Flitting out through the open window of my fifth-floor flat, my shadow mingled with the other less sentient shapes thrown by the overflowing rubbish bins and towering structures of unwanted furniture. Garbage was supposed to be collected every month but that rarely happened. I’d been told that you could go to the castle to complain. Sometimes the whispers that complaints and pleas were being taken seriously would surge forth like a tidal wave, before ebbing back in their usual disappointing manner.
Just last week, Mrs McTavish, the old widow who lived on the ground floor and pretended to be a cantankerous witch when she was really quite the opposite, told me she’d waited in line for over five hours to put forward her case. Actually, it was our case. She’d been given a number and told to return the following day when someone would definitely speak to her. They’d provide answers. They’d help her out – or so they promised. Except if Mrs McTavish appeared at the castle on a Tuesday, she would miss her slot at the Cowane Street food bank. Given the choice between talking to a proverbial brick wall about the growing rat problem and increasing stench from the uncollected rubbish and having enough food to stay alive, she’d abandoned her campaign before it had begun. After all, it wasn’t as if you could nominate someone else to take your place at Cowane; they were scrupulously strict about IDs. In theory this was good because no one could steal your rations but in practice it meant that if you were ill or infirm you went hungry. And goodness knows, there was enough hunger already.
I’d picked my own neighbourhood clean of its secrets long ago. In truth, burrowing away at people I smiled at during daylight hours was not something I enjoyed. The pathetic titbits I gleaned were never very valuable either. To have a truly successful night, I had two choices – they were very different in style but very similar in foulness. But I did what I had to in order to survive.
Pausing at Mercat Cross, I tried to decide. Turning left would take me towards the dank chasm of organised crime. There was a feud currently erupting between the Badgemen and the Understreets, which I could certainly make use of. The trouble was that feuds of that nature often fizzled out before they really got started; if I filched information from one side to sell to the other, I could make more enemies than I needed. I liked my head where it was, thank you very much.
Heading right would take me to party land. This being a Saturday night, there would be plenty of our supposed lords and masters out on the lash and ripe for my picking. The wealthy humans in Stirling enjoyed considerably greater privileges and freedom than the rest of us because the Filits were always prepared to grant them concessions to keep them on side. The trouble was that sifting through the murky silt of their lives to obtain something I could sell on was harder than you might think – and there was the chance that I’d come away with little of value. On measure, however, it seemed a better bet. I was certainly better at nit-picking than I used to be; in this line of work, experience counted for a great deal.
I shrugged and my shadow rippled against the lit torches surrounding the semi-circle of hanging nooses, all the more sinister for lying empty as if in wait. I turned right, allowing my dark form to mingle and disappear against the darkness of the stone wall. The fake smiles of the semi-bourgeoisie it would be. I decided that an unplanned pregnancy or some new, spiked designer drugs would go down well. It was time to begin prowling in earnest.
The nearest club was wealthy enough to afford its own generator, although the light outside the door was not exactly bright. Still, it marked the place as glitzy and helped to illuminate the long, snaking line outside. I cast an experienced eye along the queue. There were a few faces I recognised, but those stars had already fallen. If I could discover someone who’d not yet begun their descent, I might be in with the chance of making some real money. And real money meant real food. The prospect of buying bread that hadn’t been bulked out with sawdust made my mouth water.
As it was early, I decided to look for a less busy but more up-and-coming venue, the sort of place that was too trendy for its own good and still had strict guest lists. The more exclusive the clientele, the greater potential there was for valuable secrets and high gains. I’d give myself an hour, ninety minutes tops, then I’d wheel back here and aim at some lower targets. The nights were short at this time of year and I had to get home before dawn. I couldn’t risk my shadow being spotted – and that was very possible in the full light of day. The reason I was still alive and free was because I was both cautious and careful.
