I took a sip from my drink. The ice had cooled the vermouth, removing a lot of its inherit bitterness. The bartender had looked at me with a puzzled expression when I had ordered it. I’ve grown accustomed to puzzled glances.
“Look, keep poking around. Kiver’s servant was drained, most of his blood used to paint inscriptions on the wall. When I last checked, the cops weren’t sure how the elevated victims were killed. To me, it all seems too...”
“Intentional?” Hagen asked.
“Something like that. I don’t think it’s related.”
Hagen swore, and shook his head. “Poor Lovat. Seems like it’s always something. The gilded murders. Now this thing with the kresh. Before this we had Black and his Children.”
He sighed.
I nodded. There was always something. The city was already volatile.
I plucked a piece of har gow from Hagen’s plate and popped it into my mouth. I knew the shrimp dumpling was hot and delicious, but I couldn’t enjoy it. The flavor in the dumpling disappeared, leaving me with an empty pit in my stomach.
“Kiver said he wanted us to mingle and he’d come find us a bit later.”
“He seemed surprised to see you.”
“Yeah, like I said, I wasn’t going to take the job initially. Look, I’m going to get back to the party,” I said. “Keep an ear out.”
Hagen smiled and nodded and contented himself with his plate of food and the expansive view. I moved across the apartment towards another corner. Since being rushed into the party I hadn’t had much time to look around. I had no idea who those other visitors had been. I had hardly seen Hagen, just been thrust from one conversation to another by some drunk guest.
Kiver’s small get-together had somehow exploded into a full-on Auseil party. Strings of subtly twinkling yellow lights hung from the ceiling like golden spider-webs, their motion making the room shimmer in the fluctuating light. Branches dipped in chrome hung among them looking like the venation of a dragonfly’s gossamer wings. They reflected the light, causing tiny golden motes to play out on the floors and walls. Everything seemed to be dancing.
Somewhere in the large hall a band played an old Auseil tune: “Body and Soul.” Near the band a few intoxicated guests danced in pairs while others watched.
Kiver’s apartment, like most maero homes, was sparely furnished. The walls were bare—no million-lira tapestries hung against them, no luxurious furniture covered the floors. What furniture did exist was maero design. Simple shapes. Usually cubed. Nothing overly assuming, nothing ostentatious.
It was the view that was the real gem.
The flat occupied one whole floor of the Shangdi Tower. Its outer walls were made up of huge panes of glass that offered expansive views of Paramount Plaza, the newly forming streets of Level Nine, as well as the scrape and span of the lower levels that extended out across the archipelago, rising and falling like frozen waves. The lights of millions upon millions of souls crammed atop one another into small apartments, offices, and hovels twinkled from below. A small bit of sanctuary on the edge of the vast wilds of the Territories.
Partygoers—Hagen among them—stuffed themselves along a table festooned with dim sum dumplings, thick red cheeses, platters of cubed bacon topped with ginger and spicy peppers, and piles of fresh salads. On one hand, it was not at all what I expected, but on the other hand, there were no surprises. With the rationing in full effect and supplies so scarce, a party like this was excessive. It seemed strange that the papers would leave this alone, but knowing the Ledger they were probably so deep in elevated pockets they wouldn’t touch it. Their reporters were probably even here, stuffing their cheeks along with everyone else.
Didn’t Kiver understand how many people were going hungry? Was he really so callous to the lives suffering in the warrens below? He had been down there. He’d met me in Cedric’s. He had to have seen the people clamoring for overpriced scraps.
I found the group in a corner, speaking softly as the ice in their drinks tinkled. Kiver had made quick introductions and left me standing with them earlier. I had already tried to probe about the kresh servant and that had gone nowhere. There had been some discussion of the gilded murders, but the topic had been quickly changed. The market and tariffs were much more pleasant topics. I had wandered off then. Now I hoped the topic had finally changed. Luckily, it had.
“Ah, Mr. Bell, welcome back,” said an older human woman. I hadn’t caught her name yet.
