Old Man's Ghosts (10 page)

‘This would be the plan to get you out of this mess?’ Rhe asked. ‘A full day’s work indeed, given the size of the problem. Come on.’

Crossing through another two Underways, they headed straight for the Raven-Wolf border. The two Lawbringers walked quickly, the locals keeping well out of their way, but Narin didn’t bother checking behind for Irato. He knew the former goshe would keep up without difficulty, trailing them as he watched for anyone else doing so.

Despite the savage iconography and all-too-real hunting dogs that padded alongside high and low castes alike, Narin was not alone in finding Wolf District a restful place. At its heart were two of the largest parks inside the city wall, and the higher-caste housing was mostly based around tree-enclosed squares. With the falling snow it took on a more mysterious air – close and ghostly.

As they walked, the numbers out on the street dwindled, the population no doubt taking shelter to see if they could wait out the blizzard. It showed little sign of lessening, however, as the pair stopped for a moment to greet two of their comrades on patrol from the local station and pick their brains.

As luck would have, the Lawbringer was a native Wolf; a burly woman of middle years with rusty-brown eyes and an easy smile despite foul weather. At her side lurked a gangly youth almost enveloped in his grey Investigator’s coat, a shock of red hair marking him as House Forest, first among the major Houses of Wolf.

‘The afternoon takes an unexpected turn, the renowned Lawbringer Rhe in my modest district! My name is Shom,’ the Lawbringer introduced herself with surprisingly jovial courtesy. She gestured to her companion, ‘my Investigator, Tooren. You I don’t know, however.’

‘Lawbringer Narin,’ Narin supplied with a small bow.

‘Your timing is excellent, Lawbringer,’ Rhe said. ‘We have need of some local advice.’

‘Oh?’

‘We are looking for the shamans and magicians of Wolf,’ Rhe said, ‘and a little direction would be appreciated.’

‘Magicians?’ Lawbringer Shom echoed, glancing at her Investigator. ‘Not many of them that I’ve heard of. Tooren?’

The young man cleared his throat, no doubt as intimidated by the famous presence of Rhe. ‘None, but I have not been here long,’ he said in precise, but accented, Imperial. By custom he would not be wearing an indication of caste on his Investigator’s robes, however it was clear he was high caste and not long off the boat from the Wolf homelands. ‘Back home it would have been more simple.’

Shom gave him an appraising look, one that suggested House prejudices more than anything else to Narin. ‘Maybe it would. Even round here folk say there’s a dark heart to every Forest. Can you be more specific about what you’re looking for Lawbringer?’

‘Not your typical witch-doctor or shaman,’ Rhe said, ‘but rogue elements among those who deal with the unnatural world. We hunt a summoner of demons.’

At that Tooren flinched slightly.

‘Anything you want to add, Investigator?’ Narin asked.

Tooren shook his head, eyes lowered. ‘Nothing, sir,’ he muttered almost as an afterthought.

Shom rolled her eyes. ‘I do know one thing, Lawbringer. Mine are a closed people. Even renegades may receive some measure of protection round here – the instinct not to speak to outsiders is bone deep. Might I suggest you return tomorrow morning? This weather looks relentless; you will have a hard time of it in what hours of light remain. I may also be able to accomplish more as a local.’

Rhe nodded and cast a look at Narin. ‘A sensible course of action. We’ve been directed to several districts – this would cover the ground much more quickly.’

‘It would be an honour,’ Shom said, ‘and the district is quiet anyway – always is in the cold and I could do with something rather more interesting than drunks getting into a fight.’

‘I wish I could say the same, but our day has been sufficiently eventful already,’ Rhe replied. ‘I will go to the District Posts of Redearth, Salamander and Iron to submit similar requests.’

Narin blinked at him. ‘And I should go to Moon District?’ he hazarded, that being the only other Great House mentioned by either Enchei or Samaleen.

‘You have other business, I thought? The situation caused by your own stupidity?’

Narin ducked his head. ‘Ah, yes.’

Lawbringer Shom laughed at the exchange. ‘Easy to look foolish in the company of Lawbringer Rhe then?’

‘Yes,’ Narin admitted, ‘but sadly that’s not even the half of it.’

