“Drakes are never nice,” she said. “They only exist in stories, and if a story says they’re bad, then they’re bad.”
“Oooh, very good, constable,” said Wajet. He pulled a bean-cake from somewhere within his coat, and ate half of it in one bite. He chewed it while nodding thoughtfully. He swallowed, and he swallowed with his whole jaw: he pursed his lips, and wiggled his moustache, and generally seemed to enjoy himself very much.
“I suppose,” he said, little bits of pulped black bean decorating his moustache bristles, “that stories have got to have good guys and bad guys. What if a drake were real though? Could it be nice? Could it be mean, but only because it’s hungry?”
“Just make your point, Sergeant,” said Yat. I’m the drake, right? Spit it out. The moment the words left her mouth, she regretted them—she was already treated like garbage by half the force: she couldn’t afford to alienate the few officers still on her side. Wajet just smiled though, then turned and kept going at a brisk trot. Yat followed along as best she could. It seemed like half the city knew Wajet: beggars and prostitutes and the occasional down-on-their-luck lawyer all came up to shake hands with him, and many of them left with a few more coins than they’d started with. It didn’t seem like bribery, but it didn’t feel charity, either. Between heaving breaths, Yat made a mental note to ask Sen about it.
It felt like they walked for years, though it was probably closer to half an hour. Yat’s lungs burned but she did her best not to show it. She almost didn’t realise Wajet had stopped walking. They were in a part of the harbour she didn’t recognise: somewhere out in the south, near the Axakat Delta. Hainak was technically an island: the Axakat and Panjikora Rivers converged out west of the city, then split off again in opposite directions and arced around the city’s edge, with their tributaries and channels redirected and built up into canals. Their slow-moving waters were a natural moat, and they gave sailors access to the heart of the continent. Only the city’s very poorest lived on the wrong side of the river. They were in a strange part of town: too close to the toffs to be poor, too close to the edge to be rich. It was mostly inhabited by the sort of well-heeled criminal who preferred implications of violence to the real thing. She got her breath back and looked up, then she put two and two together.
“No,” she said.
“Yep,” said Wajet.
The ship bobbing in the water in front of them was beautiful. Gold scrollwork along the gunnels, fancy cosmetic biowork all over the show, and a golden figurehead of a mermaid with a dog’s head. Flowers covered every square inch of the deck: devil’s pipes, bakulan, orange-rose, and a dozen others she didn’t even recognise. She’d never seen it in real life, but she’d heard rumours from the other officers. The Kopek—the last Dawgar privateer ship, and the most dangerous pub in the city. It came and went as it pleased, despite law enforcement’s very best attempts to keep it bolted to the docks.
“This is our murder scene?” she said. Wajet nodded. He’d pulled a cheroot from somewhere and put it behind his ear. He hadn’t struck her as a smoker. He must’ve seen her looking at it.
“It’s not for me, Constable,” he said. He inclined a gracious hand towards the gangplank. Two heavily-scarred guards leered down at her. They both wore mouth-covering scarves. One was Hainak: dark-skinned, wiry with a shaved head. The other was a Northern-looking woman, with icewhite skin and a shock of red hair. Their skin looked rough, almost barklike, and she gasped when she realised that they’d had biowork done on themselves. Totally illegal of course, and they didn’t seem to care who saw it. Folks on the other side of the wall got work done all the time, but it was different seeing it here: folks on the other side of the law followed laws only if they pleased to; folks here couldn’t afford the same luxury. The door between them had a layer of gold paint on it, and strange runes carved into the lintel. Yat composed herself as best she could, then stepped aboard.
To call the Kopek rowdy would be like calling the ocean wet. It was amazing—she’d heard nothing from the outside, but the interior of the ship was somewhere between a party and a full-fledged riot. She saw a man cut off his own finger, drop it in a glass of beer, then regrow another finger while his friends cheered—definitely some sort of infraction: illegal biowork; assault on one’s own person; potentially poisoning, considering how dirty the finger looked. With all the relentless and violent merrymaking, it was amazing the ship hadn’t simply broken in half. It took perhaps thirty seconds for the inhabitants to realise that they had a pair of police amongst them and the room went very quiet, very quickly. Yat did her best to look small.
