They passed a group of youths, Sagae’s age or younger, playing some kind of game by the light of a tiny artificial sun that slowly orbited the playing field. A girl turned, hit a tall boy in the head with her stick, and waved at them wildly. “Hi, Owdyn!” she bellowed.
Without turning his head, Sagae raised a hand and waved it very slightly in the girl’s direction.
They were still in sight of the players’ light when Sagae stopped in front of a plain door to a large, sprawling building. In the distance, Maweth could see identical buildings flanking it on either side. “This is Green Hall,” Sagae said as he opened the unlocked door. “Situated in-between Yellow Hall and Blue Hall. Like the colour spectrum. The University founders were not individuals of great originality or creativity, I fear. Students fill out rather tedious personality exams upon their admittance to the University which will then determine and dictate which Hall they will reside in, and attend classes with. It’s all based on an highly antiquated system of personal characteristics and on the fact that the University heads are oblivious to the fact that frequently, the people who disagree the most are the ones who are the most similar. Only graduate students live in Green Hall, however. Students under the age of majority for their species must wear their Hall colours at all times. And monitors will as well, if they’re on duty.” With this statement he nodded to a pair of young women sitting across from each other in a pair of uncomfortable looking chairs, playing cards.
Maweth’s eyes swivelled to them automatically. One was dark, wearing her black hair piled into an ornate knot at the top of her head. She wore a dark-green shirt that would have been revealing if she had anything to reveal, and a white skirt with green flowers on the hem that fell to her feet. She kicked at it and smiled at the men. “Hello, Owdyn-love,” she said cheerfully. “Who’s your new friend?”
Sagae halted to stare at the woman, and Maweth halted by necessity. It was that or run the young man over.
He removed his badge from one pocket and showed it to the dark girl. “Inspector Shomair Maweth, Ciddryn police.”
“Ooh, Owdyn, you do have a sense of adventure somewhere in that cold little body of yours,” she giggled and flashed Maweth an impish smile. Sagae rolled his eyes and said nothing.
“We’ll have to report this,” said the other girl. “You know the rules, Owdyn.”
Maweth turned to stare at the other girl. She was looking at her cards, not at the men, and tapping the corner of one thoughtfully. She had the sort of body that would have brought males and females of a certain disposition flocking to vid houses. Her hair was black with two blue streaks and was cut in the short, untidy way that Maweth generally saw on cops. She wore a baggy, moss-green shirt, and well-patched jeans that may have been blue, once upon a time. Her nails were short, bitten, and had oddly coloured grime beneath them. Maweth stared for a bit, taking in the incongruities of the vid model body and the clothing, recognizing someone, after a moment’s confusion, who had been given something in life they neither needed nor wanted, and was doing their best to counteract it.
There was something very familiar about the girl, and he tried to place it, only to be distracted by the sound of the dark girl’s voice.
“But Ryan, we can’t put in any reports until the morning. We can’t leave our post.”
“Of course,” the model girl said, her fingers moving toward a card, then stopping.
“Are you going to see Deo and Cui, Owdyn-cutie?”
Sagae gave a slight nod.
The dark girl giggled, clasping her cards to her chest. “Give them kisses for us, sweetie!”
“Speak for yourself, please, Anja.”
Sagae began walking away without giving any kind of response to the two girls, and Maweth followed, wandering up next to him. “Friends of yours?”
Sagae snorted loudly, surprisingly expression, and made his way into an open elevator, pressing the button for the top floor before leaning against a pane of glass and shutting his eyes for a brief rest. Maweth did the same, only opening his eyes when Sagae jabbed him in the ribs.
They ended up outside a nondescript door among a hallway of identical nondescript doors. Apparently, if you wanted to be there, you knew how to get there, and that was that. The University founders, Maweth decided, were paranoid bastards.
He almost found himself liking them.
Sagae knocked on the door.
It opened.
The figure standing in the doorway was not Deo DyBane. This was immediately evident because Maweth knew Deo DyBane was not an elf.
The elf who was not Deo DyBane was quite short, even for an elf, but that was probably because he appeared to be on the verge of puberty. He had a tangle of dark-brown hair that fell in his eyes and down his back. His eyes were very large, even for an elf, and slanted. They were an odd shade of green that looked like it was being seen through a screen of smoked glass. There was a triad of scars under each eye. Corrective surgery was rare in elves but, Maweth supposed, not unheard of. He was wearing a bright green shirt with a low neckline and no sleeves.
And he broke into a huge grin when he saw Sagae standing in the hall. “Owdyn! To what do I owe the honour of this visit?” The elf’s voice was full of unashamed joy and was high, and slightly feminine, the voice of a youth whose voice hadn’t broken yet. He spread his arms wide and seemed about to embrace Sagae when the young man put once hand firmly against the elf’s forehead, effectively stopping him.
Sagae looked at Maweth out of the corner of his eye. It wasn’t quite a pleading expression. But it was close.
Maweth sighed and pulled his badge out. “Inspector Shomair Maweth, Ciddryn police. I’m looking for Deo DyBane. Is he here?”
The elf slowly lowered his arms, giving Maweth a very disgruntled look. “Yeah. The prick’s here. Come on in,” he said with all the friendliness of a knife in the stomach. He turned, stomping into what looked, to Maweth’s eyes, like the living room of a small apartment. As the elf grabbed a pillow off the floor, he wondered if the child was wearing anything besides a shirt. “Hold on a minute,” he said as he stalked to an adjacent door, pulled it open, and threw the pillow inside with surprising force.
There was a thump, a curse, and a thud as the pillow fell to the ground. “You little bastard!”
The elf danced away from the door making rude, childish faces. “Owdyn and a copper are here to see you!” he yelled in the general direction of the door before darting well out of reach.
The sound of swearing came from inside the room, and the door slammed shut.
“He’ll be out in a minute,” the elf translated the swears, “but he needs to put proper clothes on first, or something.” He began to make a beeline toward Sagae, who was putting his food box down.
Maweth grabbed the elf by his shoulder. “What’s your name, kid?”
The elf glared up at Maweth and tried to push the hand off. “Cuilean Cuinn. People usually just call me Cui, though.”
“Convenient,” Maweth murmured, sighing with relief inwardly. Most elves liked to make people pronounce as many incomprehensible syllables as possible when addressing them. “How old are you, Cui?”
“Forty-two,” he said, his squirming subsiding.
Maweth didn’t let go of Cui was he mentally did the calculations. The elf would be the equivalent of a twelve-or-thirteen-year-old human boy. He was dealing with a little prepubescent kid. Shit. He hated kids. “You a student here?”
“Graduate student,” he answered. Maweth could hear him bristle. “Specializing in mind control. And form alteration. With a minor in potions, computers, practical alchemy, and group magics.”
Maweth nodded. Poor elvish bastards were Guild – or University – property, practically, until they were legally adults. Cui had almost twenty years to wait. He needed something to occupy his time. They always did. “So you’re Mr. DyBane’s roommate, correct?”
Cui rolled his eyes at the ‘mister’. “Yeah.”
“So would you know if he left at any particular time?”
The look Cui gave Maweth was the special ‘what kind of idiot are you?’ look that only children could use so perfectly. “Sure.”
“So, where was Mr. DyBane between ten on the evening of the 12th and five in the morning of the 13th, High Spring?”
“I was here,” snapped DyBane, standing in the doorway, his arms crossed over nondescript clothing. He was a short man with pale blond hair and sharp green eyes. He wore the perpetually irritated expression of someone who spent too much time listening to idiots.
Maweth chose to ignore him. “Well, Cui?”
“He was here, yeah. He doesn’t go out much. He could, but he’s boring. Always stays inside at night, never goes out to do anything.”
“But Mr. DyBane is capable of Travelling – ”
“I’m a light sleeper. You share a room with a guy, you know when he comes in at night, you know if he has to get up and take a piss. Haven’t you ever shared a room with someone, Mr. Cop?”
“Mm,” Maweth said, noncommittally. He let the elf go. Cui was instantly sitting on the couch, pressing against Sagae’s side. Maweth turned his attention to DyBane. “Mr. DyBane, I’m Inspector Shomair Maweth – ”
There was a slight yelp of pain. Maweth looked over his shoulder to see Cui sitting on the floor, trying to pull what looked like a fork out of his thigh. Sagae appeared to have gone to sleep.
“ – with the Ciddryn police. I’m here to ask you a few questions.”
“And interrogate my roommate. Without a warrant. Owdyn, why’d you bring him here?”
From his position on the couch, Sagae shrugged. Cui had removed the fork from his thigh, slunk behind DyBane, and vanished into the other room.
