Dawson sighed as he pushed the needle through the tough cloth of his jacket.
The work was tiring and time-consuming, and he might have easily avoided the
rent in his jacket had he been a bit faster on his feet. The sword had been
obvious, it's bearer obviously drunk and in a mood for combat. Even though
it was Dawson's job as a guard in the City Watch to take care of the drunks
and sots that had congregated outside the inns and taverns, he should
perhaps have waited and disarmed the man before attempting to force him to
the nearest watch station last night. And now, before he left for the
station, he had to sow his jacket back up before his sergeant pounced on him
for improper attention to dress. He could go for months without making a
single arrest, but if his jacket had a rent in it from his attempting to do
his duty..
Suddenly, there was a knock at the door of his small cubicle. He flicked
his eyes up in annoyance, and decided to let it be. This was his time to do
as he would, and he would be damned if he gave it up so Benny could have
company on his "inspection" of the taverns in Shoalsgate. The knock came
again, and insistent rapping on the thin wooden door of his small, and
rather spartan, cubicle. He sighed again, and, dropping the jacket on the
floor, stood and walked over to the door. He threw back the bolts, and
opened it.
It was Benny, who obviously hadn't bothered to change out of his uniform
before walking over to bother him. The man was a disgrace to that uniform
anyway - as usual, his belt was awry, his jacket stained and dirty, his
chain-mail faintly traced with rust, and his helmet disfigured with a dent
that he refused to hammer out. Perhaps he had kept it as a trophy of when
he'd been blackjacked by some thief in his days before he joined the Watch.
But he probably couldn't be bothered to - like most of the scum in the
Watch, he had no pride in his job. He'd been a guard, others had been
criminals. Only a few were still good men, but they had been discredited in
the days before Truarts reforms. And most of them had been killed in that
foolishness with the Trickster's beasts.
Exasperated beyond words, Dawson stepped back to give himself space to slam
the door. But Benny put his foot out to stop the door, with impacted loudly
on it.
"Oww, you taffer!" he cried out. "Why'd you go and do that?"
"Because I'm not interested in speaking with you Benny. Or going on another
of your stupid inspections. I don't want to have to carry you home again"
Benny glared back in self-righteous indignation, his foot forgotten.
"That was only once, Dawson. Besides, you...you said you had a good time
you taffer. Better than old Benny had, I thinks. Anyways, I is. I is not
here 'bout that. 'Though if you're in.in..in'erested?
He winked rakishly, and hiccupped. Dawson rolled his eyes. Benny had
obviously started early tonight.
"No Benny, I'm not. Not get your taffing foot away from my door before I
crush it for real"
"Ohhh, Dawson, you would'n' do that to ol' Benny, would you? Besides, I's
not here t'ask you that. Serg.Serg.Sergeant Trevick tol' me to fetch you to
the station. 'Pparently they want to.to speak with you? What you done now,
eh, you taffer?"
Dawson fielded off Benny's playful punch, and managed to slam the door
before the man's addled sense could detect it. He leaned against the door,
and listened as Benny, apparently communicating with a third party known
only to himself, discovered that the door was closed, and Dawson was gone.
Dawson walked over to the bed, and sat down. The summons were unusual, and
worrying. What could Trevick be interested in him for? If it was about the
incident with the Baron's niece and the burrick cloak, then he was
blameless. But.and here an icy chill gripped his heart...what if the
sergeant wanted to speak with him about the whole episode with Webster and
Lord Dionies? That had been a good piece of detective work, putting the
Warden away finally, but Dionies was Lieutenant Mosley's friend.
Well, obviously she'd just heard about it. Dawson could feel the beginnings
of a cold sweat running down his back. They wouldn't kill him, but
apparently Mosley had liked Dionies a lot, and so her revenge might
be.unpleasant. Should he just run now?
Eventually, he decided against it. After all, it might be something else.
By the Builder, let it be something else. He pulled on his jacket over his
chain-mail, pushed the helmet onto his head, and, taking his sword and
sheathing it, stepped out the door. He locked it behind him, and strode to
the stairway at the end of the corridor. The wood was damp and rotten, so
he took care. He slammed the door behind him as he left the block of
cubicles, and set off across the ward to Shoalsgate station.