Once they stopped moving, Yat got a better take of the place. Maybe a hundred people. Lots of visible biowork and tattoos. Flowers all over the place, just like the outside of the ship. She squinted at something attached to the back wall, behind the bar—an ant colony? It seemed like a liability. There was a piece of sealing wax smeared along the middle of the glass.
“Wajet,” said a voice. Yat didn’t know what sort of voice she’d been expecting, but it wasn’t like this: a warm, husky woman’s voice. The drinkers parted to reveal the speaker.
She was a small woman, with heavy-lidded eyes and light brown skin. Perhaps fifty, perhaps seventy. Her dark hair was tied back in a single braid; grey strands cut through it like rivers carving through stone. She wore hardy, practical clothes: leather patches sewn into lightweight cotton. Somebody had sewn little gold filigrees onto the cuffs and neckline but it didn’t make it look any less like armour. She had rings on every finger, but not gold or platinum or hardwood: heavy iron rings without ornamentation. Wajet whipped out the cheroot from behind his ear and bowed deeply.
“Sibbi my dear,” he said, “it is an honour to be aboard again.”
Oh gods, oh gods. Sibbi Tiryaźan, of course. She was smaller than the stories said, but that wasn’t hard: she could’ve been twenty feet tall and carved from pure granite and still not live up to the back-alley legends. She was infamous: a Dawgar pirate who’d taken a commission against the Lion during the war. They said she’d sunk more ships than the entire Hainak fleet. They said the last country to mess with her didn’t exist any more. Her service got her a lot of patience from Parliament, though patience wasn’t the same as kindness.
She nodded to one of her men, who took the stogie and handed it to her. She put it in her mouth and—
—lit it? No match, though. She clicked her fingers, and it was lit. The ship’s timbers seemed to groan, and the bioluminescent fungi in the lamps dimmed for a moment. A murmur of approval went around the room. Yat had never even heard of biowork like that: how could plants make fire? Even if it could be done, with no visible external changes? People were coming up with new alchemy all the time, but the new stuff tended to do horrifying things to the skin—the gene-grafts never held properly and could take large patches of skin with them. It took a lot of failure to get it right. This was bleeding edge, but without the blood. No flame either, just ignition. Didn’t even get ash on her cuff. No visible fuel, and you couldn’t have fire without fuel. It was a chemical reaction, it didn’t just happen. Gods above and below. Yat had grown up around an alchemy lab and she hadn’t even dreamed of that sort of work. She realised she was staring, and that Sibbi was staring straight back at her.
After an interminable minute, Sibbi snuffed the cheroot on the arm of her chair.
“Who is your friend?” she said. Her accent was light, with little grace-notes on the ends of her words. Who isz your friendt. She leaned forward in her chair, then stood up. It was a remarkably efficient movement: she was fast, but smooth and careful. She put a single finger beneath Yat’s chin, and tilted her head back. After a short inspection, she gave a little hmph, and twin plumes of tobacco smoke coiled out of her nose.
“Wajet,” she said, “come with me. There are matters we need to discuss privately.” She turned on the balls of her feet like a basok dancer, and made her way to
the bar, then slipped through the bead curtain behind it and vanished from sight. Wajet shrugged at Yat, then followed. Yat moved to go with him, but he shook his head and mouthed wait here. She tried to communicate to him solely through facial expression you’re not leaving me alone with these lunatics but he gave her a sorry-not-sorry grin and disappeared behind the bar.
“They’re fucking,” said Ajat. “Do you know what fucking is, piggy?”
She was a tall, skinny woman with a network of scars across her shoulders and patches of vitiligo staining her face. Her hair was a mess of vines grafted on the top of her scalp, running all the way down to her waist. She patted Yat on the back and laugh-roared. Wajet had been gone an hour, and Yat had been adopted by what appeared to be a group of pirates.
“I know what fucking is,” she said. It didn’t sound as assertive out of her mouth as it had in her head.
“I don’t mean sex, little adwi. Not biology,” said Ajat. “Do you know fucking?”
“They’re the same thing,” said Yat. This got a laugh from the pirates, and Yat blushed, ashamed. She balled up her fists a little, beneath the table. If anybody noticed, nobody said so.
