Low Town: A Novel

by Daniel Polansky

  “Seems like you remember more than you think.”

  “Try to follow along,” she said. “I told you, it was a small class. I didn’t know him well … didn’t want to. He came from one of the provinces, I don’t remember which. His people were peasants, and he never seemed to get over the idea that the whole world was laughing at him for being raised in a barn. Walked around looking for someone to hit. He was close with Adelweid, though. Thick as thieves.”

  I couldn’t imagine the vainglorious prick I’d met during the siege of Donknacht having much to do with Brightfellow. But apart from that, everything Celia had told me jibed with what I knew of the man.

  “Do you think the Blade and Brightfellow are working together?” Celia asked.

  “They’re into something. I’m just not sure what it is yet.”

  “And the talisman still points to the duke?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then what more do you need? Can’t you just …” She made a motion with her hand meant to indicate either imprisonment or assassination.

  I chose to assume the first. “Based on what? A stolen scrap of evidence, hinting at the culpability of an individual loosely affiliated with a powerful noble? Crispin’s information went a way toward confirming my suspicions, but as far as Black House is concerned …” I shook my head. “I don’t have anything.”

  She chewed at the tip of her thumb. “There might be something I can do to help you.”

  “You know me. I’m too proud to ask for help but not too proud to take it.”

  “I could perform a divination on the duke’s home—it might shed some light on his activities, or at least show you where to look to find more evidence.”

  “Whatever you can do,” I said, wondering why she hadn’t thought to try it earlier.

  “It’ll take a day or two. I’ll send a runner over when I’ve got something.”

  “Thanks,” I said, meaning it. Celia nodded, then poured herself another cup of tea, spooning a pair of sugar cubes in after it.

  “I had a meeting the other day with one of Black House’s scryers,” I said.

  She twirled a stretch of black hair around her index finger. “I’m surprised to hear that Black House would allow you access to their resources.”

  “You mean given that one of its operatives just tried to kill me? Funny thing about these clandestine organizations, one hand tends to be ignorant of its partner’s activities, even when they include murder.”

  “Were they able to pick up any signs from the body?”

  “Nothing on the killer. But the scryer saw signs that the girl had been sacrificed.”

  “I suppose it’s what we feared. We knew the duke was dabbling in the shade. It makes sense he would go the whole way.”

  “Assuming it is the Blade.”

  She waved dismissively. For her it was already a settled issue.

  I’d rather have left it at that—Celia’s was too kind a heart to involve in such a dirty business. But there were things I needed to know, and no one else to ask. “What can you tell me about it?”

  “About human sacrifice? I’m afraid I don’t have much to tell—they didn’t teach that sort of thing at the academy.”

  Why not? They’d taught Adelweid to summon fiends from the outer darkness, draw horrors into the world, and set them upon his fellows. “I’m not trying to re-create the mechanics of it, I’m just trying to suss out motive. What would be to gain from such an act?”

  Celia paused before answering. “Most workings are powered by the innate strength of the practitioner, filtered and directed by his will. For larger workings, energy can be tapped from places of power or from items crafted for that purpose. In extreme cases, a practitioner might even cull the essence of a lower life-form and use that to form a spell. In theory the sacrifice of a human would offer the same opportunity, though on a much greater scale.”

  I rolled that over in my head, trying to settle it into a coherent equilibrium. “I can’t work the sums. The Blade’s broke, fine—for a man like Beaconfield that’s a powerful motive, he loses his money and he loses everything, his status, his name even. Not like he can go out and get a real job. But still—he throws in with Brightfellow, starts summoning monsters from the ether and slaughtering children, for what? To refill his bank account? It’s slim.”

  “You’re thinking too small,” she said. “If they’ve sacrificed the children, the energy they have to draw on would be virtually limitless. He could turn a mound of dirt into gold. He could rework the fundamental fabric of existence. Is that the sort of power you want in the hands of a man like the Blade?”

