New Enemies

  Chapter 25

  Slant was led to a rotting warehouse. Every so often, arrowmen watched their passage from rooftops, bows ready. They were professionals, didn't hold the string taut and waste energy on a threat. He would not have gotten far if he decided to run or attack Wasp. The men with Wasp looked on edge, somehow more fearful of an external threat more than Slant, who had just taken down a Gang alone. His pride felt wounded, but he was curious as to what worried them.

  Once in sight of the warehouse, Wasp separated from the group wordlessly. Slant could only watch, confused, as Wasp’s men bundled him into the warehouse. Arms and shoulders held tightly, he was dragged through the streets, into the warehouse, and then pushed inside a small room.

  “Get some sleep,” someone said. “Wasp will see you in the morning.”

  “This wasn't part of our deal,” Slant hissed, turning to pull at the door.

  “Only 'cos you didn't ask. Take that as a lesson for the morning,” the un-budging door replied.

  As he still wore his mask, he risked saying, “I have a family! I need to look after them!”

  A lock closing, followed by fading footsteps, was his reply.

  Slant let go and looked around his cell. The heavy door opened inwards, so he'd have to break the frame to knock it down. A small window high up the wall was barred with crude ironwork: given months, he could chip it away. There was a surprisingly comfortable bed, a cheap table, a bed pan, and a jug of water. Seeing the jug made him aware of his thirst. He slowly drank, then secured the room: if he had to sleep here, he'd damn well be safe doing it.

  When morning came, the guard sent to fetch him tried to open the cell door. The initial jolt shook Slant awake, and the subsequent rattling edified him greatly.

  Puzzled, angry eyes on a reddening face looked through the porthole. “Oy, why can't I get in?” he asked.

  Slant stood from the mattress on the floor. Bedding shed from his shoulders, falling carelessly to reveal the clothing he’d slept in. The cheap table was pressed against the door, and the bed wedged against the floor to hold it in place.

  “You can’t enter because I don't want you to,” Slant said.

  “What's your game, you little shit?” the guard asked. It wasn't his adviser from last night.

  “Just keeping myself safe. What's your business with me?”

  “Wasp sent for you. Let me in, and I'll take you up.” The guard tried the door again. Slant pressed his foot against the bed, made sure it wouldn't give way.

  “And what does he want?”

  “I don't sodding know. You're best off asking him yourself.”

  Slant tutted. This little show had been amusing, had made him feel safe and distracted him from thoughts of his presumably-worried family, but he would only leave here through Wasp's clemency. Which was likely the message Wasp wanted to give when he incarcerated Slant.

  “Alright,” Slant said, bending to pick up the bed.

  The guard waited until the sounds of scraping furniture ceased, and then barreled in. He looked around, six feet of meat and brutality, then grabbed Slant's shoulders and shoved Slant out into the corridor.

  Slant was led into the main room of the decrepit warehouse. Sol's light shone through holes in the roof, illuminating tents whose poles and pitches were hammered deep into rotting wooden flooring. Some were former-Shield tents, others handmade approximations. Men sparred in open spaces between them, and others watched them, making bets or cheering friends on. Piles of moulding wool and a rotting loom in one corner marked this as a former fabric warehouse.

  His guard wove between the tents. Many of those who weren’t sparring watched him pass. Last night was his first time sleeping in his mask, and the material had begun to itch. Slant scratched his cheek, wanting to remove his protection, but ignored their stares.

  Beyond the tents was a building within a building, a wooden construction with a peaked slate roof. The guard pushed Slant in front of it, and knocked on its ebony door with what looked like pearl inlays of Sol, holding Slant by his collar. A symbol Slant didn't recognise was carved into the door’s centre: a closed book with an arrow leading from its pages to the spine.

  The door opened. “Ah, it's our vigilante,” Cycle said. He now wore a dark, formal suit suitable for a Joining or a Pyre, and had bathed since last night. “Come, come in.”

  To emphasise that he had no choice, the guard pushed him inside.

  Cycle closed the door as Slant stumbled, leaving him trapped. The walls were unvarnished. An old workbench had been cut down to make a rough table, on which three mugs of something delicious-smelling steamed. Low sewing stools surrounded the table. Wasp sat, the mug before him emptier than the others.

  “Good morning,” he said. “Sit, please. It's broth for breakfast.”

