Low Town: A Novel

by Daniel Polansky

  And truth be told, I don’t trust myself with one. If things get heated and you start to lose the thread, so long as you aren’t carrying, things are apt to end all right. Maybe someone walks away with a bruised jaw or a split nose, but they walk away. With a sword at your side—well, I have enough on my soul without adding the blood of some poor bastard who looked at me sideways while I was hopped up on pixie’s breath.

  So under normal circumstances I don’t strap a blade on except when I know I’m going to need to use it. But then circumstances ain’t always normal, and although the thing that killed the Kiren hadn’t shown any indication of being susceptible to cold steel, whoever sent it might be. I undid the latch and swung open the trunk.

  I’ve seen a lot of weapons in my time, from the sickle swords of the Asher priesthood to the bejeweled pig stickers the nobility so love to play with, but for my money there was never an instrument of murder as perfectly built for its purpose as the trench blade. Two feet of steel wedged into a sandalwood hilt, single edged for a stronger cut, widening toward the end but tapering off sharply at the tip—it had been my weapon of choice since the war. I wouldn’t wear it on the parade ground, but with my back against the wall there was nothing I’d rather have filling my grip.

  I had taken this one off a Dren commando my third month in Gallia. The Dren were always ahead of us with that sort of thing—they took to trench warfare like they were built for it, got rid of all their glittery armor and started sending soot-stained berserkers over the walls late at night with hand axes and black-powder bombs. The brass on our side were still passing out sabers and cavalry lances to us officers six months before the armistice, even though I hardly saw a horse in the five years I spent ducking artillery fire and trying to find water that hadn’t been fouled by my comrades’ waste.

  I grabbed the hilt and hefted the blade in my right hand. It still felt good, natural. I pulled a whetstone from inside the box and sharpened the edge until it was cruel enough to shave with. The steel caught my reflection, the vivid purple swelling merging comfortably with my previously acquired scars. It was an old face—I hoped it was up for what was coming.

  Reaching back into the trunk I pulled out a pair of flat-handled daggers, too small to be used in a melee but balanced for throwing. I strapped the first against my shoulder and slipped the second into my boot. One final armament, a bronze knuckle with three cruel-looking spikes on the business end, went into my duster pocket for easy access.

  The box was empty now, save a thick, square parcel that I had been saving since the war. I inspected it, making sure each item inside was in good condition, then put it back in the box and slid the whole thing under the bed. Feeling a bit self-conscious I pulled my coat tight over the hilt of my sword and headed downstairs.

  “Where was the girl found?” I asked Adolphus.

  “South of Light Street. Over by the canal. You planning a visit?”

  There was no point in explaining to Adolphus the bargain I had struck with Special Operations, not while I still had some chance to make good on it, so I ignored him and turned to Wren.

  “Get your coat. I’m going to need you for a while.”

  Assuming this would involve something more interesting than carrying messages and getting me dinner, Wren complied with uncharacteristic enthusiasm. Adolphus looked me over, recognizing the outline of metal beneath my clothing.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m going to visit an old friend of ours.”

  Adolphus’s one eye worked to read something from my pair.

  “Why?”

  “I haven’t had enough excitement today.”

  Wren came out wrapped in a hideous wool thing that Adeline had sewn together for him. “Have I told you before how ugly that is?” I asked.

  He nodded.

  “So long as we’re on the same page.” I turned back to Adolphus. “The boy’ll be back before sundown. Hold anything that comes for me.” Adolphus nodded, sufficiently familiar with my customs at this point to know I wouldn’t volunteer anything else. Wren and I left the Earl and started west.

  When Grenwald finally entered I had been sitting in the dark for twenty minutes, reclining in the visitor’s chair, my feet perched on the stained oak desk that dominated the room. I was starting to worry that he had decided to skip whatever daily tasks required his attendance, and I’d be left waiting in his office like an asshole. But it was worth it to see his reaction as he swung open the door, his arrogant demeanor converting to one of abject horror in the span of a half second.

  A decade had done much to raise my old superior’s position, although sadly damn little to improve his character or to stiffen the rodent-like set of his jaw. His coat was expensive but ill-fitting, and his once firm body was running to fat at a somewhat greater speed than middle age strictly demanded. I lit a match off the wood and held it to my cigarette. “Howdy, Colonel. What’s the good news?”

  He shut the door, slammed it really, hoping to hide this interview from his staff. “How the hell did you get in here?”

  I shook the match out with two fingers and imitated the motion with my head. “Colonel, Colonel. I confess I’m hurt. To be addressed in such a fashion by so dear a friend?” I clicked my tongue in disapproval. “Is this how two old comrades reminisce, united by the bonds of our noble crusade?”

  “No, no. Of course not,” he said. “I was just surprised to see you. I’m sorry.” That was one of the fun things about Grenwald—he broke so damn easy.

  “A drop of water beneath a bridge,” I said.

  He set his coat and hat on a rack by the door, playing for time, trying to figure out why I had come and what he needed to do to see me leave. “Whiskey?” he asked as he moved toward a cabinet in the corner, pouring himself a tumbler full.

