Chapter 30
Slant took a tortured route back to their hideout, much like the careless Zoner. Whilst he was unlikely to be followed, it never hurt to be careful.
His mind wandered still: underhanded was the word for what they were doing: sneaking, shifting, slinking, like a disease. His vigilante instincts railed against this, but they continued to be sated by the idea of tackling the root of Seed's prevalence.
Seed. He couldn't imagine why someone would start taking Seed: its effects and drawbacks were well-known, so why take that first step, let your weak body become addicted so? One taste was all it took for most people to become strapped to the substance, yet people still risked sinking into the drug's numbing embrace.
Slant had seen his father die, and his mother fall into insanity, yet he would never touch the stuff. If anyone had reason enough to want to avoid reality, he reasoned, it was him.
Mother... he wondered how she and Tower were doing as he picked his way through the narrow side-streets and fractured back alleys. She was in professional hands, which would allow Tower to concentrate on her Cleric training. It might be good that he was away: his absence could be more vital and beneficial than his presence ever was...
After many purposeful wrong turns, Slant was near their hideout. It was late in the afternoon. Sol was already descending. Slant yawned, stretched, tired as a Lord on Cleansing Day, so he strolled the last half mile. After a twelve hour watch, even his string hammock was enticing.
He didn't immediately notice the group who slinked out from a side street. Perhaps they were talented, skilled at accosting people, because he only became aware of them when the six Gangers in robes made from disparate scraps surrounded him, giving him occasional glances to check what he was doing.
Slant slowly took his new escort’s measure. Four were men, broad fighters with barely-concealed weapons. Two were women, one the tallest and broadest of the lot, the other a slender nightmare who looked like she would enjoy every moment of a fight. Their garish clothes made them look like Disciples dressed as child entertainers.
“Can I help you?” Slant asked the enormous woman. She was at least six and a half feet tall.
“Who, us?” one Ganger said. He was about Slant's age, had two spurts of hair growing from his chin which he oiled into pincers. “We're just going for a stroll.”
“Just a stroll,” the slender woman said.
Putting his hands into the pockets of his dirty, worn clothes, Slant gripped blackjacks Heart had given him. “It's nice to have company on a stroll, though you have me at a disadvantage.”
“Do we now?” Pincers said.
“You know each other but I have no idea who or what you all are. I'd say that was a disadvantage.”
“How rude of us,” another Ganger said.
The Custodian hideout was approaching fast. Slant scanned the opposite side of the street in case his gaze gave away where he was going.
Was this encounter bad luck, or a calculated move from the Gang? In the tavern, someone had mentioned this was Colours territory, which made more sense now. Had someone seen through their disguise, or were the Gangers merely seeking payment from newcomers to their territory? Slant didn't think he and Heart had given themselves away, but the Gang's presence made him fear they had.
They continued in silence beyond the Custodian hideout. Slant wanted to relax, but might give away that they were no longer heading toward his home. He decided instead to allow nervousness to leak into his voice as he asked, “So, what can I do for you all?”
“Now, isn't that kind?” the slender woman asked. “He wants to know what he can do for us.”
“Very kind.”
“Practically an Acolyte, this one.”
They all laughed.
Slant tensed. “Look,” he said, “I don't have any money.”
“No money, he says!” Pincers hissed. “He thinks we're common thieves.”
“Common, common thieves,” the large woman said.
Pincers shook his head. “We're not thieves, boy. We're killers. And your father didn't come to see the Colours for permission to move into this area.”
“And that means your death.”
“So sorry!” the slender woman cried.
As the Gangers giggled again, expecting their victim to quail or wet themselves, Slant drew his weapons. In one movement, he brought his blackjacks against Pincers' head, breaking their nose with the second blow. Blood burst from his wounds. A kick brought Pincers to his knees, his smile dying on his face.
Knowing the first attack would go for his core, Slant wheeled around and ducked, moving under a Ganger who tried to grab him. He flowed around the attack and slammed the blackjacks on their spine, making his back arc like a swan as he fell.
The next Ganger had a knife. Slant deflected his stab by slapping the man's wrist. In the opening this created, he slammed the man's ribs. The Ganger cried and dropped the knife. Guessing that someone would attack his back, Slant let the blackjacks hang loose, grabbed the man's forearm and collar, and threw him over his shoulder. This barrelled the Ganger into the enormous woman, who went sprawling.
The Ganger's collar came off during the throw, remained in his hands. He pocketed the rag and faced his attackers, his blackjacks ready again.
“He's trained like a Shield or something,” Pincers spluttered from the floor.
“Shield or not, he's getting it now,” the slender woman said. She had two serrated knives in her hands, and a grin on her face.
She was right to be confident, at least whilst he fought in a wide street. He'd gathered a crowd, interested people stopping what they were doing to watch one man take on the local Gang. Their stares made him feel naked and foolish: so much for keeping a low profile.
