'Congratulations on a
job well done,' said Lymeris Van Scultis, Mistress of Coin, reclining
on a bank of gold-trimmed cushions. Before her, on a low rectangular
table, were various ornate artefacts, including an elaborate hookah.
Behind her, crates brimming with creds, stacked to head height, an
ostentatious display of wealth that few would dare this far downhive.
Jonn Gunn was taken
aback. He'd come here to one of the uppermost levels of Foulnest,
where Van Scultis had pitched her expansive, luxurious yurt,
expecting to be told in no uncertain terms that his crew's alliance
with the Toll Collectors was being terminated before it had really
got started. But, as ever with the Guilds, things were unpredictable.
'Um, I wouldn't call
that a win, Guilder. Most of my boys are going to be laid up for half
a cycle, and those Carrion scum took control of the blood pits.'
Van Scultis snorted a
laugh, fluttering the rich fabric of the bandana that covered her
lower face. She paused to peruse a ledger presented by a rag-clad
groveller, nodding approval when she was satisfied. The groveller
withdrew through the stacks of cred-filled crates that lined the back
of the yurt, taking care to step carefully over the web of laswires
that crisscrossed the space. Tripping but one wire would trigger the
alarm – and the response would doubtless be lethal.
'Really, Gunn,' she
said, condescension in her voice. 'You think that was the purpose of
the exercise? You, a venator of such experience?'
Gunn winced, confused.
Had that damned ambull hit him harder than he'd realised? The aim of
the op was to bloody the Carrion's bony beaks – the Cawdor mob had
migrated over from Sector H8, and had been crowing about how they
were going to rule the rackets of Foulnest, their twisted faith
setting them above and beyond the Imperial Law. Bossman Corvus was
bragging that the fighting pits were next on their list of targets,
and Gunn and Van Scultis had agreed that stopping the outlaws would
knock some wind out of their vents.
When they went into the
scrap, Gunn had thought they were usefully mob-handed, with an even
dozen fighters including Van Scultis and her Toll Collectors. But the
Carrion, allied with the local narco lords, had a bunch of scummers
on their side, and outnumbered Gunn's crew. The mission got
complicated: there was an ambull lumbering around the dead
manufactory where the two gangs met, and the tangled mechworks proved
tricky to work through, with extensive cover and just a few prime
sniping angles. Ratbite had made the most of this, taking out one of
the Carrion's champions at long range, but Van Scultis and her
entourage found themselves pinned behind a smokestack even as Gunn
and his half of the crew tried to push forwards through the centre of
the dome, all the while dodging the ambull.
They'd given it their
best shot – aside from Ratbite's sharpshooting, Snags had taken out
one of the Cawdors with his shotgun; Brokeface and Mumbles had
acquitted themselves well considering they were only back in the team
on a provisional basis; Jak 8-10 had held his own against three of
the Carrion crew, scragging one out of the fight and sending the
other two packing.
But in the end, the
sheer weight of numbers had proved too much despite the casualties
inflicted. Snags and Ratbite were taken out by long range fire,
Brokeface was knocked off a tower by Corvus himself – strange how
the ugly bastard seemed no worse for wear for it, mind – and the
remaining Guns found themselves doggedly holding the line, clustered
around an old tractor unit. That's when the ambull had charged
forward and clobbered Gunn unconscious, and Jak – poor, dumb,
violent Jak – had taken a direct hit from an explosive crossbow
bolt, a grievous wound which saw him bleed to death on the domefloor.
By this time, Corvus
and his cronies had moved to threaten Van Scultis and her posse on
the other side of the dome, and the Guilder had seen fit to withdraw
in haste. If only she'd moved her crew forwards in support, things
could have been different. Instead, she'd just stood and watched
while Gunn led his men into the meatgrinder.
'Dammit,' said Gunn,
back in the moment. 'The whole thing was a test, wasn't it? You don't
give a skut about the blood pits.'
'Well, I wouldn't go
that far,' said Van Scultis as she plucked the hookah pipe from its
cradle. She slid the pipe under her bandana and inhaled deeply,
setting the bubbles running in the glass base. Gunn seethed
internally – the Guilder's languid act was quickly wearing thin.
'As our ally,' she
continued in a cloud of exhaled smoke, 'anything that enhances your
standing in the zone works to our advantage. But that's happened
anyway, regardless of the blood pits. The grit, the dogged defiance
of Jonn Gunn and his Guns, who wouldn't back down even when foul
recidivists made their blood run. You're quite the talk of the town.'
Gunn figured she had a
point. He'd noticed that he and the boys were being afforded more
respect by the folks around Cut End market. The loss hadn't done the
crew's reputation any harm. Quite the opposite, in fact.
'So maybe you're
right,' he said. 'So what now?'
'We continue our
arrangement as discussed, of course. Information and pathfinding for
manpower and so on' said Van Scultis. A gong sounded from somewhere
back in the yurt. 'Ah, time to count my acquisitions. That will be
all, Gunn. For now.'
Gunn gritted his teeth
and bowed with the minimum courtesy he could muster. 'Until next
time, Guilder.'
He turned and prowled
out of the yurt along the narrow avenue between the laswires that
allowed egress to visitors. No denying that the Coin Guild's
assistance was invaluable – as well as extra gunpower, the Toll
Collectors cold facilitate movement around the sector like no others.
If the Guns were called on to run security duty now and then, so be
it.
But Jonn Gunn didn't
have to like it. And if it came to it, he'd put himself and his crew
first. The Guild's the Guild, but a merc always looks out for
himself.