by Sarra Cannon
He disappeared into the house for a moment and Cianne began worrying at one of her nails with her teeth, another habit of hers that drove her father to distraction. What to do? Should she try to slip away while the man was getting his badge, disappear down a dark alley never to be seen by him again?
But it had taken her several moments to scale his wall, and she had a feeling that if she tried to flee he’d simply go out through his front door and catch her in the act. She didn’t want to risk that.
At any rate, would running away make her seem timid or would it make her seem criminal? What if he thought she was a thief who’d climbed the wall to better case the residences? As an Enforcement officer wouldn’t he feel obligated to chase her down and take her to the Enforcement station for questioning? She couldn’t suppress a shiver as she imagined her father arriving to pick her up from the station. That scenario wouldn’t do at all.
She was still debating when the man returned. He left his door wide open, and a wedge of light illuminated a portion of his garden as well as his figure, though it cast shadows that made it difficult to see his face again. He held one hand out, palm up, so that she could see it was empty, and in the other hand he held aloft something that caught some of the light.
“This is my badge,” he said, lifting his hand higher. His movements were slow and deliberate, which made her feel more skittish. He was treating her like he would an edgy criminal, she was certain of it.
Afraid to focus on any one part of him for fear that he would be moving before she could react, she darted several quick glances at the object in his hand. It did appear to be a badge, but she had no intention of getting any closer to him to find out for certain.
“I should go,” she said, not moving, waiting to see how he would react.
“It is late,” he said, lowering his badge but keeping his other hand up.
“You’re not going to follow me, are you?” she blurted, angry with herself for showing him her hand.
He didn’t say anything for a moment, deliberating, and she could hear the conflict in his voice when he said, “It’s dangerous for you to be out on the streets alone at this time of night. I could escort you home, see you safe.”
“No,” she said, the word coming out sharper than she had intended. Taking a breath, she tried to calm herself. “Thank you, but I’ll be fine. I know the streets very well.” It wasn’t entirely untrue. After several days of exploring, she knew them much better than she ever had before.
He was quiet for another moment. “Even so, I think it best if—”
“No,” she said again, more forcefully this time. “Don’t follow me.” Tears sprang to her eyes and she spoke through gritted teeth.
Heedless of caution, she yanked her legs up in a flurry of movement and scooted to the other side of the wall. Scrabbling down more rapidly than she had ascended wasn’t wise, thanks to her shaky legs, and she ended up falling the last couple of feet. Letting out a muffled cry of pain, she picked herself up and pelted down the street just as the man emerged around the corner of his wall.
“Wait!” he called out, but she ignored him. He ran after her, but she ducked and dodged, paying no attention to direction, taking whichever alleyways she could find, the darker the better, and he either lost her or gave up after a short chase.
Escaping had been her only thought, and when her legs began to give out and she was forced to stop, she was surprised by the pounding of her heart, her heaving breaths, her tear-soaked face. Sinking to the ground in the safety of a dark corner of a shop’s alcove, she buried her face in her knees and allowed herself to sob.
She made it home, slipping into her room just before the sun rose. No one bothered her the entire day, and she wasn’t certain whether she should be relieved or hurt.
I am invisible.
But the man last night had made her feel as if she weren’t so invisible after all.
— —
“Cianne?” Lach asked, his face creasing. “Are you well?”
“I-I’m fine,” she said, flashing him a quick smile.
“Are you certain?” he asked. Worry knitted his brow and his eyes were alight with concern as he stared at her, and she realized it was the first time in years that he’d witnessed her truly losing her composure. She shared more with him than she did with anyone else, but even with Lach she had her mask to wear, and she usually wore it very well.
“Yes, I am.” Gathering together the frayed edges of her composure, she unleashed the full force of her smile, feeling a stab of guilt at knowing that she was manipulating him. He never could resist her when she turned on the charm, and at the sight of that smile his shoulders relaxed. “I realized I’d forgotten to do something for my father.”
