Shadow of the Knife

by Jane Fletcher

  Seeing that Ellen was going to offer nothing more in her own defense, Rasheed snorted dismissively and wrenched open the street door. “See you here tomorrow, first thing. And don’t you dare be late.” The words were thrown over her shoulder as she left.

  Ellen caught the door before it closed, but waited for a few seconds before heading out, taking a deep breath and composing her face. When had she ever been late for duty? More than that, Rasheed’s own timekeeping was decidedly slack. The admonishment was both patronizing and irritating.

  However, rookies had to be accompanied by the most senior active Militiawoman available—a practice known informally as puppy walking. Until Sanchez returned to duty, Ellen knew she was going to be spending most of her time with the corporal.

  Ellen sighed and stepped out into the street. She hoped Rasheed would not take too long to get over her resentment, because in her current crabby mood, she was not going to be pleasant company.

  *

  After twelve days, Ellen knew her hopes were not going to be fully realized. Admittedly, Rasheed no longer kept harping on about Ellen’s role in involving the Rangers, or repeatedly taunting her over the whole pointless waste of time. However, a crabby mood was Rasheed’s normal frame of mind and her idea of puppy walking consisted of exerting herself as little as possible while getting Ellen to run around performing every menial task that cropped up.

  Even when they were riding along amicably, Rasheed’s conversation could hardly be described as sparkling.

  “My sister’s got a nerve. I told her I wasn’t having none of it. But she won’t let it drop. She said she’s coming over tomorrow night. So I told her tough, I ain’t going to be in. And she said if I was going to be like that, then she wasn’t going to give me my coat back. She’s a frigging bitch. I mean, what’s my damned coat got to do with it?”

  Ellen made a sympathetic noise.

  “She thinks the whole world revolves around her. She needs to grow up, or get a fucking good kick up the ass.”

  Ellen nodded and made more noises.

  They were sixteen kilometers south of Roadsend, close by the Upper Tamer River, and approaching the fourth of the farms on their route for that day. The afternoon sun was beating down from a cloudless sky. The air was thick with dust and pollen that clogged in the throat. Ellen was happy not to be required to speak, especially since she was running low on water. She supposed she should be grateful that Rasheed was not expecting her to join in, but she would have been even happier with silence.

  The saga of Rasheed’s troubles with her sister had been going on for the last five kilometers. In format, it was much like her troubles with the rest of her family and neighbors. Judging by the experience of previous days, the recounting had at least another hour to go. Then Rasheed would go back to the beginning and start repeating some of the highlights. Fortunately the next farm, Broken Hills Ranch, was less than a kilometer away. Examining the paperwork would provide an enjoyable break.

  Rasheed’s monologue continued unabated as they rode the last few hundred meters to the farmstead. However, the tale held even less of Ellen’s attention than normal. Changes had happened at Broken Hills Ranch since the last time she had been there.

  The farm was owned by Cassie Drennen, who was elderly, infirm, and eccentric. It had been going downhill for years, as Drennen’s ability to manage the workload had failed. From memory, Ellen thought the farm had fewer than four hundred sheep, and that nobody apart from the owner worked there. Yet the shearing shed had a new roof and the main house showed signs of recent repair work. The dry stone walls on either side of the road leading to the farmhouse had been patched up and the surrounding paddocks held at least two hundred half-grown sheep—double the number Ellen would have expected. By July, under a third of that spring’s lambs would normally still be in the home pastures, unsold.

  Ellen was familiar with the yearly farm cycle. Once winter started to bite, the pregnant ewes were brought in from the open hills. When the lambs were a few weeks old, their ears were tattooed using the farmer’s stamp and sufficient numbers to maintain the stock were sent to roam the hills with their mothers. The rest were kept at the farm, to be fattened and sold over the following months and shipped downriver to the butchers in Eastford and Landfall.

  Clearly someone new had taken over at Broken Hills Ranch and was expanding the flock. Ellen felt a ripple of excitement. Would the new owner be able to produce the evidence that all the extra sheep had been paid for? And just who had taken over? Ellen had heard no news of the farm being sold, or about anything happening to Cassie Drennen.