Arriving there, he reported to Sergeant Trevick. The man held him at
attention while he studied the rent in Dawson's jacket that he'd not had the
time to repair. Finally Trevick stood him at ease, and told him to report
to the Lieutenant Mosley. Or, rather, Sheriff Mosley. Now. Dawson asked
why, but Trevick just shrugged.
Now Dawson knocked on the door of the Sheriff's office, and waited for the
acknowledgement before entering. The office was well appointed, with a
large desk, a fireplace, and several armchairs. It was also liberally
decorated with plants - there were plants on the windowsills, in pots by the
fire place, and on stands around the room. Mosley was standing at the
window, idly fingering the peony there. It looked wilted, as if it had been
there for several weeks. As he entered she turned, and Dawson was struck by
the look of worry and anxiety there, so different from the casual
superiority that had been there before.
"You many stand at ease Dawson" she said. "Has your sergeant told you why
you're here?"
"No Ma'am. I was sent for, and I have only just arrived"
"Very well. I've just been reading the report of your investigation into
Webster. An encouraging example of investigation. The Warden Affairs
Department were still struggling to find the head of that Ward"
Dawson relaxed slightly. So far she hadn't mentioned Dionies. Perhaps she
wasn't going to punish him for that? He suddenly noticed that there was a
silence, and that she was looking at him expectantly. A reply seemed called
for.
"Thank you Ma'am. I simply found some leads during the raid of his
warehouse a few months before, and followed them up in my own time"
"Yes - it was impressive how you managed to find enough evidence to
incriminate him. And did so without the help of our own department. Most
impressive. I was considering promoting you to heading the Warden Affairs
Department, but."
Here she paused, and looked towards the window at the peony. Her face
creased in worry, and.nervousness? She took a deep breath and turned back.
"I find I have other uses for your skills. More.unorthodox uses. You are
aware of what went on at Soulforge?"
"Vaguely, Ma'am. I know it's been sealed by the Mechanists, and that there
have been rumours Karras hasn't been seen since then. And something about a
red mist or dust, but I don't believe that"
"Hmmm. Well, I suppose you will know soon enough. Karras is dead"
Dawson gaped at her, his mouth hanging open before he thought to shut it.
Karras dead? The head of the Mechanists gone? Sure, there had been
rumours, but he hadn't believed them. Suddenly he realised Mosley was still
talking
"...perished at Soulforge. From what I've heard, the red mist is some sort of
corrosive agent. For plants and animals only it seems. And his demise has
also resulted in a decrease in Pagan activities. Almost as if their leader
has gone too. I've waited.I've not heard reports of Pagans for several
weeks. I need you to discover what has happened, who did it, and where the
Pagans have gone"
Having said this, she turned around again and walked to the window. She
stood there, looking out of it, and fingering the peony, as Dawson hurriedly
accepted the offer. A chance to stop those taffing patrols and night
watches? And gain the gratitude of the Sheriff? This must be a gift from
the Builder Himself.
"Very well," Mosley said when he had accepted "you'd best start immediately.
The Mechanists have sealed Soulforge, but I have for you a pass to get you
inside. The letter on my desk requires any member of the Watch to help
you - within reason. Take them - and leave."
Dawson hurried to pick up the sheets of parchment from the desk, and stuffed
them inside his jacket. He moved towards the door, and was opening it when
Mosley's voice reached him;
"And Dawson - be careful. There are forces at work here beyond what you can
know. Be discreet, especially around Mechanists. And never tell anyone but
me what you find. It is vital that only I find out where the Pagans have
gone."
He turned, saluted, and escaped out the door.
Dawson decided to start with the most obvious of places - Soulforge. He
picked his way through crowded streets, bumped and jostled by the crowds
around him. Servants, traders, guards - he passed all on his journey to the
Cathedral. Sometimes he passed figures in long cloaks and hoods, their
faces hidden. Normally he would have studied them, for only thieves and
jackblades hid themselves so. But now he had a new mission he paid them no
mind. He didn't even think to stop one figure when they inadvertently
bumped against him and almost knocked him over.