I pitter-pattered down the street, veering round a gaggle of girls who’d stopped briefly to re-do their make-up. I kept one ear cocked for any interesting scraps of conversation but their focus was on Elizabeth Arden, Bobbi Brown and Coco Chanel, none of whom aided my cause. A rickety bicycle with a small lamp trundled by, throwing enough light to make one of the women blink as my shadow brushed against her bare skin. It wasn’t a problem; the contact was too brief and I was gone too quickly for her to realise what she’d seen and felt. All the same, I picked up the pace. Time was ticking on.
I danced past the Wonky Wallace and slid away from Sparkle. I’d gleaned enough on recent outings to know that Kanji had finally opened, offering a supposedly Zen-like escape from the pain of living in a besieged city. If a Japanese nightclub was an odd thing to find in a small Scottish city under both goblin siege and goblin rule, no one commented on it.
To enter through those hallowed gates you had to be more than able to obtain branded lipstick on the black market, or have enough money squirrelled away to pay for a dusty bottle of Glenmorangie instead of its lethal home-brewed equivalent. Word was that the club was owned by a conglomerate of Japanese baku, minor demons with enough spare cash to settle in for the long haul and wait for the siege to end. They must have greased plenty of Filit and Gneiss palms to get the club opened. Apparently they wanted to forge relationships and prepare deals for whoever was still alive, wealthy and powerful when all this nonsense was finally over. Except this was already our third summer in and there was no end in sight.
I’d heard enough to know that the facts didn’t sit straight. I didn’t know who really owned Kanji but I reckoned it was something far nastier and less honourable than a few long-sighted baku. If I’d thought for one second that the real owner’s identity was a good enough secret to unearth, I’d have moved hell and high water to get to the truth but I couldn’t think of anyone who’d pay sufficient money for the knowledge to make the effort worthwhile.
In any case, I knew that the clientele currently being lured towards Kanji’s wooden torii were considered elite. They had to offer something worthwhile to the owners to gain entrance. Money wasn’t the only valuable currency; given that Kanji’s owners were located outside the city walls, far away from the siege and the problems it incurred, they would trade for favours and promises as much as for hard cash. And the owners had to keep those black-market alcohol import lines open somehow. There was no doubt they were playing both sides and hedging their bets until there was a winner and life settled back down again to a semblance of normality.
Perhaps the club owners could be thanked for the recent break in shelling by sending oily whispers in the direction of the Gneiss goblins. I would never know for sure; the circles where those sort of deals were struck were well out of even my reach. Still, the chatter of the high-class guests sipping champagne and lounging within Kanji’s high walls could feed me for a month. I just had to find the right conversations to eavesdrop.
As I slid up to the entrance, which remained free of the hopeful queues that had adorned the other clubs, a group of rowdy men rocked up. Their banter was as distasteful as their clothing; the latter displayed the fact that they could circumvent the siege and get whatever designer gear they wanted.
‘I’m telling you,’ the nearest said loudly, in a voice that grated on my ears, ‘if you head down towards the old quarter, you can find girls of any age who’ll drop their kegs for you. I had a blonde thing the other night who agreed three hours in return for a pound
of rice. She wasn’t smart enough to ask for a down-payment first, so I took what I wanted and left her with nothing. There wasn’t a thing she could do about it. The militia don’t care and she knows it.’
‘Nice work.’
He gave a self-satisfied smirk. ‘Yeah, I know.’
‘In that case, Murthers,’ drawled another, ‘why don’t we go there instead of here? They’re not going to let us in.’
‘They’ll let us in. They know who I am and what I’m capable of.’ Murthers sauntered through the torii towards the shuttered door, raising one fist to hammer out an insistent knock.
The door opened a fraction and the swarthy face of a goblin appeared. Even I was surprised at that. Kanji’s owner, whoever he was, really did have friends in high places. I slid my shadow past him, only brushing lightly against his stocky body. The goblin shivered slightly while I shuddered – but his focus was on the men. ‘Get lost,’ he muttered to them, as I moved deeper inside.
