Chapter 4

Garrett stood in the shadows across the street from the entrance. The massive gate was lit by several torches, with flames that guttered as a biting wind swept down the wide street. The gatehouse into which the metal portcullis was built was made of massive blocks of cut stone, cheap stone brought into the City on the backs of burricks from the quarries outside of the City. The stone was good only for building, and poor quality building at that. However, when the Department of Public Works had built the power maintenance station, they were more concerned with cost than quality. Besides that, Lord Whitsimmon had bribed the Baron to order the department to use the stone from the noble's quarries, both in the building of the public buildings and in the construction of the Barricades. The Baron had been won over by the bulging purse of Lord Whitsimmon and the smaller purse of the Department, and that was why it was now possible to climb the walls of the Barricades by using the crumbling stonework for footholds.

The gate was not only guarded by the lights portcullis, however. A guard, in the uniform of the City Guard, stood outside the building, his bow held in numbed fingers. Every so often he would lift his fingers to his mouth and blow on them, forcing warmth into the clammy skin. His woollen surcoat protected him from the cold, and also from the attentions of the Hammers and the real City Guard. For the man in front of the building was a thief, a member of the Downwinders Thieves' Guild. And the building he was protecting was not just a power maintenance station, but also the Guild's hideout.

The Guild had made their lair in the tunnels and conduits that the maintenance station was supposed to serve. The machines that the Hammers made were solid and dependable, and rarely broke down. There was not much call for the access tunnels and storage rooms, and gradually they had been taken over by the filth of the City. Engineers dared not go down into the tunnels, for fear of what lurked there. Those that were bold enough to brave the poisonous spiders were often found missing their heads, as a warning from the thieves to others.

However, the Downwinders were moving, transferring their base to a better set of tunnels, a series of sewer caverns hidden below the surface. Garrett had found this out, along with other useful information, from a beggar who made his home outside the maintenance station, and had seen him casing the joint. Issyt had been a member of the Guild, until they'd kicked him out for having sticky fingers. However, he still hung around, just in case they decided to take him back on. It was he who had betrayed his comrades to Garrett, in return for his lucky Hand of Glory. The Hand was a relic Garrett had picked up, long ago during his childhood. It was of value to him, but he had decided that getting revenge on Larnseng was worth losing it. Besides, he could always get it back later.

Issyt was also going to deliver a map of the tunnels and conduits below the station, but fate and the Hammers had interceded. A Hammerite night watchman had picked up Issyt during one of the recent anti-crime sweeps, and carried him away as Garrett watched, infuriated, from the shadows. Issyt's bundle had been left behind, but it neither contained the Hand of Glory or the maps. The Watchman, it seemed, had been looking the other way this time.

Garrett considered his options. Taking out the guard would be best, but was liable to leave a body around that he might have trouble hiding. He had not had time to check over the rest of the place, and knew only of this one entrance. However, if the guard remained then opening the door might prove difficult. The sole lockpick Garrett possessed was 3 feet long, and only worked, noisily, on wooden doors. He thought what to do with increasing desperation, but it was the arrival of a lone man who opened another option. The man was dressed as a merchant, but was acting more like a drunk. He swayed from side to side, and seemed to tack into the wind in the manner of a ship. He sung raucously, slurring his words, and pausing to lift the bottle to his lips. Garrett smiled. It was perfect.

He unslung his bow, and carefully drew a gas arrow from his quiver. The gas arrow was in his quiver courtesy of a thief who had decided that Garrett's temporary lodgings would make a fine target. The fight had been quick and one-sided, Garrett's ambush from behind the door catching the thief off-guard and unawares. The thief had been carrying an assortment of weaponry, most of it expensive and rare. Garrett had used one of the fire arrows to conceal the evidence of his crime, and had had to use the other on the landlord who came after him as the building began to burn. The tenement had been made of stone, but the resulting conflagration removed all traces of the lodger at the top floor.

Garrett's choice of the gas arrow for this task was purely mercenary. Although a conventional broadhead would do the job, and attract the guard's attention better, the death would probably attract the attention of others. At a crucial point such as this, he did not want the Downwinders made wary by the death at their doorstep, and the inquiries that would follow. By using the gas arrow, he could attract the guard's attention, but no other person's. People who saw the unconscious drunk would just assume that he had passed out. And besides, the merchant might prove a source of income at a later stage. It was best to leave all options open.

Sure enough, the abrupt unconsciousness of the drunk caught the guard's attention. He slowly walked over to the body in the gutter, slowly enough to allow Garrett to lift the key from his belt. Suddenly, he realised with horror that for the part few minutes the wind had died down, and the air had been still. Sure enough, as the guard approached the body he suddenly gasped, turned around, and was stepping forward as the gas took hold and silenced him as effectively as it had the drunkard. Garrett winced. The situation had become worse. However, there was nothing for it but to make the best of a bad job.

