Nightwatch on the Hinterlands

by K. Eason

  “I’m supposed to believe you have no way around that.”

  Iari stuck her arm out. Not a fast gesture, not aggressive, but a barrier. She turned her palm back toward Gaer, made sure the Aedian crest on the back of her gauntlet faced Keawe.

  “Gaer’s not sending reports to SPERE, any more than you’re reporting all this to Seawall.”

  “Huh.” Keawe squinted at her. “All right, Lieutenant. Ambassador.” She drilled a scowl at Gaer. “I’m listening.”

  It took Gaer only a breath to recover. His voice came out even, steady. “Thank you, Knight-Marshal. I thought, in the beginning of all this, that it must be Pinjat doing something with the riev. Char and Brisk Array spoke about Pinjat’s efforts to restore something they called Oversight to the riev who used his services. Presumably at their request.”

  “Shit,” said Keawe.

  “But upon further examination of the, ah, data—” Gaer tapped his tablet, brought up a second set of equations. “I think we’re dealing with another, separate arithmancer, probably the same one who blew up the house. I think that person was working with Pinjat, or had access to his workshop and his riev.”

  “Then why kill him?”

  “Perhaps Pinjat discovered the Brood contamination and objected. Perhaps he wanted a bigger payoff. We have no way to know.”

  Keawe thrust her jaw at Gaer. “What kind of arithmancer?”

  “Not a vakar, Knight-Marshal, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “You’d say that.”

  “No vakar knows Aedis hexwork that well. This person has either worked with the Aedis, or has access to people who do.”

  Keawe had gone still and straight in her chair. Spacer-blank features, now, eyes cold and all-seeing as Gaer’s optic. “And how does this hostile arithmancer figure in with this Brood-tainted altar you found, Lieutenant?”

  “Setat,” Gaer murmured, and then something else in Sisstish.

  Yeah, setat, with voidspit on top. Tobin had told Keawe everything. Had to be reasons for it: to keep Keawe from running to Seawall, maybe. To protect the riev. Because he needed an ally.

  “Lieutenant.” Keawe’s voice cracked like a hot stone, and Iari came back to the room, to Keawe’s eyes staring holes. She didn’t dare look at Tobin. He’d given her a command. Trusted her judgment. And was letting her answer, so:

  “Sir. We aren’t totally sure. The altar’s covered in k’bal script. Gaer hasn’t been able to translate. We don’t have much on them.”

  “You could ask the Five Tribes for official assistance, of course,” said Gaer. “We have linguists. Or you can make do with me.”

  Keawe turned to glare at Tobin. “Well, shit.”

  Tobin nodded. “I did tell you.”

  “Let me tell you about the altar’s hexwork,” Gaer said, and proceeded to brief the Knight-Marshals on what he’d already told Iari, except this time he deployed every polysyllable in his arsenal, every marker of expertise. Void and dust, that pride—if Keawe didn’t already know he was a SPERE battle-arithmancer playing diplomat, she knew it now. But Iari noticed he said nothing about Sawtooth’s chip.

  “I’d like to talk to this artificer of yours, this Su’seri,” Gaer said when he’d finished. “About the anomalous equations on the altar. Presumably he’s one of the wichu who came with you on the aethership.”

  “Watching, were you?”

  “Gaer was with me, sir, yes.”

  “Huh.” Keawe transferred that yellow glare to Iari. “Well. That’s part of why I dragged Su’seri down here. Though I don’t know how much help he’ll be, especially if the ambassador’s asking. Little neefa’s scared spitless of vakari. What he has told me so far is that your man Pinjat’s a bit of a pariah. Su’seri said Pinjat got himself expelled from the artificer’s guild. Wouldn’t say why, though. Said it was proprietary information.”

  “Then I’ll ask him nicely,” Gaer said, and grinned. Keawe looked momentarily startled. Then she grinned back.

  Ungentle Ptah, that was an unsettling display. Just let their alliance hold.

  Iari eased back a step. Let herself lean, just a little, on the back of Gaer’s chair. She’d been on her feet tonight more than the last two days combined. Her leg ached in a razor line from ankle to knee, along the healed line of the break. That would continue a day or so, perfectly normal, but unpleasant in the meantime. A battle-rig would help, if anyone ever let her back into one.

