One Man

by Harry Connolly

  “Calm,” the constable said. She turned to Riliska. “Did you take this boy’s wax tablet?”

  Riliska looked up. She hesitated a moment, then, in her small high voice, she said, “I thought it was mine.”

  The boy shoved her. “You liar! You don’t have a tablet!” He tried to slap the side of her head but she flinched away, and he struck her shoulder instead.

  The constable moved to interpose herself but the boy’s mother reacted first, yanking him back. “Don’t touch her! If she’s from Mudside, she might have a bloodkind mark.” She turned to the constables. “Have you searched her for bloodkind marks? You know they send these little thieves upcity to rob decent folk. Have you checked?”

  The ironshirt rolled her eyes. Her partner stood nearby and did nothing but stare into the distance. He looked bored. The first addressed Riliska. “Are your parents nearby? An adult would help settle this dispute.”

  Riliska looked directly at Kyrioc, as if she’d known he was standing there, watching. She hesitated a moment, then nervously raised her arm and pointed.

  Right at Kyrioc.

  A chill ran through him. They would ask his name. They would ask where he lived and worked.

  Then they would make a report. If news of his flight from the constables in High Square made its way down there, these two ironshirts would remember.

  Kyrioc’s careful anonymity was about to be shattered.

  * * *

  Culzatik felt the Safroy family attendants and guards watching him, but there was little he could do. His brother’s public memorial had been cut short and it was his fault. Thank the fallen gods Essatreska had decided to be a bitch and skip the ceremony. He would have to endure her smirk later, but right now, in this place, she would have been unbearable.

  Aziatil, his bodyguard, moved close, standing between him and the rest of the city.

  That fellow had looked so like Kyrionik, but that was impossible. Culzatik’s older brother had left for his First Labor nearly eight years before, and he’d never arrived at the port in the Harkan borderlands. Anything could have happened to him. There had been no serious storms that month and pirates seemed unlikely, considering how many Safroy troopers were on board, but there was always fire. Fire aboard a ship could be deadly. For months, Culzatik had obsessed over the reports of other vessels between Koh-Salash and Harka, but he’d found no news.

  And then, finally, he’d realized it didn’t matter. Kyrionik, the elder brother he’d looked up to and loved, was gone, and there was nothing to be done about it.

  But if he really believed that, why had he run off during the funeral service?

  He clenched his narrow fists in front of his chest, trying to expunge the heavy shame growing there. While the rest of Koh-Salash had been out drinking and dancing on Last Day, he’d stayed at home, scrubbing at his ink-stained hands so he would be presentable for this funeral. Still, the marks lingered.

  Onderishta came near. The night before last, she and her team were supposed to capture the delivery man, courier, and—most important of all—the package they were exchanging. According to the rather cryptic note she’d sent to him, they’d failed. Culzatik knew she was still working on it—she hadn’t spent her Last Day drinking and dancing, either—but the look on her face was not triumphant.

  “I assume the news is bad,” he said.

  Onderishta nodded. “We still haven’t recovered the package, your virtue.”

  Damn. “What happened?”

  She described the handoff and how it went wrong. As he listened, he heard only confirmation of what he already suspected. The fault was his, not hers. He had not shared his suspicions about the package in question, largely because they were only suspicions.

  However, if he was correct about the contents of that package, a lowly pickpocket was running loose in the city with a prize worth two or three fully loaded cargo ships. At least.

  A prize that, possibly, could destroy his family.

  It was vital that Onderishta recover it first. That package would not stay secret for long.

  “So far,” Culzatik said, “the only people who know about the theft are the thieves themselves, you, and the parties making the exchange. If you follow the parties, they might lead you to the pickpocket.”

  “Yes, your virtue. My second has already given the order, but the belligerents were expecting it. They’ve dodged one team, but we’ll pick them up again soon.”

