chapter 17
previous chapter
And then it was another morning in the City.
"Come on, try and keep up!" shouted Seraph as he pushed his way through the early morning crowd, with the diamond safely hidden inside his tunic. Behind him, Penelope and Cantrip fought against a human tide, desperately trying to keep up with Seraph as he cheerfully ploughed his way through the packed streets.
Penelope swore as another pedestrian bumped into her. Next to her, Cantrip vanished for a moment as a particularly vicious current of citizens pulled him underneath, then emerged coughing and spluttering for air.
"Come along now, we haven't got all day!" Seraph shouted at them enthusiastically, but his voice was drowned by the sounds of the streets. Someone had chickens running loose in the crowd, and the sea of heads was punctuated occasionally by a clucking screech, several feathers, and a sudden flash of poultry.
Seraph stopped beside a large pile of boxes, which were inconsiderately blocking off another street from view. He glanced around, making sure nobody was looking at him, then gave one of the boxes a little kick.
Half a face appeared in one of the gaps between the boxes. One scarred eye blinked at Seraph, and a disembodied voice spoke from a box lower below. "Hold it right there buddy! Secret password please. Formalities, you know, nothing personal. And do hurry up, we haven't got all day."
Seraph rearranged his face into a passable grin, and lowered his face to the gap in the boxes. "Today's secret password wouldn't happen to be.... 'swordfish', would it?" and he winked.
The eye blinked, and muttered "Hold on just one minute." The face vanished, and Seraph heard a muffled sound of argument from within the cardboard depths. There was a rustling sound of many pages of a book being flipped through. Eventually, the arguing ceased and the face reappeared. "Sorry buddy. That was last month's secret password. Care to try again?"
Seraph's face became a intense mask of concentration. "Well... perhaps you could just let me through without the damn silly password? I will certainly be very grateful indeed, and gratefulness has this strange tendency to make me very very generous indeed... I would, for example, possibly be grateful enough to donate this crisp new $5 coin to you if you'll let me and a few of my friends through." Seraph produced a shiny coin from his pocket, and wiggled it temptingly in front of the eye.
The eye vanished again, and there was a brief argument. Then it popped back into view. "Er... any chance of maybe, erm, making you grateful enough to, say, donate $10 instead?" asked the voice in a tone that was full of hope.
Seraph smiled knowingly, then reached forward, grabbed hold of what appeared to be somebody's nose, and pulled it through the gap in one swift movement. There was a squeak of pain from the boxes. Seraph hissed in a surprisingly friendly-sounding tone. "Listen closely buddy. You can take my $5 coin and let me through, or I will take the coin, and shove it somewhere extremely unpleasant. So unpleasant, in fact, that you'll probably never want to even LOOK at a coin for the rest of your life. The choice, of course, is entirely up to you. I'll count to three and let go, and when I do I expect to be allowed to pass through to the street on the other side. Three." And he let go.
There was a general sense of someone being very busy indeed on the other side of the boxes, and then one section of the boxpile slid aside silently, revealing a small passage into the street beyond. "Certainly, certainly. Wouldn't dream of delaying good gentlemen such as yourself on what is, no doubt, important business. But, er.. I still get the $5, right?" squeaked the wretched sounding voice. Seraph tossed a coin into the gap, and there was a sigh of relief.
Penelope and Cantrip arrived, right on time, looking hassled and bearing various ragged scars of their battle against the overwhelming crowd on the morning streets. Seraph ushered them through the passage, and the boxes silently slid shut behind them.
This was... a street that would have appeared dimly lit at night. Various shops lined the streets, and Cantrip couldn't help noticing that they had no signs either. Seraph, Penelope and Cantrip walked along a short distance, and halted outside Mr Finnigle's little shop. Or what was left of it, in any case.
Someone had apparently decided to do a little impromptu renovation to the shop: the door had been smashed to splinters, the glass windows were smashed, and everything inside was a complete and utter mess. There was also a lot of blood on the floor, and it was fresh, red and sticky. Just visible beyond the destroyed shop was the workshop, and it had been thoroughly ransacked as well. The remains of a large microscope lay scattered on the floor, and someone had even pried the floorboards loose.
