Richard Ford - Herald of the Storm

He looked down at that head, which stared up blankly from battered eyelids, then back at Rag. Without a word he lowered himself down from the crate, careful to avoid the head like it was a snarling dog, not taking his eyes off it as he walked past, then rushed from the warehouse.

Rag had no idea if he was coming back, but she thought it was probably best to wait. What else could she do?

She picked up Krupps and placed him gently on top of the crate, then sat down next to him, feeling the fatigue of the past few days begin to settle on her like a sack of turnips.

As she waited she thought about her roof at the Bull. About Chirpy and Migs and Tidge. Even Fender. And she thought about Markus — about how if he hadn’t ended up dead she probably wouldn’t have been here, sitting on a crate in a dark warehouse with a severed head, waiting for a crime lord to come and see her.

The thought made her snigger, all alone in the dark.

‘Who’d have thought it, eh?’ she asked.

Krupps didn’t answer. He was starting to whiff a bit, and was getting interest from a few flies, but it wasn’t the worst thing she’d had to put up with over the past few days, so she didn’t hold it against him none.

‘They say talking to yourself is the first sign of madness.’

Rag almost screamed, but managed to hold it in as the curly-haired man she knew as Friedrik entered the warehouse. He was flanked by two burly-looking thugs. The man she’d found dozing on the crate skulked behind them, as though he was scared of something.

Friedrik looked at her, then the head, then back at her again. ‘Apparently we had a deal? Remind me again?’

Rag eased herself off the crate. She knew this was an important moment — one of those times that shapes how the rest of your life’s gonna turn out — so she fixed him with her best stare.

‘You said if one of us brought you the heads of the others we could join the Guild.’

Friedrik gave her a sideways glance. ‘Is that what I said? Are you sure?’ He looked to the men at either side of him. One Rag recognised as the man who’d killed Coles with a cudgel.

They both just shrugged.

‘No, I don’t remember saying that,’ said Friedrik.

Rag felt panic grip her stomach. It wasn’t like she hadn’t been swindled before, hadn’t been treated like a prat, but this was just a piss-take too far.

‘Yes, you fucking did! You said it right here, not more than two days since.’ She instantly wondered if she’d gone too far.

When Friedrik smiled, she relaxed a bit, but then a smile from the bastard who ran the Guild could mean anything.

It might mean he was gonna cut her tongue out.

He strolled forward, looking at Krupps’ head. ‘Mmm, now you mention it, I do remember saying something like that. Don’t remember this fellow, though, but then he’s clearly not as handsome as he once was. What do you reckon, lads?’ His thugs laughed; a forced laugh at a shit joke. ‘Yes, I may have opened a vacancy, but obviously I wanted a new recruit who could work for me, hurt for me … kill for me. Is that you, little girl?’

Rag thought on it. A killer she weren’t, but then she’d had to do a lot these past few days she thought she weren’t suited to.

‘I’m a pincher,’ she said.

‘Ah, a pickpocket. I’ve got plenty of those. What would I need another for?’

‘Because I’m the best there is.’

Friedrik laughed at that. His men laughed at it too.

‘A bold claim, little girl. How are you going to prove it?’

She could feel herself getting angry now and did her best to swallow it back down. It weren’t the first time she’d been duped. It weren’t even the first time she’d been laughed at, but now this bastard was just taking liberties. Rag didn’t make claims lightly. She was the best — better than anyone this bastard had ever seen.

‘That bloke there,’ she said, gesturing over her shoulder at the one she’d found sleeping earlier. ‘Tell him to pull his knife.’

Friedrik frowned. ‘Tell him to what?’

‘Pull his knife. Tell him.’

Friedrik glanced towards the man and shrugged. ‘Go on then.’

Rag kept her eyes fixed on Friedrik but she could hear the man fumbling at his belt, could almost feel his panic and his embarrassment as he went for his knife, only to find it wasn’t there.

‘Ain’t got it, has he?’ she said, reaching round to the back of her britches. ‘’Cos I pinched it from him earlier, right in front of his fucking eyes!’

With that she darted forward, knife in hand. She’d never been any good with blades — they’d only got her in trouble before, but this wasn’t like any of those times. This was for a game with the big boys, and if it took pulling a blade, then a blade was what she’d pull.

She leapt straight at Friedrik, that knife shooting forward, and she saw his face light up with panic. He tried backing off but he wasn’t quick enough and she was on him like a tomcat on a rat. He staggered back under her weight as she pressed the knife to his throat.

Behind she could hear his minders rushing forward, but they wouldn’t be quick enough.

‘Tell ’em to fuck off, or I’ll cut you open!’

In a panic Friedrik held up his arms. ‘Fuck off!’ he yelped at his men.

And there they were: her with a knife to his throat, and his men just looking on, not a clue what to do.

‘So,’ Rag said, suddenly feeling like the deck was stacked in her favour. ‘About that vacancy you were gonna open in your club.’

‘Yes, that vacancy. I think I remember now. A slot’s just opened right up.’ He was trying his best to smile, but the knife at his throat made it that much harder.

‘So we’ve got a deal?’

‘Yes. Shit yes, we’ve got a deal.’

Slowly she let him go. He was the ace in her deck, and removing that knife from his throat would be giving it away. It was a big chance she was taking, but sooner or later she was gonna have to trust him to keep his word.

When he was loose she could tell his men wanted to move forward, wanted to do her harm for laying a hand on him, but Friedrik just shook his head.

‘Well, little girl. Looks like you’ve earned yourself a seat at the grown up table.’

She nodded, but didn’t allow herself a smile. At least not yet.

‘My name’s Rag,’ she said.

Friedrik looked at her and smiled. Then held out his hand.

‘Welcome to the Guild, Rag.’

There was something different about his reflection. Was it the lines under his eyes? The cuts and bruises that marred his face and head? Did he look older somehow?

Waylian couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but whatever external changes had been wrought by his experience it was nothing to the feeling inside. He’d thrown up a stream of black bile for almost a whole night and his guts felt like someone was twisting them in a mangle. Add to that the vile taste in his mouth, along with the throbbing in his jaw, and it seemed this magick business was clearly more trouble than it was worth.

He leaned in closer to the mirror, pulling the bruise-darkened flesh down below his right eye. The bloodshot veins that had stood out red and livid the day before were receding slightly. That was some small comfort at least.

Whether the mess of his face was down to that stone platform almost collapsing on him or something more sinister he couldn’t tell. He knew there were consequences to tapping the Veil; all magickers had to suffer the consequences of their power, but he hadn’t been expecting anything like this.

The throbbing in his jaw began to intensify, and Waylian probed with his tongue, feeling one of his back teeth. It moved as his tongue touched it, loosening the tooth in the gum, and he suddenly tasted blood.