by Dan Stout
I turned back to find Talena crouched by the vendor. She peered into his eyes and asked if he was okay.
“Yes,” he said. He had a breathy Embarkam accent, heavy with aspirated h’s and s’s, distinctive to that city-state’s territory. It was an accent that made the speaker sound like they were out of breath, while also giving you a whiff of what they ate for lunch. “But my cart . . .”
The food truck was in disarray, but not destroyed. The old-fashioned pedal-pulled street cart wobbled as we set it aright, but it held. Some of his fellow vendors came over to help, but others held back and watched us with hard eyes, as if they’d have preferred to see the imps finish off the old man.
I wondered if the vendor who’d been attacked had made enemies. Were the teens merely taking the Imp’s Run gambols too far, or had he been targeted?
I snatched one of the fliers the imps had dropped to the ground. Torn and crumpled, it was still legible, a community announcement sheet advertising a rally for the special election and an upcoming street festival. Both of which were being hosted by the CaCuris. Amateurish design, but professionally printed. Seemed right on brand for the twins.
I held it in front of the vendor. “Were those imps talking about this?”
He squinted at the type. “No, no . . .” He patted a pocket, then rifled through the messenger bag slung across the back of his bike. He reached inside and pulled out a flier of his own. “Same as mine. Maybe I dropped it?”
A cursory glance told me it was indeed the same flier. Nodding, I said to Jax, “Those were CaCuri’s punks.”
The vendor’s brow furrowed. “No, the flier is mine. CaCuri doesn’t do things like this. She’s helping people.”
“Trust me,” I said. “She’s not.”
He wiped a sleeve over a chin scraped bloody from the cobblestones. “Everything’s stacked against us. The drilling companies, the AFS . . .” He stood up taller. “Katie CaCuri’s the only person out there actually doing something for people like me.”
“You’re not from Titanshade,” I said. “She’s using you as a scapegoat.”
The old man almost laughed. “Oh, she sent those thugs? You think she started that, too?” He jerked a thumb at the crowd, at the other vendors still shooting angry glances in our direction. “She only says what we’re all thinking. I’m here now, and she’s trying to keep other people from taking what’s ours. Maybe not everyone likes us,” his shoulders slumped, “but she’s at least giving us a shot.”
No surprise, really. I looked to the dark sky overhead, then folded the flier into thirds and jammed it in my pocket. I nodded at the vendor. “Watch yourself out there.”
The old man grabbed the handles of the food cart bicycle and began limping forward. He only got a step before Talena fell in beside him.
“Here, I’ll give you a shove,” she said. She glanced at us over her shoulder, waving a good-bye.
Ajax took a step in their direction, then turned back to me. “We got anything else for today?”
I tossed him the car keys. “Drop the Hasam at the Bunker,” I said. “I’ll bus it home and we’ll regroup in the morning.”
He turned and fell in step beside Talena, helping the old man gain momentum, chatting with the girl I’d helped raise, as they walked.
I eyed the skyline. The day had faded, and I needed to get home. I had to get dressed for my date.
11
I MET GELLICA AT A noodle stand near the corner of Franklin and Retroyer. I’d changed into a cleaner shirt and opted to make my tie fashionably absent. She wore a calf-length black dress, cropped at the shoulders, leaving her arms bare except for the bangles and bracelets riding just above her wrists. The halter neck cut tight to her throat but dipped low in the back. Its fabric was speckled with metallic thread, making it sparkle and shimmer with every sway of her hips.
She smiled when she saw me, and I bought us a couple orders of noodles with a side of salty bromi sauce and shelled hardfish. They came wrapped in wax paper and cardboard cones, along with small forks. Perfect for a meal on the go. We ate as we walked, picking our way through the streets. It wasn’t a bad meal.
“Your hair’s done up,” I said in between bites, smooth talker that I am.
Gellica’s eyes widened. “My, you are a detective.” Her hair was indeed held up in loose curls, not as tightly done as a fashionista might wear, but definitely more formal than the relaxed style she’d worn before.
