"Rattle Big Black Bones in the Danger zone
There's a rumbling groan down below
There's a big dark town it's a place I've found
There's a world going on underground"

- Underground, Tom Waits, 1982.


The Weasel, carrying a lantern, stepped nimbly around the sewerbank as Beddows and McMann struggled, rather less gracefully, carrying the unconcious form of a man between them. Perhaps due to a psychological lack of patience more than anything else, and not for the first time that evening, the weasel found himself more than irritated by the slow progress of his fellows.

"Come on! Get a hoof about yer." He said, unable to contain himself any longer. "The sun'll crack an eye afore we gets there."

"I'll crack a knuckle on yer nog if you say on that again." McMann was equally irritated. "Not once 'ave you given shoulder."

"Puh!" The weasel spat into the water channel, his spittle hit the water with a satisfying plop. "I told ye I had a bad back, on 'count o' me..."

"Don't ye sham abram with me." McMann stopped. "Well the times is a-changing, come pay your worth as are the rest of us. I'll take the darkee for a-change."

"No." The weasel, with a face like a scolded child, was adamant.

"Right!" McMann, dropped his part of the body to the floor, this part being the head, it emitted a long groan as it hit the cobbles of the sewer. McMann wasn't concerned about this, his only aim at this point in time, was turning the weasel into a football.

"You'll cry Holy Adam in a jiffy" He cursed.

The weasel dropped the lantern, by some miracle it didn't break. Ineffectually, he put his hands up to stop McMann's attack.

"Bad...Back! Bad...Back!" Said McMann, underlining each word with a punch. "That's fair physic for a tail, or 'ave you been so wanting of ready iron that you've turned sailors mutton?"

Beddows (who still was holding the unconcious body by the legs) found this last remark highly amusing. But by now McMann had tired of hitting the weasel, who scrabbled after his battered top hat in the gloom.

"Pick up from wheres I gave out." Said McMann helping the wretch to his feet. "And Beddows, give 'im the 'eavy end."

He pushed the weasel over to the body, and picked up the lamp. Instinctively he sniffed for a build up of methane, and finding nothing, was happy to reset the flame.

"Now lets get a bloody hoof on."

The three men, an their unconscious charge, reached the edge of the tunnel. Here the sewer system opened out into a huge subterranean cavern. It was part of the rain distribution channelling system, rather than the part of a sewer that dealt with waste and was as old as the first terraforming team that had ever set foot on the planet. It was black, with a cold chill that came off the millions of gallons of rainwater that was stored here. There where steps that led down to the water, McMann descended these to the waters edge. Here there was a bell, which he rang a couple of times while Beddows and the weasel placed the body on the floor.

"Cor!" Exclaimed the weasel, rubbing his arms. "'E's fair a brace o' Johnny Spitfires short o' a galleon! Over fed on plumb duff by 'is dearest Ma."

"Put up yer mitherin'" Said McMann, staring across the water.

"I still says we should've pegged 'im." Grumbled Beddows, taking a seat on the topmost step. "Whiteblood or no."

McMann ignored him, lifting up the lantern to try to see better.

"Pass us the darkee McMann." Called the weasel. "I've fair shag what's burnin' 'oles in my best tweed 'n' 'arris" He took a dirty white clay-pipe out of his pocket and began to fill it with tobacco.

McMann ignored him too, and rang the bell once more.

The weasel shrugged and turned to Beddows. "You got any devil's spit?"

Beddows began to check his pockets; eventually he pulled a small box of Promethean matches out of his waistcoat. He threw the box to the weasel who caught it nimbly and slid it open.

"Mary's lover!" the weasel cried with a disparaging tone. Beddows looked at him with a face that suggested that he couldn't care less as to the source of the weasel's irritation. The weasel picked out a match, the only match in the box in fact, it was only half the length it should have been. The weasel looked at Beddows disgustedly.

"So?" Said Beddows, still unmoved.

"He's 'alf-cocked! I'll chimney me fingers good 'n' proper!" He studied it in the gloom.

"I'll takes it back then." Said Beddows with a hurt look, and he began to reach for it.

"Hoi-oi!" said his compatriot. "Give fair trial!" he added as Beddows' large hand closed on his thin wrist. They struggled for a moment, each exasperated at the other, all of which quietly got on McMann's nerves.

