Shadow Of A Grasping Hand (Part I)

Eramir finds the quiet between cases shattered by interlopers at his door...

My arms and legs moved by themselves, batting away imaginary foe after imaginary foe while my mind floated in serenity. The blocks and strikes were rushing fluid. My muscles engaged precisely when they needed to, down to the fraction of a second.

Times were increasingly rare for moments like this, where I could perform martial patterns in relative peace and let my mind drift. When time was elusive, I had to make myself find it; the last thing I needed was for my form to slip.

I performed the final move, a leap and twist that ended in a downward strike with the heel of my palm, one that made a man's nose burst like an overripe tomato dropping onto the cobblestones. I returned to the ready position, then retrieved the cane leaning in the corner of the room and began the second pattern, one specifically designed for a blunt weapon like a quarterstaff. My cane was a little too short to be traditionally effective, although many of the moves remained relevant, especially the augmented blocks.

Since the crimewave began towering above the houses in Tier Seven, I'd been inundated with cases, ones I'd found and ones that had found me. While they worked my body and mind in a more practical way, they were far from as calming as the old exercises I had been taught so long ago.

“Twist the strike,” my master whispered from my distant memory. “Back straight. The power doesn't just come from your arms and legs, it comes from your centre.”

It was almost a dance. A bruising, even lethal dance to those who might get in its way, but the grace of it rarely occurred in the filthy combat down here. I performed the final move, a bounding leap forward, driving the cane from over my shoulder and down through the imaginary foe's body from forehead to groin. The floorboards whispered as I landed in a wide stance, my knees bent. The rats scurrying beneath them scattered in panic. My shout of exultation and intimidation dulled to a hiss of breath between my teeth. I'd long since grown tired of explaining the noise to the neighbours on all sides over and over, not least dealing with the passing scavengers who hear the shout and think I've either murdered someone or been murdered.

I felt my way to my sorry-excuse-for-a-desk and grabbed the cloth bunched up on top of it. I had to tug it free from the tripwire labyrinth of splinters so I could wipe the ghost of sweat from my brow. The kettle began to whistle from the fireplace, and as I was pouring tea into my metal and bone cup a sharp knock came at the door.

I dragged my desk back into position, deftly avoiding the telltale prick of a wooden shard, and slip my wax tablet from the box beneath the two chairs in the corner. As I was arranging them on either side of the desk, the knock persisted.

“Just a moment.”

As the knock grew louder I tapped my way to the door and waited beside the jamb. When I slid back the narrow viewing window, I braced myself for a gunshot. While I was in no danger, being out of the line of fire, unsavoury characters always seemed to try it.

But no shot came. What burst through the hatch instead was a string of profanity.

“Oi, open the fackin' door, wastin' our fackin' time out 'ere...!”

“My apologies. I was indisposed.”

“Wot?”

“Busy, I was busy. What brings you here?”

“You, ya piggot. There another investigator about with no eyes?”

Maybe he expected me to bristle at that comment. Male, gruff, cheap tobacco on his breath. His ill manner wasn't fuelled by any form of alcohol, and he wasn't sweating enough to be someone full of powders, nor was he anywhere near mad enough.

“What's your business?” He wasn't alone. A footstep betrayed someone lingering beside the door handle. “And what's your friend's business?”

Another man. Also starting to sweat.

“We'll tell ya inside. No good us dickin' about out 'ere.”

“Tell me now, friend.”

Click. An unmistakable click. The pulling-back of a hammer, ready to slam onto a firing pin.

The man by the handle shifted his weight forwards.

“Fackin' 'ell, fine. Missin' person, around these parts. Last seen in the residences next to Cobbler's Row.”

“Give me more. Which residences near Cobbler's Row, there are three. Man or woman? How old?” I grabbed hold of my cane and bent my knees, lowering myself as quietly as I could.

“You gonna keep us out 'ere? Wot is it? Ya think we can't pay yer fee?”

“Firearms make me nervous.”

Nought but silence from outside now.

Then, a hushed word.

“Fack.”

“'Fuck', indeed.”

I ducked back, and a boom rattled around the cramped room and echoed through my head. My hands and bare forearms were showered with shards, splinters and sawdust from my door. Behind my ringing ears I hear the clang of the lock thudding onto the floorboards.

The door flew inwards a moment later, clattering against the stone-brick wall.

I jabbed my cane forwards through the brick dust at roughly my own head height. The end connected sharply with something soft.

