Mistworld (Deathstalker Prelude) Read online

  The man at Taylor’s side had to be Sterling, the ex-gladiator from Golgotha. Which was also fairly impressive; there were reputed to be even fewer survivors of the Golgotha Arenas than there were survivors from Haden. Blackjack decided that Vertue had known what he was doing after all, in sending a mercenary on a simple payoff job. These two Watchmen were both hard, experienced fighters. Blackjack smiled slightly. When all was said and done they were still amateurs, while he was a professional.

  “You’re Blackjack,” said Taylor suddenly. His voice had a harsh, rasping buzz, alien and subtly disturbing. It had no place in a human throat. “I was expecting Vertue himself. Where is he?”

  “The doctor is busy,” said Blackjack easily. “He sent me in his place.”

  “Prove it.”

  Blackjack pulled off the thick leather glove on his left hand and showed the two Watchmen the heavy gold ring on his finger, carrying Vertue’s seal. Taylor nodded, and Blackjack pulled the glove back on. His hand had been exposed to the evening air for only a few moments, but already his fingers were numb.

  “I was told to ask about the memory crystal,” he said evenly. “Has it been installed?”

  “Not yet,” said Sterling. His voice was light and pleasant, in stark contrast to the ugly scars that marred his face. And yet bad as the scars were, they could easily have been repaired by any competent surgeon. Blackjack assumed Sterling wore them as a reminder of his past. Or possibly as a kind of boast. Look at my scars; all this I endured, and still I survived. Blackjack listened closely as the ex-gladiator spoke, searching the pleasant, civilised voice for clues to the man’s character.

  “The crystal hasn’t been delivered yet,” said Sterling. “When it has, I’ll lock it into the computer systems myself. Once the computer’s on-line, no one will bother to check the crystal; they’ll assume it’s already been checked.”

  “You’ll have the crystal sometime this evening,” said Blackjack. “I’ll see to it.”

  “After this evening it’ll be too late,” said Sterling.

  “I said I’ll see to it,” said Blackjack. “Now, have you got the map?”

  “Have you got the money?” asked the ex-gladiator, his right hand moving casually to his belt.

  Blackjack pushed back his cloak, careful to let both the security men see the holstered disrupter on his hip. Hanging from his belt, next to the gun, was a large leather pouch that clinked musically as Blackjack hefted it in one hand. “Fifty in gold, as agreed. Where is the map?”

  Sterling took his hand away from his belt and pulled a folded wad of paper from inside his sleeve. He handed it to Blackjack, who gave him the leather pouch in return. Both men moved slowly and deliberately, careful to make no moves that might be misinterpreted. The transaction completed, they both stepped back a pace. Sterling opened the pouch, glanced inside, and then pulled the drawstrings shut again and nodded quickly to Taylor. The two Watchmen relaxed a little. Blackjack tucked the thick wad of paper into an inside pocket without even bothering to look at it.

  Taylor raised an eyebrow. “Don’t you want to check the plans?”

  “If they’re not right, and you’ve cheated me, I’ll have to kill you both,” said Blackjack calmly. “Do you think I ought to check them?”

  Sterling smiled slowly, and the scars on his face flexed and writhed as though they were alive. “You’re very free with your threats, mercenary. I spent seven years in the Arenas, and graduated undefeated. What makes you think you’d stand a chance against me?”

  Blackjack’s hand slammed forward in a straight-finger jab that sank deep into the ex-gladiator’s gut, just below the sternum. Sterling’s breath shot out in an agonised gasp, and he sank slowly to his knees, his face horribly contorted. Blackjack turned unhurriedly to face Taylor, who hadn’t moved an inch.

  “He talks too much,” said Blackjack. “Even worse, he’s out of condition. I’m not.”

  Taylor looked at him steadily with his disconcerting golden eyes. “Neither am I,” he said quietly, in his harsh, rasping voice. “Don’t push your luck, mercenary.”

  “Not unless I have to,” said Blackjack. “Now pick up your friend and get him out of here. I don’t think we should be seen talking together. I wouldn’t want anyone to think I associated with the likes of you by choice.”

  Taylor smiled suddenly. “I’m going to remember you, mercenary.”