“I dress differently when going out.” She patted her mouth with a napkin, sidestepping a street musician who wailed on a trumpet, underscoring our walk with a medium swing. “It’s called playing to your audience.”
I dropped a couple coins in the musician’s hat. “So you dress to blend in?”
“Sometimes.” We parted as a fin-headed Gillmyn in a sharply tailored suit dashed between us, glancing at his watch as he ran. “Sometimes to stand out. Depends on my goal.”
“How do you dress when you’re seeing me?”
“I don’t,” she said, and color leapt to her cheeks. “I mean—” Her words tumbled out. “I mean I wear what seems natural.” The air of diplomatic poise snapped back into place. “Comes with us knowing each other’s secrets, I suppose. That’s why I like you.”
“Oh?” It seemed like the safest response.
“Well, partly why.”
I may have flattered myself, but I thought her smile deepened.
“And you,” she indicated my suit. “You’re dressed as one of Titanshade’s finest.”
I straightened my jacket. I had considered changing it, but decided the one I’d been wearing was the less wrinkled option. “You saying I dress like a cop?”
She gave me a slow once-over.
“Carter, you look like a cop on his way to a costume party, dressed as another cop.”
“Huh.” I dug into my noodle container, searching for a last forkful of dinner. “I don’t always dress like a cop.”
“Yes, you do,” she said. “Lucky for you, it’s charming.” She tossed her trash into a bin and her fork into the recycling. “Finish your meal. We’re here.”
I craned my head and spotted the sign overhead. The Lotus Petal wasn’t a club I’d been to before. Not too surprising, as it’d been over a decade since I’d worn patrol scarlet and spent my days checking on bars. And even back then, The Lotus Petal was a little too high-end for regular police visits. The patrons here were more likely to cut with sarcasm and condescension than an honest blade. Not that I liked them any more or less for it. It was simply a different type of trouble waiting for us once we passed the threshold.
Of course, it appeared that it’d be some time before we crossed the threshold in question. A line of aspiring patrons stretched down the sidewalk, huddled together and whispering, waiting to be let into the place. Gellica grabbed my shoulder and towed me in her wake as we made our way to the front of the line. She gave the doorman her name and indicated I was her plus one. We were hustled in past the glares of the line-bound masses and entered the world of fashion art.
Once inside, I understood the line. The place wasn’t a stuffy gallery but a working bar and dinner space with a low stage up front. The crowd wore uniform shades of black or white, with one or two accent colors scattered on their shoulders or hips. Many of the patrons were overdressed, a sure sign that they were slumming it. When wealthy Titanshaders drift into lower-class neighborhoods, they have a tendency to favor overly thick fabrics or sweaters and turtlenecks with a brand-new, off-the-shelf gloss that causes regular residents to wince. It made Gellica’s choice of dress all the more interesting. Thick enough fabric to stay warm, but with enough skin exposed to show she didn’t think that going a few blocks leeward was the same as camping on the ice plains.
We passed a table full of men in jumpers and bandannas, all of them posturing for the sake of a nearby table of women in turtlen
ecks and tight black stirrup pants. The well-to-do patrons may have been embracing the lower-rent neighborhood, but most still had designer labels on their backsides. My well-worn suit suddenly seemed badly out of place, and I considered telling people that I really was on my way to a costume party dressed as a cop.
I scanned the room, focusing on the task at hand. Dinner had been fun, but there might be someone here who could help me track down Jane. “So do we mingle at the bar?”
“Don’t be silly. We have a table reserved.”
Gellica gestured to a man in a mock turtleneck, a lithe Mollenkampi who came over and placed a hand on his heart. Gellica spoke quickly and quietly, using phrases I couldn’t follow and adding in finger snaps as flourishes, the same way Jax might punctuate his sentences with clicks of teeth from his speaking mouth.
