The Archon's Assassin (6 page)

“Shadrak.” Big Jake acknowledged him with a grunt. He was locked in an arm wrestle with Albert’s adopted savage, Ekyls.

Both men were red-faced, veins popping out on their necks. Ekyls was naked from the waist up, his wiry body a map of tattoos, most of them snakes coiling about one another. His lips were curled back in effort, yellow teeth bared and dangerous. His filed incisors looked like they could puncture all the way to the bone and inject more venom than even Albert could dream of.

There was a single customer seated at a table with nothing but a cup of water in front of him. Was it a child? He was dressed in a cloak of crow’s feathers, the hood low over his face.

Ekyls let out a gurgling growl that grew more insistent until it ended in a shrill whine. At that point, Big Jake rolled his wrist and slammed Ekyls’ hand into the table. The savage roared, his whole body tensing, as if he were getting ready to pounce.

“No shame in losing,” Big Jake said. There was warmth in his voice, but steel in his eyes.

Shadrak knew what was coming if Ekyls tried something. And Big Jake was right: there was no shame in losing an arm wrestle to him. Hundreds had come to test their strength, and all had failed.

“Not lose,” Ekyls said, pushing his chair back and rubbing his wrist as he stood. “You speak Shadrak. Me think wrestle finish.”

Big Jake stood, too, and leaned over the table. “So, my old mate, what you’re saying is, you want a rematch?” He cracked his knuckles and made as to sit down again.

Ekyls glared at him for a second, then lowered his eyes. “Boss here now. Me work to do.”

With that, he stalked off into the kitchen.

Why Albert thought a grime-covered savage should be in charge of washing the dishes had never sat right with Shadrak. Last he’d looked, the kitchens were awash with blood, from where Ekyls ate his food without cooking it. Word was, he caught it himself—rats, mice, or any bird stupid enough to get too close to the open window.

“Scut,” Big Jake said, frowning at Ekyls’ retreating back. Then he shrugged at Shadrak. “Can’t stand a sore loser.”

“Pack up, Jake,” Shadrak said. “We’re clearing out.”

The little man in the feathered cloak looked up at that.

Big Jake saw Shadrak noticing. “Sorry, matey. I was gonna tell you, your dad’s here.”

“Shog off, scut-breath,” Shadrak said.

He had a point, though. The man was more or less Shadrak’s height. With his head lifted, his face came into view. It was creased with wrinkles, and unhealthily gray. He had a wisp of white beard, and beneath curling white brows, there were beady eyes. When they turned on Shadrak, he felt exposed somehow, as if they saw too much.

Something about the man unsettled him. It was like that sensation he got when he thought he’d been somewhere before. He narrowed his eyes and tried not to look away from the man’s gaze. Finally, he broke off, feeling like his perfect memory had cheated him.

“Thought I knew you from somewhere,” he said. “But that ain’t likely. I never forget a face.”

“Memory can be trained,” the little man said.

He was right there. Shadrak’s was no accident, no freak of nature. He’d realized the need for a sharp mind, and recall of faces, facts, places, early on in his career.

“But from before the time a mind is trained, it is like the murk of a swamp.”

The stench of the Sour Marsh was suddenly rank in Shadrak’s nostrils. Brought with it a whole bunch of images: snakes; a man’s arms, heavily muscled and black as night; a man who was also a snake. He winced and tried to refocus. “Swamp? What—”

Big Jake cast a long shadow over Shadrak. “’Scuse me interrupting, Boss. Clearing out?”

Shadrak lowered himself into the chair opposite the little man, took in every last detail of his feathered cloak. Huntsman had worn something similar, but this was no Dreamer. Not only was he too short, and his skin lacking that dusky hue, but they were on Aethir. Sahul was a million miles away. Least, it might as well have been. The Archon said Earth and Aethir were different realities, each dreaming of the other or some shit.

“Grab your things,” Shadrak said to Big Jake, not taking his eyes from the little man. “And tell Ekyls to do the same.” Though shog knew what the savage had to bring with him, save for his knives and a bloody carcass or two.

Big Jake knew not to waste time with questions, and headed straight upstairs.

Next Shadrak spoke, it was to the stranger. “Why are you here?”

The little man tilted his head to one side and studied him. Darkness swirled across his eyes like ink on water. It was hard to tell if he was vacant or sad, or perhaps a bit of both. Finally, he lifted a finger to his lips and looked about the room, as if someone were listening.