Seraph stared at the mess and clenched his fist. Mr Finnigle was a good man, one of the best forgers in the business. If there was anything to know about a fake diamond, there was no one better to ask... but someone had gotten here first. He turned to Penelope. She shrugged.
* * * * *
Bounty hunters can track their target as well as any ranger, with one major difference: rangers work best in the woods, while bounty hunters thrive in an urban jungle. To an untrained eye, the chaos of the jungle is incomprehensible: a tangled mess of tree trunks, roots, branches, vines, grass, wild animals, mud... but to the ranger, every element contains a story. A single broken branch, a half hidden footstep in the mud: it is extremely difficult to fool an expert ranger, because the best of them can track a target deep into a forest, while travelling twice as fast as their prey. Similarly, the chaos of the city may seem confusing to everyone else, but not to a bounty hunter. Especially when there are two of them.
Penelope and Seraph searched the street, and found Mr Finnigle's trail. It was the trail of a man in a hurry, and it was easy enough to follow. Footsteps flying across the dust, ducking into small alleyways, the occasional handprint on the mossy walls where Mr Finnigle had stopped to glance behind. Seraph, Penelope and Cantrip hurried along from clue to clue, occasionally stopping as the trail appeared to branch off in two different directions, but always they picked it up again.
* * * * *
Several hours later, and Mr Finnigle had nowhere left to run.
He had been running all night and all morning, and he was exhausted. The men after him had been very persistent, but they were no match for crafty Mr Finnigle... so far. But now, there was nothing ahead except a wall: dead end. He knew they were closing in, and he was too tired to run now. He could hide until they found him, and then he would fight to the bitter end.
Mr Finnigle drew another small blade, and ducked into a dark, shadowy corner.
And there was the sound of feet, running into the alley...
* * * * *
There were nine of them, and only one old man. One of the nine was named Meatloaf, and he was the dimmest bulb in the drawer, so to speak. Actually, if he was a bulb, he would be so dim that you could brighten up the room by turning him off. But every group needed someone like him, a lump of hard, solid muscle that didn't think too much and didn't question orders. They worked for the lawyers, who (strangely enough) always reminded Meatloaf of sharks.
The old man had been running all night, and they have him cornered now. Hah, thought Meatloaf. The old man had been surprisingly good at running away, but not good enough, and now they were closing in for the kill. Although that was just a figure of speech: their instructions had been to retrieve him alive. Still, even Meatloaf knew that the others were rather unhappy about what the old man had done to the Jim, Dan and Mikhail. Underestimating the old man had seriously messed them up, and the others were now taking this really seriously.
Meatloaf tightened his grip on the steel pipe in his hand as the group pressed onwards. Several crossbows were drawn and loaded, and the group spread out as they entered the next alleyway. The ones with crossbows hung back, covering the alley as the others crept forward...
* * * * *
With his one free hand, Mr Finnigle clung desperately to the drainpipe, suspended a dozen feet above the alley and shrouded in deep shadow. Down below, the men were sweeping the alley carefully, but they haven't looked up yet. His other hand clutched the knife like a lucky charm, and Mr Finnigle knew he only had one chance. Glancing below, he counted seven, eight...
And someone shouted, and there was the sound of a crossbow being discharged. A bolt thudded into drainpipe, shattering it, and Mr Finnigle grunted as he released his grip. It was a long drop, and it was indeed very fortunate for Mr Finnigle that he landed right on top of one of the thugs. Not so fortunate for the thug, perhaps. There was a sound of someone's neck snapping as Mr Finnigle collapsed in a heap, and then the thugs charged.
In any brawl where you are insanely outnumbered, the important thing was not to fall. The moment you hit the floor, you're as good as dead. The trick is to keep on moving, keep on dancing, take the blows, block what you can, and hit back when you can. Mr Finnigle slashed and stabbed wildly as the blows rained down, until he felt his other arm break as an iron pipe connected solidly with his elbow.
