She Who Waits (Low Town 3) (16 page)

That said, looking at Touissant, his mammoth hands cradling a tawny kitten, there was no evil I wouldn’t have believed of him.

‘Come back to see us, yah?’ Touissant began. He’d come to Rigus as a child, been here for something nearing a half century, but he still spoke with a barely comprehensible accent, wheezing vowels through the back of his throat. It wasn’t any dialect of Nestrian I’d heard, and I’d heard quite a few during the war.

‘Couldn’t stay away.’

There was a third man in the room, though it took a while to notice him, distracted as I was by Touissant’s bulk. Craddock was a constant, but the number three was always different – in the particulars at least, if remarkably similar in the archetype. Dark-haired and pretty was how Touissant liked them, and he’d picked this one according to the model. Pretty Boy carried a blade that was too nice to get blood on, a jeweled saber about the length of my right leg.

‘Come closer, come closer,’ Touissant insisted, a stilted whine I struggled to make out. ‘An old man’s eyes aren’t so good anymore.’

‘You don’t look any different than the first time I met you.’ This was true actually – something about the bubble of lard beneath his skin gave him a strangely youthful affect. Indeed, he looked like nothing so much as a giant baby, an oversized human whose limbs and shape remained locked into those of a toddler. Which is maybe more horrifying than it sounds.

Touissant burbled to himself happily. Strange, how long it takes vanity to leave a man. ‘You always were such a charmer.’

‘I do what I can.’

‘What brings you around, Warden?’

‘Beyond the pleasure of your company?’

‘That doesn’t need to be mentioned.’

‘I need to know something.’

‘I know lots of things.’ The kitten seemed lost beneath the curve of his hands. ‘Lots and lots of things.’

‘There was a Black House project some time back, code name of Coronet.’

‘This would be when you wore the gray?’ he asked, gurgling in his insipid drawl. Touissant liked to drop hints of your past into casual conversation, though it was hardly a secret that I’d once been an agent.

‘The head of it was a man named Caroll – a dear friend, with whom I’ve sadly lost touch. I would very much like to speak to Caroll, for old times’ sake. And I’d be willing to pay for the privilege.’

‘What was the purpose of Coronet?’

‘And here I was thinking I’d come to you for information. Course if you want to switch shoes, I’d be happy to take some of your money.’

‘Suit yourself.’ There was a squeal from the cat, pleasure at being stroked or fear of being crushed. Whatever it was, Touissant seemed not to notice it. ‘I might still have a friend or two at Black House.’

‘Amiable fellow like yourself, I’d think you’d have friends everywhere.’

He leaned the clean, bald globe of his head on one shoulder and batted his eyelashes. They’d been recently painted. ‘This … Coronet,’ he continued, ‘I wouldn’t suppose it to be widely known of, even amongst the ice?’

‘I wouldn’t think.’

‘Special Operations?’

‘Yup.’

He set the cat down on the table next to him. It skittered away immediately, evidence perhaps that its master’s attention was less than appreciated. Touissant was busy scratching at the fat pink of his double chin with the fat pink of his hand. After an unseemly interval he said, ‘It won’t be cheap.’

‘I’d hate to think I carried this bag of money here for nothing.’

His shoulders rose up around his ears when he laughed, flapping bags of flesh. ‘We wouldn’t want you to strain yourself carrying it all the way back.’

I handed Craddock the aforementioned bag. He looked inside and gave a low whistle. It was a shrill thing, split around the severed stalk of his tongue. Then he nodded at Touissant.

‘I can’t promise anything, of course. But I’ll contact you in a few days either way.’

I’ll eagerly anticipate it.’

No one bothered to walk me out, which I thought was quite rude, given how much money I’d left. Obviously I hadn’t expected Touissant to violate his long torpidity, but at the very least I’d have appreciated spending a few more precious moments graced by Craddock’s invaluable presence.

It wasn’t until I was out in the street that I realized I’d stepped in cat shit. A minor detail, though it indicated the general tenor of the day. Week, month, take your pick.