  He bent down and picked Sterling up with one hand. The ex-gladiator must have weighed all of two hundred and fifty pounds, but the Hadenman lifted him easily. There was a disquieting strength hidden somewhere in Taylor’s wiry frame. Hadenman. An augmented man. He settled Sterling comfortably over his shoulder, nodded once to Blackjack, and then walked off into the mists. Blackjack took his hand away from his gun. He’d never fought a Hadenman before, and wasn’t sure he wanted to.

  Still, he thought calmly as he watched Taylor disappear into the mists, it might be interesting someday to discover just how good a fighter an augmented man is.…

  The Blackthorn tavern had known better days. Grubby silks hung at the blue-tinted windows, and a small fire crackled dully in the large fireplace. Most of the tables and booths were occupied, but the customers ordered only the cheapest wines and made their ale last. The air was full of songs and laughter, but the gaiety had the forced, almost desperate sound of people determined to enjoy themselves while they still had the chance. Not for the first time in Mistport’s short history money was in short supply. A slow-moving, cadaverous barman supplied drinks of dubious quality to the regular patrons scattered the length of the long wooden bar. The ancient oil lamps hanging from the overhead beams gave the smoky air a comfortable golden haze, like a fading photograph or a half-forgotten memory. The unpolished walls were stained with old wine and recent blood. The Blackthorn was a lively place on occasion. Sawdust on the floor hadn’t been changed in weeks, but nobody complained. The Blackthorn had known better days.

  Cyder sat in her private booth at the rear of the tavern, and shared wine with Jamie Royal. A tall and willowy platinum blonde who would admit to thirty years if pressed, Cyder was popularly regarded as the most stonyhearted fence in Mistport. She never argued a price and she never gave credit. She had few friends and her enemies were dead. She toyed with a loop of her long silvery hair and smiled prettily at her companion. Jamie sipped cautiously at his wine, and glanced at the heavy brass-bound clock over the bar. He put down his goblet and gazed reproachfully at Cyder.

  “You said he’d be here by now.”

  “Cat goes his own way,” said Cyder calmly. “What do you want with a memory crystal, Jamie?”

  “I’ve a buyer.”

  “I’d guessed that, my sweet. The last time you were here you were so desperate you even begged me for a loan.”

  Jamie winced at the memory. “You’re right, I should have known better. There were… debts to be paid.”

  “You never could throw dice worth a damn, Jamie.”

  He laughed, and looked round the tavern. Two Wampyr had started a fight, and the bartender was taking bets.

  “So, how’s business, Cyder?”

  “It’s been better.”

  “Money’s scarce all round.”

  “That it is. Where did you find a buyer for a memory crystal?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “I’m curious.”

  “Don’t be.” Jamie sipped at his wine, pulled a face, and put his goblet down, pushing it firmly to one side. Cyder didn’t blame him. She wasn’t wasting a good vintage on Jamie Royal.

  “Are you sure this Cat can be trusted?” he asked, checking the time again.

  “He’s the best roof runner I’ve ever worked with,” Cyder said mildly. “You can trust him as you trust me.”

  They shared a sardonic smile.

  “Maybe he ran into some trouble,” said Jamie.

  “He’ll manage,” said Cyder. “He always does.”

  “Even against a Siren?”

  Cyder looked at hi
m sharply, her bright blue eyes suddenly cold and forbidding. “No one said anything to me about a Siren.”

  “They wouldn’t. But I’ve been doing a little checking, on my own behalf.” Jamie smiled grimly. “I don’t go into anything blind. It wasn’t difficult finding out the address you’d been given. Turns out that particular house is the home of Investigator Topaz. I take it you’ve heard of her?”

  “Everybody’s heard of her.”

  “Right. Do you still think he’ll be here this evening?”

  Cyder thought for a moment, and then smiled brilliantly, all the worry gone from her face. “He’ll be here.”

  “And the Siren?”

  “I don’t think she’ll bother him much.”

  “Cold bitch, aren’t you?” said Jamie Royal. Cyder smiled sweetly.

  “Harsh words, dear Jamie, from an Empire agent.”

