Wraith(5)

To enter through those hallowed gates you had to be more than able to obtain branded lipstick on the black market, or have enough money squirrelled away to pay for a dusty bottle of Glenmorangie instead of its lethal home-brewed equivalent. Word was that the club was owned by a conglomerate of Japanese baku, minor demons with enough spare cash to settle in for the long haul and wait for the siege to end. They must have greased plenty of Filit and Gneiss palms to get the club opened. Apparently they wanted to forge relationships and prepare deals for whoever was still alive, wealthy and powerful when all this nonsense was finally over. Except this was already our third summer in and there was no end in sight.

I’d heard enough to know that the facts didn’t sit straight. I didn’t know who really owned Kanji but I reckoned it was something far nastier and less honourable than a few long-sighted baku. If I’d thought for one second that the real owner’s identity was a good enough secret to unearth, I’d have moved hell and high water to get to the truth but I couldn’t think of anyone who’d pay sufficient money for the knowledge to make the effort worthwhile.

In any case, I knew that the clientele currently being lured towards Kanji’s wooden torii were considered elite. They had to offer something worthwhile to the owners to gain entrance. Money wasn’t the only valuable currency; given that Kanji’s owners were located outside the city walls, far away from the siege and the problems it incurred, they would trade for favours and promises as much as for hard cash. And the owners had to keep those black-market alcohol import lines open somehow. There was no doubt they were playing both sides and hedging their bets until there was a winner and life settled back down again to a semblance of normality.

Perhaps the club owners could be thanked for the recent break in shelling by sending oily whispers in the direction of the Gneiss goblins. I would never know for sure; the circles where those sort of deals were struck were well out of even my reach. Still, the chatter of the high-class guests sipping champagne and lounging within Kanji’s high walls could feed me for a month. I just had to find the right conversations to eavesdrop.

As I slid up to the entrance, which remained free of the hopeful queues that had adorned the other clubs, a group of rowdy men rocked up. Their banter was as distasteful as their clothing; the latter displayed the fact that they could circumvent the siege and get whatever designer gear they wanted.

‘I’m telling you,’ the nearest said loudly, in a voice that grated on my ears, ‘if you head down towards the old quarter, you can find girls of any age who’ll drop their kegs for you. I had a blonde thing the other night who agreed three hours in return for a pound of rice. She wasn’t smart enough to ask for a down-payment first, so I took what I wanted and left her with nothing. There wasn’t a thing she could do about it. The militia don’t care and she knows it.’

‘Nice work.’

He gave a self-satisfied smirk. ‘Yeah, I know.’

‘In that case, Murthers,’ drawled another, ‘why don’t we go there instead of here? They’re not going to let us in.’

‘They’ll let us in. They know who I am and what I’m capable of.’ Murthers sauntered through the torii towards the shuttered door, raising one fist to hammer out an insistent knock.

The door opened a fraction and the swarthy face of a goblin appeared. Even I was surprised at that. Kanji’s owner, whoever he was, really did have friends in high places. I slid my shadow past him, only brushing lightly against his stocky body. The goblin shivered slightly while I shuddered – but his focus was on the men. ‘Get lost,’ he muttered to them, as I moved deeper inside.

‘Don’t you know who I am?’

The goblin slammed the door shut, swallowing up the rest of Murther’s words. I grinned before skulking into the belly of the Kanji beast.

The interior of the club surprised me. It had a far more authentic air than I expected. I trailed down a wide, wooden-floored corridor, wondering how they’d managed to acquire so many fragile objets d’art to adorn the high shelves. No doubt they’d been ransacking long-abandoned mansions.

Unable to resist, I reached out and touched a tall vase, using just enough energy to send it toppling to the floor with a crash. Behind me the goblin gasped and skittered forward. It was a petty thing to do but it was satisfying. If, despite the siege, they could bring in pretty chinaware then they could bring in food. A thousand years of history was all very well but if there was no one left to appreciate it, it was pointless. You couldn’t eat art.

I followed the murmur of voices and low music until I arrived in a large, dimly lit room. No showy, expensive electricity was wasted here; the sparse tables were illuminated only by candles. They had to be a fire hazard with all the draped wall hangings and paper wall dividers. I resisted the urge to knock over a candle and see what happened because Kanji could prove very fruitful for me, both now and in the future. I sneaked round, pausing to identify various occupants and see what I could learn. There were fewer than eighty people there, including the staff who almost outnumbered the guests. Yep. This place was all about exclusivity rather than profit. How very, very interesting.

Seated at a table by the front of the stage were four people I recognised instantly: Isabella Markbury and her ever-present entourage. The last rumour I’d heard concerning her was that she’d been killed in the four-day-long April bombardment, when the Gneiss goblins had sent a barrage of Greek-fire canisters flying over the river towards the Forthside District. Apparently only Tilly, her best friend, had managed to escape, pausing just long enough to snag Isabella’s Jimmy Choos. Neither Isabella, Tilly, nor the purple-haired twins beside them had been heard of since. Clearly none of them were actually dead, however. It wasn’t earth-shattering information but it might be worth a few bob.