Tomorrow, the Killing lt-2

by Daniel Polansky

  He didn’t flinch. ‘I ain’t bent.’ His voice surprised me with its cool confidence. I had picked the right urchin.

  ‘Off with you then.’ I released the bag and he sprinted around the corner.

  I went back into the alley and smoked a cigarette while I waited for the hoax to show up. They were longer than I thought they’d be, given the gravity of the situation. It’s disturbing to discover your low opinion of law enforcement is still unduly appreciative. Two burned tabs later the first boy returned, a pair of guardsmen in tow.

  I knew them vaguely. One was fresh, new to the force six months, but the second I’d been paying off for years. We’d see how much good that would do if things curdled. ‘Hello, Wendell.’ I held out my hand. ‘Good to see you again, even under these circumstances.’

  Wendell shook it vigorously. ‘You as well,’ he said. ‘I had hoped the boy was lying.’

  There wasn’t much to say to that. Wendell knelt beside the body, his chain coat dragging in the mud. Behind him his younger counterpart was turning the shade of white that prefaces vomiting. Wendell shouted a reproach over his shoulder. ‘None of that. You’re a damn guardsman – show some spine.’ He turned back to the corpse, unsure of his next move. ‘Guess I should call for an agent then,’ he half asked me.

  ‘Guess so.’

  ‘Run back to headquarters,’ Wendell ordered his subordinate, ‘and tell them to send for a chill. Tell them to send for two.’

  The guard enforce the customs and laws of the city – when they aren’t paid to look the other way – but investigating crime is more or less beyond them. If a murderer isn’t standing over the corpse with a bloody knife they’re not of much use. When there’s a crime that matters to someone who counts, an Agent of the Crown is sent, officially deputized to carry out the Throne’s Justice. The frost, the cold, the snowmen or the gray devils, call them what you want but bow your head when they pass and answer prompt if they ask you something, ’cause the chill ain’t the guard, and the only thing more dangerous than an incompetent constabulary is a competent one. Normally, a dumped body in Low Town doesn’t warrant their attention – a fact that does wonders for the murder rate – but this wasn’t a drunk drowned in a puddle, or a knifed junkie. They’d send an agent for this.

  After a few minutes, a small squad of guardsmen arrived on the scene. A pair of them began cordoning off the area. The remainder stood around looking important. They weren’t doing a great job of it, but I didn’t have the heart to tell them.

  Bored of waiting, or wanting to impress his importance upon the newcomers, Wendell decided to take a stab at police work. ‘Probably some heretic,’ he said, scratching at his double chins. ‘Passing through the docks on the way to Kirentown, saw the girl and . . .’ He gestured sharply.

  ‘Yeah, I hear there’s a lot of that going around.’

  His partner chimed in, baby face spouting poison, choked-back bile heavy on his breath. ‘Or an Islander. You know how they are.’

  Wendell nodded sagely. He did indeed know how they were.

  I’d heard that in some of the newer mental wards they set the mad and congenitally stupid to rote tasks, having them sew buttons onto mounds of fabric, the futile labor working as a salve to their broken minds. I wonder sometimes whether the guard is not an extension of this therapy on a far grander scale, an elaborate social program meant to give the low-functioning an illusion of purpose.

  But it wouldn’t do to spoil it for the inmates. This burst of insight seemed to exhaust Wendell and his second, and they lapsed into silence.

  The autumn eve chased the last shreds of daylight across the skyline. The sounds of honest commerce, as much as such a thing exists in Low Town, were replaced with a jittery quiet. In the surrounding tenements someone had a fire going, and the wood smoke almost covered up the state of the body. I rolled a cigarette to block out the rest.

  You could sense their arrival before you could see them, the packed Low Town masses scuttling out from their path like flotsam brushed aside by a flood. A few seconds more and you made them out apart from the movement of the crowd. The freeze prided themselves on the uniformity of their costumes, each an interchangeable member of the small army that controlled the city and most of the nation. An ice-gray duster, its upturned collar leading to a matching wide-brimmed hat. A silver-hilted short sword hanging at the belt, both an aesthetic marvel and a perfect instrument of violence. A dusky jewel trapped in a silver frame dangling from the throat – the Crown’s Eye, official symbol of their authority. Every inch the personification of order, a clenched fist in a velvet glove.

  For all that I would never speak it aloud, for all that it shamed me even to think it, I couldn’t lie – I missed that fucking outfit.

  Crispin recognized me from about a block away, and his face hardened but his step didn’t slow. Five years hadn’t done much to alter his appearance. The same highborn face stared at me beneath the fold of his hat, the same upright carriage bore mute witness to a youth spent in the tutelage of dance masters and teachers of etiquette. His brown hair had retreated from its former prominence, but the curve of his nose still trumpeted the long history of his blood to anyone who cared to look. I knew he regretted me being here, just as I regretted him being called.

