Blood Under Water

by Toby Frost

  Cortaag scowled. “Gone. The fat pig of a landlord didn’t know where, and trust me, we pushed him hard.”

  “They took her with them,” Azul replied. “That’s the only explanation.”

  Benevesi took a narrow staircase to the ground. He opened a small door and they emerged into the afternoon sun.

  “You can’t see it from upstairs,” the banker explained, leading Azul around the corner, “but there – look.”

  Azul squinted into the light. Benevesi pointed to a ship, a two-masted carrack big enough for ocean trade. An Averrian ship would have flown the griffon flag, by law; this didn’t look as if it had come from the Astalian Peninsula at all. Men swarmed over the rigging, tucking in the rolled square sails. It had obviously been brought in for repairs: clockwork cranes held the ship at either end, anchoring it to the dock. Things like great sausages lay alongside the hull like piglets against a sow: buoyancy floats, made from the skin of young water-wyrms and inflated with brass pumps.

  Two people moved about on the deck of the ship, the newness of their clothes marking them out from the stevedores and crew. The man wore a wide-brimmed hat with a roc feather. The woman’s dress was green: it reminded Azul of plumage as it caught the light.

  Azul had never seen the two of them before, but he knew them all the same.

  “Their ship took in water two days ago,” Benevesi said. “A Customs boat escorted them here. It appears there was damage beneath the waterline.”

  “Varro’s last gift,” Azul replied. He smiled. “A water-suit and an auger-drill.”

  “He was a good man,” Cortaag muttered. “A brother.”

  “Bring that tar up, quickly!” a foreman yelled on the quay. “Keep stirring it!”

  Benevesi pointed to the man in the hat, watching from the rail of the ship.

  “That’s the owner,” he said, “and that’s his wife. My men are repairing their ship – very slowly. They’re under my personal protection as a member of the Council. I told them that the Watch investigation was over. That is right, isn’t it?”

  “Absolutely. We’ll be taking this from here. It’s much easier that way.” Azul rubbed his hands together, suddenly sprightly. “Well, then, shall we say hello?”

  ***

  It was mid-afternoon in the forest. The cloth walls threw cool shadow over the pavilion. Giulia looked back at the trees and saw that the creature called Vurael was gone.

  “It’s been a pleasure to meet you,” Arashina said.

  “You too,” Giulia said. “It’s been interesting.”

  Hugh blinked a couple of times. He looked like an old man kept away from his supper – which, Giulia realised, he pretty much was. “Oh? Yes, definitely. A pleasure.”

  Arashina stood up and walked around the table. She wore leather sandals and loose, dark trousers. She looked relaxed and capable. Sethis leaned in and said something to her quietly, and she nodded and put out her hand. “Goodbye,” she said. “And good luck. I will keep watching.”

  She had a strong handshake. “This way,” Sethis said, gesturing.

  They entered the trees again. Sethis walked beside Giulia, Hugh wandering along behind. “Thank you for hearing us out,” the dryad said. “It sounds like we’re pretty much on the same side.”

  “I think so.”

  “Arashina must seem rather strange to you,” Sethis said. “She’s been around your people much less than me. Some of the older dryads regard any contact with humanity as something of a betrayal.”

  Giulia nodded. “Reminds me of what the dwarrows said, back in Pagalia. When the Inquisition showed up, they weren’t surprised. They said they always knew mankind would try to finish the job off.”

  “I don’t feel like that. Some of your people are good, some are bad. The rest are just easily persuaded.”

  “That sounds about right,” Giulia replied. The cold was gathering, the foliage becoming thinner on the branches. “We need a plan. The way I see it, there’s two ways to go from here: Varro’s workshop and the Fiorenti Bank. Right now, the workshop sounds more likely. If the bank wouldn’t open up for you and the Scola, I doubt it’ll do so for me.”

  “They may do,” Sethis said. “You are human, after all.”

