"I'm sorry, I don't. Did we hire you?"
I tried to explain, "Yeah, actually. My partner and I, er...we came to the office. I'm human, he's a maero. Caravan master. Bell Caravans."
"We employ a lot of caravan masters."
"Yeah, I'm sure you do. We helped guide a big crate back from Syringa, anyway, I was hoping—"
A sigh.
"We get over three hundred ingoing and outgoing shipments a day, Mister Bell, if you can be more specific..." she drifted off and paused, the earpiece going silent, waiting for me to answer.
I stammered incoherently.
"Do you remember the shipment confirmation number?" she asked.
I tried to remember but drew a blank. I had a sickening feeling that Wensem would have been far better at this than I.
"Er, I can't remember. Sorry," I apologized.
"It's on the receipt."
"I didn't take a receipt."
"Well, I can't help you then," said the receptionist, her voice dropping an octave.
"Surely you'd be able to—"
"You get me the shipment confirmation number. I'll check our records," she said, pausing before finishing coolly, "Have a nice day, Mister Bell."
Click.
Great.
* * *
The religious artifact dealer. That was my next stop.
I had considered calling Nickel but decided against it. Confrontation wasn't in the cards. Not now anyway, and not over a telephone. I had no idea what I would say to him and all it would do is fill me with rage. Both Lovat PD and this dangerous circle-and-bars gang were still after me. Keeping my wits about me needed to be my primary focus.
A brief pit stop on Level Three waylaid me from the religious artifact dealer.
The old public market still existed in the belly of the city, and it was there I knew I could find what I needed. It would be crowded, and there's no better place to hide than in a crowd.
Also, I was hungry.
I stopped at a doughnut cart and bought a small bag of greasy doughnuts for breakfast. The scent of cinnamon and sugar had made my stomach rumble. I stuck my nose into the grease-stained paper bag and inhaled. It was far more pleasant than the scents I had faced on Level Two.
The crowd moved about me, ignoring the guy with the ball cap and the dirty jacket. I wasn't anyone special. Just one of the throng. It felt safe.
My purchases made, I headed south back to King Station.
Thad's old neighborhood.
I'd be walking by his place. I realized I'd never again step foot through his narrow door and see his wide, fleshy mouth break into a smile. I felt sick.
The massive cage moved slowly, rising from one level and into another. I leaned against a corner in the back, head down, the brim of my cap covering my face. I was starting to feel like I was getting good at this inconspicuous thing.
"Level Four. King Station," called out the elevator's conductor.
Level Four was as I had left it. I walked down Second Avenue, took a left on Main Street passing bars, sushi shops, nightclubs, a few nail salons, and a crematorium. When Main arched left and became Maynard, I followed it the rest of the way down to Thad's old neighborhood.
Water dripped down from unseen holes in the street above. The white brick that made up the majority of the buildings here was stained with soot and a gray moss.
A gaggle of old women moved in a herd down the sidewalk, clucking to each other like cephels and nodding to themselves.
I saw the same noodle cart from the other day with the same pot bellied vendor. He was still slinging his noodles while whistling old jazz numbers. I considered stopping; the doughnuts weren't enough for breakfast and I was hungry, but being recognized was too risky. Odds were Bouchard had already got to the vendor when they examined the murder scene. Surely the guy would recognize me a second time and report me. As much as my stomach complained, spending today running wasn't appealing.
Thad's place creeped up on me. I almost didn't recognize it. Police tape blocked the entrance to Russel & Sons Optics. Yellow and black. A stark contrast to the soot-stained white blocks that made up the storefront. The tape looked garish in the mid-day sodium lights. Harsh in the greyscale of Maynard Avenue. I stepped to the front stoop and laid a bunch of flowers down that I had bought from the public market. The scent of marigolds was heavy around the stoop. I hadn't been alone; many others had also laid flowers and mementos over the last few days. A few candles poked up from the jungle of color. A photograph or two of Thad's smiling face.
