I had to see Beaconfield. If Celia’s talisman was right, and he was involved in this business with the children, then I needed to try and suss out his purpose. And if he wasn’t, then I still owed a shipment to my new favorite client. I took another hit, then headed west to see the Kiren.
A mile and a half later I stepped into the Blue Dragon. The bartender, morbidly obese and yet to offer me his name in three years of patronizing the establishment, stood watch at the counter. Beyond him the room was mostly empty, its usual clientele finishing out their shifts at the factories that dotted the area.
I grabbed a seat at the bar. Up close, the proprietor’s flesh undulated in a singularly unappealing fashion, a hillock of fat rising and falling with each haggard breath. Apart from his labored panting he was motionless, apathy wearing a groove in his face.
“What’s the good word?” I opened, knowing my pleasantry wouldn’t earn a response. It didn’t. Sometimes it gets boring being right all the time. “I need to make a pickup.” One of the high points of dealing with the Kiren is you don’t need to talk in code—no heretics work for the hoax, and a white man inside the pub stuck out like, well, a white man in a pub full of Kirens.
The bartender’s eyes fluttered once, like the beat of a hummingbird’s wing.
I took that for acknowledgment. “I need half a pint of Daeva’s honey and six stalks of ouroboros root.”
There was a long pause, during which the man’s face betrayed no hint of comprehension. This was followed by the barest shifting of his pupils toward the back door.
The Blue Dragons and I did a lot of business together, there shouldn’t be any need to see the boss just to grab a few ochres’ worth of narcotics. “Not now. I have somewhere to be. Tell Ling Chi I’ll swing back around later.”
Another interminable intermission, and another sideways glance.
It seemed I was going to see Ling Chi after all.
Behind the back door was a small room occupied by a pair of Kirens holding half-moon axes and looking equal parts menacing and bored. They guarded a second door, as nondescript as the first. The one on the left bowed politely. “Please put your weapons on the table. They will be returned after your meeting.” He spoke with a slight accent, but his grammar and diction were perfect. His associate yawned and scratched at the inner wall of a nostril. I tossed my armaments on a bench in the corner, then moved toward the next room.
The guard on the right dropped his hand from his face and raised his ax threateningly. I shot a look at his partner, apparently the brains of the outfit. “We must regretfully insist on a search of your person,” he said, without discernible regret.
This was unexpected, and like any unexpected event in a criminal transaction, ominous. The Blue Dragon Clan had been supplying me with product for three years, ever since taking over the Dead Rat’s territory. In that time we had developed a mutually beneficial relationship, founded like any relationship on trust and constancy. Nothing positive could come from altering the routine.
I allowed no trace of worry to flicker across my face. Heretics are like dogs: any sign of fear and you’re as good as lost. I held out my arms and the guard who had been picking his nose gave me a quick but thorough search. The other opened the second door and waved me through. “We thank our esteemed guest for accepting indignity with grace.”
In stark contrast to the bar that surrounded his court, every inch of Ling Chi’s inner sanctum was enveloped in the oppressively opulent fashion that is the height of taste among the heretics. Lanterns of red-lacquered wood provided dim light while casting strange and grotesque shadows across the walls. The floor was covered with intricately woven Kiren rugs, man-sized figures consisting of thousands of colored strands spreading out to the back of the room. In the corners, braziers shaped like strange half-animal demigods puffed at yard-long sticks of joss, filling the interior with their heavy musk.
Ling Chi sat in the midst of it, lounging on a silk divan, a striking beauty carefully massaging his bare feet. He was in his early middle age, slight even for a Kiren, but projecting a presence the envy of someone twice his size. His face was a mask of white powder, interrupted only by a pair of false beauty marks, and his hair was elaborately styled, a black mane stretched across a gold wire that rose above his scalp like a halo. He watched me with the faintest hint of a smile, hands clasped, the artificial tips of his elongated nails clacking rhythmically.