The man walked into the room, gesturing for us to follow.
“You speak Kampi?” I asked Gellica, as she slipped into the crowd ahead of me.
“Not well.” She spoke over her shoulder as we wound our way through round tables occupied by small clusters of patrons. “But a little goes a long way in my line of work.”
“Diplomacy,” I said. “Making people feel flattered.”
“Showing I care,” she said. “You might try it sometime.” Grinning, she tilted her head to make eye contact, a movement that arched her back and emphasized the low cut of her dress’s B-side. “Might be a nice counterpoint to your normal routine of acting like a prick until someone gets angry enough to say something stupid.”
The host led us to an empty table and pulled out Gellica’s chair before departing.
“Been flashing a badge for two decades,” I said. “My technique seems to be working so far.”
We sat down on chairs with thin leather pads on the back and seat that made them a hair short of uncomfortable.
“If it was working that well,” she said, all bright teeth and shining eyes, “you’d have all your fingers.”
I gave a slow whistle and a series of overlapping clicks, what I believed to be a suitable retort in Kampi. Gellica suppressed a laugh.
“If you meant to imply you’re the head of maintenance services,” she managed to keep a straight face, “then yes, your Kampi is excellent.”
Feeling I wasn’t going to win that argument, I turned my attention to the stage. A simple wooden table sat in a circle of light. It held a reel-to-reel tape machine, and a pair of headphones. No one seemed to be paying it any attention.
Gellica flagged a server, and a Mollenkampi woman arrived and introduced herself. Like the man who’d seated us she wore a black mock turtleneck. A wise concession, considering the location of Mollenkampi speaking mouths.
Gellica ordered a glass of house wine. I opted for tea, holding off on alcohol while I was working. The waitress turned to go but Gellica stopped her, adding an order for another glass, this one a specific vintage. The waitress gave a slight bow, and Gellica pointed to a corner booth. “Send it to that gentleman, with our compliments.”
The waitress bowed again, deeper this time, and departed as the main lights dimmed.
“Who’s that?” I asked.
“His name’s Napier,” she said. “And that’s who we’re here to see.”
The man in the corner was entertaining a few patrons who drifted away shortly thereafter. I may not have known art, but I knew a boss when I saw one.
“He’ll let us know when he’s ready,” she said. “But that’s later.”
“And now?”
“Now we enjoy the show,” she said, lowering her voice as the room began to hush. “Watch carefully, Officer. There may be a quiz at the end of the night.” She turned her attention to the stage, though for a long moment I couldn’t take my eyes off her. Then I thought of Talena, arrested on a manufactured charge as she lay in her hospital bed. I took a sip of tea and reminded myself that it had all turned out okay, that in the end Gellica had been on our side. Movement onstage caught my eye.
A woman dressed in a severe black suit entered stage right, escorting a man in a wheelchair. The man was limp, his head slumped, his hands and feet strapped in place. He wore an off-white uniform, the kind that might be assigned to an inmate. The woman positioned him in the spotlight, next to the tape machine. Locking the wheels in place, she pulled his head back and fastened a strap across his forehead. The chair itself was oversized, an artistic interpretation of an interrogation chair, a prop from a spy movie. Picking up the headphones, she placed them on the man’s ears. She loaded a spool onto the reel-to-reel and pressed Play. The man’s eyes opened wide.
“My husband doesn’t know this,” he stage-whispered. “But I lost the engagement ring he gave me all those years ago. I dropped it down a sink while he was on deployment. I had a duplicate made, and he never noticed, so I guess I did the right thing.”
He closed his eyes, still for a heartbeat, as if listening to the headphones, then said, “I cheat at cards.” His voice was husky now, mimicking the wheezing voice of a much older man. “True to the Path, I cheat at every damn game I play.” He laughed. “I never do it for money. It’s the fun of the thing, I guess. I don’t have to win the actual game, just not get caught and it’s a guaranteed good time!” The statement ended with a delirious cackle.
