Tomorrow, the Killing

15

There’s nothing half so foul as a body that’s spent some time in the water, and I’ve seen enough of the world’s unpleasantness to be something of an authority on the subject. The flesh takes on this viscous, wormy color between curdled cream and bone, and the eyes swell and bloat. After a day of immersion the skin starts to slough, peels right off the leg like a stocking, toenails and all. Plus the canal isn’t exactly fresh water, so you can garnish that description with the stench common to anything that’s been marinating in the main thoroughfare for the city’s waste, ripe feces and acrid urine. Vile as it was, our man hadn’t been swimming long, and it was easy enough to make out his identity. I nodded at Crispin, and he nodded at the guard, and he tossed the sheet over the corpse.

It was four or five months after Roland’s birthday party. I hadn’t seen him since, but then I’d been busy. He’d been busy as well, as the rancid meat in front of me evidenced.

I lit a cigarette to drown out the smell. Crispin did the same. ‘Did you know him?’ my partner asked.

‘Timory Half-hand,’ I said, pointing to the appendage left dangling out from beneath the thin cloth with which he’d been inexpertly covered. It was malformed, three stubby sticks of flesh, a defect of birth rather than the product of accident or violence, nature being crueler than either. ‘He moved dreamvine and the occasional clipped argent. Don’t know why anyone would go to the trouble of killing him.’

‘Yes, you do,’ Crispin responded.

I nodded and we walked off.

‘They’re getting bolder,’ Crispin said, threading his way around a beggar calling for alms against the alley wall. ‘That’s the third one this month.’

‘Small fish, though. Unaffiliated with the syndicates, unprotected by any of the major powers.’

‘They’re flexing their muscles. Not even bothering to hide it. You see that broadsheet they posted last week? That the Hand of the Firstborn would wipe the poison dealers from the streets, make Rigus a paradise for the working man?’

‘I had someone read it to me.’

We paused for a moment at an intersection, the crowd breaking around us like a swift-moving river. In a ditch next to us a street dog was happily consuming a fresh turd, deposited there by some member of the citizenry fussy enough to avoid doing their business in the street.

‘And yet despite the death of young Timory,’ Crispin began, ‘we wait in vain for Low Town’s promised rebirth.’

Barefoot in the sludge a boy stalked towards the mutt, a long wooden pole poised overhead. Once in range he struck the mongrel’s back full force. It reared and snapped back at him, then ran off. The child laughed uproariously, eyes fixed on mine as if daring a reprimand.

‘Looks pretty heavenly to me.’

I flicked my smoke into the gutter, and the urchin sprinted off.

‘Thoughts?’ Crispin asked.

‘I could get breakfast.’

‘It must be quite a burden, such depth of perception.’

‘I muddle through,’ I said, heading towards a nearby restaurant. We took a seat at a table. Crispin ordered steak and eggs and I did the same.

‘After we finish up here,’ he said, ‘I think I’ll pay a visit to the Veterans’ Association, see if I can’t shake anything loose.’

‘Yes, Montgomery always struck me as a man likely to bend in the face of the wind.’

‘A man was murdered. We find murderers.’

‘Do we? When was the last time we were in Low Town, looking over the corpse of a petty criminal?’

‘I imagine our boy had people. I imagine they’d be interested in bringing his killer to justice.’

‘His mother disowned him when he popped out a cripple, and if he’s got siblings they’re too smart to admit it.’ The server brought over two cups of coffee, black and lukewarm. ‘Three Timorys a day find themselves dead in Low Town.’

‘They aren’t killed by armed rebels, advocating overthrow of the state.’

‘Neither was this one, best as we know.’

‘Best as we can prove.’

‘As you like.’ But I wasn’t happy about it either, and couldn’t stay silent. ‘What do you care if the Association wants to cut up a few drug dealers? It saves us the trouble.’

‘He’ll move on to the syndicates soon enough. Word is, Roland’s been making threats toward the Giroies.’

‘You on their payroll?’ That was a joke, of course, if not a particularly good one. Crispin was honest to a degree that I found quite tiring. Also, he was fabulously rich.

‘I’d prefer if Rigus didn’t descend into open warfare. Besides, you know as well as I do that Roland Montgomery doesn’t give a damn about the mobs. Taking them on just serves to sharpen his blade. Once he’s consolidated his position in Low Town, he’ll start eyeing up the rest of the Empire.’

