I had pulled my hair back into a loose bun and combed my beard in an effort to look presentable. Truth be told, I should have seen a barber. In my mind I looked less like a down-in-the-subs drifter and more like a mid-level broker. I doubt I pulled it off very well. The tattoos, of course, didn’t help. Plus, I lacked that upper-level attitude. A certain lira-laden snobbery that lurked in the uppers. Trying to wear that attitude was about as comfortable for me as the suit.
“So what exactly are we looking for?”
I turned and glanced at Hagen. The suit he wore was nicer than mine, newer, with the high collar and brass buttons currently in favor among Lovat’s elite. A thick aiguillette wrapped around his left shoulder. While it wasn’t specifically fashionable it was common among dimanians. One could likely do an entire study on dimanian formal wear, but my own knowledge was limited. The thickness and style of the braiding apparently denoted the wearer’s name, occupation, and status. Not unlike a coat of arms from the old legends of the Penitent Queen. Samantha probably had one, too.
I had filled him in on the meeting with Kiver but hadn’t covered all the particulars. “The body was removed by the coroner’s office a few weeks ago, but he said the scene was untouched. Sealed off.”
“Why didn’t he just bring you a copy of the text? It would have made this all a bit quicker, and you wouldn’t have had to borrow a suit.”
“Well...”
“Yeah?”
“He did,” I said. “I just left it at Cedric’s. As I told Hannah, I didn’t expect to be taking the job.”
“She didn’t take it?” Hagen scratched his chin.
I stared at him blankly, and then slowly winced.
“She going to be upset that we’re taking this job together?” Hagen asked.
I hadn’t thought about that. I’d been so wrapped up with Essie and Argentum that I had completely forgotten about Hannah. A weight slumped in my stomach. I felt awful. I should have telegraphed, I should left a message at her building. Something.
“Yeah, she probably will,” I admitted. “I’ll cut her in.”
Our lift slowed to a halt.
“Level Five!” called out the conductor, a hefty dauger with a brass mask in the pine-green uniform of Lovat Public Transportation.
Lifts rise and fall through Lovat’s superstructure constantly. Because of their size they’re pretty slow, but it beats climbing the stairs between levels. Hundreds of them whir, hum, and clack their way along, passing between floors, carrying passengers and cargo up and down. The public city lines usually run inside the massive pillars that hold the levels aloft, though those aren’t the only hoists in the city. Lifts of all shapes and sizes owned by all sorts of interests run day and night. There are express lines and extravagant lifts for the rich. There are lifts for cargo, and for school children.
The lifts themselves are usually multi-leveled and lined with seats. A few have small bars on their top floor and can be quite lively at night. At full capacity a lift can carry a few hundred people but it’s rare to see one that full.
A huddle of passengers disembarked on Level Five and then a fresh line of arrivals were allowed to file in, the conductor counting on a mechanical tally machine. A few climbed the stairs to the floor above, while others filled empty seats. Some followed our lead and stood near the windows, looking out at the city.
“Well, I’m not going to complain about rubbing elbows with elevateds. The last time I was on one of the upper levels I was with my father. Let me tell you, there is no better buzzkill for a glamorous evening than a Reunified Cardinal.
“Old Reunified Cardinal,” Hagen corrected. “It was a few years ago. At the time he had some wild hair up his ass about abstaining from the pleasures of the wealthy. He wanted to show how humility and poverty can lead to happiness. Didn’t think it was right for a cardinal to be seen enjoying the extravagant entertainment of the elevated.”
“I doubt Sam would be much of a buzzkill,” I said, thinking of Samantha’s future ascendancy to the rank of cardinal.
I thought about that kind of a gig. What kind of belief did that take? A few years ago, I would have told you the legends of the Firsts were a load of crap. It had taken two of them to set me straight, and they weren’t even the strangest thing I had seen. Now my own thoughts surrounding God, the old legends, and the Firsts were... well, complicated.