  Jamie pushed back his chair and was quickly on his feet, a throwing knife poised in his hand. Cyder kept herself carefully relaxed. Anywhere else in the tavern the bartender would have shot Jamie dead the moment he drew a weapon on her, but here in her private booth there was no one to help her. Cyder wasn’t particularly worried. It would take a lot more than Jamie Royal to worry her. She reached casually for her goblet, and even managed a small chuckle.

  “Come on, Jamie. You’re not the only one who can work things out. Who else would take care of all your debts in return for one memory crystal? Put the knife away; you’re in Thieves Quarter, remember? I don’t give a damn who anyone works for, as long as their money’s good.”

  She sipped slowly at her wine, studying Jamie warily over the goblet’s rim. He nodded abruptly, and his knife disappeared back into his sleeve. He pulled his threadbare cloak about him, and tried for some kind of dignity.

  “We all do what we have to,” he said flatly. “I’ll be back in an hour for the crystal. Don’t waste my time with a duplicate.”

  Cyder nodded, and Jamie left without saying goodbye. Cyder finished the wine in her goblet, her lips thinning away from the dregs. With fewer ships than ever touching down at Mistport, good wine grew scarce, along with everything else. Cyder had run the Blackthorn tavern well since she’d won it in a poker game, but unless things improved soon, she’d probably lose it to her creditors. With so little around worth stealing, she barely made enough from her fencing to pay the bills as it was. Which was why Cyder dealt with Empire agents. Hard times breed hard people.

  She rose gracefully to her feet and swept out of her private booth. The fight between the two Wampyr was over and the loser was being dragged away. Cyder smiled and nodded as she made her way through the crowded bar, bestowing a cheerful word here and a merry wave there, her long, silvery hair tossing from side to side. It was a long way to her private stairway at the back of the tavern, but somehow she kept on smiling. Keep the customers happy, love, keep the customers happy.

  Cat ran swiftly across the tiled and gabled roofs, jumping casually from level to level over drops that would have turned the stomach of any observer. More than once he climbed easily up sheer walls where the untrained eye would have sworn there were no foot-or handholds to be had, and his white-clad figure became nothing more than a dim blur in the curling mists as he drove himself unrelentingly on. He was late, and he knew it. After escaping from the Siren, he’d followed his normal routine and found himself a safe hole to hide in while the immediate hue and cry blew over. He’d slept through the day and awakened to find it already evening. Throwing off the Siren’s attack must have taken more out of him than he’d realised. He’d checked the time by the Main Square clock, winced, and then headed for the Blackthorn as fast as he could. Cyder didn’t like him to be late.

  He ran nimbly across a slanting, snow-covered roof and threw himself out into space across a dark, narrow alleyway. The ground was a long way down, but Cat didn’t care. Heights had never bothered him. He landed easily on the steep tiled roof opposite, and padded carefully down to the edge. He sank down on his haunches, glanced quickly about him, and then slithered over the edge of the roof to hang by his heels from a precarious outcrop of guttering. The stout wooden shutters below him were closed and bolted. Cat hammered on them with his fist, waited impatiently, and then hammered again. There was a long pause. Cat had just drawn back his fist to try again when the shutters flew suddenly open, almost taking his head with them. Cat took a firm hold on the two solid steel hoops set specially into the stonework above the shutters, and swung lithely down and in through the window. Cyder helped him in, and then leaned out the window to look quickly around. The street below was deserted, and all the nearby windows were still securely shuttered. Cyder pulled her shutters closed and slammed the bolts home.

  Inside, a blazing fire warmed the tiny, low-roofed room, and Cat darted over to stand before it, throwing aside his gloves to warn his numb hands at the dancing flames. The gloves’ heating elements didn’t work properly, which was why he’d been able to buy the thermal suit relatively cheaply. He grimaced as feeling slowly returned to his fingers, and then shook his head back and forth as the pain gradually died away. A hand tapped him on the shoulder, and Cat looked round to find Cyder glaring at him.

  “You’re late. Where’s the crystal?”

  Cat unlaced the leather pouch from his belt and Cyder snatched it from him, spilling the glowing memory crystal out onto her palm. She favoured Cat with a quick smile from her generous mouth before hurrying over to a nearby table to examine the crystal under a technician’s loupe. Cat smiled fondly at Cyder as he pulled off his boots and then stripped off his thermal suit and draped it carefully over the back of a handy chair. He crouched naked in front of the open fire, savouring the heat on his bare skin. He grinned broadly as the cold seeped slowly out of his bones, and then he straightened up and indulged in a long, satisfying stretch. He turned away and put on the simple woollen tunic set out to warm before the fire. He looked at Cyder, still totally immersed in the crystal, and wondered, not for the first time, what he’d done right to find her.