“Ah,” Lach said, the understanding on his face making her feel even guiltier. “Do you need to—”
“No, it’s all right, I promise,” she interrupted. “I’ll explain it to him, and he’ll understand. Please don’t worry about it. I think you deserve to celebrate tonight.”
He still didn’t look convinced, but she continued to smile up at him and he relented. “Very well, but you must promise to tell me if you need to leave, or if there’s anything I can do to help you.”
“I promise,” she said. She would have loved to leave, but the last thing she could afford at that moment was to call any attention to herself. No one could know that she had been so unsettled, least of all Kila.
Chapter 8
Arriving home was a relief. Kila had learned a great deal that evening, and he wanted some time alone to sort through all the pieces, to make notes and try to put together a picture. He had noted a lot of details and was able to make some educated guesses based on them, but that was all he could hope to do for the time being. Were his partner an Intentionist, they could have worked together to create a much more accurate picture. Kila would have been able to make sense of the physical clues, and his Intentionist partner would have been able to read the gestures and expressions of their subjects to gain insight as to the subjects’ states of mind.
But even the weakest of Intentionist Adepts were snapped up by the wealthy and powerful. They were perhaps the rarest of all Adepts, and Kila was under the cynical impression that no one wished to create a crime-fighting team with as much accuracy as would result from the pairing of an Intentionist and an Enforcer. Not to mention that the wealthy had no real interest in controlling crime any more than was necessary to keep the lower classes appeased. It was much more to their benefit to use the Intentionists to spy on their enemies and protect their own interests, and even the most idealistic of Intentionists would be hard-pressed to deny a wealthy patron. Those in the employ of the powerful were less than forgiving of anyone who tried to upset the system.
Stripping off his formal uniform, Kila pulled on a loose tunic and a comfortable pair of breeches. His new lodgings were slightly larger and quite a bit nicer than the old, as another aspect of the trade Houses’ public works project had been to arrange for Enforcers to be able to obtain better housing in more desirable districts at a discounted rate.
Like slipping so many sweets to small children.
He couldn’t argue with the benefits, though. His needs were modest, but his lower rent coupled with the slight increase in his wages would allow him to live more comfortably, and it was difficult to quibble with that. He was certain there was something to it. Large, lavish gifts were nice, but something told him that it was the small touches that were more prone to increase one’s sense of gratitude and, therefore, one’s sense of indebtedness.
Leaving his bedchamber, he went into the room he had set up as an office. His quarters also included a privy room that was large enough to accommodate a stone tub, and a large common room that served as kitchen, dining, and sitting room. The fireplaces in his bedchamber and the common room worked well enough, and the lodgings seemed as if they’d be relatively cozy in the winter, but he found himself thinking longingly of the modern system at Enforcement headquarters, and he sho
ok his head. Reeled in already.
One wall in his office was covered with scraps of parchment that he arranged and rearranged at will, helping him to sort the information he’d gathered as he tried to establish links. Lengths of string extended from some bits to others, forming connections wherever he found them. Writing with a brisk, sure hand, he jotted down his new additions and added them to the wall. Stepping back, he stroked his chin and squinted, turning his head this way and that. Sometimes the answers leapt out at him, but at other times they were coy. He had made several leaps during the course of the assembly, but nothing of serious concern. Such personal information might prove itself useful at some point in time, but as of yet everything he’d gleaned was of a petty, unimportant nature.
Rolling his head around on his shoulders, he shook out his arms. Exercise would help. Allowing his mind to work through the knots while he focused on something else often resulted in his most useful discoveries, and he had learned to walk away whenever he began to feel stymied.
His new quarters also included a walled garden, but it wasn’t any larger than the old. The previous tenant hadn’t been much of a gardener, judging by the jungle-like growth in the yard, nature reasserting her claim. Kila frowned in distaste, but the physical labor would provide him another avenue for quieting his conscious mind, so it wasn’t all bad. He liked to cultivate herbs, but more important to him was that his garden was in good order, laid out in lines that were pleasing to the eye and soothing to the mind. He would have his work cut out for him with this garden, but he would wrestle it into submission in due course.