“I wanted to see the glass waterfalls and he didn’t,” Hagen continued. “So I suggested we catch the Vipond Orchestra—they were playing a suite of W. J. Bassy arrangements at the time—but no, we couldn’t even listen to music. Even the old songs! ‘I am a man of the people. I serve them.’ Priests.” Hagen sighed dramatically and then chuckled. “You see why I chose the glamorous life of a trinket dealer.”
“All the music and sightseeing you could want,” I said, feeling the lift shudder into motion again as it started rising. The crowd on this lift were white collar types, probably heading home from a day at the office.
“If only I had known,” he said wistfully. “It’s all bookkeeping and cleaning. I can’t remember the last time I got out from behind that desk.”
I could. It was when we’d met. Hagen had been connected to me by that cult, the Children of Pan. I had hired him to do some research for me. By assisting me, he had drawn their ire. We’d barely escaped, that first time. Samantha had sheltered us in the seminary at Saint Mark’s. It was more for him than me, but I was grateful.
I didn’t respond. I looked out the window and leaned my forehead against the cold glass. Those memories felt like another life. Emotions clung to their sides like barnacles. They were probably better left buried.
Dozens of stories above our last stop, the lift passed from Level Five, traveled through the entresol, and emerged through the floor of Level Six, where it slowed to a stop and belched warm air, releasing another huddle of passengers.
“So, how much we making off this?” Hagen asked.
I did the math in my head. “You know your normal rate?”
“Yeah?” Hagen said, his voice rising an octave along with his eyebrows.
“Triple it.”
“Carter’s cross,” he whispered. “You’re kidding!”
I shook my head, wondered why I had turned the job down in the first place. Hundreds a day. It was more than I could make in months of trail work. Shame it was now all going to pay a collector bounty.
“I don’t know how much we’ll be able to do for him outside of looking at the scribbles, translating them, and taking the cash. But he’s eager for some movement. He’s scared.”
“Can you blame him?” Hagen said, “Imagine having one of your servants killed, and then having the scene of the murder remain in your house.”
“Well, first I’d need to imagine having servants...”
Hagen rolled his eyes. “The point stands.”
“He’s not living there now. He’s moved to some other apartment until this gets sorted out. LPD haven’t even been around to take a statement.”
Hagen’s face went serious, but his tone was not. “Maybe the butler did it.”
I laughed. “You’re an asshole.”
Lovat is a funny place. Levels aren’t one solid floor but instead a maze of them—a connection of floors. They rise and fall and start and stop all over the city. It’s an ever-changing haphazard jungle of steel and concrete.
Level Nine wasn’t nearly as finished as Eight. It wasn’t complete like the levels below. It was a proper level, but hardly complete enough to be called a roof, let alone a ceiling. At most it was a series of raised plazas and gardens twenty or thirty stories above the floor of Eight. Lifts didn’t go there yet.
A gray sky greeted our lift and a bitter wind kissed our cheeks as we stepped off onto Eight and looked around for the Shangdi Tower. A light snow blew around us, lifted on the wind.
“By the Firsts!” swore Hagen. “It’s cold as hell up here.”
Enormous buildings forty and fifty stories tall rose aro
und us. Minimal glowing letters above glass doorways displayed their names: The Hallmark, Daedalus, Fallowshire. They blocked any direct view of the Rosalias and the ocean to the west and they did a wonderful job working as funnels for the icy wind that howled this high up.
Simple Auseil decorations rocked in the wind and the soft voices of street singers floated from somewhere down the wide lanes.
The elevated city had an odd antiseptic quality to it. No strange smells to greet my nose. No graffiti to draw the eye. No abrasive calls of vendors to fill the air. No gaudy neon splashing its color about.
Small manicured parks shuddered in the breeze, twinkling with frost. Naked deciduous trees planted in pleasing patterns swayed down the centers of divided streets. Topiaries cut in animal shapes whispered to one another as the cold blew through tightly tangled sprigs. I recognized a centipede, a fish, an ox, and even a shambler among the shapes.
Everything on Level Eight was tasteful. And unsettling.
“The Hale. Daedalus. Hmm, where’s the Shangdi?” Hagen asked, pulling his thick coat tighter and turning up his collar. I had considered bringing my own jacket, but the canvas roader coat clashed outrageously with the suit. I already looked strange enough up here, no sense calling it out further. I would just have to deal with the cold. Besides, the inside of the Shangdi should be warm enough. As soon as we found it.