"Oh glory be!" called the weasel suddenly. "Now take 'count o' yer doin's! Yer's only made me drop it!"

"Huh! Tough titty I says" Said Beddows not unreasonably.

"Yer great piccatides!" The words came angrily from the weasel, who scrambled around on his knees looking for the errant match head.

"Oi McMann! Bring dawn to Mecca !" He called, straining his eyes in the darkness. Beddows laughed at his predicament - a deep bass rumble.

"Christ's brambles!" Said McMann at last. "Will yer both take vows! In comes I, a-tryin' to buy passage and you twain are fair hammer an' tongs as a married twosome!" He sighed. "Check the luggage and give mouth sparingly."

McMann turned back to the water and looked out. As Beddows looked at the unconscious body, he rang the bell once more.

"Hold St. Clements!" A voice rang out over the water. It sounded alien in the darkness, a disembodied voice that sounded old, wheezy, but at the same time it commanded with authority. The three men on the bank stopped in their tracks, McMann lifted the lantern once more, but could see nothing.

"Ho there!" He called.

"Ho the shore!" The voice replied.

McMann turned to his fellows and smiled. His attention retuned to the darkness.

"We're three coves as wants passage." He called.

"Three? Three?" called back the voice. "I sees four coves, not three."

"Ah! 'E's not a man on counts o' 'is predicament whats grave." Piped up the weasel, looking out over the water and also seeing nothing.

"Looks like a man to me." Said the voice. "Ill luck it is to amuse me." It added gravely.

McMann scowled at the weasel. In the distance he could just make out the sound of oars lapping on the water and rubbing against wood. A boat could be seen, old, decrepit, and probably the most unseaworthy vessel that cared to float, troubled the water with its bow.
The captain, oarsman, and voice were all one man, who wore a large heavy woollen cloak and tricorn hat. He rowed with his back to the shore; they could not see his face.

"Oh worthy Charon! Us? Amuse thee?" Called McMann.

"Manys fool a-nanny to try." Said the waterman. "I learns 'em different." He said the words menacingly. He drew in his oars and turning slightly, threw a line to the bank of the reservoir. McMann caught the same, and tied it up as the boatman stood, and stepped lightly ashore. He stood tall and haggard, his face as old and rugged as Beddow's was knife scarred. His eyes where milky white, his teeth broken, his hands red and calloused.

"Rising." He said, spitting on the ground, and began making his way up the steps. McMann looked at the weasel, who shrugged his shoulders. McMann followed after Charon.

"Beggin' yer pardon?" he asked.

"Water. Bin a-rising all day. Ain't right." He stood over the prone body, snorted and kicked it. "Dead."

"Not dead, but more a-sleepin'" Said McMann.

"Sort of 'ighly encouraged in 'is slumber." Added the weasel.

The Boatman gave a throaty laugh, it was the sound of a cockroach running over brick. "An' you did the encouragin'" He cackled. His mirth stopped as quickly as it had started. "Four Dukes. 'E be a-kip or no, 'e still has to go on my chariot."

"Four.?" Began the weasel

"Are yer set to cough or not? I can row back just as slim as I rowed 'ere." Charon began to walk down the steps to his boat.

"Wait a potters." Said McMann. He turned and moved back up to his fellows and true to form, they argued amongst themselves and who was going to pay. The waterman looked on, save for a moment when he spied half a match, picked it up, and put it in his pocket for later. Meanwhile McMann, Beddows and the weasel continued negotiations, unamicably for the most part with raised voices, pushing and shoving. Then, McMann looked at the body, then at his fellows. The next thing Charon saw was the three of them going through the unconscious man's clothes. A minute later McMann stepped down to the boat with four pieces of silver in his hand.

As Charon reached out, McMann closed his hands into a fist, tightly covering the coins with his fingers. "Not 'til we sets 'obnail on the new world." He knew how the ferryman had to be paid, and unless they all wanted to die horribly in the water, he wouldn't give Charon his dues until they reached the other shore.

The boatman looked absolutely furious for a second then once more he laughed his chilling laugh. "You're fly." He said. "And knows my 'wares. All aboard." He added and stepped onto his boat, waiting for the others to follow.