  “I’m poor and I’m a woman. They barely allow me to take my own money out; I doubt they’ll let me anywhere near their secrets.” She wondered about breaking into the bank. No, that could wait. She’d try the workshop first. Of course, there was a fair chance that the conspirators would have cleaned the place up after Varro’s death, but she wouldn’t know until she’d looked.

  “I need to go back into the city,” Giulia said. “Hugh, can you find something to do for the rest of today?”

  “Easily.”

  “At the Scola, I mean. We ought to keep out of sight for now.”

  “We have a library,” Sethis said. “You’re welcome to look round there.”

  The knight frowned. “Well, I suppose I can. But we’ve been pinned down for too long, Giulia. It was being stuck in that damned inn that got us into trouble in the first place.” He paused. “Could I stay here for a while, in Faery? It’s good to get a bit of sun.”

  Sethis said, “I’ll escort you back, once Giulia’s returned to the Scola.”

  The afternoon light streaming through the trees looked crisp and cold. Giulia was almost back in winter again. “Do you know anyone who could lend me a dress?” she asked. “A commoner’s dress, that is: nothing too showy, nothing memorable.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” Sethis replied. “I’m sure someone can lend you something.”

  Branches crunched under their boots. Giulia felt the cold on her hands. She could see her breath. “I could really do with a drink,” Hugh said wistfully.

  She thought of the pavilion, the lurid green pastures and the strange creatures on them. And the prospect that they had allies now, that she and Hugh weren’t alone. “Right now,” she replied, “that feels like a pretty good idea.”

  ***

  Dusk crept over the water, and Falsi decided he was going home. He looked out across the wide canal, at the red roofs of the skyline, and felt sick of everything. He swung his stick onto his shoulder, dismissed the two men he had been leading through the streets on a pointless search for crime, and turned back the way he had come.

  A fire-watcher strolled past. He gave Falsi a nod, and the Watchman scowled back.

  Go home, friend, stop wasting your time on a thankless job. Who cares if the city burns down? I wouldn’t. Nobody gives a shit.

  It wasn’t just weariness. It was the sense of being cheated, passed over, either watched suspiciously or ignored. Something was going on, that was obvious – almost as obvious as the fact that he wasn’t invited to it.

  I should get myself moved to the Southern Quarter. Maybe I could leave the watch and join the Customs. I’d put in a request, if the two men above me weren’t a crook and a corpse.

  “Fat bastard,” he said out loud, and he spat into the canal as he strolled by.

  He reached the Pagalian Bridge, a long, wide expanse of white stone and brick. Prince Leonine of Pagalia had paid for it, years ago: Falsi had lined up with a dozen other Watchmen and cheered as the prince was carried across. Now the bridge was almost empty, and the only people on it were workers hurrying home.

  Out on the canal, two young ladies stood at the bow of a pleasure-craft. They drank wine as three men worked the oars behind them. Falsi watched them with a vague sense of envy, tinged with lust. There wasn’t any point in feeling much: they were so far out of his reach that he hardly knew what to think about them.

  Everything’s out of my reach. Slowly, bit by bit, my job is dripping away from me.

  He rested against the rails and stared across the water. He thought about Orvo, the procurator, and the four main suspects suddenly and invisibly dead. The
n he thought about the sense that had followed him since he’d left the Watch-house, that he was being watched.

  A shadow stopped beside him, the dark blur of a body in a cloak.

  “Don’t move,” a woman said. “There’s a knife at your back.”

  “Ah, fuck,” he said. It was an effort not to say Fuck off and leave me alone. He spat into the canal. “You again.”

  “Me,” Giulia said.

  Falsi didn’t turn around. “Well, at least it’s not a crossbow this time. Does that make us friends yet?”

  She snorted. “Not yet. I just didn’t think the crossbow went with this dress.”

  Falsi looked at the water and the houses. “They told me you were dead,” he said.

  “On balance, I think they were mistaken.”

  “They said all of you were.” Anger crept into his voice. “What the hell is this all about, anyway? They said you killed the procurator, and you were shot trying to get out the city. According to my boss, you’re in a winding-sheet on the Isle of Graves.” He waited for a reply. “Well?”

