Dominions

6

6

- 6 -

The air outside tasted so good, even though it stunk. But at least the smell of waste‌—‌human and otherwise‌—‌was honest. The same couldn’t be said of Cat.

The man wasn’t pure Dome, but he was close enough, and Rodin knew he should have spotted it sooner. The fine clothes, the manners, and the flouncy way of talking. But his words all contained hidden threats. And then there was the way he’d dispatched those thugs in the alley.

There was no way Rodin could accept that contract. Cat talked of ‘those he worked for’, but he gave no names, nothing for Rodin to check. After his stupid mistakes in the past, Rodin always assessed potential clients. There were too many out there who would hire an assassin to kill an assassin rather than pay for a completed contract.

And how did Genna play into this? What Cat said about their mutually beneficial relationship was crap. Anyone could see who had the power in that room. Nobody used Genna’s office for a meeting to discuss a contract! Even Genna conducted that kind of business elsewhere.

The whole situation stunk, and Rodin was pleased to be out of there.

Not that he was free of problems. As he walked the streets, he mulled over them.

He was homeless, for one. Not such a bad problem, and he could always turn this into an opportunity to go elsewhere. Dephlorin’s district had been good to him in the past. Borinoff worked from there, and he was one of the few who openly respected Rodin’s work.

Or maybe he should focus on training. Spend a few hours each day on stamina, a couple of decent sessions working on strength, maybe hire someone to spar with. Or a couple of people. And he could always use more practice with his blades and lance.

He’d walked without caring where he went‌—‌not aimlessly, but with no fixed destination. He kept his senses open, remained alert for any signs of attack. There was a glint from a rooftop, but it was only a couple of kids playing. One, a lad with messy hair and a torn shirt, gesticulated and shouted out, but Rodin ignored him. They were only kids. They’d learn who to insult and who to ignore soon enough.

And if they didn’t, their adult lives would be short indeed.

As he walked, Rodin noticed the growing stench, the mixture of mud and sewerage that seeped round the houses. His stomach flipping, but at least he knew where he was. That stink only came from one place.

Breathing through his mouth, he headed into an alley. The sound of gurgling water grew louder, and when the alley came to an end, Rodin looked down into the murky water. The oily scum of its surface swirled as the river oozed past, and every so often Rodin saw shapes just beneath the surface. It was probably best not to think what they might be.

There was a path alongside the water, raised and separated by a rusty barrier that had broken in far too many places. Rodin walked, following the effluent downstream, toward the Dome.

Under the glass was a truly stunning river, a majestic swathe of blue that wound around impressive buildings and grassy banks. Bridges spanned it, alive with lights and decorations. People reclined on the grass by the water’s edge, or leaned from the bridges, waving to those who passed beneath in their boats.

And this rank sewer fed into that river, as did every other stretch of foul running water in the districts.

Rodin had followed a few of these streams, to the point where they disappeared underground. The stink was overpowering there, and the water oozed rather than flowed. Apparently, there were numerous banks of filters, and chemicals that scrubbed the water clean. It wouldn’t do for the Dome to be contaminated by the filth from those who lived outside the glass.

Some people tried to use these streams to enter the Dome, but that never worked. The lucky ones pulled themselves out in time, covered in grease and feces and who knew what else. The unlucky ones were still down there, slowly decomposing.

The Dome. Even when he tried to ignore it, it wouldn’t let him be. And now this Gentleman appeared, speaking in riddles as he offered Rodin an opportunity to return.

He wondered how Cat knew about those previous visits.

There was supposed to be no way across the glass, but nothing was impossible. Gates existed, deep underground, guarded by gatekeepers on both sides. To find them required many questions and a lot of money.

Rodin squeezed along the path, treading carefully. Buildings pushed up on either side of the river, derelicts that threatened to collapse with the slightest push. The sun didn’t reach here, and moisture hung like a heavy miasma in the air. His boots splashed through grime-filled puddles, the sound echoing off the decrepit walls.

