Were you always so callous? Lizanne wondered. The musician was the only inmate she had met so far to display even a basic level of compassion or civility. She assumed he owed his continued survival largely to his skills, the Electress appreciated the value he could bring to a clientele mostly devoid of music. But she also knew his presence here indicated a dark past, for there were no petty criminals in Scorazin. She had resisted the temptation to simply ask what crimes had seen him confined within these walls, such things were ever a touchy subject for a convict.
Makario guided her to a roof-top where they could watch the unfolding ritual. He scaled the listing wall of a hollowed-out shack with a skilful alacrity that reminded Lizanne of Clay and made her wonder if the musician’s path to Scorazin might have lain in burglary. The distribution of supplies proved to be an orderly if protracted affair. The ore was placed in a dozen large iron buckets waiting at the base of the citadel walls, each one attached by chains to a crane jutting out from the parapet above. Teams of constables hauled the ore aloft then filled the buckets with a commensurate amount of supplies. According to Melina, a number of smaller additional sacks would be included amongst the overall haul and swiftly pocketed by the constables in return for adding a few luxuries to the pile: soap, tobacco and narcotics being the most common. Lizanne had surrendered her full copper chit for a bar of scented soap and a comb.
It took the better part of an hour for the Verdigris to complete their exchange whereupon Chuckling Sim raised his antique hat to the constables and led his people away, hand-carts piled high with bounty. The Furies were next and Lizanne soon formed the impression that Electress Atalina was deliberately prolonging the affair, scrupulously inspecting each consignment before it was hauled up and making sure Melina made a careful note of every item received in turn.
“She’s really bringing him to the boil this time,” Makario observed, nodding at King Coal, whose complexion now resembled an unripe beet-root. He stared at the Electress with fists bunched as the Wise Fools grew more fractious, grumbles turning to shouts as time wore on.
“She does this every time?” Lizanne enquired.
“Only since Kevozan ascended to kingship. Her way of testing his mettle, and he’s failing.”
It took another quarter hour before the dumpy king finally boiled over, face stoked to a scarlet hue as he burst out, “GET A FUCKING MOVE ON YOU POXED-UP OLD SOW!”
Silence reigned in the aftermath, Kevozan standing in quivering rage whilst the assembled Furies fanned out behind the Electress, hands disappearing into the meagre clothing to clutch knives and cudgels. The Scuttlers bridled in turn, massing behind their king in readiness. The Electress, however, betrayed scant sign of alarm, merely glancing over at Kevozan in bland acknowledgment before returning her attention to Melina’s ledger.
An angry growl rose from the Scuttlers as Kevozan took a step forward, then stopped as a rifle bullet shattered the muddy cobbles a yard to his front. Both King and Scuttlers froze, all eyes snapping to the Citadel as a loud voice swept down from above. “Remember what day it is!”
Lizanne soon recognised the source of the voice: Constable Darkanis, standing atop the parapet with a bull-horn raised to his mouth. On either side of him a platoon of constables had lined up, rifles at their shoulders and trained on the crowd below. “Keep it civil!” Darkanis continued before aiming the bull-horn at the Electress. “You’ve had long enough, Eighty-Six! You’ve got ten minutes to get the rest of your ore up here or you don’t get another bean!”
The Electress responded with a graceful bow and soon the exchange was proceeding at an accelerated rate. When it was done she led the Furies back along Sluiceman’s Way, walking past a still-glowering King Coal without a glance as she chatted with Melina. There were some catcalls and insults exchanged between the two gangs but, with the rifle-bearing constables still watching, the simmering violence failed to erupt.
“Not much more to see now,” Makario said, getting to his feet and offering Lizanne a hand. “We’d best get back. She’ll expect us to lend a hand unloading the ale.”
Lizanne took his hand and rose, pausing as her gaze swept over the Miner’s Repose and well-honed instincts sounded a warning bell in her head. “He’s gone,” she murmured, eyes lingering on the stacked ale casks.
“Who?” Makario asked.
Lizanne tore her hand away and started across the roof-top at a run. “The man with the missing fingers.”
She sprinted to the edge of the roof and leapt. With Green in her veins it would have been an effortless jump, but in her current state she barely made it to the next roof, her midriff connecting hard with the edge and legs dangling as she clung on. She grunted and hauled herself up, running across patchy tiles towards the next building. She could see the Electress up ahead, less than thirty feet from the piled casks. Lizanne forced more speed into her legs and leapt again. Fortunately this gap was shorter and she landed on her feet, rolling to absorb the shock. She was only a short distance behind the Electress now, the casks barely twenty feet away. The next roof-top was too steeply sloped to run across so this time she landed painfully on her rump before sliding down the tiles to the street below, landing squarely atop the Electress’s shoulders. The big woman staggered but proved too substantial a person to collapse under the additional weight.
“Get down!” Lizanne shouted before performing a back-flip and sweeping the Electress’s legs away with a round-house kick.
“You two-faced little cunt!” the Electress roared, glaring up at Lizanne with baleful promise. Lizanne threw herself across the large woman’s head and shoulders, covering her own head with her arms, eyes closed tight and mouth open to spare her ears.
The explosion was larger than Lizanne expected, accompanied by a blast of sound that seemed to cut through her from head to toe. A wave of heat swept over them a split-second later, accompanied by a swarm of splinters from the shattered casks. Lizanne rolled clear of the Electress as the heat faded, swatting at a flame on her sleeve and scooping water from a puddle to smooth through her smoking hair. All around her people lay on the ground, most pierced with splinters or blackened with flame, some still, others writhing. Fortunately the ringing in Lizanne’s ears spared her the screams.