Low Town: A Novel

by Daniel Polansky

  I bowed, once toward him and once toward his assemblage. Neither returned the gesture, though Yancey shot me a quick nod as I backed away. The Blade’s servant led me out of the main room and into a small corridor beyond.

  Up close Tucket smelled like ink and the civil service. Clucking his tongue unpleasantly he took out a sheet of paper from his breast pocket, unfolded it, and handed it to me. “This details the items the Master wishes to procure.”

  I tried not to look surprised at the volume and variety. “The dreamvine and pixie’s breath I can do now. The rest of it I can get in a day or two. Except this last one. I don’t truck wyrm. You’ll need to find someone else for that.”

  “I didn’t realize men in your line of work could afford to be so particular.”

  “I’m happy to have helped further your education.”

  He bristled and tried to think of something smart to say. I waited a few seconds to provide him with an opportunity. When it was clear he wasn’t going to take it, I spoke up again. “I assume you’ve been provided with payment?”

  He passed over a fat purse, handing it to me with an awfully high-toned manner, given that we were completing a narcotics transaction. There was more than there needed to be. A lot more.

  “The duke is very kind.”

  “His grace is buying your silence, and your loyalty.”

  “Tell him the first is free, but the second isn’t for sale.” I put the purse into my satchel and handed him most of my remaining stash.

  He took it with an impressively choreographed air of disdain. “Follow this hallway to the garden. A path will take you to the side gate.”

  “The gentleman I was talking to earlier,” I interrupted, “who was he?”

  “Believe it or not, sir”—he laid on the last syllable thick enough to let me know he didn’t think me entitled to it—“I hadn’t made a point of following your every movement.”

  “You know who I’m talking about. He was out of place.”

  “Not that it’s any of your business, but I assume you’re speaking of Sorcerer Brightfellow.”

  If there was one thing I hadn’t taken Tubby for, it was the Queen of Ostarrichi—but if there was a second, it was an artist. I let that piece fall into place while I found my way out into the night air.

  All in all, the evening was not much different from a hundred others, a gathering of bored blue bloods happy to exchange inherited wealth for alchemical happiness, and I equally happy to be the agent of their deliverance. Business as usual really, par for the course—save one detail, one minor particular that I’d barely had time to consider till I was walking back to the Earl.

  From the moment I had begun speaking to Beaconfield till I had left his sight, the sapphire in my chest had burned like the sting of a wasp. I rubbed at it as I headed home, thinking that I might just be seeing the Blade sooner than he expected.

  I awoke to Adolphus’s fat face leering over mine, huge hands shaking me roughly from my repose. “They found the girl.”

  It was clear he didn’t mean alive. I brushed him off and sat up.

  “Are the chill here?”

  “Not yet.”

  We didn’t have long. I grabbed my satchel from the chair and handed it to him. “Tell Wren to run this over to Kid Mac. And give him something to do that’ll get him out of the bar for a few hours.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Just don’t make trouble when they come in. Let them up and don’t get hot. I’ll handle it.”

  He swallowed hard and left.

  I pulled on my clothes and boots, then lay back down on the bed. At least I wouldn’t be naked when they came for me, that was about all the preparation I could manage. Adolphus was right to be nervous—Crispin was one thing; whatever was between us he knew I wasn’t out there killing children. But they wouldn’t be sending Crispin after me, because Crispin went after murderers and criminals, and no one important cared about the dead girl. They cared about the practitioner who had likely killed her, and that meant Special Operations, and Special Operations was a whole new kettle of worms.

  The Empire is a great machine, a massive engine, millions of gears churning, and nothing that complex operates perfectly. When it breaks down, when a speck of dust dirties a lens or a cog refuses to turn, someone needs to be in place to repair it. This is the purpose of Special Operations—to keep the wheels spinning swiftly and smoothly, and to make sure anyone caught between them gets ground fine enough that they aren’t noticed.

  I sighed ruefully. I had been the shining star of that outfit at one point. Life is strange, sometimes.