“I was hoping, if you answered my questions now,” Maweth said flatly, “you could save me the trouble of the paperwork a warrant requires.”
DyBane gave a snort of laughter. Probably laughter, anyway. “And what am I suppose to have done that would require so much paperwork on your part, Inspector?”
“Killed a female elf on Spinoza Crescent. A junior partner in the Brass Orchid law firm.”
“Brass Orchid?” DyBane said. His eyebrows rose along with his voice.
“Apparently. Her name was Diamar Gjevre-Flood. Ninety-nine-years-old.”
“Never heard of her. Never even heard of the street. If she’s dead, I don’t see what it has to do with me. Talk to the Assassins.”
A muscle jumped on Maweth’s face. “The Assassins did not have a contract out on Miss Gjevre-Flood.”
DyBane blinked, very slowly. “Oh,” he said, as he assimilated this. “So you’re accusing me of murder, is that it?”
“Is that what the word is?”
“You don’t even know that? What kind of cop are you?”
“Deo,” came Sagae’s sleepy voice from the couch, “this isn’t like wherever your parents are from. People don’t get killed by anyone but Assassins. There may be accidents, but they’re just that – accidents. The result of carelessness, or stupidity. People in our world don’t go out with the intention of killing someone else. It’s unheard of. People aren’t burnt at the stake. Werewolves don’t eat people. Vampires don’t prey on virgins. You don’t stone someone for disagreeing with you. And people aren’t killed. Unless it’s by Assassins. And only if they’re getting paid.”
“Or an intended victim kills his Assassin,” Maweth added after Sagae’s speech was concluded.
Sagae shrugged, uncaring.
“Regardless,” DyBane snapped impatiently into the silence, “I haven’t killed anyone.”
“Is it true you can Travel, Mr. DyBane?”
“Walk? Yeah. What does that have to do with anything? And shouldn’t you be making notes or something?”
“I have a very good memory, Mr. DyBane. Besides, you haven’t told me anything I don’t already know.”
“Then maybe you’re asking the wrong questions,” DyBane snapped.
Maweth shut his eyes and counted. He didn’t count up to anything in particular. A disorderly sequence of unrelated numbers simply trooped through his mind, apparently operating at cross-purposes.
He opened his eyes.
“Due to the unusual nature of the crime in question, Mr. DyBane, it is thought that whoever committed it would have needed access to other worlds. Therefore, they would need the ability to Travel.”
The irritation on DyBane’s face was replaced by confusion. “But people Walk here all the time.”
“Yes, Mr. Sagae has made me aware that there are others from your world of origin who possess this talent – ”
“This is my world of origin, idiot. I mean you’ve got people Walking in and out all hours, constantly. It’s a big multiverse out there.”
Maweth’s stomach began to twist in on itself. “Mr. DyBane, how do you know this?”
“Walking’s basically just ripping a hole in the universe, wandering through, and stitching it back up again. Your mind has to be connected in a special way to do it without a machine. So it’s like,” he waved a hand, “a mental itch or something when someone else tears through. You can ignore it, but you always know it’s there. There’s been a lot of it going on for a couple months now.”
“A particularly busy time at the Guild of Historians?” Maweth suggested, not believing it for a second.
“It could be, I guess. It’s neater when it’s done with their machines. The holes are seamed up so neat they’re barely noticeable afterwards.”
But if they just used a machine . . . Once something had been built once, how hard was it to build again? The Assassins Guild was full of clever people who could build all sorts of things . . .
No, Maweth shook his head. That didn’t feel right. The . . . murder wasn’t stylish enough to have been done by an Assassins. It would be best to ignore that kind of wishful thinking.
“Can you find where these . . . holes have been opened up, Mr. DyBane?”
DyBane shrugged. “I suppose it’s possible, if you wanted to.”
“Then perhaps I could call on you again at a more convenient time and you could offer me your cooperation in my investigation, Mr. DyBane?”
The young man blinked. “That’s it?”
“For the moment.”
“But you want to come back?”
“If at all possible. Assuming I can find my way here again.” He looked at the apparently-slumbering form of Sagae, whose sunglasses were lying on his throat.
“I wouldn’t be averse to that, Inspector. If you give me a bit more warning next time . . .” DyBane sighed, looking very tired. “Perhaps during the day time?” he added, looking pointedly in the direction of his bedroom.
“Perhaps, Mr. DyBane.”
“Fine, fine.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Does this mean that you’ve decided I didn’t kill that elf?”
Maweth shrugged in a way that suggested any decisions he made were remaining his decisions until a later date. “Thank you for your help, Mr. DyBane. You’ve given me much to think about, and I hope the remainder of your evening is pleasant.” He nodded to DyBane, smiling at him sharply, and went to the door, pulling it open.
The door creaked slightly and Sagae appeared to wake up, settling his sunglasses back on his nose and standing. He picked up his food box, nodded in DyBane’s direction, and walked out the open door before Maweth. Sighing, Maweth followed.
“Is that cop gone, Deo?” Cui asked, peeking out from the bedroom.
“Yes.”
“And you aren’t arrested?” The elf sounded distinctly disappointed.
“Not yet, Cui.”
“Shame. Where’d Owdyn go?”
“With the cop.”
“You don’t think they’re – ” his voice took on a panicked note.
“Who knows.” Deo shrugged and lifted a pillow from the couch, turning and hurling it at Cui’s face. “Go to sleep, brat. What Owdyn does is none of your concern.”
Cui spit out a mouthful of feathers. “You throw like a girl,” he snapped sulkily and went back into the bedroom, slamming the door behind him.
On the main floor, the two women were still sitting in their chairs, playing cards. Neither of them bothered to look up as Sagae went past them and out the door.
The thought passed through Maweth’s mind briefly that the young man might have no intention of waiting for him, but he chose to ignore it. He had to be thorough, even if DyBane seemed more likely to kill his roommate than the late Gjevre-Flood.
“Still hard at work, ladies?”
“Yes, Inspector,” said the one called Anja with a light laugh.
“How long are you expected to sit here for?”
“From after supper until just before breakfast.”
“Don’t you take breaks? It must be very dull, just sitting there for hours on end, after all.”
“We manage,” snapped Ryan.
“There’s two of us, so that one can go stretch her legs or get something to eat while the other one stays here. That’s why monitors are always in pairs,” Anja expanded cheerfully.
“And are you two the only monitors for Green Hall?”
“No. There’s four monitors to a Hall – ”
“Anja, you don’t need to tell him everything – ”
“We alternate with Will Fay and Amarinus Goodhand.”
“How often?”
“Every three days.”
Maweth licked his lips carefully. “So, would you be able to remember if you were on duty on the twelfth of High Spring?”
“If you felt like using your brain, Inspector, you could probably form a fairly clear idea of whether or not we were on duty,” Ryan said, chewing on a fingernail.
“Except he doesn’t know how many days we’ve been on duty, Ryan.”
“No harm in making him work for it, dear.”
Anja rolled her eyes. “I’m pretty sure we were on duty that night, Inspector. I can check the schedule and ask Will, if you like.”
“That would be most helpful,” Maweth said, walking past them. “And thank you for your cooperation.”
He let the door slam shut on the argument that was just beginning inside, and came face-to-face with Sagae.
The boy took a step back, pushed his sunglasses up his nose, grinned, and set off without a word. He did not walk to any of the buildings, but lead Maweth back to the hole in the wall behind the bushes.
He looked amused, expectant, and rather smug.
Maweth sighed. “I wonder if it would be possible to contact you again on this matter, Mr. Sagae?”
“Of course, Inspector Maweth. It instills one with such a great sense of civic pride to be able to aid an officer of the law in his pursuit of justice.” He paused his monologue briefly to search in his pocket. Maweth kept the food box from falling to the ground by bracing one hand against it as the boy looked. “Ah, here we are. I don’t have much use for the things, but I suspect I make better use of them than you do.” He carefully lay the contact chip on top of the box. Maweth took it and slid it into the pocket with his credit fob. “Do feel free, Inspector, to contact me any time. I feel like I could learn quite a lot from you.” He turned to go. “I do hope your unfortunate partner hasn’t hurt herself in you . . . absence, Inspector. And have a good evening.”
Maweth watched the boy go, kicked the thorny shrubbery once or twice, and got down on all fours with a resigned sigh.
Malerin was sitting on the ground, banging the back of her head on the gate, when bits of the darkness slowly revealed themselves to be Shomair Maweth, buckling his breastplate back on.
She fumed. “Where have you been?” she snarled once he was near enough to appreciate the force of her anger.
He blinked, very slowly, and stared down at her. “I elected to investigate the university grounds by less orthodox means.”