Eventually he reached Soulforge - a tall structure of grey stone that loomed
over the manor houses and mansions surrounding it. It was encircled by a
sheer wall, with only one entrance barred with iron gates. At the gates
stood two Mechanists, their posture tall and their weapons held ready. A
small crowd stood by a distance away from them, gesturing at the Cathedral,
but hostile glances from the Mechanists soon scattered them. No-one wanted
to risk their wrath.
Dawson marched to the gate and its Mechanist guards, and loudly demanded
entrance. The guards looked at each other amusedly, and then one spoke to
him.
"Thine request cannot be granted, Watchman. Friend Gorrick hast forbidden
any entry to Soulforge. Shouldst not thou be at thy duties, dealing with
the scum that doth polute our streets like a vine upon a wall"?
Dawson bridled at the mockery and the veiled insult, and his anger made him
aggressive.
"Hold your tongue, you taffer! I've got here a letter that allows me
entrance to your Cathedral. Open the gates and let me in."
The Mechanist's reaction was impressive.
"Silence thy tongue, knave, and soil it not with the name of our defeated
adversary! Show us then thine letter - I disbelieve that Friend Gorrick
wouldst allow such a thing as thee to enter."
Dawson reached inside his jacket, and brought out the sheet of paper, which
he thrust at the Mechanists to read. His pride trampled, he awaited eagerly
the humiliation for them that was soon to come. However, the humiliation
was his when the Mechanists laughed at reading the paper, and handed it back
to him with mocking politeness. Angry but puzzled, he looked at what was
written on it.
Dawson
We know what Mosley has asked of you. For the sake of your life, and of the
City, cease your investigation. You are meddling with forces you would be
better to ignore. If you continue, you risk destruction.
He dropped the letter as if it were burning, then spun on his heel and ran.
The mocking laughter of the Mechanists followed him.
Leaning against the wall, Dawson took stock of his situation. The precious
letters were gone, and he did not dare go back to ask for new copies. The
humiliation of asking, of admitting that he has been pickpocketed, and the
letters replaced with someone's idea of a joke. Who could have done it?
Probably someone in the City Watch, who knew he'd been assigned somewhere
else and who used to be a thief. He'd have to continue without the letters.
His teeth bared in a wry grin - he hadn't had the letters when he'd
discovered Webster. But then again, Webster was a Warden, while this
involved the High Priest of the Mechanist Order.
Sighing, he straightened. There was no sense in bemoaning what could have
been, and meanwhile there was still an investigation to conduct. He looked
around, taking stock of where he was. He'd run down one of the streets
leading away from the Cathedral, a small one lined with trading stalls. In
doorways there lay wasted bodies bundles of rags that were the homeless of
the City. Most were still, either asleep or dead, but a few held out cupped
hands to passers-by, begging for alms. He moved towards them, and was
momentarily amused at the speed with which they became rags again. After
all, it had only been a few weeks ago that the order had come down from
Truart to round up street scum such as these.
Still, street scum though they were, they might have seen something the
night the Cathedral was sealed that might give him some leads. Most beggars
tended to stay in one place, to avoid losing their small patches in doorways
or under awnings to others. The first few had been asleep, or hadn't seen
anything, or didn't want to say. Then Dawson struck gold. One man said
that he had heard strange sounds coming from the Cathedral that night,
sounds of explosions, as if the Mechanist's machines had been fighting each
other. The man - scrawny, lice-infested, and dirty - told the story with
disinterest, but then smiled a gap-toothed smile, and held out his hand for
a reward. Interest piqued by the man's story, Dawson flipped him a small
coin, and turned to ask others.
There was a forest of hands in front of him, as the beggars grabbed at his
small purse, and gabbled accounts of that night. Now that he was paying,
they were eager. They told him of explosions in the Cathedral, strange
flashes in the windows, shadows of creeping vines silhouetted against the
windows, and first one, then several, dark figures leaving and entering the
Cathedral. Dawson was interested in the last account, and asked the scrawny
old crone who had said it to explain.
"There were dark shadows, Mister. Were like the shadows were moving. These
figures in black cloaks and cowls, meltin' into shadows and like. They's
all saying I's blind, I's seeing things. But nothing wrong with my eyes
Mister. Can still see. They's all blind!"
