Daniel Polansky - Low Town

And then my jaw hurt and the men in ice gray were shrieking questions at me, any memory of our shared past buried beneath the violent inclinations universal to law enforcement officials across the Thirteen Lands, or at least every one I’ve visited. Happily, my position against the wall and the exaggerated number of participants-I’ve hit enough men in shackles to know that more than three people is just showing off-rendered their enthusiasm less effective than it might have been. Still, it was no great addition to an evening already marked by unpleasantness.

Crispin managed to pull my attackers off long enough to drag me to my feet and lean me up against the morgue cart. The Kiren’s shattered carcass lay over the dray, conspicuously uncovered. Despite the blood draining from my mouth, the madness of the evening had left me manic and strangely jubilant. “Hey, partner! Miss me?”

Crispin was not amused. For a moment I thought he was going to indulge the darker shades of his character upon my bruised face, but he kept his rage under control like a good little soldier. “What in the name of the Oathkeeper happened here?”

“I’d say divine justice, but I don’t have such a grim view of the Daevas.” I leaned in close enough that no one else could hear me. “The thing next to us is the shell of the man responsible for the last corpse we had a conversation over. As to what killed him, if it has a name I don’t know it. But if I was responsible, you wouldn’t have found his remains, nor would I have passed out next to the corpse.” I noted with a petty sort of joy that our contact had smeared a swath of sanguinary fluid on his duster.

A crowd of heretics had gathered at the mouth of the cul-de-sac, chittering loudly, fear and anger in their eyes. The frost needed to cover up the body, and they needed to set up a decent perimeter, and they needed to do it quick. What the hell had happened to Black House since I’d left? It’s all well and good to engage in a little bit of casual violence against a suspect, but not at the expense of professionalism. Who did they think they were, the hoax?

The years we had spent tracking the lowest scum of humanity through the general detritus of civilization were enough to convince Crispin of my reliability as a witness, but the guarantees of a disgraced ex-agent-cum-criminal wouldn’t be sufficient for the brass. “You have any proof?”

“None whatsoever. But if you get his name and residence you’ll find a memento he kept, maybe a piece of her clothing. You’ll probably find a few of them.”

“You don’t even know his name?”

“I don’t have time for these trivialities, Crispin-I work in the private sector now.”

The crowd was getting rowdy, shouting past the loose cordon of troops blocking off the alley, although about what I still couldn’t tell. Did they want my head for killing one of their kind? Had word somehow spread of the man’s crimes? Maybe it was just the contempt for police countenanced by all reasonable people. Regardless, this whole thing was starting to get ugly. I saw one of the guardsmen get into it with a member of the mob, stiff-arming him back into his fellows and shouting ethnic slurs.

Crispin noticed what I had. “Agent Eingers, take Marat and stop those assholes from making this situation any worse. Tenneson, you’re in charge. Guiscard and I are taking the suspect to headquarters.” He turned back to me. “I’m putting you in irons,” he stated flatly. Not a shocking development, but I wasn’t thrilled with it either. I stood up straight and Crispin chained my hands firmly but without unnecessary cruelty. Guiscard took his place in front of me without comment. His characteristically unpleasant personality was mellowed, and I noted with some surprise that he hadn’t taken part in his comrades’ abuse.

The pair of them frog-marched me to the mouth of the alley, where two of the agents were trying without success to placate the crowd. Guiscard, acting as point, made an attempt to clear a path for us, but the heretics, normally a docile race, were unresponsive. A standoff seemed imminent, and not one that would redound to my advantage. Not in handcuffs anyway.

Crispin’s hand rested on the hilt of his blade, dangerous but not immediately threatening. “By the authority bequeathed to me as agent of the Crown, I order you to disperse or be considered outside the protections of the Throne.”

The crowd was having none of it, the brutality of the hoax and the indignity shown to the corpse sufficient to drive them to uncharacteristic defiance. Though the heretics’ natural inclination toward obedience was sufficient to stop them from surging on us, they made no move to follow Crispin’s command.

Crispin closed his hand around the gem hanging at his throat. He closed his eyes briefly, and the jewel glowed with a soft blue light that leaked out through his fist. This time his words allowed no challenge. “By the authority bequeathed to me as agent of the Crown, I order you to disburse or be considered outside the protections of the Throne. Make way or consider yourself an enemy of the Crown. ” And although he hadn’t raised the volume at which he spoke, his voice echoed through the assemblage, and the crowd of Kirens broke, quieting respectfully and swamping against the walls.

The Crown’s Eye was another thing I really missed about being an agent.

Crispin nodded to a pair of guardsmen, who took up flanking positions as we continued back to the main street. Halfway around the block, out of sight of the Kirens, Crispin put his hand against the wall and broke down. “A moment,” he gasped, his mouth open, his lungs working desperately to take in air. The Eye draws its strength from its owner, and even an experienced agent like Crispin couldn’t use its power without exhausting himself.

We waited nervously for Crispin to regain his wind. I was getting antsy-it would go ill if the crowd regrouped and fell on us in the narrow confines of the alley. Guiscard rested his hand on his superior’s shoulder. “We need to keep moving,” he said, and his eyes were hard. Crispin took one more breath and fell into line.

They escorted me across half the city, like a dignitary with an honor guard, although in the past I’d never gotten the impression they were bound. It was the second time I had been brought to Black House in chains. It wasn’t nearly as unpleasant as the first.

Black House is, frankly, less imposing than it probably should be. A squat, unattractive edifice, more like an oversize merchant house than the headquarters of the most dreaded police force on the face of the planet, it sits obtrusively but without grandeur at a busy intersection straddling the boundary between the Old City and Wormington’s Shingle. Three floors of a city block and a maze of warrens beneath the ground remind the populace that the unwavering gaze of the Crown is always upon them. There is little ornamentation, and from the outside the structure fails to inspire or intimidate.

It is, however, mostly colored black. So there’s that.

When we reached the grim entranceway Crispin sent the guardsmen back to the crime scene, then he and Guiscard walked me inside. We moved deeper into the building, past the unmarked door that led to the underground rooms where the real interrogations take place, and I breathed a quick sigh of relief. That was one experience I wasn’t eager to repeat, neither as participant nor victim. When we reached the main hallway Crispin broke off, presumably to report to the higher-ups, leaving Guiscard to continue as my escort. I braced myself for further abuse, but the Rouender showed no desire to rekindle our conflict. He opened the door to the holding area, a featureless stone room, empty save for a cheap wood table and a trio of uncomfortable chairs. He set me down in one of them. “Crispin will be back soon,” he said.