“Only technically,” said Ajat, “and technically don’t count for much.”
That got an even bigger laugh. Once they’d figured out that Yat wasn’t a threat, the crew of The Kopek had started treating her like a small cat or a pet bird: something adorable that would kill you if it could, but since it can’t, it’s hilarious. They were, as the common parlance went, effing with her. Yat had stopped trying to count infractions about ten minutes in, when she hit triple figures. She didn’t feel threatened by them, but she would rather be anywhere else.
Wajet stepped out from behind the bar. He was a little red in the face, and this got appreciative jeers from the crew. He shook a few hands as he strolled through the bar, then arrived in front of Yat.
“Right, constable,” he said, “that’s our investigation sorted. Thank you for your assistance.”
She’d had just about enough of this. Drawing herself up to her full height—a mighty five foot five—she took out her notebook. Did he have that bag on his belt when he came in here? No matter, focus.
“And how was the matter resolved, sergeant?” she said.
“Wouldn’t you know it,” said Wajet, “it was an accident. the poor fellow was moving a box of dinnerware down the stairs, and he tripped. Got a whole mess of knives into him. Very nasty. This is why you must always follow the rules, Yat: never move sharp objects without adhering to safety protocol.”
“And the body, sir?”
“Oh no constable, he’s not dead,” said Wajet. He motioned to a sheepish man standing near the bar. “All those knives, and none of them anywhere vital. I hesitate to call him ‘lucky’ what with all the pain, but he’ll live.”
She sighed. The snitch didn’t have any scars that she could see. He was shirtless, drinking a handle of some sort of honey-wine. He grinned at her, then shrugged.
“Muggins I am, always slipping over,” he said, “but no harm aye?”
She barely even realised it, but the crew were shuffling around—there was a clear path to the door now. The clumsy snitch looked at her with twinkling eyes. Yat got the message.
“I’ve noted that down, sir,” she said. “I’ll be putting it in my report.”
Wajet grinned at her. She’d seen that grin on cats with mice in their paws.
“Please do,” he said. “You know how much the brass love reports.”
That’s why he’d brought her here: he’d brought her along because you needed two officers on a job like this, but nobody would take her seriously if she reported him. He’d also brought her along to humiliate her in front of his friends, because who really gave a shit about some little night-shift faggot? Maybe it was funny to make her hurt. The little bag on his belt jingled and she realised it was newly-filled with coins. It was the last straw. Wajet could dance the gallows-jig above the Great Canal, for all she cared—maybe this arrogance would be the end of him. She would report it and he could live with the consequences. The system worked, sometimes. She had hope it would work today.
She stood up. She was breathing hard now, trying to keep her rage bottled up. Her hand moved to her cnida, just for a moment, then she stuffed it in her pocket and hung her head low. Her throat hurt, like she was about to cry. She
clenched her fist so hard, the nails cut into her palm. She didn’t cry.
“I’ll see you back at the station, sergeant,” she said. Wajet laughed.
“Sure,” he said. The way out was open: Yat took it without looking back.
Minutes later, she regretted her rashness. She pushed past a small cluster of sparrows, pecking at crumbs in the gutter. They scattered as she stumbled by. She didn’t know this part of town. The streets were all pre-revolution: cobble and brick, laid out with wild curves and with no regard to order. They twisted and doubled back on themselves, or led to nowhere at all. The streets were lit by electric lights on top of steel poles, curved like the mournful arms of a willow. She kept close to the water’s edge: she knew if she followed it far enough, she’d find her way back to the station. It wasn’t that easy, though—parts of the waterfront were privately owned and walled-off; Yat had to keep taking detours into the messy jumble of streets and slum houses. She cut through abandoned homes, clambered over piles of garbage and effluent. She hadn’t been out this way for years, and she’d lost her old climber’s instincts. They didn’t even build in wood down here: just old, unadorned brickwork. Figures watched her from windows and rooftops. She could hear and feel her own heartbeat, and she could taste metal. She tried to breath, but her breaths were quick and sharp. Oh fuck oh fuck I’m going to die. I know I’m going to die. I’m so stupid, I’m so—
“You changed,” said the voice above her. She looked up to see a pair of legs dangling over a rooftop. Pale skin, red hair. Kiada, not a day older than the day they’d taken her in.
