Tomorrow, the Killing lt-2

by Daniel Polansky

  26

  I spent the rest of the day looking after various aspects of my business that had gone to seed while I’d been sprinting about the city like some addled knight errant. It was a slow month, uncomfortably so. The weather had sapped the recreational instincts of my clients, and the bartenders and short dealers who copped from me were mostly still flush. Something about hundred-degree heat made people less interested in hopping themselves up on breath. Most of my top-end trade, the Kor’s Heights boys and budding merchant princes, were spending high summer on their country plantations, so that avenue had dried up as well. It was an unprofitable afternoon, and it left me in something of a mood.

  The messenger came by while I was eating my way through the mutton stew Adeline had made for dinner. It was too fucking hot to be eating mutton stew, and frankly I was happy for the interruption.

  I have urgent information, urgent and valuable. I repeat, urgent and valuable. Find yourself at my domicile with all conceivable haste, and bring along twenty ochre as a down payment.

  Signed,

  Iomhair Gilchrist, Factor

  Beneath that, as if suspecting that his promise alone would be insufficient to move me, he had written:

  I know who killed Rhaine Montgomery.

  As it happened, so did I. All the same, I figured seeing what Iomhair had to tell me was worth the walk. I finished off my mutton, smoked a cigarette, and went upstairs to get twenty ochre. Actually giving it to him was, of course, a last resort, and not one I imagined I’d need. Most likely I’d lie or beat out whatever Gilchrist had or thought he had, but on the off-chance the man had grown a spine since last we spoke, I figured it couldn’t hurt to have a back-up.

  The evening was the rare balmy dollop, still sticky as ball sweat but a fair improvement over the afternoon. I glided through streets empty of traffic, enjoying the constitutional and trying not to fixate on the destination. Iomhair’s house was as unprepossessing as ever. Someone had scratched ‘cunt’ across his run of new paint, presumably the same wag responsible for the original, though I imagined it was a popular sentiment.

  Habit being what it was I didn’t bother to knock, but for once the door was locked. ‘Gilchrist,’ I yelled. ‘Open the fuck up.’

  No answer – nothing spoken, at least. But from inside I heard a bustle of motion, and muted mutterings, and I wondered if perhaps Gilchrist hadn’t been exaggerating when he’d demanded my haste.

  I sprinted around the side of the building in time to see a man climbing out of Iomhair’s side window. There wasn’t enough light to make out any detail, but I figured he was unlikely to be a clandestine lover so I upped my speed and launched myself at him. He still had one leg hanging from the frame, an awkward position to be in when someone sets their shoulder into your chest. I heard something pop on the way down, probably his ankle, but it didn’t slow him. We tumbled through the dust, nothing pretty or skillful about it. He got his hands around my throat but I broke free, reared up and hammered his chin into the dirt. A few more of those and he went limp, and I pulled him to his feet and set him up against the wall.

  In the pause I recognized him, the white-haired mope I’d seen hanging around the last time I’d gone to visit Pretories. It took his mind a long moment to square itself from the beating he’d taken, then his eyes fixed on my face and gleamed with recognition. ‘What are you doing here?’

  I hesitated in answering, trying to think up something smart. It’s a good thing I’m not all that clever because the silence was interrupted by a noise from the alley behind me, and I grabbed my man and swung him around. It was instinct – I can’t pretend I knew what the sound was, but on some dim level I realized it was better to have my captive between me and it.

  There was another sound then, one I did recognize – the thwack of a released bowstring. Concurrent with this, or nearly so, was the grunt of my human shield, and the sight of a quarrel head poking out from his chest.

  At that distance there was a fair chance the bolt would have passed through its target with enough force to do me as well. I didn’t take time to enjoy my luck. Leaving the mug to drop where he was I dove back through the window, an awkward motion, desperate and ungainly, my shin banging against the frame. Once inside I ducked down below the window, taking care not to present a target. A taper on the desk provided the only light, and I searched for something to knock it over with. My hands settled on a heavy ledger, and I sent it spinning at the candle. Given the debris there was a better than average chance the falling spark would set the place off like a tinderbox.

