Free Kultus by Richard Ford Page B

appeared to be a child’s playground in the most insalubrious part of town. Scruffy adolescents ran amok in a large room, whooping and screaming at each other like wild harridans. Their faces were filthy, but even the dirt could not mask their delight as they ran free, climbing, fighting and wassailing in a vast feral dance. It made Blaklok want to smile. He hadn’t seen so many bright and cheery faces in a long time.
    As soon they got to the room, the boy who had led him here disappeared into the throng. The children nearest to Thaddeus suddenly stopped their merry making and simply stared. The reaction spread throughout the room, as the children seemed infected by a wave of stillness that emanated from Blaklok. He and the children regarded each other for several seconds, until a shout of ‘Cut!’ rang out from the other side of the chamber. Instantly the children were in motion again, running for hidden exits and crawling through tiny rat holes.
    From the back of the room strode a rangy youth. He was dressed in a long coat that would once have been expensive, and he wore a battered pork pie hat, skewed at a jaunty angle. The Chiseller marched right up to Thaddeus and stopped, regarding him arrogantly as he chewed the inside of his cheek, as though assessing an intruder on his territory. Then, with a flourish, he grasped the hat from his head and bowed low.
    ‘Always an honour to have the great Thaddeus Blaklok in my house,’ he said. ‘How long’s it been? About five years?’
    ‘Chiseller,’ answered Blaklok with a nod. ‘Good to see you again.’
    The Chiseller beckoned Blaklok to the back of the room where there were chairs and even a makeshift table made from hammered together crates. Blaklok seated himself in one of the chairs and regarded the Chiseller with an appraising stare. The boy had grown since they had last met, and though he was barely out of his teens he ran one of the biggest rackets in the Cistern, all beneath the noses of the Chambers. He deserved respect, despite his youth.
    A young girl suddenly walked from the shadows, bearing a chipped teapot, and poured two cups of steaming brew. The Chiseller reached into his inside pocket and pulled out a rusty hip flask, pouring a generous draft into his own cup. He offered it but Blaklok raised a hand in refusal.
    ‘Oh, I forgot, you’ve changed your ways,’ said the Chiseller. ‘Healthy mind, healthy body and all that shit. Can’t see the point myself. Well,’ he raised the mug of tea and tincture, and blew the steam away, ‘what can I do you for?’
    ‘I need a name, is all.’
    ‘Well, names I can do.’ The Chiseller slurped at his tea noisily. ‘Any name in particular?’
    ‘A man was in the Cistern recently, asking about one of the nobs from up top, a landed Earl name of Beuphalus. He has something to do with a cult called Legion. I need to find him.’
    Chiseller snapped his fingers and a boy scurried forward. ‘Get me Snatcher,’ he ordered, and the boy quickly scampered away into the dark.
    The smile never left Chiseller’s face as he enjoyed his brew. Thaddeus merely sat and waited, listening to the sounds of the underworld as they dripped and squeaked and moaned all around him. Within seconds, two sets of footsteps approached from the gloom, and Blaklok could see that the boy was returning, accompanied by another urchin, this one gaunt as a cadaver, his hair shaved to the skull but for an inch long tuft at the front. The boy stopped by Chiseller’s side, head bowed.
    ‘Mr Blaklok here, he wants some information,’ said the Chiseller, not even bothering to look at the boy, who Thaddeus could only assume was Snatcher. ‘Remember you told me you got a crown for telling some bloke about one of the nobs?’ Snatcher nodded vigorously. ‘Can you remember who the bloke was?’ Snatcher glanced at Blaklok, then leaned forward and whispered in the Chiseller’s ear. A smile crossed his face as he listened to the boy, then, when he