Dark Iron King II: Arcadia Falls (Unreal Universe Book 5) Page 3

  Garth looked around for the weird little gearhead who’d scampered away as soon as Agnethea had appeared, intending to ask the gimp for directions to wherever the Obsidian Golem laid down her head at night. His heart beat a little faster and his mouth went dry the moment he thought of the woman, and he shook his head angrily.

  Had to be the Dark Iron gripping onto him tightly, fanning desires he didn’t want until they burned like bright embers.

  Garth turned to join the queue, listening to the people assembled around him, sorting and cataloguing the things they excitedly told one another they were going to do once they got past the doors and the guards.

  Ickford. In a pocket-world that was impossible to imagine, Ickford was –to listen to Barnabas- the only place that shouldn’t be.

  Which made the Kin’kithal warrior wonder one very curious thing.

  If the King had control of Cloud 2.0 –laughably called King’s Will-, why, then, would he allow it –and by extension, Agnethea the Obsidian Golem- to exist in the first place? A man with the power of nanotech at his whim, everything could be laid to waste with the snap of a finger.

  Garth turned his eyes broodingly up at Ickford’s walls. There was something strange about the place. And since he had at least two days while Barnabas dealt with his ‘task’, maybe he’d get up to some old-fashioned SpecSer-ing.

  The line shuffled forward.

  ***

  The first thing you noticed was the smell. You couldn’t help it. It wasn’t the kind of smell that sidled up gently beside you while you were walking around and it takes you five or six seconds of wondering whether you’re imagining things or if it really does smell weird.

  Ickford’s particular bouquet was an eye-watering, nose-searing assault on the senses. It crawled in through your nose and settled in, roosting somewhere inside you and made you feel like you were all-the-way dirty and nothing short of a bath in a river of hot magma would get you clean.

  “Christ on a sidecar.” Garth gagged. Fighting the urge to barf was almost as tough as the time he’d gone up against Gurant, only this time he was surrounded by people who’d take him yakking his guts out on a wall as a sign of weakness and come at him from sunrise to sunset, whereas before it’d just been the one guy. Ascending to twisted godhood and all, but still.

  Garth stepped out of the way of a troop of gearheads who came bustling in after him, narrowly avoiding getting stomped flat by a trio of guys who literally shook the earth with their footfalls. The itch under his armor grew stronger as he stared at the broad backs of the almost-Titan sized gearheads and the broad axes.

  “Which is fucking worse?” Garth muttered miserably to himself, inhaling several times in quick succession, literally trying to force his stupid olfactory sense to die a miserable death. “A Kin’kithal’s adaptive system or Dark Iron’s rage machine?”

  Both were total bullshit. They worked in precisely the same way, only he’d been accustomed to the Kin’kithal’s merciless, pitiless drive to remove all enemies from the playing field. Dark Iron was hungry and angry and wanted everyone dead. Not just those who presented themselves as dangerous, but everyone.

  Garth stood fully and did a quick check of the cityfolk who idled here and there in front of the shops nearest Ickford’s main doors. None of them were paying him any particular attention and as he stood there, three people fresh into Ickford actually did barf, one of them so badly that she fell into her own sick. That elicited chortles and hoots and generally made the poor girl feel like a social spastic, but it lightened Garth’s mood.

  “It’s the sewers.”

  Garth whirled, and there he was. Dinky Dinkerton, live and in the flesh, hopping back and forth from foot to foot like some kind of cartoon character. He was the smallest gearhead he’d ever seen, barely five feet tall. “Where’d you run off to?”

  “I … I owe Agnethea some money.” Dinky admitted guiltily. “Standing rule is, you can owe her and not pay so long as she don’t catch neither sight nor wind of you. When I realized who you was traveling with, well, I did figure she’d be out right quick, so off I hop-hop-hopped.”

  “That’s a terrible business model.” Garth cleared his throat, did a smell check and nodded. He was still picking up a faint whiff of the stink, but it was manageable now. If he ever intended on leaving Ickford –which he absolutely one hundred percent did- his skin would need flamethrowering for proper cleansing.

