Can’t say it was a happy experience.
But then . . . nothing about today was a happy experience, not even the chocolate chip cookies.
Guess it was better than the Holding Room like the last time Root grilled me, but only barely.
Part of me imagined I would get the Victor Frankenstein laboratory vibes from the Bonegrinder classroom, but there was none of that. Or a morgue; could’ve seen a morgue. Lots of square hatches on the walls with slide-out tables hidden behind them. Refrigerated. Jars of body parts. A scale to weigh organs. Could’ve seen that, alright. Instead, it came across as some high tech anatomy classroom.
At one end was Root’s desk, beside it one of those awesome looking clearboards Hollywood likes to use, with the glow-in-the-dark markers. In front of the desk were three seats in a row, but no desk for you to write on. Not a lot of Bonegrinder homework, I guess. Along one wall were touchscreens, all running anatomy programs, and along the second wall were about a dozen different posters and diagrams on how to and where to etch necro-anima into a corpse.
Fun.
Like with the Artificer classroom, there was a door to a second room, but unlike with the Artificer room, this one was up-to-date with a keycard reader and a thumb scanner. Every once in a while one of Root’s Constructs would exit from it, walk through the classroom, and leave out to the campus. Occasionally one would also return, using the thumb scanner to get inside.
Guess with an investigation and all the students locked up, Root don’t see much reason to hide what he’s capable of with the Mancy. I had seen some of his Constructs before, and I had seen the one Moira von Welf had when I took that recruiting trip with Ceinwyn, but every time they ghosted on by, I felt a shiver fly through me.
People don’t walk like that. Root’s Constructs power-walk everywhere. No normal gait, just pure speed without the chaos of breaking into a full run. They also didn’t breathe and didn’t bother to pretend that they needed to. They were pale white, with necro-anima channels along their skin. All male, all shaved heads, all wearing the same black slacks and white dress shirts.
Attack of the Undead Mormon Missionaries, I couldn’t help but think.
I wasn’t the first one Root called in. Falcon Smart, Makayla, the Three Queens, and plenty more had been on the list before me. Heard it all while in Miranda’s apartment, PA system reporting one name after another. Waiting for my turn. Once Miranda ran out of baking supplies and our stomachs couldn’t take any more food, we settled down for a couple games of Star Trek Catan that Val pulled out of her room.
Yup, not just Catan.
Star Trek Catan.
Neeeeeerrrrrrdddd!
I still like her though. At least it wasn’t as geeky as all the card games Quilt makes me play with him when I’m trying to download his weekly gossip. Would’ve been nice to have Quilt to get gossip from this week . . . what a time to go on your honeymoon. One day there’s a wedding, the next morning a death. Wonder if they’ve even told them?
Kinda hope not.
Quilt deserved a vacation . . . especially one where he’s locked in a room with his new bride. I’ll never be able to look at Miss Foster and her sweaty, see-through dresses ever again . . . guess that’s Mrs. Quilt now. Fucking weird. One minute a person is something else, they say ‘I do’ and then their whole identity changes. Russell got to keep his name, but his identity had changed too. Russell Quilt married . . . still felt weird.
About as weird as Leo being dead.
Just different in the way it was weird.
Bachelor party was a whole lot more fun than this investigation of Root’s, that’s for sure.
No strippers for one.
Root starts stripping and I’m out of here, even if I have to fight off the Constructs.
Not that there was any chance of that happening. Ever. Pretty sure that Root sleeps in a suit. If he even sleeps. Stench of corpses and necro-anima probably even covers his bodily odors, so he might not even shower, but I got no proof on that one.
He had one of those wire frame file holders on his desk, complete with a stack of labels and three fresh pens. When I sat down across from him there was already a group of folders inside the file holder, plus one open for me. It was filled with blank paper and a copy of my school transcripts. Had my latest yearbook photo on it. For some reason the photographer wouldn’t let me pose with the two finger salute aimed at the camera lens, so instead it was just King Henry Price trying to smile.
Fucking terrifying.
About as terrifying as the expression Root gave me.
