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.
Dried blood was caked below my nose. “Not interested in taking your turn?”
“The dead man-he was responsible for the girl?”
I nodded.
“How did you know?”
“Everybody knew,” I said. “We just weren’t telling you about it.”
He rolled his eyes and stomped out.
I spent about an hour and a half in the chair, wincing from the pain in my skull and trying to figure out how many of my ribs were broken. Three was my best guess, but without the use of my hands it was tough to be sure. I thought about slipping my chains as a fuck you to Crispin and the rest of his crew, but it seemed a petty sort of revenge and one likely to earn another beating.
Eventually the door opened and Crispin entered, a dark look on his face. He took the seat opposite me.
“They won’t touch it,” he said.
If I was a little slow on the uptake, it was understandable given the circumstances. “What the hell does that mean?”
“It means that as far as Black House is concerned, this matter is closed. Zhange Jue, mill worker and occasional hired thug, was the murderer of Tara Potgieter and several other girls, identities to be determined. He was killed by person or persons unknown in a manner that has yet to be established. You came across the person or persons engaged in the murder but were knocked unconscious before you could ascertain their identity or identities.”
“Person or persons unknown? Are you out of your fucking mind? You think the Kiren was stabbed to death? You know as well as I do this reeks of the Art.”
“I know.”
“Even the brass can’t be so stupid as to think otherwise.”
“They aren’t.”
“Then what are you talking about, ‘the matter is closed’?”
Crispin rubbed at his temples as if to alleviate some hidden pain. “You worked here long enough-do I have to spell it out for you? No one’s looking to get himself involved in something this ugly, not on the say-so of a drug dealer. The Kiren killed Tara, and now he’s dead. End of story.”
It had been a long time since I’d come across an outrage I was insufficiently jaded to accept. “I get it-no one cares about the dead child. Why would they? She’s just another slum kid. But there’s something loose in Low Town that was spat out from the heart of the void. People need to know.”
“No one’s ever going to know. They’ll burn the body and you’ll keep your mouth shut and after a while it’ll disappear.”
“If you think this thing is done, then you’re as stupid as your superiors.”
“You know so much?”
“I knew enough to find Tara’s murderer while the rest of you were up here holding your dicks.”
“And why don’t you tell me how exactly that happened-or am I to believe you were wandering through the back alleys of Kirentown and bumped into the man responsible for the body you found two days ago?”
“No, Crispin, obviously I was tracking him down. I assumed that being a member of an elite investigative