"There's somethin' not a-right 'bout water risin'" He mused to himself. "These drains is headin' for dark times."

The water lapped against the hull of the rowing boat as it made slow progress across the large subterrainian lake. Beddows, who had a problem with water, quietly sweated, his knuckles white as his hands clung onto the side of the boat. The weasel sat with his feet up on the body of the unconcious man while McMann tried to make sense of the ferryman.

"Water, water, water." He grumbled, "'T'aint right. T'aint right at all."

McMann looked at him, an unspoken question on his lips. As if in answer this troglodyte Charon answered.

"Been louth an' a-shiddins, tha's square for this time-o-year. To me...Huh, seems some lightfingers been sharp about. If yer takes my meanin'."

McMann didn't, not quite, though it was plain that Charon found the water unnaturally high.

"So. Yer t'pay court t'Whiteblood? This cove 'ere been a-bother?" Said the oarsman, changing tack.

"'E's one whats cried beef." Called the weasel from the back of the boat.

"A peach eh? Ye should a-pegged 'im." Charon spat into the water.

"That's my counsel."

"Button fast cur!" Said McMann, casting a black look at the weasel. "Box 'im, blag 'im, and bring 'im afore Lord Whiteblood is whats I've given ear to, and so I shall."

Behind his back (and out of his vision) the weasel silently mouthed the same words.

"I'll not parry Whiteblood." Said McMann and shivered, the air across the water was chill. "Nor would ye, truth be told."

Nobody argued with that, not even Charon who had seen such tyrants come and go.

"A proper bloody bastard." Said the rower eventually.

"'Zeebub's own son." Agreed the weasel.

"Aye." McMann agreed. "An' blacker a Knave there is none."

Beddows opened his mouth, the others looked at him to see what respectful curse he would add.

"I...I..." He began, colour beginning to drain from his face.

"Go on..." The weasel said impatiently.

"I'm goin' t'mouth Stot's stew!"

"Over port! Over port!" Called Charon sudenly alarmed."Rest of yer keep station." He added as McMann and the
weasel tried to scramble out of Beddows vicinity, which wasn't easy on a small rowboat.

"Hold fire!" called McMann vainly. But it was too late, Beddows turned away from the water and was immediately, violently sick.

The vast cavern echoed with cries of disgust and curses.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The boat reached the opposite shore. Between them the weasel and McMann hauled the unconscious body over the stern and onto the hard cobble of the sewer walkway. Then they returned to the boat and did the same for Beddows who, although able to look as white as a sheet, was completely hopeless at doing anything else. He seemed to relax a little once he'd set his feet on terra firma.

McMann paid the ferryman, who grumbled about the mess in his boat and demanded an extra Duke for cleaning it out. McMann called him a clinker's son, but paid the money anyway.

"Short 'oof now." Said the weasel, stating the obvious. "Sooner old Bloodbanner marks this cove the better."

McMann agreed wholeheartedly with that sentiment, Lord Whiteblood's judgement was always harsh, imaginative too; making the punishment (and its execution) fit the crime. Somebody who stole food would be fed until they died; another who cheated at cards was beaten to death with spades and clubs. The punishment for becoming a grass was particularly horrible. Such was the fate of this individual. McMann shivered... it didn't bear thinking about.

"Whurrr...hurrr..."

The weasel looked up, his eyes met McMann's, they both looked at the body. It was coming to life. The weasel licked his lips and rubbed his hands.

"'Allo? Rip Van Winkle breaks 'is 'abits!" He said.

"On yer cloven's!" Said McMann, giving the body a kick.

The body coughed, and coughed again. Charon, who had watched this while he cleaned his boat, drew up beside them with a small bucket made from leather. With no comment or expression on his face, he emptied it over the man and as calmly as he had walked up, he made his way back to his boat. The weasel looked after him with a curious glance.

"Korky's teeth!" Spluttered the body, his body shivering with the shock of cold water.

"Mornin' Three Bones Billy." Said McMann with a wicked grin.