I shoved my hands into my pants pockets. The cold cut through the thin material and sent chills down to my bones. A numbness spread throughout my body. Fortunately, it also numbed the constant pain in my right knee and allowed me to walk a little straighter and with less of a limp.
“Come on,” I said through my chattering teeth as we tromped northward towards some of the taller towers on Level Eight. A few of the buildings around us originated somewhere below, their foundations built on the superstructure of Levels Six or Seven, their sky lobbies opening on Level Eight’s street level.
There were few people out and about. Most were pulled along in enclosed and heated rickshaws with mirrored windows and small chimneys that billowed smoke. Their windows were darkened leaving only shadows inside. Those we could see, who couldn’t afford tinted glass, were festooned in strange fashions. Women in dark veils. Men in corded turbans. Everyone was wearing heavy cowls fringed with gold and silver, pulled up and around their faces making them look like fancy road bandits.
The servants who pulled the rickshaws varied in race. I saw a maero, an umbra, and even a cephel. In the cold weather it was rare to see cephel folk outside of their watery homes and this far from the Sunk, but a few moved past, outfitted in heavy robes that gave them an appearance of ghosts gliding among an oddly manufactured forest of slumbering trees. I wondered what it was like up here in the summer. I thought of the breeze as it might be then. Inviting and warm. Folks could waltz around on the plazas and take in the sun. Lie in the gardens.
“Okay, I’m freezing. Can we just find the damn place and get warm?” Hagan said. He wrapped his arms around himself, shivering.
“Let’s ask that security guard,” I said, nodding toward the guard.
A human security officer in a thick ankle-length black wool coat, smoking a fat cigar, stood near a crossroad. He was watching a traffic officer and holding a rifle in the crook of his arm. A big patch blazed on the arm of the dark coat. In large Strutten letters it read: “Shangdi Security.” Excellent.
We approached him. “Excuse us...”
He waved a hand, shooing us away. “I’m not buying. Move along.”
“We just need some quick directions,” Hagen said.
He blew out a cloud of blue smoke that was snatched away by the wind and turned to look us up and down. “Well, aren’t you two an adorable pair. A human and a dimanian in their church-day finest. Sorry, boys, there’s no churches near here. No proper ones, anyway.”
Ignoring his comment, I went on. “We’re looking for Shangdi Tower. We just arrived.”
A bitter wind whipped around us.
He blinked, then snorted, then grinned. “Are you, now? Look at how fancy you look! You planning on waltzing into Shangdi and being whisked into its uppers? Looking for a pad of your own? A little love nest away from the scrape? Well, I’m sorry to say it’s completely full. No rooms at the Shangdi. No, sir.” He took another drag from the cigar and chuckled.
“We’re not looking for a love nest,” said Hagen, annoyed. “We’re actually here—”
“It’s tough times,” the guard interrupted, smirking. “Based on that suit, it’s obvious this is not your scene. Unless you’re going to a costume party?”
Hagen frowned slightly and bowed his head, rubbing a hand on the breast of his jacket. His cheeks flushed, and not from the cold.
The security guard didn’t let up. He turned to me. “What are you, a vagrant? Junkie? Hoping someone inside will take pity on you and feed you, fill your belly, buy you a suit that fits?” He chuckled and turned away, ready to ignore us.
Even through the cold I could feel my nails digging into the palms of my hand. “I’m here at the request of an occupant,” I said. He was lucky that was all I did.
“Oh?” He grinned, amused. He took a long pull from the cigar and blew the blue smoke in my face. “And who would request a scrape like you?”
I imagined slamming my fist into his rows of white teeth. The sound of it. The perfect little pearls flying off, being taken by the wind and mixing with the snow. Instead, I pulled Kiver’s card from my pocket and held it a few inches from his face. I waited a beat so he could comprehend what he was reading.
“Kiver dal Renna, of Renna Monochromes,” I said coolly, trying not to let my teeth chatter and hoping there was a tinge of menace in my voice.
