“Is it possible you overestimate him?”
“That’s not a mistake I’m prone to. But say I did, say it is the duke. He’s not an artist-I’d be surprised to discover he’s mastered his sums. How would he go about contacting the void?”
“There are practitioners who see fit to sell their skills to anyone with sufficient coin. Did this Beaconfield character have anyone around him who might fit that description?”
“Yeah,” I said. “He did.”
Celia crossed one leg over the other, the pink of her thighs barely visible beneath her dress. “That might be something you’d want to look into.”
“It just might.” I mulled that over, then started up again. “Actually there was something else I wanted to ask you about, something even the Master himself couldn’t help me with.”
“As I said, I’m here to help.”
“I’d like to hear about your time at the academy.”
“Why?”
“Abject boredom. I have absolutely nothing to occupy my mind and hoped your tales of youthful revelry might give me something to gnaw on.”
She snickered, a giggle really, so light it barely escaped her mouth. There was a short pause while she weighed her words. “It was a long time ago. I was young. We were all very young. The Master, the other practitioners of his ilk, they weren’t interested in signing on, so it was just us apprentices, the weak and inexperienced, whoever they could corral in. The instructors, if you could call them that, were barely older than we were and rarely as competent. There was no curriculum really, not then, not after it first started. They just… dumped us in a room and let us loose. Still, it was the first time anything like that had ever happened, the first time we’d been encouraged to share what we knew, rather than hiding it in ciphered spell books and double-trapped grimoires.”
“Did you know a man named Adelweid?”
Her eyes narrowed, and she pursed her lips. “We weren’t a large group. Everybody knew everybody, more or less.” Celia was the sort of person who would happily spend the rest of her life locked away from the remainder of the species but had trouble mustering up the ill will to bad-mouth any particular member of it. “Sorcerer Adelweid was… very talented.” I thought she was going to continue, but then she closed her mouth and shook her head, and that was that.
So I figured I’d best volunteer something. “Adelweid was part of a military project during the closing days of the war-Operation Ingress.”
“The Master told me your story.”
“You know anything about it?”
“As I said, we were left free to pursue whatever avenues of studies interested us. Adelweid and I had differing proclivities. I heard rumors, ugly things, but no specifics. If I knew anything I thought would help, I’d have told you already.” She shrugged, anxious to bury the subject. “Adelweid is dead-he’s been dead a long time.”
He was indeed. “But Adelweid wasn’t the only one involved. Whoever killed the Kiren must have been part of it. And something like that, a military project… they’ll have kept records.”
Her head shot up. “They’d be secret,” she said, almost insistently. “They’d be hidden. You’d never get a look at them.”
“They would be hidden, and I don’t imagine whoever is in charge of the army’s classified files would be in a great hurry to share them with me. Happily I have other avenues of inquiry.”
“Other avenues?”
“Crispin, my old partner. I’ve got him looking into it.”
“Crispin,” she repeated. “Is he still reliable? Will he come through for you, after all your… time apart?”
“I don’t imagine he’s happy to be doing me a favor, but he won’t let that stop him. Crispin… Crispin’s golden. It doesn’t matter what’s between us. This could help stop the killings; it’s the right thing to do. He’ll do it.”
She nodded slowly, her face turned away from mine. “Crispin it is, then.”
Around us legions of bumblebees droned about happily, fluttering from petal to stalk to stipule, the lullaby of their steady buzzing a mild soporific.
Celia stood up from the stool, her eyes dark against honey-colored skin. “I’m glad…” She shook her head, as if to refresh her prose, and her long dark hair arched back and forth, the charm around her neck twisting in unison. “It’s been good to see you again, even under these circumstances. In a way I’m grateful you’ve been entangled in this mess.” She took my hand lightly in hers and stared into my eyes without blinking.