A memorial. A memorial to a great anur.
I felt guilty. Weighed down by my connection to Thad.
Move on, I told myself. For Thad's sake. For your own.
I said my goodbyes as I stood in front of the shop. I shed a few tears, then I left.
Was this whole idea of seeking out the artifact dealer really worth my time? It was a long shot but I needed answers. I looked down at the patch still attached to the torn collar. I flipped it around in my fingers and walked the rest of the way to the end of the block.
* * *
The bell above the door to Saint Olmstead Religious Antiques tinkled as I passed through the door. My boots thumped on the wood floor as I closed the door behind me. Shelves. Everywhere, shelves, covered with all manner of things.
An unseen shopkeeper grunted out a greeting as if he couldn't be bothered with customers as I moved through the shop. It wasn't large but was quite cluttered, making navigation difficult.
I had no idea where the counter was, so I resigned myself to wandering around the store until I found it. Three lines of shelves broke the shop into four aisles. I weaved between them inspecting the inventory.
Religious items from the mundane to the downright bizarre were presented in seemingly no order. Statuary occupied shelves with mosaics of brightly colored tiles. A collection of carved wood and ivory icons depicting a stern-looking cephel sat among a stack of blue robes. Antique daggers with jeweled handles were arranged carefully next to what appeared to be a phallus of hammered gold. Wooden reliquaries labeled carefully with the saintly possessions inside them were stacked beside hoods and mitres lining one whole shelf, each bearing a different mark to various gods. Jewelry was mixed in with everything, some of it simple and some extravagant. Rich browns and luminescent golds reflected the dim light of oil lanterns that hung along the shop's walls, warmly lighting the interior.
I passed by another customer browsing a collection of crucifixes. A Hasturian priest in his yellow robes. His head was shaved and his beard was braided into the eight braids dictated by his Cold Father. Hasturians don't traffic in Reunified iconography and he seemed slightly embarrassed to be caught looking. He gave me a weak smile, his expression a mix of shame and guilt.
Nodding at him, I rounded the corner and saw the counter. A dimanian sat behind it, head down, nose in an old leather-bound book that seemed to be made up of more dust than parchment. He looked up at me as I approached.
"Can I help you?" he asked. A single wild horn sprouted from his right temple. Its odd twisting angle made it clear he avoided the dimanian barbers who shaped horn growth.
"This your place?" I asked.
"Yes, I'm Hagen Dubois, and this is Saint Olmstead Religious Antiques." He waved his hand around, moving automatically into his pitch. "We specialize in pre-Aligning antiquities, though we do carry all manner of holy and consecrated objects; for the more discerning customer I have access to all manner of items I can get delivered. Now, introductions out of the way, can I help you?"
He smiled a forced smile. It was obvious I was keeping him from the dusty book he had been so engrossed in.
"Nice place," I began. "I'm hoping you can help me. Truth is, I'm kind of suspecting this is a long shot, but figured I'd check. Have you ever seen this mark before? Looked kind of religious to me."
I dropped the collar with the patch on top of the old tome. The proprietor tsked and moved it aside, shutting the book and folding it gentl
y into purple threadbare velvet. Squat spurs extended from each of the knuckles on Hagen's narrow hands. I wished I'd had a set like those the night before, they would have been useful.
"That is a pre-Aligning manuscript: The Treatise on Iram," he said. I nodded as if I understood. It was clear he didn't believe me. "Very expensive and very fragile. Please have some respect."
I gave an apologetic shrug.
"Now to this symbol." Hagen slipped a pair of spectacles from his tangle of black hair and settled them atop his sharp nose. He squinted at the patch for a while, silent except for occasional odd grunts and pensive humming. He turned it over, examined it upside down and on its side. All the while he drummed the spurs of his left hand on the wooden counter. Eventually he dropped the collar and looked up at me.
"I honestly can't say what it is, though it does look familiar. Where'd you get this?"
"Down in Level Two."