Three Bones Billy looked back at him grimly, then he looked over to the weasel who was adjusting his tatty top hat, then he looked at Beddows who was still trying not to be sick. The last time Three Bones Billy had seen these men, they where kicking seven bells out of him in an alleyway. The violence, the terror, and the pain all suddenly came flowing back to him. Wherever he was - and it certainly wasn't that alley - he didn't want to be here. He tried to scramble to his feet as best he could, but the pain that racked his body sent him sprawling to the floor. He certainly had broken his ribs, many of his fingers, and his eyes where bruised and swollen. His legs, battered and bruised, supported him no more than a fresh blancmange can support a smithy's anvil.

"You...!" Said Three Bones Billy accusingly. He coughed again.

"Me an' my associates," said McMann indicating his fellows. "Is fair cream-crackered for lugging yer carcass. So on yer cloven's and take Shank's way."

"I can't" Gasped Three Bones, spitting blood from his mouth. "Can't." he repeated.

"Ye will so!" Said the weasel, who so often took delight in another's misfortune. "On yer toddies yer mutt!"

"Go Forth!" Spat Three Bones Billy.

"I'll give ye go forth!" The weasel got up and began to kick Billy's already abused legs. He yelled.

"Oww! Can't! Can't!"

"Don't ye call me a c..."

"He can't walk!" Shouted Charon, making ready with his boat. "'is pins is fair skewered." He shook his head (not for the first time) at the weasel's stupidity. "Yer'll 'ave to bear 'im."

"O' Course we'll have t'bear 'im." Said McMann.

"Beddows." McMann turned to the burly individual who was wiping his mouth. "Bear 'im."

Beddows, who was in no mood to argue - or indeed in any mood to do anything - got up and walked over to where Three Bones Billy lay against the cobbles. With his great strength he lifted him up, his arms underneath Three Bones' armpits. McMann looked at the weasel.

"Take 'is legs."

"Bog off."

McMann tried to grab the weasel's collar, but the smaller, wiry man was too quick for him this time. He skipped out of McMann's reach and backed down the sewer.

"Take 'is legs!" McMann repeated, chasing after his compatriot.

"Up yours!"

Three Bones Billy looked at the boatman, who shrugged and shook his head.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The crowd swelled under the light of over a thousand lanterns, there were a few hundred here at least, under the vast brick sky of a man made chamber hidden deep within the Aquilan water system. Excitement buzzed in the air like the squadrons of flies that occasionally flew missions among the gathered bodies.

And what a crowd it was, a positive gallery of grotesques, men with desperate faces, women with painted ones, urchins that ran in gangs through the gangways and passages that ran around the chamber. For these were the underclass of Aquila, the lowest of the low, the beggars, whores, thieves and degenerates that added dark shades to the street landscapes, and character to the greater narrative of the planet and city's history. The air rattled with The Cant, negotiations were made, deals were shook on, and enemies called truces in long standing feuds; for this was the court of Lord Whiteblood and no drop of blood was spilled, no pocket was picked, and nothing happened here without his say so.

Lord Whiteblood's arrival has heralded by the appearance of his bodyguard, nearly two-dozen men in white and splashed blood red uniforms. They were also armed with swords (pikes being useless in the confines of the sewers), and armoured with breastplates, gauntlets, and lobster helmets. The mob hooted and cheered as these mercenaries formed two columns and forced a passage through the crowd.

"Whiteblood! Whiteblood!" Somebody called out. The assembly of undesirables took up the cry.

"Whiteblood!"

Soon that name was on everybody's lips, and it rang around the chamber like thunder.

Whiteblood was in his usual uniform, white robes, seemingly splattered with blood. Robes like that of a cleric's but with the addition of a pointed hood that covered his head. As he strode out the chant became a cheer. He walked determinedly, not acknowledging his reception, towards the centre of the red brick cavern. Those who looked upon his face saw only a white mask, completely covering any features, a mask such as you or I might wear to a masquerade.

He reached the middle and sat on a thick wooden throne, cruelly carved and scratched with occult symbols. Only then did he raise a single, white-gloved hand, and the hall instantly became silent. Only the trickle of water through the culvert that ran the length of the chamber could be heard.

Whiteblood spoke, his voice was harsh, cruel, but clear, he began by addressing each group of people in the chamber.