  Cycle stood to Wasp's left. The unclaimed mug was to his right.

  Slant looked around before sitting. Cheap, unprocessed glass was set into the walls, allowing in light but not letting him see the warehouse. Another door, this one without a symbol, leered over Wasp's shoulder. A brazier rested to one side, not needed on a day as warm as today.

  “I like this: aware of his surroundings,” Wasp said. “He wants to feel safe.”

  “Not aware enough,” Cycle said, “or else he wouldn't be here.”

  Wasp shook his head, laughed. “Cycle, I think we can forgive him not noticing our arrowmen approaching whilst he fought. I doubt you would have detected it.”

  Cycle looked down, admonished.

  “Sit,” Wasp said to both of them. This time, it wasn't an offer.

  Slant walked over and sat, spreading his grey robes out for comfort.

  Amusement flashed across Wasp's eyes. “Try the broth. It is really quite good.”

  Slant looked down at it, then at Wasp. “Mind if I skip the breakfast?”

  “I insist.”

  “Then I'll have yours,” he said to Cycle, standing to swap mugs. The young man frowned, looked at Wasp, who gave him a small shake of the head.

  “You don't trust me,” Wasp stated.

  “What reason do I have to trust someone who took me captive overnight?”

  Wasp laughed again, a strange but healthy sound. “You don't trust me, when I could easily have killed you last night on the street, just like that.” He clicked his fingers to demonstrate, the sound echoing forlornly in the small room. “Does your being here not tell you that I have no dishonest intentions toward you?”

  “No,” Slant said, lifting his mask just a little to taste the broth. It was meaty and warm.

  “Why not?” Cycle asked, lifting his head.

  Slant shrugged. “A Gang Lord who took me hostage might want to kindle my hope before crushing it, enjoying the rise and fall of my heart. It would be cruel, and it would really hurt me.”

  Wasp's face fell, losing any amusement or friendliness. “You think me a Gang Lord?”

  Slant tensed. “You're a Stationless man holed up in a warehouse with ex-Shields, Gangers, and a good number of weapons,” he said slowly. “Isn't that the logical conclusion?”

  “It may be,” Wasp hissed, “but you should never call me that again.”

  “What are you, then? Why am I here?” Slant asked, standing. “I thought you were vigilantes like me, but that can’t be the case if you sent someone into a Gang initiation. Why did you do that?”

  “Does the Grey Shield fight the Gangs every night?” Wasp asked, after a pause.

  “Not every night. I'm not that capable.”

  “I do. Every night, I fight,” Wasp said. “Maybe not with my own fists, but with my influence and power. My freedom is on the line every day: if anyone of Station knew I did this, they'd execute me. You asked what I am?” Wasp stood, sipped at his broth. “I'm you, only more organised, more capable, and more powerful. And I've been doing this for some time.

  “Three years ago, the Gang situation came to a head. The Contegons had abandoned Aureu to pursue the Disciples, hell-bent on revenge and
supported by a bloodthirsty Council, and the Gangs saw their opportunity. I acted and was punished because I was Stationless and had no authority.” Wasp sneered into his broth. “I resolved then to make am organisation that would let me act, let me protect people. That led to us, and my unsuccesful annual applications to establish a Station: we are the Custodians, and we keep the peace in Aureu whilst the Contegons are not looking.”

  Slant sat, astonished. “I've never heard of you,” he said.

  “I would have been dead if you had,” Wasp replied with a smile. “We are not as... direct as you, with no Station or mask to protect us. We tend the Gangs and disorganised criminals, ensure that most of their crimes fail. If one steps too far out of line, we ensure their destruction in such a way that people never know it happened. Think of us as Sol's will: secret, small packages of hope and justice.”

  “Secret justice? I don't understand,” Slant said.

  “Non-lethal poisonings, falsified accidents, beatings given whilst wearing other Gangs' colours,” Cycle said, his voice flat. “These are our weapons. No one knows who delivered the justice, but that doesn't matter if Sol’s justice is being delivered.”

  “You might say our tools are our mask,” Wasp said, gesturing to Slant's grey mask.

  Slant didn't know what to make of Wasp: he claimed to share Slant's crusade, his disdain of crime in Aureu being ignored if it didn't impede the war effort. That he wanted it to be true, wanted other people to wage this war, gave him more pause. That some Gangs were embedded in the Stations concerned him further.

