Red Litten World

by Alexander, K. M.

  After a solid sleep and a hot shower, I found myself wishing I had a razor and some clippers to clean myself up and ditch the vagrant look.

  I had to be presentable. No one would take me seriously in the upper levels if I showed up in my ragged coat, dirty boots, and worn jeans. I needed a suit.

  When I came out of the shower I felt cleaner than I had in days. Essie was stirring under the blankets. She rolled over to face me, the blankets falling away. Her eyes sparkling, her red lips turned up at the corners. I couldn’t help myself from looking. She was beautiful.

  I wondered what she thought now of the ragged roader before her, still clammy from a shower and wrapped in a makeup-stained towel. My arms, chest, and back are scarred. My right knee has an odd lump to it. My body softened from these months in the city. My beard was long, my hair even longer. I had to be a sight.

  “Morning, road boy,” she said, giving me a languid smile.

  “Good morning. Hope I didn’t wake you.”

  “I had fun last night.”

  “Yeah. Me too,” I said.

  There was something about her face. Her eyes. The shape of her lips. It was hard not to compare her to Samantha. There had never been a chance with her. I should be enjoying whatever this was, not lingering over missed opportunities. I pushed the priestess from my mind and focused on Essie.

  I looked down at the towel and back up at her, smiling sheepishly. “I should have asked...”

  “About what? Using my shower?” She threw a pair of her underwear at my head and laughed as it bounced off and landed in the pile of dirty laundry at my feet. “Do I look like the kind of girl who cares?”

  She didn’t, and I said so.

  Her laughter filled the room as I dropped the towel and climbed back into the bed.

  When we were dressing Essie asked if I wanted to get some food.

  “I have some business a little later, but I’m always up for some food,” I said.

  She smiled at me as she slipped on a sweater.

  “You think we can find a real breakfast still?” I asked.

  She ruffled her hair, then rose to pull on a pair of jeans. “There’s always a diner somewhere. Where you going?”

  I yawned and stretched. “Some maero offered me a job yesterday. It’s not my typical work, but the pay is good so I figured I’d explore it a bit more.”

  “That elevated from Cedric’s? The one with the nice suit and the muscle?”

  There was no sense in lying about it so I nodded.

  “What’s that about, anyway?” Essie asked.

  “One of his employees was murdered at his apartment. He wants me to look into it.”

  “Oh, yeah?” She seemed surprised. “Why does he come to a mangy road boy like you instead of going to the police?”

  I heard her light a cigarette and turned to look at her. She was bent over and pulling on a pair of mid-calf boots, her hair hanging in a curtain around her face. Her dark eyes sparkled behind it. There was so much I could have told her. My history with the Firsts. How many times I’d nearly died alongside my friends. I held my tongue. Not yet. We had just begun to know one another. Perhaps sometime soon.

  “I have some history in helping with stuff like that. With Syringa drawing so many officers from the city and the police spread so thin, help can be hard to find.”

  “You good at it?”

  I gave a weak laugh as I pulled on my jacket. “I’m available. He’s willing to pay and his lira goes a lot farther than the wharfs.”

  “Good,” Essie said, drawing close to me and lifting her lips to mine. She had that warm diner smell: grease, butter, and sweet syrup. When she pulled away there was a light in her eyes. “After you get paid you can take me to a real dinner.”

  I left Essie about an hour later after a meager breakfast of rice stewed with beans we found at some half-open dive near her place. The meal had cost nearly twenty lira apiece. Robbery. Six months ago, that would have been a couple of lira, tops.

  I was still hungry and the cold only heightened the empty feeling in my stomach. Head down, hands shoved in my pockets, I headed towards King Station to enlist my help. The city rose and fell around me. Catwalks crossed above my head, rickshaws rolled by, and the occasional bicycle whipped past.

  I needed to talk to Hagen. That meant I needed to visit his shop, Saint Olmstead. It sat in King Station, a crumpled little warren to the southeast of Pergola Square. It’s a tight space with narrow streets and a maze of alleyways with low ceilings. It’s stuffed with restaurants, small shops, a handful of antique stores, tiny manufactories, and, in warmer times, the occasional garden. In some sections walking through King Station feels like wandering the hallways of some enormous building.