“Yes, welcome back. I meant to ask earlier: What sort of business are you in?” asked a maero named Caleth dal Dunnel. He was big, thicker than Wensem, and taller. He wore a tuxedo that hung loosely about him. His dark eyes were glistening above liquor-flushed cheeks. It was tough to place how old he was. Maero tend be difficult to judge when it comes to age, they don’t wrinkle like we do, and it takes a long time before their locks go gray. Even so, I was confident Caleth was on the young side.
“Caravans. I’m one of the owners of Bell Caravans,” I said.
“Rough time for you lot,” said Caleth. “Sorry about that.”
I nodded. “It is what it is. What do you all do?”
I looked around at the gathered group.
Caleth laughed. “Personally, I do a little of this and little of that. Frank here’s a doc. Joy works the boardrooms for Camalote. Cora here’s in fish—Lawton Island Fish, specifically. Janus is—”
“Please, do we need to blather on about work?” interrupted the doc—Doctor Frank Adderley. He was tall and rail-thin with sharp chiseled cheekbones and handsome features. His immaculate chin-length hair hung limply around his face. He had bright piercing eyes that glinted in the cascade of lights.
He was also pale. It was odd. Humans are usually swarthy, with dark skin, dark hair, and dark eyes. It varies slightly, but it’s rare to see humans as pale as Doctor Adderley. It’s said that before the Aligning—when the Firsts wreaked havoc—humans were once as variously colored as all the species of earth. We came in all shapes and sizes and colors. Then something had changed. Now we’re more or less constant: dark hair, dark eyes, dark skin. This man was peculiar, an anomaly.
“Alright,” I said. “What were you all talking about before I stepped in?”
“The recent jai alai rankings,” Adderley said.
“You been following?” asked Caleth.
I shook my head. I didn’t go much for sports. Never had time.
“Not particularly. Nothing against it, but it’s been years since I watched a full match.”
“Too much time on the road,” said Adderley.
“Something like that,” I said. “What have I missed?”
I looked around the group.
A middle-aged human woman named Joyce Pickett-Derby answered first. She had kind green eyes and a wide smile. She wore a simple suit with a skirt. The logo of The Camalote Group was embroidered on a breast pocket. “We’re coming up on the Northern Semi-Finals. Me, I like the Fausti brothers. Aggressive play. Nice defense. I think they have a great chance.”
Drunken laughter rose from Caleth and he shook his head. I turned to him. “You disagree?”
“Carter’s cross, Joyce! You know shit all about jai alai if you think the Faustis will clinch the semis!” said Caleth. He cleared his throat and chopped a hand in her direction. “Let me tell you why you’re wrong. You ask anyone and they’ll tell you the same thing: Reddick and Monty have the best chance at taking the trophy this year. Like the year before. Monty’s chula is second to none and Reddick can catch like nobody’s business. They’ve won twelve out of their last fifteen matches. Twelve out of fifteen! No one else in the damned league can come close to that. And you pick a pair of quims like the Faustis? They don’t have a chance! And before you say anything, Shain...” He smirked at an umbra standing nearby. “...neither do that pair of demons: Denaiud and Roux.”
Demon, a slur for dimanians. I shifted my weight and buried my darkening cheeks in an awkward sip from my drink. Caleth went on, holding up
a forefinger and pinky together and slapping them to his wide forehead. A crude imitation of a dimanian’s horns. He belched and laughed, throwing a wide fleshy grin at the group.
I was glad Hagen had stayed by the food. For years the slang term “demon” had been thrown around, despite the fact that dimanian horns were cutaneous. Nothing like the ancient stories of red devils and whatnot.
“Hey, let’s not—” I said, intending to cut this short.
The old human woman standing to my left huffed in disgust and rolled her eyes, cutting in. “I wish you wouldn’t be so churlish, Caleth. Really. It’s below a maero of your standing to use such slurs. You know they’re just drummed up and spread by the Purity Movement.”
“Hah!” Caleth laughed. “It’s all in good fun. Everyone knows I’m kidding.”
