Shadow of the Knife

by Jane Fletcher

  “What!” Valerie’s exclamation drew startled looks from the other Rangers, who broke off their own conversation.

  “I know, it’s...” Ellen made a vague gesture of uncertainty. Sheep were prone to theft. For most of the year they were left to wander free on open ground, with only minimal checks made on them by the shepherds. A few went missing every year. It was the scale of the thefts that was unprecedented.

  “Have you caught the thieves?”

  “No.”

  “So how many sheep are still missing?”

  “All of them.”

  “Five hundred, that’s...” Valerie’s expression of stunned disbelief matched Ellen’s own feelings on the matter.

  “When did it happen?” Gill joined the conversation.

  “We got the first reports when the shepherds went to bring the sheep in for the winter. Didn’t think too much of it at the start.” Ellen shrugged. “We all know sometimes farmers round up a few sheep that don’t belong to them.”

  It was a matter of folk-law among farmers that sheep would keel over and die just to spite them, especially in the late autumn, when the ewes were pregnant with their cloned offspring. If someone had lost more animals than expected, the temptation was to make up the numbers from another flock, keep the ewes out of sight, tattoo the lambs with their own stamp when they were born in spring and then let the mothers go again.

  Jay Takeda laughed. “The old six blank-eared sheep premise.”

  “What?” Mel’s face screwed into a frown.

  “It’s an old joke. They say there ought to be a half dozen sheep with no number tattooed on their ears and each year a different farm gets to have them. The net result would be the same as all the petty pilfering, but it would be far less fuss and bother all around.”

  “Where did you hear that?”

  “Last time I was in Roadsend I spent a couple of evenings with a shepherd.”

  “And you talked about sheep all night?”

  “No. Not all night.” Jay gave a cheery grin that drew laughter from her friends.

  When the table had quieted, Gill looked back at Ellen. Clearly she was concerned and not ready to let the matter drop. “But we’re not talking about a half dozen sheep, are we? What did your Lieutenant Cohen have to say about it all?”

  “Well, I’m just a rookie, so I don’t always get to hear what’s...” Ellen ducked her head uncomfortably.

  “What did she have you do?”

  “We went around to all the farms, adding up how many were missing, and where they’d gone from. But five hundred…” Ellen shrugged. “That’s enough for a small farm. Even a big farm wouldn’t have room to keep so many extra sheep on pasture over winter. We explored the regions where most had vanished, looking for signs of flash floods and things.”

  “Was there heavy rainfall here last autumn?”

  “Not really.”

  “So what, then?”

  “That was it. We went back to our normal routine.”

  The silence was broken only by “Fucking useless Militia,” muttered under her breath by Mel.

  Ellen felt her face burn, but she had to concede some truth to the statement.

  Gill looked thoughtful. “How about your Sergeant Sanchez? Did she have anything to say?”

  Ellen drew a deep breath—this was it. Was she really breaking orders? But how could she not answer? “Um…we were talking about it just before we ran into the fight. Have you heard about the trouble in Eastford—the Mad Butcher’s gang? They call themselves the Knives.”

  “I’d heard there was a bit of fuss there a while back.”

  “The gang murdered some Militiawomen.”

  Gill frowned. “I knew a few had died. But I thought it was all due to coincidence and a run of bad luck, rather than a single gang.”

  Ellen shook her head. “Maybe officially, but that’s not what we heard on the Militia grapevine.”

  “It’s all been quiet recently. Isn’t the trouble over?”

  “No. The reason it’s gone quiet is because the Butcher and her Knives have scared everyone into shutting up. If people don’t do what the Butcher says, they get a beating, or their house burned down. Anyone who informs to the Militia is dead. But the rumor is that the Butcher’s got every thief and thug in Eastford working for her. And she owns shops and warehouses. Pays people to run them for her. She’s treating crime like it’s a business.”

  “Sanchez thought she’s behind the thefts here?”

