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  Chapter Fourteen: JUNIPER: DURETILE

  Whisper delivered us to a broken-down castle named Duretile. It overlooks Juniper in general and the Enclosure in specific. For a week we had no contact with our hosts. We had no language in common. Then we were graced with the presence of a thug named Bullock who spoke the languages of the Jewel Cities.

  Bullock was some kind of enforcer for the local religion. Which I could not figure out at all. It looks like a death cult at first. Look again and you find death or the dead not worshipped but revered, with bodies fanatically preserved against some millennial revival. The whole character of Juniper is shaped by this, except for the Buskin, where life has so many concerns more vital than the welfare of the dead.

  I took an instant dislike to Bullock. He struck me as violence-prone and sadistic, a policeman who would solve his cases with a truncheon. He would survive when the Lady annexed Juniper. Her military governors have a need for his ilk.

  I expected annexation to occur within days of the Captain’s arrival. We’d have it scoped out before he got here. One word from Charm would do it. I saw no indication the Duke’s people could stop it.

  As soon as Feather and Whisper had all our people in, including translators, Bullock, the Duke himself, and a man named Hargadon, who was senior Custodian of the Dead, meaning he ran the Catacombs where bodies were stored-they led us into the bitter cold atop Duretile’s north wall. The Duke extended an arm. “That fortress over there is why I asked for help.”

  I looked at it and shuddered. There was something creepy about the place.

  “We call it the black castle,” he said. “It’s been there for centuries.” And then he gave us a chunk almost too big to swallow. “It started out as a little black rock lying beside a dead man. The man who found them tried to pick the rock up. He died. And the rock started growing. It’s been growing ever since. Our ancestors experimented on it. They attacked it. Nothing harmed it. Anybody who touched it died. For the sake of their sanity, they decided to ignore it.”

  I shaded my eyes, stared at the castle. Not that unusual, from Duretile, except it was black and gave me the creeps.

  The Duke continued, “For centuries it hardly grew. It’s only a few generations since it stopped looking like a rock.” He got a haunted look. “They say there are things living inside there.”

  I smiled. What did he expect? A fortress exists to surround something, whether built or grown.

  Hargadon assumed the narrative. He had been in his job too long. He’d developed an official’s pompous style. “For the last several years it’s grown damned fast. The Custodial Office became concerned when we heard rumors-out of the Buskin, so unreliable to be sure-saying the creatures inside were buying cadavers. The accuracy of those rumors remains a source of heated debate within the Office. However, no one can deny that we’re not getting enough corpses out of the Buskin these days. Our street patrols collect fewer than they did ten years ago. Times are leaner now. The street poor are more numerous. More should be expiring of exposure.” A real sweetheart, this Hargadon. He sounded like a manufacturer whining because his profit margin was down. He continued, “It’s been hypothesized that the castle may soon be beyond a need to purchase bodies-if it is at all. I’m not convinced.” Came down squarely on both sides of a question, too. That’s my boy. “Its occupants may become numerous enough to come take what they want.”

  Elmo asked, “You think people are selling bodies, why don’t you grab them and make them talk?”

  Time for the policeman to enter his bit. Bullock said, “We can’t catch them.” He had a but-if-they’d-let-me-do-it-my-way tone. “It’s happening down in the Buskin, you see. It’s another world down there. You don’t find out much if you’re an outsider.”

  Whisper and Feather stood a bit apart, examining the black castle. Their faces were grim.

  The Duke wanted something for nothing. In essence, he wanted to stop worrying about that fortress. He said we could do whatever it took to eliminate his worry. Only we’d have to do it his way. Like he wanted us to stay inside Duretile while his men and Hargadon’s acted as our eyes, ears and hands. He was afraid of repercussions our presence could cause if known.

  A few Rebel fugitives had come to Juniper after their defeat at Charm. The Lady was known here, though little considered. The Duke feared the refugees would incite trouble if he was suspected of collaborating.

  In some ways he was an ideal overlord. All he wanted from his people was to be left alone. He was willing to grant the same favor.

  So, for a while, we stayed tucked away-till Whisper became irritated by the quality of information we were given.