Turning, he ran, blackjacks flapping around his wrists. The Gangers whooped and hollered as they gave chase. Well, Pincers didn't, but the others were right behind him. Slant took off down a side-street, needing distance to get rid of them. Head down, fast breaths, he took turnings sharply by jumping and running along the buildings for a moment, a manoeuvre he’d spent days practising. The sudden changes in direction gave him a few feet of advantage each time, soon putting him more than fifteen feet away from the Gangers.
Slant's blood pounded as loud as a Disciple's explosion. His breath burned. His legs complained loudly, twitching and twinging, but they were overruled as they would certainly be in greater pain if he were caught.
Not every Ganger was fit enough to keep up: two male Gangers and the large, lumbering woman fell away, too broad and heavy to match his speed. Slant didn't relax, worrying that they could be moving round to catch him out.
Fifteen feet felt like a comfortable enough distance to climb to a roof, change the dynamic of the chase. A house ahead had a canopy above its main door, and the crumbling remains of a balcony within jumping distance of it. Slant could use them to quickly ascend to the roof. He found a burst of energy, dug deep, and used it to speed up in anticipation of the climb.
Once at the building, he jumped and pressed his feet against the wall. Then, with all his strength, he leaped for the canopy. He soared, then slammed into the overhanging slab of stone. The breath left his chest. But he had the presence of mind to hold himself up as he wheezed, not fall to his eventual death.
“Get him!” the slender woman hissed, barely able to breathe.
Moaning, Slant scrabbled and swung to get up onto the flat roof. The Gangers were so close, and he was an easy target whilst he dangled. He had to move. With one supreme and painful wrench, he pulled himself up onto the canopy and collapsed.
Below him, the slender woman landed heavily, having thrown herself at the dangling and vulnerable target. She skidded along the floor and rolled over, giggling.
“You're not getting away,” the other Ganger said. He jumped to grip the canopy, which creaked under the weight of two people.
Slant forced in a breath and kicked out at the Ganger's hand. The bastard shrieke
d and fell back to the floor, where he gripped his broken fingers.
“What're you going to do, boy?” the slender woman asked as she rose. “You can't stay up there forever!”
In answer, Slant got to his feet, and took a deep breath. His wailing muscles and ribs would have to keep quiet for a while longer. He made for the balcony beside him: it was less of a jump than the canopy, so he gripped the ironwork easily, hung there, triumphant and tired. Pulling himself up proved much harder.
“You've not got enough strength, boy!” the slender woman roared.
For a second, he thought she was right: his arms refused to answer, seemingly locked in the dangle. But, breath as ragged as an eighty year-old's, his face warm and his body dripping with sweat, he managed to hook a foot under the balcony's ironwork, then used his legs muscles to get onto the balcony.
He fell flat against the balcony floor and tried to breathe. This was much harder than it seemed. All he heard was his breath, his blood, his pain. It wasn't enough to just be here though, he had to keep climbing, but his body refused to answer his summons.
Over his pain, he heard a click and a scream. The slender woman giggled, a sound that quickly faded. Slant got to his hands and knees. Over the edge of the balcony, he saw someone in ragged clothes bleeding on the street. Someone pounded up the stairs inside, a muffled glee on their voice: the slender woman had killed her way into the house: she was coming for him.
Slant hefted himself onto the iron rail around the balcony and stood. The roof wasn't far above him, but it meant another painful climb. He begged Sol for the strength to make the next jump, and took the leap, hoped his god was in a kind mood.
He landed with his knees up, gripping the rusted iron guttering firmly. Slant put his feet on the balcony's doors narrow frame and used it to stand. This put his hips above the roof, so he pulled himself onto the tiles, crouching like a cat. His balance was precarious, as was his position, but he was on the roof proper.
A grin of victory and joy rose to his face. He'd made it! Sweating profusely, his skin the grey thickness of a thunderstorm, he bent over and took a breath.
Then, behind him, someone gripped the iron guttering with thin, bleeding fingers. Slant kicked out with a yell. His boot deflected off this grip and broke the slender woman's nose as she pulled herself over the roof. She squealed and fell back, landing noiselessly.
Not waiting to see how badly injured she was, Slant turned and leaped to the next building. His jump wasn't graceful, but it got him over the narrow street. He kept going, kept running and leaping, until he felt safe enough to stop, twenty minutes and thirty buildings away.
Finally feeling safe, Slant collapsed to recover. His eyes wanted to close, wanted to send him to sleep, but he refused to allow that, pinching himself to maintain wakefulness. Slowly, his body returned to something like working order, though his muscles were stiff and sore, and he was desperately thirsty.
When he felt normal, Slant descended to street level. Paranoid and fearful, he sneaked back to the Custodian's hideout. No one watched him with interest or even acknowledged him when he got onto his road, and there was no tail when he sneaked into that tiny room.
After a meal and two pints of watered-down wine, which hydrated him and would act as an alarm clock, Slant collapsed into his hammock and fell into a dark, dreamless, and deserved sleep.