Foreign Devils (7 page)

Fisk led us on the trail, pushing us all hard and Bess had taking to hawing at streams and gulleys, voicing her discontent at the pace. There was no frivolous talking in the day. We rode, we rested horses, we ate hardtack, we rode.

We bunked down that night in the lee of a gulley, around a small fire, eating hardtack and drinking the Lomax’s tea that they were so eager to share. The designer of the jaunting-hearse had not forgotten anything, it seemed. Wasler pulled two small posts from underneath and stabbed their metal-shod ends deep into the rocky earth and then unfurled a tailored canvas tarp that converted the buggy into a tent where they made themselves cozy.

We were climbing higher on the Whites’ skirts so that we could come at Hot Springs from behind, and the vistas were opening up: the Big Rill gleamed like a silver ribbon in the valley below; gambels and birch and pine wreathed the mountain-side; great lichen-covered abutments of rock jabbed through the earth, here and there, in great dramatic heaves.

‘Mr Fisk,’ Winfried called from her perch on the jaunting-hearse. ‘Mr Fisk!’

Fisk stopped, looking back, hand on the black’s rump.

‘Ma’am?’

‘When would you like to have your portrait taken?’

‘Let’s see,’ he said, thinking. ‘How ’bout when we reach Harbour Town?’

‘But we’re not going to Harbour Town,’ Wasler interjected.

‘That’s right,’ Fisk said and turned back to the trail.

I hunted in the afternoon, bringing down grouse and quail and rabbits with my sling and afterwards Fisk made us push on until far after dark. His urgency wasn’t as pressing as it was when he wore the
daemon
hand around his neck, but he was riding us hard and pushing our mounts to their limits. Nevertheless, when he did allow us rest for the evening, the game I bagged earlier made for a fine supper. Fisk, when the Lomaxes’ society wore on him, went outriding or walked the perimeter, even in the dark. ‘All this Ia-damned talk and we’re no closer to the blasted engineer,’ he said, spitting loose tabac from his cigarette. The Lomaxes didn’t hear, or even notice, but I marked his restlessness.

It had only been a short while since he had worn the
daemon
hand around his neck, had the Crimson Man in his head. It’s the still, silent times when that comes back.

I think of Agrippina, sometimes, at night. And that fierce kiss of fire.

Can’t imagine how it affects Fisk, when his experience was so much worse.

They get into you and make wreckage of your heart.

The Lomaxes had retired early and when the pop and crackle of the fire banked low, I could hear the slapping of their flesh against each other, their moans and heavy breathing. Brother and sister, mating furiously. For a long time.

When they stopped, it was only then I was able to find sleep, myself.

Next day, we came down from the higher ridges and followed a virulently green-hued, steaming stream down out of the heights toward the back side of Hot Springs, far enough away from the rough road and rail-line to the silver mines so as not to be seen. Spread out below us was the town, a loose gathering of timber and stone buildings, washed out and muddy-grey, long dark lines of sooty smoke emanating from chimneys and rising to join the plumes of steam coming from the spring pools around the little hamlet. The sounds of carpentry and hammers falling echoed through the air. To the north-west, along the miners’ road to the Brujateton Silverlode, was a rough-hewn century camp, the kind of garrison you’d often see in smaller, out of the way places where Tamberlaine and the Empire had an interest. And in Hot Springs, the interest was silver.

‘Mr Lomax,’ I said when we all came to a stop. ‘I was wondering if you’d do us a small favour.’

Wasler brightened. ‘Of course! Anything!’

‘If you’d walk on down into town, maybe get yourself a room at the hotel. I imagine it’s been repaired by now.’

‘Repaired?’ Wasler asked, curious.

‘There was a fire,’ I said, not glancing at Fisk. ‘Looks like they’re rebuilding pretty good.’

‘I can do that,’ Wasler said.

‘That’s not all,’ I continued. ‘Need you to look around for a fella that we’re trying to find.’

He looked confused, possibly realizing he never asked us why we were travelling.

‘You’re bounty hunters?’ Winfried asked, half outraged, half pleased.

