by H J Peterson
Of course. Though he absolutely hated what he did for Bator (he only did it so he could pay for rent), he still felt a little indignant at the special treatment Klara got from Bator. She was a prodigy, if a criminal could be considered that: she’d broken into some of the highest security places in Königstadt, and she’d never been caught. Ever. Whenever there was a job that needed to be done, and it needed to be done well, it was always Klara who did it.
Well, he wouldn’t have to worry about that, now: if there was one thing Klara couldn’t do, it was be good enough at an instrument to audition for the Imperial Symphony Orchestra. They’d be out of each other’s hair in no time.
“Ya ready, yet?” Klara asked, impatient, as Adelric grabbed his own hat and slapped it onto his head. “I swear, you’re slower than me mum, and she’s dead.”
“You know, you didn’t have to come and get me,” Adelric said as he grabbed his keys and his wallet. He shoved them into his inside coat pocket. “You chose to come here.”
“Didn’t: Bator thought ya might go runner on us after last night,” Klara said as they left the apartment. Adelric shut the door behind them and locked it. She pulled a newspaper out from her own inside pocket of her coat and handed it to him. “You seen the headlines?”
Adelric took it and skimmed the front page as they walked down the hallway and towards the stairs of his apartment. Assassin Strikes the High Nobility, the big, black letters on the front of the paper said. Inspectors Brooks and Ikeda to Take the Case.
“They’re more worried about the inspectors than they are about the actual murder,” Adelric said, slightly annoyed as he handed the paper back to Klara. They began going down the stairs to the ground level of the apartment building. Why was he annoyed? Shouldn’t he be happy about that? “I don’t get their priorities.”
“The nobility couldn’t figure out their first priority if it bit ‘em in the arse,” Klara muttered as they reached the bottom of the stairs.
They walked out onto the street, which was crowded with factory workers heading to work.
They began heading south on that street: Bohn Strasse, one of the main thoroughfares in Vergesse. Bator’s little setup wasn’t too far from there: it was right on the corner of Bohn and Factory Row, right along the Trübe River and just across the street from a clothing mill.
“I guess you’ve seen Bator today, already,” Adelric said as he shoved his free hand into his pocket: Bohn Strasse was infamous for the pickpockets, among other things. “How did he seem? He isn’t angry, is he?”
“He’s fine; even let me borrow some gear grease,” Klara said. “He don’t care too much about the fact that ya butchered the job more than ya did the mark.”
Adelric could feel his cheeks beginning to burn red. She was right, of course: the job had been pretty messy. He’d accidentally melted the handle to Lord Saaltz’s door trying to get in, and the blade he’d used to kill him had been so hot, the wound cauterized when he should’ve bled like a pig. He’d been pretty worried about how Bator would feel about that, but he trusted Klara to not leave him unprepared for his wrath: she hated him, but not that much.
After a few minutes of silence, they reached their destination: Medvye’s, a pub that was very popular with Magyarans who worked in the nearby factories. The front for the Magyaran gang, Fekete Halál. The people he worked for.
Medvye’s looked just as it always did at that time of day: pretty much empty, except for the mob people that ran the place: Francesca and Luciana Cabrenzo, the Valtruscan girls that served as Bator’s candies, worked the counter, as usual. Bator, himself, was sitting at his corner table.
Adelric found himself relaxing slightly when he saw Bator. The old Magyaran, thank heaven, didn’t look too angry. He was a big man, with thinning brown hair, brown eyes, skin that was worn and tanned, and a stomach that tended to bulge out from the old belt he always wore. He had two mechanical limbs, thanks to the war: his right leg from the knee down and his arm from his shoulder down. His mechanical limbs weren’t as nice as some of the ones Adelric saw at the opera, but his definitely weren’t as bad as the rusty piece of junk Klara had: his were made out of brass. Like most people who lost their limbs in the war, he had the emblem of his service branch engraved on his arm: two swords crossed on a shield, the easily recognizable symbol of the infantry. As he always seemed to be doing, he was tightening the screws in his old, finicky leg in order to keep it working.
