Low Town lt-1

by Daniel Polansky

  “A job.”

  He was direct, at least, and concise-that was something. My head was pounding and I was trying to figure out where my breakfast would come from. “And what possible use could you be to me?”

  “I could do things for you. Like last night.”

  “I don’t know how often you think I stumble over the corpses of missing children, but last night was kind of a rare occurrence. I don’t think I can justify a full-time employee waiting around for it to happen again.” This objection seemed to do little to sway him. “What is it you think I do exactly?”

  He smiled slyly, like he’d done something wrong and was happy to let me know it. “You run Low Town.”

  And what a lovely fiefdom it was. “The guards might dispute that.”

  He snorted. It was worth snorting over.

  “I had a long night. I’m not in the mood for this nonsense. Get lost.”

  “I can run errands, deliver messages, whatever you need. I know the streets like the back of my hand. I can tussle, and nobody sees me that I don’t want to.”

  “This is a one-man operation. And if I was to bring on an assistant, my first requirement would be that his balls had dropped.”

  The abuse did little to faze him. No doubt he’d heard far worse. “I came through yesterday, didn’t I?”

  “Yesterday you walked six blocks and didn’t fuck me. I could train a dog to do the same thing, and I wouldn’t need to pay him.”

  “Give me something else, then.”

  “I’ll give you a beating if you don’t scramble,” I said, raising my hand in something meant to resemble a menacing gesture.

  To judge by his lack of reaction, he was unimpressed with the threat. “By the Lost One, you’re a tiresome little bastard.” The walk downstairs had reawakened the fierce pain in my ankle, and all this conversation was upsetting my stomach. I fished into my pocket and brought out an argent. “Run over to the marketplace and get me two blood oranges, a dish of apricots, a ball of twine, a coin purse, and a pruning knife. And if I don’t get half of it back in change, I’ll know you’re either a cheat or too stupid to haggle a fair price.”

  He hurried off with a speed that made me wonder if he would remember everything. Something about the boy made me unlikely to bet against him. I turned back around and waited for breakfast to arrive, but found myself distracted by the scowl atop Adolphus’s girth.

  “You have something to say?”

  “I didn’t know you were so desperate for a partner.”

  “What did you want me to do, clip him?” I rubbed slow circles into my temple with my middle and forefingers. “Any news?”

  “They’re having a funeral for Tara outside the Church of Prachetas in a few hours. Don’t suppose you’ll attend?”

  “You don’t suppose correctly. Anything else making the rounds?”

  “Word has spread of your encounter with Harelip, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “It was.”

  “Well, it has.”

  It was about then that my brain decided the time had come to free itself from its long years of imprisonment, and began a furious if unproductive effort to batter through its casing. From the back Adeline noticed my agony and set a pot of coffee boiling.

  I was nursing the second cup, dark and sweet, when the boy returned. He set the bag of goods on the counter and put the change next to it.

  “There are seven coppers left,” I said. “What did you forget?”

  “It’s all there.” He wasn’t quite smiling, but there was a distinct upturn to the thread of his lips. “I swiped the pruning knife.”

  “Congratulations, you’re a pickpocket. It’s a real exclusive club.” I took an orange from the bag and started to peel it. “Who’d you get the fruit from, Sarah or Yephet the Islander?”

  “The Islander. Sarah’s are half rotten.”

  I ate a wedge. “Did the Islander have his son or daughter helping him today?”

  “His daughter. His son hasn’t been around for a few weeks.”

  “What color shirt was she wearing?”

  There was a pause. “She was wearing a gray smock.” His quarter grin returned. “But you wouldn’t know if I was right, ’cause you haven’t left the bar yet.”

  “I’d know if you tried to lie to me.” I finished off the orange and tossed the peel onto the bar, then set two fingers against his chest. “I’ll always know.”

  He nodded without taking his eyes off mine.

  I scooped the remaining coins into the purse he had bought and held it in front of me enticingly. “You got a name?”

  “The kids call me Wren.”