  Corporal Rasheed finally fell silent as they reached the yard in front of the farmhouse. A woman Ellen did not recognize was at work there, replacing the boarding on a cart. Was this the new owner? The woman straightened at the sight of the black-clad Militiawomen and put down her adze. Two dogs dozed in the shade beside her. They scrambled up and advanced, snarling, until the woman called them back. Once they had lain down again, she gave them a quick pat and walked over, brushing dirt and wood chips from her hands.

  Ellen judged that the woman was middle aged, though she looked older due to her skin being weathered by a life spent outdoors. Her clothes were typical for the farms, a loose shirt and well-patched trousers, in neutral colors, protected by a thick leather apron while she worked. A wide-brimmed hat shielded her eyes from the sun. She pushed it back on her head to look up at the mounted Militiawomen.

  “Can I help you?”

  “We’d like to speak to Cassie Drennen,” Rasheed answered.

  The woman gave a rueful pout. “It won’t do you much good, I’m afraid. I’ll get her niece. She’s running the place now. She’ll explain.”

  The farm hand strolled off and slipped through the half-open door of the nearby hay barn. Ellen and Rasheed dismounted and tied their horses’ reins to a post. One of the dogs stood and shook itself. It padded over cautiously, head down, but not snarling now that the visitors had been accepted by someone it knew. Ellen crouched and held out her fingers for the dog to sniff.

  In a short while, the farm hand returned, in the company of another stranger. This woman was younger, no more than in her mid-twenties, dressed in a similar fashion to the farm hand, although minus the leather apron. Her height was within a centimeter of Ellen’s. She moved with a loose-limbed nonchalance that did not quite match the sharp expression in her eyes, evaluating the two Militiawomen. Yet something about her manner made Ellen think this was somebody who took very little in life seriously. She stopped less than a meter away and gave a broad smile, revealing even, white teeth.

  “I’m the owner’s niece—well, great-niece actually—Ahalya Drennen, though I usually answer to Hal. I’m helping out here, sort of as forewoman. Jo tells me you want to speak with my aunt. I’ll take you to see her, but...” She tilted her head in a lopsided shrug.

  Rasheed rubbed her face, uncertainly. “I’m Corporal Rasheed from Roadsend. We’ve got some questions, but it sounds like your aunt might not be the best person to answer them.”

  “Ah, whatever. I’ll take you to her anyway.”

  Hal Drennen started to walk toward the farmhouse. Both dogs lurched to their feet and tagged on, until ordered to “stay.” They collapsed dolefully, chins on paws, looking hard done by.

  Rasheed and Ellen followed the forewoman around the side of the building to the covered porch at the rear. Cassie Drennen sat on an old chair in the shade, staring out at nothing. Her jaw moved as if chewing, although she appeared to be doing nothing other than sucking noisily on her few remaining teeth.

  “Aunt Cassie. You’ve got visitors.”

  The old woman glanced briefly toward the new arrivals, but showed no trace of welcome or interest. Her eyes drifted back to the horizon.

  “We’ve come to check up on your sheep, ma’am.” Rasheed spoke louder and more slowly than normal, although without effect. Cassie Drennen did not turn her head again. The only sound she made was to continue suc
king her teeth.

  “She doesn’t talk much anymore, I’m afraid. It’s old age,” Hal Drennen said in a low voice. She sounded genuinely pained by her aunt’s condition. “Sometimes she has a good day. But this isn’t one of them.”

  Ellen moved closer. She caught a whiff of stale urine, but Cassie Drennen appeared otherwise well cared for. Her hands on the arms of the chair were trembling and her eyes were watery, but this was no great change from the last time Ellen had seen her. Cassie Drennen had long had the reputation for poor health and failing wits.

  Ellen looked back at the other two women. “I didn’t know she had any relatives. Nobody’s ever mentioned them.”

  The niece’s smile held a shade of regret. “Aunt Cassie and my grandma had a bit of a falling out, decades ago. So she moved up here, away from the rest of the family. But when grandma heard about the state she was in...well...let bygones be bygones. You’ve got to take care of your family. And this farm.” A sweep of her arm took in the surroundings. “It makes no sense to let it go to ruin.”