‘Hah! Well at least you can laugh at yourself, that’s a good start. The trick is to make sure he’s laughing with you.’ Shom indicated Rhe.

‘He will have to work on his wit in that case,’ Rhe said gravely. ‘It’s somewhat lacking at the moment.’

Administrator Serril dropped the note as though it was a turd and frowned at it for a long while. Eventually he looked up towards the door, as though expecting the young man who’d delivered it to still be there. He wasn’t, though – was never likely to be, given he wasn’t a messenger by trade, just a grocer’s boy who’d been given a coin to deliver it by a customer.

The empty doorway deepened Serril’s frown. So astonished and perplexed was he that he needed someone to rail at, but he was alone and the absence seemed to compound his irritation.

‘That man …’

Serril tailed off. He was not one to curse or even raise his voice. That was not the way of the religious caste and whatever opinions he might privately hold about Enchei Jen, he would not permit the man to add to the burdens on his soul.

He picked up the note again with thumb and forefinger – a sniff of distaste his only comment as he read it through again.

‘Not be available for work,’
Serril repeated in his mind, ‘
nursing a friend to health.’ No indication of when he might grace us with his presence again. Does that man think his employment a mere convenience?

The tattoo rooms past his office were unusually quiet, but somehow that only made the note more galling. The weather had ensured many of their customers had not come as expected so those tattooists who’d bothered to come to work had little to do. But the principle remained and none of them would have dared send such a perfunctory missive to announce their indefinite absence.

Serril re-read the note then tore it up in a fit of pique and threw the fragments into the small iron stove behind his desk. The scraps were consumed immediately – he’d filled the stove with as much coal as it would take, knowing how pervasive the cold could be. An angry voice at the back of his mind wanted to hurl the remaining papers in too, but they were never in danger.

The paperwork of a tattooist administrator was a solemn duty; lives could be ruined by a moment of carelessness on his part. In an Empire where a life history was sketched out on a person’s skin, the tattoos on their right shoulder were more binding than any legal document. Fraud and corruption were punishable by death – for while the complex House symbols could not be adapted to become another’s and a caste sign could only ever be downgraded by adding details, those were not the only marks recorded.

Military ranks, titles and honours could lie alongside certified trades, promotions, marriage records, or criminal convictions. Anything of importance was recorded there and there were plenty of stories of war heroes with symbols running all the way to their wrists, just as some criminals would flaunt their own markings. Serril’s small fiefdom generally did not deal with criminals – the courts at the Palace of Law had their own tattooists – but several times they had borrowed his staff to assist.

‘Administrator?’ inquired a voice at the once empty doorway.

Serril jumped in his seat, rudely shaken from his musings. He half rose before catching himself and for a moment was frozen in the act, hunched forward over his desk, before he allowed himself to sink back down.

‘I am Administrator Serril,’ he said, wrinkling his nose at a bearded man brushing a layer of snow off his coat and onto the rush mats underfoot. ‘Do you have an appointment?’

‘May I?’ the man asked, ignoring the question as he indicated the seat on the other side of the desk.

Slim and faintly aristocratic of bearing, the man’s blue collar declared him to be a merchant. The presumption was not entirely outrageous, but Serril was a man used to having his authority rather better respected.

‘If you have an appointment, give me your name and wait in the hall,’ Serril said frostily.

‘Alas, I do not,’ said the man. ‘I am here on another matter.’

He was a man in his early middle years, with an easy assurance in the way he carried himself.
A man who’s found success,
Serril guessed from the stranger’s clothes and manner. There was nothing ostentatious about either, but both spoke of quality and position nonetheless. He tugged his own black robe straight, almost austere in its plainness but that was the custom in his caste.

After an appropriate pause Serril indicated for the man to sit and he did so after shrugging off his heavy coat, which dripped with melting snow. A lower caste he might be, but merchants were a significant presence in the Imperial City and a little graciousness never went amiss around the wealthy and powerful.

‘Which matter is that?’

‘I am looking for someone.’ The stranger gave him a disarmingly apologetic smile. ‘A delicate matter, a shade embarrassing I’m afraid.’