  “Agnethea’s an interesting sort.” Dinky hopped after Garth, who moved very fast. “Says it keeps her sharp.”

  Garth went full SpecSer mode, absorbing and analyzing everything around him; the streets and roads were made from cobblestones, the buildings eerily echoed the 18th and 19th century English style down to the last brick –the notable exception here was the lack of glass, which, given the nature of the men and women who lived within the walled city, was probably a good idea-, smoke curled out of every third or fourth structure.

  The alleyways between buildings looked too slim by half, so Garth made a mental note to avoid walking down them at all costs; all too often in cities like Ickford was proving itself to be, criminal enterprise ran rampant in the back streets and hidden corners, and he was willing to bet both his right and left nut that very second that there were some very talented, very specialized thieves and murderers that plied their trade on idiots who wandered down the wrong tight alley. With his armor on it wouldn’t take much to get stuck. After that, it didn’t matter how strong or tough you were, or even how good of a fighter. It’d be like shooting fish in a barrel, especially with the sorts of gearheads who called Ickford home.

  “The names Idle Eric, by the by.” Eric stuck out a hand, but the bigger fella was too busy staring about like he’d never seen himself a city before. Didn’t matter much, though, if the man traveling with Barnabas was a friendly sort or not; he was wearing a suit of armored gears worth more than the whole of the city. If he could figure out a way to get it off, well, he could pay Agnethea and the other Golems and that would be that. Then him and his crew of thieves could be allowed to ply their trade in peace, just like the old days, before things had gone … wrong with Luther.

  “Nickels.” Garth replied a minute or so later.

  If you were to extrapolate the rest of the place from the two or three blocks he’d seen so far, Ickford was a pretty standard city. Given the nature of the men, women and occasional thing that had taken up residence in the seedy cesspool, it was remarkably … not dangerous.

  Old-time frontiers-y, even: in the last fifteen minutes, he’d walked past three whorehouses, two bars, a kind of seedy hotel motel type joint, a clothing store, a tobacco store –which blew his mind so heavily that he’d almost stopped to haggle for honest-to-gosh stogies- and a string of residences with surly looking doormen standing at the entrances to each, blatantly displaying ‘items of discouragement’.

  “That’s an odd name, hey?” Idle Eric was having a hard time keeping up with Nickels. The man’s gait said he was bound and determined to walk through the whole of the city in an hour.

  “No weirder than being called Idle Eric or Twisted Mickel or Sally Ahoy.” Garth spied a post and angled towards it. Once there, he leaned against it and surveyed the crowd as they ebbed and flowed through the lanes on all sides.

  The weird little dink followed suit, choosing instead to squat low to the ground.

  Garth worked on ignoring the sudden realization that the little dude wasn’t a proper midget at all by quickly looking the other way, but the memory of the man’s Dark Iron deformity was seared into his brain; Idle Eric’s knuckles brushed the ground just as readily as the trio of giants, and that hinted at all kinds of awfully wrong things going on with the dude’s lower half.

  “What you doin’, mate?” Eric couldn’t wrap his head around what Nickels was up to. Even if you were a first timer to Ickford, you had a general idea of what you wanted, even if that one thing was getting yourself properly sozzled. Getting to Agnethea’s city was a challeng
e in and of itself. Few and far people made the journey without feeling the heat and pressure of a King or two or some of the other random beasties that roamed the wilderness.

  “Watching the crowd.” It was like watching a movie on the USS Enterprise’s holodeck. Everything about the place and the people and the scenario was straight from an old history book and it was playing out in front of him. Remove the obvious signs of heavy Dark Iron usage –Garth did his best not to blatantly stare at a guy who had a warped metal spike growing out the side of his head, a spike with metal burrs that chimed noisily every few seconds- and some of the other weird things that existed in Arcade City, and it was like the last thirty thousand years hadn’t passed.

  Well, now, that was a thing you did if you were a criminal. Or someone who was in trouble. “Which is it then, hey? Thief or robber? Or is you on the run from someone?” That were something Idle Eric could wrap his noggin around.