  Bet she would get her wish. She had a feeling there’d be a fight coming, sooner rather than not.

  “You get something out of that little neefa,” Keawe said, “I’ll buy you a drink. The other one has done nothing but talk. She’s Pinjat’s cousin. Not fond of him, sounds like.”

  Gaer sat up, same time Iari forgot about the ache in her leg and stood straight. The chair, no longer pinned between their respective masses, skidded an angry centimeter on the stone floor.

  “His cousin,” Gaer repeated. “What’s her name?”

  “Oh, something unpronounceable. Yina, oh hell, Yin-something.”

  “Yinal’i’ljat?”

  “Yeah. If you saw Su’seri get off the ship, then you saw her, too. That’s—what, Lieutenant?” Keawe shoved her chair back, eyes wide.

  Iari supposed she’d turned some unhealthy color, or maybe the look on her face was enough to alarm a battle-hard tenju Knight-Marshal. “That wasn’t Yinal’i’ljat, sir. At least, the woman who got off the ship with you wasn’t the Yinal’i’ljat we met in B-town.”

  Silence, throbbing and furious and crackling like the moments before thunder. Keawe had who building behind her eyes, and was just as clearly clamping her teeth on the question. That was the problem, who.

  Gaer answered it partway, as much as anyone could. “Sss. Our second arithmancer. A wichu would also explain any knowledge of Aedian hexes. Perhaps even how they got past the riev hexes—” It looked like he might’ve said something else—mouth still ajar, eyes half-lidded—but Keawe plowed over him.

  “Where is this person now?” At Gaer, not asking.

  Which earned a not-unexpected hiss and scowl and probably would’ve produced a classic Gaer retort if Tobin had not intervened.

  “Presumably still in B-town. The PKs were officially in charge of the investigation until very recently. We’ve requested all the files, with a priority on the explosion. Some of the precincts have been more prompt than others.”

  “I’ll show them prompt,” muttered Keawe.

  Tobin pretended not to hear. “Lieutenant? Could you go and retrieve everything the peacekeepers have on Yinal’i’ljat?”

  “I’ll go get them, sir. Right now.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The main peacekeeper HQ occupied a renovated mansion on a side street off the main market square in B-town’s Hightown district. The area was obviously alwar, obviously restored to its prewar glory after the violence of the last surge. All that fluted stonework, the panoply of statues carved into walls and sills and crowding under the eaves. A series of artfully placed teslas illuminated the doorway and windows and the big, plain-lettered sign over the door.

  PEACEKEEPERS

  It was dark otherwise on that street, and quiet. Rain spat in irregular gusts from the low-bellied clouds. Rattled on the windows, the old-style metal gutters. The main doors—double-wide, a good polymer copy of wood, inset with narrow windows—swung open on automated hinges. The hallway beyond looked less historical, more utilitarian-modern. Off-white tiled floor and walls, benches lining both sides. The reception desk sat at the far end of that hall in its own small office, separated behind a presumably impact-resistant window with a hinged slot at the bottom that looked wide enough to pass documents and tablets and ID chits through. That window was closed now, and latched from the interior. One officer on duty back there, who looked up as the doors opened.

  “Offic
er,” said Iari. “Good evening.”

  The officer’s (un)welcoming frown deepened into a scowl. The two shapes in his doorway—templar, vakar—were obvious, and troubling enough. But then those shapes came inside, trailing water on the tile. He stood as they approached. He had a little sidearm jacta, standard issue, toward which his hand drifted.

  Iari walked past the empty benches lining the wall and leaned on the counter. The rain that had beaded up on her rig threaded into minuscule rivers and puddled on scuffed polymer surface.

  “Lieutenant Iari, here on Knight-Marshal Tobin’s orders. The Aedis is assuming jurisdiction over case files Q-1745 and LN-B7. You were told we were coming to get them.”

