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Things are quiet. It’s putting Carlos on edge.
He normally likes the quiet. It’s where he does his best work: waiting, listening, his ears fine-tuned to every slight shift in the air around him. The room they are squatting in is square and suffocating, moulded that way by Magpie, the walls cobbled together from pages and wooden shelves, the windows nothing but jagged holes carved out of the cross-hatches. One of these windows casts a box of moonlight on to the floor just beyond Carlos’ feet. He is sitting against the wall with his tail curled around himself. With Porcelain Pete resting, he thought it wise to have someone with keen hearing close to a window, keeping watch.
The automaton is box-shaped, the melted gold in the cracks of his freshly-repaired porcelain winking at Carlos from countless places. Pete has taken quite a beating, but it is apparently what he is made for. Now he is still and silent, shutting himself off to the world in the robot equivalent of a well-earned nap. On the other side of the room, on Carlos’ right, Maureen Quickfoot is gazing out of another window, twirling a gold coin deftly between her fingers. Her shape is easy to pick out, even in the gloom: she is an elf, made of sharp points.
A night like this, on the streets of Donlon, so still and full of possibility, is Carlos Huispas’ dream come true. So it is really rather inconsiderate of the elderly hobgoblin to be interrupting it.
Cheeky Dustbins is pacing back and forth like a caged animal. He is doing a good impression of one, too, blowing out air through his nostrils and grinding his teeth together, with a tight expression like he wants to take a bite out of something but is too afraid to commit. The floorboards groan under his weight, his worn shoes parading him back and forth in a ceaseless rhythm. Every so often, his figure casts a shadow over Carlos, and then it moves on again.
‘I’ll smooth this all over,’ he is saying. ‘It’ll be fine. Easy, even. I’ll just talk to the Krags, explain the situation, appeal to their…their better nature. Their old man certainly had one. There must be one buried somewhere inside them, too. Yeah. I’m sure of it.’
He glances down at Pete, whom Carlos assumes he usually directs all this monologuing at. Pete is dead to the world, unresponsive.
‘After we do this job, I’ll be sorted. I won’t even have to talk to them. I can buy my way back in. Like…like a true Krag. They’ll understand that. They’ll appreciate it, I bet. Appreciate me taking initiative. Thinking like one of them. Because, when it comes down to it, I am one of them, aren’t I? Once I have this money,’ Cheeky mutters. ‘Once I have this money, everything will be all right.’
‘You don’t sound very certain,’ Carlos observes. He feels even less certain on Cheeky’s behalf.
‘Okay, well, maybe I’m not. Not yet. I think it’s my mind, you know, still in fight or flight mode. It’s still prepared for the worst case scenario when the logical side of my brain knows that’s not going to happen.’
‘...Right. Of course.’
The old man pinches the bridge of his nose.
‘Fucking hell, take me back a few decades,’ he sighs. ‘Didn’t have to worry about this sort of thing back then. We were the Mobgoblins, you know? None of these power struggles or fucking…Krags going rogue. Just me, and John Nipples, and Albert, and Esme, and the twins, and…D’you know, Phil and Grant Krag, they were the most adorable little kids? I was their Uncle Cheeky, I was. And then they grew up, and they became…well. Bastards, if you don’t mind me saying.’
Carlos nods. ‘I know. I know.’
‘You don’t know, though.’
‘No, I don’t. I was, um, trying to make you feel better.’
Cheeky sighs again. ‘Yeah. Thanks, mate.’
He probably could do with a chair to collapse into, but there aren’t any in the room.
‘Do you know, I reckon in another life, me and Albert kept the band going. Just us and our fiddles. Maybe we’d have gone to the West End.’
‘The fiddle?’ Maureen’s voice is cold and clear, like cut glass. ‘You play the fiddle?’
Cheeky’s head snaps to her, clearly having forgotten she was there. ‘I used to. Not anymore. Why?’
‘My wife used to play the fiddle.’
Now he turns to look at her, hands on his hips. He snorts. The harsh sound makes Carlos instinctively shuffle closer to the wall, taking his tail in one hand and pulling it close to him. He would curse himself for the show of weakness, if either of his associates were looking at him.
‘Your wife?’
Maureen crosses her arms. ‘Yes.’
‘Well, isn’t that sweet?’ Cheeky’s tone very much suggests otherwise. ‘Isn’t that wonderful? See, here you are waxing lyrical about wanting blood, when you have a happy little life waiting for you back home!’
Maureen’s entire body tenses. She stares at the old man. The disbelief in her wide, gleaming eyes quickly ignites into rage. For a moment Carlos worries she might pull a weapon, but all she does is take a step forward. The floorboards don’t creak under her weight; the perfectly placed tip of her heel taps once against the wood like the claw of a predator.
‘Watch your tone,’ Maureen says.
‘Or what?’
She opens her mouth to answer, but Cheeky does not let her.