He nodded. "Could be a gang symbol. Where in Level Two?"
I ignored the question. "That was my first thought as well," I lied. "It seemed too...I don't know...too well thought out? Too intricate? Gang symbols tend to be crude, quick things right? Something you can scrawl on a building."
"Good point," said Hagen, nodding. "You thought about checking the library?"
I nodded. "That was my next step if this fell through."
Hagen rubbed his eyes and pointed at the patch with his little finger. "The circle and bars are both common elements in religious symbolism, but I've never seen them laid out in this fashion. Are you sure it's of religious origin?"
I shrugged. "That's why I brought it here."
The shopkeeper held out his hands apologetically and scratched behind his horn. "Look, I'm pretty busy these days, and I don't know if I would be much help in tracking this down. I'd say you shoul—"
I cut him off. "Please. I'll pay you. Just give it a couple hours."
He looked up and seemed to study me for a while.
"All right," he said with a sigh. "I'll give it a couple of hours. My going rate is fifty lira. I bill at three hours minimum."
I pulled the lira out of my pocket and laid them down on the counter; my little slush fund was running out quickly and I still needed to pay Inox. Regardless, I felt this was worth it. I needed help. I needed a direction. Right now everything was gray. I needed some black and white: some absolutes.
A good friend potentially betrayed me. Another was unreachable. More were dead. Someone was after me, possibly even the people who had killed my friends. Even if I had to pay him, just having this antique dealer on my side eased me somewhat. Someone to help would be beneficial, for my sanity, if anything.
"Three hours," said Hagen. "It's all I can spare."
"Thank you, Mister Dubois. Three hours will be plenty. This means a lot."
"Just Hagen," he said cordially. "I have a few manuscripts I'll consult and some telephone calls I can make. It should give me a direction at the very least, if not the answers you seek. What's the best way for me to reach you...Mister?"
"Boddins," I said, coming up with a name off the top of my head. "Wal Boddins, and I don't have a telephone in my...er, hotel room." More lies. "I'll contact you. Is two days going to be enough?"
He nodded, pocketing the lira. "I can put aside some of my own personal work for a real client. Why not telephone tomorrow morning and check in; if I need a little more time I'll let you know then."
"Thanks," I said.
"Have a good afternoon," added Hagen, turning back to the old, dusty tome.
For the first time since returning to Lovat, as I left Saint Olmstead Religious Antiques, I felt like I had some control.
TEN
Darkness had settled over Lovat by the time I made my way back to Doctor Inox's office. The pitch addict I had seen on my last visit still sat atop his pile of trash. A vague outline in the dim twilight glow of the overhead lamps.
It was good that I had returned. I owed the doc money and I paid my debts.
Collectors are serious business. Loans happen daily, and in a city like Lovat where millions upon millions live above and below one another in an ever-changing maze it's easy for a creditor to lose track of a debtor. For years, before the Society of Collectors was formed, banks would loan money and then never see their debtor again. As you can imagine, things spiraled out of control, banks quit loaning money, and Lovat was thrown into a serious economic depression.
From the rubble of that depression, the Collectors emerged. They weren't just good at their job, they were astounding. Bounty hunters, focused solely on loan repayment. Creditors hire one of the Society to go after a delinquent and collect their outstanding balances. It's effective.
The Society of Collectors operates under a series of principles: twenty-five percent of the debt is paid to them upon completion and—this is where it gets darker—they claim organ rights on the debtor if the debtor refuses, or is unable, to pay.
The organ market in Lovat is quite lucrative. If a Society contract cannot be reclaimed the Collectors assume the debt upon themselves and take not only the debt, but an extra twenty-five percent based on the sale of organs.
It keeps people honest, I suppose. As you can imagine, debts here get paid quickly. No one wants to have a black-clad Collector showing up at their door, knife in hand, demanding some outrageous sum—or your heart. With two sets of goons after me already; a third group wasn't something I was keen on.