  “I didn’t kill that priest, you know.”

  “I wish you had. It’d be a lot easier that way.”

  “You know I didn’t, don’t you?”

  He sighed. He felt as if he were shrinking, like a camp-ball with a puncture. “Yes,” he said. “I don’t think you did.”

  “It sounds like they told you a few lies,” Giulia replied.

  “That’s what I thought. Shit.” Falsi stared down at the water. He could see her reflection, the white of her face under her black hood. She wore a cloak over a dark, simple dress. It made her look like a ghost. “Well,” he said, “there’s nothing I can do now. It’s not a Watch matter anymore.”

  “Not since I died, eh?”

  Now I know just what I am, he thought, just what value they put on me. I do what they say: when they tell me to work, I work, and when they tell me to stop and forget, I do just that.

  “It fucking stinks,” he said, and the fury in his own voice surprised him. A bell began to ring to the east: perhaps on a church, more likely on a boat, warning travellers or calling them to board.

  “I need your help,” she said.

  “Oh yes? And why should I help you?”

  “Because it stinks,” she said. “You hate that as much as I do. You remember that man Varro? The one they sent me to see?”

  “The one who tried to kill you?”

  She nodded. “I need you to find out some things about him.”

  Falsi looked around slowly, as if waking from a dream. “What do you want to know?”

  “Anything that looks wrong—”

  “This whole business looks wrong,” Falsi said, but he was interested now. He straightened up and said, “Go on.”

  Giulia glanced left and right. “Listen, Varro was a member of a gang. I don’t mean a street-gang, though: these people are all older. A conspiracy, that’s the word. Varro worked for an old man, a little man. If he’s who I think he is, he’s the one who killed the priest.”

  “This old man’s the gang leader, then?”

  “Yes. He must be at least sixty. He’s rich, bald, quite short but not weak. There’s a tattoo on his arm, like snakeskin. It might have some kind of magical effect. He’s well-spoken, although he sort of croaks, like he’s got a bad throat. I need you to find out who he is.”

  “How?”

  “Varro will have had records of his business. All I need you to do is look at them and tell me if there’s anything unusual.”

  Falsi rubbed his chin. “What sort of thing?”

  “Unusual payments, requests, anything like that. Anything that stands out.”

  A slow, devious smile crept over the Watchman’s face. “And what makes me so suited to doing this, instead of you?”

  “They know my face down there. It’ll be much easier for you.”

  “I can’t promise anything, but I can take a look. Where do I find these records?”

  “They might be in the big shed at Varro’s yard. But my guess is you’d be best off starting to look in your boss’ office. Have you got a key?”

  “No, but there’s ways. But I guess you know that better than me.” Falsi thought for a moment. “Meet me at eight tomorrow, in the ale-house on Printers’ Row. Where you found me last time.”

  “I’ll see you there. Thanks for doing this.”

  He shrugged. “If it stops you creeping up on me, I’m glad to help.”

  She nodded. “Good luck. And be careful. These are serious people. Don’t take any risks you don’t need to.”

  Falsi felt happy to be of use again, almost drunk on his sense of purpose. “Don’t worry. I’m fiercer than I look.”

  “No, really. These people are experts. If anyone comes for you, run. I mean it.”

  He stopped smiling. “I’ll look out,” he said, and he patted the big pistol on his belt. “Just one thing. How did you find me?”

  “I asked one of your men near the Watch-house, and he said you were walking the waterfront. Then I waited.”

  “Were you following me this morning?”

  “No. Only just now.”

  “Hmm.” Falsi glanced over her shoulder, ready to leave. “By the way, how did you find out about this old man? What did he do to get you on his tail?”

  Giulia turned to go. “He tortured me,” she said. “So I’m going to cut him to pieces. Any problems with that?”

  ***

  As Giulia returned to the Scola, she felt her aggression start to fade. Falsi’s fear seemed to be catching: by the time Giulia reached the side entrance, she was checking windows for watching eyes. She felt the energy drain from her and the Melancholia start to creep through her body like poison. She wondered whether she could do this, whether the whole venture was a terrible mistake. Of course it wasn’t. She’d beaten Publius Severra, and this would be no different. Her arm had begun to ache. She wondered what it must look like under the bandages, and tried to think about something else.

