warfare, of fluttering pendants, of regimental musicians beating the score, of cavalry charges and men in tight formation. From then on it was all shovels and trenches, dugouts of mud and shit, scorching in summer and freezing in winter, and of course, always wet. Tactics switched to dead sprints across the barrens of no-man’s-land in the dark of night, armies of men as huge and profligate as locusts, suiciding themselves without order, purpose or reason.
4
There are vast swathes of the middle and upper classes who are born in the city, who live and work in Rigus all their lives, who marry and spawn seed and are buried beneath their fair portion of dust, and who never at any point set foot within Low Town. For these people, Low Town occupies a position analogous to an agnostic’s view of hell – abstractly unpleasant, but unworthy of overmuch consideration, given the dim odds of ever finding oneself there. They come to think of it, if they think of it at all, as something extraneous, irrelevant to their own existence.
As widely held beliefs tend to be, this one is entirely false. Low Town is not separate from Rigus – neither its stray effluvium nor its bastard offspring. Low Town is the heart and soul of the metropolis, as much as the Old City with the palace and parliament, with its glittering citadels and wide lanes. The rich and well fed need Low Town as much as those who inhabit it, need a place away from the kindled lights, close enough to reach after nightfall but far enough away so the stink doesn’t follow them home.
In the false distance between the two worlds the factor earns their supper. Say you’re an uptown merchant or a baronet, and you find yourself needing a den for late-evening assignations, the ownership of which ought never find its way back to your wife – no problem, sir, not a problem at all. Hand over a few ochres and you’ll get your little love nest, a quaint walk-up just over the line from Offbend, with nary a piece of paper to link you to it. And let’s suppose, having acquired such a fine piece of real estate, you have an interest in filling it with a buxom lass and a few twists of dreamvine, or a comely youth and ouroboros root, or prepubescents and wyrm – well, your intermediate knows many different sorts of folk, sir, and would never grudge a fellow his pleasure. Not a decent, well-born sort such as yourself, sir. And continuing on with our imaginings, let’s say your better half was to sniff out your paramour or grow suspicious as to where exactly her dowry is disappearing to, decides to make a nuisance of herself – then, as was said, sir, the factor knows all sorts of folk, all sorts of folk indeed, and he suspects he could help you out of that little difficulty as well.
It’s a dirty sort of business, and even by common standards, Iomhair Gilchrist was a particularly unpleasant incarnation. Servile and treacherous, his sole constant an infatuation with short money that blinded him to the long. Too clever by half, and quick to forget he was a coward until things went to push. Odds suggested he’d end up dead in an alley, and I was always a little surprised to discover that coin unclaimed. Not that we’d ever had much contact – aside from his propensity for betrayal, I found him to be, on a personal level, as foul as a whore’s privates.
But life’s not all rosewater and sunshine, and so after I left the Earl I headed toward Gilchrist’s office, keeping to the shade as best as I was able. He had lodgings on Apple Street, a fading structure sandwiched between two tenements. A newly painted sign above the door read, ‘Iomhair Gilchrist, Factor. Private and confidential.’ Beneath it, still visible despite the fresh coat, someone had scrawled ‘cunt’ in broad letters. I thought about knocking, but only briefly.
The room was an ugly shell of a space, though one could predict that from the exterior. What one could not have predicted was the sheer volume of clutter, as if a river of trash had overflowed its banks. Scattered across the desk in the center of the room, the chair across from it, the bench against a side wall and the floor itself were the end-products of a dozen full reams of paper – notes, text, receipts and letters, some settled high enough to serve as a perch, others more reasonably stacked no further than my shins.
Gilchrist sat on a stool behind the bureau, the one spot sufficiently empty of junk as to allow human occupation. Some part of Iomhair’s success, to the degree that he could be said to have had any, stemmed from the fact that his body was not an accurate reflection of the vacuousness of his soul. Instead of a malformed figure, one found a plump, pleasant-looking Tarasaighn, ruddy-cheeked with a serious countenance. If there was nothing particularly distinguished about him, neither was one immediately overwhelmed by the inclination to beat him with the nearest blunt object. He had a bushy caterpillar of a mustache, which he rubbed at when he wanted to give the impression that he was deep in contemplation. It was an affectation of which he was perhaps too fond, and he tended to paw at it over-frequently, as if it was a stain to be removed through vigorous scouring.
He looked up as I came in, and though the heat had already set him to sweating through the homely tweed he wore, he seemed to leak another fluid ounce at my presence. ‘Warden! How nice of you to come by and thank me for the recent avenue of employment I provided.’ On the desk was a box of cheap cigars, and he opened it, picking one out for himself and gesturing for me to do the same.
I scooped the stack of paper off the chair opposite him and dropped it without preamble. Gilchrist winced as it hit the floor. ‘Is that why I’m here?’ I asked, taking the seat and ignoring the offered smoke.
‘What other reason? And though your civility does you credit, it is of course quite unnecessary. I’ve always got my eyes out for any kindnesses I might do for such a dear friend, any minor services I might render one who has done so much for me.’ Iomhair preferred to play both parts of a dialogue. ‘I take the greatest pleasure in knowing I was able to have done a favor, however small.’
‘Why the fuck . . .’ I began, holding on to the last word for a long second, ‘. . . would you think you’ve done me any sort of favor?’
He licked a spread of spittle over his lips.
‘Let me ask you a question, Gilchrist,’ I continued, arching my back and stretching my arms wide, taking up as much room as I could. ‘What was it about my resume that made you suppose I was keen to pick up a sideline tracking down missing nobles?’
‘Everyone can use a little extra work.’
‘Is that what you think? That I’m so hard up for coin I’d be willing to do anything for it? To what other ends has this misimpression set you? Have you been bandying my name about to the city as a ditch digger? Should I expect to be approached by any sodomite off the street, having been given your word that I’m the man to satisfy their twisted desires?’
His cigar rested unlit between his fingers. ‘So you . . . turned him down?’
‘There you go again, Gilchrist, thinking. How many times does that habit have to get you into trouble before you give it up?’
He laughed nervously.
‘Tell me about Rhaine,’ I said.
‘Don’t know what I can tell you, Warden. I never met the girl – I was just doing the general a favor. He’s a war hero, you know.’
‘That’s the rumor.’
Iomhair nodded vigorously. ‘A sad business, and hopefully one with a speedy resolution. I’ll light a candle to the Firstborn, in hope the girl returns home.’
‘Did you tell her that when you saw her?’
His eyes dodged away. ‘I’m afraid I don’t follow.’
To the general, Low Town was a dark and bottomless pool, and Rhaine had fallen into it. Probably the girl had said something to that effect as she’d stomped out, swearing she’d disappear without a trace, never to be seen again. No doubt she’d even meant it. But the simple fact is that such a thing is an impossibility – we leave ripples everywhere we go, and more so when we are unsure of our surroundings.
I’d been lying to the general when I said his daughter would be impossible to find – in fact, I assumed it wouldn’t be particularly difficult, and not just because the heiress would have trouble blending in with the streetwalkers up on Pritt Street. Rhaine had stalked out of Kor’s Heights with a head of steam and a few ochres in pocket change, and neither of those would last long. Once the reality of her situation sunk in, she’d go to ground in whatever hole she could afford, and she would make contact with the only person in Low Town whose name she knew.
‘She came around yesterday?’
‘Come off it, Warden. This sort of foolishness is unbecoming.’
