Making Peace, page 9
She looked at me, and I could see a misting of tears in her eyes. “That’s why they do this, Bel. Not for the gratitude of a city, or for a paycheck. They do this to prevent the worst atrocities from happening. To protect the people at the bottom who aren’t even noticed in the calculations at the top. Their continued wellbeing, the little people at the bottom of this city, is what makes it worthwhile.”
CHAPTER 12
I AWOKE GASPING in the middle of the night. Vivid images began to fade, until I was left with only an image of blood running endlessly off the edges of a table. The wooden floor felt cold as I slipped my feet over the side of the bed and got up.
I tried running through the stretches Shield had shown me. Left arm across face, right arm pulling it tight. Reverse. Left foot folded up against rump, left hand holding it. Reverse. Not working. Time to move on to more strenuous exercises. By the third set of pushups I knew exercise wasn’t going to work.
My door opened without the slightest squeak. Valkyrie bless the staff for keeping such meticulous care of this place. The floorboards this time were silent under my bare feet, as if they too were asleep. To get to the kitchen I just needed to reach the stairs at the end of the hallway, and I plodded quietly in that direction. I made it all the way down to the kitchen without waking anyone. After the dream with all the splashing I couldn’t bring myself to touch the dripping bottles of chilled water in the icebox, but some thoughtful soul had left a wineskin hanging on a rack. A few deep pulls eased my dry throat on the way back to my room.
A muffled scream sounded from behind one of the solid wooden doors, and I damned near dropped the wineskin. Actually, I nearly climbed out of my own skin. The screaming came again, and then a third time, a sound of pain and anguish, the notes dragging up and down without rhythm. In the near dark, I identified the source: Ugly’s room. I hesitated outside the door.
I was about to knock when another door flew open behind me. The screaming continued in front of me as I half turned. Shield was just closing her door behind her, dressed in a light pink variant of one of the absolutely proper high-necked sleeping gowns of the Valkyries, what the rest of us jokingly called “cotton armor.” Bare feet whispered across floorboards as she hurried over. Soft hands moved me out of the way, reaching for the door handle.
A mental image of a full-blown battle inside caused me to grab her wrist, stopping her from opening the door. Shield turned a puzzled look on me.
“Should we wake the others?” I whispered.
Her puzzlement deepened for a moment, eyebrows furrowed in confusion, then she caught my meaning and her expression softened. She shook her head once and drew a deep breath. “They already know,” she said. She looked like she was going to explain, but changed her mind. Shield shook her head again and opened the door into the pitch black room. The screams grew louder for a moment. She slipped inside and closed the door behind her, giving me one last look.
Confused, and a little creeped out, I stood there in the near darkness, listening. The screams petered out, then stopped. Silence reigned for several heartbeats. Then, a sound I did not expect to hear: crying. Not weeping like a child, or the choked sobbing of a man embarrassed by his emotions. This was gasping, clutching, clawing back from the darkness. It was a terrible sound to hear, visceral and primal. And I knew it wasn’t Shield who was crying.
I made my way back to my bedroom, closed the door, and sat in silence for a while. My own dream had mostly faded, but still hovered at the edges of my mind. And this after only one crime scene and two battles. What, then, would a lifetime of this work bring me?
A man may be detached in the moment, I realized, but the horror always comes for him eventually. Sometimes it repels us from things that remind of us of the horror, like water dripping from a bottle. Sometimes it fills us with rage, so we feel compelled to do something to soften the grip the horror has on us. And, sometimes, it makes children of us in the night.
CHAPTER 13
Clipping from the local newspaper:
HEGEMON’S GRANDDAUGHTER MURDERED!