  It was filtered. Sanitized, it was useless. She cornered the Duke and told him her men would be going out with his.

  He actually stood up to her for a few minutes. The battle was bitter. She threatened to pull out, leaving him twisting in the wind. Pure bluff. She and Feather were intensely interested in the black castle. Armed force could not have levered them out of Juniper. The Duke subdued, she turned on the Custodians. Bullock was stubbornly jealous of his prerogatives. I do not know how she brought him around. He never was gracious about it.

  I became his companion on investigative jaunts, mainly because I learned the language quickly. Nobody down below paid me any mind. Him they did. He was a walking terror. People crossed the street to avoid him. I guess he had a bad reputation.

  Then came news which miraculously cleared the obstacles the Duke and Custodians had dumped in our path.

  “You hear?” Elmo asked. “Somebody broke into their precious Catacombs. Bullock is smoking. His boss is having a shit hemorrhage.” I tried to digest that, could not. “More detail, if you please.” Elmo tends to abbreviate.

  “During the winter they let poor people get away with sneaking into the Enclosure. To collect deadwood for firewood. Somebody got in who decided to take more. Found a way into the Catacombs. Three or four men.”

  “I still don’t get the whole picture, Elmo.” He enjoys being coaxed.

  “All right. All right. They got inside and stole all the passage urns they could lay hands on. Took them out, emptied them, and buried them in a pit. They also lifted a bunch of old-time mummies. I never seen such moaning and carrying on. You better back off your scheme, for getting into the Catacombs.” I had mentioned a desire to see what went on down there. The whole setup was so alien I wanted a closer look. Preferably unchaperoned. “Think they’d get overwrought, eh?”

  “Overwrought isn’t the half. Bullock is talking bad. I’d hate to be those guys and get caught by him.”

  “Yeah? I’d better check this out.”

  Bullock was in Duretile at the time, coordinating his work with that of the Duke’s incompetent secret police.

  Those guys were a joke. They were practically celebrities, and not a one had the guts to go down into the Buskin, where really interesting things happened. There is a Buskin in every city, though the name varies. It is a slum so bad the police dare go in only in force. Law there is haphazard at best, mostly enforced by self-proclaimed magistrates supported by toughs they recruit themselves. It is a very subjective justice they mete, likely to be swift, savage, unforgiving, and directed by graft.

  I caught up with Bullock, told him, “Till this latest business is cleaned up, I stick like your leg.” He scowled. His heavy cheeks reddened. “Orders,” I lied, faking an apologetic tone.

  “Yeah? All right. Come on.”

  “Where you headed?”

  “The Buskin. Thing like this had to come out of the Buskin. I’m going to track it down.” He had guts, for all his other failings. Nothing intimidated him.

  I wanted to see the Buskin. He might be the best guide available. I’d heard he went there often, without interference. His reputation was that nasty. A good shadow to walk in.

  “Now?” I asked.

  “Now.” He led me out into the cold and down the hill. He did not ride. One of his little affectations. He never
rode. He set a brisk pace, as a man will who is accustomed to getting things done afoot.

  “What’re we going to look for?” I asked.

  “Old coins. The chamber they defiled goes back several centuries. If somebody spent a lot of old money in the last couple days, we might get a line on our men.”

  I frowned. “I don’t know spending patterns here. Places I’ve been, though, people can hang on to a family horde for ages | then have one black sheep up and spend it all. A few old coins might not mean anything.”

  “We’re looking for a flood, not a few. For a man who spent a fistful. There were three or four men involved. Odds are good one of them is a fool.” Bullock had a good grasp of the stupid side of human nature. Maybe because he was close to it himself.

  “We’ll be real nice doing the tracing,” he told me, as though he expected me to hammer people in outrage. His values were the only ones he could imagine. “The man we want will run when he hears me asking questions.”

  “We chase him?”

  “Just enough so he keeps moving. Maybe he’ll lead us somewhere. I know several bosses down there who could’ve engineered this. If one of them did, I want his balls on a platter.”

  He spoke in a fever, like a crusader. Did he have some special grievance against the crime lords of the slum? I asked.