For all that he played the part of the degenerate despot, there was something about the man that made me wonder how much was pretense. I could never quite shake the feeling that as soon as I was gone he’d kick away the maidservant, don a pair of slippers, and replace the mad contrivance on his head with a decent hat.
Then again, maybe not. No foreigner can ever understand a heretic, not really.
But if his image was fabricated, his position was very much earned—Ling Chi, the Death That Comes by a Thousand Cuts, whose word is law from Kirentown to the city walls. Rumor placed him as either the bastard son of the Celestial Emperor or the child of an immigrant prostitute who died in childbirth. Personally, I’d put my money on the latter—nobility tend to lack the drive necessary to maintain control over such a vast enterprise.
In less than a decade he had turned a neighborhood gang into one of the most powerful criminal entities in Rigus, and done so in the face of the entrenched underworld interests. His leadership during the Third Syndicate War had made his coterie one of the rare few which left that bloody business stronger than when they had entered it, unifying the smaller Kiren crews into a single horde vital enough to stand toe to toe with the Tarasaihgn and Rouender mobs. These days, he ran half the docks and had his fingers in almost any illicit enterprise run by his countrymen within the city proper.
He was also an utter madman, completely lacking in any of those qualities like empathy or conscience that might prove a hindrance to the expansion and consolidation of a criminal organization. The story went that the year after his rise to power was the best for shallow water fishing in fifty years, made so by the supply of human flesh Ling Chi had seen fit to dump in the harbor.
He smiled at me, his teeth inked black in the Kiren fashion. “My dearest comrade has returned after too long away.”
I bowed very slightly. “My most intimate confidant does me honor in marking my absence.”
“A small recognition of the many fine services my beloved ally has provided.”
The slave took up an emery stone and brought it smoothly across his toenails, elevating his bare foot slightly as she did so. Ling Chi’s face betrayed no sign that he had noticed. “Much has happened to my closest of friends since last we spoke.”
I waited to hear where he went.
“Some weeks ago my brother asked for permission to enter my territory. I was grateful to be able to render so dear an associate service. My brother entered, my brother asked questions. A man, a Kiren man, died. Later, agents searched his house—they said the dead man was a killer of children; they said he killed a little white girl. Now my people speak of dark things that hide in the shadows and prey on the children of the Venerable Lands, and they speak of the constables of their new home, who are happy to let this happen.” His golden fingernails continued their drumbeat, click, click, click.
“Glory be to the Celestial Emperor, whose ways are subtle but certain, and who repays all evil in kind. Blessed are we who hold firm to the Empyreal Path, whose steps are watched by the Highest of His Ministers. May our words be uttered without deceit, and our actions redound to the glory of his Eternal Majesty.” Beat that, you stone-faced bastard.
Ling Chi laughed, a brittle sound like the roar of a locust, and gestured to the corner. A young boy approached the throne with a long pipe, crafted to resemble an uncoiled dragon, and held it to his master’s mouth. Ling Chi took a drag and blew a foul concoction of tobacco and opiates into the air. He offered it to me with one crook of his long fingernails, but I shook my head and he waved the boy back into the shado
ws.
“The piety of my associate is a source of perpetual inspiration. And yet …” His eyes grew doleful, tiny pupils ringed by black rouge. “Many are the demons of iniquity that wait on the road to enlightenment, and crooked is the trail. Nothing more pleases the Lords of Vice than to twist the workings of a righteous man to their own dark purposes.”
“The words of my compatriot are dulcet to my ears, and ennobling to my spirit,” I said.
His talons kept even time. “We are but a poor and benighted community, struggling to survive on alien soil. This foul business, the terrible doings of a dim and twisted mind … It threatens to disturb the delicate equilibrium between our tiny school and the sea of sharks in which we swim.”
I didn’t respond, and after a moment he continued.
“I am but an aged grandfather whose fellow countrymen, lost amid the chaos of your country, look to for guidance and protection. The small esteem I have gained would evaporate as dew on a summer morning were I unable to defend against the unwarranted attacks of their tormentors.”
“Grateful we are that the murderer’s actions were discovered, and the threat to the children of the Emperor is over.”