  Corporal Rasheed adopted a more official bearing. “Right. Obviously your aunt isn’t the person we need to deal with. We’re here to inspect your sales log for the last year. We also want to see your last cloning certificate and your authorized ear stamp.”

  “Can I ask why?”

  “We’re trying to find some stolen sheep.”

  “Stolen? Don’t tell me more have gone missing?”

  “No. We’re still hunting for those that got taken last year.”

  “But isn’t it a bit late to...” Hal Drennen’s eyes shifted between them in confusion. Then she shrugged. “Whatever. I guess you know your job. Come on. It’s all in here.” She shoved the rear door of the house open with her shoulder.

  The farmhouse kitchen spanned the width of the building. It was sparsely furnished, with a large table in the middle and a dresser against the wall. The plaster and woodwork were chipped and stained from years of neglect, but there also were signs of repair. The flagstone floor was even, with clean new mortar in the joins.

  Hal Drennen pulled open a drawer on the dresser and took out a thick bundle of papers, bound together with string. She dropped them on the table and grinned. “There you go.”

  Rasheed slid onto a bench and untied the knot. Ellen waited to one side, but when Rasheed did not indicate for her also to sit and to join in, she moved away to the window at the front of the building. Shiny new nail heads on the hinges of the open shutters revealed that they had been recently rehung.

  The sight of the lambs in the paddock prompted Ellen to ask, “Am I right you’re expanding the flock?”

  Drennen joined her at the window. “Oh yes. There’s enough pasture here to winter a thousand sheep easily, but Aunt Cassie had been letting the numbers drop. She was down to three hundred and seventy-two. I’ve bought a hundred more this year and hope to do the same again next.”

  “We’ll need to see the sales receipts for the new sheep, then. Do you have them?”

  “Ah...yeah. I’m sure they’re in the bundle somewhere.”

  Ellen returned to the table. Rasheed had separated the papers into piles and was starting to go through the nearest. Ellen picked up one pile but she had barely the chance to read the top line of the first page.

  “Leave that alone.” Rasheed snarled the order.

  “I was just going to—”

  “I don’t need you to mess things up. I’ve got it all sorted the way I want.”

  Ellen clenched her jaw. Rasheed was acting as if she were a naughty two-year-old toddler, grabbing things just for the fun of it. “The new sheep in the flock. We should check the purchase record.”

  Rasheed glared up angrily. “I don’t need you to tell me how to do my job. I was a Militiawoman while you were running around in diapers. I’ll see to the sales receipts. You go outside and check the sheep. And anything else that takes your fancy.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Is that…” Hal Drennen also appeared surprised at Rasheed’s manner, but then settled for a bemused shrug.

  Ellen turned away and marched outside. She stood in the farmyard, glaring at the scenery. Rasheed could be unbearably patronizing sometimes.

  The farm hand was back at her woodworking on the cart. The dogs’ ears perked up at sight of Ellen, but they did not leave the shade. Ellen guessed that she might as well check the sheep. The last thing she wanted was for Rasheed to have grounds to accuse her of slacking. Ellen crossed the farmyard, pausing only to take a drink at the well. The cold water tasted sweet and washed the dust from her throat. Feeling somewhat better, Ellen refilled the flask on her saddle-pack, then left the yard and entered the first paddock.

  The half-grown sheep drifted slowly away from her, but did not cease their grazing. Ellen would need to get close to read the numbers on their ears. However, the sheep became appreciably more fleet-footed whenever Ellen got within arm’s reach, trotting off across the grass. Eventually she managed to corner one and pin it down long enough to read the tattoo. Inside the scrolled border was 681—the number allocated to Drennen’s farm. This was no surprise. Even if the mothers were the sheep stolen the previous autumn, the lambs would have been tattooed with the farm stamp when they were born.

  “If you find any with 189 on their ears, it means you’re holding the sheep upside down.”

  The voice made Ellen jump. Hal Drennen was leaning over the low stone wall, grinning at her. Ellen stood and let the sheep escape. It scrambled away, back legs shunting in frantic tandem.