Root ain’t big on expressions, but I managed to bring out seething frustration every time his eyes found me. “Do not be difficult,” he warned me before we even started.
“Just trying to help . . . for once.”
“Have you told anyone what you witnessed or spoken to any other witness?”
“Val, Pocket, Miranda, and Jesus. Miranda dated Leo; she deserved to know the truth.”
Root made a notation on one of his pages before letting his dead black eyes rise up to take me in. “The truth, whatever it may be, will be revealed,” he said. Usually I’d say he agreed with me, but wasn’t none of that in what he said, just a statement of fact.
I glanced over my shoulder as a Construct ghosted through the room in a quick power-walk, exiting without even looking in our direction. Person would. Just as an ‘oh look people’ kind of reaction. “So what did Catherine Hayes say?” I figured I might as well ask.
Root only stared, brain clicking away trying to solve the puzzle that is King Henry Price.
Can’t believe it, but I like the way he treated me as a suspect a whole lot more than he does as a witness. At least then there had been aggression on his part, a need to defeat me. This cool disregard didn’t give me any purchase to defy him. So what I do? I goaded him. “Still not admitting to nothing, but theoretically, you want to know where I would’ve hid the staff if I’d been the one to steal it?”
Root didn’t move at all, but behind me one of the Constructs clenched its hands into fists. “Understand something: when it comes to Leonardo Sarducci’s death, I decide the truth. Not you. This is a serious matter without a place for your usual games. You are but a piece of the truth, not the whole, Mr. Price. If you attempt to interfere, I will see you bound and chained in the Holding Room until my investigation is completed. So . . . think long before you provoke me further.”
“Just being friendly. Have any of those, Root?”
“Mr. Root,” he corrected.
“Yes, Master,” I got on with some sarcasm.
Root didn’t notice it or ignored it, instead returning back to his paper. “Mr. Valencia, Mr. Landry, Miss Ward, and Miss Daniels, that is all?”
“Yes.”
“Lucky for you that they did not witness the accident or I would begin to wonder about your motives.”
“Wasn’t an accident.”
Root pulled a tape recorder out of a drawer and clicked it on. “Begin from when you woke this morning.”
Same spiel I gave to others, lived it once and told it plenty, ain’t repeating it for you again, kiddies. Root was silent through it all, occasionally taking down a note. I finished with, “Miss Strange couldn’t save him and then everyone finally showed up.”
More notations.
“Did you ingest alcohol the night before?” he finally asked.
“Yeah, almost everyone did. Should probably check Leo for booze in his system too.”
“I know how to do this job, Mr. Price.”
“If you say so.”
Again the Construct’s hands turned to fists. “Would you say you were inebriated this morning?”
“Not especially so . . . been much worse.”
“Where did you get the alcohol from?”
Fucker is trying to get me to narc on Smith. “Don’t see how that’s relevant to the situation.”
“Helping me in all open investigations would go a long way for making your ver
sion of events valid with this one, Mr. Price,” Root laid a possible deal with the devil.
“Didn’t know there was another version.”
“There are always many. I dislike personal recollections, humans being so prone to error. Yet, still, I will weigh what each of you witnesses have told me . . . some more than others based on its likelihood and corroboration. Physical evidence will, of course, rate most highly with me, as will the victim’s version of events when I speak with him tonight.”
“Lady herself said that ain’t legal.”
“It should be. No murder would go unpunished if it was.”
“Unless the dead had their memory screwed with by a mentimancer,” I threw out my own theory to get a reaction to it.
Necromancers don’t like mentimancers. Not just anima personalization, but also old feuds. Necromancers more than any other disciplines wanted mentimancers regulated. Rumor had it that some argued they shouldn’t even be taught beyond Intra level, just enough to keep them alive, not even close enough to make them the danger they could be. Like Stalin and Mao getting in a slap fight as far as I’m concerned.
This rivalry goes a long way to explain why Root actually scowled when I brought mentimancers up. “In the unlikely possibility that happened, I am well enough trained to spot menti-anima fouling my conjurations, I assure you.”
Don’t know why I tried emotion with Root, just seemed like something Val or one of the others would’ve wanted me to try. “Welf’s your star pupil; you know he wouldn’t do this.”