‘Which makes this above our pay grade, you know that. Montgomery wants to take his shot, there are people out there who’ll return it.’

‘So we stand aside while Special Ops handles it? A knife in the dark or a few drops of Spite’s Bloom in his liquor?’

‘Them or one of the syndicates. I don’t imagine they’ll be pleased to watch Montgomery go after their livelihood indefinitely.’

‘Just let the trash take care of their own?’

‘There are some decent people in Special Ops.’

‘No,’ he said, ‘there aren’t.’

There were a lot of meanings in that last sentence, and I took a slow minute to work through them.

‘You still thinking about trading up?’ Crispin asked.

‘I think about a lot of things.’

‘You can’t trust the Old Man,’ he said. ‘Whatever he’s offering, it’s not worth it.’

‘Not to you.’

At the center there was something that we both knew but never voiced. Crispin was rich, and cultured, and powerful, and I was none of those things. Crispin could walk off the job and spend the rest of his life coursing hare or drinking tea or whatever the hell it is the rich do when they aren’t bleeding the rest of us. He didn’t need to put himself on the block to climb the ladder – he’d slipped out the womb and landed on the highest rung.

Crispin and I were a lot alike, but that was one thing we’d never share. He needed nothing, and I wanted everything.

The meal came and we ate it. Looking at the stringy gray meat we’d have been better off throwing it into the mud. But we didn’t throw it into the mud, we ate it.

Crispin paid the bill. ‘I’m going to visit Montgomery, see if he hasn’t got anything to say. Feel like coming?’

‘I’ve got better ways to waste time.’

‘I’ll see you later, then.’

We parted at the next intersection.

Black House looked the same then as it did now, but I saw it differently. The guard manning the front gave me a quick salute when I walked in, even though he was the same rank. I was a smart man to salute. Things were going my way – I was rising like a cork.

But still I wasn’t there yet, and I hadn’t had much cause to spend time on the second floor. So I went slow, making sure I remembered each turn, that I didn’t get fumbled up by the fact that every hallway and office looked the same. I could have asked directions of course, but getting lost inside headquarters didn’t exactly fit with the image I was trying to present.

His door was open, once I found it. His door was always open, he would often say.

‘Agent, so lovely to see you again.’ He gave a kindly little nod, as if flattered that I’d chosen to honor him with my attention. ‘Have you given any thought to my offer?’

I took the proffered chair across from him. My hands instinctively reached for the pouch of tobacco inside my coat, and I forced them back down onto my lap. The Old Man allowed no one to smoke in his office – one of the prerogatives of owning the country.

‘I’ve been kicking it around,’ I said.

‘And have you come to any conclusions?’

‘I don’t see what good martyring the man does us.’

‘Better a dead saint than a live one.’

‘I’m not sure you fully appreciate the esteem he’s held in amongst his people. If they see our hand in it, we’ll have problems that make the current slate look positively sunny by comparison. There’s no point in extinguishing a fire while lighting a fuse.’

‘I’ve made arrangements to ensure that their future conduct will be more . . . reasonable.’

‘Those arrangements would be?’

His pink lips covered his smile. It returned brighter than ever, and I knew I was pushing too hard. ‘Of no concern to you.’

‘I’m just making sure of the big picture.’

‘You don’t need to be sure of it,’ he said. ‘I’m sure of it. You only need to be sure of your own tiny part. It would behoove you to remember that you aren’t yet a member of Special Operations.’

‘I’ve been an Agent of the Crown for the last two years,’ I said. ‘And served it loyally for a half decade before that,’ I said. I wasn’t really angry at the slight, but I felt it better to pretend.

He leaned back in his chair and settled his hands around the slight round of his belly. ‘But you haven’t served me.’

And therein lay the rub. Special Operations were the elite of Black House, a few dozen men that pulled the strings of Empire, faceless centurions making sure the foundations held together. That was power, real power, to get a peek at the machinery that whirred beneath the surface, bend it as you saw fit. That was power a slum kid from Low Town could only dream about. Had dreamt about, long nights sleeping in the gutter and swearing to get out of it.

Of course, like anything else worth having, it came at a price.

‘Well?’ the Old Man asked after a while, as if the answer was of no concern. ‘What’s it to be?’