I stepped into the alley that led to Doctor Inox's office. Her door was wide open, and bright white light spilled out from the interior into the narrow alley. As I drew closer I noticed the pitch addict hadn't moved. It wasn't that he was passed out. He wasn't sleeping. He was dead. With a bright red slash across his throat, his glassy eyes bloodshot eyes stared up at the roof of Level Two.
I slowed.
Unprepared for what greeted me, I stepped inside.
I gasped.
Doctor Inox was tied to the gurney set up in the center of the room. Her mask hung crookedly off her face, lines of blood dripping down from the mouth grate and the eye slits. Blood pooled around the tile floor, leaking from a ragged cut in her throat. Beneath her lab coat the rolls of flesh that made up her arms, breasts, and belly stacked on top of one another giving her the appearance of a melted candle.
But where were her hands? Bile rose in my throat. Her hands were missing.
I stepped closer. Her forearms had been bound to the gurney by roll after roll of surgical tape. A bloody bonesaw lay next to the stumps where her hands had been. The front of her stainless steel mask had been dented as if someone had smashed it into the side of the gurney.
Another death.
Another murder.
Another death connected to me.
I could see Bouchard's smile. That smug, I-told-you-so expression.
I rushed to the doctor's side and used the bonesaw to cut her free of the surgical tape. She slumped backwards to the floor. She was at least twice my weight, a mountain of a woman, her skin brutally pale in the fluorescent lights of her office.
I checked for a pulse, knowing the answer before I did so. Her skin was like ice.
She was dead.
"You!" snapped a wispy female voice from behind me.
I spun.
Standing behind me in the small living area was a smoky, formless shadow of a woman. She seemed fuzzy, her edges blurred like wet watercolor paint. Slits of red-orange glowed in the murk. It was clear from her posture that I had surprised her.
"You're the Guardian," she said, sounding surprised.
I took a few steps back, putting Inox's corpse between me and her.
I had met very few umbra in my time on this earth. The shadow race tends to keep to themselves. Closed off, tight-knit communities far away from the masses. You'll see a few of them working in Lovat, but as a society they like their privacy. Folks tend to distrust them almost immediately; the fact that they are impossible to see in the dark doesn't help.
Most ci
ties have passed ordinances requiring umbra to clothe themselves, Lovat included. Those that choose to blend in do so willingly, wearing heavy layers of clothing so they can be identified in a crowd. This female was scantily clad, however, which was considered rude, as well as threatening. It was also illegal.
The shadow figure advanced toward me, taking long, confident steps, and I instinctively took another step back, finding myself against the wall of the small Bonesaw office.
I fumbled at the nearest tray of utensils, withdrawing a spiky-looking instrument that reminded me of a thick stake with cross beams. I spun it, holding it out as if she was a vampire. The knuckles of my hand grew pale as my grip tightened.
The umbra laughed. It was a delightful sound. Like honey. It felt out of place in this gory scene.
"What are you going to do with that, Guardian?" she taunted. Why was she calling me that?
I remained silent.
At her side, Inox's fleshy hands hung in a partially translucent plastic bag. Blood had pooled near the bottom, and it sloshed lazily as the shadow figure sashayed closer.
She followed my gaze and patted the severed hands.
"Hands of a doctor," she said vaguely, as if this explained everything.
I flicked my eyes from the hands and tried to fixate on the glowing slits in the shape that was her head. A wicked-looking straight razor hung loosely in her left hand, blood staining the blade.
"She wasn't much of a fight. Not like that flutist. By the Firsts, she struggled." The figure tilted her head, watching my reaction.
"You," I growled. "You killed Fran."
That inappropriately sweet laugh again.
"Me."
She lunged, and I swear I saw the straight razor outstretched, its wicked blade swiping in my direction. I sucked in a lungful of air.
The world went dark.
Wait.
She didn't cut me. I wasn't dead. She flicked off the lights.
More laughter. This time from farther away. To my left? Right? It was hard to tell. I was disoriented.
The Stars Were Right Page 10