The job of the city guard, contrary to popular belief, is not to stop crime. They do stop crime, albeit rarely and mostly by accident, but doing so is not their primary function. The guard’s job, like the job of every other organism, singular or collective, is to maintain its existence – to do the bare minimum required to continue doing the bare minimum.
I’m in the same general racket, which is why once a week I nip over and toss the hoax a cut of my enterprises. Not a big one, but not a small one either. Enough for them to leave me alone and let me know if anyone is planning to do otherwise. Everybody in my line does, everybody who isn’t a fool, everybody who wants to keep at it for more than a fortnight. Because while as a general rule the guard don’t seriously concern themselves with catching criminals, they’re apt to rediscover their zeal if they hear of anyone keeping too much of their own money.
Low Town headquarters is, befitting its inhabitants, derelict and unimpressive. Very little of the guard’s earnings, from the official budget or that provided by me and my ilk, seemed to be going towards its upkeep. A sentry milled aimlessly about in the shadow of its three stone stories, a pair of which could comfortably have been removed without affecting life in the borough. A stoop led to a set of double doors, one to walk into with high hopes, and one to walk out of disappointed. I skirted the main entrance and went through the back, up a short flight of steps and straight to the Captain of the Watch, nodding at the duty officer on the way in.
Galliard’s position required him to collect money and not rock the boat, and he was well suited to both. On a bad day he ate two meals between breakfast and lunch. Today was a good day, and he was polishing off a plate of smoked ham when I came in.
‘Morning, Warden. Good to see you. Take a load off.’
I dropped into the stool opposite him. ‘Captain.’
He pointed at the buffet, finger-fat jiggling. ‘Fancy a bite?’
‘It’s a little hot for salted meat.’
‘Not for me,’ he said, lowering a sinew of pink-white muscle into the bulge of his neck. ‘How you been?’
‘Standing.’ I took a pouch of ochres out from my satchel and set it on top of the table. ‘You?’
‘Sitting,’ he acknowledged. He weighed the purse expertly in his hand, then tossed it onto his desk. When I was gone he’d redistribute it accordingly, slivers of my wealth going to the men above and beneath him, food for children and jewelry for whores. ‘You hear the Giroies wiped out the James Street Boys? I didn’t figure them for the balls to make that kind of play.’
The Giroies were an old school Rouender syndicate, had their fingers in some pies out near Offbend. In recent years they’d been struggling to keep themselves stable, their forces weakened after they went a round with the Association during the Second Syndicate War. ‘Since Junior took over they’ve been thinking they’re big time. You gonna do anything to convince them otherwise?’
He shrugged, though it was more effort than he was used to. ‘Why?’
Why indeed. ‘There’s muttering that two Islanders got sent to Mercy of Prachetas with a rash that looked like the plague.’
He batted aside the suggestion with a wave of his flipper. ‘Idle gossip. I talked to a man at the desk, said it was just another case of the flux. The seafarers need to stop drinking from fouled wells, though what with the heat I can hardly blame them.’ Surprising thing about the hoax, they knew more than you’d credit them with. They just never bothered to do anything with the information. ‘Course the plague ain’t the only plague. There’s been a buzz coming from the Association these last few weeks. They’ve got a rally scheduled next week over this thing with the pensions, gonna pull out all the stops.’
‘I never understood the big deal about marching. I walk places all the time, no one gives me any credit.’
‘Word is they told a crew of Courtland Savages to stop moving vine through their neighborhood. You know the Savages got Giroie backing.’ Galliard slapped a pad of butter over a crust of brown bread, then expunged both with three quick bites. ‘You were in the army, weren’t you, Warden?’
‘They wouldn’t let me in, on account of I only got one arm.’
‘If you’re close with anyone over there, you ought to let them know they’re starting to draw attention.’
‘I don’t have any friends left in the Association.’
‘We’ve been getting feelers out from Black House.’
‘I don’t have any friends left there either,’ I said, and that was an understatement. ‘The vets been respectable a long time – they don’t have the teeth to make trouble.’