  “Hm?” There had to be some kind of police force. Somewhere. Everyone, even –especially- the gearheads who strolled side by side with normal people, were behaving far too well for their type. Traveling with Barnabas had been very instructive on uncovering the types of gearhead that worked on Kingkilling in the outermost ‘ring’ of Arcade City, and to a one, they were either twitchy spazzes who’d try to cut your face off if you sneezed weird or twitchy spazzes who’d dispensed with needing a reason to do unnecessary violence and just got right down to it.

  Yet, so far, there was none of that.

  The mystery that lay behind what an ‘Obsidian Golem’ was grew. The delicious-looking slip of a woman called Agnethea had radiated authority, but that was a thing you came by simply by being in a position of power long enough. Authority was one thing.

  Control was another entirely.

  Images of Meechy, screaming and shouting and burning hot to the touch and reeking of hot, scalding metal flashed through Garth’s mind. What was it about the Golems that so terrified men and women who could do for a King?

  “I asked, which is you, then? Criminal or is you on the run?” Eric didn’t like the look on Nickels’ face. Too pensive and thoughtful-like.

  “Neither.” Garth responded. “Never been to a city like this one before. Just getting acquainted with the place.”

  “Well, that’s why I’m here, squire.” Eric stood and proffered a deep bow for Nickels, who rolled his eyes. Undaunted, the wee man continued. “For a fee, I can show you the secrets and mysteries of Ickford. Why, there are places within these walls that few people know about. Hidden or forgotten entrances to the sublevels, areas underground long since abandoned! Boarded up buildings built over and disappeared! If that’s not your thing, we can take ourselves to Tinker Square, where Twisted Mickel himself does a tinker show every second day! See things you never thought to see!”

  “For a price.” Garth wondered if Idle Eric knew he was transparent, then decided that the wee man was probably quite good at his real job. Anyone new to Ickford was obviously so, making the man’s patent line of bullshit and his kindly offer of walking newbies through the city quite alluring; if all you’d ever known in your life were Estates, the hustle and bustle of this proto-England could be very off-putting, even to gearheads.

  “Well, now,” Eric wrung his hands together, that always worked, “if I were to do my job for free, squire, how would a fellow eat?”

  “Or,” Garth flashed Idle Eric a quick smile, “Pay off a debt to an Obsidian Golem.”

  Eric jumped backwards, face suddenly white. “Hey now! We don’t say them words inside the city! There’s some as get quite riled up.”

  Garth shrugged. “You were saying?”

  Eric stepped back in, even though he was suspecting he shouldn’t now. Nickels had come with Barnabas, a blacksmith who Eric knew through stories was the sort of bloke you left alone, and he had spent overlong talking with Agnethea, but the suit … Eric licked his lips. The suit was a treasure trove of wonder. The guns were also nice, but those were destined for his crew of thieves and back alley boys.

  That suit, sold on the sly to Harvard or Mickel, that would get him back in the green with Agnethea and hers lickety-split. From then on, well.

  Avoiding Luther and his wouldn’t be that hard, hey?

  “I was saying, squire, that it would be my honor to show you about the town.” Eric smiled as Nickels’ expression softened. He was in. He always got in. It was just a matter of time and effort, was all.

  “Sure.” Garth pushed off from the post. As much as he was loathe to get involved in a criminal enterprise that would surely end quite badly for any criminals involved, the ex-Specter supposed it was better to get all that shit out of the way first. If, as he expected, Idle Eric was trying to run a scam on him for his guns or his suit, then the resultant fisticuffs would be just the sort of thing to convince other people who might have future designs on his belongings to stay well away.

  “Sure, why not?” Garth gestured to the cobblestone road. “Lead on, Macduff.”

  “Hain’t this Macduff fella, squire. Name’s Eric. Idle Eric.” The diminutive thief said it real slow like for Nickels. “Now, is there summat you’d like to see?”

  “Actually, yeah, now you mention it.” Garth nodded. “Somewhere in this city there’s got to be some kind of law enforcement, right? Some … place … or whatever where criminals are dealt with?”

