Good Company Read online

  THE FIFTH WARD

  GOOD COMPANY

  “It’s been my experience,” Torval said to the thief, “that no one goes for a midnight stroll on a rooftop without considerable practice and a definite aim. Whether that aim is murder or just plain thievery remains to be seen.”

  “Look, gents,” the man said, sounding eminently reasonable, “I’ll only say this once: let me go, forget you ever saw me. You’ll be happier if you do so, trust me.”

  “Listen to this prat,” Torval said, shaking the bound prisoner a bit. “Only our well-being at heart, eh?”

  “Forgive us,” Rem said to the prisoner, “we’ve heard better excuses offered with greater sincerity. I’m afraid it’s the watch-keep for you, my friend.”

  “Honestly,” the man said, and he almost sounded sad about it, “you’ll be sorry.”

  “We’re already sorry,” Torval said at his elbow, then shoved him along the street. “It’s been a shit night and we’re both soaking wet. Nabbing you might be the only bright spot in our evening, truth be told.”

  “Just remember,” the man said as he began his walk through the rain back to the watchkeep. “I warned you. You could’ve saved yourselves.”

  BY DALE LUCAS

  The Fifth Ward

  First Watch

  Friendly Fire

  Good Company

  ORBIT

  First published in Great Britain in 2019 by Orbit

  Copyright © 2019 by Dale Lucas

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book

  is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 978-0-356-50939-6

  Orbit

  An imprint of

  Little, Brown Book Group

  Carmelite House

  50 Victoria Embankment

  London EC4Y 0DZ

  An Hachette UK Company

  www.hachette.co.uk

  www.orbitbooks.net

  For Bryan, Donald, and Mike, who stoked the fires

  CONTENTS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Acknowledgments

  CHAPTER ONE

  There were a great many things that Rem loved about his job as a watchwarden in the city of Yenara. First and foremost, he was rarely bored. Even if he did find himself so, he knew, down deep, that that boredom wouldn’t last long. Sooner or later, something somewhere in their ward would go tits up and he and his dwarven partner, Torval, would be called in (or would stumble in) to set it right.

  Likewise, there was the sense of secret fellowship—of clandestine knowledge—that came from stalking the streets from sundown to sunrise, existing within and bearing witness to a side of Yenara that most workaday folk would never see, or did not want to: the nocturnal half of the citizenry who plied their trades and sold their wares only after dark, and the certain streets that were, in daylight hours, wholly unremarkable and half forgotten, that came to life only after dusk, supporting activities that would make a brothel-keep blush.

  There was the action—sudden, violent, bloody, and sometimes (though Rem hated to admit it), damned bracing. Rem gained no pleasure from hurting people, but there was a certain sense of accomplishment—of primitive pride—in knowing that you could hold your own in a row if you had to.

  And then, of course, above and beyond all other considerations, there was the fact that, once in a while, he felt that he was doing some genuine good: returning much-needed coin to innocent victims of a robbery or a short con; apprehending a murderer; freeing a stolen or lost child from the clutches of a thieves’ ring or unsavory trafficking band; rescuing terrorized spouses and children from drunken, abusive mates and parents. All of those things and more gave him a feeling of real purpose, pride, and satisfaction.

  But then there were incidents like the present one: answering—for the fourth time in five weeks—a call from the neighbors of Geezer Fassler and his wife, Rikka, because the two were trying to kill one another. Again.

  Gods, the neighbors cried, they’re killing each other! Come quick, watchwardens, I smell smoke! They’re liable to burn the whole building down! Bless me, it’s grown quiet in there—I fear one’s finally done in the other . . .

  Variations on a familiar theme. Rem was certain that Torval, like him, was tempted not to respond at all. To shrug off the cries for aid and carry on with their patrol. To make some idle jest and assume that this bout between Geezer and his belligerent bride would be just as bloody, just as vexing, as the dozens of others they’d responded to in the past.

  “It’s pointless,” Rem said to his partner.

  The dwarf, Torval, nodded solemnly. “Most likely.”

  Rem shook his head. “It’ll be just like always. She won’t charge him, he won’t charge her—”

  “I know,” Torval said.

  “—we arrest them on trivial charges, they pay their fines, and next week, it’s the same bloody business.”

  Torval gave a final, curt nod. “Aye, that. And yet . . .”

  Rem instantly knew what Torval was suggesting. The one time they failed to answer the call—the one time they dismissed it all as routine business or reduced it to a jest—that would be the one time it would take a fatal turn. Torval had a little aphorism he offered in those moments when they were faced with hue and cry they’d rather not respond to.

  Ours isn’t to judge the call, he would usually say. Ours is just to answer it.

  Thankfully, he didn’t say the words now. He didn’t need to.

  Rem sighed, nodded, gestured expansively. “Shall we?”

  Torval led the way and Rem followed.

