“Help me!” the rent-taker shouted, knowing the other could not see him in the darkness. His calves prickled as tiny needles advanced, tearing into his flesh. The pain cut through the anesthesia of his fear. Dimly he was aware of other tiny assailants, dropping unseen onto his writhing body.
“Pull me out of here, and you’ll never want for anything!”
The figure stepped past the rent-taker and disappeared as it moved out of the light. Carretius clutched toward the whisper of legs on heavy cloth—the only sound the figure made—but his bloody right hand touched nothing, or felt nothing it touched.
The figure reappeared. It was carrying the door panel that Ox had flung away as the three men had burst into the loft. The open doorway, the last hope in the blackness of Hades, disappeared as the figure carefully fitted the door back into place. There was a gentle tapping, as a scrap of timber was wedged between jamb and panel to hold the door in place until permanent repairs could be made. Carretius felt, rather than saw, the figure as it turned back to him.
The jagged touch of unseen climbing things had already shredded the rent-taker’s garments across his back. His ragged breath was the only sound in the foetid loft—that and a scrambling, tearing sound, as of many crabs in a wooden trap.
He still had time to wonder what had become of Smiler, and in another moment he knew.
Chapter Thirteen
“He’s going fast,” said the Watch Centurion, as if Lycon needed help in judging serious wounds. “Maybe it’s not what you’re after, but I thought maybe—you know—that thousand sesterces reward you’re offering for evidence of killings that don’t look like your usual brawls and muggings and the like.”
“You may have just earned it, Silvius,” said Lycon, uncinching his belt so that his tunic could flap and cool him as he bent toward the victim. They had been held to the pace of Vonones’ chairmen and the pair of lantern-carrying guides leading them all. In daylight and by a route with which he was familiar, Lycon would have run on ahead of them.
The big man was obviously near death—should be dead already from the injuries suffered in his fall. Perhaps with a body that huge it took time for the brain to know it was useless. Lycon remembered the giant German warriors he had seen in his youth—pierced by a dozen fatal wounds and still shambling forward to slay, froth on their lips and death frozen in their eyes.
The Watch station was converted from what had been a bakery on the corner of an apartment block—two rooms on the ground floor, and a connected upper room in which on-duty personnel could sleep until needed. Although public order was a concern, the fourteen battalions of the Watch were intended primarily for fire-fighting duties, despite their military organization and helmets. The front room in which the dying man now lay was steamy and odorous from the sausages that a few of the men on duty were grilling for supper. They watched and munched, more curious about Lycon than they were about what was, after all, just another corpse—or soon would be.
“All over me,” the dying giant whispered. His eyes were open but unfocused, so he probably did not see Lycon bending over him. “They just kept coming. I hit them and it was like knives, like knives . . .”
“His name is Ox, and he and another bad one work with a rent-taker named Carretius,” Silvius explained. “Don’t know where they are, but it seems Ox fell off a roof or out of a window or something. Broke his fall somehow, and we found him crawling along the street out of his head from pain. Couldn’t have happened too far from here—can’t get too far with your arms and legs all busted up, no matter how strong a man you are. But it’s these wounds he’s got all over his back that puzzled me, so I thought maybe you’d want to see.”
“Wine!” Lycon called. “We’ve got to get him to talk!”
N’Sumu’s long-fingered hand reached past Lycon and raised the dying man’s right arm. The flayed palm and the obvious break in both bones of the forearm could have been results of the fall. The cuts on the upper side of the arm had been made by dozens of piercing claws that had sunk an inch or more into the powerful arm before they were dragged free. They were sharp enough to cut rather than simply tear. Lycon thought of a net tied with fishhooks—fishhooks with their inside curve sharpened to a razor edge. The wounds covered his arms and shoulders.