Low Town (15 page)

I spat a stream of blood onto the dirty floor and tried to look brave. Crowley hauled me up once more. “Cochrane, you and Talloway are with me. The rest of you head over to the crime scene—make sure they’ve got enough men.” He turned back toward me. “I’ll admit, as much as it burned me up to see you get away, it was worth it to have the chance to break you all over again.”

This time I was smart enough to keep my mouth shut.

Adeline was downstairs by the fireplace, scowling with all the ferocity of a wounded matriarch, the moment of crisis revealing her bedrock core. Adolphus was seated at a table, an agent with a crossbow covering him. They were both being very brave for me. I appreciated it.

The walk seemed very long. They hadn’t given me a chance to grab a coat, and I shivered from the cold. Occasionally Crowley would say something ugly and unoriginal, but mostly it was lost in the wind. Around us the crowds melted away—the citizens of Low Town were in no hurry to share the fate they saw I was heading toward.

By the time we had reached Black House, it had started to drizzle. Crowley paused for a second, just to grind it into my gut. I looked up at the gray sky, watching beads of ice water tumble from the clouds. A drop broke against my forehead. Then they pulled me inside and
I worked to keep my face steady, even when we took the unmarked entrance into the underbelly of Black House, even when they opened the door to my cell.

The room was deliberately featureless except for a steel prisoner’s chair and the table beside it. In the center, small but impossible to miss, was a cast-iron drain leading down into the sewers. I had always hated this place when I was an agent, and I didn’t like it any better on the other end.

Standing in the corner was a Questioner, wearing the traditional burgundy outfit, wrist-length robes beneath a tapered hood. A black bag containing the instruments of his trade dangled from his hand. This one was heavy, fat really, rolls of flesh stretching his red uniform. But then torture isn’t particularly physically demanding, at least not for the one doing the carving. And the guild held to quite rigorous standards—I was sure he’d be up to his task.

“Enjoying the scenery?” Crowley asked. A kick to the back sent me tumbling. I struggled to stand, but before I could Crowley’s men grabbed me and forced me onto the seat, unchaining my hands from behind my back and strapping them to two leather restraints built into the arms of the chair.

“I knew we’d get you back in here one day. The Old Man thought you might sour on us, thought you might slip out of Low Town one night. I said no way. That boy loves us too much to ever leave. He’ll be back. But even I didn’t think you’d be this desperate—dark magic?” He wagged one stubby finger in my face. “We’ve got you deep.”

Crowley pulled a cigar from a pocket. He bit off the end with his square gray teeth and lit it, pink slug lips puffing until he had a good draw, thick trails of smoke escaping from his fractured leer. “Who do you think we’re waiting on now?”

As if on cue the door opened, and a grandfatherly man in a crisp uniform entered, and I knew I was well and truly fucked.

The most powerful person in Rigus might be the Queen, or it
might be the High Chancellor—or it might be an open-faced little man who works from a windowless office in the center of Black House and has a recess where his soul should be. The Old Man, Custodian of Special Operations, an innocuous title for the Empire’s chief spy-master. The eyes at the window are his, and the ear at the door. If there’s dirt to be had on you he has it, and if there isn’t and he needs it he’ll make it. More men have died from a wag of his finger than of the plague. For a quarter century he’s stood at the helm of the largest organization ever constructed by the hands of man for the purposes of usurping and maintaining control of his fellows.

And if you passed him on the street he’d tip his hat, and you’d tip yours right back. Evil is like that sometimes.

The Old Man’s soft grin creased his face, eyes twinkling with merriment. “What a grand thing it is to see one of my children return after such a long absence. How we’ve missed you here at your old home.”

The sight of him was enough to stoke a little fire in my belly. “I figured I’d come by and see how the place was holding up. Y’all seem busy though, maybe I’ll stop in another time.”

He held to his smile, then nodded to the Questioner, who promptly and without fuss began to unpack his bag onto the table.

