Free Kultus by Richard Ford Page A

had no other leads. I can’t imagine the Judicature, or the Noble House of Westowe will be too pleased with your progress so far.’
    She could have turned then. Could have left Surrey behind in this cesspit. But what did she have to lose.
    ‘All right, I’ll humour you this once. What’s his name?’

CHAPTER NINE
     
    As Blaklok moved through the shadows of the Cistern he felt oddly comfortable in the cloying environment. The cramped tunnels meant that danger could only come from in front or behind and the echoing passages would give plenty of warning if someone was trying to give you the slip… or get the slip on you. Despite its reputation for being a hive of cutthroats and weird beasts, it felt like home to Blaklok.
    There was one thing that he could not abide though, and that was the rats. Everywhere you looked they were just scurrying out of sight – that was if they even had the decency to scurry. Other times they would just sit and stare with their pink eyes, nibbling at the shit piled all around or fucking and fighting in plain view. Blaklok hated them, they were too quick by far and they stared at him. He hated being stared at by anything he could not stare out.
    Of course, the Cistern was home to rats of a different kind; scavengers and thieves forced from the streets of the Manufactory to the realms of subterranea. The gamins of the streets were one particular unwanted pest, and if caught they would be placed in the labour houses, locked away from the world to slave until they were old enough to be pressed into service elsewhere. But down in the Cistern, the urchins were allowed to run riot… within reason. Sometimes the Chambers would organise a cull if the ragamuffins got out of hand, but that had not happened for years.
    Most of these feral children fended for themselves or gathered in tight groups, but there was one gang that was organised, almost well enough to rival the lowliest of the Chambers. The Ring O’ Thieves, as it was known, was the eyes and ears of the Cistern. Its members would be quick to fleece the unwary, and even stooped to murder if the price was right, but they were loyal to one another and cared a great deal about the welfare of their fellows. It was this that Blaklok respected, and why he preferred to deal with them and not the Chambers.
    He knew the Thieves’ burrow well, and had always been made welcome in years past. He only hoped that there was still a member of the Ring who was old enough to remember him.
    As he crept up on the entrance to their lair in the dark, he could see the scraggy looking sentry they had posted nearby. The boy was young, nowhere near double figures, and he seemed a bit lax in his duties, more intent on fiddling with what was in his shabby trousers than watching out for danger.
    Thaddeus stuck to the shadows, his boots matching the beat of the water that wept from the brick roof of the tunnel. Before the boy realised, a meaty hand was clamped over his mouth. He struggled, his hand flashing from his torn and stained trousers to the blade in his pocket, but Thaddeus quickly clamped his arm in an iron grip.
    ‘Knock, knock,’ whispered Blaklok in the boy’s ear, and slowly removed his hand.
    ‘I ain’t got nuffin mister, honest,’ squealed the boy. ‘You can check me if you wants.’
    ‘I’m not interested in anything you’ve got,’ Blaklok replied. ‘Now, present me to the Chiseller, if he’s still top dog around here, that is.’
    The boy nodded eagerly as Blaklok released him from his iron grip, and quickly kicked a pile of stinking refuse aside to reveal a small metal grille, about four feet high. Two quick raps with a stick, followed by three slower ones and the grille popped open. The boy dashed in, and Blaklok stooped to follow, hearing the grille crash down with a clang behind him.
    The tunnel was cramped and Blaklok had to crouch low as he moved through it. It was hell on his knees but mercifully short, and came out into what first