His nails ceased their tattoo. “It is not over,” he hissed, and I feared our interview was about to erupt into violence. But his break in composure was momentary, and so swift that I could barely be certain it had even happened. His claws resumed their cadence, and for a time all that could be heard was their echo against the shadowy fastness of the chamber. “Another child has been found. A terrible development. Already your fellows call for vengeance against the heretics. Already they call for reprisals.”
I focused on looking inscrutable. The heretics are a useful target for the round eyes, but the threat of their abuse is part of what keeps Ling Chi’s people in line. What was he moaning about?
Ling Chi beckoned to his attendant, who brought the pipe over a second time. He put his lips to the stem, then spewed out an impressive cloud of the dank vapor. “I was terribly concerned for my intimate’s safety today.”
“It flatters me that one so exalted would consider my well-being worthy of notice.”
“This morning I was informed by a wandering eye that my friend was arrested by agents of the Crown.” He clicked his tongue in a fashion meant to be taken as sorrowful—it was grotesque and unnatural, like a she wolf suckling a newborn. “Terrible was the despair in my household. I ordered my servants to dress themselves in white and to begin the forty days of mourning prescribed for the death of an esteemed companion.” He hung his head between his shoulders in feigned bereavement, observing a theoretical moment of silence.
“Then something extraordinary happened!” A smile appeared on his lips, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “I received another message. My ally had exited the house of justice! Great was the joy with which the news of my brother’s survival was received! I ordered strings of burning chrysanthemums to be set off and a black rooster slaughtered in his honor.” He cocked his head contemplatively. “But in the midst of my unadulterated happiness, I could not divest myself of the pangs of curiosity. For though I have heard tell of many men being taken into the rooms beneath Black House, word has never reached my ears of one being allowed to leave.”
“The visit from my former employers was a surprise, as was my release. Terrible are the workings of a government out of harmony with the heavens.”
“Former employers …”
“The delicacy of my associate’s hearing is matched only by the perfection of his understanding.”
“Cunning are the servants of your Queen, unknowable their objectives. Great must be the concern of any who find themselves tangled in the intrigues of Black House.”
The pieces clicked together and I finally realized the purpose of this interminable interrogation. He thought the Old Man moved against him, that the dead Kiren was his opening gambit, that I had been drafted into it and my arrest was a cover for a meeting. The impossibility of such a scheme would provide little defense against the blades of Ling Chi’s underlings should he decide to act on his suspicions. “What concern could honest citizens have for the doings of the lawful authorities, clouded though their sight may be?”
“I am certain my brother has the truth of it. And yet … I am a simple man,” he said, pausing to give the absurdity time to diffuse amid the smoke. “So I speak to my revered brethren plainly. I do not know what trouble afflicts Low Town—but I cannot help but observe that since my associate’s intrusion the round eyes howl for the blood of my kinsmen, and Black House sniffs about my home.”
There was no point in arguing further. “The words of my honorable ally are water on parched earth.”
He closed his eyes and put his hand to his brow, his skills sufficient to carry the theatrics. “Truly, the concerns of parentage weigh heavy on my brow. Many are the days when I wonder how I shall carry on. Many are the nights that I wish for the Emperor to call me to his side. I take solace only in the knowledge that my ally offers aid to my feeble body, and comfort to my senescent mind.”
“I watch after my mentor with vision that never clouds.”
“And I would expect nothing less from so stalwart a friend. The goods are at the bar, and I will provide a quarter discount in exchange for the precious moments my brother has given me. As for the other matters …” He leaned his body forward in such a fashion as to allow the girl below to continue massaging his foot. “Remember what I said. I have no wish to antagonize Black House, but they cannot operate in my territory. I will be forced to meet any interference in a fashion”—he smiled, an ugly thing, jet-black teeth sharp even in the gloom—“most unfriendly.”
I left Ling Chi’s den as rapidly as decorum would allow. The whole thing was too much, the smoke so thick in my lungs I thought I might vomit. At the bar the fat man handed me my package without a shift of his dead eyes. I headed out the door without looking back.