  “Ah,” Culzatik said, feeling his face grow warm. “Of course you’re right. And I don’t say that because you need to be assured that you’re right, but to acknowledge that I have, quite foolishly, trodden like an amateur into your field of expertise. I apologize. Er… How did they manage to lose your team?”

  “With a well-thrown bucket of urine, your virtue.”

  Culzatik had absolutely no response to that. The very idea… It would never have occurred to him that such a thing was possible, and he suddenly felt very sheltered. “Yes. Well. What further steps have you taken?”

  She said, “That no one spotted the pickpocket before they acted suggests that they were most likely freelance and small-time. That means they’ll be looking for a buyer. We have a network of fences we can contact, your virtue, but it’s pointless to approach them unless we know what was stolen.”

  “I have nothing more than suspicions.”

  “Then share them with me, your virtue, so that I can make informed decisions.” When he hesitated further, she said, “One of the belligerents approached Fay about this package, to offer its location, maybe, if it turns out to be serious trouble. But I can’t make that deal if I don’t know what it’s supposed to be.”

  Culzatik glanced around. Aziatil, of course, stood close, her hands near the long knives she wore at her belt. Others—family guards, constables, influential stitches in the Safroy sail, and even friends of Kyrionik he had not seen in years—milled about, moving in and out of earshot.

  “You’re right,” he said, “but we can’t talk about it here.” Onderishta had worked for his noble family for many years, and Culzatik admired the control she had over her expression. Still, at the moment, she couldn’t quite disguise her crooked half-frown. “I promise you,” he said, anxious that she should continue to take him seriously, “that you will understand once we’ve had a chance to speak privately. Come to the family compound in one…” Culzatik glanced at his mother and father. His mother was speaking to a crowd and his father was standing silently behind her. Both were staring directly at him. “Better make it two hours. It will all make sense then.”

  “As you wish, your virtue.” She bowed slightly and left.

  All that remained was for him to run the gauntlet of his own family.

  Billentik approached him first. He and Culzatik were already of equal height, although Billentik’s chin still held nothing more substantial than peach fuzz. Already broad-shouldered, he was likely to grow taller even than Kyrionik had been. In a year—or perhaps less—Culzatik would have to look up at his younger brother.

  And if the boy had idolized Kyrionik, he was less deferential to the family’s book-loving second son. “Did you really see a commoner with a knife? Be honest.”

  Be honest. Culzatik glanced at him, keeping his voice mild and his body language relaxed. “Little brother, if you’re going to be stupid enough to question the word of a family member, have the sense to do it in private.”

  Billen blinked and stepped back. Unless Culzatik changed the dynamic between them, soon his little brother wouldn’t back down at all.

  But he couldn’t think about that at the moment. Now he had to face his mother.

  As always, she was surrounded by aides, power brokers, and the heads of the bureaucratic machinery of the Salashi state, many of whom seemed more frantic than usual. She wasn’t even a member of the High Watch anymore, but apparently Koh-Salash would collapse if Lanilit parsu-Safroy ward-Safroy defe-Safroy admir-Safroy hold-Safroy took a day to mourn her dead son.

&n
bsp; Father had no knack for kind words and careful diplomacy. He had only a strong sword arm and the instinct to strike first. Those traits had served him well in his younger days, when raiders from the Free Cities tried to sail through the Timmer Straits. However, as he passed through middle age, his impatience and quick temper made him a liability in city politics. He no longer spoke to anyone outside the family if he could help it, and when the Safroys threw parties, Mother no longer bothered to make excuses for his absence.

  Culzatik approached. His mother was explaining that her son had just saved a mourner from a knife attack. His father turned his head from side to side, always watchful, without ever looking at anyone in particular. If not for his fine clothes, he could have been mistaken for Mother’s second bodyguard.

  She snapped her fingers. The aides bowed and began to lead the others away. She strode toward him.

  Many times in his life, he’d overheard jokes about the way she looked: too skinny, too much nose, too little lip. These were traits Culzatik had inherited from her, and he felt their physical similarities made a bond between them. She had never shown evidence of a similar feeling.

