Stephen Brust - The Gypsy

A red-hot wire of anger speared down his backbone, raced along his nerves. The Gypsy's impassive face was like a challenge. No. Like an insult. The careful mask was classifying Stepovich as not human, as a blue uniform with shiny buttons, filled with rules and laws and legal technicalities. During the day, he would have expected it. But somehow, by night, out of uniform, on this deserted street, for the reason he had come here, it was the worst kind of insult.

Anger won, or perhaps humiliation. He flipped the knife, a hard practiced movement, so that it struck the Gypsy's breast hilt first and then clattered to the pavement- And still the Gypsy moved not at all,though Stepovich would have sworn that he could have caught the knife in midair and returned it blade first if he had chosen to do so. So Stepovich spoke,broke the silence with hard cutting words, as cold and callous as he could make them. "We found a dead gypsy granny today. Stabbed to death in a cheap hotel. Don't suppose you'd know anything about something like that."

For a long time the Gypsy didn't speak. Stepovich listened to his own words hang in the air between them, the vocalization of the law-thing the Gypsy's mask had invoked.

"With this knife," the Gypsy said at last.

Music in the voice, accent of a homeland whose existence was lost in the shadows of time. And accusation, it seemed to Stepovich.

"You asking if I offed her," said Stepovich, "the answer is no. But I suspect you'd have a line on whoever did. Not that you'd tell me anything. But maybe you won't have to. Whoever did it left behind plenty of sign. Before noon tomorrow, we'll know the size and shape of the weapon, and a hell of a lot about the man who used it, right down to his blood type."Bluff, you're bluffing, Stepovich, and that Gypsy knows it. Look into his black, black eyes and see how he despises you.

"You find the one who held the knife," and again the accent left Stepovich wondering if the words were a request, a command, or merely a question, a comment.

"Damn right we will," he growled, and felt himself grow smaller with the lie. "With or without any help from you," and he tried not to let the last sound like a plea.

The Gypsy moved, very slightly, looking down at his own hands which opened and clenched, and opened again, as if he were making sure they were empty. "I have nothing to give you." He stooped in an unconcerned way, picked up the knife carefully,as if it were dirty with unspeakable filth. "I wish you had been more careful with this. But you didn't know what you had. The fault rests between us." His eyes moved in his face, and it was as if his whole body had shifted, as if he looked at Stepovich from another place and time. "It isn't a comfortable harness to share, is it?" There might have been kindness in those black eyes, or pity, or maybe just a stray glint from a street lamp. The Gypsy moved his hands, and the sheathed knife was gone, secreted somewhere on his person.

"You knew she'd been murdered?" Stepovich asked, groping after professional suspicion. "You knew the old woman?"

"I guessed only that a friend had been killed. Nothing more."

"You didn't know her?"

The Gypsy looked disoriented. "What was her name?"

"Which one? She had ID for four different ones, and two social security cards. Rosa Stanilaus? Cynthia Kacmarcik? Molly Kelly?" He uttered the last name with heavy sarcasm, but the Gypsy appeared not to notice any change in his voice. He tipped his head to one side,as if he were listening to some other voice.

"No," he said, and it did not seem to be in answer to any of Stepovich's queries. "She left no message for me." Statement? Question?

Stepovich felt an insane desire to laugh. "Only the crystal. And all it said was, Find out who killed me.' " The words were out before he could curb them. Shit. That had been stupid. The crystal was just the kind of detail Homicide might hold back,might reserve to test who knew it was in her purse and who didn't. And he must have sounded like an idiot, voicing the words from his dream.

But this Gypsy was nodding, as if it was something he had expected, but was not glad to hear. Nodding and turning and walking away from him. Stepovich watched him go, his dark shape fading into the night and his footsteps were lost in the sound of the wind blowing trash down the street.

And then it was suddenly late, very late at night,and Stepovich shivered. His jacket was too thin for this cutting wind. He wondered how long he'd been standing there. As he walked back to the corner where he'd parked his Dodge, he was thinking that tomorrow was a day off, and that Ed had asked him to meet him. If he had the time. As if time wasn't the only thing he had.

As he walked back to the car, he felt strangely light. Not lighthearted, but unburdened. He was opening the car door before he realized what it was. The weight of the knife was no longer dragging at his pocket.

I only want to stop and rest,

Don't want to start no fight;

I'll just stay here for a while

'Til the police car's out of sight.

"RED LIGHTS AND NEON"

The Wolf stood bristling and growling, as surprised to find Cigany in its path as Cigany was to find it.That is what I must remember, he told himself. It is frightened of me, and will not attack unless I show fear or threaten it. The unbidden voice of his grandmother from long ago added. Or it is desperately hungry. The Wolf growled again, daring Cigany to show fear. Cigany held himself still and met the Wolf's gaze until the growling subsided a little.

He became aware that his knife had appeared between his feet, and realized that the Wolf must have brought it. Why? How? The Wolf growled some more and Cigany spoke softly, soothingly. It seemed that the Wolf was questioning him, asking him for help,for guidance-

Cigany said, "Yes, this is my knife, you are right to bring it to me."

The Wolf growled again, puzzled. Cigany struggled to explain as much as he could. "The Fair Lady held the knife. You find Her servant and the old woman will have peace. I cannot help you. Or perhaps I can.I don't know." The Wolf growled again, angry or frustrated, and Cigany said, "I would give you what I have, but I have nothing. Should there come a time,I will feed your pack, with my body if need be. What more can I offer?"

The Wolf seemed to consider this. Cigany picked up the knife and shuddered as he did so. He could feel the cold touch of Luci's fingers on it, and he knew that this knife had killed the old woman. He stared at the Wolf, wondering, but wolves do not kill with knives. Although he could have wished the Wolf would have found it sooner or kept it safer. The Wolf's head twisted, as if it could sense Cigany's discomfort. "No," he said. "You have not known how to keep it from Her hand. It is a knife made from the iron at the heart of the world, iron that never saw the light of day before it was forged; how are you, wolf-brother, to know the care one must take of it? You have done what you could and I do not blame you."

There was a blurring and a sundering and a tearing,and the Wolf was gone; in his place was, once more,the policeman Cigany had known he was from the beginning. "Did you know she was slain?" the policeman demanded.

Cold shivers raced down Cigany's spine. Yes, he almost answered. In my dreams, I knew. Instead he said, "I knew someone died-someone who was bound to me, though I don't know how."

"You didn't know her?"

Know? What does "know" mean? "What was her name?" he said, stumbling to answer.

The policeman snorted and listed several, none of which meant anything to Cigany. He shook his head,wondering desperately how to escape. Why was this man asking about his dreams? How was he to parry questions that the policeman could not have known enough to ask? And it is one thing to set tasks to a dream wolf one meets on a city street; it is quite another to do so for a policeman. Dreams are real to one, not to the other. All Cigany could think of was,this man can confine me again. I'll not let him. I will kill him if I have to. No, I will not. I cannot. By my lost brothers, what am I to do?