  “Forgive me,” Slant said, slowly shaking his head, “but that's the speech I'd expect someone to give if they wanted to turn me and my skills to a Gang's cause. Can you prove what you claim?”

  “Your 'skills?'” Cycle said with a cold laugh. “You think a lot of yourself, don't you?”

  Slant gave him an unpleasant smile. “Take down a half-dozen Gangers at once, then laugh.”

  “Oh, you can shut—”

  Wasp held up a hand to interrupt his indignation. “I can't say I'm not angry, but I'm also not disappointed: you impress me with your belief in how low the criminal mind can sink. I can see why you would think a Gang might turn you on their enemies, make you their pet fighter. You are a fine warrior, and that's without proper training: I can tell that from your sloppy technique,” He drank the rest of his broth. “The only proof I have is this: you're free to go. I have revealed myself and my secrets to you, but I am no criminal and will not hold you illegally. If you wish to walk out of this office and return to your solitary fight, do so.”

  Slant considered his broth. And then stood. He couldn't take the risk. “Thank you for your hospitality, Wasp. If what you've said is true, I will keep your secrets.”

  Just before he opened the door out into the warehouse, Wasp said, “But.”

  “But?” Slant asked, releasing the handle.

  “But if you go, you will continue to only fight the symptoms. We spent months putting Cycle into that Gang because we suspect it's involved in Seed trafficking. You know Seed, I presume?”

  Slant stepped away from the door. Of course he knew Seed, a drug made from Sol knows what. It was highly addictive and destructive. Those Zoners not drowning in alcohol choked on Seed, and they begged, stole, and murdered to get more.

  “Many of those I fight are either on or holding Seed,” he said.

  “That sounds about right,” Cycle said. “It's a fucking poison.”

  “You’ll have to forgive Cycle: his sister was a Zoner. A Ganger sold her too much one day and she... took it. I recruited him to help destroy the ring making and distributing Seed. Our hope was that, if we could get someone on the inside of that Gang, we could find where the Seed comes from, one day attacking the root supplier,” Wasp said. “Which is why he was so disappointed when you undid all our work.”

  “I'm sorry,” Slant said.

  “Don't be sorry. Just fucking make it up to us,” Cycle said.

  “You fight everyone you catch, preventing the initial crime,” Wasp said, rising to walk across to Slant. “That's admirable, in its way. But what if you followed the criminals, found where they lived, where their Gang operated from? Then you could cripple the Gang, prevent crimes as they fight amongst themselves for control. And you could watch, wait for the right time, and strike again so the strongest candidate is killed and the second-strongest is branded a traitor. How much crime would you prevent then?”

  “What about the woman you helped to beat?” Slant asked. “What about the crime done to her?”

  Wasp stood before Slant. They were similar heights, though Slant was bulkier. His good eye scanned Slant, his scar a bright swipe of anger. The face beneath the scar was worn by worry, stress, and perhaps battle, so he looked much older than Slant.

  “What happened to her was going to happen anyway: do you think the Gangs wouldn’t have someone other than Cycle to initiate? Don’t be so naive. But we tried to make something good come from that horror. And we will ensure she is treated well, I guarantee that.”

  Slant tutted. “I don’t like that.”

  “It is a horrible necessity. But don’t think of her, think of your family: if you continue your fight, you may do some good but you will die, leaving those who care about you wondering what happened.” Wasp said. “Work with me and I guarantee you’ll always be supported. Should the worst happen, your family will know you lived and died with honour. They will be taken care of. These things, I promise you. And the word of a former Merchant is as good as gold.”

  Tower calling him crooked stuck with him still, a burr beneath the skin. This was an opportunity to prove her, and his own nagging doubts, wrong. Perhaps that desire, that longing for legitimacy and respect was clouding his judgement, and he didn’t like their treatment of Cycle’s victim... but he was sure Wasp was earnest in his desire for justice. Slant wondered if he'd earned that scar during his own fight, or if it'd been the catalyst for creating the Custodians. He'd have to ask one day.

  Slant removed his mask. “My name is Slant,” he said. “I am pleased to meet you, Wasp.”

  Wasp grinned, threw an arm around Slant's shoulder. “Excellent. I think we, you and I, are going to make a real difference.”