‘Maybe, maybe not. I don’t imagine they’ve forgotten which end of the knife to hold, even if they’ve kept it sheathed the last few years.’
‘Joachim Pretories ain’t Roland Montgomery.’
‘Let’s hope he knows it,’ Galliard said. From the open window I could hear two street children arguing over something. A brief scuffle decided the issue, the loser running off squealing. Galliard wiped his mouth with a napkin tucked into his collar. ‘Maybe it’s just the heat. Seems like the whole city’s gone crazy the last few weeks. We picked another hooker out of the canal this morning. Third one this month.’ He rubbed his hands against each other, crumbs falling to the floor, tits jiggling beneath his shirt. ‘Things will get worse before they get better.’
‘People say that – but in my experience things usually just get worse.’
Galliard chortled, then fell silent.
I stood to leave. ‘Well then, I’ve my duties to attend to, as I imagine you’ve yours.’
The captain lifted his corpulent buttocks from his chair and shook my hand. ‘Quite right, quite right. See you next week.’
‘Next week,’ I agreed, and found myself out.
9
I wasn’t expecting to come back to the Earl and find Hroudland and Rabbit waiting for me at the bar. If I had, I probably wouldn’t have showed – I’d have found my way to the docks, lit up a twist and hoped for a breeze.
They were the only people in there, the rest of the coterie out for the morning, trying to take care of a day’s worth of errands before the sun made travel too uncomfortable. That meant I wouldn’t be able to count on Adolphus’s muscle if things went sour – but it also meant I didn’t have to bother with any pretense of amiability. ‘What the fuck do you want?’
Rabbit belched out a giggle, and Hroudland answered me with an easy lilt to his voice. ‘You know, Lieutenant, there’s really no need to begin the conversation in such a combative fashion.’
‘I suppose that’s something else we’ll need to disagree on.’ I rolled up a cigarette. The flare of the match was an unnecessary aggravation in the heat. ‘Let me make it easy on you, because I know dialogue isn’t your strong point. Adolphus ain’t here.’
‘Not looking for Adolphus,’ Rabbit piped in, a smile swelling his lips, looking for all the world like a child spoiled with a secret. ‘We’re here for you.’
‘Why, Rabbit, is that you over there? You cheeky devil, hiding in the back, so quiet I’d never even notice! And then you start dribbling nonsense and ruin the whole effect! You don’t want to see me, Rabbit, because I don’t want to see you. I was fairly clear on that point, last time we spoke.’
Rabbit laughed again, laughed and blushed, and Hroudland took over the reins. ‘The big man wants a word with you.’
‘I’m not sure who you’re referring to.’
‘Commander Joachim Pretories.’
‘Is he really what you’d call big? Guess we’ve got a different sense of scale.’
‘I don’t want to argue with you, Lieutenant.’
‘Well, I’m in no mood to dance, Hroudland – and since you don’t want to argue and I don’t want to dance, I’m not sure what’s left for us.’
‘The commander just wants a few minutes of your time. Surely that’s not such a sacrifice.’
‘You haven’t factored in the opportunity costs – a few minutes of my ti
me is like a decade to you or Rabbit. Who knows all the extraordinary things I could do with a half hour? Write a sonnet maybe, or find a cure for the flux.’ I shook my head. ‘If you think about it that way, it’s actually quite a lot that you’re asking – more than I feel like offering.’
‘The commander said I was to insist.’
‘He said you were to insist now, did he? You hear that, Rabbit? The two of you are supposed to insist.’
‘That’s what the captain said,’ Rabbit agreed.
‘That’s what he said all right.’ I stubbed out my smoke. ‘You so sure you could compel my attendance?’
‘No,’ Hroudland said. ‘Not at all. Which is why I’m hoping you’ll do the smart thing, and come for a little walk with us, rather than push this into a direction it doesn’t need to go.’
That was in fact the smart thing to do, even if it was Hroudland saying it. And if Hroudland wasn’t sure he and Rabbit could force my attendance, I wasn’t sure they couldn’t. And it would be a damn stupid thing to die over, because I felt like taking the weather out on two men I vaguely disliked.