By the time I made it back to the Earl, the dinner rush was in full swing. I took a free spot at the bar and managed to break Adolphus away from his role as host long enough to call for a plate of food and something dark to sit on top of it. It was warm, and the press of bodies and the loud hum of vitality were having a lethargic effect. I rubbed my forehead and tried to keep myself awake.
Adeline came in from the back, a dish of meat and potatoes in one hand and a pull of good strong stout in the other. “Thanks,” I said.
She nodded pleasantly. “Where’s Wren?”
“He took off. Said he had something he wanted to take care of.”
For all that I could trade half-truths and outright fabrications with the most dangerous Kiren in Rigus, I seemed utterly incapable of sliding a falsehood past Adeline’s plump face. “You chased him off, didn’t you?”
“We had a disagreement about the relative merits of property rights. He’ll be back eventually.”
She puffed herself up to something substantially larger than her diminutive span. “Eventually,” she repeated, not a question so much as a condemnation.
“Lay off it, Adeline. He’s been sleeping on the street for most of his life. Another night won’t matter.”
“And the child who was killed this morning?”
“Wren ain’t my kid, Adeline, and he ain’t yours neither. Better you don’t get too attached—he’s likely to bite your hand in the end.”
“You unbelievable little shit,” she said, then whirled and headed back to the kitchen, as if she didn’t trust herself to be around me any longer.
“Yeah,” I said to no one in particular. “Probably.”
I tore through my chop steak and tried to force the pieces floating around my skull into a coherent picture. It wasn’t working. I could see Beaconfield as corrupt, venal, and sadistic—hell, I had settled on those three before I had even met him. But this didn’t fit. There weren’t many crimes that could disturb the position of a noble of the blood, but summoning a creature from the void, and using it to sacrifice chi
ldren—that was one of them. If the Blade was caught, his name wouldn’t be enough to save him. He’d swing or swallow a draft of arsenic while awaiting trial. No doubt he had spent most of his life swimming in the noisome waters of court, trying to one-up his rivals with cheap intrigue and the occasional act of violence, but these were the common hobbies of the upper class, like adolescents and dry humping. The aristocracy are too comfortable with what they have to put it all in the pot—that’s what makes them easy to play. What could he be aiming for that warranted running such terrible risks?
And if Beaconfield wasn’t involved, why had Celia’s talisman singed a hole halfway through my breast during our conversation? Was the duke damning his soul in some endeavor entirely unrelated to the one I was investigating?
Maybe Ling Chi was right, and this was all an elaborate setup by the Old Man to try and break a potential threat to his power. But that didn’t add up either. I had no illusions about my former boss, but unleashing this abomination on the people of Low Town was an awful lot of trouble to go through just to crush a mid-level clique, even one run by someone as vicious as my revered brother. And if he had needed a life to snuff, he wouldn’t have had to go through all the trouble of snatching a child—he’d just walk into the dungeons and pick a motherfucker to disappear. Besides, the Old Man wouldn’t have been so foolish as to involve me in his operation—if he had set this ball of twine rolling, he wouldn’t want me following its trail.
Maybe Ling Chi was pulling the strings, and the interview had been a ruse to throw me off his scent. The only person I could say for sure was involved in this whole thing had been a Kiren, and I’d heard plenty of rumors about the dark arts of the heretics, though in the past I’d chalked this up to general racial antipathy. Maybe it was another syndicate, or a player at court—hell, maybe it was some fiendish retaliation by the Dren.
I downed the dregs of my ale and tried to get my head right. There was too much chaff in the air, and I couldn’t get a clear picture of the game, let alone the players. I’d been better at this, once, but I was long out of practice—being a successful criminal doesn’t require quite the same skill set as catching one. Nor did I suppose that a half decade of dipping into my stock had done wonders for my powers of deduction. Maybe Crispin was right, and I was too far gone to even be playing at any of this, my desperate gamble with the Old Man a fool’s bet, a rain check on the inevitable.
Low Town: A Novel Page 16