Neal Asher - The Engineer Reconditioned

“You don’t have much liking of priests do you,” said Suen.

“I just don’t like the ignorance of faith,” he shot back at her. The coach house at Giltown was a sprawling affair with many attached stables and low buildings for the coaches and, because it was on the main trade route from Elmarch, the carts of traders. Even from a distance the bellowing of the titanotheres could be heard, and in the fields all around grew tree ferns; fodder for the great beasts.

Beyond the coach house the rest of the town consisted of red brick houses with many storeys leaning precariously over a street leading down to a dock crowded with low black barges. It was on these that goods were brought up from the richer southern country and traded for metal ores mined around Ompotec.

“The priesthood keeps to the agreement,” said Cheydar as he walked at Dagon’s side to the reception building of the coach house. “There is never mining in the Wilder, nothing like that.”

“There has never been the need,” replied Dagon. “The established mines supply all the demand there is.” He looked at Cheydar. “If they did mine in the Wilder that would bring the Proctors back and believe me, that’s the last thing the priesthood wants. They have no wish to appear in any way powerless.” The main building of the coachhouse was ringed with a low veranda on which priest soldiers lolled and inspected passers by. Dagon and Cheydar ignored them as they mounted the steps and went in through the main door. Within, a fat bald official sat at a desk sorting through sheaves of paper. He glanced at them over half-moon glasses and continued with his work until Dagon, as agreed, walked up and addressed him.

“The Lady Vemeer requires a coach to take her North,” he said, and dropped a bag of metal money on the table. Cheydar contained his surprise; that hadn’t been in the game plan. The official delicately pulled at the strings of the bag and opened it. His eyes widened at what he saw inside and with a glance to the door he quickly slid it across his desk and dropped it in his lap.

“We are in a hurry, a Metrarch awaits her presence.”

“The gold phaeton would be best. I will take you to it.” He slid the money into a pocket, picked up some forms from a stack beside him and led the way to the door. Once outside he turned away from the priest soldiers and led the way around the side of the building. The soldiers inspected the trio with expected suspicion, but did nothing.

“Will you be requiring a driver?”

“No.”

“Ah.”

They shortly came to a man who sat on the edge of a water trough while watching some girls work at cleaning out the huge stables. The man looked bored. He held a short whip in one hand and was methodically slapping it against his leg. To one side, in a compound with fences five feet tall and made of tree trunks, a male titanothere ate from a huge basket fixed to the stable wall. The grey hide behind its head was goad-scarred and there were calluses on its sloping back and sagging belly, from the cart straps. A couple of the fist-shaped horns on its head had been broken off, probably in mating fights, and its small piggy eyes regarded the world with seeming indifference. It flicked warble flies away from its huge rump with an inadequate tail, twitched its mussel-shell ears. When it leaned its many tons against the fence the tree trunks bowed and looked as if they might break.

“Feruth, the gold phaeton, how quickly can you have it ready?” The man pushed himself upright and gave Cheydar and Dagon a probing look. “What’s the hurry?”

“A lady visiting a Metrarch,” said the official.

“Ah.” The man made no move until the official tapped his pocket and the clink of money could be heard. He grinned, nodded. “I’ll have it ready in a couple of hours.” He moved off. The official turned away from him to Cheydar and Dagon. He met Cheydar’s look. “Yes, I know; shocking isn’t it?”

Dagon said, “You’ll send for us when the coach is ready?”

“Yes. Where will you be?”

“The tavern. The lady waits there now. We shall have a meal there and hope to hear from you soon after?”

“So it will be.”

The official gave a little bow to them and they moved off.

“They have no honour, these people,” said Cheydar, after a moment.

“Money and power command respect. There are few people who can even be true to themselves. You should have realised that long ago.”

“You are cynical, Dagon.”

“I see things as they are.”

“You believe so?”

“Unfortunately, I know so.”

Cheydar allowed that to sink in for a moment then said, “The money, did Suen give it to you?”

“It was my own.”

“You shall be reimbursed.”

Cheydar just caught the quickly repressed smile.

The tavern was similar in construction to the coach house; red brick and sagging, ringed with wooden verandas. The areas around the buildings were dry, as was the slabbed road. The verandas around most buildings were an indication that later in the year the combination of rain and traffic would turn the bald ground to a quagmire. Dagon stepped up onto the veranda first, and while waiting behind him, Cheydar glanced back the way they had come. That the priest soldiers from the coach house had followed them he gave no indication until he was inside the building.

“We have company, five of them,” he said.

“I know.”

“What would you suggest? You seem more able at subterfuge than myself.”

“I feel that should they seek identification from us subterfuge will be wasted.”

“Even if we kill them all here, others will come after us riding titanotheres and catch us on the road.”

“I will think of something,” said Dagon.

The room beyond the door was like a thousand other rooms of taverns. Suen and the rest sat at a long table, sipping at goblets of orange wine while a young man laid out food for them. Cheydar noted with approval that his sons, though staring at the food wide-eyed, were waiting for Suen to break bread and offer them a piece. Ritual; the lady feeding her bondsmen.

“Go and join them. I will go to the bar.”

Cheydar made to obey then stopped himself. “You give commands very easily,” he said, his face grim.

“Now is not the time, Cheydar. I can get us out of this.”

“You are isolating yourself.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

At that moment the five priest soldiers came in through the door. Cheydar met Dagon’s look only for a moment then went and sat with Suen. From there he watched Dagon walk to the bar, a sudden arrogance in his walk, contempt in the glance he threw at the soldiers. The soldiers gazed around the tavern then followed him.

“What is happening?” asked Suen.

“I don’t…” Cheydar stared, then realised. Of course. He cursed then turned to Suen. “I think he’s going to force a duel. Even priest soldiers stick to some of the Code.”

“What do you mean?”

“Win or lose the rest of them will not harass us, not immediately. One night must pass between blood-lettings else duel will degenerate into open brawl or battle.”

“Can we be sure of that?”

“With them, no, Lady. It is the best chance we have, though.” At the bar there was a sudden altercation. Dagon shoved one of the soldiers back.

“Be prepared to stand by your words!” he shouted, as if angry and very offended. Cheydar noted that he had picked on the officer. He aimed to behead, perhaps literally. The officer regained his balance and said something more. Dagon struck him back handed across the face then stepped to one side as another of the men made a grab for him. His sword was an arc of light between. One of the men stumbled back holding his forearm. The others kept out of the way. Cheydar was on his feet, with his air gun in his hand, and coming up beside Dagon in a moment. His sons were behind him. Dagon glanced at him.