Her pulse was very rapid beneath her skin, and my own rose to meet it. I thought of all the reasons this was a bad idea, thought about everything that was rotten and spoiled and cheap about it. Then I thought about them again. This had been a lot easier ten years earlier. “You and the Master always have a place in my thoughts,” I said quietly.
“That’s all you’ll say, then? That I hadn’t completely deserted your memory?”
“I need to see how Wren is doing.” It was a weak excuse, for all that it was in fact true.
She nodded and walked me to the door, dejection marring her heart-shaped face.
Up in the main room, the Crane was sitting on an old chair, his back toward us, laughing and clapping his hands in rhythm. Each time he did so, the collection of sparks that swirled about the chamber changed color and shifted direction, swooping up to the ceiling, then diving toward the window. Wren hadn’t quite joined the Master in his jocularity, but to my surprise he wore an honest smile, a low thing that was mostly in his eyes, as if he was afraid someone would notice. It ended abruptly when he saw Celia and me return.
The Crane must have read our entry on the boy’s face, because he stopped clapping and the sparks dropped slowly to the ground, then disappeared. I put my hand on the Crane’s back. The blade of his shoulder was sharp beneath his robes. “I always loved that toy.”
The Crane laughed again, a bright thing, like his fireworks. I would miss it very much when he was gone. Then it faded and he elevated his head toward me. “That business we spoke of last time-”
Celia interrupted him. “It turned out fine, Master. That’s what he stopped by to tell us. Everything’s taken care of-you don’t need to think about it anymore.”
The Crane’s eyes flashed across Celia’s face, then searched mine for confirmation. I did something that might have been a shrug or a nod. He was old, and tired, and he took it as the latter. A smile spread back over his face, or at least something close enough to mimic it, and he turned back to Wren. “You’re a fine boy. Not like this ’en,” he said with a glance to my direction.
But Wren was having none of it. As if to make up for his moment of lightness he had stamped a sullen growl on his face, and gave the barest hint of a farewell nod to the Master.
The Crane had long years of experience dealing with the ingratitude of overproud youths, and he handled the snub with grace. “It was a pleasure to have had the opportunity to entertain Master Wren.” He continued with the same mock stiffness, “And you, sir, as always, are welcome anytime you wish.” Tell that to the gargoyle outside, I thought, but he seemed happy and hale and I kept my mouth shut.
Celia stood by the stairs and leaned down to meet Wren as he approached. “It was lovely meeting you. Perhaps when you return we’ll have more of a chance to chat.”
Wren didn’t respond. Celia kept her face friendly and waved the two of us past.
We left the Aerie and began our walk north. A few blocks went by as I ran over what I had learned, sifting through the noise for something valuable, something that would click with the rest of it.
Wren interrupted my contemplations. “I liked the tower.”
I nodded.
“And I liked the Crane.”
I waited for him to continue but he didn’t, and we walked on in silence.
I met Guiscard an hour or so later outside a small warehouse a few blocks from Black House. Having already availed myself once that day of the hospitality of my former employers, I
wasn’t altogether keen on returning to the neighborhood-but I consoled myself with the thought that if the Old Man wanted me dead, proximity wouldn’t be an issue. It wasn’t exactly the sort of comfort that keeps you sleeping soundly at night, but it was all I had.
The building itself was the sort of structure that seemed to have been deliberately built so as to give no hint to the activities which took place inside. Storage space, you might have guessed if pushed, but only because you couldn’t think of anything more vague. Unlike Black House, the Box’s value was not enhanced by having its purpose widely advertised. It wasn’t a secret, though most of Rigus was happy to pretend itself ignorant. Because inside the Box the scryers made their nest, and to draw attention from them was to have your secrets made known-and what man alive doesn’t have a few things he’d rather keep quiet?
The kid towed himself behind me, quiet since we had left the Aerie, shifty even by his standards. I didn’t bother to draw him out. I had other things on my mind.