So unlike the paving in the Dome. That was as smooth as the inside of any building, and teams of workers were on hand to remove any debris. It had astounded Rodin that other teams actually washed the paths.

Another splash bounced from the brickwork. But Rodin hadn’t trodden in a puddle.

Someone else.

Someone else.He walked on, but he concentrated. His follower was trying to match his own steps, and they were doing a pretty good job of it. He guessed they were about ten paces behind. Only one person.

This place was ideal for opportunists. A problem, but one Rodin could easily deal with. He walked on at a steady pace.

Ahead, the path turned as the water sloshed round a bend. On the far bank, the browned brickwork was punctured with grimy windows behind metal bars. There was no movement in those windows. No witnesses to the approaching attack‌—‌except the figure on the path ahead.

He‌—‌and Rodin guessed this one was male‌—‌rested with his back and one foot on the wall. He held a blade, twisting it lazily, casting a subtle threat. And when he turned his head a fraction, his eyes fell on Rodin and his lips parted in a dark smile.

The footsteps continued from behind, and now Rodin heard a rustle of material, like someone unsheathing a weapon. Could be a blade, or a lance‌—‌or something worse.

Rodin breathed, ignoring the stench in the air. His chest expanded, and blood pumped through his veins. His vision sharpened‌—‌ripples on the oily surface of the water, a rodent scurrying along a ledge and, when he shifted his head a fraction, movement behind. An arm outstretched, small metal object held aloft. Aimed at Rodin.

The man pushed away from the wall and angled his body, blocking the path. One side of his face was grey with scar-tissue, but even though one eye hung low, the man’s gaze was sharp and dangerous.

A click from behind. Like the safety of a g*n being released.

Rodin swallowed as his hand dipped to his hip. His breath rubbed against his dry throat.

This wasn’t an opportunist attack, but an ambush. The man with the blade had the poise of a professional, and the one behind moved with practised stealth.

Cat’s words came back to Rodin. Another attempt on his life. Another attempt to prevent Rodin taking that contract.

“You’re wasting your time,” he said, lowering his centre of gravity, twisting one foot slightly. “I’m not taking the contract.”

The man with the blade shrugged. “Not my concern.” He took a step forward and angled his blade toward Rodin, body side-on. Smaller target, more control.

And Rodin understood. These assassins had a contract for his removal, and nothing else mattered.

In that moment, Rodin’s training took over. Adrenaline raced through his body, and his unconscious mind directed his limbs.

He ducked and spun, the blade flying from his fingers, tumbling end over end.

A blur, and the figure with the g*n threw themselves to the wall. The blade caught the light as it twisted past them, over the river.

A laugh, from across the river. Rodin glanced across, saw a head by an open window, barrel of a weapon resting against the metal bars. Saw a finger resting on the trigger.

Pounding footsteps behind, approaching fast. Movement in front‌—‌the figure by the wall turning, raising the g*n once more. And the slightest tensing of the finger resting on the trigger, the head angling a fraction, taking aim.

No way to fight, and the path blocked. Only one way out.

The metal barrier was rusty, sharp against his palms as Rodin grabbed then pulled himself up.

A sharp c***k, a tug as a shot grabbed his pack, pulled against his shoulder. But Rodin was already over the barrier, already plummeting.

As he hit the water, the stench was overpowering. But he forced his lips tight together, wrinkled his nose as best he could, and clenched his eyes shut.

He kicked, forced himself deeper. The water tugged at him, and he went with the flow, pulled himself along. Away from the assassins. Soft plops sounded around him, shots of some kind, but he felt nothing beyond the suffocating water.

Shouting, distant and incoherent, became drowned out by rhythmic thudding, his heart pounding, his lungs squeezing, telling Rodin that he needed to breathe.

But not yet. Not until the blackness threatened to overwhelm him.