‘You and your Carnabal,’ he growls, ‘you live in a world where everything’s all song and dance and love and rainbows. You have no idea what it’s like out here. You’re all one big happy family, aren’t you? All holding hands and providing for each other. You’ve never been hungry. Never been cold, or lonely. You’ve never had to fight for anything, and you think you’re so much better than the rest of us because of it. You…’
He seems to run out of steam for a moment. The silence is filled by his hoarse, bitter laughter.
‘You’re a dancer, for fuck’s sake. What good are you going to be against the bloody Mob?’
Maureen takes a tight, angry breath. She keeps her composure even as the taller hobgoblin leers over her, snarling. Cheeky hasn’t seen what she can do. Neither has Carlos, admittedly, since he wasn’t with her either during the attack. But he is able to observe these things. Assess an individual’s capability, to measure how effective they may be as an opponent or even an ally. He imagines that Cheeky, experienced as he is, will have some of the same skills, but his mind is not in a state to employ them.
‘You said yourself that you want no part in this. So, d’you know what? I think you’d be better off if you went.’
Now, finally, Cheeky deflates a little. His hands are clenched fists. He sighs.
Maureen is still wound tight. ‘I–’
‘I mean it. Go home. Be with the one you love. Your…your family. Not all of us have such a luxury. I wouldn’t be so willing to waste it.’
‘I can’t do that.’
‘And why not?’
‘Because my wife is dead,’ Maureen says. ‘She was killed. By Mobgoblins.’
Silence.
Carlos freezes. He and Maureen watch the blood drain from Cheeky’s bright red face, turning it a raw shade of pink.
‘I…’
There is nothing he can say to that. Cheeky Dustbins may be a man of the people, but he is not always a man of words. He talks a lot, certainly, but most of it is friendly hot air. Even after spending so little time with him, Carlos thinks it is obvious. It may work on the Mob, but his current associates are cut from a very different cloth. And what comfort could words offer, regardless, from a man who calls those murderers his family?
‘I need to think.’
That is all he comes out with. His sick, three-eyed cat paces anxiously near the door. The wooden slats that used to be bookshelves jutting out from the wall make the moonlight fall over the creature’s body in jagged layers. As if happy to have an excuse, Cheeky lopes over to the door. He glances once at the sleeping Pete before he opens it. A flash of moonlight, the creaking of old hinges, a flick of the cat’s tail, and they are both gone.
With a sigh, Maureen hangs her head. She isn’t remorseful – and so she shouldn’t be, Carlos thinks – but she looks tired. Silently, he watches her turn on her heel. She takes a few heavy, halting steps, and then collapses against the wall, sitting with her back against it and her knees drawn up to her chest. Her eyes are glassy and dark, like any tears that might fall have been long since swallowed down and locked inside.
Maureen catches him staring. She narrows her eyes.
‘Is there a problem?’
‘Not at all,’ Carlos replies quickly, keeping his voice even. ‘It is quite a small room. Forgive me. There is not much else to look at.’
He sneaks those two words into his speech — forgive me — wherever he can. It is all he wants in the end, to be forgiven. It also sets him up as someone humble. Someone who never assumes he is above anyone else. A little meekness goes a long way.
Maureen scoffs. ‘Why are you here, Carlos?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You’re a Mudlark,’ she says. ‘I thought you lot were all about simple living. No kind of life that requires that amount of money, certainly.’
‘You’re Carnabal,’ he replies. ‘I thought you didn’t get involved in street matters. So why are you here?’
A light goes off in her eyes. Cheeky’s words clearly left a mark. Carlos truly doesn’t mean to rub salt in the wound, but saying he isn’t curious would be a lie.
‘I was Carnabal. Not anymore,’ she says icily.
‘Oh. My apologies.’
‘You’re right, though. That was one of our principles. And I’m more vindicated in that judgement every second I spend out here. Now answer my question.’
‘Answer mine.’
‘I asked first.’
Carlos sighs. ‘I am…in some difficulty with regards to the church. This money could help. That’s all.’
‘That’s all?’
‘Yes. That’s all.’ He makes sure to bare his teeth a little. ‘Now you.’
It takes her a moment. The pinch of her brow makes Carlos realise that she isn’t just thinking of a way to phrase what she wants to say, but thinking of a reason to give in the first place. It puts him instantly on his guard.
‘I don’t know,’ she says eventually. Her voice is small. A little helpless. ‘Bored, perhaps. And that kind of money could help anyone out of anything, you know? I…’
Maureen sighs.
‘If she were here, it’d be different. I’d know what to do. But I suppose if the Krags are really coming after us, whoever they send…I might as well take the opportunity to chalk a few more names off my list.’
Carlos twitches an ear. ‘List?’
‘I have a list. All the Mobgoblins I swore to kill.’
‘Oh.’
