One Man

by Harry Connolly

  Honor had brought Killer to this. He had sworn to serve, and that oath brought him to this moment.

  Wool Cap approached. “Boss, should we send heavies to stake out High Apricot?”

  “Send five.”

  “That’s all?”

  “Make them runners, not fighters,” Tin said. “I don’t believe for a second that he’s going to make the exchange at a platform hall, but we should have someone there to let us know if he’s stupid enough to show up. No, I think he’s coming here and he’s not going to wait. Move people into position to defend this place. What about this kid he’s supposed to be asking for?”

  Wool Cap peered across the room at the table where the beetles were sitting, but his expression was not hopeful. Killer stepped forward. “I know the child he means. Should I ready her to make the exchange?”

  “You fucking should not,” Tin said. “We’re not making any exchange with anyone.” She paused for a moment, biting her lip and rubbing her thumb against her first two fingers as if she were holding a coin. She was feeling vulnerable, and like any threatened animal, she was ready to drive off her enemy with a display of savagery. She looked up. “My doctor is in the basement, yeah?”

  * * *

  Fay didn’t mean to grunt, but grunt he did. He flushed with embarrassment when Onderishta asked him what was wrong.

  “Give me a moment.”

  Several days before, Onderishta had put constables on the couriers who delivered glitterkind portions. Based on what they discovered, it had seemed a waste of their time. The couriers came and went, under guard, between the three reputable courier companies and the hospitals. No extra portions were kept on site. The couriers were not waylaid. They made no detours. Not once.

  And along with each speck of enchanted flesh was an authentication sheet. This was no mere wooden token. It was made of a special parchment with silk threads patterned through it, and it was signed by the bureaucrat who had personally cut and measured the portion. That sheet, with that signature, was like a writ from the Steward-General. No one questioned it, because no one thought they had reason to.

  Again, it was Trillistin who spotted their error. Onderishta and Fay both assumed that underworld contraband—even magical contraband—would be diverted and sold to underworld dealers like any smuggled good. Trillistin pointed out that if Harl or the Pails wanted to make real money and keep it secret, they would have to sell to the best hospitals in Koh-Salash.

  And all those hospitals cared about was that sheet.

  So, Fay and a half-dozen constables had marched into Gray Flames, kicked open the medical bureaucrat’s offices, and crated up three months’ worth of sheets. Now he and Onderishta were going through them, looking for irregularities.

  And damned if he hadn’t found one.

  An hour later, when Fay and Onderishta were trying to decide the best way to break up the scheme, their friend the medical bureaucrat burst into the room. His mouth gaped—obviously, he had a prepared speech ready—but as soon as he saw the stacks of authentication sheets, he lunged for them. The constable who followed him up the stairs had to restrain him.

  “Those are stolen!” the medical inspector shouted. “I could have you— Constable, arrest these two immediately.” The ironshirt rolled his eyes. He didn’t even let go of the bureaucrat’s arm. “I assure you I have the authority—”

  “Not here, you don’t,” Onderishta said calmly. “In this room, I outrank you. Now, will you give me your name?”

  The bureaucrat wrenched his arm out of the constable’s grip. His ridiculous tall hat didn’t even fall askew. Fay wondered how many pins he used to hold it on. “You must be insane. I’m the senior undersecretary to the chancellor of the medical inspections division. I have the ear of two members of the High Watch through blood relation alone. Do you have any comprehension of how sensitive that material is? I think not, if you’re asking for my name. What will you say when I bring you up on charges of theft and misappropriation of state secrets?”

  “What will I say?” Onderishta drained the last of her tea and winced at the bitter dregs. “Nothing, except that you were right about one thing—there is no black-market hospital operating in the city. However, my second will say plenty about how you have allowed, through avarice or incompetence, a black-market medical supplier to operate right under your nose.”