  “Yeah. I came out of the Buskin. A tough kid who got lucky and got on with the Custodians. My dad wasn’t lucky. Tried to buck a protection gang. He paid, and they didn’t protect him from another gang in the same racket. He said he wasn’t going to put out good money for something he wasn’t getting. They cut his throat. I was one of the Custodians who picked him up. They stood around laughing and cracking jokes. The ones responsible.” “Ever settle them up?” I asked, certain of the answer. “Yeah. Brought them into the Catacombs, too.” He glanced at the black castle, half obscured by mists drifting across the far slope. “If I’d heard the rumors about that place, maybe I’d have.... No, I wouldn’t.”

  I didn’t think so myself. Bullock was a fanatic of sorts. He’d never break the rules of the profession that had brought him out of the Buskin, unless he could advance its cause by so doing.

  “Think we’ll start right at the waterfront,” he told me. “Work our way up the hill. Tavern to tavern, whorehouse to whorehouse. Maybe hint that there’s a reward floating around.” He ground one fist into another, a man restraining anger.

  There was a lot of that bottled up inside him. Someday he would blow up good. We’d gotten an early start. I saw more taverns, cathouses, and reeking dives than I’d passed through in a dozen years. And in every one Bullock’s advent engendered a sudden, frightened hush and a promise of dutiful cooperation.

  But promises were all we got. We could find no trace of any old money, except a few coins that had been around too long to be the booty we sought. Bullock was not discouraged. “Something will turn up,” he said. “Times are tough. Just take a little patience.” He looked thoughtful. “Might just put some of your boys down here. They aren’t known, and they look tough enough to make it.”

  “They are.” I smiled, mentally assembling a team including Elmo, Goblin, Pawnbroker, Kingpin, and a few others. Be great if Raven were still with the Company and could go in with them. They would be running the Buskin inside six months. Which gave me an idea to take up with Whisper. If we wanted to know what was happening, we should take charge of the Buskin. We could bring in One-Eye. The little wizard was a gangster born. Stand out some, though. I hadn’t seen another black face since we’d crossed the Sea of Torments.

  “Had an idea?” Bullock asked, about to enter a place called the Iron Lily. “You look like your brain is smoking.”

  “Maybe. On something down the line. If it gets tougher than we expect.”

  The Iron Lily looked like every other place we’d been, only more so. The guy who ran it cringed. He didn’t know nothing, hadn’t heard nothing, and promised to scream for Bullock if anybody so much as spent a single gersh struck before the accession of the present Duke. Every word bullshit. I was glad to get out of there. I was afraid the place would collapse on me before he finished kissing Bullock’s ass. “Got an idea,” Bullock said. “Moneylenders.”

  Took me a second to catch it and to see where the idea had come from. The guy in the tavern, whining about his debts. “Good thinking.” A man in the snares of a moneylender would do anything to wriggle away. “This is Krage’s territory. He’s one of the nastiest. Let’s drop in.” No fear in the man. His confidence in the power of his office was so strong he dared walk into a den of cutthroats without blinking an eye. I faked it good, but I was scared. The villain had his own army, and it was jumpy.

  We found out why in a moment. Our man had come up on the short end of somebody in the last couple days. He was down on his back, mummified in bandages. Bullock chuckled. “Customers getting frisky, Krage? Or did one of your boys try to promote himself?” Krage eyed us from a face of stone. “I help you with something, Inquisitor?” “Probably not. You’d lie to me if the truth would save your soul, you bloodsucker.” “Flattery will get you nowhere. What do you want, you parasite?”

  Tough boy, this Krage. Struck from the same mold as Bullock, but he had drifted into a socially less honored profession. Not much to choose between them, I thought. Priest and moneylender. And that was what Krage was saying. “Cute. I’m looking for a guy.” “No shit.” “He’s got a lot of old money. Cajian period coinage.” “Am I supposed to know him?” Bullock shrugged. “Maybe he owes somebody.” “Money’s got no provenance down here, Bullock.” Bullock told me: “A proverb of the Buskin.” He faced Krage. “This money does. This money better, let’s say. This is a big one, Krage. Not a little let’s-look-around-and-make-a-show. Not some bump-and-run. We’re going the route. Anybody covers on it, they go down with this boy. You remember Bullock said it.”

