Don’t.
To Frey’s relief, this one had more sense than Codge. He slowly raised his hands. Malvery shoved the door open the rest of the way, barging Codge’s corpse aside. There was a swell of women’s voices from one of the doorways leading off the hallway, crying variations of ‘Stop!’ But a guard came stumbling out anyway, naked from waist to ankle, his engorged penis waggling ridiculously. One hand was struggling to pull up the pair of trousers that tangled his legs, while he attempted to aim a pistol with the other. Malvery sighted and blew him away before he’d taken two steps.
Frey pulled the guard who had surrendered over to him, pressing the pistol to his back, using him as a shield. He disarmed his prisoner and tossed the gun aside as Malvery moved out of the way of the door and Jez and Pinn came in after him.
‘Silo?’ Frey asked.
‘Covering the guard outside,’ Jez replied. ‘Jevin, or whatever his name is.’
Frey was thankful that someone had the presence of mind to do that. He’d half-expected them all to come rushing in when he did.
He wrapped his arm around his prisoner’s throat from behind. ‘Where’s the other one?’ he hissed. There had been four guards inside, last time he’d visited. Without waiting for an answer, he called: ‘We got your friend here! Step out and you won’t get hurt! I’ve got no business with you!’
There was silence, but for the ticking of the clock that overlooked the hall. Then a voice drifted out from another doorway:
‘Bren? That you?’
‘It’s me, Charry,’ Frey’s prisoner replied. ‘They got a gun to my head. There’s four of ’em.’
Another long silence. ‘Alright,’ said Charry. ‘I’m coming out. Don’t nobody shoot. Nobody’s gonna shoot, are they?’
‘Nobody’s gonna shoot,’ said Frey, with a pointed glare at Pinn.
A rifle skidded out from one of the doorways, followed by a pistol and a knife. A young, swarthy-looking man emerged, his hands held high. Jez took him over to stand with the other prisoner. Silo came in from outside.
‘Where’s the guard you were covering?’ Frey asked, appalled.
‘Tied him up. Put him in the guardhouse with the other,’ said Silo.
‘Right, right,’ Frey said, relieved. He allowed himself to relax a little. ‘Should’ve thought of that myself.’
Pinn and Malvery exchanged a glance. Malvery looked skyward in despair.
‘Your boss is upstairs?’ Frey asked the prisoners. They nodded. ‘No more guards?’ They shook their heads. ‘The whores?’
‘In there,’ said Charry, indicating the room the half-naked man had come from. ‘Obviously.’
Frey looked at Silo. ‘You’re in charge. Anyone moves, shoot them. Malvery, you and me are going to have a word with Quail.’ As an afterthought, he added: ‘Bring your bag. I don’t want him dying before he talks.’
‘Right-o,’ said Malvery, heading outside to collect the doctor’s bag that he’d left on the porch.
Frey walked up to the whores’ doorway and stood to one side. The dead man with his trousers round his ankles had a comically astonished expression on his face.
We can all but hope to die with such dignity and elegance, he thought.
‘Ladies?’ he called. There was no reply. He stuck his head around the doorway, and drew it back rapidly as a shotgun blast blew part of the door frame to splinters.
‘Ladies!’ he said again, slightly annoyed this time. His ears were ringing. ‘We’re not going to hurt you!’
‘No, you’re bloody not!’ came the reply. ‘I know your sort! We give what we give ’cause we’re paid to! Nobody takes it by force!’
‘Nobody’s taking anything,’ said Frey. ‘You might remember me. Darian Frey? We were introduced just a few weeks ago.’
‘Oh,’ came the reply, rather less harsh than before. ‘Yes, I remember you. Stick your head out, let us have a look.’
‘I’d rather not,’ he replied. ‘Listen, ladies, our business is with Quail. We’ll be done with it and go. Nobody’s going to bother you. Now will you let us past?’
There was a short debate in low voices. ‘Alright.’
‘You won’t shoot?’
‘Long as nobody tries to come in. Specially that one who looks like a potato. He’s enough to turn a woman to the other side.’
Silo grinned at Pinn, who kicked an imaginary stone and swore under his breath.
‘Especially not him,’ Frey agreed.
‘Well. Okay then.’
Malvery returned with his bag. He took another swig of swabbing alcohol and stuffed it back inside. Pinn bleated for a taste, but Malvery ignored him.
They hurried past the doorway. Frey caught a glimpse of the whores, hidden behind a dresser with a double-barrelled shotgun poking over the top. They held a pair of white, pink-eyed dogs on leashes, for extra protection. One of the whores waved and made a kiss-face as he passed, but he was out of sight too quickly to respond.
He headed up the stairs, Malvery close behind. The coiled-brass motif from the hallway continued on the upper level, but here the walls and floor were panelled in black wood and lit by electric bulbs in moulded sconces. The place had a dark, grand feel to it. Frey was feeling pretty dark and grand himself right now.
As they approached Quail’s study they heard something crash inside. The sound of a desk tipping over. Presumably he was making a barricade. Frey remembered the bars on the windows from his last visit. They couldn’t be opened from the inside. Quail wasn’t going anywhere.
They took position either side of the door. Frey kicked it open and stepped back as a pistol fired twice. The door rebounded and came to rest slightly ajar. There were two coin-sized holes in the wood panelling of the corridor at chest-height.
‘Anyone comes through that door, they’ll be sorry!’ Quail cried. His attempt to sound fierce was woeful. ‘I’ve got a couple of guns and enough ammo for the whole night. The militia will be here sooner or later! Someone will have heard the racket you made downstairs!’
Frey thought for a moment. He waved at Malvery. ‘Give me the bottle.’
‘What?’ Malvery said, feigning ignorance.
‘The bottle of alcohol in your bag. Give it here.’
Malvery opened his bag reluctantly. ‘This bottle?’ he asked querulously, rather hoping Frey would reconsider.
‘I’ll buy you another one!’ Frey snapped, and Malvery finally handed it over. He snatched it off the doctor and pulled out the stopper. ‘Now a rag.’
‘Oh,’ Malvery murmured, divining Frey’s plan. He passed Frey a bit of cloth with the expression of one about to witness the cruel extinction of some lovable, harmless animal.
Frey stuffed the rag into the neck of the bottle and upended it a few times. He pulled out a match—one of several that had lived in the creases of his coat pocket for many years—and struck it off the door jamb. He touched it to the rag and flame licked into life.
‘Fire in the hole,’ he grinned, then booted open the door and lobbed the bottle in. He ducked back in time to avoid the gunfire that followed.
The throw had been pitched into the corner of the room—he didn’t want to incinerate Quail quite yet—but the whispermonger started howling as if he were on fire himself, instead of just the bookshelves.
Frey and Malvery retreated a little way down the corridor to another doorway, where they took shelter and aimed. Black smoke began to seep out of Quail’s study. They could hear him clattering around inside, cursing. Glass smashed, bars rattled. The smoke became a thick, churning layer that spread out along the ceiling of the corridor. Quail began to cough and hack.
‘You think this is gonna take much longer?’ Malvery asked, and an instant later Quail burst from the room, his good eye watering, waving a pistol in one hand.