"Abbesses, Abram men, Adam Tilers, an' Amusers." He began, "Blaggers, Bawds, Bingo boys, an' Bung nippers. Coves, Cracksmen, an' Card Sharps. Ding Boys, Draw-latches, Doxies, Faggers, an' Fences all. An' 'igh Pads, Lully Priggers, Nappers, Swaggers, Tails, an' Water Pads - All o' ye are welcome 'ere at the court o' Lord Whiteblood."

"A right bloody bastard!" Called a voice from the crowd.

"A saucy Jack!" Called another.

And soon, all in the hall added their curses to the cacophony. Whiteblood's eyes - the only part of his visible - twinkled with delight. He let them curse and then held up his hand for silence once more. Proceedings had begun.

"We 'aves a precious caravan of work this night." He said. "Much 'as a-risen, much which should not 'ave, but 'as a-risen all the same. Speak parrot..."

He addressed one of his men who stood a pace forward from the throne. This man unrolled a scroll and read out the first item on the list.

"Knapperjakes in the sewers." He said, loudly and clearly, the crowd murmured with approval.

"It 'as come to our attention," Said Whiteblood, "that this 'ere stone, what we 'olds dear an' calls our 'ome, 'as been subject to false journeymen - "

"Peg the poxy scumbags!" Called a voice from the throng, many joined in and agreed.

"Aye, I square with you on that!" Agreed Whiteblood. "- False journeymen whats pulled down stone, blocked rat-runs, snickers, and farley lanes that we are about for our canter's trade and black doin's. Well my lovely coves, give ear to this decree. Any stranger, any fellows who are not known to us, that do not bear signs or respect of passage, what you finds in these 'ere tunnels, are to be pegged an' pegged proper - you 'as my leave..."

The crowd approved, and did so in the time honoured way, by stamping their feet on the ground.

"Speak parrot." Said Whiteblood as the thudding subsided.

"The traffic of Adam's ale."

"'Ere's queer beer!" Said Whiteblood, a little humour in his voice. "On account of the knapperjakes in the sewers, much good Adams bears filth and choler. Lord Snail 'as made fast with the supply of Adams from 'is reservoir."

There was laughter, some found this amusing, Whiteblood simply nodded. "Now, my priggers, those what help 'and it out will find paradise in their pockets, and much spare Adam's afore their own... ye 'as my word that Lord Snail don't mind. Speak again parrot..."

"Encampment in the parks" Said the guard, over the approving noise of footfalls.

"Again on 'count o' the knapperjakes... Those what's lost dwellings 'as 'ad to make do in tents o' the city parks - well me beauties, there's plenty a chance o' loot there for a keen swaddler - an in the 'ouses what they've 'ad to abandon. Don't let me have ear of yer slowness now..." Said Whiteblood, and he chuckled to himself. "...an' forget-me-not yer tribute!"

The crowd too laughed and stamped their feet. What was a disaster for some was a golden opportunity for others.

"Say on worthy parrot, say on..."

"Eyes and ears." Said the guard.

The room erupted with hurrahs at this announcement, so much so that Whiteblood had to use both hands to silence the gathering.

"Eyes and ears, eyes and ears." He repeated. "Aye - a pretty bag of gold dukes 'waits the cove or abbess what finds the woman of Lord Wave. One from above 'as asked of us to regard 'er, and for 'er location. I winkled a pretty penny from the cull. Keep 'em peeled, keep 'em open."

He gestured at the guard with the scroll.

"A tup'penny cackler."

The mood of the crowd changed instantly, the muttered and whispered, their faces becoming contorted with hate or anger. The light that had danced in the eyes behind Whiteblood's mask also dimmed, the eyes themselves narrowing to hateful little slits.

"Cly the jerk for'ard." Spat the lord of the underworld.

Two of his bodyguard detached themselves and marched out of the hall. Deliberately, Whiteblood used the pause to let the fury of the crowd brew, stewing like a malicious poisoned potion. Then, Three Bones Billy was driven into the centre of the chamber, stripped to his waist and whipped by the two guards. If he had no strength in his legs before, Three Bones had it now, and his bloody and bruised body staggered forward before lord Whiteblood.

"Make 'im say a rosary."