  When they came, they came hard. I could hear the door downstairs kicked open and obscene threats being shouted. I hoped Adolphus wouldn’t do anything foolish—all that fat and good humor hid a man capable of extraordinary violence. If things went bad, they’d need to kill him to get him down, and at the end the blood on the floor wouldn’t be his alone.

  But I didn’t hear the sounds of shattered glass and broken furniture that would accompany the loss of my friend’s temper, so I assumed he was following my orders. Footsteps echoed up the stairs and then the door flew open and I was staring down the wrong end of a crossbow at a young agent yelling at me to get on the ground. Following close on his heels was a pair of apish-looking gentlemen that made sure I followed through on the first’s command.

  I was facedown on the floor, my hands chained and a knee in my back, when I heard a half-forgotten voice. “I always knew if I stuck around long enough I’d get another crack at you. I just didn’t think it would be such a good one.”

  The pressure eased off my spine and rough hands pulled me to my feet. Greeting me was a blunt face set atop a thick tun of gristle, broad muscle, and scarred flesh.

  “Hello, Crowley. Good to see stupidity is no barrier to a lasting career in the service of the Crown.”

  “Still quick with that tongue, aren’t we, boy?” He laughed, dull beady eyes set above a pug nose flaring in anticipation. His fist shot forward and I was back on my knees, trying not to vomit and wishing I had the last ten seconds to do over. Crowley laughed and leaned in close to me. “I’ve got you, boy. I’ve got you by the balls.”

  I wheezed out a response. “You always were fascinated with my junk.” It was a juvenile attempt at humor, and I regretted it even before Crowley sunk another fat paw into my chin.

  “You can take a beating, I’ll give you that,” he said, rubbing his knuckles. “You’re the heavyweight champ of getting your ass whipped. But I ain’t dumb enough to scrape any more skin on that stone jaw of yours. We’ve got specialists for that.”

  I spat a stream of blood onto the dirty floor and tried to look brave. Crowley hauled me up once more. “Cochrane, you and Talloway are with me. The rest of you head over to the crime scene—make sure they’ve got enough men.” He turned back toward me. “I’ll admit, as much as it burned me up to see you get away, it was worth it to have the chance to break you all over again.”

  This time I was smart enough to keep my mouth shut.

  Adeline was downstairs by the fireplace, scowling with all the ferocity of a wounded matriarch, the moment of crisis revealing her bedrock core. Adolphus was seated at a table, an agent with a crossbow covering him. They were both being very brave for me. I appreciated it.

  The walk seemed very long. They hadn’t given me a chance to grab a coat, and I shivered from the cold. Occasionally Crowley would say something ugly and unoriginal, but mostly it was lost in the wind. Around us the crowds melted away—the citizens of Low Town were in no hurry to share the fate they saw I was heading toward.

  By the time we had reached Black House, it had started to drizzle. Crowley paused for a second, just to grind it into my gut. I looked up at the gray sky, watching beads of ice water tumble from the clouds. A drop broke against my forehead. Then they pulled me inside and I worked to keep my face steady, even when we took the unmarked entrance into the underbelly of Black House, even when they opened
the door to my cell.

  The room was deliberately featureless except for a steel prisoner’s chair and the table beside it. In the center, small but impossible to miss, was a cast-iron drain leading down into the sewers. I had always hated this place when I was an agent, and I didn’t like it any better on the other end.

  Standing in the corner was a Questioner, wearing the traditional burgundy outfit, wrist-length robes beneath a tapered hood. A black bag containing the instruments of his trade dangled from his hand. This one was heavy, fat really, rolls of flesh stretching his red uniform. But then torture isn’t particularly physically demanding, at least not for the one doing the carving. And the guild held to quite rigorous standards—I was sure he’d be up to his task.

  “Enjoying the scenery?” Crowley asked. A kick to the back sent me tumbling. I struggled to stand, but before I could Crowley’s men grabbed me and forced me onto the seat, unchaining my hands from behind my back and strapping them to two leather restraints built into the arms of the chair.

