The Mechanical Crown

Predators

Amber had talked a little about the Stagehands' activities, but none of it made any sense to Tarn. He knew nothing of exports, or trade, or beds or inns or gambling. He liked some of the new words - gambling, in particular, rolled around his mouth in a pleasing way, even if he didn't fathom its meaning. He'd always had a better understanding of language than the other boys in the machine rooms, most of whom never spoke a word, to the point where the guards had singled him out for particular attention. They had treated his capacity for language with special suspicion, which had always made him wonder if he was doing it wrong, or being accidentally insulting. His new friends in the Stagehands were only too eager for him to use his words; in fact, they took great pleasure in his speech, rolling about the tavern with laughter. Tarn had never made people laugh before. He didn't quite understand why his speech amused others, but causing laughter was infinitely preferable to suspicion.

For Stamper and the others to be so angry at the captured men, when the Stagehands had shown Tarn only kindness and generosity, made him think that the captives must be bad men indeed. Perhaps they were like the ones who had tried to hurt Tarn on the streets, just before he'd met Wide Riley. Perhaps they had hurt other people, or were going to. Despite Amber's best effort he still hadn't quite worked out what the Stagehands did, but he'd been thinking that perhaps they looked after people, and made sure everyone in the area was safe and happy.

The water lapped gently at the shore of the lake, disturbed only by passing boats in the distance, making their travels from the far side to the dubious delights of the district. This was a dark corner of waterfront, away from the shouts and music and laughter and screams; here only the rotting wood of old jetties and the pale faces of gagged men were illuminated by Stamper's torch.

"This is it!" Stamper declared, coming to a halt. The men were lined up by the water, all their eyes on the large, bearded man. "All of you know why you're here," Stamper continued, "and you've got no-one but yourselves to blame." There was some laughter from some of Stamper's friends, stifled quickly at a glance from their leader. "This is a serious business," he said, before turning back to the captives and pointing a finger towards each in turn. "Beautraire was a fool and a cheat and a child killer," he said, his face a picture of disgust. "Yet you chose to follow him, because you so favoured coin, or women, or your own special perversions." He signalled to Wide Riley, who stepped forwards. "Read them the charges," Stamper ordered.

Wide Riley made a show of unfurling a crumpled sheet of paper, and began to read, standing before each of the captives. "Eight murders. Thievery. Grievous assault by the bucketload. Rape of mothers and daughters. Sabotage of Stagehands property. Peddling of distasteful substances." Wide Riley spat on the floor, wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve.

"You were born guilty," Stamper pronounced, "and there is no redemption for the likes of you." He walked a few paces to one of his friends, who held something out. Stamper exchanged it for the torch, revealing a short, serrated metal blade. "We don't want your sort in our town," he said, approaching the first captive.

He raised the blade to the man's throat, then paused. Stamper cocked his head to one side, as listening intently, then promptly concealed the blade somewhere beneath his many layers of clothing.

"Looks like you've got a reprieve," he said to the captives. Immediately turning on his heel, he looked to the other Stagehands. "Wrap it up, lads," he ordered, before closing the distance to where Tarn and Wide Riley stood. He examined Tarn closely, as if he were an animal sniffing for information.

"Problem, boss?" Wide Riley asked tentatively.

Ignoring him, Stamper addressed Tarn directly. "You being followed, boy?"

Tarn shook his head.

"You a spy?"

Glancing over at Wide Riley, Tarn raised his shoulders in confusion. The question made no sense to him. He couldn't even guess at what a spy could be.