Brian McClellan - Murder at the Kinnen Hotel

White said, “I’ve heard the name before. One of the petty gangs that roams this part of the city, correct?”

“Yes,” Adamat said. Petty seemed like an easy word to toss around when you worked for the Adran Royal Cabal. To normal people, the Black Street Barbers were terrifying. “My contact at Willam’s Tavern is a young initiate. Nervous lad, flicks a blade back and forth.”

“Are you warning me to not be frightened?” There was a tinge of amusement in White’s voice, as if to say, That’s adorable.

“No,” Adamat said, “I’m warning you so that you don’t kill him just because he has a nervous twitch.”

White looked down her nose at her long fingernails. “You should know, Adamat, that my nervous twitch is not immediately murdering someone when they flick open a blade.” She lifted her chin, glancing at him sidelong. If he didn’t know any better, he’d have thought he hurt her feelings.

The cab let them out at a tavern a stone’s throw from the waterfront. It was one of those large, sprawling establishments frequented by all manner of the type of lowlifes constantly coming to the city, finding work at the docks, and then moving on.

Adamat let his eyes adjust to the darkness inside before he threaded his way through the tables. At eleven o’clock on a weekday morning most of the clientele consisted of dockmen who’d not gotten the call for a desperately needed job and were waiting until tomorrow to try again. They tended to be either dead sober or dead drunk.

Adamat finally spotted a boy of about fifteen with mangy, matted hair, pale skin and a black jacket that looked like it had been taken off a year-old corpse. The boy lounged in a far corner of the tavern, back on a dirty wooden bench and feet propped on an old crate stamped “canned fish.” He was flicking open the blade of an old shaving razor, closing it, and flipping it open again while trying not to look interested in the game of dice being played by a pair of younger boys.

“Teef,” Adamat said, standing just over his head.

The boy scowled up at him. “Thought you left this part of the city.”

“Need to talk to you, Teef.”

“I’m busy.”

Adamat felt White’s hand on his shoulder. “This brat is your snitch?” she asked in a soft voice.

“We work with what we have. Teef, come on.” Adamat tapped the boy on the chest with his cane. Teef shoved the cane away.

“I told you I’m busy, I … “

Adamat grabbed a handful of Teef’s shirt and dragged him off the bench and across the floor, ignoring his flailing arms and legs. Any other day he may have been more patient, dancing around with Teef to get his attention. Not today. He deposited Teef in a chair off to one side of the great room and threw himself into one across from the boy. Teef immediately made to stand, and Adamat pressed the end of his cane against his chest, pinning him in place.

White remained standing, her gaunt figure looming and eerie in the low light.

“Who the bloody pit is this?” Teef said, looking at White, his voice coming out as a whine.

“My new partner,” Adamat said.

“I don’t know her.” Teef flicked his razor open and closed with greater force, as if he very much wanted to use it. He’d be a damned fool to do so against a police officer but anyone who joined the Black Street Barbers had at least a little brain damage as far as Adamat was concerned, so he kept a close eye on the state of the blade.

“Her name is White. White, meet Teef. There, now you know each other.” Adamat pressed a little harder on his cane until Teef began to squirm.

“Mornin’, ma’am,” Teef finally said petulantly.

“Very good. Now Teef, I’m looking for information on a powder mage. Rumor has it that there was one down in the docklands over the autumn, working for one of the gangs. I want to know who he is, who he worked for, and where I can find him.”

Teef had begun shaking his head even before Adamat finished speaking. “No, no, no. I’m not talkin’ about any powder mage. Nothing in it. Don’t have anything to say.”

“Really?” Adamat pressed on his cane.

Teef didn’t respond to the pressure. “Yeah, really.”

Adamat put his cane to the side and produced his pocketbook, peeling several bank notes out of it and stuffing them in breast pocket of Teef’s grimy coat.

“I’m not saying anything,” Teef said. “There’s nothing to say. Don’t know anything about a powder mage.”

Adamat produced another couple of bank notes and added them to Teef’s pocket.

“Really,” Teef said. “There’s nothing. And even if there was, I wouldn’t say a word. Powder mage is bad luck.” He glanced at White, as if seeking some kind of agreement. “Talk about them, and the royal cabal comes sniffing around.”

Adamat leaned back. Teef had not attempted to give the bank notes back. He obviously knew something, even if it was a small tidbit, but perhaps his greed was overcome by fear. Adamat ran his hands through his hair and wondered absently if it was feeling thinner. His father had gone bald early. Was he going down the same road?

“Never the less,” Adamat said. “We must know.”

Teef shook his head.

“Constable White,” Adamat said, “if you please.”

White seemed to slither forward. It was a graceful movement from one so thin and awkward. She slid to Teef’s side, then around behind him, and to his other side. Teef sank into his chair, turning his head to follow White.

White lowered herself to her haunches just behind and to Teef’s side. She threw her right arm over his shoulder, as if they were old friends, and brought her mouth to his ear. Adamat could barely hear her voice come out in a whisper.

“You must be a tough lad,” she said, “joining up with a crew like the Black Street Barbers.” Her left hand snaked into his lap, grasping the wrist that held his razor. Teef tried to shake her off with no success. “But you’re not even old enough to know the surrender that comes with sitting down in a chair, one of these,” she squeezed his hand around the razor, “pressing gently against your throat. You don’t have the fine respect that every man gains from having to bare their throat to a stranger.”

Teef licked his lips. “Adamat, what is … “

White pressed the bony index finger of her right hand against Teef’s lips, then drew it down his chin, tracing a line to his Adam’s apple. She drew her fingernail across his throat lengthwise. “Slitting a throat is such a quick, delicate motion that hides such savagery. I’m sure that’s why the Black Street Barbers use it as their trademark. But did you know that if you slit the throat shallow enough, and then grasp the skin just here,” she pressed with her fingernail, “that you can carve upwards with the blade and, if you’re careful enough, remove a man’s entire face while he still lives and breathes?”

A droplet of sweat rolled down Teef’s forehead.

White let go of his wrist and squeezed his shoulders with both hands-an almost motherly affection-and said, “You can even do it while they’re awake, if you bind the body and head tightly enough. But I wouldn’t recommend it. Too much chance for error when they twitch and scream. What do you do with a man’s face, you ask?” she shrugged. “Whatever you like. Hang it on a mannequin. Wear it to a party. So many uses.”

Teef tried to flick open his razor and fumbled it, sending it clattering to the ground. He groped blindly for a moment before giving up. “The powder mage,” he said, his voice ragged. “He came around looking for work about six months ago. Nobody knew what he was at first, just a confident musket for hire. Was given a few jobs by the Brickmen on South Street. Then word got around he was a mage and nobody, I mean nobody, wants the cabal poking around down here. He was, what’s the word … ?”