The guard’s eyes widened slightly. Hagen gave a snort. I was sure I could feel him smiling behind me.
“Way I see it: the quicker you help us out, the better your chances of keeping your job.”
The Shangdi was only a few blocks from where we found the security guard. With the guy now humbled, we had a direct escort to the building.
He walked briskly, mumbling to himself as we made our way down Terence Avenue. We passed a few more building entrances—Woolford Tower, The Brass—a public fronton, and crossed the wide Paramount Plaza. A bitter wind whipped at us across the vast open space.
Near one end of the plaza sat City Hall, the mayor’s office. It was a low-slung building whose roots rested several floors below. These upper reaches, still sun-touched, served as its formal entrance. Two big doors bearing the Seal of Lovat sat in the center of a swath of wide, mirrored windows that stared out into the cold. Its handful of stories and low, flat roof looked out of place among the rising towers around it. A few protesters wearing red armbands gathered near the front stoop. They were chanting something lost to the wind, holding signs I couldn’t make out.
At the opposite end rose Waite Tower, headquarters to The Camalote Group, one of Lovat’s private organizations. It was a thick building, dull and lifeless save for the flower logo of The Camalote Group at its crown. I remembered the billboards they had scattered around the city. Pictures of smiling Lovatine families staring out from underneath text that read: “EMPOWERING PEOPLE. CHANGING LIVES.”
The plaza itself was huge. The sheer space in the elevated levels never ceased to amaze me. Down below, in the mids or lower, there was no space like this. Open, unused. Every square foot was precious, every corner a kingdom. It seemed to me that half the city could gather here.
Once we crossed the plaza we turned onto Howell Street, finally finding ourselves standing before the Shangdi’s entrance.
Residents and visitors milled about the front doors, clad in heavy hoods and thick collars. A few smoked. A couple sipped off bottles of beer. Laughter rose among them as they moved in and out, nodding to a porter who seemed to keep a keen eye on everyone. The guard led us to the door without a word. We followed close behind.
“Binger, you still have ten minutes left on your lunch,” th
e porter said, checking his watch. He was a dark-suited dimanian with dusky skin and thick curving horns like a ram. “Who are these two?”
“I didn’t get their names. They’re guests of Kiver dal Renna.”
I flashed the powder blue card to the porter.
The porter hummed and said, “You’re the third visitors today without an invitation. You attending the party?”
“Third visitors?”
“Yes indeed.”
I looked at Hagen for a moment, worry flashing in my eyes, before I turned back to the porter.
He went on. “Go on in and talk to the front desk. They’ll put a call in to Kiver and then direct you. Just around the corner. Follow the green carpet.”
“Thanks,” said Hagen as we left the security guard outside with the porter and pushed into the warm lobby.
I still felt numb inside, but no longer from the cold.
SEVEN
YOU COULD FEEL IT IN THE AIR: a tension, lurking beneath the surface. It waited, like water just about to boil over. This might have been a holiday party but it wasn’t a real joyous occasion. The laughter of the guests sounded forced, a little too loud. Conversations were short, topics tossed around rapidly. The liquor was flying.
They were living in fear. Discussion of the recent murders, gilded or otherwise, crept into every conversation. I couldn’t really blame them—hell, I could sympathize. I had my own killer after me. That edge is hard to shake. Even as I stood here in my borrowed suit. Drink in hand, Argentum’s threats played through the back of my mind. One week. Well... six days now.
“These people are scared,” Hagen said, biting into a fat, deep-fried prawn.
“You see it, too?”
“It’s obvious. The few conversations I’ve had around the buffet have all been about the recent murders and LPD’s glacial response.” Hagen looked at his plate, piled high with steamed dumplings, fresh salads, and fat pink shrimp. “I realize there’s been a few murders but this feels... off. To be this nervous at an Auseil party? With the kind of security here?” He nodded towards a pair of burly, heavily armed dauger with steel masks standing by the doorways. They were dressed in black, with large rifles slung across their backs and sidearms hanging at their hips. The perfect complement to a holiday party.
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