“You’re a ghost,” said Yat, drawing her clothes more tightly around herself, keeping her head down, trying not to look, “I saw you d—”
She stopped, and choked back the word. It wasn’t quite right, either. She hadn’t seen her die. She’d seen her walking around with a broom, glass-eyed and empty. She hadn’t had the courage to talk to her, so she’d left and pushed it down somewhere so deep that it looped around and came falling out of the sky with the thunder.
“Yep,” said Kiada. “Funny that. You saw, and you almost took that kid in to the Station anyway. You know what they do to us.”
“It’s different,” said Yat. “I keep track of them. I make sure they get fed and released. Somebody needs to look after them. Somebody needs to make sure no more kids get lost in that system and if I will put up with this shit for the rest of my fuc—of my effing life if I can save even one.”
“Mhm,” said Kiada. She was standing in the street now, a girl of no more than fifteen, staring up through the years. There was mud in her hair but she didn’t seem to mind.
“And how’s that working out?” she said. “The streets talk, and nobody is saying shit. The instant you turn your back, somebody tears open the floorboards and those kids go falling down. Just because you don’t see it, doesn’t mean it’s not there. After all, you can see me.”
She winked, and vanished. Yat swore and fumbled for her bag.
No, we’ve been here before. It’s in your head. We’ve got tools for this.
She reached in and took out her last kiro cigarette. Payday tomorrow, and she could top up. She didn’t like to smoke herself dry, but it felt like an emergency. She put it in her mouth and lit the match—strange, how Sibbi had done it without even a flame, but no time for that now—with her hands shaking. She snapped it against the side of the matchbox, swore, found another. It lit, and she cupped it to the end of her kiro and took a drag. The warm smoke fi
lled her lungs, and she felt her heart rate
slow.
She didn’t know how much time passed. The voices pulled her to and fro, and she followed them without question. There was something different about them, something directed. The random white noise had given way to signal, and the signal had her in its grip. Kiro often induced a sort of dream-logic: nothing made sense, but she followed it without question
—left here, closer, closer—
—that’s right love, it’s just this way—
until the streets spat her out at another patch of water, and she spotted the lighthouse in the distance. Finally, some good news. If she could see it, that meant she was in the northern half of the harbour district and that meant she was on the right track. She didn’t know exactly where she was, but it was better than being totally lost.
A puffball boat bobbed up and down in the water. A man in a flat cap stood on it, poking something in the water with a stick, trying to drag it towards himself. He saw her and waved. She waved back.
“Say,” she said, “you know the way b-back to the station?”
—the sound of paper being gently torn, or boots through fresh snow—
—how do I know what snow sounds like? I’ve only read the word in books—
She walked closer to him, and peered over into the water. She couldn’t see what he was poking: probably a crab trap or something. He pointed vaguely towards the north. Better than nothing. The voices in her head overlapped, jabbering, cajoling, screaming. She couldn’t make sense of them, but their urgency scared her.
“Thanks,” she said. She took a step closer and noticed the cloudiness in his eyes: a blank. Wait, blanks don’t wave. Blanks don’t—
She took another step forward, and the smell hit her. Rich, earthy, acrid. She’d smelled it once before but it had stuck with her: the smell from her dad’s room that night his body had finally had enough.
The man in the water was dead. Normally, there were procedures for this—in case the cops made a mistake and they buried somebody alive. Yat did not think they would be necessary: the man floated face-down, and the back of his head was a ragged mess of bone and grey matter. Tattoo on the back of his hand: a pig. Looked cheaply done, not enhanced in any way: just needle and ink. She vaguely remembered some sailor’s story about pigs being good luck at sea. The reek really hit her then, and she gagged and stumbled back. White-green fuzz grew all over his skin and inside his wound; his skull looked like a peach gone bad. He was bloated from seawater, and there were two more exit wounds in his back—he must’ve been shot in the belly. His right shoulder was a mess of torn flesh, and the veins in his neck were black and bulging. She reeled, and a voice inside her beat a tattoo into the back of her consciousness:
The Dawnhounds Page 5