  But it didn’t, and I stayed crouched down in the dark, my trench blade in one hand, a throwing knife in the other. If whoever was out there decided to rush me I figured they’d do it then, and I’d be set to meet them. If it was just the one guy it might end in my favor. It probably wasn’t just the one guy, I conceded.

  Five minutes passed. If they were waiting me out, they were doing a good job. Another five. Nobody’s that patient, not after killing a man. Whoever had fired that bolt was gone. I waited ten more to be sure, then sheathed my weapons, closed the window and started searching for the candle.

  It was a while before I found it, rolled beneath a pile of half-decade-old broadsheets. I lit it with a match from my belt and surveyed the room. It was still a cluttered mess, uneaten food on the bookshelves and rotting paperwork on the floor. It was chaos when I’d been there last – it was chaos now. Whatever struggles had taken place in the last half hour had left little enough mark on the terrain. Little enough except the body on the floor, of course.

  To be absolutely honest, I would not have bet my stake of the Earl on the continued vitality of Iomhair Gilchrist – still, I’d been hoping he’d stick around a little longer, for purely mercenary reasons.

  Wish in one hand and shit in the other, as they say. The corpse at my feet seemed definitive proof as to which was the more effective means of filling a palm. Iron Stomach had been no great beauty in life, and death hadn’t done him any favors. His fat face was swelled like an over-ripe melon, his mustache a thin line of silver amidst the bloated red. He’d swallowed most of the rag they’d stuffed into his mouth to keep him quiet, and two wide handprints were bruised into his neck. Had they been made by the same pair that had done Rhaine? Somehow I didn’t doubt it.

  Not that I’d needed confirmation, but I had it. Joachim Pretories had killed Rhaine’s adviser, just as he’d killed Rhaine herself. I left the corpse where it was, undid the front door and slipped out into the night. On principle, I didn’t like leaving the body there to rot, but I couldn’t very well call attention to my presence by contacting the authorities. Besides, the way things were going, he’d have plenty of company.

  27

  I slept poorly.

  The dinner trade had been sparse and languid, a thin squad of losers out-drinking the coin in their purses. Violent though – twice Adolphus had been forced to leave his perch behind the bar and express to our patrons the necessity of tranquility in fashion both sanguinary and ironic. At the end of the night Adeline had soaked blood out of her mop. Hadn’t been the first time, wouldn’t be the last.

  I’d spent the evening alternating shots of liquor and snorts of breath, and trying to convince myself that the death of Iomhair Gilchrist wouldn’t lead directly to my own. It had been dark in the alleyway – too dark, I hoped, to make out faces. The fact that the bowman had mistaken his own for me was proof enough of that. If he had recognized me, though, the whole thing was fucked sideways. Pretories less than half-trusted me as it was – if he heard I’d been freelancing he’d put me down, no sense leaving me around to make trouble. It would be the smart move and, despite his missteps, I didn’t think Joachim a fool.

  Practically speaking, of course, it didn’t matter. I was in it to the hilt. That’s the thing about sprinting downhill – you run it out or you tumble.

  Around one o’clock I’d climbed up to the roof, angled my feet off the balcony and rolled a spliff. Somewhere ou
t in the darkness men were dying because of me. They weren’t very good men, I supposed – the thugs and bully-boys Artur Giroie the Second had hired to watch his shipment of poison. But then I wasn’t a very good man either, and perhaps shouldn’t be so casual with the lives of my confederates in immorality.

  It was a long time before I’d gone to bed, and as I mentioned, I hadn’t had much success once I’d gotten there.

  My morning schedule was light. Apparently Wren’s was as well, because I’d been up for a solid hour before he made an appearance, and I’m no early riser.

  He came in finally from the back, yawning and shirtless, thin as gristle, skin stretched over bone. ‘Anything left for me?’

  I forked a last morsel of egg into my mouth. ‘You’re a resourceful child. I’m confident you’ll find something.’

  He scowled unhappily, then took a seat at my table.

  I pulled out the armband Mazzie had given me and passed it over to him. ‘Wear this when you go to your appointment – make sure the local element knows you’ve been marked.’

