The Year's Best Australian Fantasy and Horror 2010 (volume 1)

by Paul Haines

  “What happened?”

  “Nothing. Don’t want to talk about it.”

  Her mouth firms. “Then you’d better get on with it. You get a reading on the killer?”

  “Nope.”

  “The captain wants this one wrapped up quickly. There’s pressure from downtown.”

  Worse and worse.

  “Got a lead?”

  “Sort of.” I can’t lie to her, which is probably why the captain sent her.

  “Good.” She looks across at the barman. “Modokian Fish-Hook please.”

  I eye the drink unhappily. This is going to be messy.

  “Drink it.”

  Two minutes later I’m emptying my guts against an alley wall. Lara leans nearby, unperturbed by the violent, putrid stream.

  “I got a look at the body. A pretty girl, killed out in the open like that. Perhaps she was seeing someone she shouldn’t have been? Perhaps she threatened to let someone’s wife know what was going on?”

  “Perhaps.” Another wave hits me and I choke and splutter as it pours out.

  “Poison then. A professional job?”

  I spit and wipe my mouth. “Definitely professional.” I don’t want to tell her my suspicions yet. It’s bad enough that I’m somehow involved in this mess. The smart thing to do would be to turn it over to another investigator, but then I’d be looked into, and I don’t want that.

  “Feel better?”

  “No.” I take the mints she offers and stuff them in my mouth. My stomach is still churning but my head feels clearer. I’m not convinced it’s an improvement. Lara walks me to the trolley stop and hands me a ticket.

  “Just do your job Carera; figure out if it’s murder, and if so, who did it, and why. What happens after that isn’t your problem. Let the captain figure it out.”

  “Sure.” Somehow I don’t think the captain will thank me for dumping this on his door. The trolley arrives, grinding up the narrow street and hissing steam. I wearily clamber on. Lara meets my eye from the pavement.

  “Don’t make me drag you out of another bar tonight Carera. I mean it.”

  I’m grateful as the noise of the trolley pulling out drowns anything I might say. The other passengers don’t seem eager to share their trolley with me, there’s a general move away as I slouch into a seat; can’t say as I blame them. I pull my hat down over my eyes and run over things again in my mind.

  I must’ve dozed off, because I don’t remember much of the trip across town. When I open my eyes the jagged outline of the Opal Fortress is looming over the city. A cluster of its squat towers and halls, some ancient, others merely old, crowding the skyline with their drab majesty. The other trolley passengers are mesmerised, some stare openly, others sneak glances out of the corner of their eyes. But none can ignore the powerful presence. Like a python coiled, dangerous and fascinating.

  I’ve managed to avoid the Opal Fortress for the last decade, blocked it out of my mind. A hole in my past I’d rather ignore. But I suppose it was inevitable I’d be back one day.

  The gates are just as I remember, large and intimidating, hinting at the arcane mysteries within. The security is new though. Two large men look me over suspiciously. They won’t entertain the notion that I’m an investigator, until I fish out my badge, and even then they’re skeptical; like someone might be playing a prank. They frisk me, and seem disappointed when they don’t find the enchanted short-sword watchmen are issued by the city. I pawned it months ago; instead they find the small replacement hatchet I keep inside my jacket, and confiscate that instead.

  Suitably screened I’m escorted through the great hall. Long dead Deacon’s look down on me with frozen disdain from grand life-sized portraits. Each represents a different era of power and growth for the Opal Fortress. There was a time I knew all their names, but for the life of me I can’t remember even one now.

  It’s much quieter than I remember, although I was a creature of the daylight back then, and rarely had cause to wander the Fortress at night. Rather than treat me to the grand Generation Stair, I’m hustled in the back way, into the bowels of the Fortress, where opulent elegance melts into dirty function, and a stair has no more pretence than a grimy, well worn series of treads. Up we climb, until we reach the heights of the old keep, where the corridors are small and narrow. Cleaners are working in the hallways. They look at me suspiciously as we pass, as though I might be conspiring to contribute to their workload.