“It is Mr. Welf’s surprising speed of progress in learning which makes him my star pupil,” Root rebutted, “why should he not surprise me with this act as well?”
“Listen to me, Root. I saw him come out of his room with Hope. She’ll back it up. Whatever Catherine is feeding you, its bullshit.”
Root’s scowl turned into the smallest of smiles as he reached into another file and pulled out a picture. It was taken from one of the outdoor cameras we all knew were there but tried not to think about. Or knew their locations to avoid them. The picture clearly showed Heinrich Welf with both hands wrapped around Leo Sarducci’s collar, holding him against a wall threateningly. “Miss Hayes provided me with information backed up by physical evidence, Mr. Price. She established a prior conflict between Mr. Welf and the victim that is quite helpful.”
“We don’t have any idea what they were arguing about, could’ve been anything,” I once again defended Welf despite myself. Same bullshit as earlier this year . . . all I want to do is beat the truth out of Catherine and every instinct tells me doing so would only go bad for me. I remembered her speech from our little talk in the Holding Room. Don’t think I’ll ever forget it. At the end of your rage you’ll be nothing more than an obstacle that I’ve bypassed and I’ll have every bit of leverage on you I’ll ever need.
The picture disappeared back into a folder labeled ‘security camera feeds.’
Root didn’t give me time to respond. “Right now, only opportunity saves Mr. Welf from a trip to the Holding Room, where he would experience the same treatment you did during your first year,” he said instead. “He is my pupil, his mother is a colleague, and his father is a former classmate, but none of that will save Mr. Welf if he really did harm Mr. Sarducci. There is no room for attachments in Order, no guarantee that one family or lineage will stay supreme, only that the law be upheld, no matter who broke it.”
“Catherine is fucking with him, with all of us, I’m sure of it,” I growled in frustration that I was getting philosophy instead of getting through to him.
“No doubt she took joy in sharing the events she witnessed, but neither did I detect a single lie from her, Mr. Price. She has had her say. You have had your say. There will be more witnesses. More evidence. Mr. Welf will have his say. Mr. Sarducci will have his say. I will be thorough and if there is a murderer, he or she will be caught, I assure you.”
I’ve done some crazy shit in my life; managed some impossible feats by Asylum student body standards. The way you go about it ain’t to assume the faculty or your fellow students are stupid. That’s what fucks the usual teenager up. Gets them caught. That I’m Special bullshit. Sucking their own dick or licking their own clit about how amazing they are, how no one could have ever had those thoughts or ideas before.
So profound!
That ain’t me.
Asylum faculty ain’t perfect and I might not like but a few of them, don’t mean they’re total fuck-ups. They’re pretty impressive on a whole. Sure, I manage the impossible on occasion, don’t mean I don’t get caught sneaking about a good chunk of the time I try it. Plenty of times I’ve had Ceinwyn or Plutarch or Miss Strange standing around a corner just waiting for me. Three words: Giant Fucking Needle.
Six words: King Henry Shits in the Woods.
Seven words: Do Not Motorboat Girls in the Park.
Pick your massive fuck up, no matter how smart you are, they’re just as capable as you are.
Don’t assume your opponent is stupid, kiddies. Don’t assume they’re invincible either. Look for the fault, the weakness. Use it. Exploit it. Cause that rift. Cause that earthquake. Root is methodical, intelligent, and dispassionate. All good traits in an investigator. But he’s got a big blind spot.
He has no gut.
No instincts.
Nothing that tells him the evidence is wrong.
Catherine Hayes knows that better than anyone.
No one exploits a weakness better than the Three Queens . . . so consider me un-fucking-assured, Root.
Session 166
6AM.
That’s Asylum wake up time. Not sane person wake up time.
When I do get sleep back at the shop, it’s the don’t-wake-up-until-2PM variety preferred by self-employed bachelors worldwide. Ain’t nothing more slovenly, with a stanky ass-crack to boot, than a man working at his own devices. Ain’t nothing more productive than a man working at his own devices neither. Man gets to that point and he’s dangerous . . . a loner, unhinged, doing the crazy thing society don’t even know it needs yet. Ends up spending his life with fruit flies and figures out genetics. Or . . . he works at the ShopsMart, plays video games all night and has a Lego collection. Or . . . he cracks.
