It left Dewar in no doubt that there were things going on in the City Below that neither Magnus nor, he felt certain, anyone else in the Heights suspected. This seemed far more than the usual petty squabbles and spats; something fundamental was changing. It bubbled just under the surface, a pressure which simmered and steadily built. However, none of this was his prime concern. Dewar hoped to be finished and well away before whatever was brewing came to a head. The boy was his prime concern and, to date, no one appeared to know anything on that score.
No, Martha was not his only source of information but she remained his most reliable one.
He frowned down at the small cup, which was virtually drained – he always preferred to enjoy the drink as piping hot as possible. Should he get a refill now or leave it for a minute, wait for the girl to appear?
Prompted by habit he looked around, checking his surroundings, making sure that everything was as it should be and nothing was out of place. All seemed to be in order. People continued to drift past in both directions, mostly with the casual, unhurried gait that spoke of routine rather than purpose. The curled-up figure two doorways down on the opposite side of the street still hadn’t moved and Dewar still couldn’t decide whether the man was dead or simply passed out, though he tended to favour the former. A scrawny black and tan dog trotted by, pausing to look up at the assassin, hoping for scraps, but not lingering. The mutt moved with a fluid grace that suggested a wholly natural origin rather than one owing any debt to the dog master’s tinkering.
Dewar’s attention was drawn back to the immobile man. He could have sworn he’d caught movement in the corner of his eye, though the body seemed to be in exactly the same foetal curl as before. The man was lying in front of a dilapidated and evidently unused building, a carcass of a dwelling; perhaps that fact influenced Dewar’s assumption that he was already dead.
A crippled girl approached him. She was hunched on a small, low wooden platform, a miniature cart made mobile by a quartet of oversized wheels, one per corner. She powered the cart with synchronised pushes from her two arms, reaching forward and hauling against the ground like an oarsman digging into the water to pull a rowboat forward. One leg was thrust out before her; a stump that ended at the knee, the truncated limb wrapped in a swathe of material which may once have been vivid green before it became so grimy. It was impossible to tell whether the other leg was whole or not, since it was folded beneath her as she sat. The girl, no more than ten or eleven, might have been pretty were it not for a scar which crossed her forehead diagonally above the left eye, ending at her ear. The ear was mangled and half torn off. It was clearly an old wound. She wore her hair pulled back, so that the scar was fully visible, displayed as if it were some sort of trophy. The conspicuous blemish made a vivid counterpoint to the girl’s amputated leg.
Dewar watched her approach with a mixture of amusement, fascination and surprise. Beggars were few in the City Below these days, had been since the Ten Years War which had ended generations before. He knew his history and was aware that tourism had flourished here before the conflict, but while the trade had re-established itself and even grown in other parts of Thaiburley, it had never really done so here, resulting in few pickings for the professional beggar, which this girl clearly was. Before the war, beggars had apparently been plentiful, organised into gangs in much the same manner as the street-nicks. In those days, it was not uncommon for mutilations such as the girl’s to be self-inflicted, or inflicted by the men behind the beggars at any rate. Surely no one still went to such extremes?
The girl reached him and came to a halt. “Please, sir, my mother’s sick, can you spare a few coins for–”
She was
No, Martha was not his only source of information but she remained his most reliable one.
He frowned down at the small cup, which was virtually drained – he always preferred to enjoy the drink as piping hot as possible. Should he get a refill now or leave it for a minute, wait for the girl to appear?
Prompted by habit he looked around, checking his surroundings, making sure that everything was as it should be and nothing was out of place. All seemed to be in order. People continued to drift past in both directions, mostly with the casual, unhurried gait that spoke of routine rather than purpose. The curled-up figure two doorways down on the opposite side of the street still hadn’t moved and Dewar still couldn’t decide whether the man was dead or simply passed out, though he tended to favour the former. A scrawny black and tan dog trotted by, pausing to look up at the assassin, hoping for scraps, but not lingering. The mutt moved with a fluid grace that suggested a wholly natural origin rather than one owing any debt to the dog master’s tinkering.
Dewar’s attention was drawn back to the immobile man. He could have sworn he’d caught movement in the corner of his eye, though the body seemed to be in exactly the same foetal curl as before. The man was lying in front of a dilapidated and evidently unused building, a carcass of a dwelling; perhaps that fact influenced Dewar’s assumption that he was already dead.
A crippled girl approached him. She was hunched on a small, low wooden platform, a miniature cart made mobile by a quartet of oversized wheels, one per corner. She powered the cart with synchronised pushes from her two arms, reaching forward and hauling against the ground like an oarsman digging into the water to pull a rowboat forward. One leg was thrust out before her; a stump that ended at the knee, the truncated limb wrapped in a swathe of material which may once have been vivid green before it became so grimy. It was impossible to tell whether the other leg was whole or not, since it was folded beneath her as she sat. The girl, no more than ten or eleven, might have been pretty were it not for a scar which crossed her forehead diagonally above the left eye, ending at her ear. The ear was mangled and half torn off. It was clearly an old wound. She wore her hair pulled back, so that the scar was fully visible, displayed as if it were some sort of trophy. The conspicuous blemish made a vivid counterpoint to the girl’s amputated leg.
Dewar watched her approach with a mixture of amusement, fascination and surprise. Beggars were few in the City Below these days, had been since the Ten Years War which had ended generations before. He knew his history and was aware that tourism had flourished here before the conflict, but while the trade had re-established itself and even grown in other parts of Thaiburley, it had never really done so here, resulting in few pickings for the professional beggar, which this girl clearly was. Before the war, beggars had apparently been plentiful, organised into gangs in much the same manner as the street-nicks. In those days, it was not uncommon for mutilations such as the girl’s to be self-inflicted, or inflicted by the men behind the beggars at any rate. Surely no one still went to such extremes?
The girl reached him and came to a halt. “Please, sir, my mother’s sick, can you spare a few coins for–”
She was
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