Getting slowly to her feet, Malerin paused to stare at Maweth. There was dirt on his breastplate, mud and grass stains on his pants, and an interesting collection of foliage in his short hair.
She decided she didn’t want to know what the precinct lunatic considered unorthodox. “You could have thought to tell me, Maweth. We’re partners. We’re supposed to work as a team. That’s the entire point.”
Maweth rubbed at his ear, wondering how someone could be so loud without actually raising their voice. “But you were doing such a good job keeping the porter occupied.”
“Dammit, Maweth, I am not a professional distraction! The next time we go to investigate something, we both go, understand? I’m your – ” She halted abruptly.
Technically she was his superior. He hadn’t been in Captain Iaslea’s division for a month, while she’d been there almost a year. But that was only because until then he’d been a captain . . .
She gritted her teeth.
“You’re my what, Malerin?”
“Partner!” she snapped sulkily. “Let’s get back to the city.”
Maweth slid his hands into his pockets and rocked back on his heels, staring down the dark road. A tight smile twisted his lips. “Lead the way, Inspector.”
“So, Owdyn, do you particularly feel like explaining why you decided to allow a bloody cop into my rooms the other night?” Deo asked, contemplating the ceiling of Owdyn’s room.
“Maybe Owdyn was feeling particularly civic and kindhearted the other night,” Cui suggested from the floor. He tweaked one of the arms of the homunculus he was working on and swore when it singed his eyebrows.
“Killjoy doesn’t even have a police department, and that nosy, gloomy bastard was from Ciddryn. Mabe he was drunk.”
“Owdyn! How could you get drunk and not invite me to watch?” Cui scowled, sucking on his burnt fingers.
“Shut up and do your homework, Cui,” Deo sighed.
“I wasn’t drunk,” Owdyn said, not moving his gaze from the computer screen. “It would have seemed suspicious if I had been overly uncooperative with the good inspector. Besides, he struck me as a remarkably interesting individual. Quite devious, for a police officer. Did you know he ditched his own partner and left her dealing with Sulph at the gate while he found your hole in the wall?” Deo grunted slightly in response. “I’m sure he doesn’t think you killed the unfortunate Ms. Gjevre-Flood for a moment, Deo.” He clicked his tongue. “A very bitter and disillusioned man, or so he seemed to me. Also,” he tore his gaze away from the computer screen very briefly to smile at Deo and Cui, “he bought me a meal for my trouble.”
“I can’t imagine you settling for a single meal, Owdyn.” Deo pulled a loose thread out of the carpet and glared at it.
Owdyn shrugged, returning his attention to the computer.
There was an explosion.
Slowly, Owdyn turned his chair around to stare at the rapidly dissolving cloud of blue-grey smoke.
Deo put one hand over his nose and mouth, coughing violently.
After the smoke cleared, Owdyn’s eyebrows rose inquisitively in Cui’s direction. The elf sneezed and stared unhappily at the pile of singed clay and copper wire on the floor. He poked at it and got a violent shock in response. His dark hair stood slightly on end.
“I don’t know why you don’t do that stuff in the lab with those other alchemy nuts,” Deo grunted, wiping his wrist across his nose.
“Haven’t been allowed in without supervision since that explosion back in Mid Winter,” Cui answered sulkily. “Fascist bastards. Probably have anti-elf sentiments.”
“Or it may have something to do with the fact that the explosion landed seventeen other students in the hospital. And the professor is still there. And they haven’t found anyone suicidal enough to fill in.”
Owdyn sighed and turned back to his computer.
Deo worried at a bit of grime under his fingernail. “Just try not to blow up Owdyn’s room. And clean that mess up.”
Cui made a rude gesture at Deo, stuck his tongue out, and went to stand behind Owdyn, peering curiously at the computer screen. “What’re you doing, Owdyn?” he asked, leaning forward and resting his chin on the young man’s shoulder.
“Research, Cui,” Owdyn said absently as he brought his elbow up, slamming it into Cui’s jaw. “You’re welcome to clean yourself up in the bathroom.” Solid, blunt fingers continued flying over the keyboard as Cui muttered something about ‘the pain of love’ and rubbed his jaw. “Our Inspector Maweth has a very interesting past indeed, Deo.” Thin lips spread into a humourless smile. “I think it’s well worth a bit of discomfort on your part to keep in touch with him. We are young men of an academic and inquiring nature, after all. I believe there is a lot to be learned from Inspector Maweth.” He slid a chip into the computer, transferring the chunks of text that flickered across the screen onto the chip. Deo craned his head on the couch, but the words were too small to read. Owdyn removed his sunglasses and looked at Cui. He sighed, thin smiling vanishing. “Go take a damn bath and stop getting ash on my carpet, Cuilean.”
After Malerin and Maweth arrived in Ciddryn, with Malerin muttering under her breath about blisters, they agreed, without actually saying anything, to return to their respective homes and sleep. Precincts and paperwork, they both decided, could wait until the next night shift started.
Maweth thought it would do Iaslea good to sweat for a bit, assuming he was even in. When he entered the precinct in the evening, he thought he may have let Iaslea progress from being simply hot to boiling.
The captain grabbed him before he’d taken three steps inside their division’s room and dragged him into the office, letting the door slam behind him. Maweth stood at attention and saluted sharply before lowering his hand and adjusting the fabric around his throat where Iaslea had grabbed him. “Good evening, Captain.”
Iaslea slammed his hands on the desk. Several papers fell to the floor. Maweth watched blandly as he appeared to quiver. “It is not, and I want to make this perfectly clear, Inspector Maweth, a good evening. It is so far from a good evening that I lack the words to describe it. Where were you and Inspector Malerin last night, Inspector Maweth?”
Maweth toyed with the idea of answering with ‘Out inspectoring’ and quickly discarded it. There was a time and a place for intentional stupidity, and while Canathorn Iaslea’s office seemed to be the ideal place, the way he looked near exploding suggested it was the very wrong time.
“We were investigating one suspect, Deo DyBane, as per your instructions, sir.”
“Inspector Malerin left me a message that said you were going to start conducting the investigation yesterday morning.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then why, Inspector, are you only just reporting in?”
“Mr. DyBane is a remarkably elusive young man, sir.”
Iaslea snorted. “Very well. Then perhaps you’d rather explain why Keel brought me a transcript of yesterday’s expenses when I came in, which contained an entire damn banquet apparently being charged to your fob?”
“Necessary expenses, sir.”
“In Killjoy?”
“Sir.”
“It’s coming out of your pay, Inspector.”
“Sir.”
For a moment, Iaslea appeared to wrestle with himself. Then, with an abrupt growl, one of him won, and he shoved a heavy file in Maweth’s direction. “Ipo brought these to me last night,” he snapped, sitting down behind his desk as heavily as an elf could.
Maweth reached out and flipped open the folder. “Where was this?”
“On Newton. Number 2060.”
“Does anyone else know?”
“Not yet.”
Maweth held a photograph up to the light, watching it reflect and dance across the glossy surface. The colours were impressively vibrant. It was very lifelike, for an image of a dead person printed on a piece of paper. He looked back in the folder. There were a lot of pictures. Only the impressively wealthy lived on Newton, and the houses tended to be massive. Ipo had tried to get everything.
There was a lot of red.
“They’re very good photographs, sir. Scout Ipo’s quite talented.”
Across the desk, Iaslea went green. “You sick freak . . .”
“I don’t suppose there was a contract out on this gentleman?”
“Not as far as I know, Inspector,” Iaslea managed to grit out through teeth he had clenched in an attempt to repress anger and, quite possibly, bile.
“Ah,” Maweth murmured softly, dropping the picture back with its mates.
Captain Iaslea made another presentation.
He wanted everyone to be fully aware of what Ipo had found, even fi no one knew what it meant.
He wanted it understood that the death of the elf, Gjevre-Flood, and the dwarf, Hyrim Kansack, were probably not connected in any way.
He wanted everyone to double the efforts of their investigations.
He wanted things explained without citizens panicking.
He did not want news of Kansack reaching the press as the death of Gjevre-Flood had, and if he ever found out who had been talking, they would find themselves in a very painful situation indeed.
He would like Inspector Ai to please clean the vomit off the floor.
Iaslea’s staff sat in silence as they watched him stalk back into his office.
Keel busied herself with paperwork.
Ai, red-faced, mopped his last meal off the floor with a spare shirt.
Glori Inkster looked up from something he was doodling on his desk and chewed on the end of his pen for a minute, deep in thought. Then he smiled. “Anyone up for coffee?”
Malerin stared into the depths of her coffee. “Has anyone found anything out yet, then?” she asked.