  I rubbed my fingers in little circles against my temple. Whatever Celia had done to me was fading, and I could feel the beginnings of a headache brewing. “There’s something else the scryer showed me. Even if Caristiona hadn’t been murdered she wasn’t long for the world. She had the plague.”

  “That’s … unlikely,” Celia said.

  “I saw the rash.”

  “A rash can be a symptom of any number of things.”

  “It was the plague,” I said, a bit too harshly, continuing in a softer tone. “I saw it often enough to be sure. Could the Crane’s wards be weakening?”

  “That’s not possible.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I’ve taken over running them,” she said, raising her teacup to her mouth as she dropped an artillery shell in my lap.

  “You didn’t tell me that,” I said.

  “The people of the city sleep at night because they know the Master is watching over them. It’s better not to do anything to shake that certainty. Only a few people at the top of the Bureau of Magical Affairs know of the switch. It’s why I was raised to First Sorcerer, so I’d be ready when the Master can no longer perform his duties.” That was a hell of a euphemism for the death of a parent, but it was good to see Celia handling this so dispassionately, given that the future of Rigus apparently sat on her slim shoulders. “I’d know if the wards were failing, and they aren’t.”

  “You’re saying it’s impossible that Caristiona could have had the plague?”

  “No, I’m not saying that at all. There’s no way the plague could occur naturally, but it could be spread deliberately. If someone were to introduce it into the population, spread it to enough people … the protections the Master created aren’t impermeable. It could be broken by sheer weight of numbers.”

  “You think the Blade is infecting children with the plague? To what end? What does he gain from it?”

  “Who has any idea of the bargains the duke must have struck to receive assistance from the void? Somehow I don’t imagine the creature you saw would act without compensation. Perhaps Beaconfield’s part lies in spreading the fever.”

  “You think this is some sort of a … diabolical exchange? How can you be sure?”

  “I’m not fucking sure,” she snapped. The profanity sat uneasily on her tongue, evidence of how frightened she was. “I can’t read the man’s mind, I don’t know every detail of his sick plot. What I do know is that if he continues, it’ll only be a matter of time before the wards fail. While you sniff around in circles, Low Town flirts with death.”

  I could feel myself getting hot. “I’ll handle it.”

  “How many more children are going to die before you take care of your responsibilities?”

  “I’ll handle it,” I said again, angry at being pushed but knowing deep down that Celia was right, that I shouldn’t have let this sprawl on so long. The stakes were too high to delay—Beaconfield was my man. He’d find out what that meant soon enough.

  “We can’t let the Master’s work have been in vain.”

  “That won’t happen,” I said. “By the Firstborn, I’ll make sure of it.”

  That seemed to calm her down some. She set one soft hand atop mine, and we sat like that for a long moment.

  It was getting late, and the walk home wasn’t getting any shorter. “There was something else I
wanted to ask you. I spoke to the mother of the last child. She said that he knew secrets without being told them—it reminded me of some of the things that let the Crane know you could be trained to the Art.”

  Celia answered without looking at me. “I’m sure it’s nothing. Every child is special, to a parent.”

  True enough. I gave her a last farewell and slipped out. It was early evening, and the chill winds that had oppressed my earlier travels had faded, leaving behind the thick blanket of gray fog. There was more I had wanted to do, business I needed to take care of, leads to follow. But in my weakened state it was all I could do to make it back to the Earl, swallow some burnt chuck, and pass out in my bed—which, I noted sourly, was far less comfortable than Celia’s.

  I awoke the next morning with a bruise on my shoulder the size of an egg, but little else to show that I had come a fingernail from death not twenty-four hours prior. I had experienced curative magic before, but nothing that could compete with this. The Crane had taught Celia well.

  Shaking off the last strands of sleep I opened the bottom drawer of my bureau and sprung the hidden latch, revealing the niche below. I took a few dozen vials of pixie’s breath out of my business stash, along with a handful of other chemicals, then sat down at my table and went to work. It was slow going, and forty-five minutes had passed before I could pull on my clothes and stow my weapons. I would need to hustle to make my meeting with the Blade.

