Faerie Lord

Twenty-Two

It was peculiar: they kept off the streets, but congregated in the taverns, as if a stomach full of ale would protect them from the fever. The man sitting opposite Chalkhill had a lot of stomach and a lot of ale. His breath smelled like a brewery.

‘Are you sure it was him?’ Chalkhill asked.

‘Skinny little runt, looks a thousand years old, wears a demonologist’s shawl? Sounds like the description you put about. Mr Chalkhill.’

It was a very rough area and a very rough tavern. Chalkhill was aware his expensive clothing made him stand out like a jester at a funeral. But nobody took your money seriously unless you looked the part. Besides which, he was armed to the teeth.

‘So where did he go?’ he asked his informant.

The big man stared at him silently.

‘Oh, all right,’ Chalkhill exclaimed. Since he’d gone back to his camp act, he sighed explosively and added, ‘Whatever happened to trust, I wonder?’ He produced a small bag of coin and tossed it on the table. Conversations at the neighbouring tables stopped at once.

The big man’s big hand swallowed up the bag and the conversations started up again. ‘Mount Pleasant,’ he said.

Chalkhill frowned. ‘Mount Pleasant?’ It was among the wealthiest districts of the city, not one of Brimstone’s old haunts at all.

‘That’s what he said,’ the big man confirmed, with an expression that suggested he wasn’t going to give back the coins.

Well, perhaps Silas had come up in the world. Or perhaps Hairstreak was funding him. His Turdship may have fallen on hard times, but Hairstreak wouldn’t be Hairstreak if he didn’t have a little something stashed away. Or perhaps the Brotherhood had taken up a collection. Or perhaps Brimstone was just visiting a rich relative.

What did it matter? If Brimstone was headed for Mount Pleasant, that’s where Chalkhill had to go. The old hag had made it clear she wanted results and she wasn’t noted for her patience. Not that he was inclined to hang about himself.

Chalkhill felt more exposed on the waterfront than he had in the tavern and stood nervously while three water-taxis sailed right past ignoring his shouts and waves. But the fourth mercifully pulled in.

‘Mount Pleasant,’ he exclaimed grandly as he stepped aboard.

‘Double fare without your chitty,’ the driver told him conversationally.

Chalkhill had no idea what he was talking about, but he was well used to rip-offs. He drew a stimlus from his concealed armoury and pointed it at the man’s head.

‘Perhaps on second thoughts…’ the cabbie said. He took a spell cone from his bag and cracked it. ‘You sure you want Mount Pleasant, Guv?’

Chalkhill put the stimlus away. ‘Of course I’m sure. Do I look like a… like a… like an unsure person?’

‘Not even slightly, sir,’ the cabbie said, ‘It’s just that I had an old boy an hour or so ago told me Mount Pleasant and when he got in, he didn’t want to go there at all.’

Chalkhill blinked. ‘How old?’ he asked.

‘How old what, sir? The old boy? Very old, sir. Mind you, he looked like a retired demonologist to me – still wore the shawl. That sort of thing ages you, I always say.’

‘Where did he really want to go to?’ Chalkhill asked.

‘Whitewell. Remember it clearly ‘cause it didn’t sound at all like Mount Pleasant.’

‘Which Whitewell?’ There were two in the city, one north, the other to the west.

‘The one past Cripple’s Gate. Now, sir – ’ The cabbie actually managed a fake smile, ‘It’s Mount Pleasant for you, sir. Nothing unsure about that, eh?’

‘Take me to Whitewell,’ Chalkhill growled. ‘The one past Cripple’s Gate.’