  The Deacon’s office is pretty much as I remember it, which is a surprise, because I was only ever admitted here once, for an hour, on the day they threw me out. Lined with yellowed scrolls and tattered tomes, it’s exactly the sort of place you imagine a master of magic should reside. The desk is cluttered with papers and other curiosities pickled in jars and preserved for later study. The Deacon is scribbling away, but looks up as we enter. A flash of surprise crosses his face when he sees me, then is gone again. So he does remember me. I file that away for later thought.

  “Yes?”

  “Good evening Deacon. I’m Investigator Carera from the city watch. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

  I can see he’s considering denying the request. But he knows that the watch has authority here, despite all the arcane pretensions.

  “Certainly.” He motions to a high-backed chair

  I sit and my large escort takes up a position behind me. Clearly they don’t trust me at all.

  “A young woman died tonight Deacon, she was an apprentice.” I dump the amulet onto his desk. His eyes flicker. He knows something.

  “Oh dear.” His hands tap out an irregular beat on the desk. He’s nervous.

  “Well, if you’d care to liaise with the registrar, we can provide you with her next of kin of course.”

  He hasn’t even asked who she is. The old bastard knows. In spite of myself, I’m surprised. I knew there were dark things happening in the Fortress, but I wouldn’t have suspected the Deacon himself of involvement. How times have changed. Time to push a little.

  “I believe she was murdered Deacon, most likely by magical means.”

  “Murdered? “ The Deacon licks his lips. His fingers are still fidgeting on the desk. “Preposterous. You shouldn’t believe the talk in the street investigator. It is almost impossible to kill by magic.”

  I know it. Of course I know it. The first thing they teach new apprentices is how difficult it is to affect other people directly with magic. Even the notorious Eagin twist, where the caster attempts to rupture a blood vessel in the target’s brain requires formidable talent and focus, and even then only works on one person in four. But I’m not your average investigator. I have an inkling of the Fortress’ secrets.

  “There are other kinds of magic. Summonings for instance.” I see it again in my mind’s eye, the years melting away. The worn circle in the vaulted chamber beneath the Fortress. That terrible thing, a mass of writhing grey flesh that had emerged, when I had finished the incantation. Consuming and devouring as we fled.

  “Summonings are strictly forbidden by the Fortress. They have been so for more than a decade, as you would know Inspector Carera.”

  Tap, tap, tap. Fingers drumming on the desk.

  “So you say Deacon.” Ten years ago. The last time I was in this office. The Deacon’s face is tight with anger as I stammer my explanation. It sounds weak; summoning is the final frontier of the magical arts. A chance to further our knowledge exponentially. I never meant for anyone to die.

  I don’t like the memory. I stand abruptly, aware of the guard tensing behind me.

  “Arrange for the apprentice’s details to be sent to the Precinct House directly, Deacon. I’m sure I’ll have other questions in due course.” There’s something going on here, but I’m not going to find anything using the direct approach, the Fortress is too good at covering up its dirty laundry. I should know.

  “Her name was Ella.”

  I look over my shoulder. The Deacon is holding the amulet, watching it spin. He looks o
ld and sad. I have no pity for him, the bastard is neck deep in whatever is going on. I’d haul him downtown right now, but no-one’s going to believe me over the city’s foremost practitioner of magic. I need more.

  By the time I get back outside, night has given way to the weak grey of first light. My city is going to bed, as their city is waking up. My shift is over, so I catch the trolley back to my flat. I ignore the wrappers and half eaten food that litter the floor, and fall into bed.

  At some point during the day I’m woken by furtive scurrying sounds; something small moving around in the other room. Rats. Not surprising given the state of the place. I feel drained, so don’t even bother stirring, instead, I trigger one of the small fire wards that I had carefully inscribed for practice during my studious days as an apprentice. I’m rewarded by a frantic scrabbling and the faint smell of scorched meat. Satisfied that now there’s a rat that feels even worse than I do, I close my eyes again.

