Richard Kadrey - The Grand Dark

Branca leaned on his desk to get closer to Largo. When he spoke, his voice was quiet. “The reason I’ve told you all this was to impress upon you the importance of your new position. It’s a great embarrassment for the company to have one of its trusted employees hauled away in chains. If the news got out it would be very bad for business. Therefore, we must redouble our efforts and do everything we can to keep up the company’s good name. Do you know why?”

“Because we’re grateful to them for the opportunities they’ve given us?” he said.

“Don’t be naïve.” Branca tapped his pen on his desk. “Because you and I are utterly disposable. Never forget that.”

“I won’t.”

“Good. Now, welcome to your new position, chief courier.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Branca held out a hand to him. When Largo shook it, he was surprised by the force of his supervisor’s grip. He’d never seen Branca move more than a step or two in any direction, so it was a shock that there was any strength left in his large body. And what an even greater shock to hear the man’s concern for his own position. It didn’t exactly make Largo like the old fossil any more, but he couldn’t help feeling a bit of sympathy to hear someone Branca’s age refer to himself as “utterly disposable.”

“Does the promotion mean that I’ll be spending more time in the office?” Largo said.

Branca let out one grunting laugh. “God help us all if it did. No, you’ll continue your normal duties, making deliveries and picking up goods, but you’ll be doing it in parts of the city that you’re not used to—including some of its most prosperous districts. That’s why I chose you. None of the other rabble here know Lower Proszawa as well.” He paused for a moment, then said, “Also, you seem generally honest, which is important. Some of the parcels and documents you’ll be carrying will be worth considerable sums of money. Can I count on you to do your job honorably and intelligently?”

Largo was a little shocked by the question. No one had ever asked him anything like it before. “Yes, sir. Of course,” he said.

“Good. I thought so. Here are some forms for you to sign to make your promotion official,” said Branca. He handed Largo a stack of papers, then dropped a leather box about ten inches long on top. “And here is a new tool of your job. With luck, you’ll never need it.”

Largo took the papers to a nearby table, set them down, and picked up the box. Turning it over in his hands, he found a small brass lock. With just a little pressure it popped open. At first, Largo wasn’t sure what he was looking at. It was made of a dull gray metal. There were holes in it that were clearly meant for his fingers. He put them in and felt a sort of metal grip against his palm while the rounded loops over his knuckles were studded with spikes. He pulled the strange object the rest of the way out of the box. It was a knife. A trench knife from the war, with blood channels down the blade and brass knuckles over his hand. Largo looked at Herr Branca.

“Sir?”

His supervisor glanced at him. “You wear it in a harness under your coat,” he said. “Understand, with every job comes certain liabilities. Your promotion will bring you new respect and a larger salary. Unfortunately, it will also make you a target.”

“Oh,” Largo said. He hesitated for a moment, not liking the word target . However, he shook off the feeling and reached back into the box, pulling out a tangle of worn leather straps and clasps. The harness, he guessed. “I don’t know how to put it on.”

The old man nodded. “I’ll show you. Welcome to your future, Largo.”

Having Herr Branca strap him into the harness was an embarrassing experience. The couriers were all required to wear black suits and ties while making their deliveries. Years before, the company had given them a clothing allowance to make sure they remained clean and tidy on their rounds. However, the allowance had stopped during the war and never been reinstituted. Largo’s one suit was of cheap wool and barely thicker than paper. Worse, the seam had split along one side of the white shirt he’d worn that day, so it was held together with safety pins. To his credit and Largo’s relief, Branca said nothing about any of that as he wrapped the harness around the young man’s back and shoulders so that, with his jacket on, it and the knife were entirely invisible. Largo moved his shoulders and twisted this way and that, feeling tight and uncomfortable.

Branca said, “How does it feel?”

“Strange. But not bad. I’m sure I’ll get used to it quickly.”

“See that you do. Keep it on whenever you’re on your rounds. If I were you, I would also wear it coming to work and going home at night.”

Largo looked at Branca gravely. “Do you really think it’s that dire? I’ve traveled these streets all my life and except for places like Steel Downs and the docks, I’ve never felt myself to be in much danger.”

“Well, you are now. And not just from street bandits. There are young men in this very company that you need to keep an eye on.”

“You can’t mean that, sir. Who?”

Branca went back to his desk and pressed a button on the side, summoning a small Mara. “Andrzej. Weimer. They’re both convicted criminals. Did you know that?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Their convictions weren’t for violent offenses—otherwise the company wouldn’t have taken them on. But management likes to hire a few unfortunates every year as a show of good faith in the government’s rehabilitation efforts.”

Largo shrugged. “If they’re rehabilitated, then what’s the problem?”

Branca shook his head. “Largo, you can’t afford to be this naïve anymore. I said their convictions were for nonviolent crimes. God knows what else they did before they were arrested. Do you understand?”

“I think so,” Largo said, touching his elbow to the hilt of the knife under his coat. He didn’t like Andrzej or Weimer, but saying so might cause trouble. “Still, we’re all friends now. Of a sort.”

“I’m glad to hear it. Let’s hope that Dame Fortune smiles upon you and it remains that way.”

Largo didn’t say anything. It was a lot to take in all at once. A promotion. Herr Branca’s speaking so frankly to him. A lecture on the dangers all around him. Plus, he hadn’t had a dose of morphia since the previous night. A chill was building inside him and he was afraid that if he was stuck in the office for more than a few minutes, his hands might begin to shake.

Sure enough, Branca said, “You’re looking a bit pale. Are you all right?”

“Fine, sir. It’s just a lot to think about.”

“Think at lunch. Right now, you have your first delivery.” From the Mara, Branca took a wooden box about the size of the one that had held the knife and tossed it to Largo. “The address is on the parcel. You know the area, I believe?”

Largo checked a slip of paper affixed to the box with red wax. It was a street in Haxan Green. He drew in a breath, wondering if this was some kind of test. Unpleasant as he knew the delivery was going to be, he wasn’t going to let that stop him. “Yes. It’s at the far end of Pervitin Weg, where it crosses the canal.”

“Very good. Not the best part of town, but not bad for a first run in your new position.” Branca took a leather shoulder satchel and tossed that to Largo too. “Keep your new deliveries in that. It’s old and if you think the stains inside look like dried grease, they are. It’s the type of bag used by many of the workers at the armaments factory. A nondescript way to haul your cargo and perhaps save your hide. Do you have any questions before you go?”