  “Consider this the rest of the week’s pay.” I tossed him the bag. “Spend some of it on getting a new shirt-you look like a bum. Then stop by later in the evening. I might have something for you to do.” He accepted this development without response or expression, as if it were of little importance one way or the other. “And quit thieving,” I continued. “If you work for me, you don’t siphon funds from the neighborhood.”

  “What does ‘siphon’ mean?”

  “In this context, ‘steal.’ ” I jerked my head toward the exit. “Off with you.” He headed out the front door, though not with any great hurry. I pulled the second orange from the bag. Adolphus’s frown had returned. “You have something to say?”

  He shook his head and began cleaning glasses left over from the night before.

  “You’re as subtle as a stone. Spit out whatever you’re choking on or quit shooting me daggers.”

  “You are not a carpenter,” he said.

  “Then what the hell am I doing with this pruning knife?” I asked, flourishing the tool. Adolphus’s brutish lips kept their curl. “All right, I’m not a carpenter.”

  “And you are not a blacksmith.”

  “Nor was there confusion on that account.”

  Adolphus set the tankard down with a start, and in his flash of anger I remembered a day at Apres when those massive arms had cracked a Dren skull as easily as you would an egg, blood and brain bubbling out from white bone. “If you ain’t a carpenter and you ain’t a blacksmith, then what the hell are you doing taking on an apprentice?” He spat this last sentence at me, along with a fair bit of, well, spit.

  The void where his left eye once sat gave him an unfair advantage, and I broke contact first. “I don’t judge you for your trade. But it isn’t one a child ought learn.”

  “What’s the harm in getting me breakfast?”

  Adolphus shrugged, unconvinced. I finished my second orange and started on the apricots in relative silence.

  It’s always unsettling when Adolphus is in an ill humor. Partly because it reminds me that if he ever lost his temper it would take half the hoax in the city to bring him down, but mostly because there’s something unpleasant about watching a fat man mope. “You’re in a hell of a mood today,” I began.

  The flesh on his face dragged downward, menaced more than usual by age. “The child,” he said.

  It was clear he wasn’t talking about the one who had just left. “It’s a sick world, but this isn’t the first we’ve had evidence of it.”

  “Who will do right for the child?”

  “The guard will look into it.” I could well appreciate what dubious comfort that was.

  “The guard couldn’t catch pus in a whorehouse.”

  “They called in the Crown. Two agents in their prettiest bits of finery. Even sent for scryers. They’ll find something.”

  “If that child has to rely on the Crown for justice, her soul will never know peace.” He let his one eye linger on mine.

  This time I didn’t flinch. “That’s not my problem.”

  “You will allow her violator to walk free?” The traces of Adolphus’s Skythan accent hardened during his frequent moments of melodrama. “To breathe our air, foul our wells?”

  “Is he around here somewhere? Send him over, I’ll find something heavy and brain him with it.”


  “You could look for him.”

  I spat an apricot pit onto the floor. “Who was it pointing out that I operate on the other side of the law these days?”

  “Shrug it off, make jokes, play the fool.” He banged his fist against the counter, setting the heavy wood shaking. “But I know why you went out last night, and I remember dragging you off the field at Giscan, when everyone had fled and the dead choked the sky.” The planks of the bar settled to equilibrium. “Don’t pretend it doesn’t bother you.”

  The trouble with old friends is they remember history you’d prefer forgotten. Of course, I didn’t have to stick around and reminisce. The last of the apricots disappeared. “I’ve got things to look in on. Throw the rest of this junk out, and give the boy supper if he returns.”

  The abrupt end of our conflict left Adolphus deflated, his fury spent, his one eye drawn and his face haggard. As I left the tavern he was wiping at the countertop aimlessly, trying not to weep.

  I started out from the Earl in a sullen mood. I rely on Adolphus for a dose of morning levity and felt ill equipped without it. Between that and the foul weather, I was starting to wish I’d kept to my original inclination and spent the rest of the afternoon wrapped in bed and burning dreamvine. Thus far, the best that could be said for the day was that it was half over.