  Ellen ducked her head. “After Sarge got stabbed, it was the last thing she said before she passed out. But who else could deal with so many stolen sheep? And there isn’t any other gang that would be so quick to pull a knife on a Militiawoman. Sally Husmann knew more than she was saying. She’s an honest trader, so someone’s frightened her into keeping quiet.”

  “And Lieutenant Cohen is doing nothing?”

  “Well...I don’t know. I mean, she might be...or...”

  Gill leaned on the table and rubbed her face thoughtfully. “I think this is something our Captain Aitkin needs to hear about.”

  *

  The bleating of sheep below deck was deafening. Ellen picked six at random and checked their ear tattoos. The dim light meant she had to peer closely, to be confident that all matched the number on the sales docket.

  The ear tattoos were the main guard against theft. Getting a sheep to stand still long enough to tattoo by hand was not feasible, so it was done using a metal stamp, with dozens of needles set in a pattern that included the farm’s identification number. Making the stamp required specialized equipment and the talents of a skilled craftsman. Possessing one without proper authorization was a crime. The tattoos did not stop the occasional sheep from being stolen and eaten, but up until now it had prevented wholesale theft.

  Ellen let the last sheep go and looked at the remaining seventy-four in the hold. She considered grabbing a couple more, but the rules did not require that more than six be checked and the barge skipper was a familiar face—someone who had been working on the river since before Ellen was born—and had the reputation of being trustworthy.

  Ellen climbed up through the hatch onto the deck of the Elsie-Shadha. Noonday sun bathed the scene. The sheep pens were full and three other barges were alongside. In the company of the skipper, Ellen stepped down the gangplank and went into the dockside office. She filed away the dockets detailing the number of sheep, the farms they were from, and the name of the barge. Then she poured wax on the bottom of the transport authorization, stamped it, and handed it over to the barge skipper. It was all very tedious and, as the thefts had shown, completely pointless.

  “Safe journey.”

  “Thanks.” The skipper marched up the gangplank, calling to her crew.

  Ellen stood outside the office and watched the Elsie-Shadha move away from the quay. The Ronnie-Belle was also ready to depart, but this barge had taken on its cargo in Roadsend, so the sheep had already been checked in the pens and the paperwork completed.

  Ellen frowned pensively. Most sheep were loaded at the upriver wharfs, which was why they had to be checked after they were on the barge. For the thieves, herding their stolen sheep through town in broad daylight would surely be far too risky, so the upriver sheep, like those on the Elsie-Shadha, were the ones to hone in on.

  Why had Cohen not ordered extra checks? Ellen chewed her lip. One way or another, the stolen sheep had to be coming through the Roadsend docks. Water was the only practical way to transport the sheep to a market where they could be sold. Yet immediately downstream of Roadsend the landscape changed and went from rugged sandstone hills to low-lying wetland. Within a kilometer, the River Tamer was surrounded on both sides by an expanse of marsh. By the time it was again possible to herd sheep close to a deep water channel, the river was flowing through densely populated farmland. Hundreds of stolen sheep could not slip through the countryside without being noticed.

  “Hey, Ellen.” Jude McCray jogged up.

  “Wh
at is it?”

  “Cohen wants to see you right away, in the station. I’m taking over here.”

  A nasty cold feeling rippled in Ellen’s gut, suspecting the reason for the summons. Her guess was confirmed when she entered Cohen’s office and saw Captain Aitkin of the Rangers. Both Aitkin and Cohen appeared angry, and in the case of the latter, a fair bit of that anger was instantly directed at Ellen.

  “What is this nonsense you’ve been spreading?”

  “Ma’am?”

  “I told you not to—”

  Captain Aitkin interrupted. “The report I heard did not sound like nonsense. Over five hundred sheep stolen.”

  “That is not the point.”

  “That is totally the point.” Aitkin addressed Ellen. “Do you confirm Sergeant Sanchez also thought the big Eastford gang was behind it all?”

  “Um...” Ellen felt her throat tighten. What should she say?

  “Come on, yes or no?”

  “She thought it might be, ma’am.”