  “Thanks for the tip, but I think I might have noticed.” Ellen wandered over to the wall.

  “Just trying to assist the Militia.”

  “You didn’t want to stay and assist Corporal Rasheed?”

  “I thought about it. She could probably use the help, but then I thought if she needed to count over ten, she was going to have to take her shoes and socks off, and I didn’t want to hang around for that. She’s not the brightest star in the sky, is she?”

  Ellen ducked her head, trying not to smile, which would be completely improper. But after the way Rasheed had been acting, it felt good to hear somebody else voice the thoughts she wanted to say herself.

  “Corporal Rasheed is an experienced officer. I...er...don’t—”

  A soft laugh interrupted her. “It’s okay. I wasn’t expecting you to answer the question.”

  Ellen looked up and met Hal Drennen’s eyes. The farmer’s gaze held her in a candid appraisal that was level and unwavering, intensifying as the seconds passed. Ellen felt her heart jump a beat, causing a surge to ripple through her stomach. Hal Drennen’s face was narrow, seeming slightly too small for her mouth, so that a hollow formed on either side, although the overall effect in accentuating her cheekbones was far from unattractive. Her hair was cropped short, the dark brown speckled by a layer of hay dust, golden in the bright sunlight. Her expression was open and relaxed, but the depth in her eyes was serious and very meaningful.

  Ellen tore her gaze away and stared across the field, while trying to concentrate on the job in hand. “If you’re here to help, I have some questions for you.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “How long have you been working on your aunt’s farm, Ms. Drennen?”

  “Oh please, drop the Ms. Drennen bit. Call me Hal.” After a short pause she prompted. “Your colleague didn’t give your name.”

  “Mittal. Rookie Ellen Mittal.”

  “Rookie? So you haven’t been in the Militia for long?”

  “Almost two years. Another month and I’ll have finished my probation.”

  “So you must be what, eighteen?”

  “Nearly.”

  “That’s a relief.”

  “Wha...” In confusion, Ellen looked back at Hal, who was still grinning at her. “Why?”

  “You had me worried. You know what they say, the first sign you’re getting old is when the Militiawomen start to look young.” Hal paused and then added, “I wonder
what it means when you start to think the Militiawomen look hot? And I’m not talking about Rasheed. She doesn’t look young to me either.”

  The first flare of surprise was lost when the ripples in Ellen’s stomach erupted as fully fledged somersaults. She fought to maintain her composure. She was an officer of the law, investigating a crime. To call Hal’s words inappropriate was an understatement. Ellen knew she ought to take charge of the conversation, but her thoughts had scattered and she could not begin to string words into a sentence. “I…um…don’t…”

  Hal had not finished. “What made you join the Militia? Was it just knowing that the uniform would look good on you?” Her eyes very slowly and deliberately traveled the length of Ellen’s body and back to her face, blatantly checking her out.

  Ellen felt her face burn.

  “A bit more color on your cheeks doesn’t hurt either.” Hal’s laughter ended in an amused sigh. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to embarrass you. Come on. Do you want me to help you round up some more sheep to check, as per your corporal’s instructions? Or shall I show you around the farm?”

  Ellen took a deep breath, scrabbling through her head for a coherent answer. “Um...why don’t you give me the tour?” She clambered awkwardly over the gate and joined Hal on the road.

  The hard-packed earthen yard in front of the main house was now deserted, except for the cart with its conspicuous new boards of clean white wood. The farm hand, Jo, and the dogs were gone. Ellen could hear a shepherd’s high-pitched whistles from the fields to the rear.

  The farmhouse itself was built in a combination of styles and materials that made it plain that the original one-story stone building had been extensively modified over the years, most notably by the addition of a timber-framed upper floor. Two small windows peered out under the eaves. A short flight of steps led up to the wooden veranda running around the house.

  The farm buildings were all positioned off to the right. The largest of these was the hay barn, where Hal started. From there she went on to the stables and the lambing pens, pointing out the hay that was being stockpiled to see the flock through the winter, the work to repair the existing structure, and her plans to expand and improve the farm. They finished in the shearing shed at the back of the farmstead, with a view leading down to the river, some half kilometer distant.