‘Don’t you know who I am?’
The goblin slammed the door shut, swallowing up the rest of Murther’s words. I grinned before skulking into the belly of the Kanji beast.
The interior of the club surprised me. It had a far more authentic air than I expected. I trailed down a wide, wooden-floored corridor, wondering how they’d managed to acquire so many fragile objets d’art to adorn the high shelves. No doubt they’d been ransacking long-abandoned mansions.
Unable to resist, I reached out and touched a tall vase, using just enough energy to send it toppling to the floor with a crash. Behind me the goblin gasped and skittered forward. It was a petty thing to do but it was satisfying. If, despite the siege, they could bring in pretty chinaware then they could bring in food. A thousand years of history was all very well but if there was no one left to appreciate it, it was pointless. You couldn’t eat art.
I followed the murmur of voices and low music until I arrived in a large, dimly lit room. No showy, expensive electricity was wasted here; the sparse tables were illuminated only by candles. They had to be a fire hazard with all the draped wall hangings and paper wall dividers. I resisted the urge to knock over a candle and see what happened because Kanji could prove very fruitful for me, both now and in the future. I sneaked round, pausing to identify various occupants and see what I could learn. There were fewer than eighty people there, including the staff who almost outnumbered the guests. Yep. This place was all about exclusivity rather than profit. How very, very interesting.
Seated at a table by the front of the stage were four people I recognised instantly: Isabella Markbury and her ever-present entourage. The last rumour I’d heard concerning her was that she’d been killed in the four-day-long April bombardment, when the Gneiss goblins had sent a barrage of Greek-fire canisters flying over the river towards the Forthside District. Apparently only Tilly, her best friend, had managed to escape, pausing just long enough to snag Isabella’s Jimmy Choos. Neither Isabella, Tilly, nor the purple-haired twins beside them had been heard of since. Clearly none of them were actually dead, however. It wasn’t earth-shattering information but it might be worth a few bob.
I sidled up to them, hovering just out of the candle’s range. Come on, I prayed, give me something good. I rarely had an opportunity to get close to society women like this and Isabella Markbury in particular had always been good at playing her cards close to her chest.
There was something odd about her that I couldn’t quite put my finger on. She moved with a sort of lithe elegance that I supposed was the result of years of ballet and tap lessons. I’d always felt there was more to her than met the eye; maybe it was the spark of self-serving intelligence that gleamed in her eyes.
‘It’s kind of boring in here,’ Twin One said. ‘The music is weird and the dance floor is miniscule.’
Twin Two took a sip of her drink before tapping the crystal glass with one long fingernail. ‘The booze is good.’
‘At these prices it should be.’
‘You’ve not been out the door for three months, Tilly. You must have plenty of cash squirrelled away. Quit complaining.’
Tilly tossed her head. ‘You might have noticed that there’s a siege on, darling. Even Daddy can only squeeze so much out of the city folk. He was forced to close down the dog food factory in May.’
There was a snort. ‘Well, what will the serfs eat now?’
‘Don’t laugh. They were our best customers.’
Both twins screwed up their faces in identical expressions of disgust. I didn’t react to their disdain; I’d heard far worse before now. Besides, I’d eaten more than one tin of dog food myself over the last couple of years. I’d not been able to afford any since Christmas – more’s the pity.
‘Ladies,’ Isabella murmured, ‘stop bickering. You know why we’re here. This might be the answer to all our problems.’
I straightened up. This was starting to sound promising.
Tilly shot a look at her friend. ‘You mean the answer to all your problems. We all know who he’ll be interested in.’
The tiniest smile crossed Isabella’s perfect bow lips before quickly disappearing. ‘We don’t know what his tastes are. But we do know that he can get us out of this godforsaken place without making it appear as if we’re running away.’
‘Appearances are everything,’ Twin One mocked softly.
Tilly raised a single tattooed eyebrow. ‘You pawned your favourite earrings for your last round of Botox.’