“This is bigger than either of us, Shadrak. I beseech you to stay your hand until the patterns of play emerge.”

“Do you?” Shadrak said, leaning across the table. “Kinda familiar, aren’t we? Only, you seem to think it’s all right bandying my name around, while I don’t know you from shog.”

“You know me. You just can’t remember.”

Shadrak pulled a pistol and took aim. “You got two seconds to give me a name, or I’ll make one up for you. It’s likely to start with, ‘Where’s his’ and end with, ‘shogging face?’”

The little man didn’t flinch. Instead, his eyes hardened into obsidian. “Bird is my name.” He raised an eyebrow to see if Shadrak betrayed any recognition.

He didn’t.

“That why you wear the cloak?” Shadrak said, spinning the pistol on his finger and holstering it.

“It is not.” Bird clasped his hands together on the table and let out a sigh. “I came ahead of a friend of yours. He seeks a favor, and I hope you will cede it precedence over any other requests you may have received.”

He knew? About the Archon? How was that even—?

“You already knew he was coming, didn’t you?” Bird said. A ripple ran through his feathered cloak, and he cocked his head. “People are approaching. Many people.”

Shadrak strained his ears, and sure enough, the distant thud of footfalls was drawing nearer. The psycher hadn’t lost the scent, after all. By the sounds it, half the legions in New Jerusalem were closing in on Queenie’s.

He stood and went to the window.

“Shit.”

Dozens of soldiers had formed a cordon across the street with their shields locked, and behind them, a couple of phalanxes were hurriedly forming. Sunlight glinted off more than a hundred bronze helms and steel speartips.

He started to turn toward the kitchen at the back, but Ekyls emerged from it, hatchet in hand.

“Soldiers,” the savage said. “Many soldiers. You want me kill?”

Big Jake came stomping down the stairs before Shadrak could answer. “You seen what’s outside?” If he’d packed anything, he’d left it in his room.

“Yes,” Shadrak said, meaning it for Ekyls. “Go kill.” What did he care if the savage got cut to pieces in the process? Least it would make for a diversion.

The rattle of a carriage pulling up outside had him turn back to the window. Albert was waving frantically from the passenger seat.

“Second thoughts,” Shadrak said, “get out. Go with Albert. Tell him to meet me at the rendezvous.” If they could get out of the city. The Senate’s forces had moved alarmingly quickly, and with such coordination, he wouldn’t have put it past them to have the city on lockdown already. Still, if anyone could get out, it was Albert.

Ekyls pulled the door open and ran to the carriage. Cries of “Halt!” went up from the soldiers, and a group began to advance on the savage.

Shadrak drew both pistols and let off a few shots through the window. Glass shattered and fell tinkling to the floor. The soldiers faltered, and the carriage sped off with Ekyls half-hanging out the doorway. It was just like Albert not to wait.

“Hold the fort,” he told Big Jake, holstering his guns. “They’re after me, not you.”

There was a flutter, and Shadrak caught a glimpse of a raven winging its way outside. Of Bird, there was no sign.

Big Jake shrugged, like he saw this sort of thing every day. That was his way. Even in the middle of a fight, you’d think he was half asleep. “You coming back?”

“Unlikely. Least not for the foreseeable. Fargin’s in charge now. You know what to do.”

Shadrak ran for the stairs. As he reached the landing, he heard Big Jake’s rumbling voice welcoming the soldiers to Queenie’s. A gruff exchange followed. Hopefully, Jake wouldn’t do anything stupid.

Shadrak opened the window at the end of the landing and climbed out onto the drain pipe. Someone spotted him and yelled, but he scrambled up onto the roof and sprinted for the edge.

Pain exploded in his head, and he stumbled. Something rose up to his right. He reeled round, and there it was: the psycher, loping toward him with one arm outstretched, the other raised high and wreathed in black mist. It thrust its featureless head at him, and Shadrak screamed as white-hot needles stabbed into his brain. Images flashed up behind his eyes: Kadee, dried up and wasted, ulcerating bedsores weeping on the sheets; Bovis Rayn’s ruined face; Rhiannon’s fists hitting him over and over; and the thing that had attacked him on the rooftops before—a Thanatosian, the Archon had called it. It raised its gun too fast for him to even scream…

Shadrak tried to draw a pistol, but his fingers were numb, and he couldn’t grip tight enough to free it from the holster. He reached behind for the thundershot he kept tucked in the back of his belt for emergencies, but it wouldn’t budge. Cold crept into his bones, and the strength drained away from his body.