He looked around the group for accomplices but found none. Miss Pickett-Derby folded her arms and frowned.
“At the very least, don’t do it in front of Kiver’s guest,” said the old woman. There was a tone of authority in her voice.
I looked from her to the maero as I took a sip of vermouth. It was very good, sweet and sharp, rich with spicy botanicals, perfect for washing away offensive comments. I hoped I had enough.
If Caleth was embarrassed he certainly didn’t show it. Instead he took another swig from his wine glass and grinned at the old lady. Then he reached out and slapped me on the shoulder. “You don’t mind, do ya, pal?”
“Actually, I do mi—” I began.
Caleth ignored me. “Cora, you forget, some of my best friends are dims... d–demons... dimanians.” He grinned a set of huge white teeth. She took a sharp intake of breath and set her jaw. His reaction had clearly been a mistake.
“Careful now, Cal,” warned Adderley.
“Indeed,” said Pickett-Derby.
“I’m fine,” said Caleth. “Cora knows I’m just fooling.”
Did she? A fellow who had been introduced to me as Janus Ambrose Gold chuckled. As his name suggested he was a dauger with a simple but glittering mask of bright gold. He wore a dark blue suit trimmed in a similar color that did much to hide the wide paunch of his belly. It was clear he was the most wealthy of the gathered throng and with his sweeping statements he wielded his power like a scythe. There was something in the way he held himself. Absolutely upright, but relaxed. And the way the others never directed questions at him. They perked up and stopped speaking when he spoke.
What an odd lot.
“He may be a bigot and without class, Miss Dirch, but I can assure you that Caleth’s jai alai predictions are not to be discarded. He’s successfully predicted the last six championship teams.” Gold looked at me. “You’d do well to take his advice and back Reddick and Monty, Mister Bell.”
Caleth nodded smartly, as if Gold’s comment was the perfect testimonial.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I said.
“Keep it in mind only if you want to find yourself broke,” said the umbra. I cringed. I get uncomfortable around the umbra. The shadow people are usually a rare sight in Lovat. Seeing one as elevated as this was even more rare. He had warmly introduced himself as Charles Shain, a human name that had left me perplexed. I had always thought of umbra as cold but his hand had been warm, pleasant even. And I had always thought, because of their form, that umbra were soft but his grip had been shockingly firm when we shook hands. His eyes glowed a friendly yellow.
But then, my experience with umbra was limited. A little over a year earlier I had a run-in with one. That’s a nice way of saying she had killed some of my friends, both close and distant, as she carried out orders for The Children of Pan. The dark cult that dragged me to my first encounter with a First. Cybill—the kindler. That umbra had died with Cybill, in a tunnel far below, somewhere beneath the bedrock of the Sunk, killed by Samantha and buried with her god.
Shain seemed the absolute opposite of her. A tailored pale gray suit draped his form and he wore a bright yellow tie that matched his eyes. Tight gloves covered his hands. He also wore a silken keff—a roader’s headscarf—wrapped around his head, covering all but his face. You could hear the smile in his voice as he corrected Caleth. “Denaiud and Roux are younger and faster than Reddick and Monty. Injuries have plagued those two all season. I think you’ll be surprised who’s standing on the podium in the end.”
Pickett-Derby took a sip of sparkling wine and nodded. “Cal, you’ve picked Reddick and Monty every damn year. Every damn year! Like clockwork. We all stand around, eating dim sum, drinking, you have a few too many, and we end up talking about who’ll win the championship. Every year: Reddick and Monty. As if they never aged. As if there weren’t another forty pairs out there as eager as they are to win.”
Gold seemed amused by this. He rocked on his heels and gave a chuckle.
“One would think Lovat’s Jai Alai League is rigged,” said Dirch, the old woman, with a wicked smile. She was human, and older than the others. She wore a rose-colored dress with a matching jacket. Glittering jewelry adorned her neck and clattered on her wrists, clear gems and gold. A small matching stickpin graced her lapel. She had coppery skin and dark hair that was fading to white near her ears. Above her sharp features sat keen eyes that studied everything and missed nothing. She seemed a force to reckon with.
