“He took off. Said he had something he wanted to take care of.”
For all that I could trade half-truths and outright fabrications with the most dangerous Kiren in Rigus, I seemed utterly incapable of sliding a falsehood past Adeline’s plump face. “You chased him off, didn’t you?”
“We had a disagreement about the relative merits of property rights. He’ll be back eventually.”
She puffed herself up to something substantially larger than her diminutive span. “Eventually,” she repeated, not a question so much as a condemnation.
“Lay off it, Adeline. He’s been sleeping on the street for most of his life. Another night won’t matter.”
“And the child who was killed this morning?”
“Wren ain’t my kid, Adeline, and he ain’t yours neither. Better you don’t get too attached-he’s likely to bite your hand in the end.”
“You unbelievable little shit,” she said, then whirled and headed back to the kitchen, as if she didn’t trust herself to be around me any longer.
“Yeah,” I said to no one in particular. “Probably.”
I tore through my chop steak and tried to force the pieces floating around my skull into a coherent picture. It wasn’t working. I could see Beaconfield as corrupt, venal, and sadistic-hell, I had settled on those three before I had even met him. But this didn’t fit. There weren’t many crimes that could disturb the position of a noble of the blood, but summoning a creature from the void, and using it to sacrifice children-that was one of them. If the Blade was caught, his name wouldn’t be enough to save him. He’d swing or swallow a draft of arsenic while awaiting trial. No doubt he had spent most of his life swimming in the noisome waters of court, trying to one-up his rivals with cheap intrigue and the occasional act of violence, but these were the common hobbies of the upper class, like adolescents and dry humping. The aristocracy are too comfortable with what they have to put it all in the pot-that’s what makes them easy to play. What could he be aiming for that warranted running such terrible risks?
And if Beaconfield wasn’t involved, why had Celia’s talisman singed a hole halfway through my breast during our conversation? Was the duke damning his soul in some endeavor entirely unrelated to the one I was investigating?
Maybe Ling Chi was right, and this was all an elaborate setup by the Old Man to try and break a potential threat to his power. But that didn’t add up either. I had no illusions about my former boss, but unleashing this abomination on the people of Low Town was an awful lot of trouble to go through just to crush a mid-level clique, even one run by someone as vicious as my revered brother. And if he had needed a life to snuff, he wouldn’t have had to go through all the trouble of snatching a child-he’d just walk into the dungeons and pick a motherfucker to disappear. Besides, the Old Man wouldn’t have been so foolish as to involve me in his operation-if he had set this ball of twine rolling, he wouldn’t want me following its trail.
Maybe Ling Chi was pulling the strings, and the interview had been a ruse to throw me off his scent. The only person I could say for sure was involved in this whole thing had been a Kiren, and I’d heard plenty of rumors about the dark arts of the heretics, though in the past I’d chalked this up to general racial antipathy. Maybe it was another syndicate, or a player at court-hell, maybe it was some fiendish retaliation by the Dren.
I downed the dregs of my ale and tried to get my head right. There was too much chaff in the air, and I couldn’t get a clear picture of the game, let alone the players. I’d been better at this, once, but I was long out of practice-being a successful criminal doesn’t require quite the same skill set as catching one. Nor did I suppose that a half decade of dipping into my stock had done wonders for my powers of deduction. Maybe Crispin was right, and I was too far gone to even be playing at any of this, my desperate gamble with the Old Man a fool’s bet, a rain check on the inevitable.
I was seeping myself pretty thick in self-contempt when I was interrupted by two quick taps at my shoulder. Wren stood behind me, his face red from humiliation, or the cold. I was surprised and a little impressed. I’d figured it would take him a good day to work up the nerve to come back and take his medicine.
Still, it wouldn’t do to let him off the hook quite yet. “Back to pick Adeline’s good china? It’s in the kitchen, you might get a few argents for it.”
“You steal.”
“Not ’cause I’m bored. Not ’cause I see something shiny and wish it was mine. Thievery’s a tactic, not a hobby. Not something I do because I’ve got a few spare minutes and feel like filling them. And never from a friend-never from anyone who did right by me.” His eyes slid away from mine. “Besides, it ain’t that you stole. It’s that you were stupid. Malfeasance I can accept, foolishness is reprehensible.”
Like most people, Wren was happier to be thought immoral than incompetent. “Didn’t get caught.”
“By which you mean you managed to get it out the front door. So what? He’s noticed now, and you’ve burned a bridge with one of the most powerful men in Rigus for pocket change. Stop thinking like a street kid-if you can’t learn to see past your next meal, you’ll wake up one morning with a full belly and a knife in it.”
“I am a street kid.”
“That’s something else we need to speak on. I’m going to start having more for you, and I can’t worry about tracking you down every time I need something handled. You’re to start sleeping in the bar from now on.”
“What if I don’t want to?”
“You ain’t a slave. You prefer a gutter over a bedroll, that’s your choice-but you make it and you get yourself unemployed as well. I’ve no use for an associate I gotta spend half the day hunting for.”
There was a long pause. “All right,” he said finally.