  Wren eyed it with discomfort bordering on disgust, like I’d dropped a turd onto the table. Then he stuffed it into his back pocket and muttered something.

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘I don’t see the point.’

  ‘I thought I clarified it during our last conversation.’

  ‘I don’t need any help. I can figure out what I need to on my own.’

  ‘You can’t, but that wasn’t what I meant. If you don’t go see Mazzie tomorrow I’m going to hang you out the window by your fucking ankles. That firm up your schedule?’

  The threat left him silent for a whole five seconds. Then he wiped his nose with a dirty hand and continued, ‘Adolphus has a speech tomorrow.’

  ‘That didn’t interest me the first time I heard it.’

  ‘It’s a big deal. There might be five thousand men watching him.’

  ‘So you can ask one of them how it went.’

  ‘It’s important to him. He’s a hero, you know.’

  ‘Is he? I hadn’t heard.’

  ‘He held the line at Aunis. Killed twenty men single-handed.’

  ‘That what makes a man a hero? Killing a lot of people?’

  ‘It does if they’re Dren.’

  ‘You meet a lot of Dren in Low Town?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘You ever watch a man burn to death? You ever smell a man char?’

  He swallowed hard, but kept his eyes on mine.

  ‘You won’t ever look at a chop steak again the same way, I can guarantee you that much.’

  Now he did look away, craning his neck to avoid my gaze.

  ‘Wouldn’t be so quick to talk about glory neither, I’d reckon.’ I sipped my coffee and turned to look out the window. ‘Keep that sloppy cunt mouth of yours shut around me from now on, or I’ll close it myself.’

  There was a long pause, and I thought he might take the advice. But there was still too much of the savage in him to swallow my abuse without spitting some back out. ‘I think you’re jealous.’

  I laughed. ‘You nailed it. They didn’t pin enough tin to my chest, and I’ve never forgiven them for it.’

  ‘I’m going to Adolphus’s speech.’

  ‘You trying to make me cross? ’Cause I’m halfway there already.’

  ‘You don’t tell me what to do.’

  ‘Don’t I?’ I asked, and by then my humour had quite turned. My hands were around his shoulders, and I was pulling him out of his seat when I was interrupted by a noise at my side.

  ‘What’s going on here?’ Adeline’s voice is perpetually pitched midway to hectoring, but this time I think she really meant it.

  ‘Just talking,’ I said, letting go of Wren’s shoulders.

  Her eyes thinned to slits, a dash in the series of conjoined circles that composed her body and face. ‘I know about your kind of talking.’ She turned to Wren. ‘Chores, now.’

  He shot hate at me for a second, then slithered off. ‘You’ll be at Mazzie’s,’ I called to his back. ‘Don’t fucking think otherwise.’

  I sat back down. Adeline remained standing beside me, but given her height we were about level.

  ‘What was that about?’ she asked.

  ‘Just impressing upon our boy the importance of a strong education.’

  ‘You’ve been “impressing” things on him a lot lately.’

  ‘Was that a joke? How droll. I thought you’d be on my side with this. Weren’t you the one bugging me to get him a teacher? I get him one and my return is nothing but hassle.’

  ‘He’s scared,’ she said evenly. ‘You could see that if you weren’t up to your ears in whatever mess you’re making.’

  ‘The world is a scary place – the sooner he learns to fear it the better off he’ll be.’

  ‘Is that why you put bruises on him? To teach him some caution?’

  ‘Mostly it’s just because he gets on my fucking nerves.’

  I was trying to goad her, but it didn’t have that effect. ‘Your nose is bleeding,’ she said finally.

  I put two fingers against my upper lip. She was not wrong – I hadn’t realized I’d been hitting the breath so hard.

  ‘Did you bump it against something?’

  I’d rolled a cigarette for after breakfast, and figured this was a solid time to start on it. ‘You know me. Clumsy as an ox.’

  ‘What the hell is going on?’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘Agents coming by the Earl? You and Adolphus huffing at each other? What con are you running, and where is it gonna leave us? The last time you pulled something it almost got Wren killed, do you remember that? What trouble are you bringing down on us now?’