The other members of Iaslea’s division shrugged, except for Ai, who still looked green, and Maweth, who appeared to have fallen asleep.
Inkster waved a hand, sipping his coffee. “The problem is the Guilds are really reluctant about letting outsiders in. Me and Womble had to make an appointment.”
“So did we.” Driftwood drummed his fingers on a desk, ignoring his coffee and staring at the pictures of Kansack gloomily.
“If we had some people in this division from the Guild of Historians, or an engineer, we’d be set. It’s easy for members to get in.” Womble scowled. “For everyone else, it’s top secret, hush-hush, even if they don’t have anything interesting to hide.”
“Paranoid buggers.” Inkster leaned back in his chair. “Of course, they’re always willing to let potential members in . . .” he trailed off, looking hopefully at the others.
Malerin blinked. “But that would be dishonest.”
“And pointless,” Womble snapped. “Do you have any children, Malerin?”
“Well, no . . .”
“Inkster?”
“Hell no!”
“And I know I don’t have any. Verity? Driftwood?”
Both men shook their heads.
“And I don’t really care if Ai or Maweth have brats. So your devious plan is pointless, Inkster, as your average potential Guild member still sleeps with a nightlight on.”
“We could – ”
“Shut up, Inkster. We aren’t getting brats involved in this.” Womble threw herself behind her desk, kicking it.
Without opening his eyes, Maweth brought his coffee cup to his lips and drank deeply. He lowered it again before clearing his throat.
The room went tensely silent.
“You haven’t mentioned how you and the good captain are getting along with inquiries at the Assassins, Inspector Verity.”
Everyone turned to look at Verity, who hunched himself behind the desk. “Well, you see, it’s . . . They’re very busy, important people . . .”
Malerin nodded. Whatever else you said, very quietly, about the Assassins, it was impossible to deny that they were busy individuals, far more important than any cop, and were hardly inclined to welcome a pair of cops investigating mysterious deaths with open arms. “If an Assassin did kill Gjevre-Flood and Kansack, maybe we should just leave them alone. Guild law, and all, I’m sure they have some way of dealing with . . . this kind of thing.”
The room was absolutely silent as everyone tried to envisage what kind of punishment the leader of the Assassins Guild – wonderful people, backbone of the city, truly honourable ladies and gentlemen – would inflict on someone who didn’t follow the rules.
“Would someone give him a bag or something?” Maweth asked as Ai began to gag.
Driftwood silently passed Ai a garbage can.
“So another person is dead, and we don’t have a thing. Great.” Womble kicked her desk again.
“What about you and Maweth, Phantast? Was that university any easier to get into than a Guild?”
Malerin blushed. “Well – ”
“Impossible to find, nearly, and impossible to get into. No way to even contact the university heads. It’s like they’re enclosed in their own little world out there. I think the DyBane kid’s a dead end.”
“You’re kidding me. You guys couldn’t even get yourselves an appointment?”
Maweth drained his cup. “I’m sorry, Inspector Inkster, but my hearing’s not what it once was. I could have sworn I just heard you volunteering to break into a heavily guarded piece of private property that happens to be full of highly trained sorcerers.”
Inkster gritted his teeth. “Cowardice is no excuse, you lunatic.”
Maweth stood up, wandered over to Inkster’s desk, and sat on the edge in front of the young inspector. “No, it’s not.” His hand flew out, catching Inkster under his chin and slamming him back into the wall. “Maybe I’ll listen to your criticism when you have something more to show for your work than an appointment.”
The other inspectors were all on their feet, reaching for weapons.
Keel moved to turn on the comm and signal Iaslea.
“I don’t recommend doing that if you want to keep your fingers, Miss Keel. Ai, please put that gun back, I don’t think anyone wants you to see me bleeding all over the floor. Isn’t that right, Inspector Inkster?”
“Grk,” Inkster said.
“I think that was a yes. No sudden movements, anyone. Who knows what I might do to dear Glori, if I’m surprised.”
Malerin watched in growing horror as Maweth wrapped his hands around Inkster’s neck and moved his head close to Inkster’s ear. His lips moved and Inkster’s dark eyes widened.
Then Maweth let go of Inkster and stepped back, watching as the young man frantically massaged his throat. When he was convinced that he wasn’t going to die, Inkster nodded at Maweth.
Maweth returned the nod, turned on his heel, and strode out of the room as though nothing had happened.
“The man’s a lunatic!”
“Captain Iaslea should get him transferred somewhere else!”
“Where?”
“Anywhere that isn’t here!”
“Maybe I should just go back to being a teacher.”
“And that’s less dangerous than working with Mad Maweth?”
“Are you okay, Glori?” Malerin asked, crouching in front of Inkster.
He nodded, carefully. “Fine, Phantast. I’m fine.”
“He could have killed you!”
“He didn’t. Besides, you should be more worried about yourself. You’re his partner, after all.”
“Yes, but he was strangling you, not me!”
“It’s okay. He didn’t squeeze that hard. I don’t think he’d let himself kill another cop, anyway, even if he is a loony.”
Malerin chewed on a fingernail. “We should tell the captain.”
“No!” Inkster snapped, then relaxed. “No. Don’t do that. Iaslea would have him demoted, or transferred.”
“Good! He deserves to be kicked out of the force. You said the higher-ups were too forgiving of this kind of thing. He should have bene taken off the force years ago.”
“He’s insane, Phantast, but I think he controls it okay.”
“Strangling you is not a sign of self-control, Glori!”
Inkster rubbed his jaw. “It’s fine, okay? Just let it go. I don’t know about you, but I don’t fancy looking into this mess that Iaslea’s dumped on us without that lunatic. Just keep an eye on him or something, Phantast.”
Maweth stalked through the street, mind aflame. Another person was dead, this time a dwarf. No one cared about dwarves. They were quiet, hard-working people, who didn’t make a habit of pretending they were better than everyone else.
He hadn’t been killed in the same way Gjevre-Flood had been, not exactly. About all the two murders had in common was the amount of blood and the fact that everything in Ipo’s pictures seemed to point far away from the Assassins. Although a young Assassin, who had recently graduated, might be more enthusiastic than an experienced member of the Guild.
Iaslea hadn’t said whether or not a contract had been out on Kansack.
Why?
Because, like Gjevre-Flood, there was no contract out? Or had Iaslea simply not taken the time to check for information about Kansack before dropping the dead dwarf on his inspectors.
There had been weeks between Ipo’s delivery of the pictures of Gjevre-Flood, weeks in which Iaslea had been digging for some kind of relevant information on the elf.
Kansack was new, fresh, and a complete enigma.
Maweth paused, stared unseeing into the darkness and began walking backward until he was in front of the graffiti encrusted com box.
As he waited for the box to be vacated, he read about how H. Goodleaf enjoyed being sodomized by men, learned that there was an ongoing war between the younger members of the Guild of Musicians and the Guild of Engineers, and was told that ‘Ron G. sucks elves’.
He wondered if Mr. Goodleaf and young Ron had ever met, and if either belonged to the Musicians or Engineers.
A young woman left the box, looking harassed, and stopped to stare at Maweth as though he had grown an extra head as she watched. Then she hurried away.
In his mind, Maweth filed the mental image of the rodent-like face under ‘petty criminal’ and, tentatively, under ‘violation of marriage contract’ as he went into the box and shut the door behind him. He searched in his pockets for several minutes before finding the contact chip. He flicked it into the com and waited patiently until it crackled into life.
He leaned back against the side of the box. “Mr. Sagae, would it e possible for you to be in Ciddryn within an hour?”
Maweth was beginning to get the depressingly sobering feeling that if he continued using Sagae as a source of information, he would eventually become familiar with every dining establishment in Ciddryn. Across the table, Sagae studied the menu of Leah’s with intense, loving eyes.
Running a finger under his collar and undoing it, Maweth knew he should have argued when Sagae had requested that they meet at Leah’s. It was bad form to let the snitch control things, although Sagae was not, technically, a snitch. The restaurant on the corner of Newton and Brust required reservations, but Sagae had calmly assured the inspector that reservations would pose no problem. It had a dress code; Maweth had been forced to go to his small, rarely occupied apartment, discard his uniform, and put on an old set of semi-casual but mostly formal dress clothes, which brought back depressing memories and a dull sort of surprise when he realized they still fit perfectly.
Most importantly, however, Leah’s was expensive. Maweth could only hope that Iaslea would be too busy obsessing over the Assassins and the death of Kansack to notice or care that the entirety of the twelfth precinct’s budget was being used to feet a young computer programmer.
