Chris Wooding - The Fade

I spotted my contact coming along the promenade. He had that look about him: a man who had mastered his territory, a man who knew the city. There was no need to swagger. People just sensed it, and deferred. Muggers chose other victims, not really understanding why. Merchants spoke to him as an equal, even though he was obviously not rich or important.

'Keren,' I greeted him, as he joined me at the rail.

Keren always looked battered and scruffy, as if he had just hauled himself out of bed. Somehow the fact that he didn't trouble about his appearance only strengthened his aura of weary dangerousness. Two small, implanted silver tusks protruded from just below his bottom lip. A thick head of shaggy black hair hung untidily over his face. His low forehead and grizzled cheeks were skinmarked with curving patterns.

'Orna,' he replied. He studied a freighter that was approaching from upriver, surrounded by a rippling island of light. It was being escorted by a half-dozen militia sloops.

After a moment, Keren made a vague motion towards it. 'Trade goods. Rumour is, Jerima Vem has twenty sacks of powdered bonecane on there, out of his warehouse up in the Shivers. The den-runners round the Ashenpark are chewing their hands off wanting to get at it, but it's sewn tight. Vem's bribed or threatened every harbourmaster from here to Bry Athka.'

'I heard,' I replied.

He nodded. 'Makes you wonder. If he's moving that much bonecane, how come everyone knows? Vem's not so careless with his information. Smells like a decoy to me. Or a trap.'

I looked sideways at him. 'It is.'

He grinned. 'What you know, Orna?'

'Vem's going fishing. He's after Silverfish.'

Keren barked a laugh. 'Silverfish? He thinks Silverfish would fall for something like this?'

'Exactly. Vem's intelligence network's a joke.'

'So how'd you find out?'

I turned my cheek to show the Bond-mark there: three diagonal stripes. 'Ledo's keeping Jerima Vem very sweet right now. Makes it easier for certain information to come my way from time to time.'

Keren grunted. 'Forgot. The marriage, right? Never could keep track of aristo politics.' He was already calculating how this information could be useful, who he could tell, what kind of leverage he might gain. 'What've they got against each other?'

'Vem and Silverfish? That I don't know. Silverfish has been plaguing Clan Jerima lately: interfering with shipments, leaking sensitive information, stealing from him, that sort of thing. Vem wants him off his back. So he came up with a tempting target.'

'It's too tempting.'

He pushed off the rail suddenly, and walked into the forecourt of a bar. The bulky guard – placed there to prevent the detritus of the street from sifting in – paid him no attention. Keren lit a cigarillo at a brazier and returned, wreathed in the sweet, cloying scent of smokevine.

We stood together in silence. As always, Keren offered a cigarillo to me, and as always I declined. I waited while he finished. Keren wouldn't be disturbed during a cigarillo, nor would he speak of anything important until he was done.

'Found your man,' he said as he flicked the butt away, sending it skittering across the promenade.

'Where?'

'Back streets off the Grand Plaza.' He gave me an address. 'This evens us up, okay? For the other thing?'

'We're even,' I agreed. We always played this game, tallying favours and debts. Some people wanted money, but Keren wasn't that way. He traded information for information, with anyone and everyone he could. He wanted to know it all. I respected that hunger.

We took our leave and headed in different directions along the promenade. I was glad to be alone again. I needed time to centre myself, to let all traces of sensitivity and sentiment bleed out of me. For what I intended to do, they would only get in my way. The address Keren had given me was on the fifth floor of a building in a maze of narrow, knife-slash streets. Here, in the area around the Grand Plaza, dwellings were stacked high and pressed together hard. Balconies of wood and ceramic faced each other, close enough to jump between. Curved windows with webbed frames and tinted glass glowed green in the heights. Jabbered conversations and laughter swelled and faded, the voices of unseen couples wandering arm-in-arm, somewhere in the labyrinth.

I made my way up a zigzag stairway, passing alcoves in which doorways were set. At the top, I found the door I wanted. It was identical to the others, polished and set in a carved wooden arch. A bell tolled faintly in the distance.

Warm light crept beneath the door. Good. He was in. I pushed back my coat to expose the hilt of an obsidian shortblade, and knocked. There was a pause, and movement within.

The door opened. A middle-aged man, his body bulky and strong. Hired muscle. He went pale as he saw the Cadre sigil on my shoulder.

'Careless,' I said, and shoved the door open. I grabbed him in a nerve-claw, rigid fingers digging into the flesh of his throat, thumb driven under his chin. Wracked with paralysing agony, he could do little to resist as I propelled him roughly into the living area. There I threw him against a writing desk with a crash, scattering rolls of parchment and shattering a vial of ink.

There were four in the room, including the man I'd just assaulted. One was Ekan, the man I'd come to see: doughy, face run to fat, expression betraying surprise. The rest were thugs.

Ekan had taken precautions.

The two remaining thugs came at me from either side. One had snatched up an iron candle-holder as a club, the other had a dagger. I went for the knife-wielder first. The thug stabbed clumsily: a small-time heavy with an unlicensed blade. I slid inside his reach, grabbed his wrist and drove my knee upward into the elbow, inverting it with a wet snap.

I pulled the man across me as my next attacker swung, protecting myself with the body of my opponent. There was a dull thud as the candle-holder struck the shoulder of my unwilling shield. I wrapped an arm round his neck and broke it, tossing him aside, then sprang for the thug with the candle-holder.

He took another swing. I dodged it and punched rigid fingers into a nerve-nexus to make him release his weapon, then I headbutted him in the bridge of the nose. Didn't expect that from a woman. There was barely time for him to yell before I delivered a short, brutal punch to his solar plexus, winding him. He staggered backwards, doubled over and gasping for air.

The thug who had opened the door was back on his feet, lunging, hoping to take me off-guard. Not a chance. They were nothing but street-brawlers, pugilists at best. They had no defence against the subtler fighting arts. I dropped under the punch, caught his arm and used it to throw him over my shoulder. He might have been heavier than me, but weight can be used against you. The thug crashed to the floor hard, and I punched him in the throat, crushing his larynx.

I rolled off, coming to my feet, stanced ready for another attack. None came. I drew a shortblade, walked calmly to where the surviving thug was still gasping for breath, and cut his throat. Afterwards, I turned my gaze to the last man in the room.

'You know what this is about, Ekan,' I said.

Ekan was already on the verge of tears, half-insensible with terror. 'Listen… no… you don't-'

'I'm not interested,' I told him. 'You were warned.'

'We can go!' Ekan blurted, eyes shining with sudden hope. 'We can leave. You won't ever hear from us again!'

'You should have listened,' I replied. 'The Caracassa family takes a bleak view when people try to undercut their prices.'

'No… no…' Ekan was begging, eyes fixed on my blade, which was dripping spots of blood onto the floor. 'I'm just an apothecary, I'm… I'm just an apothecary! I need to make a living like everybody else!'