  Last evening’s unexpected encounter had interfered with my intention of visiting the Rhymer-a circumstance I needed to rectify. He’d forgive my absence, likely he’d already heard the reason, but we still needed to speak. This time of day he’d either be working the docks or up at his mother’s house. His mom had a tendency to try and set me up with women in her neighborhood, so I decided he was at the wharf and hobbled off in that direction, the pain in my ankle proving as reluctant to dissipate as the one in my skull.

  Yancey was likely the most talented musician in Low Town, and a damn good contact besides. I had met him during my time as an agent-he was part of a clique of Islanders that performed at balls for court officials and aristocrats. I helped him out of a bust once and in return he started to pass me information-little shit, background chatter. He never rolled on anyone. Since then, our career trajectories had trended in opposite directions, and these days his skills were in request at some of the most exclusive gatherings in the capital. He still kept his ears open for me, though the uses to which I put his intelligence had changed.

  The irony of the situation was not lost on either of us.

  I found him a few feet off the west quay, surrounded by a handful of indifferent bystanders, playing a set of Kpanlogo and spouting the rhythmic poetry for which he was named. For all his skill, Yancey was about the worst street performer I’d ever seen. He didn’t take requests, he set up in spots unused to traffic, and he was surly to onlookers. Most days he was lucky to make a few coppers, a modest reward indeed for a man of his abilities. Still, he was always cheery when I saw him, and I think he got a kick out of displaying his dizzying abilities to an ungrateful public. He made enough coin playing to the upper crust to make whatever he got busking meaningless anyway.

  I rolled a smoke. Yancey hated to be interrupted in the middle of a performance, regardless of the setting. I once had to pull him off a courtier who made the mistake of laughing during his set. He had that unpredictable temper common to small men, the kind of rage that flares up before fading away just as quickly.

  After a moment he finished his verse, and the tiny audience responded with muted applause. He laughed off their lack of enthusiasm, then looked up at me. “If it ain’t the Warden himself-finally managed a visit to your friend Yancey, I see.” His voice was thick and mellifluous.

  “I got caught up in something.”

  “I heard.” He shook his head regretfully. “Bad business. You going to the funeral?”

  “No.”

  “Well I am, so help me pack this up.” He began breaking down his set, wrapping each of the tiny hide drums in a collection of cotton sacks. I took the smallest of his pieces and did the same, slipping in his fistful of product as I did so. As a rule, Yancey was apt to injure any man foolish enough to touch his instruments, but he knew what I was up to and let it pass without comment. “The noble folk were disappointed you didn’t show last night.”

  “And their sorrow weighs heavy on my soul.”

  “I’m sure you lost sleep. You want to make up for it, you can come by the Duke of Illador’s estate Tuesday evening round ten.”

  “You know how important the opinion of the peerage is to me. I suppose you’ll be expecting your usual cut?”

  “Unless you feel like upping it.”

  I did not. We continued in silence until the onlookers were out of earshot. “They say you found her,” Yancey said.

  “They say things.”

  “You steady on it?”

  “As a top.”

  He nodded sympathetically. “Bad business.” He finished packing up his set in a thick canvas bag, then slung it over his shoulder. “We’ll talk more later. I want to get a decent spot in the square.” He bumped my fist and walked off. “Stay loose.”

  The docks were virtually deserted, the usual mass of workers, merchants, and customers long departed for the funeral, like Yancey happy to set aside a few hours of work to take part in a spectacle of public mourning. In their absence a dull quiet had settled over the area, a distinct contrast to the usual bustle of commerce. Making certain no one was watching I reached into my satchel for a hit of breath. My headache eased and the pain in my ankle receded. I watched the gray sky reflect off the water, thinking back to the day I had stood on the docks with five thousand other youths, preparing to board a troop ship to Gallia. My uniform had looked very fine, I’d thought, and my steel helm had glittered in the sun.

