Read Online City of Dreams and Nightmare by Ian Whates - Free Book Online
Authors: Ian Whates
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Tylus’s relief. Magnus had obviously acted promptly in contacting the department.
“I was told to produce this in the event of challenge, sir.” He handed the warrant to Goss.
The sergeant read it, his nostrils flaring as he did so, before slapping it back into the young Kite Guard’s hand without saying a word. After a final hate-filled glare, he managed, “Carry on,” before turning to stalk away.
A quick glance around the room showed a few ill-concealed smirks on some of his colleagues’ faces, and it occurred to Tylus that he wasn’t the only one who despised the sergeant. In fact, this little melodrama had probably done his status among the other officers no harm at all.
Would Goss contact Magnus? Probably not, and even if he did so, it seemed unlikely that he would dare to question specifics such as accessing the Screen.
Tylus resisted the temptation to dance an impromptu jig and instead, with as much dignity as his impatient feet would allow, strolled towards supply, to exchange his torn kitecape for a fresh one.
Hawkers and stallholders paused in the process of setting up their wares to stare at Tom as he raced past; this was the last thing he needed. Presumably he was in Blood Heron territory and the gang members were likely to know these market men and women, any one of whom could point them in the direction of a fleeing fugitive.
He slowed, forcing himself to be patient, to walk rather than run.
In doing so, he paid more attention to the market itself. Immediately in front of him was a veritable curtain of dead fowl. River ducks, by the look of them. Row after row of the things suspended by their feet from horizontal poles arranged one above the other, so that each line of downward-pointing beaks ended a fraction above the next pole. Tom counted five such poles in all and he wondered who would bother to buy ducks when they could just as easily go to the river and catch their own. A man and a woman, conservatively dressed, were busy hanging the final few birds from the bottom-most pole, tying their feet and attaching hooks to each and every one.
A sign stood beside them, written in bold hand with large, untidy script. Not that it meant anything to Tom, who couldn’t read. At that moment the man noticed him and looked up, smiling, before helpfully reciting a set patter which Tom suspected might mirror the sign’s message.
“Fresh off the river, caught in the early hours o’ this morning. We’ll even pluck ’em for you if you want.”
“Don’t be daft,” his wife said beside him. “That’s a street-nick; see the way he’s dressed? Only thing he’ll ever ’ave from a stall like ours is what ’e can pinch.”
Tom bowed his head and shuffled past, cursing his curiosity. He’d managed to draw attention to himself even without running.
He continued down the street, eyes fixed on the ground, refusing to look up, allowing his mantra to loop through his thoughts as he willed people not to notice him.
A little further on, when he judged enough of the market lay between him and the stairwell, he ducked down an alley to his left, between buildings that seemed taller and sturdier than those he was used to. The alley led to another avenue, which he stepped into without hesitation. He was conscious of figures in the street around him but paid them little attention, still concentrating on going unnoticed.
Then something in their gait, their posture, penetrated his awareness. He looked up, and found himself staring at a Jeradine. In fact, all the “people” in sight were members of that tall bipedal, reptilian race. Tom froze, his thoughts racing. If even half the rumours were true, a flathead was more likely to eat him than anything else. He’d seen the occasional one or two before, at a distance, but never this many and never this close. They kept themselves to themselves as a rule, rarely leaving their enclave, which he vaguely thought of as being somewhere over the far side of the city.
“I was told to produce this in the event of challenge, sir.” He handed the warrant to Goss.
The sergeant read it, his nostrils flaring as he did so, before slapping it back into the young Kite Guard’s hand without saying a word. After a final hate-filled glare, he managed, “Carry on,” before turning to stalk away.
A quick glance around the room showed a few ill-concealed smirks on some of his colleagues’ faces, and it occurred to Tylus that he wasn’t the only one who despised the sergeant. In fact, this little melodrama had probably done his status among the other officers no harm at all.
Would Goss contact Magnus? Probably not, and even if he did so, it seemed unlikely that he would dare to question specifics such as accessing the Screen.
Tylus resisted the temptation to dance an impromptu jig and instead, with as much dignity as his impatient feet would allow, strolled towards supply, to exchange his torn kitecape for a fresh one.
Hawkers and stallholders paused in the process of setting up their wares to stare at Tom as he raced past; this was the last thing he needed. Presumably he was in Blood Heron territory and the gang members were likely to know these market men and women, any one of whom could point them in the direction of a fleeing fugitive.
He slowed, forcing himself to be patient, to walk rather than run.
In doing so, he paid more attention to the market itself. Immediately in front of him was a veritable curtain of dead fowl. River ducks, by the look of them. Row after row of the things suspended by their feet from horizontal poles arranged one above the other, so that each line of downward-pointing beaks ended a fraction above the next pole. Tom counted five such poles in all and he wondered who would bother to buy ducks when they could just as easily go to the river and catch their own. A man and a woman, conservatively dressed, were busy hanging the final few birds from the bottom-most pole, tying their feet and attaching hooks to each and every one.
A sign stood beside them, written in bold hand with large, untidy script. Not that it meant anything to Tom, who couldn’t read. At that moment the man noticed him and looked up, smiling, before helpfully reciting a set patter which Tom suspected might mirror the sign’s message.
“Fresh off the river, caught in the early hours o’ this morning. We’ll even pluck ’em for you if you want.”
“Don’t be daft,” his wife said beside him. “That’s a street-nick; see the way he’s dressed? Only thing he’ll ever ’ave from a stall like ours is what ’e can pinch.”
Tom bowed his head and shuffled past, cursing his curiosity. He’d managed to draw attention to himself even without running.
He continued down the street, eyes fixed on the ground, refusing to look up, allowing his mantra to loop through his thoughts as he willed people not to notice him.
A little further on, when he judged enough of the market lay between him and the stairwell, he ducked down an alley to his left, between buildings that seemed taller and sturdier than those he was used to. The alley led to another avenue, which he stepped into without hesitation. He was conscious of figures in the street around him but paid them little attention, still concentrating on going unnoticed.
Then something in their gait, their posture, penetrated his awareness. He looked up, and found himself staring at a Jeradine. In fact, all the “people” in sight were members of that tall bipedal, reptilian race. Tom froze, his thoughts racing. If even half the rumours were true, a flathead was more likely to eat him than anything else. He’d seen the occasional one or two before, at a distance, but never this many and never this close. They kept themselves to themselves as a rule, rarely leaving their enclave, which he vaguely thought of as being somewhere over the far side of the city.
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