A girl came over, dressing in a too-short and extravagantly frilly dress that contained more black lace than Maweth had ever seen in one place. He could only tell she was a waitress by the little computer she balanced in the palm of her hand and a needle-thing writer held between two fingers. She smiled, showing the bright teeth beneath plum coloured lips. “Can I get you gentlemen anything?” she asked brightly, looking at Sagae. In deference to the restaurant’s dress code, he had removed his sunglasses and wore a pale grey suit.
“I’ll just have coffee.”
The waitress – she couldn’t be more than sixteen, Maweth decided, and probably a member of the Actors Guild – looked startled, but not to the extent that she ruined her makeup or hair. “Ah, what kind of coffee, sir?”
“Cheap coffee,” Maweth growled, passing her his menu.
The girl flushed uncomfortably and paused before taking Maweth’s menu to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. “Of course, sir,” she said rather jerkily. “And for you, sir?” she looked back at Sagae, brightening hopefully.
Sagae shot the menu with a slight click and passed it to the girl. “I’ll have everything. You can bring things one at a time, along with the corresponding entries on the drinks menu.” He looked at Maweth, reaching for his water and taking a slow sip. “That suit looks nice on you, Shomair. A little bit out of date, as far as fashion goes, and not what I’d have chosen for you, but quite nice nonetheless.” Maweth didn’t blink. Sagae looked at the waitress with an expression of slight puzzlement. “Why are you still here?”
The girl blushed, stammered a quiet answer, and walked away quickly, her shoes clicking as she went.
“Was that really necessary, Mr. Sagae?”
“As an underhanded investigator of what passes for the law, Inspector Maweth, I should think you would be appreciative of such minor subterfuge. This is one of the finest establishments in the country, a haven for lovers, and not a place where a police inspector is a welcome addition to the atmosphere the owners are hoping to project. Regardless of how much we will be spending, I doubt we would be allowed here very long if we did anything to disturb the other patrons. Besides,” Sagae smirked thinly, “it is a good suit.” He set his glass down and put his chin in one hand. “So what is it you wished to discuss with me at such short notice, Inspector? Something which you would not trust to be communicated via a public com box, but you are certain none will notice when it is hidden in plain sight?”
“Yeah.” A quick look around the restaurant assured Maweth that no one was paying them any attention. “This doesn’t go to any media, understand? If I find out you’ve leaked a word of this to anyone, I will kill you.” He said it with a sort of bland disinterest, speaking in a way someone else might concerning the weather when making small talk with someone they didn’t like very much.
Sagae nodded calm acceptance of this simple, unchangeable fact.
“There’s been another murder. A dwarf. Living here, on Newton.” Sagae’s eyebrows rose minutely. “It was quite recently, no more than two days ago. Not the same way, but it had the same look to it. Not a professional job, very messy. The dwarf’s name was Hyrim Kansack, and that’s all I know.”
Sagae didn’t say anything as a waitress came with a glass of dark wine, a tray of mussels and scallops under a covering of thick butter and herbs, and a cup of coffee. As she lay her things down, Sagae met Maweth’s eyes, one eyebrow raised. It said: So what do you want me for?
Maweth took a sip of coffee, waiting until the waitress disappeared before saying: “I want you to find me any information you can on this Kansack. Anything and everything. Especially if there’s some connection between him and Gjevre-Flood. What Guild he belonged to, where he was from, what he did, if he had a mistress or kids, or what his favourite colour was. Anything.”
As he finished off a basket of spiced bread, Sagae finally answered. “It’s worrying, to be sure, and I must admit to some confusion as to why you’re coming to me, Inspector. Surely you have many highly trained individuals employed at your station to deal with such matters. I would hate to think I was putting anyone out of a job, helping you free of charge as you suggested I do.”
“This is hardly free, Mr. Sagae, unless you’re planning to pay for all this yourself,” Maweth said vaguely, looking bored.
“As you say, Inspector. Nevertheless, I do wish to know the reason that you are seeking my aid. It surely cannot be because you delight so in my company. Could it be that you have some reason to distrust your co-workers? Or is there something you aren’t telling me that would make these worthy individuals that you work with somehow reluctant to give you aid or do you favours?”
“Inspectors can’t give orders to recorders. They only have to do the research their captains request of them.”
Sagae began eating a small plate of sweet pastries wrapped in skins of thin sweetened cheese. They oozed. Maweth thought he could hear the sound of Sagae’s arteries slamming shut.
“Canathorn Iaslea’s scared by this mess. He’s young, he’s not experienced enough, and if he doesn’t think of it on his own he sure as hell won’t be willing to take my suggestions.”
Sagae nodded calmly and began eating little things that looked like legs. Maweth waited for a minute, drained his coffee cup, stood up, and went to piss. When he came back, Sagae was eating shrimp, calamari, and garlic toast while finishing off a glass of Fensfjord wine. Maweth’s coffee cup had been filled.
“The thing is, normal people don’t become cops. Little kids in schools, before they’re sent to Guilds, don’t dream about being cops. Assassins, musicians, actors, dancers, sorcerers, inventors, even lawyers. That’s what kids want, normal kids. You become a cop if you fail. If you’re a basket brought brat with no talent in the guild you got dumped in, then you become a janitor, or a waiter, a servant, or a cop. Jobs people don’t want to do. Maybe you end up with them because of some misplaced sense of justice, but reality will beat that out of you right quick. You get people working in a station not because they’re competent, but because they’re less incompetent doing what they do for the police than they would be at what they were raised to.” He lapsed into silence.
Sagae sucked some unidentified meat off a bone and wiped his mouth. “Inspector, that was truly a stirring speech. I can’t imagine why the police don’t’ have you doing recruiting vids. I’m almost tempted to abandon the academic life and put in an application myself.” He wasn’t sarcastic; sarcasm would have required too much effort. “While I dig into the history and life of this unfortunate dwarf, would you like me to look for information on the good captain?” Maweth looked up sharply from his coffee, eyes narrowed. “It seems to me that he is currently a hindrance to your investigation. You might have an easier time if he were demoted, or transferred somewhere out of the way.”
A very small part of Maweth turned this thought over in his mind. “I have no doubt you could get Iaslea out of the way, although I can’t imagine you devoting as much energy to the task as you did to hacking the restaurant’s reservation database.”
Inspector Iaslea, forced to endure Malerin’s chirpy enthusiasm, the sincerity and hope that reality had yet to chip away, his mind whispered. Recorder Iaslea, fetching coffee and cleaning up Ai’s vomit, running everyone’s errands, it suggested. Boy Canathorn, on his knees in front of Commander Shomair Maweth, naked to his waist, sucking Maweth’s cock and swallowing his cum, begging for more . . .
Maweth frowned, fingers tightening around his coffee cup, and shook his head. Those weren’t his. The thoughts slunk away, like a dog with its tail between its legs, ashamed at having been found out.
“No. I know everything I care to know about Captain Iaslea. There’s no point in getting him out of the way, some other fool will just take his place.” Because Commander Ajani wouldn’t be letting him climb back up to captain any time soon, and he might not know how to make Iaslea’s hypothetical replacement twitch.
Sagae shrugged – Whatever works for you, it said – and continued eating.
Maweth drank cup after cup of coffee and got up twice more to pee.
Chewing on something’s tentacle, Sagae looked at the clock, and when the girl came back, he set down his fork. “Could you please have this and everything else boxed up and waiting for me outside? It was quite delightful, do give my compliments to the chef, but I fear we have somewhere else to be. It would deeply pain me to leave a morsel of your delicious food behind.” He smiled and the girl blushed, although Sagae seemed ignorant of the effect his lazy smile had on her. “Shomair, the dramatically menacing gentleman across the table, will be ecstatic to pay you.”
The girl turned and looked at Maweth, holding a hand out for the credit fob. Maweth stared back, his gaze flat and joyless, and let the fob drop into her palm.
Swiftly, the girl closed her fingers around the fob and scurried away.
“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were full.”
Sagae didn’t answer, and chewed industriously at the last of the tentacles.
Maweth finished his coffee and stood up, calmly exiting the restaurant, and, after wiping his mouth, Sagae followed.
Outside, two finely dressed men – boys and waiters – stacked the airtight boxes that contained the remains of Sagae’s elaborate meals, all the dishes he hadn’t been served, and all the wines and beers, liquors and sugary fizzy things he hadn’t sampled. One of the boys, the shorter of the two, with night black skin and a white suit, paused to look at Sagae and give him Maweth’s credit fob. He had a smattering of acne across the bridge of his nose and on one cheek. Sagae passed Maweth the fob silently.
“You going to be able to get all this stuff where it needs to be, mister?” the taller of the two asked. A half-elf with almond eyes and dark hair held back in a ponytail. His rather mulish expression and race screamed ‘basket brought’ to Maweth. He was probably in his early thirties. The other kid looked fourteen.
