Caine Black Knife

“Oh, right.” The bishop reddened. “Right. Sorry.”

“What the fuck is Freedom’s Face, really?”

“Officially? Renegade Folk terrorists. Ruthless, bloodthirsty psychotics out to destroy the worship of Khryl.”

“I said really.”

He shrugged. “They’re mostly Ankhanan kids who thought it’d be a thrill to ride over the mountains and Strike a Blow for Ogrillo Freedom. Mixed in with a few pretty hard-core Warrens and Alientown operatives supplied by an old friend of yours from the safety of her-”

“We’re not friends,” I muttered. “Why haven’t you stepped on these idiots?”

“It’s not exactly our job. And the Empire isn’t exactly anti-Ogrillo-Freedom, either, when you get to the bone.”

“What’s this got to do with Orbek?”

“Maybe nothing. It’s also possible he was in with the Smoke Hunt.”

I nodded. “Talk to me about the Smoke Hunt.”

Tourann gave me a sidelong look. “What’s your interest?”

“It was the reason for a major ass-whipping I took today,” I said evenly, “and might be the reason for a couple I might deliver.”

Tourann flinched, just a little. “Bad news is what it is. Every so often some ogrilloi get cracked on booze and rith and go wilding. Just fist and claw stuff, but that’s serious enough.”

“I remember.”

“People get hurt; a lot of them die. Including the grills. The Knights see to that. That’s the official story.”

“All right, sure. And unofficially?”

“They’re organized. And it’s getting out of hand. The activity jumped roughly the same time Orbek hit town. The Knights are trying to keep a lid on it, but they’re starting to see Smoke Hunters once or twice a week. Even a solo can do serious damage before he’s put down, and often it’s a pack. Sometimes more than one. And there’s a handful of Knights Attendant-nine so far-who have supposedly been promoted and gone On Venture-”

“Supposedly.”

“Two confirmed kills, three more probable. Maybe all of them.”

“Nine dead? Nine? Without firearms? Shit, even with guns. .” I shook my head blankly. “The name?”

“They shout, ‘Dizhrati golzinn Ekk.’ It’s like their motto or something.”

“Sure. A fucking hint, huh?”

“You don’t speak Etk Dag?”

“In my day nobody did. Nobody human.”

“Huh. I suppose not.” Tourann rolled a hand a couple times. “Translates as ‘I am the Smoke Hunt.’ ”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“How should I know?”

“You could try maybe asking a grill.”

“Caine, come on; you know what it’s like with slave culture.” The bishop affected a thick Boedecken accent. “N’buddy know nudd’n. Nevva do.”

“Slave culture,” I echoed, chewing the inside of my lip. Again. “Great.”

“You say that like you disapprove.”

“Not my business.” I bit down hard enough to make an eyelid flicker. “What’s the connection to Orbek?”

“More than the coincidence of timing? We’re looking into it, but I can’t make any promises. This past month or so, all my tame sources have dried up and blown away. And I might not have gotten much regardless; the Smoke Hunters all seem to be intacts.”

“Intacts-?”

“You know, unaltered.” The bishop rolled that hand a couple more times. “Ungelded.”

I tasted blood.

“Don’t look like that.” Tourann shifted as though the swivel chair hurt his ass. “It’s not what you think. The Knights don’t just go around clipping balls. It’s voluntary.”

“Voluntary.”

“Sure. Geldings and fem neuters are eligible for better jobs down here in the city. Jobs with human contact. Jobs that require social skills, a little education, learning to read, that kind of stuff. Intacts are pretty much stuck with stoop labor on the estates, maybe some dock work or light hauling if they’re lucky. Or in the mines. You’d be surprised how many volunteer.”

“No, I wouldn’t.” The smart ones. The ambitious ones. Negative selection: breeding out dangerous traits.

I bit down and swallowed. “So?”

“So my sources were all eligibles. Intacts and eligibles are almost like separate cultures. Like, I don’t know, castes-”

“I get how it works.” I looked back out the window, up at the fat bitch lolling in the sunset, high on the parapet. “That’s what they’re all whipped up about, huh? These Freedom’s Face cocksmokes?”

“In the Empire, grills’re full citizens.” Tourann turned a hand toward the view. “Here, they’re-”

“Tame.” I stared toward the fat bitch on the parapet, but it was other bitches I was really seeing. Dancing in firelight below my cross. Again.

I’ll be seeing that for the rest of my life.

“Ask me if it breaks my fucking heart.”

“Hey, I’m not political. I gather information and I write reports, and a year and a half from now I’ll be one person again. In Ankhana. Where Knights of Khryl are the ones who are tame.”

“Sure they are.” I tossed the papers back on the desk and started gathering up the rest of my equipment. The spring-loaded baton came in a small holster; I pushed up my left sleeve and laid it along the outside of my forearm. “What about Disciples?”

“You mean Cainists?”

I made a face. “Whatever.”

“Outlawed. You can probably understand why.”

“I can guess.”

“The Khryllians wouldn’t tolerate the Church itself if Ma’elKoth hadn’t reaffirmed Toa-Phelathon’s land grant after the First Succession War. And, y’know, there’s the Spire-”

“Yeah.”

“So, y’know, they like elKothans here. But even so, we have to play by their rules, if you see what I mean. The Cainists, though-they have, ahh, what you might call a, ah, complex relationship, I suppose, with the whole concept of rules. .”

“Tell me about it,” I said, fastening the last buckle on the baton’s holster straps.

“Frankly speaking, they’re a major embarrassment.”

“Huh.” I shook out my sleeve and squinted down at its drape along my arm. “You should try it from my side.”

“If you don’t mind my asking-” Tourann wheeled the chair over to the grate and fed the papers one at a time to the flames. “-what’s the Emperor’s interest in this Orbek?”

I slid the knives, one at a time, each into its own sheath sewn within my clothing. “I don’t work for the Emperor.”

“You don’t? But-I, uh-I mean, everybody knows-”

“We’re friends. Maybe even family. That’s all.” I untied the thong on the leather pouch and inspected its contents: an array of spring-steel lockpicks and tension bars. “He doesn’t tell me what to do.”

“This is personal?”

“Everything’s personal.” I retied the pack and slid it into the same purse with the spare clips, then tucked the wrapped-up garrotte into the top of my boot.

Tourann’s frown gathered toward a scowl. “I would not be happy to risk exposure of this post just because