Mr Finnigle's knees took a particularly vicious blow from another pipe, and he went down...
* * * * *
Meatloaf had a nasty slash across his right arm, and he was sure that the old man had just killed three of his comrades: one with a broken neck, and the other two had their necks punctured by the little blade the old man was wielding, and were currently leaking blood like fire hydrants. Two other members of the group had lost the use of their arms, and were probably not going to be playing a piano anytime soon. The others were hanging back with crossbows, which meant Meatloaf was the only one close enough to the old man to finish him off. Squinting at the old man lying flat out on the floor, Meatloaf raised the iron pipe. For a second it paused for dramatic effect, then descended towards Mr Finnigle like the fury of a scorned woman.
There was a squishy sound that is generally heard when steel makes contact with soft tissue and bone. And Meatloaf thought it was really strange, because he had not expected the sound to come from his own skull.... which was his last thought before he fell over with a knife firmly embedded in one side of his head.
Seraph stepped smartly over the body, and pulled Mr Finnigle to his feet. Behind him, the thugs who survived were rapidly being reclassified into thugs who didn't survive, as Penelope noisily took care of matters. With knives. Cantrip, sitting on an upturned cart, munched an apple thoughtfully as he watched the carnage unfold.
"Mr Finnigle, old chum! Fancy meeting you here!" said Seraph with a twinkle in his eyes.
Mr Finnigle blinked, one arm dangling uselessly by his side. He coughed. "And I suppose you just happened to pass by and decided to lend a helping hand to an old man in distress? Come off it Seraph, I've known you long enough. Why are you tracking me?"
Seraph gave a loud and altogether very unconvincing laugh. "Come now, Mr Finnigle, you know that's a cruel accusation to throw at a kind soul like me! But while we're on the subject, I must say that you left a most difficult trail for us." He pulled the diamond out and showed it to the old man. "Does this diamond, by any chance, look familiar to you, Mr Finnigle?"
For a fraction of a second, Mr Finnigle's face became very pale indeed. He winced. "Never seen it before in my life, I'm afraid," he muttered.
"Really?" Seraph had caught the flash of recognition, and he was not about to give up so easily. "Perhaps it'll interest you to know that Cain Fortune is dead, and left this diamond to me. I really don't have time to play games with you now, Mr Finnigle, so please, tell me what you know about the diamond."
Mr Finnigle looked genuinely shocked now. "Old Man Fortune is dead? Well, well," he said softly, and groaned as he clutched his broken arm. Oh well, he thought. They did save my life... "Alright, yes, I made the diamond. He gave me the exact specifications, and I made the best fake diamond you'll ever see in your life. Clever little thing, too."
"Was there, uh, any mention of a real diamond? Exactly like this one?" asked Seraph hopefully.
"A real diamond? Good heavens, I shouldn't think so. It took me ages to make the pieces fit," replied Mr Finnigle.
Seraph's brow furrowed in puzzlement. "Pieces? What, someone dropped the diamond and you put it back together again?"
This time, it was Mr Finnigle's turn to laugh out loud. He reached out and took the diamond from Seraph, then balanced it for a moment with his blood soaked hand. And then, to Seraph's utter horror, Mr Finnigle hurled the glass diamond into the wall.
It sailed gently through the air, turning and twisting slowly, then shattered as it smashed into the brickwork. As the pieces rained down like crystal droplets, Seraph gaped at Mr Finnigle, too shocked for words. Mr Finnigle merely smiled, and pointed calmly at the remains of the glass diamond. "The diamond was built to hide its true nature, and Old Man Fortune was very pleased with the results. The outer diamond was made of pure glass, but the real thing... well, let's just say, it took a very long time to carve."
And there, lying among the shards of glass, was a perfect glass replica of the entire island, complete with a central spire in the middle. Every building in the city was represented, and a series of tiny markers mapped out a route from the Fortune mansion to the airship hangars, where a tiny X had been carved into the glass.
Bingo.
next chapter
And then it was another morning in the City.