  It’s a real challenge finding a suit that is anything even resembling clean. There’s a dark scorch mark near the door, and a smear of goo running to the broken window the overlooks the street. A big rat then. I really should clean up a bit, and fix the windows, but I’m more preoccupied with searching the empty bottles for dregs. First thing in the evening the world feels fuzzy and hostile.

  On the trolley to the Precinct house I run over things in my mind. The Deacon, the dead apprentice and secrets of the Fortress.

  Tap, tap, tap.

  My name on a note. Pressure from downtown.

  Tap, tap, tap.

  The city seems unusually quiet. An old woman in the seat opposite is staring at me intently. I ignore her and get off at my regular spot, a block from the precinct house, near the large tavern normally frequented by the watch. I’m trying to think of someone on the day shift who might be convinced to buy me a drink, when strong hands grab me and propel me into an alley.

  A big man punches me square in the stomach, and I double over. Probably would’ve broken my ribs if not for the vest I wear under my shirt.

  “Investigator Carera, it’s time to talk.”

  I don’t want to talk. While I’m sucking in breath I slip my hatchet from its holster. Any fool who thinks I’m going to follow a script is going to regret it.

  He grabs me by the neck, and opens his mouth to continue the speech. My hand lashes out with the hatchet. The razor sharp blade bites into his thigh. A big man, he takes a moment to go down. Long enough to make me wonder if I hit my target. But the blood hosing from the severed femoral artery in his leg can’t be argued with. In less than a minute the alley is soaked in his blood and he crumples, pale and surprised, still trying to form words. I watch dispassionately, then clean my hatchet on his shirt as the light goes out of his eyes.

  He looks a bit like the guard from the Fortress.

  Tap, tap, tap.

  I check his pockets but don’t find anything interesting, although I pocket the few dollars in his wallet.

  After the dead man has bought me a drink, I file a report at the precinct house. No questions are asked. The night shift has an open mandate to bring order to the night, and an attack on one is an attack on all.

  Lara is waiting at my desk.

  “You’re late.”

  “Had some trouble. Case took an unexpected turn.”

  “Yeah?” She eyes my blood stained suit.

  “I think this might be something big, perhaps even involving the Deacon.”

  “Damn Carera. That’s just what we need. Are you sure you’re not dragging in some unfinished business from your past?”

  I sketch it out for her. Not my suspicions, just the evidence that seems to point to something going on at the Opal Fortress. She looks less happy with every word.

  “You really want to see where this goes Carera? It might not be pretty.”

  “You’d prefer I blame the murder on the heavy from the Fortress who tried to jump me? He’s not in a position to deny it. Then we could just punch out and get a drink . . .”

  She rubs the stump of her arm ruefully. “And watch you sink deeper into a bottle? No thanks, just focus on doing one of the few things in this world that you’re actually good at. C’mon I want to show you something. There’ve been developments.”

  Lara takes me up town to the farm. At least that’s what Krimpa calls it. The final pasture for the departed. A sleek grey lowrise bordered by reflecting pools that shimmer in the night. We walk across the wide stone ramp and down into the bowels of the farm. Our footsteps are unnaturally loud, as we pass row after row of sleek columns. Krimpa is waiting, his grey gown stained dark with gore.

  “Investigator Carera, I see you’ve already been busy tonight. Here to see your latest addition to the farm?”

  “Just show us last night’s additions Krimpa.” Lara doesn’t care for Krimpa. There’s something unsettling about anyone who takes that level of pleasure in their work.

  “Of course Sergeant, this way.”

  There are less bodies than I was expecting. No more than a dozen, each carefully laid out in a small alcove for the rites of passing. I spot Ella, the apprentice at the far end, pale and pristine.

  “Quiet night then Krimpa?”

  “Indeed. And so far, tonight has been slow as well, with the exception of your own work, of course Investigator. A very neat job, that.”

  I grunt.

  “Thanks Krimpa, I can take it from here.” Lara waits until he is gone, shuffling off into the darkness to tend his farm. She moves to a corpse, a middle aged man, and unfolds a piece of paper from her pocket. “According to the reports filed last night this is, or was, Gulino Tranda.”