  Maynard Avenue was largely devoid of life when I arrived. A small noodle stand I had visited in times past now stood empty. A large sign hung off its makeshift counter reading: “No Ingredients. Thank Syringa and those racist bastards. Come back another time.”

  I passed the storefront once occupied by Thad’s shop. In the narrow confines once lined with spectacles and cubbies there now stood a small forge. A lone kresh gripped a hammer in its clawed hand and pounded away on a piece of iron with loud clangs. Clouds of billowing steam carried the scent of hot metal. A year ago Thad had been killed by a bloodthirsty cult calling themselves The Children. They were stopped, but Thad’s brood had been too young to continue his business. None of his brothers or sisters were keen on keeping Russel & Sons Optics operating, so the shop was closed. I was glad to see life in the narrow space again. Despite the hardship, despite the cold, despite everything, the city rolled on. Life rolled on.

  I left the kresh to his work and moved up the street towards my destination passing a small gathering of dimanians in yellow robes and a pair of cephels clacking at one another over a folding table covered with used instruments.

  At the end of the block sat Saint Olmstead, the shop owned by my friend Hagen Dubois. A simple sign hung above the leaded glass door, and a small Auseil display was set up in the shop’s window. I pushed my way in, the ring of a bell above me signaling my arrival. Hagen is Samantha’s brother. He’s primarily focused on religious antiques but he also dabbles in some history of the arcane. If he was willing, I was sure he and I could easily get to the bottom of the kresh murder.

  The shop had much the same feeling as a library. It was warm inside and I rubbed some feeling back into my hands before proceeding further. Somewhere a soft bebop tune was playing and I noticed Hagen had replaced the oil lamps on the walls with new electric lamps that buzzed a subtly flickering yellow light. The space smelled of leather, oil, cleaning alcohol, and peppery incense.

  “I’ll be with you in a minute,” Hagen’s voice called out from somewhere among the shelves.

  I moved through the haphazard maze of aisles that made up the shop.

  Saint Olm is tall and narrow. Shelves occupy the front. A loft extends from the rear and halts about halfway out. Upstairs is where Hagen keeps his book collection. Barring some religious institutions there are few places in the city with a more expansive collection. A twisted iron staircase sits along one wall and leads upstairs. Dominating the space below the loft is the counter. It’s an immense thing that arcs outward into the shop like the prow of a ship and it separates the shop proper from Hagen’s office, small bathroom, and living quarters in the back.

  The register was located at the rear of the shop and it was always an adventure getting back there. The inventory at Saint Olmstead constantly changes. Every time I visit the rows have been readjusted to make room for a portable altar, some sort of statuary, or a crate of Hasturian knickknacks.

  As it was impossible to see the counter it was surprising that items weren’t nicked from time to time. Whenever I mentioned it Hagen would smile and say, “The benefit of a religious customer base is they all feel guilty about stealing. Especially when it comes to objects centered on their faith.”

  It made sense.

&nbs
p; Robes, statuary, idols, and icons lined the shelves. Prayer coins, blessed instruments, and wooden basins covered others. I passed by a stack of Yiggo religious tomes. Gold-leafed glyphs of snakes decorated the leather spines. A sign hung below them offering fifty percent off ornate reliquaries.

  Hagen Dubois stood behind the counter. He’s dimanian. They look a lot like humans. Two arms, two legs, two eyes and ears. Where they differ is in the boney spurs sprouting from their knuckles, elbows, knees, and most often as horns along the head. Anywhere that bone comes close to the skin. Dimanian and humans have interacted for thousands of years, at least as far back as the Aligning, and for the most part our people get along.

  Hagen’s nest of dark curls were still tangled atop his narrow face. The single horn that sprouted from his forehead had grown back, though he had trimmed it and was obviously allowing a dimanian barber to shape it. His sister was probably pleased with that. When I first met him it was growing wild, sticking up and out, but now it curved through his hair slightly, following the shape of his skull. He looked up and smiled as he saw me coming.