  Before the bureaucrat could launch into another tirade, Fay spoke up. “Do you know a medical inspector named Pelkusut tuto-Liyulsik?” From the man’s expression, it was obvious he did. Fay felt a flutter in his stomach. He was honestly nervous about confronting this fool. This dangerously powerful fool. “Would you say he’s a vigorous worker?”

  “No,” the bureaucrat answered. “Competent, yes. He wouldn’t be in his position if he weren’t. But he’s methodical, almost to a fault. Apparently, he has a second cousin on the High Watch and he’s leery of making an error.”

  Fay laid his palms on two stacks of authentication sheets. “Then why is he your most productive employee? He has slivered fifteen percent more glitterkind portions than the next highest coworker. No response? I have another question. Have you changed your ink recently?”

  “I… What do you mean?”

  That was it. The bureaucrat was flummoxed and buying time. Fay had him. “Your ink. Did you change it seven weeks ago?”

  “We did. We were asked to cut our budget. The paper, obviously, has to be just so to prevent forgeries, but we switched to a cheaper ink.”

  “I know. It’s how we caught them.” Fay took the top sheet from the two stacks beneath his hand. “See this signature here? The ink is a bit gray, just like the signatures in the other stacks.” He held up the sheet from the smaller stack. “But this one is very dark. Expensive, like all the signatures from before the change, but it’s only ten days old. See? You switched the ink but the forgers didn’t. Maybe they didn’t know. Maybe you forgot to sell that information to them.”

  “Wait a minute, now—”

  Onderishta stood. “Collar him.”

  The constable shoved the bureaucrat against the wall, then pulled off his hat. It fell to the floor in a clatter of pins, unleashing a long, lustrous fall of hair. It was so lovely, Fay almost laughed. Why couldn’t he have hair like that?

  “No,” the bureaucrat said, “wait…”

  “Wait for what?” Onderishta said, coming around her desk. “You think we only collar poor people? We fucking love throwing one of you rich creeps in jail. Tell us your name.”

  The bureaucrat winced as he shifted his manacled hands. The ironshirt must have strained his shoulder. “You don’t understand—”

  “Security of the slivered portions,” Fay interrupted, “relies on affidavits and signatures from high officials, and the names of those officials are kept secret, even if they’re not the ones doing the cutting.”

  The bureaucrat said nothing. Onderishta practically barked at him. “Right?”

  The man stood up straight, shaking his hair out of his eyes. “It keeps our families safe.”

  “That’s not really a concern for you anymore. You’re out.”

  The skin on Fay’s back tingled. This bureaucrat with the access to the High Watch was finished.

  “If you let me go,” the bureaucrat said, “I’ll get to the bottom of this. I’ll drag Pelkusut into my office—”

  “And blow the whole investigation,” Onderishta said, “perhaps deliberately. This black market was set up by the Amber Throne and is run by downcity Salashi heavies. You can’t threaten them with scandal. And that’s why you’re going into a cell. We need to keep you someplace where you can’t shit in our pantry.”

  “This… This isn’t permitted.”

  “Fay, tell the man what investigators do.”

  “Find the truth.”

  Onderishta stared at the man as though her gaze could set him on fire. “That’s right. Now, maybe you’ve heard that I visited your offices in Gray Flames recently to find out what actuall
y happens when a glitterkind is cut too much.”

  “That, too, was improper.”

  She nodded. “And they told me about the ullroct. The ullroct is a creature of the Ancient Kings, is it not? One of their servants?”

  The inspector shook his hair out of his eyes again. He obviously didn’t want to answer. “That’s what the histories teach.”

  “I know what the histories teach,” Onderishta snapped. “I apprenticed at Suloh’s Tower too. There, I learned that ullroct either fed upon or protected the glitterkind—scholars were unsure—but the good folks at your office seemed pretty certain it was the latter.” The medical inspector nodded. “So, don’t refer me to the tower when I ask you this next question. Are you ready?”

  He didn’t respond at first. The constable shook his manacles and he seemed to shrink, just a little. “I’m ready.”

