He reviewed the tactics behind his choice of landing party. Separating Malvery and Pinn was the key. Pinn wouldn’t cause any trouble without the doctor’s back-up, and since Malvery was coming along, he didn’t care what happened to Pinn. Malvery was useful muscle and had a bluff charm that would play well, but the two of them together in a place like Retribution Falls would result in alcoholic carnage, sure as bird shit on statues.
Jez would also be useful. She was smart, observant, and she had eyes like a hawk. Plus she was the only sensible one among them. He didn’t count Crake. Crake dealt with daemons: nobody could say that was sensible.
But he had an ulterior motive in bringing Jez. He wanted to keep an eye on her. As grateful as he was that she’d saved their lives, he was suspicious. It puzzled him that the fumes hadn’t seemed to affect her, and her explanation was weak. He didn’t want to leave her alone on his aircraft. Not now she knew the ignition code. He wasn’t so sure he trusted her.
The others wouldn’t mind staying on the Ketty Jay. Crake, as he was never a freebooter, didn’t understand the legend and allure of Retribution Falls. He had no desire to see the place. Harkins didn’t like crowds or strangers. He’d rather be secure in his quarters, living in terror of the cat, who would wait for him to fall asleep before trying to suffocate him. And it would be too dangerous to take Silo. A Murthian would attract unwanted and hostile attention in a town like this. Besides, Silo had work to do. He needed to check over the Ketty Jay and repair any damage from the mines.
All in all, he had the whole thing figured out.
Not bad, Frey, he thought. That’s the sort of thinking a real captain does. That’s how to handle a crew.
He was in the mood for self-congratulation, despite his near-catastrophic failure to lead them through Rook’s Boneyard. The triumph of finding Retribution Falls outweighed all that. This must have been how Cruwen and Skale felt when they discovered New Vardia. He was an explorer now. Whatever happened after this, he had to admit, he felt more . . . well, more like a man than he ever had before.
In that moment when he pressed down on his guns and blew the Ace of Skulls into a flaming ruin, his life as he knew it had ended. Every day since then had been one clawed back. He’d been forced to fight every step. It was exhausting, and terrifying, and most of the time he hated it. But just sometimes, when he could snatch a rare instant of peace amid the chaos, he felt different. He felt good about himself. And it had been a long, long time since he’d felt like that.
They took the bridge from the landing pad to the nearest platform, and discovered that Retribution Falls was even more unpleasant up close, and a far cry from the legends.
The narrow streets were weathered and worn beyond their years. The marsh air ate through metal, twisted wood, and brought mould to stone. Everything flaked and peeled. Generators buzzed and reeked, providing the power for the lights that hung on wires overhead to stave off the gloom. It was cold, yet their clothes became damp and stuck to them. The smell of the marsh mingled with that of a thousand unwashed bodies.
Retribution Falls was stuffed with every kind of pirate, smuggler, fraudster and criminal that Frey could imagine. Every pub and inn was crammed to capacity. The streets were choked, the whores hollow-eyed and exhausted. Inside, the humidity and the heat of dozens of bodies made things uncomfortable. Drunken men with short tempers fought hard. Guns were drawn, and bodies fell.
There was a wildness here that he found frightening. It was a jostling, stinking pandemonium of rotted teeth and leering faces. Danger surrounded them. He found he actually missed the spectre of the militia. He liked his illegal doings to be conducted within the safety of an orderly civilisation. Total lawlessness meant survival based on strength or cunning, and Frey didn’t have too much of either.
They passed raucous bars and stepped over men lying in the thoroughfares, rum-soaked, unconscious and recently robbed. Malvery eyed up the bars as they passed, but without Pinn as his accomplice, he behaved himself and stuck close to his captain. Occasionally he’d shove someone out of their path; his size and fierce glare discouraged arguments.
‘Not quite the utopia I’d envisioned, Cap’n,’ Jez murmured.
Frey didn’t quite understand what she meant by ‘utopia’—it sounded like one of Crake’s words—but he got the idea.
‘All those craft, all these people,’ he said. ‘Doesn’t it seem like there’s far more pirates here than this place was built to hold?’
‘Certainly does,’ she said.
‘And what does that say to you?’
‘Says they’re being gathered here for something.’
‘That’s what I thought,’ he replied.
The market was a little less crowded than the streets and bars, but not by much. It sat on a platform all of its own, linked by bridges to several of its neighbours. Oil lamps hung from the awnings of rickety stalls, adding a smoky tang to the already fouled air. Their flickering light mixed uneasily with the electric bulbs hanging overhead, casting a strange glow on the heaving sea of faces that surged beneath.
Malvery pushed his way through the crowd, with Frey and Jez following in his slipstream. The stalls they passed were guarded by shotgun-wielding heavies. There were all manner of wares for sale: trinkets and knick-knacks, hardware, boots and coats, navigational charts. Dubious fried meats were offered to hungry shoppers, and someone was roasting chestnuts nearby. The noise of yelled conversation was deafening.
‘You get the impression that this has all got a little out of control?’ Jez screamed in Frey’s ear.
Frey didn’t hear what she said, so he nodded as if he agreed, and then replied, ‘I think whoever’s running this show, they’ve let things get a bit out of control!’
Jez, who also hadn’t heard him, said, ‘Definitely!’
Frey spotted a stall on the edge of the market platform, where the traffic wasn’t quite so oppressive and it was possible to see the darkening marsh in the background. One of several signs that hung from its pole-and-canvas frontage declared:
Breathe the Free Aire! Filters 8 Shillies!
He tapped Malvery on the shoulder and steered him over. The storekeeper saw them coming and perked up. He was a thin, ginger-haired man with an enormous, puckered patch of scar tissue that ran across one side of his face. It looked like he’d been mauled by a bear.
‘How did you get that?’ Frey asked conversationally, indicating the scar.
‘How did I get what?’ the storekeeper asked, genuinely puzzled.
Frey thought a moment and then let it drop. ‘These filters you’re selling. They’d protect us against the bad air in the canyons?’
The storekeeper grinned. ‘Guaranteed. Did your old ones let you down?’
‘Something like that.’
‘That’s rough, friend. Well, you can rely on these.’ He pulled one out of a crate behind him and put it on. It was a black metal oval with several breathing-slits that fitted over the mouth and nose, secured over the head by a strip of leather. ‘Wo wetter n orb wetwibooshun bawls.’
‘What?’
The shopkeeper took off the mask. ‘I said, no better in all Retribution Falls.’
‘Okay. I need seven.’
‘Eight,’ Jez corrected. When Frey and Malvery both looked at her, she said: ‘The cat.’
‘Right,’ said Frey. ‘Eight. Give me a discount.’
‘Six bits.’
‘Three.’
‘Five.’
‘Four.’
‘Four and eight shillies.’
‘Done.’
‘You won’t regret it,’ the storekeeper promised, as he began counting out filters from the crate. ‘First time in Retribution Falls?’