It was a bit much, particularly as in all likelihood I had only delayed the inevitable, and Adolphus’s melodrama would be replayed in another week. But he seemed happy and I didn’t have the heart to say anything, until his affection started to prove a danger to the integrity of my rib cage.
Adeline had come in from the back and set her round frame against me. Over her head I could see Wren descending the staircase, his usual neutral demeanor on his face. “Not excited to see me? Just another day at the Earl, your benefactor getting arrested by the Crown and released before lunch?”
Adolphus responded elatedly, “He said he wasn’t worried! Said he knew you’d be back so there was no point in getting upset.”
“Nice to see you’ve got such confidence in me,” I said. “Remember, though-just ’cause your horse came in doesn’t mean you made a smart bet.”
If it were up to Adolphus, I would have spent the rest of the day wrapped in a blanket like a fever victim, and much as the notion of a long nap appealed to me, the trail was growing cold. Brushing off his mothering, I headed to my room and removed a long black box from beneath my bed.
I don’t pack a weapon regularly, hadn’t for nearly half a decade, not since I first left the Crown’s service and had to carve out my business from the ruins of the last big syndicate war. Carrying a blade means someone’s going to make you use it, and corpses are bad for business. Better to be friendly to everyone, pay off who you need to, and keep a grin on your face until it’s time to stop smiling.
And truth be told, I don’t trust myself with one. If things get heated and you start to lose the thread, so long as you aren’t carrying, things are apt to end all right. Maybe someone walks away with a bruised jaw or a split nose, but they walk away. With a sword at your side-well, I have enough on my soul without adding the blood of some poor bastard who looked at me sideways while I was hopped up on pixie’s breath.
So under normal circumstances I don’t strap a blade on except when I know I’m going to need to use it. But then circumstances ain’t always normal, and although the thing that killed the Kiren hadn’t shown any indication of being susceptible to cold steel, whoever sent it might be. I undid the latch and swung open the trunk.
I’ve seen a lot of weapons in my time, from the sickle swords of the Asher priesthood to the bejeweled pig stickers the nobility so love to play with, but for my money there was never an instrument of murder as perfectly built for its purpose as the trench blade. Two feet of steel wedged into a sandalwood hilt, single edged for a stronger cut, widening toward the end but tapering off sharply at the tip-it had been my weapon of choice since the war. I wouldn’t wear it on the parade ground, but with my back against the wall there was nothing I’d rather have filling my grip.
I had taken this one off a Dren commando my third month in Gallia. The Dren were always ahead of us with that sort of thing-they took to trench warfare like they were built for it, got rid of all their glittery armor and started sending soot-stained berserkers over the walls late at night with hand axes and black-powder bombs. The brass on our side were still passing out sabers and cavalry lances to us officers six months before the armistice, even though I hardly saw a horse in the five years I spent ducking artillery fire and trying to find water that hadn’t been fouled by my comrades’ waste.
I grabbed the hilt and hefted the blade in my right hand. It still felt good, natural. I pulled a whetstone from inside the box and sharpened the edge until it was cruel enough to shave with. The steel caught my reflection, the vivid purple swelling merging comfortably with my previously acquired scars. It was an old face-I hoped it was up for what was coming.
Reaching back into the trunk I pulled out a pair of flat-handled daggers, too small to be used in a melee but balanced for throwing. I strapped the first against my shoulder and slipped the second into my boot. One final armament, a bronze knuckle with three cruel-looking spikes on the business end, went into my duster pocket for easy access.
The box was empty now, save a thick, square parcel that I had been saving since the war. I inspected it, making sure each item inside was in good condition, then put it back in the box and slid the whole thing under the bed. Feeling a bit self-conscious I pulled my coat tight over the hilt of my sword and headed downstairs.
“Where was the girl found?” I asked Adolphus.
“South of Light Street. Over by the canal. You planning a visit?”
There was no point in explaining to Adolphus the bargain I had struck with Special Operations, not while I still had some chance to make good on it, so I ignored him and turned to Wren.
“Get your coat. I’m going to need you for a while.”
Assuming this would involve something more interesting than carrying messages and getting me dinner, Wren complied with uncharacteristic enthusiasm. Adolphus looked me over, recognizing the outline of metal beneath my clothing.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m going to visit an old friend of ours.”
Adolphus’s one eye worked to read something from my pair.
“Why?”
“I haven’t had enough excitement today.”
Wren came out wrapped in a hideous wool thing that Adeline had sewn together for him. “Have I told you before how ugly that is?” I asked.
He nodded.
“So long as we’re on the same page.” I turned back to Adolphus. “The boy’ll be back before sundown. Hold anything that comes for me.” Adolphus nodded, sufficiently familiar with my customs at this point to know I wouldn’t volunteer anything else. Wren and I left the Earl and started west.
When Grenwald finally entered I had been sitting in the dark for twenty minutes, reclining in the visitor’s chair, my feet perched on the stained oak desk that dominated the room. I was starting to worry that he had decided to skip whatever daily tasks required his attendance, and I’d be left waiting in his office like an asshole. But it was worth it to see his reaction as he swung open the door, his arrogant demeanor converting to one of abject horror in the span of a half second.
A decade had done much to raise my old superior’s position, although sadly damn little to improve his character or to stiffen the rodent-like set of his jaw. His coat was expensive but ill-fitting, and his once firm body was running to fat at a somewhat greater speed than middle age strictly demanded. I lit a match off the wood and held it to my cigarette. “Howdy, Colonel. What’s the good news?”
He shut the door, slammed it really, hoping to hide this interview from his staff. “How the hell did you get in here?”
I shook the match out with two fingers and imitated the motion with my head. “Colonel, Colonel. I confess I’m hurt. To be addressed in such a fashion by so dear a friend?” I clicked my tongue in disapproval. “Is this how two old comrades reminisce, united by the bonds of our noble crusade?”
“No, no. Of course not,” he said. “I was just surprised to see you. I’m sorry.” That was one of the fun things about Grenwald-he broke so damn easy.
“A drop of water beneath a bridge,” I said.
He set his coat and hat on a rack by the door, playing for time, trying to figure out why I had come and what he needed to do to see me leave. “Whiskey?” he asked as he moved toward a cabinet in the corner, pouring himself a tumbler full.
“I try not to imbibe hard liquor before noon, part of my new life as a burgeoning teetotaler. Knock yourself out, though.”
He did, throwing back his glass in one quick motion, then giving himself another few fingers and sliding past me to assume his chair behind the desk. “I thought, after last time…” He swallowed hard. “I thought we were through.”
“Did you?”
“I thought that you said we were even.”
“Did I?”
“Not, of course, that I’m unhappy to see you.”
I repulsed this concern with a theatrical wave of my hand.
“What is this about?”
“Maybe I just wanted to pop in and give a quick salute to my former commander,” I said. “Don’t you ever feel like reliving old times with your brother officers?”