‘They weren’t my favourite.’
Twin Two wrinkled her nose. ‘Maybe you shouldn’t do this, Isabella. He’s dangerous. You know what people say about him.’ She shivered. ‘He has power. Too much power.’
‘We need power, idiot. Don’t be so wet.’
Bored by the sniping, I tilted backwards and glanced around, looking for any evidence of the man they were discussing. Although there were a few well-heeled males in evidence, I didn’t think any of them were the women’s focus. None of them seemed interesting enough.
It was useful to know that the Markbury family – and no doubt many others – were staying put when they could probably find a way out if they wanted to. They obviously continued to believe the siege was going to go their way and that they would end up victorious. When the city was ‘free’ once more, they could cry from the rooftops that they’d not abandoned her during her hour of need – then they could reap the benefits of being true and loyal citizens. The Filit goblins, who remained in situ and therefore in charge by the skin of their yellow teeth, would appreciate their loyalty. Assuming the Filits were the eventual winners, of course.
By the sounds of things, inaction was beginning to grate on Isabella and her friends. I supposed that the length of the siege meant that even her wealth and luxurious lifestyle had its limits, even if it seemed unlikely that she’d ever end up starving like the rest of us.
The atmosphere changed abruptly. Isabella and her crew suddenly sat up straighter. I stepped back, my shadow form absorbed further into the gloom by the far wall. I crossed my arms and waited. Whoever this was, my interest was piqued. Every eye in the place was on the door and all the staff, even the goblins, were standing ramrod straight as if on ceremonial duty.
Two smartly dressed goblins appeared. I’d have said they were scowling if I hadn’t known that their default expressions were snarls. At six feet tall, they were standard-issue Filits; the figure striding in behind them had the authoritative bearing of someone far superior .
I squinted, trying to get a handle on who it was. There was no doubt this was the person Isabella and her friends had been waiting for; they’d all but stopped breathing and the twins were clutching each others’ hands tightly under the table. But whoever the man was, he was wearing a hooded cloak and his face remained concealed. I edged forward an inch to get a better view.
A moment later, back at home, my shell of a body jerked. Someone had rung my damn doorbell.
I couldn’t pretend to be out. I lived in the sort of neighbourhood
where people knew you’d farted before you did. If I didn’t answer, it was likely whoever was on the other side of the door would assume the worst and break in to scavenge all my belongings.
Yanking my consciousness away from my shadow self to the other side of the small city, I grimaced and stood up from my slumped position on my chair. Moving around without the shadow part of myself always made feel lightheaded. Hopefully, whatever this was it wouldn’t take very long.
I stumbled to my front door and gazed blearily through the spyhole. No one was there. Frowning, and still disorientated, I undid the flimsy lock but kept the door on the chain and peered out. When I saw Becky, my pint-sized neighbour from the flat upstairs, my confusion cleared. ‘Hey,’ I said, with the best smile I could muster. ‘What’s up?’
She gazed up at me, unable to speak, while my eyes refocused. That’s when I saw that her hair was unkempt, her cheeks were tear stained and there was a trail of half-dried blood leading from her ear to her cheek. My stomach flip-flopped with fear and my chest tightened. Becky wasn’t the type to get herself into a daft fight with another kid. She didn’t cry easily either. Something was very wrong. ‘What’s happened?’
Her eyes darted from side to side as if she were afraid of being overheard. There might have been no one in the corridor behind her but I got the message loud and clear. I gently gestured her in and closed the door before trying again. ‘What’s happened, Becky? What’s wrong?’
She hiccupped, trying to catch her breath. ‘My mum,’ she said with a ragged sob. ‘They took her.’
I did my best to quash my growing alarm. ‘Who?’
‘The goblins. They kicked in our door and dragged her away. When I tried to stop them…’ Her voice trailed away. The blood smudged on her skin was answer enough. ‘I ran away and hid in the caretaker’s closet before they caught me too. Now I don’t know where to go.’