  “The thugs you confronted, they resorted to deadly force without hesitation?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And the businesswoman they were attacking was too frightened to say what she knew?”

  “I think so, ma’am.”

  Aitkin returned to Cohen. “All of which ties in with what we know of this gang’s tactics.”

  “But what can we do?”

  “For starters, get off your frigging ass.”

  Cohen flinched at the heated tone. Her eyes flitted around the room before fixing on Ellen. “Wait outside.”

  From the briefing room, Ellen heard the angry voices rising and falling. She could make out enough of what was said to know that Aitkin was pulling rank. Admittedly, the Militia and the Rangers had separate chains of command, but the threat of referring the issue to Militia HQ was enough to intimidate Cohen. After an extended period of shouting, Aitkin left, looking satisfied rather than happy.

  “Mittal!” Cohen yelled from her office.

  Ellen returned to the room with her heart pounding.

  “I thought I ordered you to keep these ludicrous ideas to yourself. Do you know what you’ve done?”

  Ellen clenched her jaw. There was really nothing she could say. For the next ten minutes, Cohen proceeded to harangue Ellen on her stupidity, her disloyalty, her immaturity, and her arrogance.

  “I don’t expect my officers to go running to the Rangers behind my back, questioning my decisions and trying to stir up trouble. I’m sure it made you feel very important, but believe me, you’ll regret it. Don’t you ever dare do anything like this again. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Cohen pressed her knuckles on her desk and leaned forward, looking as if she was considering going through it all again, but then she scowled and barked, “Dismissed.”

  Ellen turned to the door, but before she got there, Cohen spoke again, “And Mittal, your uniform is in an appalling condition. I can see the stains on your knees from here. You will need to get a new set. Order it from central stores and I’ll deduct the cost from your next month’s pay.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Ellen escaped and stood in the briefing room, recovering her composure. She remembered Mel Ellis from the night before. If Mel had met many officers like Cohen, it would go a long way to justifying her contempt for the Militia. But even as the idea drifted through Ellen’s head, she froze, shocked at herself for daring think it. Then she considered the cost of a new uniform.

  Ellen turned and stared at the door to Cohen’s office. To her surprise, she realized that she did not respect her lieutenant at all.

  Chapter Three—Broken Hills Ranch

  Most of the Militia were already assembled in the station when Ellen sidled in through the street door. She ducked across the room and squeezed herself into a gap between the lockers and the unlit iron stove, trying to be inconspicuous, although with little success. The station briefing room was not large enough to provide a suitable hiding spot, just five meters long by four wide. The door to the lieutenant’s office was directly opposite the entrance. On a side wall were further doors to the storeroom and the lockup—the latter obvious from its iron reinforcement and prominent lock. In a corner was the exit to the yard. Apart from the lockers against one wall and the stove, the only furniture was a long table, with a bench on either side.

  Lieutenant Cohen stood facing the street door, arms folded and chin jutting out. Her temper had clearly not improved during the afternoon. From beneath brows so knotted that they almost touched, her hostile eyes tracked Ellen across the room.

  The briefing was to be informal. Zar Thorensen and Penny Rambaldi sat together on a bench, both in an identical pose with elbow on the table and chin cupped in their right hand. Another patrolwoman, Della Murango, had her hip hitched onto a corner of the table. Corporal Rasheed was leaning against the wall just to the right of the street door—the spot Sanchez normally stood in. The sight made Ellen frown. Until the sergeant returned to duty, everyone knew that Rasheed would be second in command to Cohen. Underlining the point in such a trivial way was insensitive and unnecessary.

  Rasheed was in her late thirties, a full decade older than Sanchez, and it was no secret that she had resented the younger woman being promoted over her. However, Rasheed lacked Sanchez’s intelligence and as her flabby build testified, she also lacked the drive to exert herself.

  Lieutenant Cohen kept glowering in Ellen’s direction until the street door opened again, diverting her attention. The last member of the Roadsend Militia, Jude McCray, arrived. Cohen waited for everyone to settle, and then sent one last bitter glare Ellen’s way before starting to speak.