‘You could call us that,’ I said. ‘But there ain’t no bounty. We’re tasked with this by Marcellus, commander of the fifth.’ No need to tell him about Tamberlaine, Cornelius, and the rest.

‘Who are you searching for?’

Fisk looked at me from where he sat on horseback.

‘A traitor by the name of Beleth. Might be going by the name of Labadon. Short, well-fed fella. Wears suits like yours, neat and tailored. Thinning hair on top. Smart man. Wears spectacles.’

‘That could be any merchant or shopkeeper,’ Wasler said, ‘But I will do as you ask.’

‘This one has a smug, superior air. He was here, while back. Probably isn’t still around,’ Fisk said, finally joining in the conversation. ‘But he knows us, and we can’t just go barrelling in there if he’s got eyes out.’

‘I understand,’ Wasler said, solemnly.

‘Don’t do anything foolish,’ I said. ‘The man’s a menace, despite his looks.’

Wasler swallowed, thickly. ‘Should I be worried?’

‘It’s the territories. You should always be worried,’ I said.

‘I should go with him,’ Winfried said.

‘Don’t think that would be a problem, ma’am,’ I said. ‘And you’re free to do whatever you’d like. But if one of you spots him, you’ll need to hustle back up here to tell us. If not, just stay there, and we’ll come down after dark.’

A suspicious look crossed Winifred’s face. ‘Are you wanted, here?’

Our last visit to Hot Springs ended up with us in jail and the whole town on fire, courtesy of the Crimson Man who was riding Fisk like a bronco. But that was when the town was owned and run by the Hellene, Croesus, and his Argenta Mining Company bully-boys. Now, Hot Springs was firmly under the Imperial thumb.

‘No. We’re members of the Ruman army and have papers to prove it.’ I dug in my satchel and removed the orders that Cornelius had given us, waving them in the air. I was thankful neither of the Lomaxes asked to inspect them, revealing our patron. I don’t know why I didn’t want them to know – and, even in silence, could tell Fisk didn’t either – except that it would simply complicate matters. Better we remain rankers, minor functionaries performing a menial (if exciting) task.

‘Should I procure rooms for you both?’ Winfried asked.

‘That might be in order,’ I said. I glanced at Fisk and he nodded. ‘I could use a bath, and the hot springs promise a good one,’ I said, dug around in my pouch for enough sesterces to cover a night’s stay and handed them to him.

After a bit of nervous preparation on Wasler’s part, and prim efficiency on Winfried’s, the Lomaxes rode down the trail to Hot Springs, the jaunting-hearse in tow.

‘You don’t think they’ll end up in no harm, do you?’ I asked my partner.

‘No. Beleth is long gone,’ Fisk said, staring at the town. ‘But who knows what mischief he’s left behind for us.’

‘I hope you’re wrong about that,’ I said.

‘I do too, Shoestring. I do too.’

EIGHT

Ides, Quintilius, 2638 ex Ruma Immortalis

When it was dark, we walked down the mountain, alert and watching for any who might be alarmed at our prescence, past the graveyard which had grown large, and came into Hot Springs proper. The gallows were gone, I was thankful to see, and much of the town had improved from its former state of corporate despotism. Plain ole Ruman despotism had worked wonders. If there’s anything the Rumans know how to do, it’s build and organize towns. The new Hot Spring’s streets were open and wide – while still as muddy as any frontier town – and the sides were well planked for walking, patrolled by Hellfire-toting legionnaires and vigiles bearing
daemon
fire lanterns. A year past, the streets had teemed with Argenta bully-boys in the employ of a Mr Croesus. Storefronts were restored and looked profitable – a few sported plate glass windows that, in a Hardscrabble town, were begging for trouble. Couples walked arm in arm along the plank-walks on their evening
passagiatta
as store clerks unbanked
daemon
lights, swept porches, and performed their last chores for the day. Faint sounds of piano and guitar and laughter emanated from the largest building in the town, the Aurelian Hotel – a three-storied wooden structure whose planks still oozed sap. The whole thing was golden if you squinted in the dying light.

