Low Town (27 page)

“You probably would. Did he at least give you my message?”

“I heard the news.”

“I’m sorry.”

Everyone was so contrite all of a sudden. “Don’t apologize to me—I’ve barely spoken to him for half a decade. You were his partner.”

“An awfully junior partner, and that only for six months. I don’t think he even liked me.”

“I know he didn’t like me, and I’m still sorry he’s gone. Any leads down at Black House?”

“Canvass didn’t turn up anything. We’ve got the Ice Bitch going over the crime scene now. Some of the men wanted to question you, but we got pressure from the brass to stay off. I guess you still have a few friends on the upper floors.”

The Old Man wasn’t a friend, however loosely one defined the term—but he wouldn’t want my operations interfered with.

“What about you? You have any ideas?” Guiscard asked.

I stared into my drink, the liquid thick and black. “I’ve got suspicions.”

“I don’t suppose you feel like sharing?”

“Suppose all you want.”

For the first time in the conversation I caught a glimpse of the man I had met standing over the body of little Tara. He worked to uncurl his snarl, and to his credit when he spoke his voice was empty of contempt. “I’d like to help if I can.”

“I thought you said you didn’t like him?”

“I said he didn’t like me, I always liked him—but that’s not really the point. He was my partner, and there is a code to these things. And if Black House can’t find who killed him, then I suppose I’m for throwing my hand in with you.”

That last note smacked a bit too strongly of youthful sentimentality for my tastes. I scratched at my chin and wondered whether he was lying, and whether it mattered. “Why should I trust you?”

“I didn’t realize you were so awash in resources that you could afford to reject an offer of aid.”

“All right,” I said, handing him the slip of paper from my pocket. “This is what Crispin was killed over. I picked it up off his corpse before you boys showed. It’s a critical piece of information in an unsolved crime. By not immediately giving it to the agent in charge of the investigation you are violating your oath as an impartial arbiter of the Throne’s Justice, and by not turning me in to Black House you are aiding a person of interest in a capital offense. The first will get you demoted, the second stripped of the gray.”

“Why are you showing this to me?”

“There’s a man on that list I’d very much like to speak to, a man who might be able to shed some light on Crispin’s end. I can’t find him, but you could. And if you did, and if I were to hear it … that would be of use to me. Provided, of course, I wasn’t in the gaol for violating a crime scene.”

We eyeballed each other, custom dictating one last round of challenge, then he nodded sharply. “You won’t be.”

“It’s the Mirad, third from the bottom.”

He got up from the stool. “I’ll let you know what I find out.”

“Agent. You forgot something.”

“What’s that?” he asked, with what might have been honest confusion.

“You’ve still got my form.”

“Right, sorry,” he said, pulling it from his coat and handing it back to me before dropping out the exit.

Maybe Guiscard wasn’t as slow as I’d put him down for. I sipped at my coffee and plotted out the rest of the day.

Adolphus returned from the room. “The blue blood gone?”

“He ain’t hiding under the tables.”

Snorting, Adolphus reached into his pocket and handed me a thin sheet of off-white parchment, sealed with a wax sigil. “This came before you woke.”

I held it up to the light, taking notice of the seal, a lion quartered with a trio of matched diamonds. “In the future, you can just inform me of anything I’ve missed when you first see me. You don’t need to drip it out like an old man pissing.”

“I’m not a mail carrier.”

“You aren’t a cook, you aren’t a mail carrier—what the hell do you do here?”

Adolphus rolled his eyes and started cleaning the back tables. The afternoon drunks would be in soon, inclement weather or no. I tore through the wax seal with my thumbnail and read the missive.

In general my Trusted Friends did not send demands couched as requests, but allowances had to be made for the habits of the upper crust. I folded the note and put it into my bag.

“You open?” the slurred voice of a patron queried from behind me.

That seemed as good a cue as any, and it was about time to see what light the most expensive hooker in Rigus could shed on my situation. I grabbed my coat from upstairs, and headed out into the storm.

I was standing in front of the entrance to a red brick row house north of downtown, near Kor’s Heights and the palatial estates of the nobility. Modest and unassuming, there was little besides Yancey’s word to confirm it as one of the most expensive brothels in the city. Low Town whores ply their trade honestly, uncovered bosoms peaking through red curtains, propositions tossed from open windows. Here it was different. Next to the ash-colored door there was a bronze plate with
THE VELVET HUTCH
engraved on it.

I knocked firmly, and after a short pause it opened to reveal a fair-skinned woman in a comely but modest blue dress. She had dark hair and bright blue eyes, and offered a fetching smile, well-practiced this side of mercenary. “Can I help you?” she asked, her voice sweet and clear.

“I’m here to see Mairi,” I said.

Her lips curved down in disappointment. I was impressed with her ability to convey warmth and condescension in equal measure. “I’m afraid Mairi doesn’t see many people, and those she does, she’s seen for a long time. In fact, no one in the house is interested in meeting new friends right now.”

I cut in before she could close the door in my face. “Could you tell the mistress that Yancey’s friend is outside? She should be expecting me.”

Her smile seemed a bit more natural after I mentioned the Rhymer. “I’ll see if she’s available.”

I thought about rolling up a cigarette but decided it might show a lack of class. Instead I rubbed my hands together in a futile effort to keep warm. When the door swung back open a few minutes later the dark-haired girl had swapped genial disregard for sultry welcome.

“Mairi has a few moments. Please, come in.”