‘I am sorry, Master, ah …’

‘Avineil,’ the stranger supplied, ‘Jest Avineil.’

‘A House Eagle name?’ Serril hazarded. ‘Perhaps a northern domain?’

Again that diffident little smile. ‘House Hornet, yes. Of course you would guess that, you must be something of an expert in the Empire’s peoples.’

‘I would prove a poor servant of the Empire if I merely shuffled these papers without properly taking note of them,’ Serril said, indicating the certified letters on his desk informing him of what tattoos were to be given to whom.

‘Indeed – would that your contemporaries back home were so assiduous in their work! I myself once had to correct a notation in progress because the wretch could not read properly.’

Serril nodded sympathetically, relaxing back in his chair with his fingers steepled over his round belly.

‘I have heard such stories from across the Empire,’ he admitted, ‘but the standards in the Imperial City are rather higher than certain provinces – the speed and accuracy required of my tattooists ensures only the best are employed here.’

‘I can well imagine.’ Avineil brushed his fingers over his right arm. ‘One of these was done by some decrepit drunk given the job by his nephew I suspect, a backwater town where few needed his services anyway.’ He shrugged carelessly. ‘Still, I am told by some that a less-than-perfect hand adds a certain authenticity to military honours.’

‘So some believe,’ Serril said through pursed lips, ‘but quality and accuracy remain our watchwords here.’

‘Of that I have no doubt – nothing less would properly serve his radiant majesty.’

‘Quite right, but you did not come here to discuss the quality of our work.’

Avineil inclined his head. ‘As I said, I am looking for someone. I, ah, I do not know his name however, I have a description only.’

‘Has there been some sort of trouble?’

‘No, no!’ Avineil said quickly, raising his hands to emphasise his point. ‘Quite the opposite, in fact, he prevented trouble. My, ah, my cousin is a young man and something of a fool when he drinks, it pains me to admit. He is a good lad at heart, I assure you, but reckless and when drunk quite unable to separate private thoughts from things that should be said out loud.

‘Several days ago he managed to provoke some sort of fight – or what would have been a fight had a tattooist wearing an Imperial Sun not intervened. A grey-haired man of average height, past fifty years old my cousin tells me. He wasn’t sober enough to thank the man at the time but tells me this tattooist saved his life; that he surely would have been killed by the thugs he had chosen to quarrel with.’

‘A local man?’

‘No, paler than a native of this place – perhaps Eagle or Raven by birth? Doubtless a former soldier, given his calmness in the face of drawn weapons.’

Serril lips tightened. ‘I think I know the man you are speaking of.’ In his memory he recalled the last line of Enchei’s note –
should anyone come asking for me, please do not keep anything from them on my account.

Avineil seemed to brighten at the news. ‘Is he here?’

‘No – he …’ Serril hesitated as he considered what to say.

Master Jen was just the sort to wade into a bar fight, his arrogance knew no bounds. It was galling enough to receive such a perfunctory note from one of his staff, now he was to pass on messages and information for the man too? No, Enchei Jen deserved no special treatment at all – indeed, he would be punished for his failure to report for duty. Serril certainly would not assist him in receiving any form of reward.

‘He is not. I’m afraid if he does return I am likely to terminate his employment here for unreliability.’

‘Oh really? Such a shame, I hope it is not on account of my fool cousin. Might you know where I can find him? I would like to thank him still; this latest incident has perhaps woken the boy up to his recklessness.’

‘I regret I cannot do that. There are strict rules over the names and home addresses of tattooists. I cannot give out information to a stranger without proper authorisation.’

Avineil inclined his head in acceptance. ‘I understand, protocols must still be followed. Might he be returning here ever? I could leave a note if he is likely to be here to collect such a thing.’

‘That I cannot say. I know he will not be around these next few days – whether he will show his face here after that remains uncertain. As I said, he is unreliable, but not a fool. I’m sure he is aware of the likely consequences of his absences.’

‘I understand,’ Avineil said as he stood and retrieved his coat. ‘Thank you for your time, Administrator.’

‘Do you wish to leave a note for the man anyway?’

The stranger looked at him for a long time, long enough to make Serril feel strangely wary. At last he blinked and the cold look vanished from his face as he shook his head with a small smile.