  Wren sat at a table below, listening to Adolphus bullshit about his youth. It was nice to walk downstairs without being subject to the news of some horrible tragedy, for a change.

  “It’s true—I once ate an entire side of ham in a single sitting.”

  “He did, I was there. It was as impressive as it was grotesque. He reeked of pig for the next month and a half. The Dren took to calling him the Varken van de duivel, and fainted at the smell of cooked bacon.” Adolphus bellowed a laugh and even Wren cracked a smile.

  The “devil pig” stood and brushed off his pants. “You want me to tell Adeline to cook up some breakfast?”

  “Afraid not. I’m late as it is.”

  “I’ll get my coat,” Wren said.

  “No need. It’s plenty warm in here.”

  His eyes slanted angrily. “I’m coming along.”

  “Interestingly, you aren’t—you’re staying here and keeping Adolphus company. Though it’s nice to see you have such an active imagination.” The scowl he shot me was wasted effort—I had too many people trying to kill me to worry much over the fury of an adolescent.

  The previous day’s mist had evaporated, leaving in its wake the kind of crystal clear morning that prefaces snowfall. I turned north up Pritt Street and headed toward the Old City. I’d be a few minutes late for my requested audience with Beaconfield, but I could live with that—a little rudeness is good when dealing with blue bloods, reminds them you aren’t as interested in them as they are. Halfway there it started to snow, the flurries signaling a storm soon to come. I picked up my pace and tried to plot out the next hour in my head.

  Seton Gardens is a lovely little park toward the outskirts of the city, near the old walls and just north of the Asher enclave. Stone avenues lead through a wooded preserve, a dollop of verdant green in a gray landscape, far enough from the slums to keep out the riffraff. In the center is a lovely granite fountain, and next to it a curiously tailored green—an awkward addition to the topography, and one that would have no meaning to the average picnicker. On most mornings it’s virtually empty, too far from the interior to see much use.

  But on rare occasions the peaceful solitude of the gardens is interrupted by the flash of blades and the piercing of silk shirts. By long tradition the park has been designated the arena in which the city’s upper crust thin out their herd, and the short stretch of manicured turf had soaked up near as much blood as the plains of Gallia. Dueling is technically illegal in the Empire, though in practice the Crown is generally happy enough to overlook the occasional murder—in this way at least, the law treats the very high and low equally.

  That was the main reason I didn’t want Wren following along. The Duke of Beaconfield hadn’t called me out for a morning stroll—he’d invited me to watch him kill someone. By my count it would be his fourth this week.

  I entered the park and was soon engulfed by its beech trees. A few hundred yards along a smoothly cultivated path and the city’s noise was lost in the stillness of the morning. Farther in and that quiet was broken by the low commotion of a crowd. Apparently I wasn’t to be the only audience to the proceedings.

  A small group had gathered in front of the dueling grounds, twenty or thirty men—friends or acquaintances of the participants, these things aren’t exactly advertised. I took shelter beneath an outlying tree and sucked at my teeth. I was in the presence of some old names. It had been a long time since I’d needed to be familiar with the court, but my tattered memory was sufficient to recognize two earls and a marquess who used to pass Black House information. Probably still did, come to think of it.

  Opposite the audience were the combatants and their coteries, separated from each other by about twenty feet of lawn. Beaconfield sat on a small bench, lounging comfortably in a multihued tunic and a long black coat. He was surrounded by a half dozen of his usual crowd, dressed less extravagantly than at the ball but, by my own aesthetic, still in attire inappropriate to the business before us. They were enjoying themselves thoroughly, cavorting for the benefit of their captain, who smirked but didn’t laugh.

  Across the way the atmosphere was quite different. The Blade’s opponent was alone save his second, and the pair showed little in the way of gaiety. The duelist sat on the bench, staring off into the distance, his eyes unfocused but hard. He was more middle-aged than young, not old but too old to be involved in this kind of nonsense. His man stood next to him, the bulge of his paunch stretching his overcoat, hands frittering nervously.

