Cardinal Crimson Read online

  ‘What’s the password?’ asked a voice behind the door.

  How quaint. A password-protected hole. Luckily, he had the universal password. He pulled out the bounty credits and fanned them in front of the eyes. A moment later, the door opened and Kal walked into the most lavish gambling hole he’d ever seen in the Underhive.

  Gambling tables sat on red and yellow carpeting in a huge space that once might have been a factory floor or warehouse. Carpeting! His feet sank into the deep pile, as he stared in awe. Everything looked new. The tables showed no chinks, holes, or scorch marks from previous brawls, and the floor was free of those ugly brown stains that you never asked about and always walked around in other holes.

  As Kal revelled in the luxury, a gnawing little voice in the back of his head began to ask some obvious questions. Who would spend this kind of money on an Underhive hole? And if you had that kind of money, why not spend it in the Spire, or at least in Hive City? But at that moment, a waft of lilac followed by a soft touch on his arm pulled Kal from his musings. A beautiful hostess, who made Roberta look like a scavvy, smiled at Kal, took him by the arm and escorted him to a table. She never said a word but it seemed to be understood that as long as Kal was gambling (and winning) she would be his constant companion.

  Kal tossed the bounty money on the table and started to play. He was home.

  2: OLD FRIENDS

  Jobe Francks felt the sharp pressure of a dagger in his side. The shadowy assailant wrapped an arm around his neck pulled him fast against his body. The point of the dagger dug into Francks’s skin through the new blue cloak. Underneath the clean shirt, a trickle of blood dripped down to his waist.

  ‘Don’t struggle, old man, and I promise it won’t hurt… much.’ The arm around Francks’s neck tightened as the assailant pulled him back toward an alley. The dagger punctuated the threat, digging further through the blue cloth.

  But Francks had no intention of struggling. In fact, his plan called for complete relaxation. He glanced down and back to see where they were headed. When his attacker reached the raised platform at the edge of the street, he paused for a moment and then pulled away slightly as they stepped up. At this point Francks went completely limp in the attacker’s grasp and slid toward the ground.

  The dagger caught in the folds of his cloak, pulling the attacker’s arm down and pitching him forward off the edge of the walkway. Francks groaned as the serrated blade scraped across his ribs, but fought the urge to catch himself. The attacker tightened his grasp around Francks’ neck and tried in vain to pull the larger man back to his feet.

  Francks gagged and fought off the impending blackness as the arm crushed his larynx, but instead of leaning back to ease the pressure, he bent forward, pulling the already off-balance assailant over on top of him. They both fell to the ground in a heap. Francks rolled away and then kicked out with both feet. His new boots cracked into the assailant’s knee.

  The man screamed in pain as Francks scrambled to his feet. He stood, facing his attacker, who had also found his footing, but was now favouring one leg. Both men breathed heavily, but the attacker smiled.

  ‘Nice moves, old man, but I still have the dagger…’ He brandished the serrated blade. ‘…and a laspistol.’ The assailant raised his other hand, holding a jet black pistol. He held the blade out to the side, poised to strike, and the gun in close to his body, as if protecting it.

  Adrenaline coursed through Francks, bringing renewed vitality to his old body and a clarity of mind he hadn’t enjoyed in many a year. This was a professional he faced. That much was certain. The angle of the blade, the calm hold on the pistol, the piercing gaze he gave Francks, all said this was a man trained to kill.

  Francks knew two things he hoped would help him survive. First, if the attacker was going to use the weapon, Francks would already be dead. For some reason, the pistol was his last resort. Francks didn’t know why and didn’t care, but he was sure he had nothing to fear from the laspistol. Second, Francks had been trained not to kill, but to survive. The key to winning a gang battle was to not get hit, and in his day Francks had been good at that, one of the best.

  The attacker crept toward him, keeping the pistol pointed at his head as he approached. The dagger waved slowly back and forth in front of him in a tight figure of eight as he moved. Francks glanced over his shoulder, as if looking for somewhere to run. He stepped back toward the curb tentatively, trying his best to look scared.