Like to think I’m the first one, but suppose some would say I’m the last.
Handing myself over into Massey’s grasp, pretty crazy. Sure, I’ll be your puppet for the show trial, Massey, yank on that string! Throw me in the Pit! Embarrass me before my peers! Do all that and while you’re doing it I’m robbing you blind night to night, stealing the truth I’ve coveted since I heard Ceinwyn speak of the Mancy.
Yup, it is crazy.
I admit it.
Could go very wrong. Lots of dangerous people in the Pit. Lots could go wrong in the Geo Realm too. Lots could go wrong outside of it for people not named King Henry Price. Maybe even for a fellow named King Henry Price too, Massey somehow wins his little hearing. But I’ve had enough. Besides, artifacts are a lot cooler than Lego sets, even the Star Wars ones.
6AM.
Breakfast was straight from the kitchen. Not bad. Ain’t the Asylum Cafeteria, but I’ll take it. Not sure what the other prisoners got. Some morning pills or injections, along with food only half as good, I imagine. Me, I got bacon, sausage, eggs, and a piece of toast. Was also some baked beans and half a tomato, which I took to be some weird British shit. At least it wasn’t some kind of pudding, disgusting haggis, or a sandwich made out of cucumbers.
That shit is just wrong.
Meat needs to be above a fifty percent ratio on a sammich or you dun poking the wrong hole, son.
Watson had been transferred from intake and was now giving his full attention to my comfort. Until Massey is through with comforting me, then Watson will be the one smashing me over the head with that blackjack of his. Still, take what comfort I could get while it was thrown my way. Had a bathroom kit for me, since there was no toilet-paper in my apartment—as I found out to my hor
ror when I went to take a victory crap after returning from the Geo Realm.
I mean . . . you gotta go, you gotta go, so I still took the victory crap, but handwashing your asshole with only a Magic Wand to light the bathroom is not an experience I want to go through twice. Watson also brought soap and shampoo, which I used liberally in a quick shower.
Me eating, me taking a victory crap, me showering . . . not too exciting, but it’s how my day started. How most days start, unless you’re Larry with his fruit flies. I made the red eyes fuck the blue eyes and now I have purple eyes, Mommy!
Watson led me back out into the hallway at about 7AM. Old, unused room, yes, but it had a giant grandfather clock still running smooth even after all those years of abandonment. I feel like I’m the Great Gatsby every time I glance around this ostentatious shitbox. Except, ya know . . . no alcohol pouring from the ceiling or pieces of strange running around in flapper dresses. So . . . just the sad, depressing, lonely part.
Salt and Pepper were outside waiting for me.
They’re golems, one has white stone and one black stone, what else could I name them? Yin and Yang? Ebony and Ivory? Whitey and Blacky? Given Plutarch’s insistence that concentrations don’t have names, I doubt the Guild had done the job. Even had serial numbers on their backs. Guild of Artificers Member No. 62523, at least it’s just on your lunchbox and not branded on your skin. Enslaving anima concentrations and labeling them nothing but some mindless item sat about as well with my innate individualism as learning about Moshi’s Stables had.
So I gave them a name.
Talk to ‘em like they’re sentient too.
Salt and Pepper it was.
“You guys like the pay you get? I mean, I got my own golem, his name is Mini and he’s kind of a badass, but I pay him really well and I been looking at the shit you two have to do and I got one word for you: unionize.”
No comment.
“Sat outside my room all night without moving, that’s dedication. You ever take any vacation? They even teach you what vacation is? See, it’s this thing where you go to some strange place and pay a lot of money to do something that makes you wish you were at home. People do it all the time, not sure about golems. You got legs, so odds are it wouldn’t be too hard for you to pull off. Maybe not Disneyland, but a cathedral at midnight? Just stand there like a statue and people will never know.”
The Pit of No Return (The King Henry Tapes Book 6) Page 15