T
he arrangement I’d made with the Old Man was simple. I’d put a potted plant out by the front of the bar when I had something to say, and four hours later a man with a blue cap would wander in, buy a drink, and wander out. I’d follow him wherever he went. It meant I needed to buy a potted plant, but other than that I didn’t see a problem with it. I hit up a nursery on the way back from Touissant’s, placed a rather sad-looking fern in the appropriate position, and stood myself to a drink. Four hours is a long time to wait around, but between my innate idleness and a selection of light narcotics, I managed it.

In fact, it was closer to four and a half when Black House’s man came in for a quick shot of liquor. He seemed to know what he was doing, didn’t look at me and didn’t make any particular commotion. He was inside for all of about five minutes, but that wasn’t in and of itself peculiar – it was early in the evening, and a lot of workers slipped in for a stiff one after their shift was over. Twelve hours at the mills, doing their best to avoid losing a finger or a whole hand, every spare thought occupied with those few inches of strong liquor – it’s not an easy thing, working for a living. There was a reason I’d foresworn it.

Anyhow, Mr Blue Hat tossed his drink back and then headed out, and I followed him in a timely fashion. He lingered at the next intersection, but he didn’t make it look like he was lingering. I wondered if he was an agent or just a stringer Guiscard had on budget. Probably the latter – once you put on the gray, you start to think yourself a little too good for this kind of work. Regardless, he knew his business. I walked a block and a half behind him for a mile or so, and no man alive would have known what we were doing.

He stopped in front of a small store in Wyrmington’s Shingle, smoked a cigarette, then bailed back the way he’d come. That was as much signal as I needed. After waiting a minute or two to make sure he was gone, I slipped inside.

The store sold men’s suits. Not particularly nice suits, but not the worst quality I’d ever come across. Unremarkable, would have been my description, and indeed this could have been the theme of the whole enterprise. A man stood upright in the main aisle, stub-necked with thick eyeglasses. He was the physical prototype of the image that popped into your head when you heard the word ‘tailor’.

The place looked legitimate, and I figured it probably was. Once a month or so a man spent a few hours in the back office, took the occasional meeting, and was on no condition to be disturbed. In exchange, a gratuity was paid slightly in excess of the rest of the month’s earnings. Back in the day, I’d kept a couple of these, for conducting business where my contact couldn’t be seen entering Black House, or if I just didn’t want the Old Man to know the particulars of whatever scam I was running. He always found out of course, but this gave me a little bit of time.

‘Good day, sir.’ The proprietor’s voice was a rich baritone, thick as an oak-cask. ‘Is there a particular cut you were interested in seeing?’

‘What would you recommend?’

His eyes ran me over with professional diligence. ‘With your build and complexion, I’d suggest something bright, but not overly so. How do you feel about light blue?’

‘I had a suit like that, once,’ I said. ‘I didn’t like it.’

He nodded sagely. The customer was always right, though at this point I suppose he’d figured I probably wouldn’t be picking up any clothing. ‘Of course, sir, of course. Dark Brown has been very popular, as of late.’

‘Not my style either, I’m afraid.’ I made a vague show of inspecting the merchandise. ‘I don’t suppose you have something in the back I might look at.’

He inclined his head. ‘Of course, sir – straight on through. I’m sure you won’t have trouble finding what you came for.’ I followed his directions out of the main room and down a short, narrow hallway, ending at a door that I rapped on quickly before entering.

The first time I’d met Guiscard we’d nearly come to blows. More accurately, he’d nearly hit me – petty criminals did not, as a rule, strike agents of the Crown, not unless they wanted to find themselves losing the hand they’d raised.

He’d grown since then, or at the very least aged. Some men run to fat as they get older, others go in the opposite direction, burning through whatever limited allotment of excess flesh youth had provided them. Guiscard was the latter. I hadn’t seen him in three years, and since then he’d lost a solid stone off a frame that was far from oversized to begin with. His coiffure had undergone a similar wasting process – initially he’d kept his white-gold hair in an exaggerated pompadour, better suited to wooing whores than chasing down suspects. The last time I’d seen him he’d shorn it away to stubble. Now I was pretty sure he’d just gone bald. He still had the classic Rouender nose, at least. That it had never been broken was evidence he hadn’t put in his years at the bottom ranks of Black House. No honest agent made it six months without having someone reshape the tender portions of his face.

I disliked admitting it, because it ran against my ingrained sense that people rarely change and never improve – but I didn’t have the hate for Guiscard that I’d once had. Back in the day he’d been as bad as anyone else that had ever married sudden power with self-righteous certainty. Now he was confused, tired and lacking in direction. He’d come a long way.

