The Blue Ball Tavern occupied one corner of a massive, decrepit heap of tenements that stank of urine and rotting rubbish. In the midst of the fete, the nightly anarchy on these back streets up from the docks reached new heights, and Gaz was not alone in hunting the alleys for trouble.
It occurred to him that maybe he wasn’t as unusual as he might have once believed. That maybe he was just one among thousands of useless thugs in this city, all of them hating themselves and out sniffing trails like so many mangy dogs. Those who knew him gave him space, slinking back from his path as he stalked towards his chosen fighting grounds, behind the Blue Ball. That brief thought-about other people, about the shadowed faces he saw around him-was shortlived, flitting away with the first smell of blood in the damp, sultry air.
Someone had beaten him to it, and might even now be swaggering out the opposite end of the alley. Well, maybe the fool might circle hack, and he could deliver to the bastard what he’d done to somebody else-and there was the body, the huddled, motionless shape. Walking up, Gaz nudged it with one boot. Heard a blood-frothed wheeze. Slammed his heel down on the riboage, just to hear the snap and crunch. A cough, spraying blood, a low groan, then a final exhalation.
Done, easy as that.
‘Are you pleased, Gaz?’
He spun round at the soft, deep voice, forearms lifting Into a guard he expected to fail-but the fist he thought was coming never arrived, and, swearing, he stepped back until his shoulders thudded against the wall, glared in growing fear at the tall, shrouded figure standing before him, ‘I ain’t afraid,’ he said In a bellingerent growl,
Amusement washed up against him like a wave. ‘Open yourself, Gaz. Your soul, Welcome your god,’
Gaz could feel the air on his teeth, could feel his lips stretching until cracks split to ooze blood. His heart hammered at his chest. ‘I ain’t got no god. I’m nothing but curses, and I don’t know you. Not at all.’
‘Of course you do, Gaz. You have made sacrifice to me, six times now. And counting.’
Gaz could not see the face within the hood, but the air between them was suddenly thick with some pungent, cloying scent. Like cold mud, the kind that ran in turgid streams behind slaughterhouses. He thought he heard the buzz of flies, but the sound was coming from somewhere inside his own head. ‘I don’t kill for you,’ he said, his voice thin and weak.
‘You don’t have to. I do not demand sacrifices. There is… no need. You mortals consecrate any ground you choose, even this alley. You drain a life on to it. Nothing more is required. Not intent, not prayer, nor invocation. I am summoned, without end.’
‘What do you want from me?’
‘For now, only that you continue harvesting souls. When the time comes for more than that, Gaz of the Gadrobi, you will be shown what must be done.’