Early last week, Elina Marack was found dead in her own sitting room. Sources report no sign of a struggle and relate the most terrible details, which the Hegemon has absolutely forbidden us to print here. Because of the station of the victim, the Peacekeepers were called in immediately. There can be no doubt the Keepers are wondering if this could be the start of a House war in the city, as are we all…
CAPTAIN AND I sat in one of the First House parlors, resting our feet. Since Captain had shown us that blasted article, it had been nonstop patrolling and watching for signs of foul play. Well, that was the reason for Captain being there. He insisted on my accompanying him because of the calming effect I had on the populace of the House. You see…
“Mr. Candor,” purred Vetina Marack, grand-niece to the Hegemon, fluttering her fan lightly, “surely you can tell me at least the name of your next book?” The skirts of her red dress crinkled against me as she covertly brushed her leg on mine. Around her, the other ladies leaned in and nodded their agreement.
I groaned inwardly. The Hegemon had been riding Captain hard about this case, despite there being no solid leads. Or, more probably, because we had no solid leads.
I sat with all the ladies of the First House clustered around me. They begged me for details on my books and stories, and had a million questions: how do I design my characters, and what kind of female characters I like best, and why are so many of my female characters brunettes, and what must Mrs. Candor think of that, oh there isn’t a Mrs. Candor how curious.
“If you’ll excuse us, dear ladies.” Captain got to his feet, rescuing me at last. I retrieved my sleeves gently from their collective fingertips, (“Oh I’m so sorry,” Vetina said breathlessly, “I must have been so wrapped up in our conversation, I tend to do that when I’m engaged”) and followed him into the next room. As I caught up to Captain and glanced at his face, I’d swear he was smiling under his bushy mustache.
We walked the halls in peace for a few moments, our boot heels clicking softly on the polished wooden floors. Light flooded the hallway through the massive windows to our left, floor-to-ceiling and broken up into thousands of tiny panes of glass fit ever so carefully into wrought iron. Every so often we passed doorways on our right, the doors always open. I peeked into each one. Thick, lush carpets in every room. One room held many beautiful musical instruments, including a standing harp. Another room held what appeared to be a small library. In the third, people sat around sipping from tea cups. They fell silent as we passed by, then resumed their conversation behind us.
Our walk inevitably led to Elina’s room. Captain drew out the silver key and fit it into the lock. It snicked open, hardly audible unless you had heard it a few dozen times in the last couple of days, as we both had. Captain opened the door and walked in, with me following.
The body had been removed the same night as our first investigation. So had the bundle from under the bed. Captain had handed it to the Hegemon’s son, softly telling him they may wish to bury it with Elina.
However, the blood remained. This was by Captain’s insistence and the Hegemon’s as well. The Hegemon’s exact words had been: “What good will scrubbing away the evidence do us? Solve the damned thing. Now.” Captain had bowed lightly from the waist at the command, and had been doing his best to fulfill it.
Captain didn’t seem overly bothered by the pressure, however. At least, not externally. I glanced at him as he inspected the room again, presumably looking for missed details. His eyes were not hard or crinkled, he had no bags under them. His skin was not waxy, his hair and mustache were brushed. His clothes were pressed in proper military fashion. He appeared none the worse for wear to my eyes.
This, I thought, is the kind of person it takes to lead the Peacekeepers. A spine of steel, with courtly manners to match.
“It troubles me,” Captain said abruptly, “that the killer was able to walk in and out so easily and commit the deed without so much as a struggle or a squawk from the victim. Then to clean her hands and walk out of here, with no one the wiser.”
“Why not just wear gloves?” I asked.
Captain shook his head. “Gloves are often noticed. They’re not so common a fashion accessory up here as they may be on Garden. As for why the murderer wouldn’t wear them during the killing, perhaps there wasn’t time.” He folded his arms, leaned against the wall, and sighed. “No, what bothers me is this: Was the killer hiding and came up behind the victim, or did the victim have her back turned because she expected the killer to be there?”
I thought for a moment. “There were no guests reported. So it would need to be… a family member? Or else, a private guest she hadn’t informed anyone about.”