  I contemplated lighting a joint of dreamvine but decided against it. It’s never a good idea to get faded in a maudlin mood-the vine tends to heighten your anxieties instead of blunting them. Solitude was proving an ill fit, and my feet found themselves shuffling north toward the church. It seemed I was attending the funeral after all.

  By the time I got there the service had started and the Square of Benevolence was packed so tight you could barely see the dais. I skirted the crowd and sneaked into an alleyway off the main plaza, taking a seat on a stack of packing crates. It was too far back to hear what the high priest of Prachetas was saying, but I was confident it was very pretty-you don’t get to a point in life where people put gold on your outerwear unless you can say very pretty things at opportune moments. And anyway the wind had picked up, so most of the crowd couldn’t hear the speech either. At first they pushed closer, straining their ears to make him out. When that didn’t work, they got anxious, children pulling at their parents, day laborers shuffling their feet to keep warm.

  Sitting on the stage, a respectful ten paces behind the priest, was the girl’s mother, recognizable even at this distance by the look on her face. It was one I had seen during the war on the faces of boys who had lost limbs, the look of someone who suffered a wound that should have been mortal but wasn’t. It tends to settle like wet plaster, grafting itself permanently to the skin. I suspected this was a mask the poor woman wouldn’t ever be able to shed, unless the torment became too much and she put steel to her wrist some cold night.

  The priest reached a crescendo, or at least I thought he had. I still couldn’t hear anything, but his grandiloquent gestures and the mumbled beatitudes from the crowd seemed to indicate some sort of a climax. I tried to light a cigarette but the wind kept taking my flame, and I exhausted half a dozen matches before giving up. It was that kind of afternoon.

  Then it was over, the oration completed and the invocations offered. The priest held the gilded icon of Prachetas aloft and descended from the dais, the pallbearers following behind with the coffin. Some of the crowd left with the procession. Most did not. It was getting cold after all, and the cemetery was a long walk.

  I waited for the crowd to filter out from the square, then pushed myself
up from my seat. At some point during the speech I hadn’t heard I’d decided to violate my self-imposed exile and return to the Aerie to speak with the Blue Crane.

  Fucking funerals. Fucking mother. Fucking kid.

  The Aerie reigns above Low Town like Sakra the Firstborn over Chinvat. A perfectly straight pillar, dark blue against the gray of the tenements and warehouses, stretching up endlessly. With the exception of the Royal Palace, with its crystalline fortifications and wide thoroughfares, it is the single most extraordinary building in the city. For near on thirty years it has subjugated the skyline, offering glorious contrast to the surrounding slums. It was a comfort, as a youth, to have visible evidence that the remainder of what you saw was not everything there was to see-that some portion of existence prevailed unpolluted by stench and piss.

  The hope had proved false, of course, but that was my fault and no one else’s. It had been a long time since I’d seen the tower as anything but a reminder of squandered promise and the foolish hopes of a foolish boy.

  They had leveled an entire city block to make room for the Square of Exultation, as the courtyard surrounding the Aerie was called, but no one had minded. This was in the dark times after the great plague, when the population of Low Town had shrunk to a fraction of what it was in years prior. In place of the tenements was built a maze of white stone enclosing the tower itself, intricately complex but barely waist high, allowing anyone willing to look foolish to hop over the walls. As a child I had spent countless hours here playing rat-in-a-hole or bowley pegs, stalking through the rows of granite or running tiptoe along the fortifications.

  The square was likely the only portion of Low Town that the populace had not actively worked to dilapidate. No doubt the Crane’s reputation as being among the most skilled practitioners of magic in the nation had some part in cutting down on vandalism, but the truth was that, almost to a man, the people of Low Town idolized their patron and would accept no desecration of his home. To speak ill of the Crane was to call for a beating in any tavern between the docks and the canal, and a shiv to the gut in some of the harder ones. He was our most beloved figure, more highly esteemed than the Queen and the Patriarch combined, his charity funding a half-dozen orphanages and his alms joyfully received by a grateful public.