“We’re gonna put it to you,” Crowley said. “We’re gonna put it to you hard. By the time we’re done with you we’ll know every sin that stains your soul.”

I forced a laugh, no easy thing with the straps taut against my wrists. “Better clear your dinner plans.” If it was only Crowley, I wouldn’t have gone through the bother of talking—he was a goon, useful only for his savagery. But the Old Man was sharp as a dagger and twice as cold. That grandfatherly visage hid the mind of a master strategist and an utter madman to boot. He’d like to see me in the ground, no doubt, but that wouldn’t influence him—only humans
base decisions on emotion. “Apart from giving the Questioner here some unneeded practice, what exactly do you think you’re going to accomplish with all this fuss?”

Crowley ground his cigar between the jagged line of his ivories. “You know something about the child and the demon, something that’ll help get us closer. And if you don’t”—his smile was rabid—“I’ll still get to watch the walls get painted red with your insides.”

“You see, Crowley, this is why you used to report to me. This is why you’ll never take over for the Old Man. You can’t see past the next victim. You’re a blunt instrument, useless without someone ahead of you to mark a trail.”

Beside me the Questioner continued to unravel his tools, sharp silver things on a blanket of black velvet.

“When you finish today and tomorrow a child goes missing, what will you do then? There are issues here beyond indulging your sadism.”

Crowley had managed to hold his temper, though his flyspeck eyes had swelled up to near the size of egg yolks. “We’ll get whoever’s killing the kids—don’t you worry about that.”

“Horseshit.” I focused on the Old Man. “You don’t have anyone here as good as me, and you know it. Whoever did this learned it from the Crown—you can’t depend on your own people. I can rely on support outside the Throne, I’ve got contacts riddled through Low Town, and I know what these things look like.” I swallowed hard—time to play my trump. “And I’ve got a lead.”

“Then we’ll get it from you with the knife and follow it where it goes,” Crowley said.

“You won’t. No one in Low Town will talk to you, and you wouldn’t be able to put the pieces together even if they did.”

For only the second time thus far the Old Man spoke. “Are you so desperate to return to my employ? From what I’ve heard, you’ve
become little better than a dog, an addict waiting for a knife in an alley.”

“I was sharp enough to find the first one. Either you throw in with me or you leave it to the ape. And we both know it’s too important to let him foul it up.”

The Old Man’s smile grew broader, and I knew his next words were to decide my fate—freedom in his service or a session with the Questioner and an unmarked grave. It was a long moment. In retrospect I think I handled myself admirably, which is to say I didn’t leak piss down the leg of my pants.

He set one gnarled hand on my shoulder and squeezed it with surprising firmness. “You won’t disappoint me, my boy. You’ll find whoever is hurting these poor girls, and together we’ll make sure to bring them to justice.” Crowley began to sputter a protest, but a glance from the chief shut his mouth. The Old Man undid one restraint with the care of a mother tending a scraped knee. He made a move for the other, then stopped. “A week ought to be sufficient, I would think, for a man of your intellect to determine who is responsible for these monstrosities.” He shook his head sadly, his gentle nature offended by the cruelty of a senseless world.

“Two,” I said. “I don’t have your resources—I’ll need time to work my contacts.”

For a single tick of a second his eyes shifted and the facade gave way to the monster beneath, and I almost flinched—but his face was turned toward me and his voice remained friendly.

“We’ll see you in seven days.” The illusion of humanity snapped back, and he released the second cuff. He turned to Crowley. “See our dear friend off, won’t you?” Flashing one last smile, he walked out the iron door, taking the other agents with him.

Crowley watched it close, his cigar clenched so tightly in his mouth I thought he might choke on it. He spent a while trying to
think of something he could say or do to offset the humiliation he had suffered. When nothing came, he turned and left.

The Questioner was repacking his tools with a vague air of disappointment. Deciding my legs were steady enough to carry me, I propped myself to my feet, then turned toward my would-be torturer. “You got a cigarette?” I asked.