He had just transitioned from the first to the second form of the deshya when someone pounded on his door. Concentration shattered, Kila stared at his garden door with a frown. Who could be calling at this hour?
The pounding grew more insistent, and he hurried through his house to his front door, surprised to find Burl on the other side.
“There’s been a problem at the enclave,” she said, the words clipped. He had the distinct impression that she was not happy to have had to stop and pick him up, and that instilled a sense of urgency in him.
“Let me change into my uniform,” he said, ushering her into his lodgings. He would have invited her to have a seat, but she stopped a few inches from the door, crossing her arms, her face tight, and he decided not to bother with pleasantries.
He was back in uniform within minutes. Burl’s eyes flicked over the neat tail of his hair, his shiny uniform buttons, and his well-polished boots, and he would have wagered she was disappointed not to find anything she could criticize.
“Let’s go,” she said. “I’ve a carriage waiting outside.”
Hurrying after her, he waited until the carriage door was closed and they had set off with a jolt before asking for details.
“A prominent House member has committed suicide,” she said with a whiff of disdain.
His stomach sank. Suicides were sadly fairly common, but not as prevalent amongst the members of the upper class. Burl’s tone indicated she saw such an action as due to either a weakness or a character defect, and Kila wondered if her indignation was personal or if she considered the occurrence an affront to the House.
“Who?”
“Toran Stowley.”
“He was at the assembly,” Kila said, conjuring up a picture of the man’s face. He remembered Toran laughing with his son, who strongly favored him, and casting fond glances at his son’s companion, Miss Wyland. Kila had been an Enforcer long enough to know that appearances could be deceiving, but he was nevertheless surprised to hear the name. No one had seemed particularly depressed at the assembly, but based on the bits he’d gathered he could think of several others he might have deemed more likely candidates for suicide.
“Yes, he was,” Burl said, her stony gaze fixed on him.
“Did anyone witness the incident?”
“I’ve told you everything I know.”
Nodding, Kila said nothing more, but something nagged at the back of his mind. Several indelicate questions begged to be posed, but he hadn’t the first idea how to address them with Burl. He wouldn’t have hesitated to let them fly with Flim, who had encouraged her junior partner to question everything, but he knew Burl wouldn’t appreciate such conduct, especially since she might interpret his questions as casting aspersions on House Staerleigh. Instead, he kept them to himself, deciding that following her lead would give him an excuse to keep a close eye on her.
“It’s not my place to question anything. House Staerleigh knows and trusts you. I am at your—and their—disposal,” he said.
Her response was a curt nod, though her eyes didn’t leave his face. He found her reaction intriguing. That she intended to intimidate him went without saying. What interested him was the motivation behind her intentions. Plenty of officers made a sport of tormenting their subordinates purely for the fun of it, but he didn’t think that was what was driving Burl. He had to be careful lest any preconceived notions crept in, but his first instinct was to chalk her intentions up to an attempt to keep him as in the dark as possible, at least until such time as she decided she could trust him, if ever. He wondered how far his deception should go. Making her aware of his shrewdness didn’t seem advisable, even though she might admire it and wish to make use of it. Playing the ignorant was easy enough now, since he was still so new to her, but maintaining such a ruse would be no easy feat. Whatever Burl was, he was quite certain she wasn’t a fool.
They arrived at the Stowley manor, which was blazing with light. Guards flanked the front entrance, directing surly gazes at Burl and Kila, even after they’d shown identification. Their reaction came as no surprise to Kila. Doubtless the House would be quite concerned about how to handle this matter.
As if to prove his point, they found several members of the Council of Elders assembled inside, along with Daerwyn Wyland. Refreshments covered one long table, but there were no servants in sight, and Kila presumed they had been banished.