Sagae stared thoughtfully at the dark sky. “I think we’ll be fine. I’ll send someone to come pick it up shortly. Thank you for your trouble.” Both adolescents shrugged, uncaring, and went back to the restaurant. When they were gone, Sagae caressed the top of one box, lovingly. “Ah, bliss. This will be such a comfort to me, in the days to come. Your generosity, Inspector, knows no bounds. And to show my gratitude, I will be content to do your dirty work. When and if I find something, and I am certain I can find something to your taste, I will contact you. I assume there is a way to contact even humble police inspectors at their place of honest toil?” Maweth nodded. “Excellent. Then, when information makes itself known, I will contact you. Should some well-meaning but ignorant secretary intercept my call, should I tell them I’m your scandalously youthful foreign boyfriend, or your illegitimate son by a lady of the evening?”
Maweth snorted. “Tell them you’re a snitch.”
Sagae grimaced and slid his glasses on. Slipping his hands into his pockets, he walked around the restaurant.
“How are you going to get back to the school?”
Grinning, Sagae extended a hand into the air, pointing one finger straight up. Maweth’s eyes followed it automatically.
DyBane, wearing a white t-shirt, loose grey pants, and an expression of near-terminal boredom on his face as he read a book held loosely in one hand. The other hand was being used to keep Cuilean Cuinn from falling off the roof, by means of holding the collar of a mottle green t-shirt. The elf boy was playing some kind of handheld game, his tongue wedged in the corner of his mouth. He hit the pause button and lowered it as soon as Owdyn was beneath them.
“You got DyBane to bring you?”
Sagae shrugged.
DyBane snapped, without lowering his book, “All for the good cause of removing me from your list of suspects, Inspector.”
“Of course. And the elf?”
Cui grinned and DyBane and Sagae both looked at Maweth, radiating disbelief. “We can’t just leave him behind.”
“Cui is Deo’s responsibility. Cui is, technically, not permitted to leave University grounds. However, Deo is not permitted to leave Cui, as a minor, unattended.” Sagae licked his lips. He shrugged and tapped his fingers on the side of his leg. The two young men weren’t telling him something, some important detail was being left out. “Of course, many elves of Cui’s age make themselves absent from University grounds on a regular basis. Cui just travels by a different route. And is always accompanied. Aren’t you, Cui?”
Cui nodded, shrugged off DyBane’s hand, and dropped his game before jumping off the roof, landing in a roll.
Maweth caught the game, staring at the confusing array of colourful symbols.
“Homework,” Cui said, scrambling to his feet, brushing himself off, and taking the game from Maweth’s fingers.
There was an irritable snort and DyBane hopped off the roof too, landing on his feet, and crouched, with his fingertips resting on the ground for a fleeting second. He stood gracefully, like a dancer, and brushed himself off as he straightened. The removal of dust from clothing and a bit of mortar from his hair seemed to be part of the dance. “Later, Inspector,” the sorcerer said, walking forward and vanishing, with Cui on his heels.
Sagae nodded at Maweth once, touched the side of his sunglasses, and followed the other two into nothingness.
“So they apparently know absolutely nothing about it,” Verity said, sipping his coffee. “About either of them, that is. No contracts out, the chief had never head of them before, and was quite surprised to hear of both deaths. He doesn’t watch the news, or something, I suppose. He said he’d be happy to make enquiries of Guild members for us, of course.”
“But that’s just a formality. He probably won’t do a damn thing,” Inkster said, trying to balance his pen on top of a stack of paperwork.
Verity scowled and slouched back in his chair.
“Anything else brilliant and enlightening to share with us, Verity?” Womble threw a ball of paper in the direction of Iaslea’s office.
,p>
“The chief said he’d arrest us for trespassing if we came nosing about the Guild again, appointment or not, unless we had something to flash besides our badges.”
The inspectors who’d been paying attention winced in sympathy. Legality was all fine, as long as it was working against people who weren’t you.
“It happens,” Womble said before tossing back the last of her coffee. “Those Assassins, though, are just snobs. They like to make people like us squirm.”
“They were probably telling the truth, though,” Malerin smiled uncertainly at the others. “Right?”
Womble shrugged. “Probably. Out of our hands, that part of it.” She flicked another paper ball off her desk, hitting Inkster in the side of the head. “Where have Ai and Driftwood got to?”
“Waiting for their appointment, probably,” Inkster removed the sticky wad of paper from his hair and dropped it in the garbage can by his desk.
“At this time of night?” Malerin frowned. The other three turned to look at the clock on the wall. “Maybe they were successful and found out some useful information,” she suggested.
“But decided to go out for a celebratory drink before reporting back in to save us all a lot of work?” Womble snorted and flicked a wad of paper at the clock.
“Guilds like to jerk cops around, I suppose,” Inkster said, going back to his paperwork.
A tense silence descended over the room as everyone mentally agreed to stop talking about the case for the moment, and focussed on doing the tedious work people only resort to in times of crisis. The sound of pens on paper, writers on metal and plastic, and fingers on keyboards filled the air.
Maweth walked out of the station and onto the street. It was deserted, except for a few boys and girls plying their trade. They ignored the cops.
He stared up at the sky, eyes drooping, and Malerin thought he was lost in some though, or starting to fall asleep.
“You should make an early night of it,” he said vaguely.
“What?”
“You don’t have to; it really doesn’t matter to me. It’s more of a suggestion than anything. If you don’t want to, if you want to stay here plowing through pointless paperwork, that’s fine too.”
“Why?”
“Because tomorrow we’re going to visit the Assassins Guild.”
“Verity and Captain Iaslea have already been there. Weren’t you listening? The Assassins know nothing.”
“Do you think that’s true? The Assassins have their fingers in everything in this city. They hold all the cards, and don’t even tell the rest of Ciddryn what game they’re playing.” Coming from Maweth, it sounded almost like poetry. “Either the Assassins are ignorant, inbred snobs who don’t know how to do an honest day’s work like the eloquent Womble was trying to suggest, or they’re backstabbing, power-hungry bastards who live off death. Which do you think it is, Inspector?”
“The backstabbing, power-hungry bas – the last one.”
“Do you really think something like this could be happening without them even hearing about it?”
“No . . .”
“Then we’re agreed. I’ll meet you at the Guild gates at ten.”
Malerin watched, head spinning, as Maweth shoved his hands into his pockets and walked off into the dark street, as though he hadn’t just planned to undermine the authority of his captain. She shook her head, went back to the station to sign out and put on her coat, then began the long walk back to her apartment.
Maweth wandered into a reception area that looked like something out of a high class hotel or resort. He walked with a slouch and looked at the gleaming decor with his usual bored expression fixed to his face. Malerin followed him, stepping inside and looking around warily, radiating the expectation that something deadly was going to shoot out of the wall and stick in her neck at any moment.
Looking over his shoulder, Maweth blinked with hypnotic slowness. “It would be bad business if they killed everyone as soon as they came in, Malerin.”
Behind a large, wooden reception desk, a dark-haired secretary coughed pointedly at this comment.
Malerin blushed and glared at Maweth’s back as he turned around again, going to peer down a corridor. “Maweth, I don’t think – ” she began, then shook her head, dismissing him from her thoughts for the moment. Instead, she made apologetic gestures to the secretary, a young, fashionably dressed man all in black. His chin was in his hands and he was glaring at Maweth with bright, irritable eyes, ignorant of Malerin’s attempt to apologize.
She cleared her throat to get his attention.
The secretary turned his head slowly, lowering his hands to the desk, and fixed Malerin with a sharp, disgruntled gaze. Behind the expression that made it look like he had smelled something incredibly unpleasant, he was quite attractive.
She blushed again and put her arms behind her back, straightening unconsciously. “Please excuse him, sir, he never takes his mind off the task at hand.”
The secretary made an irritable noise and shuffled some papers about on the desk. “And what job,” he asked, speaking with a clipped accent, “might that be?”
“Ah, we’re police inspectors. With the twelfth precinct. Of, um, the Ciddryn Police Force.”
“Cops,” the secretary said flatly, although one eyebrow quirked up in contemptuous amusement.
Malerin suppressed a sigh. “Yes, that’s right.”
“Could I see some identification then, sir?” he asked, turning on the computer in front of him. It emitted contented little beeps as he ran long, fine fingers over it.
“Of course,” Malerin murmured, removing her badge from one pocket. There was no point in correcting the secretary. It was impossible to tell if he even meant it as an insult. Something in his finely sculpted features suggested that he could make a simple ‘hello’, said in the friendliest manner, into an insult. She held her badge in front of his eyes, making him wince faintly. “Inspector Phantast Malerin.”