‘I had thought to offer him a post within the trading house, but from what you say I might regret doing so. The loss is his – I have at least attempted to fulfil my duty towards him, but I cannot spend too long dealing with his own failings.’

He paused and cocked his head at Serril. ‘I have my hounds to deal with today also. Do you like hounds, Administrator?’

Serril blinked at him. ‘Hounds? No, I … no, I have never much cared for beasts of any sort. They are messy and chaotic.’

‘Indeed, mine do bite rather,’ Avineil sighed, ‘but when one hunts, what else will do? Good day, Administrator – may the blessings of the Gods be with you.’

Narin trudged across a ghost-haunted city. The trepidation he felt was as heavy as his snow-laden coat, as draining as the miles walking through fresh fallen snow. The fat flakes continued to fall with silent, stolid persistence, creating a thick curtain through which the boatmen of the Crescent refused to row. For Narin that more than doubled the distance he had to walk, but this was one errand he could not put off. After nearly two hours he finally stood underneath the grand tower-like entrance to the Imperial Palace; a massive stone structure supported by a hundred pillars, which was in turn dwarfed by the gigantic buildings behind.

As he’d reached the palace, Narin hadn’t been able to resist stopping at a raised walkway that looked down over the Imperial Canal running for over a mile down its southern flank. Just below where Narin had stood was a small island, barely ten yards across, around which the Imperial barge could be turned before being berthed under an overhang.

At the centre of the island stood a statue – an Ascendant God from the Order of Emperor, Lady Navigator. The Goddess stood tall and proud, twice the height of a normal woman and raised further up by a pedestal of waves and the arched tails of whales. With flashes of silver embedded in the white marble statue, it was an arresting sight through the falling snow, the canal and towpaths all deserted around it.

With a blanket of white on the city this corner of the Imperial City looked ever more otherworldly and alien. The palace itself had been built in an age before human civilisation; one of several relics of a mysterious and long-dead race that survived untouched by the passing millennia. It was built on a scale no architect could comprehend, of a white stone no mason could work and for all the many hundreds who lived there it defied the imposition of human domain.

For Narin it also highlighted the difference between himself and the high castes who lived in such places. He came here only reluctantly and was glad to turn his back on the tined crown of the Great Court – even if it was only to enter the sprawl of normal streets that clustered around castle-sized towers projecting from the Great Court like ranks of flying buttresses. The towers stood in three rows of four, each one three hundred feet tall and connected by covered bridges that spanned the gaps high above the rooftops of the lesser buildings.

It remained a dizzying sight to walk through, the towers looming and oppressive, but as with the rest of the city the streets had been largely abandoned to the snowstorm. That afforded Narin a much quicker journey through the narrow streets where the merchant houses of the Empire did their business and before long he was thumping a weary fist against the unassuming door of a small building in the heart of it all.

To his irritation, nothing happened at first. Feeling something of a fool, out in the cold, Narin hammered harder on the door this time, fighting the urge to check around himself for any curious faces. At last there came a noise from within the building, a small structure with little to characterise it which stood all alone at the end of a street. It was not a place Narin would have given a second glance to had he passed it, no markings at all beyond a small engraving of its name in the lintel above the door – The Office of the Catacombs.

Without ceremony the door was jerked open and Narin found himself staring into the open muzzle of a pistol. It took a moment of panic before he recognised the polished walnut stock and ornate brass decoration on the barrel, but by then he had stepped back and half-drawn his sword. From the other side of the door there came a chuckle.

‘My apologies, Lawbringer. How are you?’

Narin growled as he sheathed his sword again. ‘How am I? Frozen stiff with a gun stuck in my face, Prince Kashte.’

The door opened further and Narin saw the young Imperial holster his gun before gesturing inside. ‘Still brimming with respect for your betters I see, Master Narin,’ came the cheerful reply.

‘That’s Lawbringer Narin to you, my Lord Sun,’ he replied, forcing himself to rise to the challenge of being gently insulting to a man so far above his station it was dizzying. Kashte had proved a valuable ally to the Lawbringers as they assaulted the goshe on Confessor’s Island and beyond the veneer of formality he was surprisingly welcoming to Narin.