Bator looked up from his leg when he heard them walk in. Adelric grew nervous: he couldn’t tell whether or not he was angry.”
“Well, if it ain’t my newest assassin,” he said, putting his screwdriver down on the table. Adelric resisted the urge to squirm at those words: that was the last thing he wanted to hear at that moment. “How are you? Klara tells me that you got sick to your stomach like a prissy little girl.”
Adelric’s cheeks began to burn red, while Klara looked to the side, smirking. It was true; he’d thrown up in the street outside the opera house as they were leaving. He’d told Klara that it was just some bad Hanjan food, but, obviously, she’d seen right past that.
“Just some bad kimchi, is all,” he said. “I wasn’t feeling too well the entire night, in all honesty.”
“Sure,” Bator said, raising an eyebrow like he did when he thought someone was either bluffing or cheating during cards. He sat back in his seat a little, picking up his screwdriver. He began to tighten some of the screws in his arm.
“Klara, would you please go check King’s Square and make sure that new kid is still there? Adelric and I have some things to discuss.”
Adelric thought for sure that Klara would be angry about that request, but she didn’t seem to be. Instead, she nodded knowingly, as if she already knew what the two of them were going to talk about, then left, leaving him alone with Bator and the Valtruscan sisters.
“Am I in trouble?” Adelric asked. He sure hoped not: he knew first-hand how awful Bator could be when he was angry.
“Only if the inspectors find you,” Bator said. He looked up from what he was doing. “You didn’t leave anything behind for them to find, did you?”
Adelric’s mind immediately went to the noble he’d bumped into on his way out of the opera house. He recognized him as Lord Friedrich Eltz, the heir of house Eltz, from the gossip column of the papers. Bator had told him that if he came across anyone that might be able to identify him to the police, he would have to kill them. However, after killing Lord Saaltz, feeling the blood on his hands… well, he just couldn’t bring himself to do it. It was the only thing that he’d left behind, and that thing happened to be the only thing that could connect his face to the murder of Lord Saaltz.
“Of course not,” Adelric lied. “I didn’t leave any loose ends, just like you told me.”
“Good,” Bator said, turning his attention back to tighten the screws on his arm. “Now, sit down; I’ve got something to tell you about our employer.”
Adelric sat down across the table from him, confused. Employer? He was under the impression that Bator was the head of their operation, and he had been since he’d joined them about a year ago Was there really someone above Bator, someone even he was afraid of? That was a terrifying thought. Bator was the most intimidating man he knew; he never would’ve thought that anyone on the planet or in the heavens could possibly intimidate him.
“Have you ever heard of the Archangel?” Bator asked. “And I’m not talking about the one in the Holy Book.”
Adelric shook his head. Bator didn’t seem all that surprised.
“Of course you don’t,” he said. He put down the screwdriver and began to wipe his real hand off on a dirty rag.
“What would you say if I told you that Vorbereich would see social equality within a year?” Bator asked. “No more nobility, no more homeless people; just a bunch of Vorbereichers all as equal here as they are in the eyes of God.”
“I would say that you’re crazy.” Adelric’s answer came without hesitation. Wh
at was Bator talking about? It was impossible to think that there would ever be equality like that. The thought that it was not only attainable, but attainable within a year was just… well, for lack of a better word, it was absolutely insane. “What makes you think that could happen?”
“There’s a man who calls himself the Archangel,” Bator said. “He’s the leader of the New Dawn movement. He thinks that he can turn things around.”
“And you believe this guy?” Adelric asked.
“I do,” Bator said. “Why the hell else would I let him hire us for that insane sort of job?”
Adelric didn’t say anything: all he could do was wonder whether or not Bator had finally gone insane.
“You don’t believe me, do you?” Bator asked. He sighed and stood up. “Come on; I’ve got something you need to see.”