  I never did find out what they were fighting over. Some fracture in etiquette, the kind of nebulous bullshit the upper classes love to spill red over. I suspected it was Beaconfield’s fault—people like to display what makes them exceptional, and the Smiling Blade’s forte rested on his hip.

  The duke noticed me and gave a little half wave. Did he do this so often that he could work it in as an exclamation point to our own engagement? Sick motherfucker.

  Out of the corner of my eye I saw Beaconfield’s butler detach himself from the crowd. “Do you have the merchandise?” he asked, by way of greeting.

  “I didn’t walk this far for my health,” I said, handing him a nondescript package containing a few ochres’ worth of dreamvine and pixie’s breath.

  He slipped it into his waistband, then handed me a pouch that felt heavier than it ought to. Nobles love to throw money around, though if Mairi was right, Beaconfield didn’t have it to lose. Tucket seemed to think I was going to say something further. When he realized I wasn’t, he said, “I hope you appreciate what a privilege this is. You’ve been invited to witness an extraordinary spectacle.”

  “I hate to break this to you, Tucket—but death isn’t that rare an occurrence. Nor murder, leastways not where I come from.”

  He sniffed and walked back to the crowd. I rolled a smoke and watched snowflakes melt on my coat. A few minutes passed. The judge stepped to the center of the grounds and waved for the two seconds, who approached the battleground.

  “I speak for Mr. Wilkes,” said the fat man, his voice steady enough not to embarrass him.

  The Blade’s adjunct was not as bad as he might have been. To the best of my knowledge the code duello doesn’t require participants to curl their hair, but at least he walked out instead of sauntering. “I speak for Rojar Calabbra the Third, the Duke of Beaconfield.”

  Wilkes’s second spoke again, sweating despite the cold. “Can there be no resolution between the two gentlemen? My party, for his part, is willing to make an admission that his information was gained secondhand and does not amount to an
exact transcription of the conversation.”

  I couldn’t entirely decipher the legalese, but that seemed like a step toward reconciliation.

  Beaconfield’s second responded haughtily. “My party is satisfied with nothing less than a complete retraction and an apology presented in a public forum.”

  Apparently it wasn’t.

  The fat man looked back at Wilkes, his eyes pleading and his face very pale. Wilkes didn’t look at him but jerked his head once in the negative. The fat man closed his eyes and swallowed hard before speaking. “Then the issue must proceed.”

  The judge spoke again. “Gentlemen are to approach me with their weapons drawn but lowered. Combat is to continue until forfeiture or first blood.”

  The Blade managed to extract himself from his mass of brightly colored partisans and moved toward the field. Wilkes pushed himself up from the bench and did the same. They met a few yards from each other. Beaconfield smirked, as was his wont. Wilkes’s face was impassive. Against my better judgment I found I was pulling for him.

  “On my signal,” the judge said, stepping off the green. Wilkes snapped his blade to the ready. Beaconfield held the point of his weapon arrogantly off to the side.

  “Begin.”

  I learned early on that She Who Waits Behind All Things was an indiscriminate mistress, when the plague took broken old men and wellborn youths without distinction. The war reinforced the lesson, years watching thick Dren pikemen and Asher sword slaves die from well-placed artillery shells disabusing any lingering illusions as to the inviolability of flesh. No one is immortal. No one is so good that he can’t lose it to a rank amateur if the light is wrong or his foot gets caught in a divot. A couple hundred pounds of meat, a frame of bone not nearly as sturdy as it seems—we were not built for immortality.

  That being said, I never saw anyone like Beaconfield. Not before and not since. He was faster than I thought a person could be, fast like a bolt from the ether. He fought with a heavy blade, something midway between a rapier and a long sword, but he wielded it like a razor. His technique and composure were astonishing. No movement was wasted, no drop of energy exhausted unnecessarily.