Low Town: A Novel

by Daniel Polansky

  I was seeping myself pretty thick in self-contempt when I was interrupted by two quick taps at my shoulder. Wren stood behind me, his face red from humiliation, or the cold. I was surprised and a little impressed. I’d figured it would take him a good day to work up the nerve to come back and take his medicine.

  Still, it wouldn’t do to let him off the hook quite yet. “Back to pick Adeline’s good china? It’s in the kitchen, you might get a few argents for it.”

  “You steal.”

  “Not ’cause I’m bored. Not ’cause I see something shiny and wish it was mine. Thievery’s a tactic, not a hobby. Not something I do because I’ve got a few spare minutes and feel like filling them. And never from a friend—never from anyone who did right by me.” His eyes slid away from mine. “Besides, it ain’t that you stole. It’s that you were stupid. Malfeasance I can accept, foolishness is reprehensible.”

  Like most people, Wren was happier to be thought immoral than incompetent. “Didn’t get caught.”

  “By which you mean you managed to get it out the front door. So what? He’s noticed now, and you’ve burned a bridge with one of the most powerful men in Rigus for pocket change. Stop thinking like a street kid—if you can’t learn to see past your next meal, you’ll wake up one morning with a full belly and a knife in it.”

  “I am a street kid.”

  “That’s something else we need to speak on. I’m going to start having more for you, and I can’t worry about tracking you down every time I need something handled. You’re to start sleeping in the bar from now on.”

  “What if I don’t want to?”

  “You ain’t a slave. You prefer a gutter over a bedroll, that’s your choice—but you make it and you get yourself unemployed as well. I’ve no use for an associate I gotta spend half the day hunting for.”

  There was a long pause. “All right,” he said finally.

  That should get Adeline off my back for a few hours. By the Firstborn, she was as bad as the Old Man. “Fine. Now run over to the Duke of Beaconfield’s estate.” I rattled off directions. “Tell the guard at the gate that I want to come by tonight to deliver the rest of what I promised.”

  He slipped out. I returned to my drink, wishing I could solve the rest of my problems as easily as I had these domestic concerns.

  I thought back to my first days as an agent, before I had gotten mired with Special Operations, when it was just me and Crispin, kicking down doors and following up leads. We were pretty good at it for a while—Crispin was sharp, very sharp, but I was better. I learned something back then, something about the nature of crime, and of the things people do that are meant to remain hidden. Solving a mystery isn’t about finding clues or getting lucky with a suspect—it’s about deciding what to look for, framing the narrative in your mind. If you can puzzle out the questions, the answers will come.

  Most crimes are the ill-born fruits of passion, and committed by an intimate of the victim. A husband comes home drunk and beats his wife with a claw hammer, a lifetime of discord between two brothers breaks out into violence. It’s terrible and tawdry but easy enough to investigate. If that wasn’t the case, if there wasn’t a clear suspect, then you already had your first question.

  Who benefited from this crime?

  But that wouldn’t help me here. The first child had been murdered by a monster, and there was no mystery about his motivations. Sexual satisfaction, the silencing of whatever mad voices echoed through his skull in the stillness of the night. As for this second one, if Marieke’s suspicions were right and the girl had been sacrificed, then the motive could be virtually anything.

  But that was something then, wasn’t it? This was a monstrous crime, demanding savage reprisal. Whoever was responsible must be in desperate straits to take such a chance.

  I didn’t know why they’d done it but at least I was forming an image of my quarry. If you can’t figure out motive, then you have to move on to opportunity: who is capable of committing the crime?

  Here I had a little more to work through. We weren’t dealing with a snatched purse or a slit throat, the kind of thing any sufficiently depraved soul could engineer. The abomination was big magic, heavy juju—summoning it was the act of a skilled artist. Better still, there was a limited pool of people capable of this particular working. Operation Ingress was a secret military project, and they wouldn’t have publicized its techniques.