“Hmm. Newly married and proud of her status as first grandchild to bring on the fourth generation. Seems odd to picture a lover at this time. Family members are potential suspects of course, with lines of ascension. However, coupled with the numerous attacks on Second House…”
“You think this is some sort of retaliation?” I asked.
“I can’t say it isn’t. There are still too many unknowns to begin making guesses.” Captain straightened up, waving me out of the room.
“But you do have one. A guess,” I said, as he locked the room back up. “Or several, more like.” He said nothing, but that eyebrow waggled at me again.
It was winding down toward dark when we heard the scream. We were patrolling the first floor, checking all the doors and windows with the First House guard. Sen was coming to relieve us early today so Captain could leave to a meeting with the other Keeper leaders at some undisclosed location.
The entire House instantly came alive. We rushed up the stairs two at a time, the House guard close on our heels. The screams continued down the hall, coming from an open doorway. Captain and I bolted through the door.
The screams came from a serving girl seated on her rear end on the floor next to the door, her legs kicking in a futile effort to scoot her through the wall and out of the room. Her eyes were wide and fixed across the room on a dark figure.
The figure stood at an angle to us, turned most of the way around. Slim body dressed all in dark leathers from head to toe, well-oiled so they made not a sound. Long, thin Sivernite blades were sheathed at both sides, with knife handles poking out of pockets all over the person’s body. A black cloak with a deep hood pulled low over a porcelain mask without features, eyes dark holes.
At the figure’s feet lay a man dressed in fine blue clothing. I recognized him as one of the people drinking tea in the downstairs sitting room earlier. The Hegemon’s nephew, I believed. A curved dagger rose from the center of the nephew’s chest, buried to the hilt. One dead hand was still clutching it.
What shocked me most was that the figure in black was standing there urinating on the dead man’s corpse. The killer raised his free hand to his masked forehead in a mocking salute.
Several things seemed to happen at once. Captain lunged forward. The man, for we now knew that’s what he was, threw himself toward the window. The guards shoved me further into the room as they crowded in behind me.
Captain caught up to the figure at the window. He made a mighty swipe for the murderer’s cloak, but missed. The killer hurled himself through the open window (we had ordered all windows shut and locked an hour earlier) and out into the night. We rushed to look.
The masked killer had landed on the roof one story below and was running lightly across it. Captain vaulted the windowsill and followed. I did the same, a bit slower. Behind us, the guards were shouting. Some followed, pouring through the window one at a time.
We chased the man in black across the rooftops, the two of us shouting and swearing. He leapt wildly, almost recklessly from one surface to the next. We took a bit longer, but our adrenaline drove us to acts I quiver to recall now. I can picture myself at one point during the chase, I know not when, stepping up onto a hot chimney to vault upward onto a fourth-story roof from a three-story building. I caught the edge and hauled myself up, rolling into a run. Captain was ahead of me, always ahead of me, heavy boots pounding the rooftops.
I saw the man in black pause unexpectedly. Up ahead, I made out another figure brandishing a sword. I heard Sen’s voice drifting over the rooftops: “I’ve got him, Captain!” We pounded across the shingles toward their confrontation.
The man in black drew a sword and met Sen’s attack. Sen swung hard with his longsword and should have shattered the assassin’s thin blade, but the Sivernite proved to be as powerful as advertised and held up under the blow. The assassin parried almost effortlessly, opening a gash in Sen’s left shoulder.
We caught up. Captain drew his own sword and chopped down at the assassin’s back. The man in black twirled and his cloak caught the blade, throwing it wide. Captain rolled and held onto his sword, disentangling it with a sharp tug. The two Keepers sidestepped, circling to take up a flanking position on the masked killer, who drew his second blade. Clay tiles clicked under their feet as the combatants shifted, looking for an opening. Captain adopted a stance with his pommel tucked in at his belt, swordtip pointed at the killer. Sen held his sword above his head, tilted back at forty-five degrees. The assassin half crouched, both blades out and low.