Gellica leaned in, her shoulder against mine. She directed my gaze to the far corner where a simple, cloth-covered board stood, black curtains to either side and a hole the width of my shoulders in its front. Near the hole was a button.
“You stick your head in there,” she whispered. “And press that button. It turns on the recorder, and you whisper your darkest secret. Edgar doesn’t hear them in advance, simply relates them in the moment.”
It was a neat trick, catching the tone and rhythm of different voices while also processing the words.
“I’d think he’d get distracted by the secrets,” I said. “Some of these are funny.”
“Some are scandalous,” she said. “But he says that’s the trick. He doesn’t judge. Only captures the voice and repeats what he hears.”
It was weird, but I had to admit it was interesting. “Why’d you bring me here?”
Her lips curved upward. I did like her smile.
“Apart from the obvious delight of seeing a detective listen to a room full of people’s darkest secrets?” She shrugged, and I watched the rise and fall of her bare shoulder. “To meet Napier. After that you can talk to whoever you like.”
The people at the tables around us had been engaged in their own whispered conversations, and I’d barely taken notice of them. But now a man approached from the table to our left. He was human, tall with dark brown skin and sharp features. The majority of his hair was cropped tight to the scalp, but the top unfurled into a perfectly manicured wave of dyed-blond curls, balancing the narrow beard that defined his jaw with an artist’s precision. He wore a sports jacket over a light dress shirt, unbuttoned to mid-chest. A silk neckerchief lay in a careless knot around his throat, its ends draping over the chiseled lines of exposed pectoral muscles.
“Envoy,” he said. “So good to see you.” He stooped ever so slightly and rested a hand on Gellica’s exposed back. His voice had a pulsing, side-to-side rhythm, like a snake charmer’s flute.
Judging from the two women at the table he’d left, he clearly had some charms. Both stared daggers in our direction. More precisely, they stared at Gellica like they’d gladly have dragged her out to the ice plains and left her to freeze.
Gellica returned the man’s smile, though I told myself it wasn’t with the warmth she’d shown me. She gestured between us.
“Mitri, meet my friend Carter. Carter, Mitri Tenebrae.”
We shook hands. It was close, but I think I won the battle of the increasingly tight grips.
The taller man pulled his chair from the previous table to ours. There wasn’t so much as a whisp
er as it crossed the floor, or the slightest hint of asking permission to sit.
“I didn’t expect to find you here tonight.” He spoke to Gellica, of course. I might as well have been at the next table.
“It wouldn’t do to let everyone know my social schedule. But I should have known you’d be here.” To me, she added, “Mitri is quite the talented amateur sculptor. He’s more at home here than I’ll ever be.” Gellica picked up her purse, a small black clutch with metallic thread that matched her dress. “I need to step away. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll be right back.” We watched her leave, dismayed.
“So.” Tenebrae’s eyes raked over me. Or rather over my clothes and middle-aged physique fueled by coffee and takeout meals. “Are you part of the AFS transition team?”
“Not exactly,” I said. “Apparently I’m with maintenance.”
“Ah,” he said, eyes already scanning the crowd for someone more influential than me. “I’m sure that’s rewarding.” He stood, leaving his empty wineglass on the table. “Great meeting you, really great.”
And with that, he was gone. By the time he’d reached the next table, he’d glommed himself to another pair of patrons.
I sat alone for a few minutes, listening to the performer share the secrets of strangers and watching the crowd act out their own little dramas. There was a table full of wealthy women making gestures at the performer. I wondered if they were discussing purchasing some of his work, and then I wondered if that was even possible. Beyond them a younger couple were in the heat of an argument. Or rather the man was arguing, and forcing the woman with him to listen. I didn’t like the body language on display.
A rustle of fabric told me that Gellica had returned to her seat.
“Having fun?” she asked.
I snorted. “You have lots of friends here?”
“I don’t have lots of friends, period.” I almost missed the way her lips tightened as she spoke.