  Rem knew they’d find a familiar scene upon arrival: Geezer and Rikka, mutually bloodied, one or the other or both armed with whatever hasty implement was at hand—a broken bottle, a frying pan, a bread knife, logs from the fireplace. They’d be shouting at one another, provoking each other with horrible names and curses. And when Rem and Torval tried to intervene, the truculent pair would, inevitably, come to one another’s aid, as though their violent conflicts were some private tryst that watchwarden interference violated the sanctity of.

  Oi, n
ow, that’s not right, Geezer might say. We’s just having a rassle, watchwardens! I’ll not have you hauling my ladylove into your drafty dungeons over this, no sirs!

  No, no, no, Rikka might say, suddenly donning a mask of sweetness and light when, just moments before, she’d been threatening to make a coin purse of Geezer’s bollock-bag. You misunderstand, lads. Geezer was just a bit pissed—too much brew, you see—and he came home on a bit of a tear. It’s all worked out now, sure as can be. We’re terribly sorry for the upset. Can I offer some victuals for the road? Cooked meself, just an hour or two ago . . .

  Rem and Torval had each tried, more than once, to get one or the other to admit to being scared of their partner—fearful for their life and safety—thus obligating an arrest and severe charges that might finally break the vicious cycle. Half the watchwardens of the Fifth could attest to the injuries they’d seen the two wreak upon one another, the mess they’d made of their various rented rooms, the casual passersby who’d been thumped headwise by flying objects intended for the snarling Rikka or her quarrelsome husband. Oh sure, they’d been hauled in for disturbing the peace, property damage, and unintentional battery on strangers, but they always simply got a dressing-down, laid out their coin, then were sent on their way.

  Again, again, and again. It made Rem want to vomit.

  They heard the commotion when they turned the corner: curses, taunts, iron clanging, wood creaking, the crack of splinters, and the occasional strident crash of broken glass. A large crowd clogged the street before Geezer and Rikka’s residence, a three-story riser capable of housing six different families. Geezer and Rikka’s window, on the second floor, was brightly lit, and the sounds of their conflict spilled into the balmy night, offering a counterpoint to the distant thunder of a coming storm and the idle chatter of the gawkers.

  “Move!” Torval barked. “Wardwatch coming through!”

  “He’s killing her!” someone said. At that instant, from above, Rem clearly heard Rikka call her beloved Geezer “a gods-damned damp squib if ever there was one, all mouth and no trousers.”

  Aemon, the barbed tongue on that woman . . .

  “She’s a menace, that one!” an old man in the crowd said as Rem and Torval shouldered through. “Mark my words, if you lot don’t lock her away, we’ll find her baking Geezer in a pie one of these mornings! Just you wait.”

  Rem leaned toward Torval. “If only.”

  Torval shook his head. “I swear, lad, if either one so much as frowns at me, I’ll put them both on their backs and clap them in irons. We need an end to this.”

  “We’re not carrying irons,” Rem pointed out.

  Torval shot him a vexed glare. “Don’t be smart. Now, no mollygagging about this time, eh? We haul them in, period. Follow my lead.”

  Rem nodded, and they moved through the dark, close little doorway of the block of flats. They passed through a short, stale-smelling vestibule, then mounted the dark stairs toward the second floor. Above, the sounds of the brawl were loud but indistinct, dampened by several layers of wood beams and plaster.

  “A fool’s errand,” Rem said as they climbed. “They’ll pay their fines and once more be on their way, as always.”

  “Then we need them to threaten someone other than each other,” Torval countered. “Officers of the law, perhaps?”

  Rem stopped. Torval was a few stairs above him, looking back over his shoulder. Though the stairwell was dark, Rem thought he could see something like a sly smile on the dwarf’s broad face. That didn’t give him any confidence in the dwarf’s scheme.

  “You’re not serious?” Rem asked.

  Torval turned and kept climbing. “Just wait and see how serious I am.”

  When they made the landing, the racket from inside Geezer and Rikka’s apartment assailed them, louder and clearer now.

  Clang. Crash. Thump.

  “Missed me, you loopy cunt! Why don’t you try again?”

  Thump. Crash. Rumble. Groan.

  “Ha ha, didn’t miss you that time, did I, you numpty skiver?”

  “You daft cow,” Geezer growled slowly. “I’ll make you pay for that. Bleedin’ like a stuck pig . . .” Even through the closed door, they could hear Geezer’s slurring words. He sounded to Rem as if his head had been bashed in, or his mouth was full of gravel. That didn’t bode well. Maybe Rikka had made a killing blow?

  Torval stepped forward and kicked in the door. Before he’d passed over the threshold, he had his maul in hand and full command of the situation. Rem slid in behind him, hand on his sword hilt, ready to draw. For the barest instant—before Torval spoke, before Geezer or Rikka could react—Rem took in the chaotic scene before him.

