Chương 30: Chapter 29 – Deal with the Devil

Passage had only ever known there to be two paths between the Gutters and Glasshill; the switchback stairs and the elevator. Tallow's men escorted them down a third. The secret path must have been close to where they were taken, because they didn't walk for long. The men placed a sack over each of their heads to blind them and tied their hands behind their backs. Rage and shame curdled in Passage's gut. They'd been stupid. Careless. Arrogant. All the flaws he'd derided in Cinder and Pike.

All the ways in which they'd seen themselves superior. His jaw ached, teeth clenched, biting back his tears and temper. The knife at his back did not hold him in check nearly as much as the threats made against his friends. They could fight. Good chance some of them would get away. But not all. So, Passage obeyed, and the others did the same. All except Torvin. Passage heard him snarl and swear. The sounds of feet kicking against stone. Then the sound of wheezing and vomiting and cruel men laughing.

They all went along quietly after that. Though the hood mostly blinded Passage, it was not perfect. He could see a faint blur through the rough weave, the impression of lights as he moved past them. They were escorted down a few narrow streets and into a darkened building. Down a flight of winding stairs into somewhere cold that smelled of dust and old things. The walls sounded close, the space small, and a hand forced his head down as he was guided through a low doorway.

Then came the quiet whisper of air passing by, and the sense of the ground falling out beneath him. A secret lift, somewhere in the bowels of the redlight district. Of course there was. They'd been fools to think themselves outside Tallow's reach just because they were in the upper city. Worse, they'd been exactly what they should have known themselves to be. Children. Naïve, and wading into waters too dark and too deep for them to swim in. They were bundled into a boat with more cuffing and swearing.

The part of Passage that was still more furious than afraid whispered that he ought to try and capsize the boat. He ignored it, remembering too well how it felt to drown. There was no point in the hoods once they were out atop the lake. None of them harboured any doubts about where they were headed. But torment is a purpose in itself, he supposed. The fruit of cruel labour, and Tallow's men plied their trade well.

They made land again, bundled onto the dock, and Passage knew they'd arrived by the muffled sound of music. They must have entered Silk's Laundry through a rear door. They must have passed through halls meant only for staff and insiders because the sounds of the tavern remained muffled. He was glad for that at least. Better to disappear quietly than be paraded before drunks and spat on before they met their end.

Down they went, another winding narrow staircase leading deep beneath the surface, seemingly into the bowels of Thulmor itself. Passage left the last of his rage on the surface. In the dark below, he knew only fear and regret. They reached a chamber at the bottom of the steps and rough hands guided Passage through cramped halls. He hoped the others were still with him, and this wasn't some way of separating them each into cells.

Only the shuffling of so many feet gave him any confidence that they were all still together. Finally, they came to a room, warmer than the others. The stone floor became wooden boards. Light filtered through the sack over his head, something bright to Passage's left. He was forced into a chair, a blade held to his throat while his hands were untied and retied, binding him in place. There he sat, silent and waiting, for long minutes.

The passing of time was hard to track with only his thundering heart and rasping breath to measure by. He could hear quiet sobbing to his right. It sounded like Ressa. Sable never cried, not in a way that sounded hurt or scared. None of them spoke the whole time they waited. For once, even Bracken was silent. But then, of course he was. There was nothing to be said. No scene to make, no cards to play, and no bargain to be struck. The five of them had gambled, and they had lost.

"Tsk, get those bags off their heads," a bored voice ordered. An older man's, dry and businesslike. The speaker walked past them and dragged a chair across wooden boards. The bag was torn from Passage's head, and he blinked hard at the sudden brightness. An Implement blazed in a fireplace beside him, a piece of cloth that fluttered in an unfelt breeze, dancing like a flame that did not burn. It bathed the chamber in heat and light. The others were similarly bound to chairs on either side of him.

Two men, different from the ones who'd brought them, removed the bags from the others and stepped back. Above them, hanging from the rafters were more dim lights trapped in glass, their radiance soft and low. The walls were dressed in art; portraits and paintings and trophies claimed from slain Hollows. None of it registered to Passage. Not really. Not compared to the demon sitting behind the desk. Dark hair retreating from a widow's peak. Faint grey at the temples. The man's face was unremarkable.

Thin, absent fat for a man who traded in excess. Bad teeth, crooked and grey. Cold eyes, hooked nose, and a sharp and narrow chin. If he was Planetouched, he hid his Stain well. He did not clothe himself in decadence, or dress himself in threats. He wore a simple business suit. Well-tailored, crisp and neatly pressed. He did not bother looking at them for several long minutes, too busy writing sums in a book, bored with the whole affair.

"We didn't do –" Bracken broke the silence first. Tallow, because it had to be Tallow, held up a finger for silence and kept writing out his sums. Bracken's voice was immediately silenced. Passage glanced at his smallest friend. Veins bulged along Bracken's neck, and his mouth yet worked, but no sound came out. He looked about, eyes wild, clearly trying to shout. Not even the smacking of his lips or rasping of his breath could be heard. Before long, he stopped trying and waited with the rest of them.

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"The Wyrms, is it?" Tallow finally closed the book he'd been writing in and regarded them with the same faintly amused condescension usually reserved for small children doing something cute and vaguely stupid.