  ‘You can’t run, old man,’ sneered the attacker. ‘I’m younger and faster and I’ve got the gun.’ He tilted the butt of the gun ninety degrees, as if to prove his point.

  Francks glanced over his shoulder again as the attacker closed on him. He then pivoted at the waist and took a step as if to run. He heard heavy footfalls behind him. The attacker had taken the bait. Francks twirled around and dropped into a squat, sweeping his leading leg out and slamming it into the attacker’s injured knee.

  The man dropped to the ground and rolled over in pain. He grabbed at his leg, which pointed in an odd direction below the knee. Francks snatched the laspistol, which lolled in the man’s hands, and fell on the attacker. He shoved the gun into the man’s stomach between their bodies and fired. The press of the bodies on the gun muted the loud blast. He fired again to make sure, and then rolled off.

  A few minutes later, Francks knelt over the body of the attacker in the alley looking at an odd piece of paper. The man had no identification, which was no surprise, but the note he carried gave Francks pause. A simple message scrawled in what looked like blood said: ‘This man is a heretic. The heretic must die!’

  Francks folded up the note and secreted it, along with the dagger and pistol, in a fold in his cloak. He hurried back to the Soul Savers hideout and dropped the pistol into the gang’s armoury cabinet. He kept the dagger, though. It appeared he might need to use the old ways a bit more before this was finished.

  Jock Beamler, pit boss at the Lucky Strike, pulled at the taut collar stretched around his thick neck as he watched the gambling floor. Long ago, when this had been a factory, the rusty walkway he stood upon must have provided access to machinery or the ventilation system. Whatever had been there had already been scavenged, but the catwalk remained – most of it anyway.

  It made an excellent vantage point for keeping an eye on the Lucky Strike. He wasn’t pleased with what he saw today. Most of Jock’s night was spent watching the dealers to make sure they weren’t cheating the customers and pocketing their ill-gotten chips. Cheating was encouraged, of course, but a portion – an extensive portion, actually – of any extra credits skimmed from a mark belonged to the house.

  But this was different. At first, Jock hardly even noticed the bounty hunter sitting with Stella. She was a good girl and always got her marks nice and drunk so they lost all the credits they hadn’t already spent on her. He hadn’t given that mark a second thought once he saw who was working him.

  But now there was a huge stack of chips in front of the man with the long leather coat, and Stella was looking up at Jock and gesturing behind the man’s back. From the look on her face, she’d been gesturing for quite some time.

  ‘This is not good. This is not good at all,’ said Jock. He swiped a meaty hand across his cheeks and then wiped the slick palm on his neatly-pressed trousers. Jock was a burly fellow, huge upper arms and Goliath-sized chest. In fact, Jock’s general size and shape made most people think Goliath – at least until they glanced up at his face. Jock had the smooth skin and rounded features of a child, all set in a head that looked almost ludicrously small sitting atop his massive shoulders and thick neck. Despite his large body and small head, Jock was bright enough to run the Lucky Strike and, more importantly, smart enough to know when he needed help.

  He made a quick cutting gesture at his neck, and mouthed the words: ‘Cut him off.’

  Stella shrugged her bare shoulders and mouthed, ‘How?’

  Jock shrugged back. ‘Think of something.’ He turned from the
railing and ran toward the ladder. He knew the loud clanking of his hard-soled shoes on the metal would make every eye in the place glance up, but he needed help and he needed it quick.

  Kal glanced up at the clanking sound in the rafters, and smiled as he watched the large man run across the walkway and slide down a ladder. He glanced around the room to see what the commotion was about, but all the patrons had the same bewildered look in their eyes. They all watched as the pit boss lumbered across the back of the room. Buttons popped off his coat as he ran, and he tore his cuff as he slammed through a door, leaving a large shred of black fabric hanging from the busted door frame. The coat was very much too small for him, especially with his muscles bulging in the kind of frantic panic that gripped him now.

  The hair on the back of Kal’s neck bristled. At first he thought it was due to Stella’s soft fingers on his nape, but when he looked back at the table, the tingle turned into a full, ringing alarm. His entire stack of chips had been pushed into the middle of the table… and he hadn’t made that bet!