  “It’s bad news, I’m afraid. Somebody has been stirring up trouble and has got the Rangers to stick their damned noses in. We’re going to have to waste yet more time hunting for the missing sheep, for what chance there is of them showing up now. We’re going to visit every damned farm in the district and recheck their paperwork.”

  Groans sounded around the room.

  Cohen continued. “I know. It’s the last thing we need when we’re shorthanded. But somebody wasn’t thinking about that. Until we’ve finished the rounds, all off-duty periods are cancelled. I’m also canceling all daytime patrols. I’ve started to draw up a roster. You’ll be in pairs. I want you to check every cloning certificate, every sales log, and every farm stamp. Make sure they have every scrap of paper in order.”

  “What good’s it going to do, ma’am?” Penny Rambaldi piped up.

  “It’ll exercise the horses, and maybe it will teach somebody to think before she opens her mouth in the future.”

  Ellen was aware of unfriendly looks coming her way from those who had taken the hint from Cohen’s scowls and worked out who the somebody was.

  “Ain’t there something else we can do?”

  “If you want, you can have a look at any sheep they have on pasture. If they’ve got five hundred of the buggers that don’t belong to them, it shouldn’t be hard to spot.” Cohen glared around the room. “Any more questions? Suggestions?”

  There were none. Any comments were restrained to low muttering.

  “Okay. I’ve given Terrie the schedule for the next few days. She’ll let you know where you’re supposed to be.”

  Cohen stomped back into her room and slammed the door. Corporal Rasheed pushed away from the wall and pulled a wad of paper from her pocket. The four patrolwomen gathered around. Nobody looked in Ellen’s direction as she tagged on at the back of the group. She could imagine the waves of resentment flowing in her direction, but then Penny Rambaldi glanced back at her and winked.

  Ellen tried to mask her surprise. Presumably, Penny was not holding her solely responsible for the extra workload. Now that Ellen thought about it, Penny had often been less than flattering about their leader.

  Soon the four patrolwomen had received their assignments and left, ready to make an early start the next day.
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  Rasheed pouted at Ellen. “I’ve got to be your puppy walker. We’re taking the farms to the south. I want you here at dawn tomorrow.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And we’ll see what all this frigging running around achieves, ’cause I don’t know what you think we’re going to find.”

  “It wasn’t my idea.”

  “Whose fault is it, then? The lieutenant’s told me all about you going behind her back to the Rangers.”

  “I was just chatting in the pub with Valerie Bergstrom. I didn’t suggest we...”

  Ellen’s voice died. Maybe she had not directly proposed anything, but she had been hoping for some new initiative to hunt down the thieves. Yet the response was not the one she had envisaged. The Roadsend Militia were responsible for an area covering thousands of square kilometers and upward of two hundred and fifty farms. Visiting every one was going to take the better part of a month. It was a massive amount of work for everyone, and certain to be a waste of time. No thief would be stupid enough to hang on to a forged receipt, detailing the sale of her neighbors’ sheep, let alone pass it over to any Militiawomen who came calling.

  In early autumn, the sheep were rounded up and brought in to the home pastures. Teams of cloners traveled from farm to farm, using their skill with the psychic healer sense to induce pregnancies. Their work was sanctified by the Sisterhood, and copies of the cloning certificates were held in the Temple. Rather than running around checking the paperwork on farms, it would be far quicker and more productive to crosscheck the Sisters’ figures against the records in the docks, to see if any farmers had sold more lambs than they should.

  Best of all would be to spend more time in town, talking to the traders and businesswomen, and see if any could be persuaded to break the conspiracy of silence. Something unprecedented was going on, and the Militia needed information. However, Cohen was still refusing to accept that this was not like any other theft. Ellen noted that the briefing had contained no mention of the Eastford Butcher and her Knives. Surely the patrolwomen should have been alerted to this possibility. Why had nothing been said? Ellen stared at the floor, unhappy at the direction her thoughts were taking her. She wished she could put more faith in Cohen.