"With a 'y' instead of an 'o'. Clever name. Quite funny, truly." None of them knew how to respond to that. Not even Bracken.

"Untie them and then fetch them each a drink, we can be civilised about this," Tallow ordered, still drily amused. One of his men leapt to obey while Tallow continued talking.

"Let me spare you the questions. I know about you. Each of you. I know about the people closest to you. I know where you drink, where you sleep, whom you love. And I've known you were hiding at the Last Step since the night you killed my men. I know everything about you that matters, and all the ways that I can hurt you. I don't like trading in threats. They're vulgar. But I trust a clever bunch like you can all understand what will happen if we can't reach an accord here tonight?"

"Nothing good," Sable said, voice shaky.

"Nothing good," Tallow agreed, still politely disinterested in the whole affair. A businessman calculating taxes.

"What do you mean, an accord?" Bracken asked, freed of his magical silence.

"You killed two of my men. You cost me a valuable Caller and a powerful Implement. I think we can all agree that I am owed a debt."

"That's not true," Passage began to refute him. Patrick had been there. Things had gotten out of hand. They'd never meant for anyone to die. Tallow held up another finger and Passage's voice abandoned him.

"Let's not waste one another's time. From here out, each time one of you tries to deflect blame, or tell me that I have the wrong idea, I will have Matthew over there cut a finger off one of the others. I said I don't like threats, not that I won't make them." Matthew, presumably, shifted his jacket to show an oversized knife sheathed at his belt. Passage didn't doubt the sincerity of that promise. Tallow continued.

"Now, you all seem to want to be a gang, even have yourselves a shared tattoo now. Very official. Very serious of you. So, I will treat you as such. I am owed for two valuable assets. You can either pay in blood or in service. Tell me which two of your number you're happy to give up, and the other three can walk. Otherwise, you can work off your debt." The second guard finally undid Passage's restraints and pressed a glass into his hands. Passage found he wasn't thirsty. He glanced at the others.

Bracken's eyes glinted and his face burned pink as he sullenly rolled down his sleeve to cover the fresh tattoo. Torvin sneered past a split lip, blatantly sizing up the closest guard. Sable downed her drink in one gulp, refusing to let her fear show. Ressa stared Tallow down with tearful resolve, no doubt ready to offer herself up to pay his blood price. Passage loved them all dearly, but he didn't trust a single one of them to dig up from the bottom of the hole they'd fallen into.

"Work it off how?" Passage asked before any of the others could speak. His voice was steady, his fear in check. He found he'd smuggled a little bit of hatred down there with him after all.

"Well, that's up to you. There's always work at the Laundry for the young and beautiful. I could find a place for some of you there, but I think that would be a waste of your collective talents," Tallow mused, hands steepled.

"Our talents?" Bracken asked, caught between shame and ego. Now was not the time to imagine themselves in the opening verses of a myth. Passage tried to fire him a warning look, but Bracken's eyes were fixed on Tallow.

"Of course. The five of you, scarcely more than children and not a single Stain between you, killed a Caller and a wielder. On top of that, you survived an attack from a Twice-Stained Hollow. Granted, Pike was a halfwit and Cinder a rabid dog, but they had power and you did not. The fact that you are all still alive and relatively unharmed speaks volumes." Passage would sooner have believed a whore thought him handsome than buy Tallow's praise, but he could see no other rope on which to climb out of that pit.

He only hoped it was not a noose.

"What do we have to do?" he asked. No sense pretending they would even consider the other options. Nor that this was a negotiation. The room may have been richly dressed, the knives sheathed, drinks offered, but Passage refused to engage in pantomime. They either obeyed, or they died, and a choice like that was no choice at all. Tallow's small grin twitched, the first flicker of anything genuine in his expression. He seemed satisfied.

"First, let me be clear. This is a chance for us to start fresh, to wipe clean the slate. You will work for me, and I will look after you as I do all my employees. You'd hardly be the first in my organisation guilty of murdering their peers, but any enmity must be left behind us starting now. I will task you with a job, you will deliver on it, and I will pay you well. I am of the opinion that cleverness and hard work should be rewarded. If you do well, you'll find you can go far in my organisation.

Treasures to Stain the soul and Implements to empower you are among the least of what I can offer if you prove yourselves deserving."

"Just tell us what we need to do," Passage demanded, voice even. He refused to look at Bracken, afraid to see just how tempted he might be. There was no promise Tallow could make that would lure them back here. They would say what needed saying to reach the surface unharmed, and then they would quit the town. There were other cities, other places to build a life for themselves. Tallow swirled the liquor in his glass and nodded, acknowledging Passage's tacit agreement.

"Quite simple really. The Silver Chalice trading company – I believe you're familiar with them, Bracken – is importing a shipment of goods bound for the Wardens. The five of you will steal that shipment and deliver it to me." Bracken stiffened, statue still.

"And if we can't?" Passage asked.

"Use your imagination, Passage. I already told you, I don't like making threats."

"Fine," said Passage, at last downing his drink. Bitter, smoky and strong, it tasted like an evening for regrets.

"You have yourself a deal."