One Man

by Harry Connolly

  So, if Harl was selling body parts, either he had bribed every regulator in that department, or he had found a way to do illicit medical magic right under their noses.

  Either way, they would have to ask awkward questions of some very powerful, very unpleasant people.

  She said, “Tell me about the extra man.”

  That was how they were referring to the asshole who’d delivered the corpse—and, presumably, the drugs—to the hammerball court. Extra Man. It would have made a decent street name, although Onderishta imagined it had already been used, probably more than once.

  “Patrols haven’t recognized him yet. The other knuckle-busters has been named and tagged, at least with a street name, but not him.”

  “An out-of-town contractor?”

  “He looks Salashi to me.” Fay shrugged. “He could be someone Harl brought in from the farmwilds for a special job.”

  Onderishta had made note of him: young, shaggy black hair, dark brown skin like her own, except for a discolored hand. In fact, he looked like Harl’s thugs, wearing black like a villain in a play.

  Except he lacked the swagger. Most gangsters liked to strut, especially when they’d been collared. It was practically a competition with them.

  The extra man did none of that. He stared at the wall as though he could see through it, and he wouldn’t talk. “He hasn’t offered a street name, either.”

  Fay grimaced. “He irritates me. These guys love to tell us their stupid made-up names. But not him.”

  “Which brings us back to the possibility that this is a setup,” Onderishta said. “It’s wildly unlikely, but if your foreign informant was acting on his own, he might not know the rule. Maybe he didn’t realize that gangsters knife people who set the cops on them, no matter who they are. Someone—and by someone I mean that northerner with the bells in his beard, maybe—wants to get out from under Harl’s thumb, so they drop some white tar and a collected corpse into his lap. The extra man was supposed to slip away—or he was expendable—and the constables swoop in when they’re told to.”

  “Like employees.” Fay noted Onderishta’s expression and said, “Sorry. Okay. We swoop in but Harl has a secret exit no one knows about and blows the informant’s plan. It’s possible, I guess, but how long has Harl been the big boss? Twelve years?”

  “Fifteen.”

  “Shit. That’s a long time to consolidate power. Plus, his lieutenants love him. He’s made them rich enough.”

  Onderishta couldn’t hold back a rueful smile. “Rich enough? No such thing.”

  “He also has the backing of the Amber Throne. My informant looked like a capable guy, but he was running with Second Boar and a bunch of faceless nobodies. Do we know anyone with the guts and ambition to defy the city’s top ganglord, all the lieutenants he’s paying, the noble family that supports him, and the Amber Throne?”

  “No one who isn’t already in this room.”

  That made Fay laugh. “It seems farfetched to me, too.” He snapped his fingers. “What if this extra man isn’t a heavy?” Fay asked. “What if he’s hospital staff? Or even a full-fledged doctor who lost his license?”

  The thought hadn’t even occurred to her. “My instinct says no,” Onderishta answered, “but fuck my instinct. That seems more likely than some internal revolt among the heavies. We have apprentices at hand. Let’s send them to every hospital in the city. This asshole seems pretty memorable to me.”

  Fay clenched his fists. For a moment, Onderishta thought he might throw a punch at the wall. “Shit. We almost collared Harl fucking Im.”

  “Giving up?”

  Fay’s fists immediately unclenched and his self-pitying expression vanished. “No. Never.”

  Trillistin appeared at the top of the stairs, gasping for breath. He must have run a long way, because there was sweat streaming from his close-cropped hair.

  Onderishta had to wait for him to catch his breath. The temple kept their charges at their writing desks, and most of them were as soft as caged veal.

  The delay became annoying. “Have the constables identified our mystery man?” she asked.

  “No,” the boy gasped. “But one. Recognized. The woman.”