He moved towards the two bodies, drawing his cloak around his mouth as he did. Although he would have been happy to see the guard in a cell in Cragscleft, he didn't want to end up in the cell opposite. He took a deep breath, and then ran over to the body, his boots loud on the cobbles. He hoisted the guard onto his shoulder, and then ran to the entrance of the maintenance station. He deposited the body on the floor, and then knelt by it. His skilled hands ran swiftly through the pockets and seams of the clothing, picking out small coins and the sutlers' wares. Then he moved the body, propping it against the wall so that it looked as if the man had fallen asleep. He stepped back to admire the effect, and then returned to the body of the merchant. Taking no chances, he hoisted it onto his shoulders, and moved back to the guards body. He dropped the merchant on the floor, and took the bottle from the hand of the drunk and placed it in the hand of the guard. Now at least nothing looked suspicious.

Garrett reached into his cloak, and drew from it the key he had lifted from the guard's belt minutes earlier. Stepping over the bodies, he went up to the door, and after a quick glance around, inserted the key into the lock on the portcullis. He gave it a twist, releasing the counterweight, and drawing the portcullis up. It screeched as it went, the tracks coated in the rust that evidenced the decay in importance of the maintenance station. He winced, and looked around quickly. However, nothing stirred, and the streets were as silent as they had been before. Garrett looked into the inky blackness of the entrance hall. It was made of the same stone as the outside, the walls stained white from water, and black from the smoke of the industries around the district.

Cautiously, he stepped forward, and into the darkness. He was in his element here, a creature of the shadow, a student of the best. Where other people feared the dark he welcomed it, wrapping it in a cloak around himself. The dark released primitive emotions, made people restless and fearful, and made those who took advantage of it the most skilful men alive. He paused inside, and then turned around. An open portcullis would attract attention, but so would closing it. In the end, he left it open. It was always best to have a quick way out.

He strode forward carefully, his mind alert, his ears strained to hear the faintest sound. His boots clicked on the stone of the floor, and his breathing was slow and steady as each foot went slowly forward. Eventually he reached an inner door, and stopped, listening. Hearing nothing, he slowly pushed it open. The heavy wooden door swung ponderously open, to reveal a stone corridor, with heavy machinery on one side of it. From the machinery came hisses of white steam, the crackle of power, and the constant hum of working machinery. On the other side of the corridor were several doors, made of wood, and rotting as they hung on their hinges. The corridor was lit by several powered lights, which burned brightly in their inset holes.

He paused once again, and then silently began to move forward. Hiding in this light would be impossible, and the only option would therefore be to take out anyone who came across him. In his right hand he clutched the heavy lead club that was his blackjack, and would be his weapon of choice for the night.

However, no-one came, and Garrett was able to move down the corridor, and into another, which seemed to run for the short length of the building, along the back wall. Again it was illuminated with lights, and the walls held several doors. These too were rotten, apart from one which had been replaced with a solid metal door. Above it, the sign told why. 'Maintenance Access', it read. He slipped over to it, and tried the guard's key in the lock. It fitted perfectly, and when turned the lock gave a sweet click as the bolt sprang back. He put the key away, pleased that he would not have to resort to finding the alternative entrance to the hideout.

Garrett opened the door, and peered at what lay beyond. It was a flight of stairs, steep and narrow, with no illumination. He walked forward, letting the door close softly behind him. He didn't lock it; there was no telling what might cause him to leave in a hurry.

At the base of the stairs was a small room, piled with boxes, from which several corridors ran. The map Issyt had been supposed to deliver would have shown which way to go now. However, not all was lost. Garrett squatted, and looked at the floor. Most was clean, except for one part where the dust has been disturbed, and dried mud was lodged in the cracks between the stones of the floor. He stood, and walked down the nearest corridor, down which the tracks led. The corridor was small and cramped, with huge pipes all around it that carried the district's power supply. Every so often there were lamps, but these were not illuminated, and so he was forced to walk slowly, his hand held out in front of him so as to navigate the twists and turns of the tunnel. Every so often he would stop, and listen. Issyt had said that most of the Downwinders had moved to the new location, but there was no need to take chances.

Eventually the passage widened into a room, into which another corridor ran. Light spilled from this, and Garrett could faintly hear a buzzing noise that rose and fell in volume. He stepped out, and into a patch of shadow. When no harm came, he moved on, into the corridor.

The corridor stretched for a reasonable distance, with doorways on both sides. As he walked down he could see other corridors that had bisected it, that were now bricked up, and fittings for powered lamps along the ceiling. Now, flames flickered on torches, and the ceiling above them was black with soot. Above the doors were numerals, and sometimes letters. These were the barracks, where the men who had built this complex network of tunnels and conduits had lived and worked.

Blankets covered most of the doorways, while others had rotten wooden doors that hung on rusted hinges. Garrett paused at one from which no light came, and lifted the blanket. In the darkness beyond was a bunk, with empty boxes scattered around it. Either the workers had left it here, or else the Downwinders had decided to add a few home comforts. At the end of the corridor there was a metal door, dull from age. The walls around it were made of metal, not the plaster and stone of the rest of the complex. In former days it must have been the armoury, but now what better place to site the valuables of the Guild? He paused at it, and slid the key into the lock. It refused to even go in.