  “Your father and I are going into seclusion, since we are not permitted a public ceremony for the son we lost. You will go into the dueling yard and practice your swordplay. For too long, you have been neglecting your exercises. You ran across High Square, in full view of the stitches, like a crippled old man. Think of it as a kind of meditation.”

  “Yes, Mother. If the constables do catch the man in the black vest, I want to speak to him.”

  “I’ve already had a private word and called the search off.” Before he could protest, she said, “It’s Mourning Day, Culzatik, and you have… On second thought, no. Go home to the dueling yard. Tonight at dinner, you can explain what could possibly have prompted you to give one solitary fuck about a commoner being knifed. Go.”

  He went.

  * * *

  Onderishta hated going to the Safroy compound. As laborious as it was to write out a detailed report and arrange for a messenger, it was still faster than going herself. Still, when her parsu—or in this case her parsu’s heir—called, she had no choice.

  Two hours. She hurried into the south tower and checked the status of their current operation. The news wasn’t good. The constables Fay had assigned to follow Harl’s people had not found them again, and now she had nothing to go on.

  If only the Safroy heir had not insisted on his secrets. The young man was smart enough—and had worked hard for those smarts, despite his comfortable upbringing—but if he’d been a commoner looking for an apprenticeship, Onderishta wouldn’t have taken him on. He acted as if he knew as much as she did.

  It occurred to her that she was angrier than she’d realized. She took the tower lift to High Square, crossed to a cafe, then treated herself to a honey cake she couldn’t really afford. The Safroy heir would learn. It might take him a while, but he would learn, especially with his mother Lanilit teaching him.

  Her treat finished, Onderishta crossed to Hillside Boulevard, the broad promenade that ran along the western edge of Upgarden, with exclusive shops—and the private security that went with them—on one side and Salash Hill on the other. This was the only way into High Slope.

  Only noble families—the wealthiest and most powerful—were permitted to live in the High Slope neighborhood. There were few business transactions that required the Steward-General’s approval, but buying a family compound in this most exclusive neighborhood was one of them.

  The Safroys, of course, were one of the founding families of this city, and while every noble house waxed and waned in power, the Safroys had never fallen far enough to lose their home above the city.

  And a privilege it was, too, because unlike the other neighborhoods of Koh-Salash, High Slope was built on solid ground.

  Years before, while sailing to the Free Cities in the fruitless pursuit of a blackmailer, Onderishta had seen the city of Koh-Gilmiere from the water. It surrounded the bay like a blanket laid across rocky ground. Not flat, exactly, but thin.

  The residents of Koh-Salash had built their own city like a massive, complicated maze within the bones of the dead gods. Blasphemy, many called it, but if the doom of the godkind was to fall on them for their lack of reverence, that stroke was more than four centuries delayed.

  It would come, someday. Doom and failure came to all, eventually, whether as revolution, war, or pestilence, but when Koh-Salash collapsed, the long-dead godkind would take the credit.

  For now, the city was a noisy, chaotic place. The wealthy, who wanted nothing to do with the stink and shout of the poor, had taken the land on the hillside above Suloh’s corpse, where the sun could shine on them directly and there was nothing under their feet to make a noise louder than worms scratching through the earth.

  By those standards, the citizens of Koh-Gilmiere—and every other city in the world—lived like Salashi nobility. A curious thought, but Onderishta brushed it aside as she always did. She loved her city. She loved the chaos and the mess. It energized her and gave the investigator bureaucrats tremendous job security.

  Onderishta reached the gate. A wall of skywood separated the edge of the uppermost platform from the hill above. According to the High Watch, this wall had been built as a final circle of protection should the city ever be invaded, but that didn’t explain why it was as densely patrolled as the massive city wall below. The sentries kept the thieves out, the skywood formed a break against fire, and the noble families slept peacefully through the night.