  “What are the glitterkind? What is their purpose? In Suloh’s Tower, I was taught that all magic has a purpose, so obviously they can’t be like the bushes and trees, springing from the ground and growing in the sun. What are they for?”

  The medical inspector sighed. “To be honest, I don’t know. No one knows, except for the Ancient Kings themselves, and they are not here to answer questions.”

  Onderishta sat back in her chair. “For now.”

  There was a sharp knock on the door, then it opened. The tower captain strode in, took in the scene, then shrugged. “Two messengers have arrived. They say they can speak to no one other than Onderishta.”

  Two children of about eight shuffled into the room. They were dirty and underfed, and they looked as if they cut each other’s hair with dull knives. They didn’t even glance at the manacled bureaucrat. They looked at Fay, then Onderishta.

  “We have two messages. First, the Broken Man needs one good constable and thirty comp’tent ones to go to Low Market to save the life of a little girl. You can also collar anyone in the Pails’ secret hideout, if you want to. He said I should take you to him. If you agree to that, as a thank-you, my sister will lead you to the biggest tar cooker in the city. There’s a tank with collected parts there, too. He says you wouldn’t need more than a dozen cosh for that job, but you have to hurry. The building won’t be empty for long.”

  “This tank with collected parts,” the bureaucrat said, “is it full of viscous…er, thick liquid?” The two children nodded. He turned to Fay and Onderishta. “I can help.”

  “Agreed.” Onderishta gestured at the constable. He began to remove the bureaucrat’s manacles.

  Fay had a bad feeling about that plan. “Kids, is this cookery in Spillwater?”

  The smaller child shook her head. “Mudside.”

  Before the bureaucrat could protest, Onderishta pointed a finger at him. “You’ll stay close and stay quiet.” He closed his mouth. She turned to Fay. “What do you think?”

  The question startled him. After his failure at the hammerball court, did she really trust him? Did he trust himself?

  To be honest, he still wasn’t keen on running errands for criminals, but when it came to gang wars, the only side he was on was Onderishta’s. If this Broken Man—this Kyrioc—led him to the Pails and helped him round up their operation, there was nothing to stop Fay from collaring him, too.

  He turned to the children. “You work for him?”

  They shook their heads gravely. “He set us free.”

  Huh. Fay wasn’t sure what he thought about that. “Boss, this asshole can pitch himself off an upcity deck for all I care, but if he’ll take us to Harl, the Pails, or whoever is running things, we should go.”

  She nodded. “All right. I’ll take our bureaucrat down to Mudside. You take the Pails.”

  “What? Boss, that doesn’t make sense. I’m just your second. This should be your collar.”

  Onderishta sighed. “It’s time for you to make a name for yourself. I want you secure in your position, just in case. Besides, I’m taking the dangerous task. You get the prestigious one.”

  “I’m not doing this for prestige.”

  “If you were, you wouldn’t be working with me. Still, prestige is useful. It’s another kind of coin, to be spent at need.” Onderishta addressed the two children. “We accept the terms of the message. Which of you will lead me to Mudside?”

  The smallest child raised her hand. “I will.”

  Onderishta bent down to her. “Would you like to stop for a honey cake on the way?”

  The child’s expression remained grave. “Maybe after. We really should hurry.”

  With a shrug, Onderishta turned toward the captain, ordered him to gather a dozen constables, and they left. That left Fay alone with the older messenger. “I’m not a constable, but I’ll play the role of the good one. And all our constables are competent. Are you going to lead me to the hideout?”

  She shook her head. “To the Broken Man.”

  Of course she was. This Broken Man, whoever he really was, wasn’t asking Fay to fetch the girl for him. He planned to take part and probably thought he’d be in charge.

  The girl led him to the Spillwater deck. The plaza outside the tower was well lit and well patrolled, but they moved quickly into the shadowy streets beyond. Fay realized he’d left the tower to meet with a dangerous criminal with nothing more than a belt knife and a hooded lantern, and he was not what you’d call a fighter. Was he being led to his death?