  The other one I didn’t recognize – he must have been new. Like Crispin he had the Rouender nose, long and arrogant, but his hair was so blond as to be nearly white. Apart from the platinum mane he seemed the archetypal agent, his blue eyes inquisitorial without being discerning, the body beneath his uniform hard enough to convince you of his menace, assuming you didn’t know what to look for.

  They stopped at the entrance to the alleyway. Crispin’s gaze darted across the scene, resting briefly on the covered corpse before settling on Wendell, who stood stiffly at attention, doing his best impression of a law enforcement official. ‘Guardsman,’ Crispin said, nodding sharply. The second agent, still unnamed, offered not even that, his arms firmly crossed and something like a smirk on his face. Sufficient attention paid to protocol, Crispin turned towards me. ‘You found her?’

  ‘Forty minutes ago, but she’d been here a while before that. She was dumped here after he finished with her.’

  Crispin paced a slow circle around the scene. A wooden door led into an abandoned building halfway down the alley. He paused and put his hand against it. ‘You think he came through here?’

  ‘Not necessarily. The body was small enough to be concealed – a small crate, maybe an empty cask of ale. At dusk, this street doesn’t get much traffic. You could dump it and keep walking.’

  ‘Syndicate business?’

  ‘You know better than that. An unblemished child goes for five hundred ochre in the pens of Bukhirra. No slaver would be foolish enough to ruin their profit, and if they were they’d know a better way to dispose of the corpse.’

  This was too much deference shown to a stranger in a tattered coat for Crispin’s second. He sauntered over, flushed with the arrogance that comes from having one’s hereditary sense of superiority cemented by the acquisition of public office. ‘Who is this man? What was he doing when he found the body?’ He sneered at me. I had to admit he knew how to sneer. For all its ubiquity it isn’t an expression that just anyone can master.

  But I didn’t respond to it, and he turned to Wendell. ‘Where are his effects? What was the result of your search?’

  ‘Well, sir,’ Wendell started, his Low Town accent thickening. ‘Seeing as how he called in the body, we figured . . . that’s to say . . .’ He wiped his nose with the back of his fat hand and coughed out a response. ‘He hasn’t been searched, sir.’

  ‘Is this what passes for an investigation among the guard? A suspect is found standing beside a murdered child and you converse cordially with him over the corpse? Do your job and search this man!’

  Wendell’s dull face blushed. He shrugged apologetically and moved to pat me down.

  ‘That won’t be necessary, Agent Guiscard,’ Cris
pin interrupted. ‘This man is . . . an old associate. He is above suspicion.’

  ‘Only in this matter I assure you. Agent Guiscard, is it? By all means, Agent Guiscard, search me. You can never be too careful. Who’s to say I didn’t kidnap the child, rape and torture her, dump her body, wait an hour, then call the guard?’ Guiscard’s face turned a dull shade of red, a strange contrast to his hair. ‘Quite a prodigy, aren’t we? I guess that set of smarts came stand-ard with your pedigree.’ Guiscard balled his fist. I swelled out my grin.

  Crispin cut between the two of us and began barking orders. ‘None of that. There’s work to be done. Agent Guiscard, return to Black House and tell them to send a scryer; if you double-step it there might still be time for him to pick up something. The rest of you set up a perimeter. There’s going to be half a hundred citizens here in ten minutes and I don’t want them mucking up the crime scene. And for the love of Śakra, one of you find this poor child’s parents.’

  Guiscard glared at me ineffectually, then stomped off. I shook some leaf out of my pouch and started to roll a smoke. ‘New partner’s quite a handful. Whose nephew is he?’

  Crispin gave a half-smile. ‘The Earl of Grenwick’s.’

  ‘Good to see nothing’s changed.’

  ‘He’s not as bad as he looks. You were pushing him.’

  ‘He was easy to push.’

  ‘So were you, once.’

  He was probably right about that. Age had mellowed me, or at least I liked to think so. I offered the cigarette to my ex-partner.

  ‘I quit – it was ruining my wind.’

  I wedged it between my lips. The years of friendship stretched out awkwardly between us.

  ‘If you discover something, you’ll come to me. You won’t do anything yourself,’ Crispin said, somewhere between an inquiry and a demand.

  ‘I don’t solve crimes, Crispin, because I’m not an agent.’ I struck a match against the wall and lit my smoke. ‘You made sure of that.’

  ‘You made sure of that. I just watched while you fell.’

  This had gone on too long. ‘There was an odor on the corpse. It might be gone by now but it’s worth checking.’ I couldn’t bring myself to wish him luck.

  A crowd of onlookers was forming as I left the cover of the alleyway, the specter of human misery always a popular draw. The wind had picked up. I pulled my coat tight and hurried my steps.

  First published in Great Britain in 2012 by

  Hodder & Stoughton

  An Hachette UK company

  Copyright © Daniel Polansky 2012

  The right of Daniel Polansky to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British

  ISBN 978 1 444 72138 6

  Hodder & Stoughton Ltd

  338 Euston Road

  London NW1 3BH

  www.hodder.co.uk

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