  Every bit of furniture in the room, save the little table where they ate their daily meals, was shattered. Several iron and copper frying pans and cookpots lay about. A few shelves, once mounted on the walls, had fallen. Broken crocks of flour, butter, lard, and spices made a colorful, queasy desert out of one far corner. If there was a glass implement—phial, goblet, jar, or wine bottle—still in a single piece, Rem could not see it. There was a terrible smell—piss and shit—emanating from a far corner where a tin chamber pot lay overturned.

  And there they stood, like familiar and most unwanted friends: Geezer, blood sheeting down his pockmarked face from a nasty wound on his forehead, clothes disheveled and torn, and Rikka, breasts threatening to fall out of a half-unlaced corset, smeared blood and snot besmirching her lips and chin, one eye blackened and already swelling. The pair of them were not past forty, but they looked as if they’d lived a hundred lifetimes instead of barely one each.

  Rikka held a bent iron poker. Geezer brandished a knife.

  Why do they do it? Rem wondered, his belly tight with disgust. Why won’t she just turn him over to us? Why won’t he just leave her?

  Then the opportunity to assess the scene before them ended. Geezer and Rikka turned toward the kicked-in door and blinked simultaneously, as though awakening from a shared dream.

  “Hey, now!” Rikka said. “Don’t go knocking that door about—the landlord’ll make us pay for that!”

  “What’s all this?” Geezer snarled, studying Rem and Torval with a bitter, predatory gaze that gave Rem no comfort. He shot a venomous look toward Rikka. “More of your coin-jacks, you filthy slag?”

  Rem felt a deep, instinctual offense at that. As if he’d give a wild-eyed mongoose like Rikka the bells of the hour . . .

  “Shut it,” Torval suddenly snapped. “Both of you, drop what’s in your hands and don’t say another word. You’re in big trouble this time. Don’t make it worse.”

  Geezer, who’d been crouched in a strange defensive stance, now stood to his full height. He was a big man—taller than Rem. With unbelievable bravado, he wiped his hand over his face, clearing away a great deal of the blood covering it and smearing the remainder like war paint. He then flipped back his long, blood-caked forelocks and brandished the bread knife in his hands.

  “Trouble,” the big man said. “Why don’t you caper over here, master dwarf, and see what kind of trouble I can give you.”

  A strange hissing invaded the world, accompanied by a dull, distant roar. Rem glanced toward the open window of the apartment, directly opposite where he stood. Rain began to fall in sheets, beating hard on the wooden shingles of the apartment building’s roof. Rem wished he were out in it, right now, instead of in here, smelling piss and shit, seconds away from having to defend himself and his partner against this foolish man and his equally foolish wife.

  Torval took another step into the room. Rem slid sideward, trying to position himself directly in front of Geezer, who was ahead and on their right. He let his hand close on his sword grip now, to make it clear that he’d draw the blade if need be.

  “You two,” Torval said, and Rem thought he heard real sadness in the dwarf’s craggy voice. “How many times are we going to come down here? How many times do we have to haul you before the magistrates?”

  “May
be until you get the message,” Rikka said. “This man and I, we ain’t your problem, watchwarden. It’s just a little domestic spat, that’s all.”

  “Aye, that,” Geezer said, offering a genuinely agreeable nod that put Rem in fear for the shared sanity of the two. Moments ago, they’d been trying to kill each other. Now that the authorities were on hand, they were a united front against the interlopers. What sort of fool logic was that?

  “Well,” Torval said. “I’m afraid your little domestic spats are too loud, too costly, and too bloody to be left unaddressed. Drop the poker, drop the knife, come with us. That’s your last warning.”

  “Last warning,” Geezer said. “You threatening my lady, master dwarf?”

  Torval turned his narrowed gaze toward Geezer. “I’m sorry, was that solely your job?”

  Geezer took a step forward, raising the knife. “You’d best watch your tongue—”

  “Geezer,” Rikka hissed suddenly. Rem studied her. Her blood was settling now. She knew what was happening, what was at stake. She might not like having to interrupt their little dustup, but she didn’t want to end the night in the watchkeep dungeons, either.

  Geezer, however, hadn’t come to understand that just yet. He took another step forward, all but ignoring Rem, his hostility directed entirely at Torval.

  “Threaten her again,” Geezer said to the dwarf. “Utter a single unkind word and see what happens.”

  “Put that knife down,” Torval said flatly, “or the only person in the room to feel its sting will be you.”

  Rem half drew his sword, the blade almost sighing as it peeked from its scabbard. Part of him wanted to loose it entirely, but he was afraid that if he did so, he’d set off Geezer. If they could just get him to stop advancing, to drop that knife . . .

  Be ready, Rem thought. You might only have an instant. If he moves for Torval, it’s on you to put him down—

  “You should go,” Rikka said from across the room. “We’re done now, watchwardens, truly. We’re so very sorry—”

  “Shut your cock-sleeve, woman,” Geezer snarled at her. “These two copper-gobbling maggots need a lesson in manners.”