  He glanced at Stella, who fluttered her eyelashes and smiled at him as she now began stroking his neck. But it was obvious where her hands had been a moment before. Kal had been set up.

  Now he understood the reason for the commotion. It was a distraction, and he’d fallen for it. Of course, he knew Stella worked for the house. She’d been pilfering the odd chip here and there all night, but a soft warm body was a soft warm body, and Kal had figured it was worth a few credits to keep her hands on his neck and shoulders, amongst other places. But now she’d pushed him all in and he had no choice but to ride it through.

  Kal checked his down tiles one more time to see if Stella had got her pretty little fingers on those as well. All seemed in order. The joke would be on the house this time. He’d carefully built a Full Spire over the last quarter hour, and most of it was hidden from view in his face-down tiles.

  All he was showing was a wild scavvy brute, two Orlock gangers, and a single Spire noble – the Catallii princess – whom Kal mused was the spitting image of Yolanda, without all the gang tats of course. So, it looked to the dealer like he had the makings of a fairly strong hand: two pair, nobles and gangers, or three Orlocks, depending on where he put the wild scavvy. He’d been betting strong, but not too strong, to keep the table alive.

  But his stack held three more nobles – two House Ty and the Catallii prince. Along with his wild scavvy, this gave him an almost unbeatable full house of Spire nobles. If Stella hadn’t pushed him all in on this round, he might have done so himself. The player to his left, who was showing a weak pair of ratskins, blanched at the bet and folded immediately after the commotion died down.

  The next two players quickly followed suit, which brought the bet around to the dealer, a short bald-headed man with a thick black beard. He had the strongest hand showing at the table: two Ko-Iron nobles and a Delaque gang leader, along with a Spyre Hunter kicker. But, Catallus beat Ko’Iron, so Kal wasn’t worried.

  Until the dealer matched the bet, and then reached out and flipped the doubling cube.

  ‘House doubles,’ he said. The squat dealer tried to smile, but a nasty scar running from his cheek to his chin made it look more like a sneer.

  The rest of the players tossed their tiles into the discard pile and sat back to watch the show. The bet came back around to Kal, who pulled at his long sideburn while staring at the dealer. He tried to read the man’s face, but the beard left little uncovered. There was a certain gleam in his eye that Kal didn’t like, though.

  The double cube was a nasty move. It meant that if Kal lost, he would owe the house twice the pot. But if he won, they owed him double. It was used to scare off the weak and those out of money. Well, Kal was only one of those two things.

  The real question was had the dealer played him as well? Kal was certain the deal had all been legit. He’d been watching the ugly little dealer like a hawk all evening and hadn’t seen a single suspicious move from his hands.

  Kal reached out and flipped the double cube again, accepting the bet. His Full Spire was the best hand at the table, he was sure, and the pot would cover the debt for his new pistols and let him pay Yolanda and Scabbs their share. Everybody wins.

  Unless…

  The tingle returned to Kal’s neck, but it came too late. The dealer smiled again and flipped his hidden tiles. Among them were three House Helmawrs, including old Gerontius himself. He had a higher-ranking Full Spire. Helmawrs beat Catallus every day. Kal had lost. Stella slid off his lap and melted into the murmuring crowd.

  It dawned on him too late. He’d been played from the beginning. The dealer must have realised Kal was watching him like a hawk and had to wait for the commotion to make his move. He must have been good to make the switch in those few seconds.

  Kal wondered who ran this place. Dirty games didn’t last long, but these people were obviously professionals. And now Kal was in debt to them.

  But that assumed Kal paid this bogus debt. He’d been swindled, and felt no compunction to play fair at this point. He snapped his fingers under the table, and heard a rasping growl in reply. Kal rose to his feet, pushed open his long leather coat, and rested his hands on top of his twin laspistols. Wotan prowled a circle around him, growling at the crowd of onlookers.

  ‘Clear a path between me and the door,’ said Kal, an almost icy calm in his voice, ‘and I promise nobody will get hurt.’