All of Hot Springs smelled of sulphur and the sickly-sweet odour of fresh cut pine. A town swiftly on the mend.

Fisk’s shoulders rose and hitched as we rode down the main street. He had his hat on, low, covering his eyes, even in the dark. The events caused by the Crimson Man – and consequently Fisk – would remain long in the townsfolk’s memories.

We stabled the horses in the Aurelian’s coach house, tossed a couple of extra sesterces at the stable boy to give a little tenderness and loving attention to our tack, and hoisted our personal effects and satchels over shoulders while Fisk hefted the ornate box of the Quotidian.

‘Pard, you want me to get the room key from Wasler?’ I asked. ‘Or you gonna sit the lobby?’

Shaking his head, Fisk said, ‘Ain’t gonna hide. But I’m not gonna rub these folks’ noses in it either. We go in, find the Lomaxes, and then I’ll retire.’ He rubbed his stubbled cheek with a rough hand. ‘The hot spring bathing and ablutions will have to come tomorrow. It’s the Ides.’

‘Livia!’ I exclaimed. ‘She must be somewhere in the middle of the Occidens Ocean, if all is well.’

Nodding his head, Fisk said, ‘I’m not eager for the bloodletting, but I am desperate for word from her.’

He turned and clomped down the plank-walks toward the hotel’s front doors. So it was understandable he didn’t see the boy.

The child was remarkable because of his stillness. He stood on the suspended plank surface, across the wide main thoroughfare, between two buildings. Beyond him, behind the main street of Hot Springs, a smithy or smelt of some sort burned, filtering flame-coloured light in radiant patterns out on the street and making a silhouette of the child. The child himself was one of those miscreant urchins all towns have, ill-dressed and barefoot, chasing dogs for sport or spite or food.

Homeless, possibly. Parentless, most likely.

Near feral, assuredly.

This boy watched us. His poise, his posture all indicated that we had his attention, though his face was cast in shadow. The tense inaction of his flexing hands made me think he might fly at us, screaming, at any second.

‘Fisk,’ I said, before he could get to the hotel doors. ‘We got an audience.’

Fisk stopped, turning. ‘What?’

‘Yonder. A boy watching us.’

Fisk squinted, ducking his head a little as if that would help. I turned back to look at the boy once more just in time to see him launch into motion, running down the swaying, bobbing plank-walk, away from us, and turn into another alleyway.

‘He was moving like his ass was on fire,’ I said.

‘You think he recognized us?’ Fisk asked. ‘From last year?’

‘He sure was peering at us good, that’s for certain.’

‘We come looking for Beleth, and we’re the ones getting peeped.’ He shook his head and spat into the general muck of Hot Spring’s street. ‘I don’t fucking like it.’

Fisk went silent for a long while before running his hand around the brim of his hat, drawing it down tighter on his head, lower over his face. Fisk is many things: a killer, a nomad, a noble, a martial man, a loyal friend, and mate. Subterfuge doesn’t sit well on him.

He spat again and turned back to the hotel’s front doors.

The Aurelian Hotel was a grander affair than its predecessor, Ruby’s – it boasted an extra floor, a fancy dining room separate from the more homespun bar, and was decked out in brass geegaws and doohickeys. It seems that the owners of the hotel sprung for a furnace
daemon
.

Infernal lantern light flickered in front of mirrors while house
coercitors
hefted Hellfire and wore short, silver-threaded stabbing swords on their belts above their aprons. Ex-legionnaires, from their bearing, and familiar with
vaettir
judging by their shorn heads.

Whores, sweetboys, and other characters of negotiable virtue lolled indolently about the bar. We found the Lomaxes sitting quietly in the dining room, where they had enjoyed a repast of what looked like venison, some sort of stewed greens, and fresh bread. And wine. Wasler’s face, at this point, was flushed and he was smiling. Winfried just seemed tired.

‘Ah, Mr Fisk! Mr Ilys! We were wondering if you were going to come into town or you had abandoned us in an elaborate ruse!’