“Urk!”

Wheezing now, rattled breathing. A hit to the throat. He was taller than me.

I grabbed his lapels and threw him towards the breeze where my door had been.

BANG!

The sounds of my abode and the narrow street were swallowed by a high-pitched squeal. Gunpowder's burned-meat stink filled the air. Cheap stuff. Too much charcoal, not enough sulfur.

I backed off a step, the whine and stench still covering the movement of my foes. When the air shifted in front of me, I struck with my cane again, low this time, level with my chest. The distant grunt of pain was followed by a flurry of muffled curse words.

My cane whirled and cracked against a kneecap. A clattering thud followed, percussion to go with the whine.

“Now that we're finished with all that nonsense, can we get on with you telling me who sent you? Hmm?”

The receding whine gives away the scrape of metal on the floor. My cane jabbed downwards. A wrist bone snapped and a choked cry of pain puffed up the layer of dust and sawdust on the floor.

I knelt and plucked the … well, it couldn't exactly be called a gun … from the twitching fingers. It was little more than a pair of pipe-barrels that could be slid down another pair of pipes onto two firing pins, one by one or at the same time. Create a spark to ignite the cheap powder and blast a lead ball at the poor bastard on the business end. I slid the pipe-barrels out and felt the opening. One packed shot was stuffed into the left barrel.

Fingers tried to snake around my trouser leg. I raised the cane again and slammed it down on the gunman's head. He let out a half-cry, half-gasp, then let go, flopping into the grime. I slide the pipes back together and pointed the crude weapon at the other gasping attacker.

“So, seeing as he can't talk, maybe you can answer me, before I see just how cheap your black powder really is.”

A moan from the floor where I was pointing the weapon. Pained. Annoyed. A little scared. However, there were no words.

“You can tell me, or you can tell Conrad.”

No words again, but the moans stopped.

“Yes, that Conrad. Now, who sent you?”

The man grunted as he tried to sit up. I made sure the end of the left barrel followed the sounds, and I could almost hear his tiny brain clicking as he tries to form a basic thought.

“Fackin'... nobody sent us. We're 'ere for ya bits. That's it.”

“That's it, hmm?”

“Yeh.”

“And you thought I'd be an easy mark.”

Nothing.

“He'll find out if you're lying, you know … but I'll find out first. A collapsed throat will be the least of your concerns.”

Nothing.

“Understand?”

A grunt. “Yeh.”

“Glad to hear it. Leave your boomstick. Slide it to me.”

I hear the wood and metal scrape through the splinters. It bumps against my sandal.

“Now, kindly fuck off.”

***

I was sweeping up the remains of my door when the tarry odour of Conrad Black's tobacco wraps wafted through the empty frame. I didn't look up, but spoke as soon as the clunk of his steel-toed boots stopped on the threshold.

“As you can see, I'm going to need a new door.”

He chuckled. “Interesting new bit of furniture.”

I pointed the broom handle at the bound, unconscious man in the corner. “I think I may have hit him too hard, which is more than he deserved.”

Conrad snorted and drew in a long puff of tobacco. “I can have the doctor stop by.”

“Take him with you. He isn't staying here.”

Conrad took a couple of steps towards the man and tapped his foot. “I don't recognise him. Not one of mine.”

I turned my face to him as I kept sweeping. “That's interesting, considering you know every lowlife of note in the local area.”

“You … whatsit … implicating something?”

“The other one said they were here to rob me. If that were true, I figured you'd know them. Tried to con their way in, actually, a little more involved than a smash and grab, though it was a poor attempt. They were definitely scared of you.”

“Glad to hear someone in here fuckin' is.” Conrad closed the distance to me with slow, casual steps. “We'll see about the door. Now, what have you found out?”

I grinned at him innocently. “Oh?”

“You wouldn't have called me down here unless you wanted to do your little dance, and if you didn't think I should care about it.”

I chuckled. “Over here.”

I held the broom out in front of me, and walked to my desk. The moment I heard the tap of wood on wood, I leaned over and picked up the double-barrelled boomstick in one hand, and the simple powder and ball pistol that the other man used. “Certainly the weapons a thief might use. The pistol can be picked up in the right market for two or three silver bits.”

I put the pistol down and pat the pipe weapon. “Slam-fire, up-close weapon. The shot seems to just be shrapnel, so I suppose you don't have to be particularly accurate. Cheap, easy to make, cheap powder in the shots.”