  They came to the mouth of an alleyway, and Fay saw a figure sitting at the reins of a ruined two-horse carriage. From what he could tell by his lantern light, it had been a decent-enough vehicle once, but the roof was gone, as though it had rammed full speed into a lowering portcullis. Four splintered supports for the missing roof rose above the bed, with nothing above.

  Three of those supports had bundles tied to them. At first, Fay wasn’t sure what they were—they were wrapped in damp blankets and quite bulky—until he saw one move.

  People. Those were people.

  The driver himself was a hunched figure in a hooded cloak. He looked like something out of a play, as if a specter had risen from the mud below the city to deliver a message of doom.

  “Where are the constables?”

  Fay felt goosebumps down his back but did his best to hide them. The voice that came from that hood was rough—as though the speaker rarely talked—and hollow. It was the voice of a ghost, a person who had already died but didn’t know it.

  “If we’re going to Low Market, we need constables from the east tower. That’s their jurisdiction.”

  The hood turned to the girl. “You know where to wait.” She ran off. To Fay, he said, “Let’s go.”

  The stink of putrefying flesh wafted over Fay. At least one of the bodies in the carriage was dead.

  Or the Broken Man was.

  Fay shook off those superstitions. Onderishta entrusted this mission to him. He hooded his lantern and climbed in.

  The Broken Man flicked the reins, and they started off.

  * * *

  Riliska felt a shiver when the red-bearded man began to walk toward her. She tried to tell herself that whatever he was doing, it had nothing to do with her, but this time she couldn’t lie to herself. Maybe because he looked only at her.

  There was nowhere to run. Riliska patted the hair of the little girl who had screamed, then stood away from the table. Her mouth was dry.

  She had just seen a boy her own age thrown through a window. It didn’t seem real, but it was. It might even happen again, and to her.

  “Good sir,” she said, her voice clear in the quiet room, “are you going to…”

  She fell silent, as though speaking the words would be like daring him to do it.

  He shook his head, making tiny chiming sounds. “I am not. Come.”

  Riliska followed him, then glanced back at the table of children. The little one she’d been comforting seemed on the verge of crying again. Riliska waved goodbye. The girl waved back.

  As Riliska and the red-bearded man came to the door, two heavies�
��although they were so skinny, Riliska did not think they deserved the name—pushed a wheeled cart into the room. A large cloth covered the mound on top. Food had arrived.

  A cheer rose from the room and the northerner wasted no time. He tore the cloth off the top, revealing a huge stack of rolled buns. The cheering lost its enthusiasm, but the northerner took two and offered one to Riliska.

  “Thank you,” she said, and took a bite. It was filled with sweetened pork and it was good.

  Heavies surged toward the food with a lot of shoving and yelling. Riliska hustled into the hall and the northerner shut the door. It did not muffle the voices much.

  Riliska flinched as she remembered the way the boy gasped in surprise as he went through the window. She never wanted to go into that room again.

  Maybe they had finally realized that she should be sent back to her mother. That thought, along with the food, made her feel almost cheerful. She glanced at the red-bearded man again. They were walking side by side down a long hall. She marveled at the number of scars on his arms.

  “Why do you wear bells in your hair?” she asked, since asking about his scars might remind him of bad things.

  “They represent something sacred,” he answered. “Do you understand this word?”

  “Oh, yes,” Riliska assured him, but on considering it, she said, “or maybe not.” He smiled at her and she asked, “Do you have any kids?”

  That ruined the smile. “Yes, I do.”

  “Are they here?”

  “They are far away and I may never see them again.”

  His voice sounded weird, and Riliska figured he was feeling the adult version of her own unhappiness. She’d been separated from her mother for days now, and it was awful. Of course he sounded weird.

  She laid her hand on his arm. “Why?”

  He stopped walking, and so did she. One of the tiny bells in his hair fell against his ear, making a single pleasing ting. “For honor. Do not worry. You are Salashi, descended from the people of Selsarim, and I know you have no understanding of that particular word.”