“Officer Burl,” Elder Borean said, stepping forward to press her hand between his. His long face was mournful, his eyes watery with tears.
“I’m very sorry for your loss,” Burl said, pressing the man’s hand in return. It was the first time Kila had seen her show any semblance of warmth, and it took him aback. Perhaps she wasn’t as hard-hearted as he’d believed.
“It’s a tragedy,” said Elder Vorfarth. She dabbed at her eyes with a lace handkerchief. “Toran was… Such a good man. I can’t believe he’d do such a thing.” Pressing her lips together, she abruptly stopped speaking, and wiped her eyes with more vigor.
“Where might I find Advisor Stowley?” Burl asked in a gentle tone.
“In Toran’s study, with Chief Flim,” Elder Borean answered, his voice thick. “I’ll take you to them.”
Kila was surprised that the chief had beaten them there, and he wondered what Burl would make of it. He couldn’t discern her reaction. Her expression remained unchanged, her sympathetic eyes fixed on Elder Borean.
“Thank you, Elder Borean.”
The older man shuffled down the corridor, and they left behind the muffled sounds of low chatter and sniffling. The corridor was deserted, and Kila wondered if the servants were all up in their quarters, huddled together and mourning or gossiping. Servants were an excellent source of information, when one could get them to talk. He had a feeling luck wouldn’t be on his side in that regard this time around.
Elder Borean left them at the door of the study, and they entered to find Moiria Stowley slumped in a chair, a glass containing two fingers of amber liquid dangling from her limp hand. Chief Flim was crouched next to Toran’s body, which bore no obvious signs of the means of his demise.
“Chief. Advisor Stowley,” Burl said in a very low voice. Even so, Moiria startled, the liquid sloshing around in her glass. She juggled it for a second before setting it down on the large, ornate desk, a fat amber bead trickling over the glass’s side.
“Officer Burl,” Moir
ia said, moving to rise, but she collapsed back in the chair.
“Please, don’t trouble yourself,” Burl said gently.
“He was… I had no idea that… Toran,” Moiria whispered, her voice breaking on the last word.
Burl exchanged a look with Flim. As Burl turned back to Moiria, Flim acknowledged Kila with a brief nod.
“Advisor Stowley, perhaps you would be more comfortable—” Burl began, but Moiria cut her off.
“No! No, I won’t leave him!”
With a jerk of her head, the chief summoned Kila over to her while Burl crouched before Moiria’s chair, talking to her in a low voice. Kila squatted next to the chief, who silently pointed to a few details before gesturing at a tea cup on the desk, an empty vial lying alongside it, its stopper cast off to the side.
Kila wondered what had been in the vial, but he thought it best not to sniff it or examine it until Burl convinced Moiria to leave the room, which she succeeded in doing a moment later. The new widow leaned heavily against Burl, who’d wrapped a protective arm around her shoulders, and they left.
“Self poisoning?” Kila whispered to the chief.
“There’s a note on the desk,” she muttered, her lips all but motionless.
“Suspicious?”
“No.”
Frowning, Kila examined the body, taking note of the crushed pile of the plush carpet, the curl of the man’s fingers. Whatever had killed him appeared to have worked quickly. A slight grimace marred Toran’s face and he’d vomited a bit, but his body was prone, not curled in on itself as if he had suffered.
Something more was going on here. Chief Flim hadn’t shared all the details with him. He supposed the argument could be made that her actions were prudent. Setting aside her assertion that it was better if no one knew too much, keeping him ignorant made sense. Enforcers’ skills weren’t infallible. They were as human as the next person, and their personal prejudices could influence the conclusions they drew. Abundant evidence went a long way toward making them comfortable with their convictions, but they could make mistakes like everyone else. The less Kila knew about the chief’s suspicions, the less he could shape the evidence to fit them. He didn’t like being in the dark, but he could grudgingly admit it might be best for him to remain there, at least for the time being.