  “I try not to imbibe hard liquor before noon, part of my new life as a burgeoning teetotaler. Knock yourself out, though.”

  He did, throwing back his glass in one quick motion, then giving himself another few fingers and sliding past me to assume his chair behind the desk. “I thought, after last time …” He swallowed hard. “I thought we were through.”

  “Did you?”

  “I thought that you said we were even.”

  “Did I?”

  “Not, of course, that I’m unhappy to see you.”

  I repulsed this concern with a theatrical wave of my hand.

  “What is this about?”

  “Maybe I just wanted to pop in and give a quick salute to my former commander,” I said. “Don’t you ever feel like reliving old times with your brother officers?”

  “Of course I do, of course,” he said, willing to agree to anything I put in front of him.

  “Then how come you never return the courtesy? Have you risen so high you’ve forgotten your old subordinate?”

  He sputtered something halfway between an apology and an excuse before lapsing into silence.

  I let that hang awkwardly between us for about fifteen seconds, trying hard not to laugh. “As it happens, though, and since you’ve so kindly offered, there is something you might be able to help me with—though I hesitate to ask, given that you’ve done so much already.”

  “Think nothing of it,” he said coldly.

  “Remember that operation outside Donknacht, the day before the armistice?”

  “Vaguely.”

  “Yes, I’m sure it was only of trifling interest to one so far up the chain of command. Dealing with key strategic and logistical issues, it might be easy to forget the skirmishes that fill the memories of the lower ranks.”

  He didn’t respond.

  “I need to know the name of every sorcerer involved in that project—everyone who carried it out, and anyone who might have trained them. The Ministry of War will have kept a record.”

  “Not for something like that,” he answered, immediately and without thinking. “It was off the books.”

  “They have it.”

  He scrambled for som
e excuse to avoid acting the pawn. “I’m not sure I’ll be able to access them. They wouldn’t be held in the general library with the rest of the documents from the war. If they’re anywhere, they’d be under lock and key in the restricted section.”

  “That shouldn’t be a problem for an Undersecretary of the Army.”

  “They’ve changed protocol,” he insisted. “It isn’t like the old days. I can’t just walk into the archives and walk out with the documents under my arm.”

  “It’ll be as easy as it’ll be. Or as difficult. But either way, it’ll get done.”

  “I … can’t guarantee anything.”

  “There aren’t any guarantees in life,” I responded. “But you’ll try, won’t you, Colonel? You’ll try very, very hard.”

  He drained the rest of the glass and set it on the table, then pushed his weasel face toward mine. The liquor was kicking in, flooding him with courage he could never muster sober. “I’ll do what I can,” he said, and the tone of his voice did not fill me with confidence in the outcome of his errand. “And then we’re square. No more of these surprise visits. We’re done.”

  “Funny—you said the same thing the last time I was here.” I stubbed my cigarette into his desk, grinding the ash into the finish, then stood and grabbed my coat. “Be seeing you soon, Colonel.”

  The door shut on a man barely deserving of the title.

  His secretary—a pretty, stupid young thing who had allowed me to talk my way into Grenwald’s office with a lie about the war—smiled up at me sweetly. “Was the colonel able to help with your pension problem?”

  “It won’t be easy, but he’ll come through for me. You know the colonel—nothing’s more important than his men. He ever tell you about the time he carried me three miles across enemy lines, after I took a bolt in the thigh? Saved my life that night.”

  “Really?” she asked, wide-eyed and bubbly.

  “No, of course not—none of that was true,” I replied, leaving her more than usually befuddled as I walked out.

  I left Grenwald’s office and the boy fell in alongside me without speaking. The meeting had been a waste—Grenwald was a spineless fool, and I couldn’t trust him to come through, not with something this important, not with the consequences I would suffer if it didn’t pan out. That meant I had to move on to plan B; and as far as plan B went, there was a reason it hadn’t taken priority.

  Because plan B meant Crispin, he was the only contact I had left high enough to get the information and who I thought might have a chance in hell of saying yes. After our last meeting the thought of asking him for help was faintly nauseating, but pride comes second to survival, so I swallowed mine and started walking to where the child’s body had been found.

  My reverie was broken by a voice that I only belatedly realized was Wren’s. I think it was the first time I had heard him speak without prompting.

  “What happened when they took you to Black House?”

  I thought about how to answer that question for a quarter of a block. “I rejoined the Crown’s service.”

  “Why?”

  “They made an appeal to my patriotism. I’d do anything for Queen and country.”

  He swallowed this soberly, then spat out a response. “I don’t really care about the Queen.”

  “Honesty is an overrated virtue. And we all love the Queen.”

  Wren nodded sagely as we crossed the canal, the crime scene a bustle of motion a few dozen yards to the west.

  The area was swarming with lawmen, and in contrast to their general tradition of incompetence, they seemed to be taking this one seriously. Crispin stood in the center of the chaos next to the child’s body, taking down observations and issuing instructions. Our eyes met, but he returned to his duties without giving any indication he had noticed me. I could see Guiscard canvassing witnesses at an intersection in the distance, and some of the boys who had given me a working over last time were milling about as well, more comfortable causing violence than investigating it.