I stepped into an elegant hallway, tiled marble floors leading to a staircase draped in red velvet and flanked by ebony banisters. A very large, very dim-looking man in a well-tailored suit sized me up discreetly from beside the entrance, unarmed save for fists the size of ham hocks. I had no doubt they’d do in a pinch.

The pretty greeter stood at the foot of the steps, hands clasped behind her back. “If you’ll follow me please, the mistress is just this way.”

I tried without success to avoid staring at her bottom as she climbed the stairs ahead of me. I wondered how old she was, and how she came about her employment. I supposed there were worse ways to make money—it beat working the line at a mill ten hours a day or serving tables at some Low Town dive. Still, lying on your back is lying on your back, even if the sheets beneath you are made of silk.

We took a right at the top and followed a narrow hallway past a row of bedrooms, ending in front of an oak door, gilded slightly to distinguish it from the others. The girl knocked lightly. A throaty voice from inside beckoned us onward, and my guide opened the door ahead of me.

The room centered, perhaps not shockingly, on a sumptuous four-poster bed draped in white lace. Everything about the interior spoke of old money and refined taste, more the bedchamber of a duchess than a whore’s boudoir. Seated at a dressing table in the corner was the woman I assumed to be Mairi the Dark-eyed.

Given the mental image engendered by Yancey’s introduction, I have to say I found myself underwhelmed. She was a raven-haired Tarasaihgn, south of middle age but not by much. Quite handsome, even with the few added pounds she carried about her midsection—but not beautiful, certainly not exceptionally so. Between the two of them I would have preferred the greeter, younger and firmer as she was.

But then Mairi turned toward me and I saw her eyes, dark pools of sable that held my attention longer than etiquette strictly allowed, and suddenly I couldn’t understand what had ever possessed me to compare the woman before me to the girl who had led me to her. My mouth was dry. I tried not to lick my lips.

In one smooth motion Mairi rose from her throne and narrowed the distance between us, offering her hand with a casual air. “Thank you, Rajel, that’ll be all,” Mairi said in unaccented Nestriann. Rajel curtsied and left, closing the door behind her. Mairi stood silently, letting me inspect the wares before beginning her pitch.

“Do you speak Nestriann?” she began.

“Never had an ear for it.”

“Really?” She stared into my eyes, then broke out into a full-throated laugh, like the song of a bullfrog. “I think you’re lying.”

She was right—I spoke Nestriann, not like a native but well enough to avoid getting mugged on the way to the Cathédrale Daeva Maletus. The first year and a half of the war my sector of the trenches had run into Nestriann lines. They were a decent bunch of fellows, for mud-rutting serfs. Their captain had broken down and wept when he found out his generals had signed a separate armistice—but then, odium and incompetence on the part of the higher-ups were pretty universal during our unfortunate conflict.

She fluttered her lashes and smiled. “You realize you’ve told me more by lying than you would by answering truthfully.”

“And what did I tell you?”

“That deceit comes more naturally to you than honesty.”

“Maybe I’m just trying to fit in with my surroundings—or was every moan that ever echoed off these walls authentic?”

“Every. Single. One.” She held each word for a long beat. A bar sat in the corner, and from a decanter on top of it she poured smoky liquid into two glasses, then handed one to me. “What shall we drink to?” she asked in a tone just short of lewd.

“To the health of the Queen and the prosperity of her subjects.”

The old blessing was an awkward transition, but she was enough of a professional to roll with it. “To the health of the Queen and the fertility of her land.” I took a taste. It was good, very good.

Mairi perched herself on a red leather couch and motioned me toward the divan across from it. I followed her direction and we sat facing each other, our legs nearly touching. “How do you know Yancey?” she asked.

“How does anyone know anyone? You meet people, in my business.”

“And what business is that exactly?”

“I solicit funds for war widows and orphans. On off days I nurse abandoned puppies.”

“What an astonishing coincidence! That’s the very same line of work we pursue.”

“I suppose your kennels are in the basement.”

“Where do you keep your orphans?”

I chuckled and sipped at my drink.

Her mouth curled upward and she caressed me with soot-black eyes. “I know who you are, of course. I made inquiries after I heard from the Rhymer.”

“Did you now?”

“I had no idea, when Yancey spoke of you, that I’d be given the opportunity to meet such a famed underworld figure.”

I let that one hang in the air between us. She missed the hint and pressed onward, confident I was enjoying her buildup.

“I always wondered what had happened to Mad Edward and the rest of his people. Imagine my surprise to discover that the man who ended syndicate presence in Low Town was coming to pay me an afternoon visit.”

Mairi’s sources were good. There were only a half-dozen people who’d ever known the truth of what had happened to Mad Edward’s mob, and two of them were dead. I’d have to figure out which of the remaining four were running off at the mouth.

The tip of her tongue scanned the lower half of her lip. “Imagine my excitement.”

It is one of the relatively few advantages of being quite physically misshapen that you can generally dismiss honest arousal as a reason for a woman’s advances. In Mairi’s case, I’m not sure there was even a purpose—at bottom I suspect she just didn’t remember how to turn it off. The whole thing felt sour, my witty banter and her clockwork response to it.

“Riveting.” I took another swallow of whiskey, trying to get the taste of being played out of my mouth. “But I didn’t come here for my history. I’m quite familiar with it—comprehensively so, you might say.” She took the slight with less than absolute equanimity, the flushed heat of her face fading to match the weather. From a silver case on the table next to her she took a thin black cigarette and sank it between her blood-red lips, lighting it with one quick pass of a match. “Then what are you here for, exactly?”

“Yancey didn’t mention it?” I asked.

A quick stream of tobacco smoke escaped from her nostrils. “I want you to ask me.”