“And your inquisitive friend?”
“He’s Inspector Shomair Maweth.”
A frown creased the secretary’s brow as he digested this. “And what is this about? It can’t be about rent. The land and building have belonged to the guild for a hundred years, at least. And I’m sure there have been no unlawful disturbances conducted on guild property where it might upset our dear neighbours.” His voice was absent as he spoke, his fingers drumming a soft tattoo on the desktop. He no longer looked at her or the badge. Uncertainly, Malerin slipped it back into her pocket.
“There have been some violent, unexplained deaths occurring in the city of late – ”
she began, trying to look at the secretary’s monitor.
He leaned forward, effectively obscuring her view. “I am sure I cannot see what concern that is of the Assassins Guild, Inspector Malerin.”
“Well, we thought you might have some information that could help us – ”
“No.” The secretary frowned sharply, looking at Maweth out of the corner of his eyes. Puzzlement hovered on his features beneath the obvious annoyance. “A Captain Iaslea and an Inspector Verity were here at the beginning of the week, Inspector. They wanted to know about the same thing.”
“I know,” Malerin shot a more obvious and very annoyed look at the oblivious Maweth, who was leaning on the doorframe that lead into a brightly lit corridor. He seemed to be asleep. “But we thought – ”
“We had nothing to say to them, either, Inspector.” His lips curled back in a parody of a smile. “Guild Law pervades guild walls, Inspector. If you persist in this harassment, I will be forced to take very unpleasant measures. And that would be most unfortunate for you, Inspector.”
“I understand, but – ”
There was a sudden crash. It echoed from the corridor until it faded into quiet nothingness.
Malerin and the secretary jerked their heads around to look at Maweth accusingly.
The inspector opened an eye slightly and looked at them both. He gave a full body shrug as he straightened from his slouch against the doorframe before wandering into the corridor.
“Maweth, what on earth . . .” Malerin groaned, moving to follow him.
Simultaneously, the secretary pushed his chair back and stumbled to his feet, running after Maweth. “You can’t go in there without permission and an escort! Guild rules are – ” The secretary ran into Maweth’s side as the inspector turned around. One square hand moved out to catch the young secretary.
Maweth nudged the crumpled heap of the secretary’s body on the floor with his toe, a bland expression on his face.
Frozen in the doorway, Malerin stared at her partner, aghast. “Maweth! You can’t kill an assassin who hasn’t been sent after you! It’s against the law! Unless there’s a contract out on you! Is there a contract out on you? You really should have told me if there was a contract out – ”
“Shut up.” Maweth kicked the secretary, rolling him onto his back. “There aren’t any contracts out on me. He isn’t dead.” He looked at Malerin’s panicked face. “Haven’t you ever seen a dead body before?”
“N-no . . .”
“Huh.” Maweth shrugged dismissively and turned to watch what had made the noise that started the entire mess.
Still shaking slightly, Malerin crept next to him and stared in confusion at the picture before him.
A boy was crouched in the middle of the floor, amidst shards of broken glass and oddly coloured puddles that reflected light in strange ways. His clothing was all black with the occasional stain and his hair was a pale sort of brown sticking out at odd angles in a way that was highly reminiscent of a dandelion after a rain storm. He was trying to clean the mess up, but every movement only seemed to make it worse. Maweth watched the boy work with his arms crossed over his breastplate.
“Aren’t you going to offer to help him?” Malerin shot Maweth an irritated look before kneeling on the floor next to the boy, smiling at him carefully. “Hello there. What’s your name?”
The boy looked at Malerin over his shoulder with round grey eyes. Round would have been a good word to sum the boy up. He had a round, pale face, and was built in the way that a loving mother would call big-boned, while fellow students would describe him as fat. He worried his lower lip uncertainly with his teeth, hands freezing with a piece of wet glass dangling from gloved fingers. “Uh . . . Fast. Nicothodes Fast.”
“It’s very nice to meet you, Nicothodes,” Malerin smiled. “I’m sorry if Inspector Maweth over there startled you,” Fast looked at Maweth, eyes beginning to resemble small diner plates, “but why don’t you let me give you a hand with that?” She moved to pick up one of the larger bits of glass. Fast jumped slightly and caught her hand with his elbow, blocking it.
“I’d just let him carry on with what he’s doing if I were you, Malerin.” Maweth said, still standing behind and above the boy, unmoving. “Unless you happen to be remarkably resistant to the fourteen deadliest poisons.”
Malerin froze and Fast went back to work, saying quietly: “Bautox, distilled lich liver, and arlite only work on trolls, sir. She’d be resistant to those, sir.”
“Quite so,” Maweth nodded while Malerin slowly got back to her feet. She stood next to Maweth, shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot until Fast had finished cleaning up the last of the glass on the tray the intact bottles must have once resided on.
The boy stood up and regarded Maweth and Malerin uncertainly, clutching the tray to his chest. “Are you, um, wanting something, sir?”
Maweth nodded, slowly, eyes half-shut as usual. “Are you Ambrose Fast’s son?”
“Yessir,” Fast nodded. “You knew him, didn’t you, sir?”
“Mm,” Maweth said, looking down one of the many branching corridors that Fast seemed to have come from. Another black clad figure was coming down it, very quickly, like a small storm cloud.
“Toad! What’s kept you so long?” A short girl in what Malerin was beginning to recognize as the plain black uniform of student assassins emerged. She was short, like Malerin, but taller than Fast, and she projected height like a nearly tangible aura. Her blonde hair was worn short around her face and her eyes were bright and hard, like the secretary’s. She wasn’t pretty, but she carried herself in a way that made up for it several times over.
She ignored Malerin and Maweth and stood at the edge of the multicoloured puddle, arms crossed under her breasts, and fixed her impressive glare on the top of Fast’s head.
“Tripped,” Fast murmured, chin on his chest.
“Idiot,” she growled. “You’ll have to take that stuff back to the lab, hurry up now, we can’t keep Professor Blackstone waiting.”
“Actually,” Maweth said, as his hand was abruptly on the boy’s shoulder, “Mister Fast was going to show us the way to the chief’s office.”
The girl turned on Maweth, nostril’s flaring slightly. “Do you have an appointment?” Malerin carefully nudged the unconscious secretary out of view.
“No.”
“Well,” she sniffed, “that’s just too bad then. The chief is a very important man and certainly won’t see just anyone, and definitely won’t meet with anyone, no matter how important, without an appointment.”
“I don’t need an appointment.”
“Outsiders can’t go traipsing around the guild by themselves.” She was getting visibly flustered by Maweth’s refusal to back down or get angry.
“Of course not. It’s in the rules.”
“Then why do you insist – ”
“He’s not an outsider,” Fast broke in softly, raising his head.
The girl turned to look at Fast, eyes narrowing in anger. “Toad, I told you to take that back to Professor Blackstone.”
“But h-he’s not an outsider. I’ve seen h-his picture before, I think, I think h-he’s Shomair Maweth . . .”
“Shut up, Toad.”
Fast slumped. “Yes, Annie.”
She continued to ignore Malerin and turned on Maweth. “Are you Shomair Maweth, sir?” she said with a toss of her head.
“That’s me.”
A muscle jumped in her jaw as she considered this, glaring at Maweth and leaning over the puddle of poisons, before jerking back abruptly. “Well, it doesn’t matter. I can take you to see the chief myself – ”
“I asked Mister Fast to do it.”
“He’s running an errand for a professor – ”
“Alanis Blackstone?”
“Yes, but – ” she tried to keep up with Maweth’s erratic thought process.
“Does seniority still rule here, outside of the post of chief?”
“I don’t see what that has to do – ”
“I tutored her in darts when I was fifteen,” Maweth said. If anyone else had been speaking, it might have been a nostalgic statement. From Maweth, it was a bald statement, as boring and flat as a comment about the weather. “Come along, Mister Fast. And give that tray to Miss Fry. She can take care of Blackstone’s errands while you show me the way to the headmaster’s office.”
Slowly, Fast nodded, and pushed the tray into Annie Fry’s hands. Almost instantly, it went crashing to the floor. Maweth was already walking down the hall, but he paused, briefly, to look over his shoulder. “I’d clean that up if I were you, Miss Fry. Mister Fast? Inspector Malerin? Are you coming?”
Fast gave another of his slow nods, stepped awkwardly over the puddle, and followed at Maweth’s heels. After a moment’s hesitation, Malerin went after them, leaving the girl to clean up the mess.
“I didn’t know artists could become police officers, ma’am.”