  * * *

  In the year before his First Labor, Kyrionik ward-Safroy defe-Safroy admir-Safroy hold-Safroy had been well known to the constables of High and Low Apricot. Mainly, they knew him as a boy trying too hard to seem older, and they’d laughed at him. When he got into trouble, they dragged him back to the Safroy compound and received a few silver whistles for their trouble. He’d been a lucrative side job for them.

  No one recognized him now. Whether it was the hair or the scar—or that he was supposed to be dead—Kyrioc recognized many of the faces under those steel caps, but to them he had become Nobody, child of No One.

  And thank the fallen gods for that. One of his worst fears had always been that he’d be returned to High Slope—to the Safroy compound. Prison would have been preferable. Work camps would have been preferable.

  Hanging would be preferable, and considering his history, hanging was what he deserved.

  Rulenya was dead. Kyrioc had done what he’d been told, traveling from the bottom of this corpse of a city to the top, but he had not saved her. He had not even realized that she’d been dead all along.

  And what did that mean for Riliska?

  The ironshirts had herded all of the arrested thugs—men and women—into the courtyard of the south tower. There, they had been split up. The women were led to a smaller holding area made of stone blocks, and the men brought directly into the base of the main jail. They had been forced to strip—with several of the constables glancing warily at Kyrioc’s scarred back and limbs—then led into a stinging-cold bath. The heavies’ sullen silence was broken by that icy water, and they began to shout at the blank walls in protest.

  But no matter what they said, no one looked directly at the ironshirt in the doorway with his sword—not a truncheon—in his hand. The constables were not playing games this time. The local heavies were brave enough to complain, but that was it.

  Kyrioc kept quiet and did as he was told. One of the constables found white tar on his clothes and told him his days as a free man were over. Since he didn’t have tar stains around his mouth, he’d be convicted as a dealer, and dealers swung.

  He heard that several times from several different constables, and each time, it was like a promise. They were going to cure him of his life.

  The ironshirts dragged him into a room and shoved him into a sturdy metal chair. His left hand was shackled into place with a heavy padlock.

  By the fallen gods, he’d fought for so long to survive on Vu-Dolmont and finally made his way back to the city, and for what? Why had he bothered? To keep a promise to a dead man he had loved?

  That promise had been fulfilled. It was behind him. Done.

  He’d failed Rulenya and Riliska, and he didn’t have any reason to go on.

  * * *

  As Onderishta expected, the medical inspector was a real delight. Dressed head to toe in gray, with a high conical hat to emphasize his status, he stood in the south tower council room with his arms pressed against his stomach, as though he was afraid he would dirty himself if he touched anything.

  When they had asked his name, he refused to give it. Security reasons, he said. Then he said, “I’m afraid there’s no doubt.”

  Onderishta waited for him to continue. He didn’t. She turned to Fay, who looked more confused than exasperated.

  “Doubt about what?” Fay asked.

  The bureaucrat sighed. “There’s no doubt that she’s been collected. That much is clear. However, it’s impossible that her collected parts were actually gifted to a patient.”

  Onderishta kept her expression neutral. “Please continue.”

  “I suspect that this woman was murdered this way to deceive you into believing she was collected for black-market medical purposes, when in fact she was simply killed for some other rea
son. Perhaps her gifts were disposed of in a sewer or garbage receptacle. I wouldn’t know about that. I just know that they weren’t used in hospital for a patient’s benefit.”

  They had returned to the idea that Harl was set up. “How can you be so sure?”

  “Because they would need glitterkind portions to make the process work, and there are no illicit glitterkind within a hundred miles of Koh-Salash. Because the systems in place—within the hospitals and without—would preclude illicit trade in stolen organs.” He straightened the collar of his robe. “I wouldn’t allow it.”

  “I see.” Onderishta sat on the corner of her desk and folded her arms. “You don’t think it’s impossible because your people are too honest and too smart.”

  “Whether you’re able to believe it or not, yes. This Harl Im must have ordered it as a ruse.”

  “By the fallen gods,” Fay said. “A rooz.”