  The PK was having a hard time meeting her eyes. Too busy staring at Gaer. She took the time to study him. Human, somewhere in his thirties, with an arrogant chin and unlined eyes. Thin, wiry, uninspired blond hair. Eyes like chips of summer sky, when he did manage to look at her, almost as blue as Iffy’s. He seemed familiar, in that way people did sometimes. The glare he was giving her seemed more personal than just-met-you resentment.

  That arrogant chin stuck out just a little bit farther. “Lieutenant,” he said, lifting his voice on the last syllable, turning it into a question. Of her name, or her worthiness to bear that particular rank. And then, grudgingly, “Ambassador.”

  “Officer Arlendson,” Gaer said, smoothly and poisonously. “What a delight to see you again.”

  Oh sweet sizzling Ptah. Now Iari recognized him. This was one of the PKs who’d pointed a jacta at Gaer and threatened to arrest him outside of Pinjat’s house.

  Iari made a fist of her gauntlet and thumped it gently on the counter. “The files, Officer. Please.”

  “A moment, Lieutenant. They’re in the back.” Arlendson made a great show of crossing the little office area as slowly as possible. He pressed his hand on the lock-pad to the very modern, metal door on the back wall and held it there long enough someone could’ve hand-drawn his palm-print, long past the panel turning green and beeping. The door opened as he lifted his hand. Quick, efficient mechanism. He dragged himself through. The door flicked shut again, and stayed that way.

  Silence. No one came back. One minute, two, five.

  Behind them, the main door swished open. A gust of wet autumn chilled the little vestibule, snaking around into the open visor and settling around the back of Iari’s neck.

  She did not turn around. Pointedly.

  Gaer twisted his head just far enough. He laughed through the sides of his plates. “I think Char’s losing patience.”

  “I’m losing patience,” Iari said, not softly. She found the very obvious surveillance camera in the corner of the reception area, perched where it could see both sides of the desk, and stared up at it. “Officer Arlendson. The Aedis called ahead. You knew we were coming. Your prompt cooperation is appreciated.”

  The camera stared back, one of those rounded black half-globes, shiny and blank as a neefa’s eye.

  There was another modern, metal door to the left of the poly-alloy reception window, presumably for admitting visitors, arrestees, whoever might come in from the street and need access to the back offices. There wasn’t a keypad on this side of it.

  Iari laid her palm flat against it. A web of hexwork flared, sizzled, produced a cascade of sparks. That would hurt on unshielded flesh. Barely registered on the battle-rig.

  “There are surveillance devices,” Gaer said. “Decent hexwork. Not impossible to bypass.”

  It was an offer. And it was tempting, if only because Iari was tired, hurt, and feeling more than a little out of sorts.

  But, “Not starting a war with the PKs today.” She flicked a look at the camera. “Yet.”

  Gaer hissed, which could be fine and was probably some variation of setat. He was unhappy because he’d left his tablet in Tobin’s office—at Tobin’s request, not from any loss of memory—and he seemed certain something dire would happen to it. Probably would. Keawe and Tobin would read it.

  No one’s going to erase the data, Gaer. Most they’ll do is find you a linguist.

  That’s my research! Oh, sss. You don’t understand.

  True. Iari didn’t. What she did understand was the need to know, oh, now, who this false-Yinal’i’ljat was and how she fit in with murdered artificers, hacked riev, targeted Brood. And maybe—Ptah forfend, she didn’t want to think too closely about it—Corso, because Gaer said he’d sent him out looking for her, after the explosion at Tzcansi’s sister’s house, and hadn’t heard back.

  A fact he’d dropped on her—much like that house—on the walk down, because he wouldn’t have said it in Tobin’s office, no, not where Keawe could hear and ask questions. So yeah. She was a little worried about Corso, whose silence since then might be nothing, and might be dead-in-a-gutter or Brood-food.

  “You come out with those files,” Iari said, staring at the camera. “You do it now, or I ask the templar-initiate behind me there to open this door so we can assist you in finding them.”

  The interior door reopened. Arlendson came back through, but he wasn’t alone. A woman followed him, alw, dark-skinned, light-haired, medium build. Sidearm jacta in a shoulder harness. Not uniformed, which meant she ranked higher than patrol officer. Some kind of commander, maybe. Iari made a tentative, positive judgment: the woman was straight-backed, neat, neither smile nor scowl on her face. She held a tablet embossed with the Peacekeeper logo and the B-town seal in both hands.

