Tomorrow, the Killing

13

I ate an early dinner then started off for Brennock. It was half a trek, and I broke up the monotony with a hit of breath when it felt appropriate, as it often did.

This section of the city was mostly industrial, cavernous mills and foundries with little nightlife to speak of. Yancey’s having to play there was a sign of the blight that had overtaken his career, a sharp reversal from the decade of uninterrupted success his talent and drive had earned him.

While playing a private party a year back some noble had said something or done something that made Yancey decide to arrange his face into a different pattern – an understandable impulse, if self-defeating in the long run. He’d gotten out after five months, which was shorter than I had expected – putting a digit on a noble pays out the same as murdering a dockworker. Yancey wasn’t soft, but the time he’d spent inside had done him no favors. His eyes were older and there was an occasional tremor to his vibrato. More than that, having gained a reputation for brutalizing members of the audience, his old fans weren’t quite so enthused about having him round. He’d been forced into accepting gigs he’d have laughed off not long earlier, which was why I found myself in a shitty bar in an ugly part of the city, surrounded by a group of people who seemed distinctly unenthused to be consuming the poetic stylings of one Yancey the Rhymer.

Ironically his misfortune had been a boon for me – since being deprived of the opportunity to make money off his craft he’d had to put more work into his sideline: playing middleman for rich folks who wanted my services. I felt a little bad about it, but then we’re all making our bread off someone’s misery. Me more than most, I supposed.

Happily I’d come between sets, so I didn’t need to watch him demonstrate his abilities to an unappreciative audience. He was at the counter dripping honey into the ear of a waitress two stone past pretty. She laughed and slapped at him playfully with a dishrag. Whatever else the Rhymer had lost, he could still string together a sentence.

‘If it ain’t the Duke himself.’ He ticked his bare skull toward a side booth and turned back to the maid. ‘Pour two beers for us, sugar – my man and I need to hash out some truth, and that always goes better well lubricated.’

The waitress went to get us our drinks, and I followed Yancey to the corner.

Yancey was a small man, with a coiled intensity that kept him constantly in motion. In the past he’d run to thin and wiry, biceps like pulled rope, but his time inside had bloated him and hemmed a ring of flesh around his midsection. Despite that his face seemed thinner and somehow paler, though his lineage was uncrossed Islander and his skin black as ink. He’d always been something of a coxcomb, his sense of style near as sharp as his ear, but lately that too had gone to pot, a casualty of his loss of income or interest.

My ass had barely scraped the wooden bench before he leaned in and tapped a finger against his nose. ‘You got a toot for me?’

‘Fresh out.’

‘Pity.’ Breath was a habit Yancey had taken to with unfortunate enthusiasm. ‘So how you been?’

‘I wouldn’t mind getting rained on, like everyone else in the city. How ’bout you?’

‘Nah, the heat don’t bother me.’

‘What’s your secret?’

‘I get my dick sucked a lot.’

‘I didn’t know that helped.’

‘It helps with everything.’ The server came by holding a pair of tankards in front of a pair of plump breasts. ‘Something about these Vaalan girls,’ he said after she left, sucking his teeth and falling silent – words failing him, for once.

‘I’d prefer a woman I could share a carriage seat with.’

‘More for me.’

‘A lot more.’

Yancey laughed. ‘Your boy said you wanted to speak to me on something.’ His grin was wide. ‘I remember when he came up to my waist, and wouldn’t meet my eyes. Child’s growing.’

‘As it turns out, he’s the purpose of the conversation.’

He motioned for me to continue. ‘Your mouth ain’t sewn shut.’

No one was listening, but I took a look around anyway. ‘Wren has the gift.’

‘Indeed.’ He took a sip from his brew, white foam around his pink lips.

‘I need someone who can give him the ins and outs of it, and who isn’t affiliated with the Throne – someone as far off their map as you can get.’

‘I’m no practitioner.’

‘But somewhere, in your long list of acquaintances, I suspect you’ve a person who fits my description.’

The Islanders had fled their homeland a millennium back, taking to the seas as it disappeared beneath the waves, a catastrophe so inconceivable and distant it had long ago merged into myth. Centuries of living as half-wanted guests in foreign lands had given them an aversion to government that was virtually a racial trait. Their entire civilization flourished out of sight of the authorities. They had their own banking houses, their own religious practices – and their own magical traditions. After the war the Bureau of Magical Affairs had made it their business to bring the nation’s practitioners under thumb, combing the disparate threads of the Art into a single weave – but the Bureau of Magical Affairs, like every other government organ, held small sway amongst the seafarers.

I imagined there were other avenues of the Art that the Throne had yet to strangle. Tarasaighn augurers drying herbs deep in the swamps of their homeland, heretics drawing otherworldly diagrams and whispering strange prayers – but I didn’t know any of them. I knew the Rhymer, and I hoped he’d come through for me. He always had before.

Yancey drummed his fingers against the table, unconsciously and in perfect rhythm. After a moment he matched the beat with a nod. ‘Yeah, I might know somebody – how far out you want to look?’

‘Far as I can get.’

‘There’s a witch-woman, lives in the Isthmus. I’ve never had occasion to seek her services but word on high is she’s legit – even the mobs toe her line, leave her little offerings and make sure not to cross her.’

‘And the Throne remains blissfully ignorant of her activities?’

‘Brother, her corner of Rigus, there ain’t no Throne.’

‘She got a name?’

‘Mazzie. Mazzie of the Stained Bone. Ever hear it?’

‘Muttered under the occasional breath. You think you could put us in touch?’

‘I’ll send someone around tonight – Mazzie keeps late hours. She gives the go ahead, I’ll leave directions to her place for you tomorrow morning.’

‘Stand-up, as always.’

Yancey was confident enough in his character not to be particularly grateful for my validation. He went back to his drink. I realized suddenly we’d run out of things to talk about. I didn’t remember that happening so much between us, back in the day. ‘How’s your mom?’

‘She’s all right. She asks about you some.’

That was a lie, though a kind one. I’d been close to Ma Dukes once, before my blindness and stupidity had put her son into danger some years back. Yancey had eventually forgiven me for my foolishness, but his mother wasn’t so casual about the peril I’d brought down upon her seed.

I pulled a couple of ochres from out of my money pouch. ‘I almost forgot – I owe you some coin for dropping my name to the Count of Brekenridge.’

‘Yeah?’ His eyes narrowed quizzically. ‘You sure?’

‘I’m sure,’ I said, setting them next to his drink.

He looked at the coins for a long moment, then raked them off the table. ‘Sweetness, bring me a bottle of something that bubbles,’ he yelled over his shoulder, before turning back to face me. ‘You sticking ’round to enjoy it?’

‘I’ve got somewhere to be,’ I said, standing. ‘And I imagine our server will be a better companion – help keep you cool.’

His laughter was well bought at twice the price.