Her wave encompassed the rest of the beggars, who angrily protested, and
began to threaten the old woman. Dawson asked more, but the woman had no
more to offer. Shrugging, he turned away. Hands plucked at his jacket, and
angry voices demanded payment. He took several coins from his pouch, and,
without looking back, tossed them into the crowd of beggars. The squabble
for them was still audible by the time he'd reached the end of the street.
Dawson paced the streets, wondering what those shadows could be. Wondering
if the old crone has been lying, or mistaken. Figures that could melt into
shadows? It sounded like a childrens tale, a tale told by mothers to
frighten children into obedience. He snorted in wry self-derision. It was
clearly ridiculous - he was foolish to even consider it. And yet, as the
sun fell and the shadows lengthened, he found himself looking into them
anxiously, his head constantly pivoting as he tried to scan the shadows for
figures lurking within. Eventually, when he seemed to catch sight of
something move in a shadow in the corner of his vision, he drew his sword
and rushed over to it, preparing to swing and cut down whoever lurked there.
But there was nothing.
Eventually, he looked up and realised that the stars were beginning to
appear in the firmament, and that the moon was providing most of the
illumination. Scattered street lights through pools of light onto the
ground, and dimly lit the buildings around them that loomed up so that the
street appeared a canyon. Dawson looked around him, and realised that his
wanderings had taken him near Shoalsgate. He was far from his lodgings, and
the City could not be.hospitable for a watchman, alone, at night. He
hurried to the Shoalsgate station, passing the watching mechanical eyes at
the door, and signed in for a bed for the night. He walked to the locker
room and left his sword and helmet there, then threw himself onto the bed.
Most of the Watch were out patrolling, otherwise he would never have gotten
any room. The day had been long and tiring.
He was drifting asleep when suddenly a thought struck him that made him sit
bolt upright in bed. He'd suddenly remembered what a thief had said, a long
time ago, as he'd hauled him to gaol. He'd been caught in a noble's home,
and protested that he was innocent. He'd been in the manor, yes, but it had
already been picked clean. By a thief. A master thief. Perhaps the best
there was. One who could melt into shadows at will. What was his
name.Garreth? Garrotte? Garrett? Yes, Garrett. The thief who could
become a shadow, the gabbling man had said.
Dawson threw off his covers, too excited for sleep. Could this man be the
one who'd killed Karras? The woman had said several figures were there, but
she could have been mistaken.
He rushed to the main hall, where the Watch officers conducted their
administrative business. Thank the Builder, Trevick was still there.
"Uhh, Sergeant, is there anyone from Robbery still here?"
Trevick looked up, saw Dawson standing there, and frowned at the man's
haste.
"At this time of night, you taffer? Unlikely. Halterly might be there, if
he's not sleeping off the alcohol."
Dawson nodded his thanks and rushed off, feet pounding on the stone floor as
he ran through the corridors to the staircase. He pounded up the stairs,
past the bemused guards there, and ran to the Robbery/Homicide office.
Thank the Builder, it was open. There was someone there, slumped over a
desk at the end, snoring and muttering.
Dawson hurried over to the man, and shook him. The man mumbled but refused
to wake. Dawson shook him harder, until the man finally stopped snoring and
opened his eyes.
"Watcha.watcha.watch doing, you taffing Pagan? It's slack time - I'm
allowed to be asleep"
"Not on duty, and not because you're drunk you aren't. Now shut up you
taffer, I've got a question for you"
"What? I ain't drunk. I didn't touch a drop! I was jus' sleeping. What
you want t'know?"
"Shut up. You were. I need to see what you have on a thief called Garrett"
The change in Halterly was remarkable. The man snapped completely awake.
All the tiredness and drunkenness seemed gone. His eyes were suddenly
alert, and when he spoke his voice was steady.
"Garrett? Now there's a name I haven't heard in a while. What do you want
with a man like him?"
"He exists? He's a thief, isn't he?"
"Yes - one of the best. So good that we don't have the slightest bit of
evidence to go on. What do you want with him?"
"I need to know about him. I've heard he has a reputation for melting into
shadows or something. I need to find out about that"
Halterly seemed to absorb that, then nodded. Indicating that Dawson should
follow him, he led him along the corridor to the stairs, down them, and then
to the other side of the building where the secure records were kept. He
nodded to the guard on duty there, and then climbed the spiral steps to the
library. He produced a key from his belt, and opened the door. Books lined
the walls and the shelves there, and Dawson could see doors that presumably
led off to more rooms of books and records. Halterly walked along the
shelves, mumbling names under his breath.