  I tilt my head to regard the body, and find it disappointingly unremarkable. “The Iron Falcon?”

  “None other. The Lord-Mayor’s Chief of Staff was found at dawn. No obvious cause of death listed, but Krimpa’s report notes there are some small punctures on his back.”

  The Falcon ran the city. Everyone who had any reason to work with downtown knew that. The Lord-Mayor cut ribbons and kissed babies, behind the scenes the Falcon cut million dollar building and servicing contracts and kissed whoever he damn well pleased. He had spies in every department, and always made sure the Lord-Mayor came up smelling of roses. No matter what.

  “Laticia Huron, better known as the Viper.” The next corpse is a woman whose blond hair was streaked with grey. Her body is a spiderweb of old scars. “Same thing, only the puncture marks were in her foot.” The Viper was a powerful underworld figure. She took a cut of every bar and brothel in the city, and was ruthless with anyone who tried to stand against her.

  “And Emil Asuln, the union boss.” A bloated corpse, bluish and mottled. “They fished him out of the river, but I don’t think he drowned. Krimpa has yet to confirm it, but I’d suspect he died the same way as the others.”

  Three of the most powerful people in the city, killed in a single night. Each of them had carved out a significant personal empire through force of will. Every one was formidable and well protected. Killing one alone would create a significant power vacuum, but killing all three at once? That spoke of a grand strategy. Who could possibly have the resources to capitalise on the ensuing chaos?

  “Readings?”

  “Asuln was too far gone, but neither of the other two saw their killers. They died quickly. It’s likely the perpetrators went out of their way to avoid detection in a post-mortem reading.”

  There’s one person missing. If you were to name the most powerful, influential, people in the city these three would top the list, but another name would make that list as well. The Deacon of the Opal Fortress. The sort of person who’d know how the readings work, and could contrive to thwart them. But what was his game? What possible advantage could he secure through this kind of assassination? He was already undisputed master of his field, with power and resources to match.

  Tap, tap, tap.

  As I focus on the Deacon, I remember his fingers tapping away on his desk. I�
��d thought it a tell. A manifestation of his nervousness, but the sound means something more . . .

  A memory from years ago; one class among many in my second year as an apprentice. The art of communication through non-vocal methods. Castings can work through purely auditory medium, but you need to know what the sounds mean. A language of clicks, bangs and taps.

  Tap, tap, tap. Help us.

  Suddenly I know. I know why the apprentice had my name. I know why the guard remained in the room during my interview with the Deacon. I know why the Opal Fortress seemed so quiet. I know why these three are lying here and the Deacon isn’t.

  “We’ve got to go. I need to see the Captain right now!” I’m practically flying out of the farm. Not smart. I make it as far as the ramp out to the street before I’m panting and wheezing. Lara catches me easily. She helps me on and we struggle together to a trolley. A badge is waved and the trolley delivers us directly to the precinct house as fast as it will go, much to the annoyance of the other passengers.

  Despite the sweat soaking my shirt, I storm up the cracked worn steps, past the duty sergeant and on into the Captain’s office. There’s no time to waste.

  He’s sitting at his desk reading from a large file. He looks up calmly as I enter and try to gasp an explanation.

  “Sit down Carera. Get your breath.”

  I try to insist that I don’t need to sit, but then I feel my legs trembling and slump down, panting. Outside I can see Lara through the glass, waiting near the investigators’ section. She looks only mildly out of breath.

  I switch my attention to the Captain’s office as I try and sort out the words I want. It’s filled with miscellany from thirty years of service on the watch. Badges and shields gleam from plaques. Pictures of the Captain with important people, smiling and shaking hands. I recognise one with the Iron Falcon. Weapons of all sorts, given ceremonially, or confiscated from criminals. Watchmen love to collect things. The pride of the Captain’s collection is a scaled down model of the city sprawling on a low table near his desk. Tiny towers and spires loom over miniature streets and plazas. Every detail has been faithfully depicted, from the metallic gleam of the trolley tracks to the blue twist of the river. A world in miniature, with the precincts jurisdiction carefully marked.