The psycher’s raised arm came down, and a fresh blast of pain ruptured Shadrak’s thoughts. His limbs shook, and his teeth rattled. Something warm oozed from his ears, and he could taste coppery blood in his mouth.

The psycher raised both arms this time, amid a swirl of charcoal haze.

Behind Shadrak’s eyes, Kadee wept—no longer wasted, but her eyes were wide with terror, and not all of it for him. Shadowy trees formed a backdrop behind her, and the skies above were swarming with dark shapes gliding down on leathery wings. Kadee’s eyes burned with intensity, and she yelled silently at him.

Something snapped, and Shadrak got a hold on the thundershot. It felt heavy. So heavy. It took two hands to raise it, and he couldn’t steady his aim. Summoning all his remaining strength, he pulled the trigger, and there was an answering boom. The psycher’s scream cut gouges through Shadrak’s mind, and he pitched backward over the roof.

He tensed against the impact with the ground, but when it came, it was softer than he’d imagined.

“Caught you, laddie.”

He opened his eyes onto a black great helm, flecked with green. Strong arms held him, cradling him like a child.

“Nameless!”

“Little birdie told me you had a spot of bother,” the dwarf said, his voice muffled by the helm.

Shadrak looked to the roof, but he couldn’t see the psycher. Had he hit it? Shog, he hoped so.

The tramp of many feet built to a roar around them. Nameless set Shadrak down and scooped up his axe from the roadside.

“Is this a bad time to ask for a loan?”

Shadrak holstered the thundershot, whipped out both flintlocks and sent a barrage of shots into the soldiers. Bullets pinged off shields, and the advance turned into a rout.

Nameless whistled from inside his helm and hefted his axe to his shoulder.

“Can it wait?” Shadrak said.

“Oh, there’s no hurry, laddie.”

Already, someone was barking orders, and the soldiers were reforming in disciplined rows. Shadrak stole a glance at the rooftop. Still no sign of the psycher.

The soldiers at the back of the phalanxes broke off into a broad cordon, fanning out to cover every avenue of escape. Shadrak turned to see more soldiers stepping out from Queenie’s. He caught a glimpse of Big Jake giving a shrug through the window.

“So, what’s the plan?” Nameless said. “I take it you do have a plan.”

Usually, he would have; would have seen this sort of thing coming. But the Archon had pushed him too quickly, too far. Take any assassination lightly, and you ran the risk of it blowing up in your face; but the whacking of a senator—and the First Senator at that—demanded the highest level of planning. Weeks, it would have taken him to prepare for a job like that, not mere seconds.

He knew Nameless would have a plan; the only plan he’d ever seen the dwarf use: bash his way right through the center of the enemy and keep on bashing. But going down in a blaze of glory was the furthest thing from Shadrak’s mind; and the idea of giving Nameless his head went spinning off from the whirl of thoughts he was rapidly considering.

If they could make it to the alley connecting 101st and 102nd streets, kick some poor bastard’s door in and go through to the other side… stick to the lanes and keep heading north and west…

He pointed a pistol at the shield wall to the right of the closest phalanx. Can’t have been more than two deep, and behind was a clear path to the alley.

“I shoot, you charge,” he said. “Then I’ll get your back.”

Nameless took a two-handed grip on his axe, rolled his shoulders. “Ready when you are.”

“Go!” Shadrak yelled.

He fired both pistols straight into the soldiers. This time, he wanted to do more than startle them, and he dropped four in quick succession. The rest buckled when Nameless barreled into them. A spear glanced off the dwarf’s helm. He weaved past a thrust, then hammered the axe head into a shield so hard, metal caved, and wood splintered on the inside. The soldier screamed and pitched to the ground, nursing his mangled arm.

Nameless was through, and before the soldiers could react, Shadrak unleashed another hail of shots, and they scattered for the shelter of the nearest buildings.

The phalanxes started to wheel; great lumbering things. Whichever idiot had ordered such a stupid formation was yelling to the four winds like it was someone else’s fault. As they started to break apart into a pattern that you could only call “every man for himself”, Shadrak singled out the commander and put a bullet through his gob. He half-expected a round of applause for shutting the shogger up, but instead, the men came at him in a seething, disorderly mob.