"..Gabbley.Gapsons.ahhh - Garrett"
He took from the shelves a thin folder with only a few sheets of paper in
it. These he removed, and spread out on a table nearby. Dawson bent to
examine them as Halterly started talking.
An hour later, Dawson gingerly rose and rubbed his cramped back. The work
had been exhausting, but rewarding.
"So, we think Garrett might be responsible for all that business with
Larnseng? I thought that was something to do with the Downwinders"
"In a way it was, but there's more to it. Garrett framed Larnseng, and
planted the evidence so the Downwinders found out they'd been working for
him. They were suspicious, but they still made sure that we found him."
"Why didn't they take him out themselves?"
"The Downwinders have a reputation for always letting their victim realise
what happened to them. They did it with Lord Randall, when they stole his
vase collection. I believe they let him know somehow that they knew, and
held him until they could tip us off"
"Hmmm. So Garrett was behind that. Anything else?"
"There was some business with the Hammers a while back, around the time that
those Trickster beasts appeared. I don't know what went on there. And I
remember reading somewhere that when the Hammers had that break-in at
Cragscleft, the thief was spotted by another of the prisoners talking to
Cutty, Garrett's fence"
"Cutty? That might be my link to find Garrett. Where can I get hold of
Cutty, and ask him some questions?"
"With a shovel. He died soon after. I'm sure Garrett has a new fence, but
I've no idea who. If you have any contacts, or any favours, now might be a
good time to call them in"
"Fine. Don't worry, I know some people who might be able to find out. Can
I ask you a question?"
Halterly looked at Dawson, wondering what the question would be. After an
hour of scanning the meagre file, and cross checking it with other accounts,
what questions could remain?
"How do you know so much about Garrett? You seemed to only wake up when I
mentioned his name, and now you've just spent an hour talking to me about
him. Why?"
Halterly looked away from Dawson, towards the wall of books and records.
His fingers squeezed each other white as he spoke.
"I had a brother once. He used to work as a guard for Bafford - chief guard
in fact. Then, someone broke into the manor, and stripped it. Everything,
gone. Including Bafford's precious sceptre. Cedric was dismissed,
and.killed himself out of shame."
Halterly's voice broke as something caught in his throat.
"Some of the guards said they had seen strange shadows that night. When I
first heard about Garrett, I knew it was him. He'd shamed my brother into
suicide. I joined the Watch to try to get Garrett, but thus far.my luck has
not been what it might. You seem as if you might catch him. That's why I'
ve helped you."
Dawson stirred, and held out his hand to Halterly, murmuring his thanks.
The man turned. His eyes glistening with moisture, he clasped it.
"Good luck Dawson. And when you finally arrest him, spit on him for me.
Please"
Dawson mumbled agreement, and moved off.
Dawson wearily approached the door of his cubicle, and fumbled at his waist
for the key. It'd been several days since he had last seen his home - he
had spent much of his time on the streets, chasing up fragile leads to
Garrett. He'd thought that it would be easy - merely a case of finding a
thief with the grudge against him, and proceeding from there. But too many
criminals had shaken their heads and proclaimed themselves ignorant of him,
while others had refused to talk. No threats had made them reveal what they
knew - they all said that Garrett's revenge would be worse than anything
Dawson himself could do. One had muttered that Dawson should see what
Garrett had done to Ramirez if he was so eager to continue the case.
Dawson had looked at Ramirez's case, but found nothing special. The man had
been robbed at his home, and not been heard of since. Was that the best
Garrett could do?
He finally grasped the key, and pushed it into the lock. It clicked as he
turned it, and then the bolts sprang back. He pushed open the door, and was
greeted by the darkness of an unlit room. He felt in his pocket for a
flintlock. Grasping it, he lifted it to the candle by the side of the door,
and struck sparks with it until the wick began to flare, and flames rise .
He then shut the door, and was preparing to bolt it when.