VII. HIRO
Hiro held up a picture for Friedrich, number 128 out of the nearly 10,000 she’d had to get at the city archives. She’d called Friedrich down to the station that night, just as Berkowitz had instructed, and was following up on one of two leads they had: the description Friedrich had given her, some prints the Alchemist team managed to get from the doorknob, and a letter written by someone who called himself the Archangel. They’d sent the description to the city archives, looking for any records of people matching that description, which had been like pulling teeth: they said that the parameters they’d been given were too vague, that it would take hours of manpower they didn’t have to get what they needed. It only took a phone call from Berkowitz to convince them otherwise. The picture she was holding up for Friedrich was of a guy by the name of Reiner Scharff, a tough-looking guy that seemed like the type of person who would kill someone.
Friedrich looked at it for a few seconds, then shook his head. “Doesn’t look familiar.”
She held up another picture, one of a weaselly-looking Rocheran guy by the name of Emil le Beuvre.
Friedrich shook his head. “No; I don’t think his skin was that pale.”
“Thank you for trying to narrow it down, sir,” Hiro muttered, rubbing her temples. She was sick of this; they’d been at this for at least an hour, probably more. This was going nowhere, fast, and all she could do was keep going until they got word from the Doc unit that they found a match.
She took a swig from her cup of coffee. She probably shouldn’t be drinking the stuff that late at night, but she also had the feeling that she was really going to need it if she wanted to keep from falling asleep at work.
Hiro could tell that Friedrich wanted to respond somehow, but she didn’t really give him a chance to. She held up the next picture, this one of a Magyaran named Ödi Szabo.
“Not him; the guy I saw didn’t have glasses,” Friedrich said. “That helps narrow things down, doesn’t it?”
“Not really,” Hiro said. “Only about five percent of Alchemists wear glasses.”
“Sorry,” Friedrich mumbled as Hiro put down that picture. She held up the next one, to which Friedrich promptly said no.
“Why don’t we go home for the night?” Friedrich suggested as she put that picture in the very large “no” pile, which was right next to the very small “maybe” pile and the nonexistent “yes” pile. “I mean, it’s getting late; you’re going to need sleep at some point to do your job tomorrow, aren’t you?”
“We’re not leaving until we get through these pictures and find the guy you saw, Lord Eltz,” Hiro said, annoyed as she held up another picture. Friedrich shook his head, and she put it in the “no” pile. “The chief wants us to find something, and he wants us to find something tonight.”
She held up the next picture. Friedrich looked at it for a few seconds, then shook his head.
“Not him.” He looked up at Hiro, a confused look on his face. “Are there really that many male Alchemists with brown hair in Königstadt?”
“Brown hair is the most common hair color in Königstadt,” Hiro said. “Now, if your knife-wielding maniac had had blonde hair, or ginger hair, this would be a very different story.”
She put down that picture and held up the next one.
Friedrich shook his head. Hiro sighed and went onto the next picture.
“Are you still mad at me about… my father?” Friedrich asked. He should his head, and Hiro put the picture into the “no” pile.
Hiro didn’t say anything as she held up the next picture, knowing full well that she was going to regret it if she did. Friedrich shook his head, and it, too, went into the “no” pile.
“I… guess that’s a yes,” Friedrich said, rubbing the back of his neck.
“I’ve always had a rough time with moving on from getting stabbed in the back,” Hiro said as she held up the next picture.
Friedrich winced.
Hiro sighed, hanging her head and putting the picture down. Damn it, Hiro! And damn you and your puppy-dog eyes, Friedrich!
“Look: I’m sorry,” Hiro said. “That was uncalled for.” She held the picture up, again. “What’s her name? Katalin? She seems nice.”
“S-she is,” Friedrich said as he looked at the picture and tugged at his collar. Once again, he said no to it. “Once I get my father on board, I’m going to ask her to marry me.”
Hiro felt a twinge of hurt as she put the picture in the “no” pile. Just a few years before, that was going to be her: the two of them were going to get married, before his damned father gave his two cents. She supposed that the time had come to get over it, but… well, how were you supposed to get over getting stabbed in the back by someone you used to love so much?
Before she could respond to that, Brooks came over, holding something that she never thought she would be so happy to see: a coffee pot, filled with the most beautiful brown liquid she’d ever seen.