I winced a little as he spoke. While nowhere near full, there were still enough diners in the room to take notice of our names. Between Beleth’s spies and shell-shocked – and possibly vengeful – townsfolk, Wasler’s enthusiasm for our company could prove dangerous. We sat, and the waiter, a thin, moustachioed man in black and white garb presented us with wine glasses and a menu. Fisk waved off the menu, but Wasler poured wine into our glasses.

‘I spoke with many storekeepers and patrons of the bar. None knew of the man you mentioned. He hasn’t been here recently, as far as I can tell.’

‘He’s been here,’ Fisk said. ‘Just covered his tracks. I’ll speak with the
vigiles
in the morning.’ He knocked back the wine in his glass and looked at Wasler. ‘Did you check in?’

Wasler nodded and began digging in his pockets. He produced two keys and gave one to Fisk and one to me. ‘We’re in connecting rooms, should you need anything. Winfried and I will most likely be doing infernographs most of tomorrow, but we’ll canvass the bar for suitable subjects tonight,’ he said, smiling. He was excited, that’s for sure.

‘Don’t go too heavy on the drink,’ I said. ‘Folks around here will roll you.’

Winfried snorted. ‘Do not worry. I will manage him,’ she said, nudging her brothermate in the side with an elbow. I was happy to not have to hear their lovemaking, tonight. Old gods and new, I hoped they wouldn’t get wild enough to hear through walls.

The waiter reappeared and placed a small, lacquered tray in front of Fisk bearing a folded piece of parchment.

‘The cheque’s for him,’ Fisk said, indicating Wasler. ‘I didn’t order any food.’

‘No sir,’ the waiter replied. ‘The gentleman over there … well, that’s strange—’ He looked puzzled and glanced around the room. ‘A gentleman gave this to me to give to you, sir.’

Fisk, very slowly, picked up the paper. It was heavy stock, rough edged, and looked bleached and expensive. He did not open it.

‘What did this man look like?’ I asked.

‘A courier of some sort, I think. Like the vigiles and army folks use.’

‘What did he look like?’ I repeated.

‘Oh. He was young,’ the waiter said. ‘And had a courier-cap on. A smudge of dirt on his face. I had the impression he’d been working. Slim, I think.’ The waiter shrugged. ‘That is all I can tell you.’

Fisk’s jaw protruded a little, like he was about to chew on something. And maybe he was. He settled into his chair, holding the unopened paper in his hand. ‘My thanks,’ he said, dismissing the waiter.

After a moment, he tucked it into his shirt pocket, unread. Then he stood.

‘Goodnight, folks,’ he said, inclining his head toward the Lomaxes. ‘Stay out of trouble.’

Winfried, her eyes sharp and watching Fisk curiously, said, ‘Thank you. I will make sure of that.’

I bid my goodbyes and followed Fisk up to the room.

The room was small but well appointed, with a banked
daemonlight
lantern and a couple of single beds with expensive-looking coverlets and large eiderdown pillows. It had a boothorn and there was a large ceramic ablution-bowl affixed to the wall with spigots feeding it hot and cold water, in addition to a small writing desk squared away in a corner. There was a large, paned window that looked out onto the White Mountains that now appeared just as far-off shapes in the dark, cutting a jagged line into the star-sprayed vault of heaven.

Fisk twisted the window’s handles and pushed them open to let in some air. The scent of fresh-cut pine was powerful, here.

After a moment of looking out into the dark, he turned, tugged off his boots and sat on the bed.

I sorted my gear and tromped back downstairs to order us both some dinner in the room. And a bottle of whiskey.

When I returned, Fisk had begun unlimbering the Quotidian from its box, and setting out the bowl and knife and a large piece of parchment.

‘The note?’ I asked.

He withdrew it from a pocket and handed it to me.

It read:
Beleth bound the smelt daemon in Harbour Town. Its name is Unchleigh. A man going by the name Unchleigh has checked into the Pynchon Hotel in Passasuego. He’s been seen with the Medieran ambassador’s son, Honore Quintanar. My agent will make contact once you’re there – Andrae

‘So, we head to Passasuego in the morning?’