"Don't bother"
The quiet, mocking voice sounded behind him. Dawson spun round, to see a
black shape standing there, a figure in a dark cloak and hood. He clutched
for his sword, but discovered with icy surprise that it was no longer there.
"Looking for this, Dawson?" the figure said, waving the sword at him. "Don'
t worry, you have no need for it. I won't harm you.yet"
Dawson took a step backwards in fear, and came up against the closed door.
He scrabbled at it, but the figure shook his head within the shadowed hood.
"Stop it Dawson. I'll only kill you if you become a threat. Killing isn't
my style - it's too messy and loud. I prefer to sneak past idiots like you
rather than having to mop up your blood"
Dawson finally found a voice.
"You're.you're.you're Garrett?"
"Cleverly deduced. Yes, I'm Garrett."
"What.what do you want?"
"Some answers. Why have you been making such ineffectual attempts to get
me?"
"Attempts? What attempts? I.I don't know what you mean"
Garrett's voice now held a sharper tone, and he began to play idly with the
sword that he had stolen from Dawson without him noticing. He twirled it on
its point as he spoke, adding a threatening undertone to his words.
"Dawson, don't act the idiot, however easy it may be for you. I have
certain friends who alerted me when you began to make your rather indiscreet
enquiries. As you can imagine, my profession does not encourage notoriety,
and I do not appreciate attention from the forces of law and order. Now,
besides my past activities, why do you want to get me?"
"I don't.I don't! I've no idea what you're talking about"
"Dawson, I've indulged you thus far, but my patience has limits. Tell me"
Dawson looked around frantically but there was no escape. Garrett now held
his sword, and could flick it up and at his throat before he could escape.
He might yell and alert the people in the building, but would he be there to
see Garrett captured? Probably not. He took a deep breath, and, forcing
his weak knees to hold him upright against the door, told Garrett
"You murdered Karras! Mosley told me to find out who did it, and catch
him!"
Garrett's head jerked up within the cloak, and the sword became still as he
gripped it in his hands.
"Well, not what I was expecting at all. And why might I be the murderer?"
"Some.some woman said she saw figures at Soulforge that could melt into
shadows. And I remembered that someone had said you, a master thief could.
So I wanted to find where you were so I could tell Mosley"
Dawson sagged against the door, limp after his confession, and panting with
fear and terror. His terror increased as Garrett stepped nearer, a black
figure with a shining sword. The thief stopped a short distance from
Dawsom. The light of the candle illuminated the raised parts of his face,
but the rest was black shadow. Garrett lowered his voice.
"Listen to me Dawson. You're meddling with forces that are more potent and
dangerous than you imagine. Mosley is using you, as I was once used by
another, for her own plans. She has an agenda you do not even suspect.
When I was used I was lucky to only lose this"
He tapped his right eye, and leaned closer to Dawson, who saw with horror
that the eye was not normal. It was metal, a construction that clicked and
whirred as it focused on him from the new position.
"You may lose a lot more, Dawson. Those who work for the Pagans do not
remain long once their usefulness is at an end.
"The Pa...the Pagans? But Mosley isn't a Pagan!"
"Don't be so sure. Stop searching, tell Mosley that you can't find the
culprits. You can either remain silent by choice, or by force. Leave; now"
Garrett watched with silent amusement - and a hint of contempt - as the
desperate watchman wrenched the door open and ran from the room. Footsteps
echoed as the man hurried along the hallway and down the stairs. When they
died away, Garrett stirred, and walked to the open door. He blew out the
candle and closed the door, then addressed the shadow in the hallway.
"That was easier than I expected, Keeper Darnley. Was it really necessary
for me to do it? Surely some other keeper."
"Dawson would not believe a keeper. He would dismiss it as a joke. Your
presence was necessary to convince him of the seriousness of what you said"
"I guess so. Do you think he'll listen?"
"I believe so. We will follow him to be sure, but yes, I believe that he
will give us no further trouble. Oh, and Garrett?
"Yes?"
With a hint of amusment, the shadow said
"Your old ways continue to assert themselves. At least leave the man his
money"
Garrett smiled, and tossed the small pouch onto Dawson's bed. Together he
and the Keeper walked toward the stairwell. The thief turned to look one
last time at the empty corridor, and then, flicking a small coin, descended
out of sight.
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