‘You’ll buy me an ice on the way over, Rabbit?’
Rabbit laughed, the same as he had with death thick in the air. ‘Lieutenant wants to know if I’ll buy him a ice!’
Rabbit was an easy audience. It was one of his few positive qualities.
The Association for the Advancement of the Veterans of the Great War – or the Veterans’ Association if you were a fan of brevity, or simply the Association if you were really obsessed with the concept – was an institution claiming to represent those unfortunate souls who had found themselves manning the trenches during the Empire’s last foray into mass suicide. It was founded by Roland Montgomery six months after the Humbling of Donknacht loosed a quarter of a million former soldiers back upon the homeland they had killed to protect. When Roland died two years later, it had been taken over by his long-time second, Joachim Pretories, and he’d spent the interim turning it into a respectable political power. For all its pretensions it was a typical corporate entity, nominally advocating for the rights and privileges of its members, in practice cadging for the few lucky souls at the top.
For a while it had been something else. But then things used to be different all over, back in the day.
They headquartered in an old banking house in Offbend, a few stones’ throw from the Old City, or one really good throw for those well practiced in throwing stones. It was a beautiful structure, four floors of white brick on a cobblestone square. A wooden platform had been erected in the middle of the arcade, a focal point for their frequent rallies. A handful of men stood stiffly outside the entrance, their attempts at loitering spoiled by too many years in the ranks. They nodded at my escort and allowed us inside.
‘I’ll tell the commander you’re here,’ Hroudland said, disappearing into the back. I took the time to inspect my surroundings.
The entrance hall was big enough to hold a few hundred people, though at present there were barely a dozen occupying it – apart from me and Rabbit, there were a handful of men seated at a long wooden table, waiting to cater to the needs of paying members. Trophies of our conflict hung on the wall, captured pennants and Dren weaponry, tapestries depicting major battles. I spent a moment inspecting these last, though I had trouble recognizing myself in the ranks of proud spearmen chasing the fleeing enemy into the distance, or in the mounted officers leading the charge. Hung over a huge fireplace was a portrait of the Association’s founder, staring down at his children, blue eyes stern but supportive.
His father’s name could have earned him a spot away from the front line and the dangers of combat, but that hadn’t been Roland’s way. Indeed, no promotion seemed sufficient to force him back from the front. By the time I’d met him he was well on his way from man to myth, and if the first had ended three years after the armistice, face down in the Low Town mud, the second had only continued to grow. A decade on and his was still a name to conjure with amongst anyone who’d ever served in the ranks.
Hroudland opened the back door and waved at us. Rabbit and I followed him down a narrow corridor, up a flight of stairs and past several more watchmen, stopping in front of the commander’s quarters. ‘Through here,’ Hroudland said. ‘When you’re done we’ll take you back to your bar.’
‘Rough neighborhood like this, I need someone to protect my virtue.’
Hroudland shook his head, glad to have me off his hands. He opened the door and I headed inside.
Soldiering is not a profession that lends itself toward the glorification of violence, nor of those who practice it. The flux kills more men in an hour than the most skilled warrior could account for in the entirety of his bloody existence, and no amount of bravery or strength is proof against a stray artillery shot. Afterward, trying to impress a girl in a tavern, you might spin a yarn about some squadmate who could down a dozen Dren single-handed, might even say that squadmate was you. But at the time, while it mattered, you knew all that was nonsense. One sword doesn’t swing the outcome of a battle – there were too damn many of us for any particular individual to play much import. A man was either solid – which was to say if he was next in line when you went over the top, you didn’t check to make sure he followed – or he wasn’t, in which case you hoped he’d die soon and leave the rest of the squad his rations. Anything beyond that was fodder for the broadsheets back home.
Even so, Pretories had acquired a reputation not simply for being a solid man, but an excellent one. I could remember Roland waxing poetic as to the number of times his life had been saved by the uncanny ability of his second-in-command that he feared for nothing so long as Joachim Pretories stood behind him. But then, Roland had said a lot of things.