"Come on, try and keep up!" shouted Seraph as he pushed his way through the early morning crowd, with the diamond safely hidden inside his tunic. Behind him, Penelope and Cantrip fought against a human tide, desperately trying to keep up with Seraph as he cheerfully ploughed his way through the packed streets.
Penelope swore as another pedestrian bumped into her. Next to her, Cantrip vanished for a moment as a particularly vicious current of citizens pulled him underneath, then emerged coughing and spluttering for air.
"Come along now, we haven't got all day!" Seraph shouted at them enthusiastically, but his voice was drowned by the sounds of the streets. Someone had chickens running loose in the crowd, and the sea of heads was punctuated occasionally by a clucking screech, several feathers, and a sudden flash of poultry.
Seraph stopped beside a large pile of boxes, which were inconsiderately blocking off another street from view. He glanced around, making sure nobody was looking at him, then gave one of the boxes a little kick.
Half a face appeared in one of the gaps between the boxes. One scarred eye blinked at Seraph, and a disembodied voice spoke from a box lower below. "Hold it right there buddy! Secret password please. Formalities, you know, nothing personal. And do hurry up, we haven't got all day."
Seraph rearranged his face into a passable grin, and lowered his face to the gap in the boxes. "Today's secret password wouldn't happen to be.... 'swordfish', would it?" and he winked.
The eye blinked, and muttered "Hold on just one minute." The face vanished, and Seraph heard a muffled sound of argument from within the cardboard depths. There was a rustling sound of many pages of a book being flipped through. Eventually, the arguing ceased and the face reappeared. "Sorry buddy. That was last month's secret password. Care to try again?"
Seraph's face became a intense mask of concentration. "Well... perhaps you could just let me through without the damn silly password? I will certainly be very grateful indeed, and gratefulness has this strange tendency to make me very very generous indeed... I would, for example, possibly be grateful enough to donate this crisp new $5 coin to you if you'll let me and a few of my friends through." Seraph produced a shiny coin from his pocket, and wiggled it temptingly in front of the eye.
The eye vanished again, and there was a brief argument. Then it popped back into view. "Er... any chance of maybe, erm, making you grateful enough to, say, donate $10 instead?" asked the voice in a tone that was full of hope.
Seraph smiled knowingly, then reached forward, grabbed hold of what appeared to be somebody's nose, and pulled it through the gap in one swift movement. There was a squeak of pain from the boxes. Seraph hissed in a surprisingly friendly-sounding tone. "Listen closely buddy. You can take my $5 coin and let me through, or I will take the coin, and shove it somewhere extremely unpleasant. So unpleasant, in fact, that you'll probably never want to even LOOK at a coin for the rest of your life. The choice, of course, is entirely up to you. I'll count to three and let go, and when I do I expect to be allowed to pass through to the street on the other side. Three." And he let go.
There was a general sense of someone being very busy indeed on the other side of the boxes, and then one section of the boxpile slid aside silently, revealing a small passage into the street beyond. "Certainly, certainly. Wouldn't dream of delaying good gentlemen such as yourself on what is, no doubt, important business. But, er.. I still get the $5, right?" squeaked the wretched sounding voice. Seraph tossed a coin into the gap, and there was a sigh of relief.
Penelope and Cantrip arrived, right on time, looking hassled and bearing various ragged scars of their battle against the overwhelming crowd on the morning streets. Seraph ushered them through the passage, and the boxes silently slid shut behind them.
This was... a street that would have appeared dimly lit at night. Various shops lined the streets, and Cantrip couldn't help noticing that they had no signs either. Seraph, Penelope and Cantrip walked along a short distance, and halted outside Mr Finnigle's little shop. Or what was left of it, in any case.
Someone had apparently decided to do a little impromptu renovation to the shop: the door had been smashed to splinters, the glass windows were smashed, and everything inside was a complete and utter mess. There was also a lot of blood on the floor, and it was fresh, red and sticky. Just visible beyond the destroyed shop was the workshop, and it had been thoroughly ransacked as well. The remains of a large microscope lay scattered on the floor, and someone had even pried the floorboards loose.