  “You want to see The Spinner?” Oh, this metal-clad bloke were surely a criminal if he wanted to see The Spinner in action. Were he and Barnabas up to something? The blacksmith had buggered off quick as anything once inside the walls, disappearing ’round a corner like a shot, leaving Nickels in his armor to stand around gawping like a fool, as sure a sign of a scam or con on the make as ever.

  A thrill of realization prickled through Eric. He calmed himself best he could, covering his startled motion by hopping for a second or two.

  Nickels and Barnabas were planning on moving in! Mayhap the blacksmith had grown tired of the traveling life and the two men were judging the competition. That were it. Barnabas was out hunting for shop space whilst Nickels, in his fantastic whirring armor, was going to get into it with the artificers. Oh, what a sight that would be. The last time someone had decided they could do for an Ickford artificer …

  But no. Eric needed the suit. As much as he’d love to see all those fantastic machines in use once more, Nickels would have to be divested of the suit before they made it to Tinker Square.

  “The Spinner?” That phrase evoked all kinds of images.

  “Aye, squire, The Spinner.” Eric pointed. “The road lay that way.”

  Garth almost said ‘Lead on Macduff’ again, just to bug Eric, but decided against it. Now he knew the con was on, forcing a collision of forces too soon would cause more trouble than he wanted.

  Besides, the wee scallywag was bound to be of some use between now and then.

  Garth followed after Idle Eric.

  ***

  Ordinarily, Agnethea wasn’t one for rooftops, but after watching Garth stroll through two blocks of her fair city like someone readying themselves to tear the place apart brick by brick and for no other reason than he could, she’d decided that watching both from far away and high up was the best decision for all parties.

  Through artfully made binoculars, Agnethea watched her quarry –whether he was friend or foe remained to be seen, though his blatant dislike of Barnabas did have him automatically closer to the friend-side- walk with Idle Eric.

  Blast. Agnethea put her binoculars away and tapped her lower lip thoughtfully with the fan she always carried with her. Idle Eric had undoubtedly seen Garth’s Geared Armor beneath the voluminous clothes –just as she had- instantly assessing it’s value as somewhere in the stratosphere, though there, their interest in both the man and the suit would diverge wildly; Eric would seek to bring the suit to either Mickel or Harvard so he might gain coin suitable to repay his debts.

  Either of Ickford’s most renowned artificers would pay dearly f
or a set of armor that so closely mimicked that of a Gearman it was almost eerie, so really, for Eric, it was just a matter of which man hated him the least.

  But where Eric would sell such a treasure, the Queen of Ickford had different desires.

  Still tapping a lip with the fan, Agnethea considered what to do; truthfully, it weren’t those gears and all the man wore, oh no, not at all. No, should the need for that which a Gearman wore arise, the Queen would simply track down one of them lawmen and take what she needed.

  No. Against all good judgment, she were well and truly interested in this Garth Nickels character more than anything else; should he prove himself to be no friend nor lapdog took of King Barnabas Blake in the next few hours within her city, then she might be of a mind to listen to the eventual request their most august monarch had suggested was en route.

  And if there were summat wrong with the man down below, and were it the sort of ailment she could cure or assist with, and he did prove himself to be as rough and tumble as he presented himself, then mayhap…

  Mayhap an exchange of goods and services would be in order, hey?

  But ‘tween there and here, lay Idle Eric and his crew of thieves and back alley misfits, hey?

  Garth would survive the attack.

  Of that, there was no doubt.

  Any man who could bring down a King on his own was a man who could handle himself under the worst conditions. The problem in letting him deal with Idle Eric and his crew alone left Garth open to too many injuries, too much damage to his Geared Armor, too much publicity. That would be bad for her, because the favor she intended on asking Garth for in lieu of payment for future services rendered was the sort of task requiring anonymity of the greatest sort.

  Sending in one of her minions would be just as bad, if not worse for her than in leaving Garth to his own devices. Word of a mysterious man in Geared Armor being directly protected by the ‘Queen’ of Ickford would reach the ears of the very person she needed Nickels’ help with before the last droplet of gearhead blood splashed to the grimy cobblestones, and that would be an ultimate disaster.