My favorite agent, after Crowley, sulked next to the doorway, smoking a cigarette like it was an affectation and not an addiction. He saw us from a hundred yards off but pretended otherwise, buying time for his histrionics to ripen. He was unhappy to be accompanied on this little side errand, and he wanted me to know it.
When we were too close to keep up the pretense, he flicked his half-smoked tab into the muck and looked me up and down with his usual tenderness, then trailed his eyes across Wren. “Who’s this?” he asked, almost decent, before catching himself and returning his thin lips to their practiced sneer.
“Can’t you see the resemblance?” I shoved Wren forward lightly. “The genteel nose, the grace and carriage that bespeak noble blood. You were fourteen, shallow and insipid-she was a chambermaid with a clubfoot and an overdeveloped jaw. When your parents learned of the affair, they packed her off to a nunnery and sent your issue abroad.” I tussled the boy’s hair. “But he’s back now. I imagine you two have a lot to talk about.”
Wren smirked a little. Guiscard shook his head, disdainful of any theatrics that weren’t his own. “It’s good to see you’ve kept your sense of humor-I would think with all that’s going on you wouldn’t have time for these childish jibes.”
“Don’t remind me. I’ve already changed pants twice today.”
That was about as much banter as he was capable of without outside assistance, and, realizing it, he headed inside.
“I’ll be out in a few minutes,” I told the boy. “Try and avoid doing anything that might lead Adolphus to beat me to death.”
“Don’t take shit from the snowman,” he said.
I laughed, shocked at his outburst and vaguely flattered to see the child take my feuds as his own. “I don’t take shit from anyone,” I said, though in fact most of my life lately seemed to consist of doing just that.
He blushed and looked down at his feet, and I followed Guiscard into the building.
Scryers are a strange breed, strange enough that they have their own headquarters away from Black House, and not just because part of their duties include the inspection and anatomization of dead bodies. They come in on big cases-murders and assaults, the occasional rape. Sometimes they get impressions, images or sense memories, bits of data, rarely entirely coherent but occasionally helpful. They aren’t artists, leastways not as I understand it-they have no ability to effect the physical world, but rather a sort of passive receptiveness to it, an extra sense the rest of us lack.
Are blessed to lack, I should say. The world is an ugly place, and we ought to be grateful for any blinders that limit our comprehension-better to scuttle along the surface than dive in the noxious waters beneath. Their “gift” is the sort that makes a normal life impossible, the undercurrents of existence bubbling up at inopportune moments. Those born with it are inevitably drafted into the service of the government, simply because any other kind of work is more or less impossible-imagine trying to sell a man shoes and flashing that he beats his children or has his wife sewn up in a sack. It’s an unpleasant sort of existence, and most investigators are hardened drunks or borderline lunatics. I’ve had a few as customers-ouroboros root mostly, though once they move on to the hard stuff, it’s not long before the brass come calling, or they decide to circumvent the authorities by falling into a river or huffing up a half pint of breath. It’s a common enough fate among their kind-few indeed die of natural causes.
Anyway, they’re useful enough as part of an investigation, so long as you don’t get too reliant on them. It’s a touchy thing, their second sight, and for every decent lead you’re liable to get two brick walls and a false trail. Once I spent a month digging through every hole in the Islander half of Low Town, only to discover that the man I was working with had never seen a Mirad before, and had mistaken the cinnamon tan of the murderer in his vision for the dark chocolate of a seafarer. After that, I stopped spending too much time in the Box, not that my presence was much in demand after I put the aforementioned scryer through a first-floor window.
I stepped into an antechamber manned by an aging Islander, who slipped off the wooden seat he had been napping on and moved to unlock the interior door. There were a lot of locks, and the gatekeeper was straddling the line between venerable and ancient, so we had opportunity for conversation.
“Who are we going to see?” I asked.
Knowing something I didn’t perked Guiscard up a little. “Crispin wanted the best on this one, angled for Marieke. You remember her? She would have been just starting out when they gave you the ax.”