  For a second Bullock made an impression. The message got through. Then Krage blank-faced us again. “You’re sniffing up the wrong tree, Inquisitor.” “Just telling you so you’d know.” “What did this guy do?” “Hit somebody who don’t take hitting.” Krage’s eyebrows rose. He looked puzzled. He could think of no one who fit that description. “Who?”

  “Uhn-uh. Just don’t let your boys take any old money without you checking the source and getting back to me. Hear?”

  “Said your piece, Inquisitor?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Shouldn’t you better be going, then?”

  We went. I didn’t know the rules of the game, so didn’t know how the locals would score the exchange. I rated it too close to call. Outside, I asked, “Would he have told us if he’d been paid in old coin?” “No. Not until he looked into it, at least. But he hasn’t seen any old money.” I wondered why he thought that. I didn’t ask. These were his people. “He might know something. Thought I saw a glint in his eye a couple times.” “Maybe. Maybe not. Let him stew.”

  “Maybe if you’d told him why....”

  “No! That doesn’t get out. Not even a rumor. If people thought we couldn’t protect their dead or them after they kick off, all hell would break loose.” He made a downward gesture with one hand. “Juniper like that. Crunch.” We walked on. He muttered, “All hell would break loose.” And after another half-block: “That’s why we’ve got to get these guys. Not so much to punish them. To shut them up.”

  “I see.” We strolled back the direction we had come, planning to resume tavern-hopping and to see a moneylender named Gilbert when we reached his territory. “Hey?”

  Bullock stopped. “What?”

  I shook my head. “Nothing. Thought I saw a ghost. Guy down the street.... Walked like somebody I used to know.”

  “Maybe it was.”

  “Nah. Long ago and far away. Long dead now. Just because I was thinking about him a little bit ago.’’

  “I figure we got time for half a dozen more visits. Then we head uphill. Don’t want to hang around here after dark.”

  I looke
d at him, one eyebrow raised.

  “Hell, man, it gets dangerous down here when the sun goes down.” He chuckled and gave me one of his rare smiles. It was the genuine article. For one moment then, I liked him.

  Chapter Fifteen: JUNIPER: DEATH OF A GANGSTER

  Shed had long, violent arguments with his mother. She never accused him directly, but she left little doubt she suspected him of hideous crimes.

  He and Raven took turns nursing Asa.

  Then it was time to face Krage. He did not want to go. He was afraid Krage might have lumped him with Raven and Asa. But if he didn’t go, Krage would come to him. And Krage was looking for people to hurt.... Shaky, Shed trudged up the frozen street. Snow fell in lazy, fat flakes.

  One of Krage’s men ushered him into the presence. There was no sign of Count, but word was out that the big man was recovering. Too damned stupid to die, Shed thought.

  “Ah, Shed,” Krage said from the deeps of a huge chair. “How are you?”

  “Cold. How’re you keeping?” Krage worried him when he was affable.

  “Be all right.” Krage plucked at his bandages. “Close call. I was lucky. Come to make your payment?”

  “How much do I owe, all told? You buying up my debts, I couldn’t keep track.”

  “You can pay out?” Krage’s eyes narrowed.

  “I don’t know. I have ten leva.”

  Krage sighed dramatically. “You got enough. Didn’t think you had it in you, Shed. Well. You win some and you lose some. It’s eight and some change.”

  Shed counted out nine coins. Krage made change. “You’ve had a run of luck this winter, Shed.”

  “Sure have.”

  “You seen Asa?” Krage’s voice tautened.

  “Not since three days ago. Why?”

  “Nothing important. We’re even, Shed. But it’s time I collected that favor. Raven. I want him.”

  “Krage, I don’t want to tell you your business, but that’s one man you’d better leave alone. He’s crazy. He’s nasty and he’s tough. He’d as soon kill you as say hi. I don’t mean no disrespect, but he acts like you’re a big joke.”