‘Yes. Nothing for it but to haul ass.’

‘I speak truthfully here in saying that I’ll miss the Lomaxes’ company.’

Fisk looked at me. ‘Truly?’

‘Yes.’ I kicked off my boots and hung Hellfire on the end of the headboard. ‘You’re quite the conversationalist, pard.’

‘Their night-time ruts are a mite bothersome.’

I laughed. ‘You heard those? I thought you were asleep.’

‘Hard to sleep when you got a brother tupping his sister not ten paces away,’ he said, his face very serious, until a sly smile cracked the facade. He laughed. ‘Malfenians! Oh shit, Shoe, I thought us Rumans took the cake.’

Laughing felt good. It had been too long.

A knock sounded at the door and when I answered it, a liveried porter deposited a platter of cold meats, stinky cheese, pickled onions and olives and bread – joined by a whiskey bottle and two glasses – on the small credenza by the door. We took turns washing our hands and faces in the ablutions-bowl and then fell upon the food like the ravenous household gods that the old rustics around New Damnation worship; jealous ghosts, hungry numina. Fisk and I remained silent for a long while as we put away the victuals. Afterwards, Fisk rolled two cigarettes and I poured whiskey and we sat looking out into the night, through the open windows, sipping the fire of liquor.

‘I’ll clear out for a bit,’ I said, pointing at the Quotidian with my chin.

Fisk nodded his head. ‘Much obliged. After, I’ll give you the news,’ he said.

When I finished the whiskey, I dropped the butt in the bottom of the glass, pulled back on my boots and buckled on my guns, went downstairs to see what I could see in the bar.

Wasler sat at a car table holding a handful of trumps, a look of consternation on his face. Surrounded by men with faces like sides of beef, bodies to match, he seemed dwarfed by his companions. They were either soldiers on R&R or auxiliaries looking for work with the century, maybe. Didn’t matter, really: the bully-boys were large, ugly, and toting Hellfire and longknives.

Winfried stood behind Wasler, looking on the game with a furious expression on her face. When I came in, she spotted me. She raised a hand, beckoning me over.

I took a deeper, more serious gander at the place than I had when I first toddled in, fresh off the trail and hot for Beleth.

‘He had a drink,’ Winfried said, low and through her teeth. ‘And then the fool decided that joining a game would be the best way to meet possible subjects for portraits.’

‘He lost his ass?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘Not yet. But every time he moves to get up, they tell him to sit back down.’

‘And he does?’

‘Wasler is not a fighting man.’

I shook my head. ‘I’m not either, ma’am. But this is the Hardscrabble Territories. If you’re not prepared to fight, you’ll always be at the mercy of bully-boys.’

Putting my hand on my six-gun, I went around the table until I stood next to Wasler. Loud enough for the knuckleheads to hear, I said, ‘Commander Marcellus has sent a message, sir, regarding his portrait.’

Wasler jumped in his seat and then looked at me closely. ‘We have no—’ he began. Seeing the look on my face, he swallowed. ‘Ah, Marcellus. I should answer him, immediately.’ He looked at the other men at the table. I looked too, my hand on Hellfire.

‘Gentlemen, you’ll have to excuse me,’ Wasler said. ‘I have business to attend to.’

Wasler began to rise and one of the men said, ‘Trust a dwarf to sour a game.’ A couple of the men guffawed at this, showing a surprising number of gaps in their teeth.

‘Yes,’ another one said. ‘The squat men are shites. But dwarf pussy is like no other.’

‘Aw, Bert, you only likes them because their little hands make your tiny cock look all the bigger.’

Bert, a great pile of a man with a broken nose and lopsided face, put his trumps face-down on the table. ‘Go on, you cunt. You know the real trouble with the
dvergar
women is they’re so Ia-damned squirmy when you stick them.’ He gave a short, ugly laugh. ‘You really got to hold ’em down when you dip your prick.’

I’m old, it’s true, a hundred years older than the oldest person in the room, but it still surprised me how anger could bloom like the sun exploding over the shoal plains. My hand tightened on the pistol’s grip.