Shain launched into another anecdote on Caleth’s behavior when Gold interrupted him. The umbra went immediately silent, his eyes dimming slightly. “How about you, Mister Bell?”
“Er...” I stammered.
I don’t know much about elevated culture. That includes how status is determined. It’s not a caste system like the dauger society, but it’s also not a hierarchy based on wealth. It’s also not based on experience, which is how we roaders weigh a person. Power here is hard to judge. If someone higher on the ladder of power talks over you, asks a question, or even looks in your direction you’re supposed to respond in some manner. A respectful bow of the head. A glance away. Just shutting the hell up. But as an outsider, these rules are beyond me. I didn’t know how to navigate it. The only thing I did know was that out of everyone at Kiver dal Renna’s Auseil party, I was at the bottom. Hell, the servers and bartenders probably ranked higher than me.
Gold inclined his head as if to indicate for me to go on.
An old mantra welled up. Trust no one but your company. One of my rules. I didn’t know these people. They weren’t trail-worn. They were the soft-palmed aristocrats of a city on the verge of crumbling. Playing their games, maneuvering with words and bankrolls and in some occasions murder, instead of hard work and honesty.
“As I said... jai alai isn’t really my game,” I said, meeting Gold’s blue-white eyes. His mask was different from Argentum’s. The eyes were wider, the mouth slit large enough to show teeth. Two brown ears peeked out from either side.
“More of an ausca fan?”
I paid even less attention to the small field gridiron. I doubted discussing the sports I attended would be welcome in this group. When in Lovat I usually caught a few cock fights, or the occasional boxing match in the Level Two rings, and many games of alley bones. Never professional sports. Professional sports are for the more elevated. I preferred the games of the scrubs and subs.
“Not really, professional sports have never really interested me. My work is exciting enough.”
“Hah. Well, following a team is more than a good way to relax or wile away an afternoon. It’s even more than a way to make money like our friend Caleth here does.”
He paused and nodded at me as if waiting for a response.
“Is that so?” I said, waiting to see where this was going.
“It’s a path to immortality,” he said. “We’re a part of something larger than ourselves. You become part of history. The team is a way to put yourself into something that is beyond you, bigger than you, something out of your control.” He gave a chuckle. “In a less esoteric sense, it’s a fine way to be part of your community, and cheer for a local team. Builds warren spirit
, too.”
The others gave polite laughs and nodded in agreement.
“Maybe,” I said. “I guess I never felt like a local anywhere.” I must have spoken a little too quickly. Gold’s eyes narrowed slightly behind his mask and Dr. Adderley visibly tensed. I glanced at him and his eyes looked apologetic.
“What sort of business are you in now, Mister Bell?” the dauger asked. His voice had changed ever so slightly.
Good question. I was trying to figure that out myself. It was hard to be a caravan master without a company. I also wasn’t here in any official capacity, just a roader trying to make some money off an elevated maero with the help of a much smarter friend. I went with something simple. “I’m a consultant. Kiver asked for my input on a project.”
“A consultant.”
“Second tonight,” said Cora, bemused.
“Ah!” said Kiver dal Renna, walking up and draping a hand over mine and Gold’s shoulders. If it bothered the dauger, he didn’t show it. Kiver must rank higher than Gold. “How are my friends treating you, Mister Bell?”
“I’m enjoying myself,” I lied.
“It’s been a pleasure,” said Shain warmly, his yellow eyes twinkling. “Don’t listen to all the scra... er... lower-level rumors about us up on Seven, Eight, and Nine. We’re good hardworking people as much as any other Lovatine.”
Yeah? I thought, looking first at Gold, then Dirch, then Pickett-Derby who all seemed oddly quiet. Caleth laughed and shook his head. “Just like a scrape.”
“Caleth,” said Kiver, as firm and cold as I ever heard him. The other maero went immediately quiet. “I will not have that word or any other slur used in my house. Is that clear? Especially at Auseil. This is a time of unity.”
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