  ‘You want me gone? Is that what this is? All you gotta do is ask. Course, you might find things ain’t so easy out from beneath my coattails. Not like the Earl is some great moneymaker. How much have I sunk into this place over the years, bridge loans during the dry seasons? It must be nice, drifting so far above it, hands clean as buttermilk and a conscience to match. I imagine it’s quite an embarrassment having someone like me in your house, a common criminal.’ Smoke streamed through ruptured nostrils. ‘But you take my coin, don’t you, Adeline – and you ask my favor, when you need it.’

  She recoiled into silence. Her mouth shuttered up and down, silently weathering the blow.

  Nothing like striking a saint to buff your self-image. It was time to get going, ten or fifteen minutes past time. By now Artur Giroie would be aware that his shipment had been smashed and his boys killed. He’d be angry, and he’d be looking for a direction to aim that anger. I figured I might be of some service to him.

  ‘You have a nice morning,’ I told Adeline, yet to recover from my abuse. ‘I gotta ride a man off a cliff.’

  28

  When I came in Artur’s tantrum was trailing off, his muttered profanities the light mist left by the storm that had just leveled the room. One of his crystal paperweights was lodged in the wood paneling beside the door. The painted canvas above his desk had been stripped from the wall, a rent down the middle defacing the dull pastoral scene. Junior stood next to the line of windows overlooking the neighborhood he owned, or pretended to. His hair was mussed.

  I righted the visitor’s chair and set myself into it, untying my tobacco purse and shaking out a sheave.

  Blind fury takes its toll on a man. Junior sat down after I did, but it was a while before he stopped breathing heavy. I was kind enough to wait before beginning.

  ‘Rough morning?’

  He had taken a spiced cigarette from an ivory box on the table, but was having trouble getting it started, a mass grave of used matches lining the glass. I lit mine with a quick pass, then leaned over and did the same for him.

  He took a stuttering drag and blew clove and tar into the air. ‘Someone hit a shipment of ours last night. Killed the guard to a man, made off with the merchandise.’

  ‘That’
s not very friendly.’

  He slammed a fist down against his desk, setting what bric-a-brac had survived his conniption rumbling. ‘A hundred ochre gone. Would have made five times that on the street.’ He ran a hand through his long, blond locks. ‘Not to mention the loss of my guards.’

  ‘Not to mention.’

  ‘It’s the veterans, isn’t it? First the Savages, now this.’

  ‘Could be.’

  He folded his arms and ducked his head down into them. ‘I’m going to tear Pretories a new hole. Then I’m going to pull his intestines out of it.’

  ‘Sounds painful.’

  ‘Thinks he can fuck with the Giroies, he’s gonna learn clear otherwise.’

  ‘Blessed are the teachers.’

  ‘Him and all his men. They got no idea what’s coming for them.’

  ‘Make the Dren look like milkmaids.’

  He’d been too lost in revenge fantasies to hear me, but this last seemed to have broken through. ‘You find this humorous?’

  ‘It’s all we’ve left, in these times of tragedy.’

  ‘Easy for you to take things light. I’ve got responsibilities. The entire family waits at my word, and falls if I fall.’

  ‘The burden of leadership,’ I agreed.

  His face bloated scarlet. ‘When I get my hands on that son of a bitch . . .’

  As keen as I was to hear the remainder of Giroie’s hypothetical torments, the day was getting long. ‘It’s too early to start picking your targets, Artur, let alone getting flushed. You don’t even know who it was for a certainty.’

  ‘Don’t be daft – you yourself said they were coming after me, in that very seat, not three days ago!’

  ‘I was passing on a rumor, not handing you testament from the Firstborn.’

  ‘I didn’t think you the sort to go soft in the belly when things got hot,’ he snorted, some portion of his faded ardor quick to return and happy to find a new target.

  ‘Is that what I’m doing? Going soft?’

  ‘Damn it, Warden! A few days ago you’re a perfect oracle, now you sit there like a half-wit, spouting stale lines and repeating my words back to me!’