  “Wal! I didn’t know you were coming over this morning. I thought we were getting lunch next week?”

  Next to him, leaning over the counter studying a tome was his sister, Reunified Priestess Samantha Dubois. My heart jumped and my mouth went dry. My hands felt a bit clammy. I hadn’t seen her in months. She looked fantastic. She was leaning over the counter wearing a loose sweater and dark jeans over lace-up road boots, a style she had picked up over the last year. When I first met her she had dressed in a style more in line with to her occupation as priestess—slacks, robes, and the like. Today she looked like any other shabby roader. You’d have no idea she was in line for a cardinalship.

  She looked up as she saw me approach, her umber eyes flicking up from a book. She pulled a thin pair of spectacles from her nose and dropped them onto the counter. Her thick curly hair was cut around the length of her chin where two small spurs jutted, and the horns that grew near her temples had been freshly trimmed back to subtle nubs.

  It was strange seeing her after being with Essie. Essie is beautiful but Samantha is... well, she’s something else. She had a presence in the room. Her words carried weight.

  “Hi,” I said, trying to sound natural.

  “Good to see you!” Hagen said, coming around the counter and giving me an enthusiastic shake of the hand and slap on the shoulder. “Oh! Remember those prayer drums I was telling you about? The ones that street mystic ordered for his congregation? They came in last week, you need to see them. They’re downright obscene!”

  He gave a bawdy laugh and fluttered behind the counter and began shuffling boxes and small crates aside, looking for the drums.

  “Hey Wal,” Samantha said. She smiled, but it seemed forced. She stood but didn’t come around to give me a hug or shake my hand. These were the first words she had said to me in a long time. Any closeness we had once shared had frozen along with the city. Sucked away into the ether. I understood. Samantha had once said that she worried for my safety, that I was impetuous, that my brashness made me dangerous. She was right. I put myself at risk, and in doing so put her feelings for me at risk. So when she had pulled away, I let her go.

  “It’s good to see you,” I said, trying to establish a mote of confidence. “Been a while.”

  “Yeah,” she said. It was better we didn’t talk about it.

  She looked down at my hand, her eyebrows lifting slightly. I had gotten new ink done a few weeks after we returned from Methow to go with the black wagon wheels on each of my forearms. On the back of my left hand I had gotten a simple tattoo of a rose. It was black against my brown skin, a reminder of what Hannah had lost. On the inside of my left wrist was an apple for Margaret Shaler. I had hated the woman, but she did not deserve to die, and she should not be forgotten. On the inside of my right wrist was now an ox skull, an old roader symbol and a mark I had chosen in memory of Ivari Tin. Both Shaler and Tin had been lost to us in Methow, and both were now buried outside the ruins of that cursed town. The tattoos were small tributes and reminders I wanted to carry with me, remembrances of what had been sacrificed.

  “New tattoos?”

  I nodded. “Reminders. Hannah’s hand. Shaler. And Tin,” I said. Pointing to each in turn. “Didn’t want to forget.”

  She touched her chin and stared at the ink, but didn’t say anything.

  “What brings you here?” I asked, changing the subject. I came to Hagen’s shop a few times a week. Usually to see how he’s doing, sometimes to play cards in the back office, sometimes just to drink and talk. He had mentioned his sister once or twice but we hadn’t really talked about her. He knew it was a tender subject.

  She lifted the tome she had been reading. The title, The Natural History of Tsath, was spelled out on its cover in curving Strutten and below was the image of a robed and bearded human man, his arms outstretched to the heavens.

  “Research,” she smiled. “You’d never guess this, but I was asked by Lovat PD to look into some pre-Aligning history for them.”

  “Bouchard?” I blinked.

  “One and the same. He says he heard about it on some case of his, some witness babbling about a gilded murder. He tried the library, but got nowhere. Asked if I had anything.”

  “No shit,” I said, a little surprised. Bouchard was an old foe. A dimanian detective with a drinking problem and a superiority complex. After my name was cleared he had begrudgingly apologized, but we weren’t exactly friends. Samantha helping him gave me a mixed bag of feelings.