Captain lunged first, stepping in deeply and thrusting his blade. The assassin twirled and deflected the thrust, kicking out with one foot. Captain pulled his head to one side. I saw the boot brush his beard.
Sen stepped in with a downward stroke. Almost without looking, the man in black whirled, pushed both his blades together, and turned Sen’s powerful strike to the killer’s left. He rammed Sen with his shoulder, throwing Sen off balance, then drew his thin blade down Sen’s forearm. The blade being long and thin, it was not made for slashing deeply. Still, Sen howled and stepped back, which gave the masked killer room. He turned and ran.
We gave chase. The sun had set fully, and the dying red light of dusk sparked off the ends of the combatants’ weapons. The man in black would periodically stop, parry a few blows, and temporarily disable the Keepers with hits or kicks. This would buy him enough time to climb or leap as necessary. I had no doubt he would have killed one or both of them if he could, but they were both skilled enough fighters that they left him no opening. Captain and Sen seemed more focused on running him down than killing him, two patient hounds intent on treeing their quarry.
The masked killer finally hit an edge of a roof which had no obvious escape. Three stories up, a stone road below, and the river after that. He stopped, considering. Sen and Captain closed in slowly, carefully.
“Come on, now,“ Captain called, “no need for dramatics. Let’s talk this through.”
The man turned. It was impossible to judge his expression through the porcelain mask, but his body language spoke volumes about tension.
From out of the night, arrows began raining down on the three men. The assassin deflected them with his twin blades. Sen and Captain had to whirl, putting their flanks to him, to deflect shafts as well. I was far enough back to be safe from arrows. Across on another roof, I spotted a dozen guards of the Watch shooting at us.
“Cease fire! Cease fire immediately!” Captain shouted.
“By the Lady’s tits, you’re letting him get away!” Sen added.
The man in black turned and hurled himself from the ledge. He arced out gracefully over the street and slipped into the river without a splash. The arrows immediately stopped raining on our roof and instead poured into the river. Most hit near where the killer had disappeared, but more than a few splashed harmlessly wide.
The killer did not surface. Neither did we find a body. Captain was furious. So was the Hegemon. By morning, all twelve Watchmen who had been firing arrows were dangling on chains over the massive waterfall, hung by the neck.
CHAPTER 14
WE WERE GATHERED in the mess hall, all of us this time. Captain was seated at the head of the long table. On one side in descending order sat Ugly, Tavel, and Sen. On my side sat Shield, myself, and Vapor. The cooking staff (I specify staff, not servants or slaves; I have to clarify in this city) had made us radish and beef stew in a thick gravy, with fresh bread for scooping.
Most local foods in Tiers are made for scooping or to be eaten with the fingers. This practice saves money on utensils. A person just rinses off their personal eating cloth once a day and keeps it in their pocket to clean their fingers after meals. The fancier the cloth and the less they need to use it, the higher their status.
Shield sat beside me, chatting with me about the local festival schedule. She picked at her food, only pausing every few bites to touch her fingertips to a square of white lace. I suspect she was removing trace molecules of bread crumbs. Ugly, on the other hand, was wolfing down his stew and mopping his hands with what looked like an old dish rag.
Could this be the same man, I thought, who bows at the waist, never forgets to add “Your Grace,” and kisses a lady’s hands as if used to proper society? I mentioned as much to Shield under my breath, once I saw Ugly was engaged in a conversation with Tavel. She only smiled, and changed the subject.
“The fight in the street,” she began. I tensed. I’d been tensing every time I was reminded of killing the man with black hair, but I thought no one had noticed. Shield patted my hand, dispelling that illusion.
“It’s never easy,” she continued. “Taking a life, I mean. Never. It’s a heavy thing. It’s important you not start to blame yourself.”
I swallowed what tasted suddenly like soupy ashes, and took a drink. “I don’t blame myself,” I said, slowly settling my mug onto the table. “At least, I think I don’t. I’ve heard it gets easier.”