‘You know when I was an agent,’ I began, inspecting the less than prepossessing interior, ‘we had a whole building for this.’

‘It’s still there.’

‘Then why aren’t we in it?’

‘Given your recent activities, I thought perhaps it would be better if you weren’t openly seen meeting with a member of the ice.’

‘Don’t refer to yourself that way – it makes you sound like an asshole.’ I thought over what he said. That was an answer. A good one, even – but somehow I sensed it wasn’t the actual one.

‘What do you have to tell me?’

‘Straight to business, eh? No casual pleasantries, no easy banter? It’s been years, Agent. We’ve got so much to catch up on.’

‘How’s the Earl?’

‘None of your fucking business,’ I said, dropping into the chair that wasn’t occupied.

In place of a laugh, Guiscard had an abrupt staccato snort, like he was ejecting a pea from his nostrils. ‘So what do you have to tell me?’

‘What did the Old Man tell you I’d have?’

He shook his head. ‘That’s not how this works. You’re my stoolie, so you tell me stories. If I was your stoolie, the opposite would be true.’

‘You’ve got an impressive grasp of spycraft.’

‘You seemed to need a refresher.’

‘Just trying to make sure I don’t waste your time. No point in running over old news.’

‘You’re just trying to pump me for information. It won’t work.’

It always had in the past. ‘About eight hours ago I was called in to a meeting with the Sons of
Ś
akra.’

‘Represented by …’

‘Director of Security, Cerial Egmont.’

Guiscard whistled. ‘I guess they think you’re more important than we do.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Egmont’s supposed to be at the top of their seamy underbelly. Something of a prodigy when it comes to the skull-and-dagger business. How did he strike you?’

‘He didn’t seem a complete idiot. Then again, it was a short meeting.’

‘What did he want?’

‘You hear anything about this new drug that’s been making its way around, called red fever?’

‘No.’

‘No, why would you – nothing that happens south of the Palace is worth being aware of. But Egmont appears a bit more globally minded. He’s concerned about the similarities between the red fever and this secret project we scrapped a while back – Coronet, it was called.’

‘Never heard of it.’

‘No? Nothing? Not a peep?’

‘That’s what I said.’

‘That’s what you said.’

‘You going to provide any specifics?’

‘You want to know about Coronet, you can ask the chief about it. It was his baby.’

‘I’ll do that,’ Guiscard said. ‘So what did you tell Egmont?’

‘I told him what the Old Man told me to tell him. That I’d take a look and see what I could find.’

‘Interesting,’ Guiscard said, though to judge by his expression I might as well have been reading a grocery list.

‘So …’ I began, ‘did we scrap it?’

‘I told you. I don’t know anything about this … red fever. Nor about Coronet.’

‘Does the Old Man?’

‘The Old Man knows a lot of things I don’t.’

‘Would you lie to me?’

‘Of course I would.’

‘Are you now?’

‘No.’

He seemed to be telling the truth. Then again, he made a living out of dishonesty. ‘Fair enough,’ I said.

‘Anything else to report?’

‘There is something else, in fact. I came into Egmont’s office just in time to see one of ours walk out.’

Guiscard scrunched up his face in confusion – not altogether easy, given how little fat there was to play with. ‘Who?’

‘Alistair Harribuld.’

‘No way; he’s been feeding out of our hand since before I joined up. In fact – weren’t you the one responsible for hooking him?’

‘Which would suggest I’m unlikely to be mistaken on his identity, wouldn’t it?’

‘What was he doing there?’

‘He didn’t have his motive painted on his shirt, but it’s hard to see what reason a Black House informant would have for meeting with the Director of Security for the Sons of
Ś
akra. Apart from the obvious one, of course.’

‘I’ll look into it.’

‘I would.’

Guiscard reached into the pocket of his duster and pulled out his tobacco pouch.

‘I thought you quit?’

He didn’t look up from his rolling. ‘We can’t all live your life of monk-like self-denial.’

That was worth a chuckle, I thought. After a moment he lit his cigarette, and smoke crowded the interior of the room, like a growing silence. If you didn’t know better, you might even have thought that we liked each other. I did know better, however.