  “And why do you think Harl Sota List Im, a gangster with connections to the parsus themselves, would stage a murder this way?” Onderishta asked. “When he could have made her disappear into one of the sausage shops he owns in Low Market?”

  “Sausage shops?” The bureaucrat turned pale beneath his big, ridiculous hat.

  “Understand me,” Onderishta said quietly. “You may know your field very well, but you don’t know mine. Harl is a prominent stitch in a noble family sail. The Lorrud sail, to be specific. That means he’s protected by some of the most powerful people in Koh-Salash. To keep that protection, he has to keep his business—the murders, the drug smuggling, the extortion—at arm’s length.

  “So, the idea that Harl himself ordered this girl collected then left for us to find—to deceive us—is laughable on its face. Harl has no reason to create a scandal.

  “Of course, one of Harl’s enemies might have left the corpse there, but you have to ask why it was collected first. To get you involved? Or us? No, the criminals in this city keep their distance from Gray Flames—the cosh and the eye—out of a sensible self-preservation.

  “No, the only reason to collect this woman before she was dumped was because there was money in it. That’s all. That’s how these people operate.”

  To his credit, the inspector bowed slightly. “I apologize. Of course you know your field better than I do.”

  “Accepted. So. This woman was collected, so her parts must have made it into the market. You’re here to tell us how it’s being done.”

  “It’s impossible.”

  “And yet, we have a body on a stone slab downstairs, so it’s happening.”

  “It can’t be happening. It’s impossible.”

  “Let’s pretend it isn’t.”

  “But it is.”

  Fay looked at Onderishta, his smile crooked.

  “I’m sorry,” the inspector said. “I know it seems like I’m being obstinate, but I’m just explaining the facts. It’s impossible for any black-market organ trade to operate in Koh-Salash. It just is.”

  “All right,” Onderishta said, “let’s talk about this perfect system of yours.”

  The inspector scowled. He hadn’t liked the word perfect, but he didn’t object to it. “Certainly. I’ll do my best to be thorough but concise. First, despite what you may think, gifting isn’t that common. It isn’t vanishingly rare, but it’s nowhere near as routine as it ought to be. Each gift comes from established social organizations. Usually it’s the Temple of Suloh, but sometimes it’s Yth or one of the smaller temples. Other times it’s a fellowship or lodge set up by a noble family.”

  That was a surprise. “A lodge?”

  The inspector waved a hand. “Among the other benefits of paying a fortune to join a club led by one of the richest, most powerful families in the city is that they’ll help you arrange, and pay for, a transplant if you’re injured.”

  Fay cut in. “And they’ll collect you when your time comes.”

  “Well, yes,” the inspector said without blinking. “When your time comes, of course. The flip side of receiving gifts when needed is that one must be willing to provide them when appropriate. If one intends to benefit from a system, one should expect to pay into it as well. And, frankly, not every lodge member is willing to enroll in such a benefit.”

  “Not until it’s too late, right?”

  “Exactly. And that’s why the system can’t be gamed, exploited, or cheated. Each of these donors has a record at the temple or fellowship. Those records can be checked, and they come from reputable people, with a unique mark on every tank. The mark is transferred to the accompanying paperwork, which is written on a distinctive paper that we fashion ourselves, to prevent forgeries.”

  The inspector was going too fast, assuming they knew too much. “Family’s mark?”

  “Yes, the ward-family. The nobles. Each infinitesimal piece of… Okay. Gifts are collected when the donor passes. It has to be within the hour for most body parts, but never mind. The gift, whether it’s an organ, an eye, or a sheath of skin—and healthy skin is always in high demand—is placed into a tank of water that’s been seeded with a tiny portion of glitterkind flesh. The glitterkind magic in that broth preserves the gift and readies it for the recipient’s body. Each ward-family is responsible for the care of their glitterkind charges, and they’re weighed with incredibly sensitive instruments before and after portions are taken.”

  “What about glitterkind procedures that don’t involve transplants?”