He shook his head, the burnt red crown of his hood bobbing. “I don’t smoke,” he said without taking his eyes off his work. “That stuff will kill you.”

“The Firstborn willing.”

Outside the rain had stopped, but it was cold as ever. I massaged my wrists and wondered how much of it the Old Man had planned. The whole thing had the feel of theater—not for Crowley of course, he wasn’t in on the gag—but this was an awfully blunt play for someone as knotted as the Old Man.

It didn’t matter really. If this had all been a ploy to retain my services, I had no illusions that the deadline was anything other than deathly serious. I headed back home to tool up, and to plan.

When I stepped into the Earl, Adolphus was moping at the counter, his face wide and blubbery. I guess he’d figured I was dead. It wasn’t an unreasonable assumption, though I was glad to prove him wrong. He turned when he heard the door open, and before it closed he’d wrapped me in his massive limbs, pressing his weeping face against the top of my head and calling for Adeline and Wren.

It was a bit much, particularly as in all likelihood I had only delayed the inevitable, and Adolphus’s melodrama would be replayed in another week. But he seemed happy and I didn’t have the heart to say anything, until his affection started to prove a danger to the integrity of my rib cage.

Adeline had come in from the back and set her round frame against me. Over her head I could see Wren descending the staircase, his usual neutral demeanor on his face. “Not excited to see me? Just another day at the Earl, your benefactor getting arrested by the Crown and released before lunch?”

Adolphus responded elatedly, “He said he wasn’t worried! Said he knew you’d be back so there was no point in getting upset.”

“Nice to see you’ve got such confidence in me,” I said. “Remember,
though—just ’cause your horse came in doesn’t mean you made a smart bet.”

If it were up to Adolphus, I would have spent the rest of the day wrapped in a blanket like a fever victim, and much as the notion of a long nap appealed to me, the trail was growing cold. Brushing off his mothering, I headed to my room and removed a long black box from beneath my bed.

I don’t pack a weapon regularly, hadn’t for nearly half a decade, not since I first left the Crown’s service and had to carve out my business from the ruins of the last big syndicate war. Carrying a blade means someone’s going to make you use it, and corpses are bad for business. Better to be friendly to everyone, pay off who you need to, and keep a grin on your face until it’s time to stop smiling.

And truth be told, I don’t trust myself with one. If things get heated and you start to lose the thread, so long as you aren’t carrying, things are apt to end all right. Maybe someone walks away with a bruised jaw or a split nose, but they walk away. With a sword at your side—well, I have enough on my soul without adding the blood of some poor bastard who looked at me sideways while I was hopped up on pixie’s breath.

So under normal circumstances I don’t strap a blade on except when I know I’m going to need to use it. But then circumstances ain’t always normal, and although the thing that killed the Kiren hadn’t shown any indication of being susceptible to cold steel, whoever sent it might be. I undid the latch and swung open the trunk.

I’ve seen a lot of weapons in my time, from the sickle swords of the Asher priesthood to the bejeweled pig stickers the nobility so love to play with, but for my money there was never an instrument of murder as perfectly built for its purpose as the trench blade. Two feet of steel wedged into a sandalwood hilt, single edged for a stronger cut, widening toward the end but tapering off sharply at the tip—it
had been my weapon of choice since the war. I wouldn’t wear it on the parade ground, but with my back against the wall there was nothing I’d rather have filling my grip.

I had taken this one off a Dren commando my third month in Gallia. The Dren were always ahead of us with that sort of thing—they took to trench warfare like they were built for it, got rid of all their glittery armor and started sending soot-stained berserkers over the walls late at night with hand axes and black-powder bombs. The brass on our side were still passing out sabers and cavalry lances to us officers six months before the armistice, even though I hardly saw a horse in the five years I spent ducking artillery fire and trying to find water that hadn’t been fouled by my comrades’ waste.