid, thought Blaklok. Can’t even spit straight. What chance has he got in a place like this?

  With that, he set off on the long walk to the Cistern.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  There were a thousand ways into the Cistern.

  On the murky city streets, steel manholes could be unbolted to reveal tunnels that would lead miles down into the subterranean hive. Certain buildings, disguised as reputable businesses or respectable residences, contained entrances within them that served as conduits to the various underground levels. Then there were the more obvious ways, such as the steam lift that Amelia and her men were now taking.

  It was not a comfortable journey, and the noise was hellish, but it was by far the fastest way down. A cage of reinforced steel and wire mesh rattled as though in the grip of a gigantic, angry baby. It plunged ever downwards, screaming as it went and the three occupants were forced to hold on tight to the single railing that ran around the perimeter.

  Amelia found the journey quite exhilarating. Though it was not a hundred percent safe, the chances of something going wrong were minimal, and even then very rarely fatal.

  Her fantassins, Bounder and Hodge, obviously had contrasting opinions of the journey. Bounder was smiling from ear to ear, his enormous mouth displaying the biggest teeth Amelia had ever seen. Hodge, however, was almost crouched double, obviously fighting the desire to retch, his knees shaking and sweat pouring from his face.

  When the cage finally came to rest with a violent hiss and a jetted release of steam, Hodge could not open the mesh gate quick enough. The journey had taken only seconds, but it looked as though Hodge had been at the mercy of a master inquisitor for hours. Bounder on the other hand seemed almost reluctant to leave the cage.

  After Hodge had recovered and resumed his usual impassive visage, Amelia led them through the tunnels.

  At first it was as though they had arrived in a huge sewer, the tunnel was a wide construction of crumbling brick with water of dubious origin dripping from above and plopping loudly on the moist floor. The stench was tremendous, and Amelia could barely comprehend why anyone, no matter how desperate, would want to live down here. But as they passed through the dingy tunnel, only intermittently illuminated by quivering gaslight, the stagnant atmosphere began to change. Noise began to filter down the passage, growing louder with every squelching step they took. The atmosphere grew less damp and the steam of their breath lessened as warm air began to pervade all around.