“You look like you could use some of this,” he said as he refilled her cup and she held up the next picture. The second Friedrich said he wasn’t the one, she grabbed her cup and took a swig, without batting an eye as it scorched her throat.
Brooks laughed at that. “Nothing like your first all-nighter at work; am I right?”
“At least I could be at home in my pajamas for studying all-nighters,” Hiro groaned as she held up the next picture. Friedrich was pretty quick to say no to it. “Please tell me that you’ve managed to find something.”
“You’ll be happy to know that the Docs finally decided that the prints on the doorknob are good enough to try and find a match,” Brooks said. “We’ve got an intern at the archives cross-referencing them with prints of Alchemist criminals matching Lord Eltz’s not-so-helpful description.
Friedrich’s cheeks grew bright red. “B-begging your pardon?”
“Sorry: my shift ended about an hour ago,” Brooks said, annoyed. “All my patience for all this crap ended right along with it.” He turned his attention back to Hiro as she held up the next picture.
“How many of these have you gone through?” Brooks asked as he looked through the “no” stack and Friedrich said no to the picture Hiro was holding up. “This has got to be a good chunk of the Alchemists in the city.”
“Far too many,” Hiro said as she held up the next picture. It was quickly vetoed. “And no, there’s way more Alchemists than this.”
Brooks whistled as Hiro held up the next picture. “Heavens; I’m glad I’ve had more evidence than what we’ve got now with finding out what a suspect looks like-“
“That’s him!”
Both of them looked up at Friedrich, confused. The poor boy looked like he’d seen a ghost: his face was pale and his eyes were wide as saucers.
“Are you sure?” She asked, glancing at the name on the back of the picture: Adelric Franz Biermann, aged 19, living at an apartment on Bohn Strasse. No job listed: it either meant that he’d gotten a job fairly recently and the archives hadn’t updated his information yet, or he was getting the money to pay for rent under the table.
“I’m sure,” Friedrich said as Brooks grabbed the picture. He looked at Adelr
ic’s picture, then began jogging to the other side of the office.
“You going to see whether or not this is our guy?” Hiro called after him, standing up from her chair.
“I am,” Brooks called back as he reached the stairs. “So help me, that little shit from the Shaper unit better still be down there!”
He ran down the stairs, leaving Hiro alone with Friedrich.
“Is that your permanent partner, then?” Friedrich asked as Hiro swigged the last of her coffee.
“Why do you care?” Hiro asked once she was done. “You aren’t jealous, are you?”
“He just seems a little… eccentric,” Friedrich said. “It doesn’t seem like the two of you would mesh very well.”
“We work out just fine, thank you very much,” Hiro said. “Head down to the receptionist in the lobby; she’ll telegraph your father to send over a carriage to pick you up.”
Before Friedrich could say anything else, she ran after Brooks, leaving her old relation alone at her desk.
When she got down to the basement with Brooks, she saw that he was standing behind one of the police force’s resident Docs, who was analyzing the fingerprints the Shaper division pulled from Lord Saaltz’s box earlier that evening. She’d watched them as the Alchemists used their little power to make some black powder bond with the fingerprints, then watched as they took pieces of paper and transferred the powder onto it, in the exact shape of the fingerprints for the Docs to analyze later. It was like magic. Shaper’s powers came from the three main branches of science: chemistry, physics, and biology. The difference between them and normal scientists was the fact that Shapers could change how long and how intensely things happened according to those sciences: those gifted in chemistry could make reactions happen much faster, those gifted in physics could cause things to fall faster and change the trajectory of objects, those gifted in biology could change the rate of growth and aging of animals dramatically; it was like they were gods among men.
Of course, nothing that dramatic was happening right then; the kid that happened to get the graveyard shift that night was just an intern. The Doc was simply going through a very large stack of fingerprints from the individuals on the pictures Hiro had upstairs, comparing them with the prints they found in Lord Saaltz’s box with eyes enhanced beyond the visibility of most microscopes.