Seraph stared at the mess and clenched his fist. Mr Finnigle was a good man, one of the best forgers in the business. If there was anything to know about a fake diamond, there was no one better to ask... but someone had gotten here first. He turned to Penelope. She shrugged.
* * * * *
Bounty hunters can track their target as well as any ranger, with one major difference: rangers work best in the woods, while bounty hunters thrive in an urban jungle. To an untrained eye, the chaos of the jungle is incomprehensible: a tangled mess of tree trunks, roots, branches, vines, grass, wild animals, mud... but to the ranger, every element contains a story. A single broken branch, a half hidden footstep in the mud: it is extremely difficult to fool an expert ranger, because the best of them can track a target deep into a forest, while travelling twice as fast as their prey. Similarly, the chaos of the city may seem confusing to everyone else, but not to a bounty hunter. Especially when there are two of them.
Penelope and Seraph searched the street, and found Mr Finnigle's trail. It was the trail of a man in a hurry, and it was easy enough to follow. Footsteps flying across the dust, ducking into small alleyways, the occasional handprint on the mossy walls where Mr Finnigle had stopped to glance behind. Seraph, Penelope and Cantrip hurried along from clue to clue, occasionally stopping as the trail appeared to branch off in two different directions, but always they picked it up again.
* * * * *
Several hours later, and Mr Finnigle had nowhere left to run.
He had been running all night and all morning, and he was exhausted. The men after him had been very persistent, but they were no match for crafty Mr Finnigle... so far. But now, there was nothing ahead except a wall: dead end. He knew they were closing in, and he was too tired to run now. He could hide until they found him, and then he would fight to the bitter end.
Mr Finnigle drew another small blade, and ducked into a dark, shadowy corner.
And there was the sound of feet, running into the alley...
* * * * *
There were nine of them, and only one old man. One of the nine was named Meatloaf, and he was the dimmest bulb in the drawer, so to speak. Actually, if he was a bulb, he would be so dim that you could brighten up the room by turning him off. But every group needed someone like him, a lump of hard, solid muscle that didn't think too much and didn't question orders. They worked for the lawyers, who (strangely enough) always reminded Meatloaf of sharks.
The old man had been running all night, and they have him cornered now. Hah, thought Meatloaf. The old man had been surprisingly good at running away, but not good enough, and now they were closing in for the kill. Although that was just a figure of speech: their instructions had been to retrieve him alive. Still, even Meatloaf knew that the others were rather unhappy about what the old man had done to the Jim, Dan and Mikhail. Underestimating the old man had seriously messed them up, and the others were now taking this really seriously.
Meatloaf tightened his grip on the steel pipe in his hand as the group pressed onwards. Several crossbows were drawn and loaded, and the group spread out as they entered the next alleyway. The ones with crossbows hung back, covering the alley as the others crept forward...
* * * * *
With his one free hand, Mr Finnigle clung desperately to the drainpipe, suspended a dozen feet above the alley and shrouded in deep shadow. Down below, the men were sweeping the alley carefully, but they haven't looked up yet. His other hand clutched the knife like a lucky charm, and Mr Finnigle knew he only had one chance. Glancing below, he counted seven, eight...
And someone shouted, and there was the sound of a crossbow being discharged. A bolt thudded into drainpipe, shattering it, and Mr Finnigle grunted as he released his grip. It was a long drop, and it was indeed very fortunate for Mr Finnigle that he landed right on top of one of the thugs. Not so fortunate for the thug, perhaps. There was a sound of someone's neck snapping as Mr Finnigle collapsed in a heap, and then the thugs charged.
In any brawl where you are insanely outnumbered, the important thing was not to fall. The moment you hit the floor, you're as good as dead. The trick is to keep on moving, keep on dancing, take the blows, block what you can, and hit back when you can. Mr Finnigle slashed and stabbed wildly as the blows rained down, until he felt his other arm break as an iron pipe connected solidly with his elbow.