  It all depended on Crispin. If he could get me a list of the participants, I could start making inquiries. If he didn’t, I’d be stuck stirring trouble and hoping that something I did shook out a decent lead. I started to wish I hadn’t worked so hard to antagonize my old partner.

  I lingered over each possibility, rather than deal with the news that shaded the rest of my thoughts. The thought of spending my final hours, long hours no doubt, days maybe, with a red-robed man poking about in my insides and Crowley standing over me laughing was no small concern. But I can say without bravado that I’ve spent a good deal of my life with imminent demise a distinct possibility, and learned how to function despite it. But what Marieke had shown me—that was something that opened up doors in the back of my mind that I’d jammed shut and barred, the sort of fear that wakes you up in the middle of the night with your throat dry and your sheets wet. If the Red Fever had returned to Rigus, all the rest of this was no more than a sideshow, a sprinkle of rain to introduce the deluge that was coming.

  Were the Crane’s wards slipping? Was his fading health weakening the spells he had put in place to protect us? I thought that over, then dismissed it. Even if it was true, what were the odds of the dead child being the only one infected? I hadn’t heard about anyone else falling sick, and I knew I would have—all of Low Town lived in constant fear of the Fever. The plague spread like, well, the fucking plague—if it was out among the population, the whole city would be in an uproar. No, I didn’t imagine the Fever had returned to the general public, nor that Caristiona’s death was unrelated to her catching it. It was no coincidence, but for the life of me I couldn’t figure out the connection.

  I signaled Adolphus for another pint of ale and thought about running upstairs to grab a quick nap, but Wren would be back soon and I’d be moving out not long after that. Adolphus topped me off and I nursed my brew and sucked over each nugget of information like a child with a piece of hard candy.

  A few minutes passed and I noticed that Wren had slipped into the Earl and was standing by my arm. By the Oathkeeper, the boy was quiet. Either that or my mind was further out of tune than I had thought. I decided to believe the first. “By the Oathkeeper, you’re quiet.”

  He smirked but didn’t say anything.

  “Well? What have you got for me?”

  “The butler says that the duke is indisposed, but that he wants you to come speak to him around ten.”

  “He said he wanted to speak to me personally?”

  Wren nodded.

  I had hoped I might get a chance to talk to the Blade, see if I couldn’t sniff something out, but had figured I’d at least have to con my way past his second. Why did Beaconfield want to talk to me? Was it simply idle curiosity, the lurid fascination of the well fed for those of us struggling through the seedy underbelly of the city we all inhabit? Somehow I doubted this was the first time that walking vice den had met a drug dealer.

  From behind the bar I grabbed a pen and parchment, then scratched a short note into the vellum:

  Don’t deal with the Blade or his people until you hear otherwise. Avoid anyone he sends for you. Will come round tomorrow, noon.

  I folded the paper lengthwise, then turned it and folded it lengthwise again. “Take this to Yancey’s house and leave it with his mother,” I said, handing the message to Wren. “He probably won’t be in, but tell her to make sure he gets it once he shows. After that you’re done for the night—do whatever Adolphus tells you.”

  Wren scampered off.

  “And don’t read the letter!” I yelled after him, probably unnec
essarily.

  Adolphus’s voice was low amid the background chatter. “What’s the trouble?”

  “How much time you got?” I grabbed my coat. “If I’m not back tonight, tell Crispin to give a hard look at the Duke of Beaconfield, and especially any ex-military men in his employ.” Not waiting for a response I turned and headed out of the Earl, away from the boisterous crowd and into the quiet of the evening.

  My demeanor eased as I approached the back entrance to Beaconfield’s manor and saw Dunkan waving me down with a wide smile. “And here I was thinking I wouldn’t see you, what with your boy not sure when you’d make it out here and my shift almost over.”

  “Hello, Dunkan,” I said, taking his outstretched hand with an unfeigned grin. “Keeping warm?”