  The constables that checked her token against their ledger were tall and clear-eyed. They were nothing like the stumblers assigned to her units—discarded to her units, more like. Someday…

  They found her name in the ledger and she was admitted onto The Avenue. She sidestepped the servants rushing downcity on their errands, then looked up. And felt a chill run down her back.

  The Avenue was made of granite cut from a cliff face at Vu-Timmer, shipped by barge and mule all the way to the top of the city. The blocks fit together neatly, even after three hundred years. Surely, someone had replaced broken stones or shored up eroding soil, but Onderishta had never seen anyone doing that work. As far as she knew, it maintained itself, as if it had been created by one of the spellkind.

  This part of Salash was steep, which meant The Avenue was full of switchbacks. Along the outer edges, iron posts had been erected, each topped by a lantern with a little wick and a pot of coconut oil. This was not the only street in the city to have artificial lighting after sunset, but it was probably the first.

  Those switchbacks made the journey much too long for anyone with real work to do, so shortly after the road itself was finished, the High Watch commissioned a set of granite stairs that ran straight down the middle of those bends and turns. Everyone took the stairs if they had a choice.

  Onderishta wasn’t daunted by their height or steepness. She was Salashi, born and raised. She climbed stairs and ramps all day, every day. No, it was the sight at the top of the stairs that gave her a chill.

  There, crowning Salash Hill above her—above the entire city—was Suloh’s skull.

  From this angle, she could only see the upper and lower jaws. Many teeth were missing, and the inside of the mouth was not shadow but a glow of pale orange. One had to move far away to see the whole thing.

  And since it belonged to a being that once stood three miles tall, that skull was nearly two thousand feet high. On a clear night, it could be seen for hundreds of miles out in the Semprestian and the Timmer Seas.

  Onderishta glanced at it, then looked away, then glanced again. Normally, the city’s decks blocked any view of the sky, let alone the top of Salash Hill. When she was in Upgarden or the higher platforms of Low Market, buildings on the street or the steepness of the hill hid that skull.

  But she couldn’t visit High Slope without getting chills.

  Which was silly, really. She lived among godkind bones, wal
ked on them, read by their light, knocked on doors made from skywood harvested from them. But inside the city, their sheer size hid their true nature. That wasn’t possible here.

  Zetinna sometimes laughed at her, wondering how someone so sensitive had become an investigator, and Onderishta took care to hide her discomfort from everyone else.

  Perhaps what really troubled her was that someone—or something—had pulled off Suloh’s head and stuck it all the way up there, more than half a mile from his corpse. No humankind could have done it. That skull had to weigh thousands of tons.

  It must have been the Ancient Kings of the Walking Towers themselves, and Onderishta could imagine no reason for it except as a show of power and a promise that—having murdered the gods themselves—they would return someday.

  But this was not something a lowly bureaucrat needed to fret about.

  The Safroy compound was not at the top of the Avenue, but it was near. It sat on a plateau at the very edge of the third switchback from the top of the hill, in the southernmost part of the city, where the view showed Vu-Timmer and the Semprestian Sea beyond. Above the entrance way was the engraved symbol of a bull’s head. While the white paint on the stone walls was maintained with painstaking care—as were the walls of every noble family—the engraving had been allowed to weather and fade as if to demonstrate just how long it had hung there.

  Onderishta approached the gate and found, as expected, an elderly woman waiting. Unlike most of the families on High Slope, the Safroys put a servant—too weak for other work—at the entrance to their home to welcome guests, rather than a guard to intimidate them. The guards stood just out of sight, their blades bared.

  “How are you, Pinagrath, child of Eldograth? Knees still bothering you?”

  The servant bowed. “I am well, thank you, good madam.” She unlatched the gate. “May your troubles lose track of you in this humble home.”

  Onderishta bowed in return—but less deeply—before entering. In the antechamber beyond, she gave the guards her knife, then allowed herself to be searched.