  “Impossible,” the inspector said, then caught himself. “I’m sorry. They’re not impossible, obviously. They happen on very, very rare occasions. Vanishingly rare. Transplanting healthy organs requires a tiny amount of glitterkind flesh. Regrowing damaged or amputated tissue requires almost a thousand times more. It’s incredibly expensive and only used when a transplant would do no good. Special permission is required, and not even the Steward-General would be guaranteed such a treatment.”

  A procedure that used a thousand times the normal dose of glitterkind flesh would be the perfect opportunity to skim. Fay must have been thinking the same thing, because he jumped in with a question of his own. “Have you ever overseen that sort of procedure? Where glitterkind flesh is used but there’s no transplant?”

  “Not in the eighteen years that I’ve been doing this work,” he said. “It’s really only… Hmf. Let me speak plainly. It’s only used for brain injuries and castrations. With the former, they’re almost never approved. With the latter…they do not happen often through mischance, and the medical system is not in the business of undoing criminal punishment, whether doled out by a Salashi magistrate or a foreign one.”

  Onderishta nodded. “About those family marks, I assume the marks are noted when the…donations arrive at the hospital.”

  “Correct, unless the gift-giver was collected at the same hospital as the recipient. That’s the preferred way to handle things. But sometimes the donation is shipped in, and it’s always authenticated with the ward-family mark.”

  “Each has their own?”

  “Exactly so.”

  “That woman was killed this morning at the earliest. If her…donations had been put in a transplant tank, how long would they be viable?”

  He didn’t like that question. “She wouldn’t… Was she a member of a licensed social organization?”

  “Let’s assume we’re going to find out that she was.”

  “Well, you see, the collections would typically remain viable for anything from a week to a month. Skin lasts longest. Eyes decay fastest. But there’s a minimum period, too. The organs need to be suffused with glitterkind magic before the operation can go forward. That’s at least an hour for the eyes, liver, heart, et cetera. It can take a full day for the skin.”

  “So, the skin grafts won’t happen until sometime tomorrow, but it could be anytime within the next month?”

  “Typically,” the inspector said. “But I assure you, this is all hypothetical. There would be no way to get a murder victim’s parts into the collection procedures without a
lerting the medical inspectors. It just isn’t possible.”

  She’d gotten all she could from him, for the present. “Thank you, inspector. Later this week, I’m going to send some apprentices to your office to look over your records. Have them made available.”

  He scowled, then caught himself. He was a man who could command the attention of the High Watch, possibly the Steward-General himself, but he couldn’t let people think he was hiding something. “Of course. I hope I have been helpful. Good luck with your investigation.” He left.

  “No one is in greater danger,” Fay said, once the door had closed, “than the fool who thinks themself completely safe. I can think of two different ways to corrupt his perfect system, and that’s just off the top of my head.”

  “That’s not what concerns me. Did you notice how quick he was to suggest that the whole thing was meant to mislead us? It didn’t sound like the first time he’d said that. It sounded rehearsed.”

  “What are you thinking?”

  “Send someone to the other towers. I want to know if they’ve found other bodies like ours, and if the office of medical inspections convinced them it was some kind of hoax. Let’s also get a couple of constables up here. I want them out of uniform so they can follow the couriers making these deliveries. I want a rundown of how they operate, how often, what times of day, the whole thing.”

  “I’ll take care of it.”

  “Do we know where the victim lived?”

  “Woodgarden.”

  “While you’re arranging that tower errand, send up my new apprentices. Then find me two pairs of Woodgarden constables. I want to see where this woman lives and how she’s connected with Harl.”

  * * *

  “Everyone else has told us their street names. Why haven’t you?”

  The ironshirt stared across the table at Kyrioc with half-closed eyes. He looked bored, as though he didn’t care whether he got answers to his questions. He’d stripped off most of his armor, leaving only the leather jerkin and the truncheon at his belt. His iron chest plate and helmet hung on a peg behind him.