  “What’s Tsath?” I asked, trying to keep emotion from my voice.

  “A great underground city built in a massive cave system. Some suggest it’s beneath the Plateau of Leng, others think it could be deep below Thamadon or Lovat. No one has been able to find any architectural evidence of it, mind you.”

  “What’s Bouchard’s interest?”

  “He wouldn’t tell me anything more than what the witness said. He hoped I had information on it. He’s going to be disappointed. Honestly, outside of this book there isn’t—”

  “A-ha!” Hagen yelled, interrupting her. He rose up behind the counter holding a small box. “Here they are. Wait till you see these.” He reached a hand into the box. “I’d mentioned these were for a fertility dance or ritual... whatever. I had to go through all these hoops to find them. They don’t even make these in the Territories. I had to send word with a sailor and he brought them from Leng or Catheria, it doesn’t matter. You need to see them. The drums depict a woman laying on her back and her leg—”

  “Can you wait before you pull out those things again?” Samantha said. “At least until I leave.”

  Hagen rolled his eyes. “Fine. I can wait.” He pushed the box aside and changed the subject. “So how’s things? Aren’t you supposed to be at work?”

  “I quit.”

  “Oh yeah?” Hagen said, raising an eyebrow. “Why?”

  Samantha quietly shut Tsath’s cover and set it gently back into a worn box with frayed edges.

  “Something new came up. Yesterday, a distant cousin of one of the Methow refugees came to see me.” Samantha tensed visibly. Her brow furrowed. I went on. “He can’t get help from LPD and he wants me to look into a death on his property.”

  “What does he expect you to do?” asked Samantha.

  I rubbed my neck. “No idea, honestly. Outside of pointing him in the right direction, the pay is good and I could use it.”

  “Everything okay?” Samantha asked, her lips drawing tight.

  I debated telling them about the collector and decided better of it.

  “Everything’s fine. I just want to make sure the caravan is back in the black by the time Wensem returns,” I lied, then turned to Hagen. “The guy invited me to some party in the upper spires. I was hoping I could borrow a suit from you.”

  Hagen is a bit taller than me and slightly thinner but I could probably make it work. I didn’t own a lick of
decent clothing. Even on my best days I looked like an unemployed drifter. Dress for the job you want, I guess.

  “I have a spare suit somewhere.”

  “You’re telling me some elevated found you and offered you a job as a private investigator?” asked Samantha.

  “That’s the whole of it. Yes.”

  “And you just went along with it?” she said, her eyes narrowing slightly.

  “Well, I thought it over, but yeah. As I said, I need the money.”

  Samantha frowned but didn’t press further. She went to work tying a bit of twine around the tome and then tucking it into her bag.

  “There’s something else,” I finally blurted. It would have been easier to do this without Samantha here. She was already suspicious and asking Hagen about Aklo would only raise her suspicion further.

  Hagen raised an eyebrow. “Oh yeah?”

  “Whoever killed the employee wrote some messages on the wall in the deceased’s blood.”

  “Oh, Carter’s cross,” Samantha swore. “Why does this sort of stuff always happen to you?”

  I gave a weak smile. “Just lucky, I guess.”

  “This isn’t one of the recent gilded murders, is it?” Hagen asked.

  I shook my head. “Doesn’t look like it. The guy was a kresh servant. Outside of scaring his former boss, his death isn’t going to change the business landscape of the upper reaches. He was just an old kresh, killed in a rich guy’s flat. But... the killer left a message.”

  “What was the message?” asked Hagen, leaning forward slightly.

  “Well, that’s just it, I can’t read it.”

  Now both Hagen and Samantha’s eyebrows raised. I rubbed my neck and let out a deep breath. “Yeah, you see... it’s in Aklo.”

  SIX

  STANDING STIFFLY IN HAGEN’S OLD SUIT, I watched the levels of Lovat slowly drift past. The suit was tight across the chest, long in the legs, and short in the sleeves. I hoped it didn’t show. The jacket worked if I didn’t try to button it, and the pants would be bearable if I kept myself from eating too much.