  “Stay here.”

  Wren took a seat on the railing. I crossed into the maelstrom, ducking beneath the cordon and approaching my old partner.

  “ ’Lo, agent.”

  He responded without looking up, jotting down notes in a black leather-bound journal. “Why are you here?”

  “Ain’t you up on the news? I missed you so damn much that I went to the Old Man and begged for my old job.”

  “Yeah, I heard. Crowley sent a runner over an hour ago. I figured you’d use whatever time your bullshit bought you with Special Operations to get the hell out of town.”

  “You never had enough faith in me.”

  Suddenly the notebook was on the ground and Crispin had my lapel in his grip, the loss of temper striking in someone normally so self-possessed. “I don’t care what twisted agreement you made with the Old Man. This is my case, and I’m not letting your hatreds get dragged into it.”

  My hand shot up and tore his paw off my shoulder. “I’ve had enough of being manhandled by law enforcement officials for one day. And as gratifying as it is to watch the Crown discover they have a population south of the River Andel, in our last go-round your assistance proved less than efficacious. Far as I can tell, most of your job is to stand around corpses and look distraught.”

  It seemed unfair after I said it, but it eased him back down a notch. “What do you want from me?” he asked.

  “For starters, why don’t you go ahead and run down the scene.”

  “There’s little enough to run down. The body was found by a fish seller on his way to the docks. He reported it to the guard; they reported it to us. Judging by the state of the body, the girl was killed last night and dumped here early this morning.”

  I knelt down beside the child and removed her wrapping. She was young, younger than the first one had been. Her hair looked very dark spread over her skin.

  “Was the body … abused?”

  “Clean, not like the last one. The only injury is the one that killed her, a straight line across the throat.”

  I hid her corpse beneath the covering and stood back to my full height. “What does your scryer say?”

  “Nothing yet. She wants some time to work with the body.”

  “I’d like to speak with her.”

  He mulled this over unhappily, but his permission was a formality and both of us knew it. The Old Man wanted me in on this, and the Old Man’s word is natural law. “Guiscard is supposed to stop by the Box later in the afternoon. I suppose you could join him.”

  “That’s number one,” I said. “Here’s number two. I need you to get your hands on a list of every sorcerer detailed to take part in Operation Ingress, in Donknacht just before the end of the war. They’ll be buried deep but they’ll be around.” I shook my head ruefully. “The army can’t stand to throw anything out.”

  He stared at me, then down at the ground. “Those are military records. As an agent of the Crown I don’t have access to them.”

  “Maybe not directly. But you’ve got ten years of contacts and all the draw the blue blood pumping through your veins provides. Don’t tell me you can’t figure something out.”

  When he looked back up at me, his eyes were clear as glass. “Why are you here?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Why are you here? Why are you at this crime scene, right now, trying to find the killer of this girl?” The moment of anger was gone, and now he just seemed weary. “What business is this of yours?”

  “You think I’m a volunteer? The Old Man was getting ready to bleed me—this was my only out.”

  “Run. Get out of Low Town. If it’s the Old Man you’re afraid of, run, run and don’t look back. I’ll make sure there are no reprisals against your people. Just … disappear.”

  I dug at a loose stone with my boot.

  “What? Nothing clever? No witty retort?”

  “What’s your point?”

  “Is this just to show how much smarter you are than
the rest of us? Is there some scheme of yours I’m not seeing? Get out of here. You aren’t an agent. So far as I can tell, you’re the furthest thing from it. In case you’ve missed the last five years, let me condense them—you’re a junkie and a crime lord, you string out fathers and mothers, and you cut up anyone who gets in the way. You’ve become everything you ever hated, and I don’t need you fucking up my investigation.”

  “I was the best detective the service ever had, and I’d still be thinking circles around you and everyone else if I hadn’t pissed off the brass.”

  “Don’t pretend your failure was a choice. Everyone else might buy your bullshit, but I know why you aren’t an agent, and it isn’t because you weren’t willing to toe the line.”

  I thought about how much fun it would be to scuff up that spotless gray uniform. “I haven’t forgotten, don’t worry. I remember you standing in judgment with the rest of them, when they struck my name from the record and shattered my Eye.”

  “There was nothing for it. I warned you not to join Special Operations, and I warned you double not to get involved with that woman.”

  “Cautious, responsible Crispin. Don’t make any waves, don’t see anything you aren’t supposed to. You’re worse than Crowley—at least he’s honest about what he is.”

  “It was easier to run off. You never needed to put in the work, never needed to make any hard decisions. I stuck it out—it isn’t perfect, but I’ve done more good as a cogwheel than you have selling poison.”

  I could feel my fists clench at my sides and had to resist the urge to go for Crispin’s face, and to judge from the black look in his eyes he was thinking the same. “Fifteen years cleaning up shit,” I said. “They oughta strike you a medal.”

  We eyeballed each other, waiting to see if our dialogue wasn’t about to end in violence. He broke first. “Enough—I’ll get you the list and then we’re through. I don’t owe you anything. You ever see me on the street, you act like you would with any other agent.”