  He laughed good-naturedly, his face nearly as red as his hair. “Colder than the nipples on a hag, as my father used to say! Course, strictly between us as gentlemen, I’ve armed myself with a secret weapon against the onslaught of winter.” He took an unlabeled bottle from his waistcoat and shook it invitingly. “Don’t suppose I can interest you in a taste?”

  I knocked back a shot and my stomach filled with liquid fire.

  “Good stuff, ain’t it?” he asked.

  I nodded and took another. It was good, strong as the kick of a mule but with a sweet aftertaste.

  “Brewed over a peat fire—that’s the only way to do it. My cousin’s got a still in his backyard, sends me a monthly shipment. One day I’ll have enough saved to move back home and start a real brewery. That’s the plan, anyways. Course, I might change my mind and blow it all on loose women!”

  I laughed along with him. He was that kind of fellow. “If you go the first route, make sure to send me along a pony keg of your first batch.”

  “Will do. Enough jawing with the help—I’m sure you’ve got more important things to discuss. I signaled inside that you were here—Old Man Sawdust should be waiting for you. If I’m still on guard when you leave, give me a shout and we’ll share another drop.”

  “Looking forward to it,” I said and headed through the entrance.

  He was as good as his word, and before I could rap on the off-white door it had swung open and Tucket stared down at me, shriveled eyes over a pointed nose. “You’ve arrived,” he said.

  “It would seem that way.” The chill blew in and he was without hat or coat. I enjoyed watching him try to maintain his staid composure.

  “Will you enter?” he asked, his fastidious mannerisms tarnished somewhat by the chattering of his teeth.

  This courtesy extended, I ducked inside. He clapped his hands and a boy appeared to take my outerwear. As I tossed him my heavy wool coat I realized I’d forgotten to disarm before leaving the Earl. Tucket rested his gaze long enough on my weapon to let me know he had seen it but not so long as to make it an issue.

  Then he took a lantern from off the wall and shone the light down the hallway before us. “The master is in his study. I’ll take you to him.” As usual his speech was halfway between a command and a plea, incorporating the worst aspects of both.

  I followed him down the corridor, taking mental notes of the layout. There was nothing about the line of rooms we passed that suggested inside were cells built for children, or altars stained with their blood, but then in a house this size you could hide almost anything. Tucket noticed my attention, and to keep him from thinking too long on it I decided to needle him some.

  “Does the master often entertain drug peddlers in his private chambers?” I asked as we ascended the main staircase.

  “To whom the master grants an interview is no concern of yours.”

  “Well, it’s sort of my concern, as I’m about to be interviewed by him.”

  We reached the top and turned right, then continued a while longer in silence. I couldn’t help but think his maddeningly slow movements were less a factor of his age than a way to abrade me, for in truth he was only a few years past forty, though his tedious nature made him seem older. It was a petty retaliation but not entirely ineffective—by the time we had reached the Blade’s study I was as desperate to leave Tucket’s presence as he was mine.

  I held my breath through another interminable pause while he mustered the energy to rap on the door. From inside I heard the shuffle of footsteps, and the door swung open.

  Beaconfield had toned his appearance down since last I had seen him, which is to say he was no longer dressed like a whore. A dark coat covered his chest, and a sober if well-trimmed pair of pants made do for the lower half of his body. His face was clean of makeup or other affectation, and his throat and long fingers seemed almost naked without their earlier ornamentation. Indeed, the only aspect of his wardrobe unchanged from the party was the rapier that hung at his side. Was he wearing it for my benefit, I wondered, or did he regularly go armed within the walls of his home?

  “Thank you, Tucket. That will be all.”

  The butler shot me a snide look and cleared his throat obtrusively. “May I remind your grace that Sorcerer Brightfellow is expected?”

  Beaconfield nodded seriously. “Of course. Let me know when he arrives.”

  Tucket disappeared with the felicity of a natural servant. Beaconfield moved aside to allow me entry.