She is thoughtful, Carlos muses. Determined. Whatever happened to her, at least it hasn’t broken her mind. Quite the opposite, in fact. It seems to have sharpened it to a fine point, a single goal. Her determination is admirable, if a little frightening.
A thought strikes him.
‘Señor Dustbins. Is his name on your list?’
‘Yes.’
‘…And are you going to kill him?’
‘Yes.’
‘Okay. When?’
‘Why does it matter?’
‘I just mean…you know. After we get paid, or…?’
‘Fucking hell. Sure. Fine.’ She folds her arms. ‘I’ll try not to inconvenience you.’
Carlos knows that this is none of his business. He has his own job to do. However, depending on how things turn out, a fast death at the hands of Maureen Quickfoot might be preferable for Cheeky Dustbins – the poor bastard – than meeting his end at the claws of the Krags.
The air is still heavy. Expectant. He should say something else.
‘I am sorry about your wife.’
Maureen’s head snaps up. Her eyes meet his. Perhaps she wasn’t expecting that. Or perhaps she was, and just isn’t sure she trusts it.
Carlos sits up. He decides to not let it deter him.
‘What was her name?’
She shoots him a what’s it to you? look, and he holds up his hands in surrender. He isn’t that curious.
‘…Her name was Chlorine.’
‘That’s pretty.’
‘Yeah. Yeah, she was.’
It is true that the fey court of the Carnabal tend to keep to themselves. Their community is self-sustaining, which means they have very little need to fraternise with other factions. It might seem surprising that certain gangs would let them get away with this refusal to make allies, especially during times of unrest, but even criminals appreciate entertainment. By performing for them, the Carnabal earn their keep – and their freedom.
As an informant, Carlos has been dying to know what it is like behind the scenes. The church teaches its faithful about the other factions of Donlon, so they might understand how best to engage different people in following the Flow. Regarding the Carnabal, the consensus seems to be that they are beyond saving. Their frivolous lives, full of celebration and excess and noise, are greatly frowned upon by the Underground. He wonders what they will think, once his mission is complete, about him fighting side by side with one of them.
Pete has not stirred once, even with the raised voices. Carlos glances over at him, cube-shaped. He wonders if he can switch off his ears.
Across the room, Maureen is tracing the grooves in the wooden floor with the tip of her blade. Carlos’ own ears perk up at the sound of scraping metal.
He wants to ask her about Chlorine. Ask her what they got up to. For himself, yes, but also because he wonders if talking might help her.
The temptation is there. But they are two very different people who only met a couple of days ago, and Carlos doesn’t want to follow in Cheeky’s giant footsteps by reopening old wounds. They are in enough danger being associates as it is. His questions will have to wait.
‘You know,’ he says instead, ‘in the Mudlark church…’
She rolls her eyes, but he goes on.
‘In the Mudlark church, we believe that all life is energy transferred from the Flow. At birth, it is borrowed. In death, it is returned, given back to the great cycle where it will, one day, begin again.’
‘I thought putting bodies in the Flow was sacrilege.’
‘The flesh, yes. Not the spirit.’ Carlos is used to praying over bodies, beseeching the Flow to help the soul find its way. ‘The spirit finds its own way home.’
‘So…Chlorine is in the water?’ Maureen says, like it’s a ridiculous idea.
But he has her listening. So he reaches beneath his shirt and pulls out the vial of Flow water he keeps on a string around his neck. It sparkles in the moonlight as he holds it out between them.
‘This…’ His voice is slower now, descending into a low, practised rhythm. ‘This is the purest thing in this world. The Flow is energy. It is life. It is everything and everyone. It is the single thing that unites us all, a divided city though we may be. It is the power that makes us who we are. Maureen, every time you use that power, every spell you cast…it is her. She is with you, as are all who came before her.’
Maureen looks at the floor. ‘That sounds like a big responsibility.’
‘I know.’
‘...Don’t tell me I have to try and do good with it.’
The dismay in her voice almost makes Carlos laugh. ‘In theory, yes. But these are strange times. Circumstances differ. The way I see it, we can only go as far as we are able.’
Carlos supposes he is lucky. He has no family to feed, no comforts. No steady income. Any of these things could be seized or destroyed in an instant. They would make him vulnerable.
He cannot pretend to know the tragedy Maureen has suffered, but he does know loss.
‘I had someone too,’ he says.
‘Yeah?’
‘Alejandra.’ He smiles. ‘She loved your performances. By which I mean, the theatre. The Carnabal. She thought they were wonderful. Wanted to make her own name on the stage.’
He looks over at Maureen, and sees the ghost of a smile on her face. ‘Did she make it?’
‘I don’t know. I hope so.’
‘I don’t.’ The smile vanishes. ‘For her sake. Foul business.’
‘Is it?’
‘Mhm. Chews you up. Spits you out.’
Carlos’ fingers coil tighter around the vial. He chuckles. It is a tight, laboured sound, forced through gritted teeth.
‘I suppose some things are the same. Underground and above.’