That should get Adeline off my back for a few hours. By the Firstborn, she was as bad as the Old Man. “Fine. Now run over to the Duke of Beaconfield’s estate.” I rattled off directions. “Tell the guard at the gate that I want to come by tonight to deliver the rest of what I promised.”
He slipped out. I returned to my drink, wishing I could solve the rest of my problems as easily as I had these domestic concerns.
I thought back to my first days as an agent, before I had gotten mired with Special Operations, when it was just me and Crispin, kicking down doors and following up leads. We were pretty good at it for a while-Crispin was sharp, very sharp, but I was better. I learned something back then, something about the nature of crime, and of the things people do that are meant to remain hidden. Solving a mystery isn’t about finding clues or getting lucky with a suspect-it’s about deciding what to look for, framing the narrative in your mind. If you can puzzle out the questions, the answers will come.
Most crimes are the ill-born fruits of passion, and committed by an intimate of the victim. A husband comes home drunk and beats his wife with a claw hammer, a lifetime of discord between two brothers breaks out into violence. It’s terrible and tawdry but easy enough to investigate. If that wasn’t the case, if there wasn’t a clear suspect, then you already had your first question.
Who benefited from this crime?
But that wouldn’t help me here. The first child had been murdered by a monster, and there was no mystery about his motivations. Sexual satisfaction, the silencing of whatever mad voices echoed through his skull in the stillness of the night. As for this second one, if Marieke’s suspicions were right and the girl had been sacrificed, then the motive could be virtually anything.
But that was something then, wasn’t it? This was a monstrous crime, demanding savage reprisal. Whoever was responsible must be in desperate straits to take such a chance.
I didn’t know why they’d done it but at least I was forming an image of my quarry. If you can’t figure out motive, then you have to move on to opportunity: who is capable of committing the crime?
Here I had a little more to work through. We weren’t dealing with a snatched purse or a slit throat, the kind of thing any sufficiently depraved soul could engineer. The abomination was big magic, heavy juju-summoning it was the act of a skilled artist. Better still, there was a limited pool of people capable of this particular working. Operation Ingress was a secret military project, and they wouldn’t have publicized its techniques.
It all depended on Crispin. If he could get me a list of the participants, I could start making inquiries. If he didn’t, I’d be stuck stirring trouble and hoping that something I did shook out a decent lead. I started to wish I hadn’t worked so hard to antagonize my old partner.
I lingered over each possibility, rather than deal with the news that shaded the rest of my thoughts. The thought of spending my final hours, long hours no doubt, days maybe, with a red-robed man poking about in my insides and Crowley standing over me laughing was no small concern. But I can say without bravado that I’ve spent a good deal of my life with imminent demise a distinct possibility, and learned how to function despite it. But what Marieke had shown me-that was something that opened up doors in the back of my mind that I’d jammed shut and barred, the sort of fear that wakes you up in the middle of the night with your throat dry and your sheets wet. If the Red Fever had returned to Rigus, all the rest of this was no more than a sideshow, a sprinkle of rain to introduce the deluge that was coming.
Were the Crane’s wards slipping? Was his fading health weakening the spells he had put in place to protect us? I thought that over, then dismissed it. Even if it was true, what were the odds of the dead child being the only one infected? I hadn’t heard about anyone else falling sick, and I knew I would have-all of Low Town lived in constant fear of the Fever. The plague spread like, well, the fucking plague-if it was out among the population, the whole city would be in an uproar. No, I didn’t imagine the Fever had returned to the general public, nor that Caristiona’s death was unrelated to her catching it. It was no coincidence, but for the life of me I couldn’t figure out the connection.
I signaled Adolphus for another pint of ale and thought about running upstairs to grab a quick nap, but Wren would be back soon and I’d be moving out not long after that. Adolphus topped me off and I nursed my brew and sucked over each nugget of information like a child with a piece of hard candy.
A few minutes passed and I noticed that Wren had slipped into the Earl and was standing by my arm. By the Oathkeeper, the boy was quiet. Either that or my mind was further out of tune than I had thought. I decided to believe the first. “By the Oathkeeper, you’re quiet.”
He smirked but didn’t say anything.
“Well? What have you got for me?”
“The butler says that the duke is indisposed, but that he wants you to come speak to him around ten.”
“He said he wanted to speak to me personally?”
Wren nodded.
I had hoped I might get a chance to talk to the Blade, see if I couldn’t sniff something out, but had figured I’d at least have to con my way past his second. Why did Beaconfield want to talk to me? Was it simply idle curiosity, the lurid fascination of the well fed for those of us struggling through the seedy underbelly of the city we all inhabit? Somehow I doubted this was the first time that walking vice den had met a drug dealer.
From behind the bar I grabbed a pen and parchment, then scratched a short note into the vellum: Don’t deal with the Blade or his people until you hear otherwise. Avoid anyone he sends for you. Will come round tomorrow, noon.
I folded the paper lengthwise, then turned it and folded it lengthwise again. “Take this to Yancey’s house and leave it with his mother,” I said, handing the message to Wren. “He probably won’t be in, but tell her to make sure he gets it once he shows. After that you’re done for the night-do whatever Adolphus tells you.”
Wren scampered off.
“And don’t read the letter!” I yelled after him, probably unnecessarily.