  The Blade’s study was surprisingly somber given what I had seen of his proclivities—no tapestries memorializing mad bacchanals, no bloody trophies from murdered enemies. Instead I saw a well-appointed parlor, luxurious but tasteful, the walls ringed with bookshelves holding ancient volumes, Kiren rugs covering the floor between them. Beaconfield stood behind an ebony table, the sort of ancient, massive thing that suggested the remainder of the structure was built to accommodate it. He eyed my weapon. “Expecting trouble?”

  “Your butler’s a heavy customer.”

  He had a decent laugh, robust and almost honest—not the forced nasal chuckle common to his class, closer to an expulsion of waste than an expression of levity. “Yes, indeed.” He noticed me looking over his decor and offered the grin which had won him half his nickname. “Not quite what you expected?”

  “It seems a bit out of character.”

  “One of the downsides of owning an ancestral estate—there’s nothing in this room that wasn’t here when I was born. See that one?” He pointed to a portrait on the wall of a man who loosely resembled Beaconfield. The protagonist was clad in full plate armor and standing atop an impressive pile of corpses, staring off into space with an expression meant to indicate the gravity of the situation—though what the hell he was doing contemplating the horizon while in the midst of a melee was beyond me.

  “Yeah.”

  “What do you think of it?”

  “It’s a painting.”

  “Quite hideous, isn’t it? The old king gave it to my great-uncle, to commemorate his famous stand at …” He waved his hand apathetically. “Somewhere. It’s part of the package—I can’t so much as redecorate without betraying the blood.”

  “That’s not an issue I find myself plagued by.”

  “No, I suppose not,” he said. “Normally I’m good with faces, but I can’t mark yours. Too tall for a Tarasaihgn, too broad for an Asher. Your eyes say Rouender, but you’re too dark, near as dark as an Islander. Where do you come from?”

  “A womb.”

  He laughed again and motioned me into a chair. I set my weary body into it with a barely audible sigh. Beaconfield followed my lead, planting himself firmly into the high-backed throne behind his desk.

  “Long day?”

  I opened my satchel and set two items on the table. The first was a pint of amber goo in an unmarked jar, the second a bundle of intertwined brown roots. “Be careful with that honey, it’s uncut. Don’t take more than a lip-full unless you feel like getting real intimate with the bottom of your chamber pot.”

  “Excellent. I’m hosting a Midwinter ball next week. It wouldn’t do to be without party favors for my guests.” He picked up the dried stems and inspected them casually. “How’s th
e root? I never tried it.”

  “A good excuse to stare at your boots for three or four hours.”

  “Sounds riveting.”

  A chuckle slipped out before I could grab it.

  He set the ouroboros root back on the table and looked me over. He was trying to work the nerve up to ask me something, but I cut in before he had the chance. “So Brightfellow’s up next? You line up your unsavory interviews so you can burn the upholstery afterward?”

  “Is that how you’d describe yourself? Unsavory?”

  “That’s how I’d describe Brightfellow.”

  “I wouldn’t introduce him to the Queen. But he’s useful, and clever. Damn clever.”

  “How’d you meet the man? I don’t imagine the two of you run in the same circles.”

  Beaconfield leaned back in his chair and thought this over, his hand resting affectionately on the pommel of his weapon. I got the impression this wasn’t meant to be intimidating, that the duke was simply the sort of person who liked to stroke his chosen instrument of murder. “Do you believe in fate, Warden?”

  “I doubt the Daevas have any hand in the mess we’ve made of their creation.”

  “Normally I’m inclined to agree with you. But in the case of Brightfellow that seems the best way to describe it. I’ve had some … bad runs lately. He’s going to help turn my luck around.”

  “I knew a priest once who liked to say that the Oathkeeper prefers to work through imperfect vessels.” I suspected it had been the Frater’s favorite aphorism because he couldn’t go an hour without a half vial of breath, but that was neither here nor there. “And has the sorcerer made good on his promises?”