  “I knew we’d get you back in here one day. The Old Man thought you might sour on us, thought you might slip out of Low Town one night. I said no way. That boy loves us too much to ever leave. He’ll be back. But even I didn’t think you’d be this desperate—dark magic?” He wagged one stubby finger in my face. “We’ve got you deep.”

  Crowley pulled a cigar from a pocket. He bit off the end with his square gray teeth and lit it, pink slug lips puffing until he had a good draw, thick trails of smoke escaping from his fractured leer. “Who do you think we’re waiting on now?”

  As if on cue the door opened, and a grandfatherly man in a crisp uniform entered, and I knew I was well and truly fucked.

  The most powerful person in Rigus might be the Queen, or it might be the High Chancellor—or it might be an open-faced little man who works from a windowless office in the center of Black House and has a recess where his soul should be. The Old Man, Custodian of Special Operations, an innocuous title for the Empire’s chief spy-master. The eyes at the window are his, and the ear at the door. If there’s dirt to be had on you he has it, and if there isn’t and he needs it he’ll make it. More men have died from a wag of his finger than of the plague. For a quarter century he’s stood at the helm of the largest organization ever constructed by the hands of man for the purposes of usurping and maintaining control of his fellows.

  And if you passed him on the street he’d tip his hat, and you’d tip yours right back. Evil is like that sometimes.

  The Old Man’s soft grin creased his face, eyes twinkling with merriment. “What a grand thing it is to see one of my children return after such a long absence. How we’ve missed you here at your old home.”

  The sight of him was enough to stoke a little fire in my belly. “I figured I’d come by and see how the place was holding up. Y’all seem busy though, maybe I’ll stop in another time.”

  He held to his smile, then nodded to the Questioner, who promptly and without fuss began to unpack his bag onto the table.

  “We’re gonna put it to you,” Crowley said. “We’re gonna put it to you hard. By the time we’re done with you we’ll know every sin that stains your soul.”

  I forced a laugh, no easy thing with the straps taut against my wrists. “Better clear your dinner plans.” If it was only Crowley, I wouldn’t have gone through the bother of talking—he was a goon, useful only for his savagery. But the Old Man was sharp as a dagger and twice as cold. That grandfatherly visage hid the mind of a master strategist and an utter madman to boot. He’d like to see me in the ground, no doubt, but that wouldn’t influence him—only humans base decisions on emotion. “Apart from giving the Questioner here some unneeded practice, what exactly do you think you’re going to accomplish with all this fuss?”

  Crowley ground his cigar between the jagged line of his ivories. “You know something about the child and the demon, something that’ll help get us closer. And if you don’t”—his smile was rabid—“I’ll still get to watch the walls get painted red with your insides.”

  “You see, Crowley, this is why you used to report to me. This is why you’ll never take over for the Old Man. You can’t see past the next victim. You’re a blunt instrument, useless without someone ahead of you to mark a trail.”

  Beside me the Questioner continued to unravel his tools, sharp silver things on a blanket of black velvet.

  “When you finish today and tomorrow a child goes missing, what will you do then? There are issues here beyond indulging your sadism.”

  Crowley had managed to hold his temper, though his flyspeck eyes had swelled up to near the size of egg yolks. “We’ll get whoever’s killing the kids—don’t you worry about that.”

  “Horseshit.” I focused on the Old Man. “You don’t have anyone here as good as me, and you know it. Whoever did this learned it from the Crown—you can’t depend on your own people. I can rely on support outside the Throne, I’ve got contacts riddled through Low Town, and I know what these things look like.” I swallowed hard—time to play my trump. “And I’ve got a lead.”

  “Then we’ll get it from you with the knife and follow it where it goes,” Crowley said.

  “You won’t. No one in Low Town will talk to you, and you wouldn’t be able to put the pieces together even if they did.”

  For only the second time thus far the Old Man spoke. “Are you so desperate to return to my employ? From what I’ve heard, you’ve become little better than a dog, an addict waiting for a knife in an alley.”