Mr Finnigle's knees took a particularly vicious blow from another pipe, and he went down...
* * * * *
Meatloaf had a nasty slash across his right arm, and he was sure that the old man had just killed three of his comrades: one with a broken neck, and the other two had their necks punctured by the little blade the old man was wielding, and were currently leaking blood like fire hydrants. Two other members of the group had lost the use of their arms, and were probably not going to be playing a piano anytime soon. The others were hanging back with crossbows, which meant Meatloaf was the only one close enough to the old man to finish him off. Squinting at the old man lying flat out on the floor, Meatloaf raised the iron pipe. For a second it paused for dramatic effect, then descended towards Mr Finnigle like the fury of a scorned woman.
There was a squishy sound that is generally heard when steel makes contact with soft tissue and bone. And Meatloaf thought it was really strange, because he had not expected the sound to come from his own skull.... which was his last thought before he fell over with a knife firmly embedded in one side of his head.
Seraph stepped smartly over the body, and pulled Mr Finnigle to his feet. Behind him, the thugs who survived were rapidly being reclassified into thugs who didn't survive, as Penelope noisily took care of matters. With knives. Cantrip, sitting on an upturned cart, munched an apple thoughtfully as he watched the carnage unfold.
"Mr Finnigle, old chum! Fancy meeting you here!" said Seraph with a twinkle in his eyes.
Mr Finnigle blinked, one arm dangling uselessly by his side. He coughed. "And I suppose you just happened to pass by and decided to lend a helping hand to an old man in distress? Come off it Seraph, I've known you long enough. Why are you tracking me?"
Seraph gave a loud and altogether very unconvincing laugh. "Come now, Mr Finnigle, you know that's a cruel accusation to throw at a kind soul like me! But while we're on the subject, I must say that you left a most difficult trail for us." He pulled the diamond out and showed it to the old man. "Does this diamond, by any chance, look familiar to you, Mr Finnigle?"
For a fraction of a second, Mr Finnigle's face became very pale indeed. He winced. "Never seen it before in my life, I'm afraid," he muttered.
"Really?" Seraph had caught the flash of recognition, and he was not about to give up so easily. "Perhaps it'll interest you to know that Cain Fortune is dead, and left this diamond to me. I really don't have time to play games with you now, Mr Finnigle, so please, tell me what you know about the diamond."
Mr Finnigle looked genuinely shocked now. "Old Man Fortune is dead? Well, well," he said softly, and groaned as he clutched his broken arm. Oh well, he thought. They did save my life... "Alright, yes, I made the diamond. He gave me the exact specifications, and I made the best fake diamond you'll ever see in your life. Clever little thing, too."
"Was there, uh, any mention of a real diamond? Exactly like this one?" asked Seraph hopefully.
"A real diamond? Good heavens, I shouldn't think so. It took me ages to make the pieces fit," replied Mr Finnigle.
Seraph's brow furrowed in puzzlement. "Pieces? What, someone dropped the diamond and you put it back together again?"
This time, it was Mr Finnigle's turn to laugh out loud. He reached out and took the diamond from Seraph, then balanced it for a moment with his blood soaked hand. And then, to Seraph's utter horror, Mr Finnigle hurled the glass diamond into the wall.
It sailed gently through the air, turning and twisting slowly, then shattered as it smashed into the brickwork. As the pieces rained down like crystal droplets, Seraph gaped at Mr Finnigle, too shocked for words. Mr Finnigle merely smiled, and pointed calmly at the remains of the glass diamond. "The diamond was built to hide its true nature, and Old Man Fortune was very pleased with the results. The outer diamond was made of pure glass, but the real thing... well, let's just say, it took a very long time to carve."
And there, lying among the shards of glass, was a perfect glass replica of the entire island, complete with a central spire in the middle. Every building in the city was represented, and a series of tiny markers mapped out a route from the Fortune mansion to the airship hangars, where a tiny X had been carved into the glass.
Bingo.
next chapter
posted by nerdook at 10:58 PM
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