Credit due, Joachim had kept himself together, a trim forty, the touch of gray in his hair offering an appropriate note of distinction. Of course that didn’t mean the core hadn’t rotted. Ten years playing politics is like five spent smoking wyrm, and though the grip he held out to me was attached to a sizable bicep, he had the smile of a man who grinned for a living.
‘Lieutenant, good to see you again,’ he said, walking me to his desk. ‘Would you like some whiskey?’
‘I’ve recently turned teetotal.’
‘Water?’
‘I’ve sworn that off as well.’
He took a seat across from me and poured a few fingers of liquor into his own glass. ‘Hroudland said you weren’t happy to have the boys round your place.’
‘But you called me anyway. Guess that makes you a real glutton for punishment.’
‘I’ve been called worse.’
‘I’m sure that hurt your feelings. What is it you want me for, Colonel?’
‘Commander,’ he corrected.
‘I didn’t realize the Crown promoted decommissioned soldiers.’
‘I’m the Supreme Commander of the Great War Veterans’ Association, by the will of my brother soldiers.’
‘I voted myself Emperor of Miradin, but ain’t no one sending me any rents.’
‘I’m having trouble figuring where this animosity comes from – I hadn’t thought I’d done you any particular harm.’
‘The world has been cruel to me, Joachim – I take it out on whomever I can.’
He backed off my abuse with a laugh, more evidence he’d turned politician. The man I’d known would have dropped me over half of what I’d offered. Or tried to. ‘I’d hoped we could keep this conversation civil, but as it seems you’re too busy for simple courtesy, I’ll get right to the meat of it.’ He poured whiskey through a forced grin, then set the glass back down on the table. ‘Rhaine Montgomery,’ he said.
Cold fingers ran up the base of my back, but they didn’t show on my face. ‘You’ll need to add a verb for that to count as a full sentence.’
‘I’m told she’s in Low Town.’
‘Were you?’
‘And I’m told you’re looking for her.’
‘You’re well informed.
’
‘Look, Lieutenant, there’s no reason for you to play coy. I know that the general asked you to try and find his daughter and persuade her to come home. I know this because he told me. He told me because we’ve known each other most of my life, because his son was the closest friend I’ve ever had and the best man there ever was. We all want the same thing here.’
‘Which is?’
‘Rhaine out of Low Town. Back home, in Kor’s Heights. Safe and free of trouble.’
That was certainly what I wanted, though I was unprepared to speak for anyone else. ‘Who’d make trouble for her?’
‘The world is a dangerous place.’
‘I sometimes have that inkling.’
‘Rhaine is . . . an impressive young woman. But she’s out of her element, as would be obvious to any cutpurse who happens upon her.’
‘So you’re concerned that she might be mugged on the way to market?’
‘This conversation would go much quicker if you stopped pretending to be a fool. Roland Montgomery was murdered by powerful men, men who feared his crusade would bring them to ruin. I don’t imagine they’ve forsworn violence in the twelve years since his death, and I’m quite certain they’d happily send Rhaine to meet her brother, rather than see her make them any trouble.’
‘On that at least, we very much agree.’
He nodded firmly. ‘I called you here today to let you know that the Association stands ready to assist you in your task.’
‘And what exactly is it you think you can help me with?’
‘Have you met Rhaine?’
No point in being honest. ‘I haven’t yet had the pleasure.’
‘She can be rather . . . single-minded in her thinking.’
‘I’m getting that impression.’
‘The point being, if you do find her, I’m not at all certain she’ll listen to what you have to say. And if she doesn’t, if you can’t get her home, I’d like you to come back and tell me.’
‘What would you do that I couldn’t?’
‘We’re not entirely lacking numbers. The very least I can do is detail a few men to look after her. The greatest tragedy of my life was my failure to keep Roland safe. By the Firstborn and all his kin, I won’t make the same mistake with Rhaine.’
Tomorrow, the Killing (Low Town 2) Page 6