  One of the Scola’s servants ushered her into the hall. A young man was holding forth to two bearded fellows in the rear hall. “But the limited palette,” he explained, making a grabbing gesture into the air, “only makes the chiaroscuro more powerful. It’s not drab – it’s stark!”

  Giulia didn’t know what he was talking about, but it sounded like art. He wasn’t bad-looking, and his enthusiasm was appealing. Yes, you’d suit me fine. But what could I give you in return? Not a lot. She trudged up the grand staircase, leaving the artists to their argument.

  At the top of the stairs, a dwarrow was sitting on a bench, moulding something between his big hands. It looked like badly-mixed putty: it could be marble, she realised, for the dwarrows knew how to shape hard stone. He reminded her of her old friend Grodrin, back in Pagalia.

  “Giulia?” Sethis stood in a doorway behind her. He looked inquisitive and optimistic, as if he thought she would give him good news. “How are you?” he asked. “Is the dress suitable?”

  “The dress is fine. Say thank you to your friend from me.”

  “Amelia Brunelli. She left it here: it’s one of her painting dresses. It’s not many people who get to wear the clothes of a great artist.” The dryad lowered his voice. “Here, I’ve got something for you. It’s a tincture against Melancholia, a good one. I got it from one of the best apothecaries in Averrio.” He held out a folded packet.

  “Thanks.” Giulia had expected him to give her a wad of picked herbs, or something he’d made himself: it seemed wrong for a dryad to go to an apothecary.

  “Everything else all right?”

  “My arm aches a little.”

  “I’ll sort you something out. Hugh’s in the library, over there.” Sethis pointed. “Let me know if you need anything else.”

  “Thanks,” she said
again. “You’re very kind.”

  The library was warm and well-lit. Six shelves of printed books stretched out in rows for the artists of the Scola to peruse. Hugh sat in the corner of the room, a wine bottle and an open book before him, staring out the window. There was a bland smile on his face. He nodded as she came in, then looked back to the window.

  Giulia knew a fair amount about books: originally, from stealing them to order. The pictures had always intrigued her: wanting to know what they meant had inspired her to learn to read, years ago. She felt almost hungry as she looked over the spines, thinking about the stories that the books contained.

  She picked out half a dozen titles and piled up them up on a table by the wall. “What’re you reading, Hugh?” she asked.

  He handed her the book. She was not surprised to see it was The Death of Alba, his favourite.

  He had dog-eared a late page. There was a woodcut of a rider lancing a dragon, while a maiden looked on. The woodcut was a copy of a painting Giulia half-recognised; the dragon looked like a huge plucked chicken.

  She looked up and realised that Hugh was falling asleep. Giulia took the bottle from the table and sat down. She unfolded the packet Sethis had given her and tapped a little pile of grey dust into her palm.

  It looked like the tinctures against Melancholia she’d taken before. It could be anything. There were stories about the fey folk, about them drugging people – women – and taking them away. It could be poison, an enslaving drug, a love potion – to Hell with it. Why shouldn’t I trust him?

  She tipped her hand against her lips, tasted the dust like fine sand coating the inside of her mouth, and licked her palm. Giulia lifted the bottle and took a swig. A quick swallow and there was only a little residue in her mouth. A second swig and it was all gone.

  Good. That should stave it off for a while. Now, the books.

  Her first book was an old work: John Mornville’s Travels in Africy. She wetted her fingertip and ran through the pages, through the descriptions of the strange creatures that dwelled in the plains south of Jallar. Her eyes flicked over floating cities, dog-men in chainmail, weeping river-dragons and grey unicorns with skin like armour plate. She stopped at a picture of two men in loose britches, turbans on their heads. They were climbing up a cliff towards an enormous nest, on which sat a monster bigger than a horse, the result of the interbreeding of a lion and a bird of prey.