  Very deliberately official. Very deliberately slow, like Arlendson had been, crossing the tiny office. She looked at Iari. At Gaer. Past both of them, at what was presumably Char and Luki standing at the end of the corridor, forcing the outer doors to stay open to the rain.

  “Lieutenant,” said the woman. She had a B-town native’s accent, same as Iari. “I’m Chief Inspector Elin. B-town is under council jurisdiction. The Knight-Marshal sits on that council as a courtesy. I have already registered an official complaint. I’m repeating it now. This is another example of Aedian overreach in local affairs.”

  Oh, blessed Elements. Relations between the PKs and the Aedis were supposed to be cordial. Elin’s attitude seemed personal. All right, fine, an exploding house and murder-arson looked high-profile, important; a chance for a chief inspector to prove herself, maybe, get a promotion, rise in the ranks, and here was some templar lieutenant coming in to take all the glory. Or maybe Elin just didn’t like templars. That happened. Iari wondered what Keawe would do with a recalcitrant PK. Probably put a gauntleted fist through that alloy window. Tobin, though, would stay calm.

  So Iari swallowed temper and impatience and said: “Confederate law states the Aedis takes over all matters in which there is Brood activity. This is standard procedure, Chief Inspector.”

  “Only the house-fire on Tenth Street involves alleged Brood activity. File Q-1745 concerns a murder, Lieutenant. Multiple witnesses report a riev in the area right before the attack.” Elin’s eyes flicked past Iari. “A large one.”

  Oh, for the love of the Four. Iari held out her hand: gauntleted, rigged, palm scuffed with years of use and abuse. “May I please have those files?”

  Arlendson stepped around his boss and opened the slot in the window. Held it like a voidspit doorman.

  Elin didn’t look. Didn’t move. Her fingers tightened on the file. “I’m responsible for the safety of the citizens of B-town, Lieutenant.”

  “So am I. And everyone else in the Confederation, if and when it comes to a surge. Chief Inspector, listen. I’m the templar who was buried under the house on Tenth Street. I am the reason the Aedis locked down the crime scene and kept your people out. And I am just as dedicated as you are to finding out what happened, who’s responsible, and making sure it doesn’t happen again.”

  Elin blinked. Some of her tension drained out. Less stiff-knuckled gripping of tablets, fewer lines around eyes and mo
uth. “I see. And why were you there, Lieutenant?”

  Elin didn’t expect an answer, clearly. Expected some evasive I am not at liberty to divulge that information. Maybe the question was just an investigative reflex; Elin was an inspector, and it had to be all kinds of maddening to have questions with no answers, no hope of answers, and some battle-rigged templar coming in to take all her work.

  But the asking, Iari thought—that seemed like, if not an offering, then an opening. A willingness to talk. So: “I was there because I was looking for a woman named Tzcansi. Local ganglord. Small time. You know her?”

  Elin laughed, dry as dust. “Not so small time. Tzcansi had business all over B-town. Fingers everywhere. A little black market dealing, a little enforcement. Never loud. Never messy.”

  “Never? There’s a district in Lowtown says otherwise. Businesses burned out. People gone missing.”

  “You mean that fire in the public house in Ward Seven?”

  “You do know about that.”

  “It wasn’t my case, and it’s not my district, but yes, I know about it.” Elin pursed her lips. “Organized crime isn’t something the Aedis usually bothers with, unless it’s interstellar operations. We don’t have anyone on all of Tanis who’s that connected. Certainly not Tzcansi. So what’s the Aedis’s interest?”

  “This isn’t about organized crime. It’s about Brood. That burned-out tavern had Brood nesting in the back room. I doubt Tzcansi didn’t know about them. We wanted to ask her, but then she turned up dead.”

  Elin’s brows rose. “Tzcansi’s dead?”

  “She knew that already,” Gaer murmured. Barely a breath, meant to carry as far as Iari’s ears and no further.

  Huh. All right. “Thought you knew that.”

  Elin blinked. Her throat worked around a swallow, as if she had glass in her throat. “No, I did not.”