“Not really.”
“They call her the Ice Bitch.”
It was the sort of jibe I could see making the rounds among the wits at Black House, misogynistic and unoriginal. That I didn’t laugh seemed to offend Guiscard slightly, and he switched subjects.
“How did it happen, by the way?”
“How did what happen?”
“Your dismissal.”
The Islander reached the last bolt and dragged the door open, struggling against the heavy iron. “I poisoned the Prince consort.”
“The Prince consort isn’t dead.”
“Really? Then who the hell did I murder?”
It took him a moment to puzzle that out. “You ought not speak so lightly of the royal court.” He sniffed, like he’d gotten the better of the exchange, then turned at a brisk pace and headed down the dank stone hallway. The farther we got, the heavier the place started to stink, an unpleasant mixture of mildew and human flesh. Guiscard passed a dozen-odd doorways before choosing one to open.
The room displayed the obsessive organization that suggests an unwound mind as surely as does chaos-rows and rows of cataloged boxes atop dusted shelves and a floor clean enough to eat off, if for some reason you were inclined to take your supper on the ground. Apart from its spotlessness, there was nothing to give the impression that anyone worked there-the worn desk set against the back wall was empty of mementos, even the usual detritus-pens and ink, paper and books-that signify a work space. You might well have assumed it to be nothing more than a well-kept storage room, except for the dead body resting on a slab in the center of the room and the woman who stood over it.
She would never be called beautiful-there was too much bone where one hoped to find flesh-but she might have sneaked into handsome without the scowl that defaced her finish. To judge by her height and skin, so pale you could trace the blue web of veins up her neck, she was a Vaalan. And not city born either, if I had to guess. I wondered what series of events had brought her down from the frigid North and the stony islands her people inhabited. Taken bit by bit, there was much of her that was alluring-a graceful carriage, limbs long and fine, strands of strawberry-blond hair falling down past her shoulders-a surfeit of physical blessings, all submerged by the raptor thinness of her frame. She looked up as the door opened, an arresting scan with eyes that custom would label blue, but that were, truthfully, virtually achromatic-then her focus returned to the corpse atop her table.
I did not find it altogether impossible to discern the origin of her nickname.
Guiscard elbowed me and I noticed that his smirk had returned, like we were sharing some sort of a joke; but I didn’t like him and even if I did I wouldn’t have had the time for antics. Finally he spoke up. “Scryer Uys?”
She grunted and continued taking notes. We waited to see whether she was capable of upholding the social courtesies developed to paper over the untrustworthy nature of the human species. When it became obvious she wasn’t, Guiscard cleared his throat and continued. In contrast to the scryer, I couldn’t help but find myself impressed by the gentility with which he hocked up a bead of phlegm. I wondered how many years of finishing school it took him to master that trick.
“This is…”
“I recognize your guest, agent.” She scraped her pen against the page like she was taking revenge for some past act of cruelty. Then, having made it clear that she ranked us well below the completion of routine paperwork, she deigned to offer her attention. “I’ve seen him grace our premises before, some years back.”
That was a surprise-I’m good with faces, very good, it’s one of the relatively few job requirements that remained constant despite my change in employment. Of course those last six months in Special Operations had been… hectic. Sakra knew I’d missed more pressing things.
“So the introduction is unnecessary. While you’re here, though, perhaps you might enlighten me as to what the fuck he’s doing in the Box, since, to judge by the number of times I’ve heard his name reviled by members of your organization, he’s no longer in the good graces of Black House?”
I gave a quick little laugh, half because it was funny and half because I wanted to trip her up. And indeed she seemed shocked at my reaction, her ability to cause offense for once falling short of the mark. Guiscard stroked the peach fuzz below his nose, considering how to answer. He wasn’t himself sure why I was there, who had decided to incorporate me into the investigation-though obviously, decorum and his own unflappable sense of self-importance stopped him from saying so. “Orders from the top.”
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