Garrett swore, and stuffed the key back into one of his many pouches. If he had lockpicks then the job would have been much easier, but now he would have to find the key. He stepped back, and silently slipped into a darkened room to think over what he should do. The buzzing abruptly increased in volume, and he smiled as it resolved itself into snores. The room he had just stepped into was occupied, but the occupant was in no position to notice him.

From what Garrett could see the room was reasonably decorated, with relatively expensive furniture, and rugs on the walls. In the ceiling was a lamp, while in one corner there was a fireplace, with the remains of the fire in its grate. Against one wall was a chest of drawers, with ornate carvings that seemed out of place in a den of iniquity such as this was. He stepped over to it, his boots making no noise on the straw strewn floor of the room. The night may have been a failure, but there was no need to leave with nothing. He reached the chest, and quietly pulled the drawer open. There was nothing there. He pushed it closed, and then tried another. This one was occupied, by a pouch of money. From the open neck came the gleam of gold coins, coins shiny and bright from lack of use. Garrett smiled and picked it up, the coins clinking faintly as he slipped it inside the numerous pouches of his clothes.

He looked back at the drawer, and was closing it when suddenly his eyes were drawn to a patch of wood at the back of the drawer. There seemed to be a thin line around it, a line that disappeared as he focused on it. He peered closer, and eventually decided that there was something there. Slowly he reached out his hand, and gently pushed the wood. It resisted, but then came loose and slid back. As it did so part of the front of the drawer drew back too, revealing a small hole inset into the front. Garrett reached into it, and then withdrew his hand, smiling to himself in the darkness. Dangling from his hand on a short length of cord was a key, its edges notched in a manner that signified that it was for a very complicated lock. He quietly stepped back, and then ducked out the room, dropping the curtain back behind him.

The key slipped into the lock, and turned as if lubricated with oil. With a sharp click, and then a noise like silk the latch slipped back, and Garrett was able to enter. The room was not large, and it seemed smaller due to the shelving hung on the metal-lined walls. Formerly this would have contained the picks and shovels and explosives and fire arrows used to blast holes in the rock below the City, but now the shelves were lined with the tools of the thieves' trade. Swords were stacked on them, together with blackjacks and shortbows. Quivers of normal arrows lay on the shelves, along with the precious crystals that gave them their special powers. The mines were stacked in one corner, while in another there were flashbombs that could blind a man for several minutes. However, in the centre of one wall was a large safe, with a hole for the key in its centre.

Garrett stepped into the room, his shadow cast on the wall by the sharp glare of the lamps. He had no interest in the tools of his trade, except for some of the rarer and more valuable crystals. These he filled his pockets with, taking care not to let them break and release the potent knockout gas. He had no wish to be here when the Downwinders awoke. He crept over to the safe, and inserted the key into the lock. He guessed that with such a strong lock on the door the thieves would not have bothered with a proper safe, and he now found that he was right. The safe swung open, to reveal piles of paper, and several items of expensive loot. The loot went into Garrett's cloak, while the papers came out onto the desk. Garrett glanced through them quickly, but only one was of much interest. He spread it out onto the desk so as to read it better:

Downwinder Donal

I am most satisfied with your efforts to recover the miniature treasure box, and I am aware that you expended a great amount of time to carry out this contract. It is most unfortunate that one of your guild was arrested by the Hammers and deported to Cragscleft, but I am sure that he will be in no position to reveal any involvement of either myself or you. My client will of course reimburse you for your tragic loss.

However, my client is also displeased that you neglected to fully carry out the terms of your contract. You have not recovered the sceptre, an antique that is now in the hands of a noble. You will not be paid until you recover it from Lord Bafford. I am aware that the item in question was not present at the time of your 'job', but my client is loathe to listen to the excuses you have provided for your late delivery. If you had made the attempt at the time that was suggested in my previous letter, I doubt that you would be in this situation

My client is not inclined to wait a similar period for the delivery of this part of the contract, and so I have been authorised to disclose to you several details that have been discovered as to the location of the sceptre. As I am sure you are aware, this information is sensitive, and could mean something when it reaches the ears of a certain person. As a result, you are not to inform any of your guild about the source of this information, or even its content. Might I suggest that you send a scouting party to the location in question so as to provide a false source to this information? Rest assured, my client will spare no expense to revenge himself if it becomes clear that the information has been made available to the wrong person.

The sceptre is made of weirwood, and is about 3 foot long. Six inches of the ferule, and five of the grip, are overlaid in burnished copper with an ink-and-cracquadare varnish. At the top is a six-inch cloustone gem. A more detailed description is known, so you would be best advised not to attempt to remove several gems from the sceptre before conveying it to me and my client. The sceptre is in Lord Bafford's guest house, in his throne room. There are around 15 guards in the mansion, and it is known for sure that one of them guards the entrance to the throne room.

It is known to me from other sources that in several weeks Bafford will be attending a dinner in the neighbouring town of Cyric, so then might be the best time to obtain the item. My client will be most displeased if he is forced to wait for this particular antique. Once you have it, contact me through the usual channels so as to arrange a point to deliver it. Do not fail.

Lord Tanner