  But as soon as he finished, Kal knew he wouldn’t be able to keep his promise. Somebody was going to get hurt – him. The crowd had thinned as the regular patrons slipped under tables or backed off to the far wall, but he was still outnumbered by the workers. All of them – dealers, hostesses, security guards and even the waitresses and busboys – stood their ground. Almost as one, they drew weapons and pointed them at Kal.

  ‘Let me rephrase that…’ said Kal as he raised his hands into the air. ‘Don’t hurt me and I promise not to do anything stupid. Well, anything else stupid.’

  The burly pit boss in his too-small coat pushed his way through the circle with a couple of even taller and thicker guards. He pulled at his cuffs, ripping the torn sleeve even more. ‘Come with us, Mr Jerico,’ he said. ‘The boss would like to see you.’

  Wotan growled, and the pit boss flinched, his eyes widening as he stared at the mechanical mastiff. ‘Play nice, Wotan,’ said Kal. ‘We’re going to go talk this out.’ He made a patting motion with one hand as he spoke and Wotan quieted.

  Kal and Wotan followed the pit boss toward the back door, escorted by the two goons. Kal didn’t know what to expect past that door, but figured his chances were better once he wasn’t surrounded by weapons.

  The pit boss opened the door and Kal stepped into a darkened room. ‘Now, I’m sure we can all be reasonable about this…’ he began.

  ‘I’m nothing but reasonable, my dear Jerico,’ said a familiar voice deep in the darkness.

  Kal’s hopes flew away. He’d been safer out there in the circular firing squad. ‘Hello, Nemo,’ he said as the door shut behind him.

  Jobe dipped his bloody hands in a bowl of water one of the juves had brought him, rubbing them together beneath the brackish surface to remove as much of the stain as he could. His hands shook, but not from the cold water. With the adrenalin ebbing away after the battle, his old body had begun to tremble. His arms and legs felt like lead slag and the simple act of moving them made his muscles ache and quiver in protest.

  Afterward, he sat on the edge of his cot and dried his arms and hands with a dirty towel, contemplating his next move. He needed sleep, that much was obvious. The attack had left him with the strength of a Spire-bred librarian. Even though he had a threadbare blanket to go with his thin towel – which said a lot about the prosperity of the Soul Savers – this was no longer a safe haven.

  The Savers were doing well for themselves to afford such luxuries for a total stranger. He had no intention of bringing doom down upon them by overstaying his welcome. Besides, there must
be other Cawdor gangs out there.

  ‘The redemption business seems to be going well,’ he mused out loud.

  ‘That it is,’ said a rasping voice from the darkness by the door. ‘But I thought you were out of the business. In fact, I thought you were dead. Half-hoped you were a few times.’

  Francks dropped the towel on the bed and stared into the darkness. He could see the man’s form well enough with his cloudy eyes, but didn’t need the sight to recognise the voice. ‘It would have made things easier, wouldn’t it?’ he said. ‘My death.’

  ‘Probably,’ replied the figure in the dark. ‘But that’s not why I sometimes wished it. I just thought you deserved some peace after all these years.’ There was a pause, and then, ‘How long has it been?’

  ‘Since you tossed me out into the Wastes?’ asked Jobe. A smile flickered across his face for a moment. ‘I honestly don’t know. Twenty years? It’s hard to keep track of the days, let alone your sanity, out in the Wastes.’

  The silence that followed was broken only by a single ‘Hmmph’ from the doorway. Then the figure moved into the dim light of the lantern next to Jobe’s bed. ‘It was the only way to save your life.’

  ‘I know, Jerod,’ replied Jobe, his voice barely above a whisper. ‘I know. You did what you could to save my life.’

  ‘Such as it was,’ said Jerod Bitten, Jobe’s old rival.

  Jerod’s long, black hair had gone completely white and was now cropped short and straight. Blue eyes that had seen too much death in their day looked grey and tired, as did his wrinkled and gaunt face. Bitten’s clothes were clean and new, which was quite a change from the torn and dirty body armour he’d been wearing the last time Jobe had seen him.

  He sat on the cot next to Francks. ‘What kind of life did I condemn you to in the wastes?’ he asked. ‘I honestly expected you to die out there. I never thought I would see you again.’