The guards obeyed their master's order and threw Billy to his knees. The crowd booed, called abuse, and spat at him. Some threw stones; others threw worse things that ought not to be dwelled on.

"You 'as afore ye Billy Three Bones." Said Whiteblood in an even voice. "There's those what 'cuse 'im o' cryin' beef an' tellin' many a comfy yarn o' the Haldane's pepper-pots. Who 'cuses?"

The crowd murmured as one for a moment and then a man stepped forward.

"I, Rag-bone Harry..."

Followed by another.

"I, Johnny two-purses..."

Followed by another.

"I, Black Ken of Hurdley Lane..."

Followed by more until twenty people stood out from the crowd. It seemed Billy had been promiscuous in his grassing.

"Now." Said Whiteblood, having let the accusers identify themselves. "I gave out eyes and ears for this thatch gallows squeak, would those who snatched 'im make show of themselves."

The crowd found themselves pushed and jostled as Beddows, McMann, and the weasel competed with one another to be first to present themselves to Lord Whiteblood. By rights, as he was the strongest, Beddows should have got there first, but McMann glowered at him, arresting his progress, while at the same time elbowing the weasel in the eye.

"Ah, I know ye Terry long-fingers." Said Whiteblood to McMann.

"My lord." McMann bowed. The weasel quickly followed. Beddows remembered just in time.

"And yer coves?"

".This be Tom 'Gallows' Beddows." Said McMann, indicating the larger man. "An' this be Nicodemus Longfellow." He continued indicating the weasel.
The weasel tipped his tattered top hat and smiled a greasy smile.

"Good form, good form." Whiteblood said approvingly. "A worthy swiver's reward!" He added and signalled to one of his men.

A guard stepped forward with a money pouch that strained at the seams and handed it to McMann. Beddows and the weasel looked mildly disappointed, but they knew better than to say anything here (and would probably combine forces to lever what they where owed from McMann later).

"I see ye gave good polish to this 'ere turncoat." Said the so-called nobleman, looking approvingly at Three Bones Billy's bruised and battered body. McMann opened his mouth to reply

"Aye-aye y'Lordships." Said the weasel quickly. "We served 'im good horses doovers, o'course we saved the main dish, what is 'is peggin' afore ye."

He smiled, McMann scowled, he stopped smiling and retreated a footstep.

"A starter an' a main." Pondered Whiteblood, as if an idea had just struck him. Then he turned his attention away from the three men and stood up. He walked to where Billy knelt.

"What 'ave ye t'say for yerself cur?"

Billy tried to sit up as best he could he took a deep intake of breath. "I admits t'me crimes, I'm fair banged to rights and no mistake."

"So ye say." Said Whiteblood. "As I'm beak, it falls 'pon me to say the cramp word. To squeal o' yer brethren an' use us badly is the worst of crimes, there's only one sentence - death."

The crowed stamped their feet in approval.

".And for those who danced the Tyburn jig a 'cause o' yer loose tongue it is fittin' that your tongue should be the death o' you." Whiteblood said the words gravely, weighing them down with absolute seriousness.

"Hold 'is head, use the tongs." He said.

The guard that had thrown the money to McMann now stepped forward with a simple set of tongs while two others held Billy's head straight. To his credit, Billy didn't squirm, even though his eyes shone with horror and his stomach churned.

"Blade." Said Whiteblood, looking at McMann. McMann passed him his knife. Whiteblood nodded a thanks and stepped forward and with his back shielding Billy's face from the crowd, he slowly cut out his tongue. His own blood suddenly flowing down his throat gagged the single scream that Billy could not help but utter. As he gagged, Whiteblood turned to the audience, his hands red and bloody, and holding the tongs high, displayed Three Bones Billy's tongue for all to see.

The crowd cheered with approval, as if applauding a master performer.

The guards pulled Billy's hair to lift up his head and held open his mouth. The crowd looked on as Whiteblood fed the man his own tongue. They cheered, and none looked away, from the oldest harlot to the youngest urchin. Whiteblood looked on too, as Billy choked to death, his face turning blue, and his mouth awash with crimson.

Whiteblood held a single, bloody, murderous hand for silence.

"'Is name was Three Bones Billy, and he squared up to 'is crimes." He called firmly. "Bury 'im proper -- court is adjourned."