I pointed the broom handle at the man again. “His clothes smell like refuse and cheap tobacco, which he had in his pockets. But...”

I held up the scrap of paper laying next to the pistol. Conrad took it from me and grunted. “Doesn't prove they're any more than thieves. Anyone who knows you could give him directions, or draw a map like this one.”

“Normally I'd agree, but in this case I can't. What's it written in?”

“Eh?”

“What did the person use to write the note and draw the map?”

Conrad paused. I could imagine the reluctant smirk, then the frown at the implication of what he was looking at. “Ink, when most everyone down here uses charcoal. Neat, clear writing.”

He sighed, and didn't say anything for a moment. “I suppose you'll be wanting new digs, will ya?”

“Not just yet. Whoever tried for me is unlikely to let the matter be.”

“Ah...” Another drag on the tobacco wrap, deeper.

“Those'll kill you.”

“Shut it. So … a trap, yeah? That's your plan?”

“Something along those lines.”

“Right...” Conrad finished his wrap and stamped it out on my floor. Before I could speak, he growled: “I'll pick it up in a minute. Honestly, you'll fuckin' kill me before the fags do.”

I suppressed my smile. I'd trained him well, in my own way.

He paced. “Right … I can put a couple of my more discreet lads nearby. If someone tries to finish the job, they'll come to your rescue.”

“I'll try not to be too much of a damsel in distress.”

Conrad grunted. “I want to know just as much as you do.” Then, with the striking of a match and a puff of fresh, tar-tinted tobacco smoke, he was gone.

He wasn't helping me out of any goodness of heart. Con knew that if someone got to me, the racket he ran on the squashed neighbourhoods would fall apart quickly. Protection from someone unable to protect was worthless. Not only that … if I died, one of the only people trying to do a measure of right by the people here, his reputation would plummet.

What came next would be as quick and decisive as possible. I knew that all too well. As the smell of Conrad's tobacco smoke slowly faded away, my jaw tightened until beyond pain. I could hear the predator rustling the leaves, panting and drooling. It was poised, ready to pounce.

***

Hours passed in relative silence. The empty doorway yawned onto the dust-strewn street, where footsteps heavy and light passed by, adding rhythm to scattered and slurred conversations, without a care for the dark, broken home. Such was hardly out of the ordinary down here.

Anyone might simply have thought it abandoned, but not my predator.

I slipped into a kind of trance as I considered the entity bearing down on me. Whoever it was covered their tracks as best they could. Proxies were well chosen: random thugs and thieves, likely poor, likely offered a little bag of bits for simply robbing a blind man. The benefactor had known or guessed that I would resist, and catch lead for my trouble.

Quiet. That was my first impression. Wealthy was the second. Very careful, planning for contingencies, capable of predicting my moves.

Which meant that they knew I was here, now, waiting for them.

Certainly they had more useful and efficient tools to kill than a pair of dimwits and a bag of money. All I had was a cane, and a pair of Conrad's hopefully-skilled heavies.

I swallowed. I was exactly where they wanted me to be. Cornered like one of the rats beneath the floor.

A footstep scraped over the dust.

Stopped in the doorway.

I held my breath.

“Well done, mister Eramir. Well done.”

The voice is silk and void. Ice and a knife-edge.

“I'll need to keep an eye on you, clearly. Not the usual nose poking into the nooks and crannies where the best work gets done. No. An oft underestimated nose, which makes you all the more dangerous.”

I gripped my cane tightly … so tightly. Tight enough to make my blood thump in my ears.

“You can be assured, Mr Eramir … I won't underestimate you. Nor will I allow you to interfere in my work. Take care. Live quietly. Remember how this could have ended for you.”

The silence stretched for a few minutes. There were no footsteps, no words, no scents. Even the air was still.

I contemplated the voice. Too high, too soft to be male. Too low and dark to be female. Quiet, without the need to whisper. Measured. Well-spoken. Certainly from a higher Tier than Seven. Far, far higher.

I waited, and waited, and waited. Time stopped. The minutes had no more meaning.

Until footfalls approached again. One, two, three sets. Then, a familiar puff of smoke from a tobacco wrap.

“The new door probably needs to be steel, Con,” I murmured from the shadows. “Steel, and reinforced.”

CONTINUED IN PART TWO, COMING IN A FORTNIGHT