  Beautiful as an Arcturan firebat, and about as deadly, Cyder was the best fence he’d ever worked with. She knew her business, and she always got him a good price. Of course, she cheated him shamefully on occasion, but that was only to be expected. Cat didn’t care. Cyder set up his targets, gave him a haven from the night’s cold, and owned his heart, though he’d never tell her that. She might use it against him.

  Cat could feel a faint vibration coming up through the thinly carpeted boards beneath his feet. He smiled slightly. It must be getting quite noisy down below. A room directly over a tavern wasn’t the most peaceful of places, but for a deaf mute it raised no problems at all. There was a glazed pot simmering over the fire, and Cat’s stomach rumbled as there came to him the smell of his favourite stew. Taking the ladle and bowl set out for him, he served himself a generous portion and carried it over to the nearby table where thick slices of fresh bread and a mug of steaming ale lay waiting.

  Cyder put down her eyeglass as he sat down opposite her, and leaned across the table to kiss him thoroughly. “Well done, my darling; the crystal’s everything my contact said it was. Your cut will keep you in spending money for some time to come. Did you have any trouble?”

  Cat shrugged, and shook his head innocently. Cyder laughed.

  “Someday I’ll stop asking. You only lie anyway.”

  Cat grinned and tucked into his stew, shovelling it down as though afraid it might disappear at any moment. He chewed and swallowed with an almost frantic speed, pausing only to take great mouthfuls of the chewy, thick-crusted bread. Cat had gone hungry too often in the past to take any food for granted. In all the time Cyder had fenced for him he’d never once missed a meal, but old habits die hard. He caught Cyder watching him reproachfully, and slowed down a little.

  He ate his second helping at an almost leasurely pace, and watched Cyder’s lips carefully as they told him the day’s news. Such pretty lips… Cat hadn’t heard a voice or spoken a word since
the Empire smuggled a mutated virus into Mistport when he was a child. Hundreds had died; he was one of the lucky ones. He could read lips and talk clumsily with his fingers, and had a gift for insulting mimicry, but he couldn’t even hear an esper; his natural shields were too strong. Cat didn’t mind. For him, silence was a way of life.

  On the roofs it made no difference at all.

  He leant back in his chair as Cyder carried on talking. His bowl was empty, and his belly was comfortably full. He sipped appreciatively at his mulled ale and watched happily as Cyder told him of her day and its happenings. Cat slept most of the day so as to be fresh for the night. He didn’t like the day much anyway. The sun was too bright, and there were too many people about.

  “There’s a starship on the pads,” said Cyder. “The Balefire, with refugees from Tannim. All no doubt carrying a few trinkets of great sentimental value they’ll sell fast enough when they get a little hungry.”

  Cat grinned, mopped the last traces of stew from his bowl with a crust of bread, and popped it into his mouth. Only the rich could afford to buy passage as refugees, which meant good pickings for the likes of him. Cat smiled comfortably. Things were looking up.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  * * *

  Bitter Vengeance

  BLACKJACK stood at his ease in Leon Vertue’s luxuriously equipped office, and listened calmly while Vertue shouted at him. The mercenary was tempted to look away and run his gaze over the fine paintings and tapestries that adorned the walls, but he didn’t. That would have been rude. Instead, he stared politely at the doctor, his face calm and impassive, until Vertue finally ran out of insults and began to calm down a little. Blackjack had served many masters in his time as a mercenary, and gave each of them the respect and attention they deserved, but even masters like Vertue were entitled to politeness. The doctor finally fell silent and leaned back in his padded chair, breathing harshly. He ran his fingers through his thinning hair and glared at the reports set before him on his desk. Blackjack glanced at the visitor’s chair, but didn’t sit down. He hadn’t been invited to. He stood at parade rest, staring straight ahead of him, and waited patiently for Vertue to get to the point. Vertue finally pushed the papers aside and transferred his gaze to the mercenary.