“What?” Malerin looked down at the boy as he lead her and Maweth through a series of identical corridors.
“Malerin’s one of the names that the basket brought are given at the Artists Guild, isn’t it?”
“Ah, yes . . . I, um, wasn’t a very good artist.”
Fast nodded and put his hands in his pockets, walking with slow, careful steps. Maweth didn’t seem to mind the slow pace and, indeed, had his eyes shut, apparently lost in his own thoughts, or sleepwalking.
Malerin pinched the bridge of his nose. “Look, um, Nicothodes – ”
“Fast,” he corrected absently.
“Fast, whatever. Look, is Inspector Maweth . . .” she trailed off, frowning at an antique tapestry they passed.
“Is he what?”
“Well, the way you and that girl were talking before, made it sound like he’s, um, an Assassin . . .”
“Yes, that’s right,” Fast agreed, stepping with slow precision over the beginning of a thick rug.
“But he’s a cop!”
Maweth continued to sleepwalk next to them without responding.
Fast paused and frowned at the ceiling. “Inspector Malerin, ma’am, I’d recommend you brush up on your ancient languages. No offense meant, Inspector ma’am.” He looked up and flashed her a small, uncertain smile before continuing to walk.
Malerin shook her head and, very carefully, poked Maweth in the back and hissed, “If this is your guild, why do you need some kid to take you to the boss’ office?”
Maweth opened his eyes slightly. “They move the office around periodically. At least once a year. To prevent assassinations.” His lips quirked in what Malerin thought might pass as a smile before he shut his eyes again, closing off the outside world.
When Fast stopped in front of a completely unremarkable door, Malerin had completely lost all sense of time and direction. The boy rapped softly on the door and pressed his face near a very faint crack between it and the wall. “It’s Nicothodes, sir. Some people to see you.”
The voice that came from the other side of the door was amused, deep, male, and uncomfortably sexual. Malerin shivered as Fast pushed the door open and lead them inside a room that made the reception hall look like a prison in comparison.
The man behind the massive wooden desk had his elegantly shod feed propped on the top of the desk, and was seated in a comfortable looking chair. It reflected light in a way that Malerin found very pettable, but it was ridiculous to think anyone would upholster a chair in velvet. It was impossible to tell how tall he was, but his hair was very pale – platinum blonde mingled with flawless white. His eyes were grey, his lips were thin and pulled into a cheerful smile, and his cheekbones were high and not overly sharp.
Malerin swallowed and stared at her feet.
The chief of the assassins in Ciddryn touched a gloved finger to his lips as he regarded his guests. “What were you doing prior to this, Nicothodes?”
“Running errands for Annie – Anastesia, sir, and Professor Blackstone.”
“When’s your next class, Nicothodes?”
“Tomorrow morning, sir.”
“Then, by all means, take the rest of the day off. You’re dismissed, Nicothodes.”
“Thank you, sir,” Fast murmured, ducking his head slightly and walking backwards to the door, shutting it with a clumsy thud behind him.
The assassin swung his feet down from the table and smiled blindingly at Malerin. “Good afternoon, Inspectors. Can I treat either of you to a drink?” He reached for a large bottle and a pair of glasses.
“No,” Maweth said. His eyes were fully open now.
Malerin shook her head, slowly. “No, I know this one, it’ll be poisoned or something . . .”
“Ah, but I’ll take a drink first, to humour the wishes of my paranoid guests,” he smiled.
“No, then you’ll have taken the antidote first . . .” Malerin frowned, watching the assassin’s cheerful smile. She had the feeling she was playing a game, but didn’t know what the rules were.
“The alcohol’s fine. The outsides of the glasses are treated with a poison that’s absorbed through the skin and takes at least forty-eight hours to kill.”
Malerin looked at Maweth in disbelief for a brief moment, before adding, “And we’re on duty.”
The assassin chuckled softly. The bottle and the glasses were replaced with a gentle chiming sound. “As sharp as ever, Shomair.” He smiled, resting his hands on the desk in front of him. “And who is your elvish friend?”
“Inspector Phantast Malerin,” she said wearily.
“A pleasure, I’m sure, Inspector Malerin. Shomair?” the assassin said invitingly.
Maweth stared at a point slightly above the assassin’s head and a bit to the left. “Your daughter looks a lot like you, Fry.”
“Thank you, Shomair, although I doubt she’d thank you for the comment.”
“Is she as good an assassin as you are, Fry?”
Malerin resisted the urge to shake Maweth and get him to start speaking sense.
“Mm. Better, I should hope. But not as good as you, of course.”
“What about Fast’s son?”
“Unfortunately, it seems that the great Fast family will not be continuing. Such a shame. Of course, if his father hadn’t perished in such an unfortunate way, it might not be such a problem. A hazard of the profession, I suppose. But surely you didn’t just come by to chat me up about my family, Shomair.”
“We came to ask you about the mysterious deaths that have been taking place in the city – ”
“No we haven’t. Shut up, Malerin.” Maweth stepped forward to put his hands on Fry’s desk. The assassin’s smile grew wider.
“Of course, your, ah, he must be your captain, then, yes.” Fry chuckled. “Yes, your Captain Iaslea was by at the beginning of the week, but I instructed young Shade not to let any members of the police department through.”
Maweth nodded. “I know you’re looking into this, Fry. I know you have your own people looking into it. No one here wants people giving a bad name to those in the death profession.” He clenched his hands into fists on the desk. He was speaking with more emotion in his voice than Malerin had ever heard, although he continued to stare at some invisible point beyond and behind the assassin’s head. “I came to ask you . . . to ask for a . . . to ask . . .”
“A favour?” Malerin had never heard a human purr. Fry ran the fingers of one long hand along Maweth’s knuckles in a casual caress. “But of course, Shomair. You only need to ask.”
Swiftly, Maweth pushed back from the desk and stood in his usual fashion, a stiff, formal politeness that radiated insolence. “Good. Here’s a contact chip,” he reached into his pocket and tossed the tiny thing onto Fry’s desk where it rolled until it hit the gloved fingers. “A friend of mine – ”
“You have no friends, Shomair,” Fry said cheerfully as he picked the chip up and put it into his com unit.
“A friend,” Maweth repeatedly stubbornly. “Owdyn Sagae.”
“A computer programmer?” Fry said as he looked at the information the chip brought up, eyebrows raised.
“A friend who you should tell anything he asks about the research your people are doing.”
“Really, Shomair, a go-between. And you and I are such friends.”
“It all goes to Sagae,” Maweth repeated.
Fry shrugged. “As you wish, Shomair. But please, don’t let this prevent you from visiting. Anytime.” Fry smiled like a cat at Maweth, then waved a hand at them. “A pleasure to meet you, I’m sure, Inspector Malerin. Do look after our Shomair out there.”
Malerin waited for a minute, hovering uncertainly, but this was apparently a dismissal, because Maweth had turned around and was walking out of the room. Sighing, she jogged after him and waited until they were a decent distance from the door before exploding.
“What was all that about?!”
“They’ll have more competent people looking into the deaths than whoever Iaslea assigns. I want to know what they know.” Maweth’s eyes shut.
“But Iaslea put us on it! And Varity! And lots of other people!”
“Yes,” Maweth agreed, nodding his head to some internal rhythm.
Malerin gritted her teeth. “You didn’t tell me you were an assassin.”
“I’m not.”
“You went to school with him! That was the chief assassin, wasn’t it?!”
“Jeremy Fry,” Maweth said. This seemed to be some kind of acknowledgement of the essential truth of what Malerin was saying.
“That kid recognized you.”
“Yes.”
“Who was he?”
“He told you. Nicothodes Fast.”
“You knew his father too.”
“Yes.”
They walked in silence for several minutes, past three paintings of dying monarchs in the days of antiquity (two thanks to Fast for-fathers) and a tapestry of some kind of wild animal hunting another kind of animal, when Maweth spoke abruptly. “He was right, you know.”
“Eh?”
“Mister Fast. He was right. You do need to know more ancient languages.”
Malerin bit her tongue to keep from lashing out at him as they walked down the corridor.
“He doesn’t seem like an assassin, anyway.”
Maweth’s eyes opened slightly. “Fry?”
“The boy.”
“No,” Maweth agreed, very slowly, “he doesn’t.”
Malerin started to prod her partner further about this, then thought better of it. “I don’t know why you bothered to have me come along if you were just going to go and do whatever, regardless of whether I was around or not.”
“Because,” Maweth said, as they wandered through the empty reception hall, “the last time I went off on my own, you were rather pissed and I barely avoided being given a three-hour lecture on what it means to work with a partner.”
Scowling, Malerin followed Maweth out the door.