  “I was sharp enough to find the first one. Either you throw in with me or you leave it to the ape. And we both know it’s too important to let him foul it up.”

  The Old Man’s smile grew broader, and I knew his next words were to decide my fate—freedom in his service or a session with the Questioner and an unmarked grave. It was a long moment. In retrospect I think I handled myself admirably, which is to say I didn’t leak piss down the leg of my pants.

  He set one gnarled hand on my shoulder and squeezed it with surprising firmness. “You won’t disappoint me, my boy. You’ll find whoever is hurting these poor girls, and together we’ll make sure to bring them to justice.” Crowley began to sputter a protest, but a glance from the chief shut his mouth. The Old Man undid one restraint with the care of a mother tending a scraped knee. He made a move for the other, then stopped. “A week ought to be sufficient, I would think, for a man of your intellect to determine who is responsible for these monstrosities.” He shook his head sadly, his gentle nature offended by the cruelty of a senseless world.

  “Two,” I said. “I don’t have your resources—I’ll need time to work my contacts.”

  For a single tick of a second his eyes shifted and the facade gave way to the monster beneath, and I almost flinched—but his face was turned toward me and his voice remained friendly.

  “We’ll see you in seven days.” The illusion of humanity snapped back, and he released the second cuff. He turned to Crowley. “See our dear friend off, won’t you?” Flashing one last smile, he walked out the iron door, taking the other agents with him.

  Crowley watched it close, his cigar clenched so tightly in his mouth I thought he might choke on it. He spent a while trying to think of something he could say or do to offset the humiliation he had suffered. When nothing came, he turned and left.

  The Questioner was repacking his tools with a vague air of disappointment. Deciding my legs were steady enough to carry me, I propped myself to my feet, then turned toward my would-be torturer. “You got a cigarette?” I asked.

  He shook his head, the burnt red crown of his hood bobbing. “I don’t smoke,” he said without taking his eyes off his work. “That stuff will kill you.”

  “The Firstborn willing.”

  Outside the rain had stopped, but it was cold as ever. I massaged my wrists and wondered how much of it the Old Man had planned. The whole thing had the feel of theater—not for Crowley of course, he wasn’t in on the gag—but this was an aw
fully blunt play for someone as knotted as the Old Man.

  It didn’t matter really. If this had all been a ploy to retain my services, I had no illusions that the deadline was anything other than deathly serious. I headed back home to tool up, and to plan.

  When I stepped into the Earl, Adolphus was moping at the counter, his face wide and blubbery. I guess he’d figured I was dead. It wasn’t an unreasonable assumption, though I was glad to prove him wrong. He turned when he heard the door open, and before it closed he’d wrapped me in his massive limbs, pressing his weeping face against the top of my head and calling for Adeline and Wren.

  It was a bit much, particularly as in all likelihood I had only delayed the inevitable, and Adolphus’s melodrama would be replayed in another week. But he seemed happy and I didn’t have the heart to say anything, until his affection started to prove a danger to the integrity of my rib cage.

  Adeline had come in from the back and set her round frame against me. Over her head I could see Wren descending the staircase, his usual neutral demeanor on his face. “Not excited to see me? Just another day at the Earl, your benefactor getting arrested by the Crown and released before lunch?”

  Adolphus responded elatedly, “He said he wasn’t worried! Said he knew you’d be back so there was no point in getting upset.”

  “Nice to see you’ve got such confidence in me,” I said. “Remember, though—just ’cause your horse came in doesn’t mean you made a smart bet.”

  If it were up to Adolphus, I would have spent the rest of the day wrapped in a blanket like a fever victim, and much as the notion of a long nap appealed to me, the trail was growing cold. Brushing off his mothering, I headed to my room and removed a long black box from beneath my bed.

  I don’t pack a weapon regularly, hadn’t for nearly half a decade, not since I first left the Crown’s service and had to carve out my business from the ruins of the last big syndicate war. Carrying a blade means someone’s going to make you use it, and corpses are bad for business. Better to be friendly to everyone, pay off who you need to, and keep a grin on your face until it’s time to stop smiling.