She Who Waits (Low Town 3) (18 page)

There was silence. ‘Would you now?’ the Old Man asked eventually, mostly out of politeness. The Old Man was very polite, something he’d developed to hide his lack of empathy.

‘Through intermediaries, of course. It would go pretty firmly against their policy to get in bed with us openly. But we’ve still got a few Dren nobles on the payroll. I think it’s time one of them becomes De Burg’s silent backer.’

Bohemond scoffed. ‘You want to get into bed with these … zealots?’

‘No – I want to fuck them.’

‘I’m afraid I’m having trouble following,’ Reynald said.

‘Let me lay it clean to you – sooner or later, the Dren are going to realize that there are five million more of them than there are of us, and that they might have better luck on a second go-round than they did the first. But right now they don’t know that, or at least they can’t see it. It would be best to keep them in this state of ignorance for as long as possible – in fact, I would go so far as to say this is the primary foreign aim of this office.’

Bohemond made as if to clean out his ears. Bohemond had a rather broad sense of humor. It was one of the many things I disliked about him. ‘If your purpose is to keep the Dren from starting a second war, then why in the name of the Scarred One would you want to encourage the growth of an organization trying to do just that?’

‘The armistice prohibits any nationalist party from holding seats in congress. The current government will be forced to crack down on them.’

‘So?’ Bohemond asked.

Crowley growled in the corner – even he’d managed the thread by this point. ‘So they can’t very well make war on Nestria if they’re caught up killing each other.’ He gave a quick jerk of his skull. ‘I like it.’

‘It’s risky,’ Reynald said. Everything was too risky for Reynald, he had the balls of a schoolmarm. ‘What if the Dren government gets wind of our support?’

‘Who would believe them?
Het Eenheidsfront
in the pocket of their most hated enemy? A conspiratorial fantasy, meant to undermine the good work of De Burg’s minions.’

‘And what if …’ the Old Man began unexpectedly, ‘your plan succeeds?’

‘Perish the thought.’

‘I’m quite serious. The men currently running the Commonwealth are … pliable, if nothing else. This one, by all accounts, would not so comfortably acclimatize to our wishes.’

‘Exactly. Fanatics don’t gain power. He’s too rigid, he won’t be able to broaden support beyond his base.’

‘Don’t underestimate the willingness of any large group of people to leap off a cliff.’

‘It won’t happen. Even the Dren aren’t that mad.’

‘And if they are?’

‘De Burg wouldn’t be the first person who didn’t live forever.’

The Old Man chuckled. ‘No, I suppose he wouldn’t.’

‘I still say it’s too risky,’ Reynald broke in.

‘Yes, we heard you,’ the Old Man answered, gracing his secretary with a smile that shut his mouth before turning back to me. ‘Two thousand ochres will be deposited in the usual slush fund. You’re to dispose of it as you see fit.’ He folded his hands. ‘Is there anything else?’

‘Just one outstanding piece of business,’ Reynald turned over the next leaf in his file. ‘Coronet.’

The atmosphere strained noticeably. Bohemond began to look extremely uncomfortable. Concrete knowledge of anything was anathema; he’d made a career out of not noticing things. ‘Shouldn’t someone from the Bureau of Magical Affairs be taking part in this conversation?’ Forced out of active ignorance, he preferred to dilute responsibility to as many parties as possible.

‘They know what they need to,’ the Old Man said.

‘I’m going to go out on a limb here and guess we’ve yet to see results?’ I asked.

‘Carroll insists we’re close,’ the Old Man answered.

‘An objective observer, if ever there was one. This is a waste of our resources.’

‘It won’t be if it works.’

‘It won’t work.’

‘Carroll seems to disagree.’

‘What’s he going to say?’ I asked. ‘“Sorry, you’ve pissed away five thousand ochres in the misguided belief I had any idea what I was doing”? Guarantees don’t mean anything. Results are what we’re looking for – looking for in vain, I might add.’

‘But the possibilities …’ The Old Man trailed off, smiling.

‘It’s possible my next shit will be twenty-four-carat gold, but the bank won’t take it as security for a loan.’

‘Your vulgarity is laudable, as always. That said – we’ve come this far. It seems reasonable to see if something more will come of it.’

‘I could introduce you to any number of vagrants with similar investment strategies. And besides – there are costs here beyond the financial.’

‘Oh?’ He batted his eyelashes, waiting for me to continue, innocent as a schoolboy.

I gritted my teeth. ‘Carroll is as frugal with his test subjects as he is with our money.’

The Old Man nodded at this slowly, his baby blues depthless. ‘The costs are … unfortunate. Honored volunteers, their suffering to the greater good of the Empire.’

‘You can’t volunteer for suicide.’

‘In point of fact – several hundred thousand of you did, during the war.’

I’d have struck a different man for saying that, though it more or less echoed my own feelings on the conflict. ‘Death is a possibility one reasonably ought to foresee in joining the army,’ I said, ‘not when signing up for a supposedly harmless medical experiment. Death,’ I added, ‘and worse than death.’

To my left Bohemond was growing steadily grayer, if we kept at this much longer he’d have been vomiting on the table. I’d violated protocol by speaking so openly in front of him. The Old Man rapped a hand on the table, a casual gesture, but nothing he did was ever less than deathly serious. ‘That’s what makes their sacrifice so noble.’

I was a fool to have even mentioned the casualties. They meant nothing to him, I knew that. All I’d done was demonstrate weakness. ‘Do whatever you want,’ I said abruptly. ‘It’s not coming out of my ends.’

‘I think it’s important to reiterate that the Chancellor could never condone doing anything that might injure a subject of the Throne,’ Bohemond said, as if the specifics of Coronet were new to him. ‘I think it’s important that that point be made clear.’

‘Of course he wouldn’t,’ the Old Man said, smiling. ‘Neither would any of us. Coronet doesn’t exist – it never did. My friend and I are having a theoretical conversation, engaged entirely in the abstract. It affects no concrete reality that the Chancellor will ever encounter.’

Theoretical. Abstract. He wasn’t wrong. Somewhere along the line people reduce themselves to numbers in a ledger, and at that point you’re truly damned. It’s a rather concise definition of power – when you no longer need to look at the names.

‘Now, I do believe that takes us to the end of our list for today. Thank you all for coming, and for your hard work.’

Class was dismissed. Four men started for the door with as much speed as age and dignity allowed. The fifth was the Old Man, and the Old Man, as a point of pride and principle, did not hurry anywhere, for any reason.

‘If you could allow me just one more moment,’ the Old Man said, halting my egress.

Crowley didn’t like that. More than anything else, it was the fact that I’d edged him out of the chief’s favor that he really held against me. Odd, but no matter how high you rise in the halls of power, it’s impossible to escape the conviction that our collective fates are largely determined by the petty jealousies of overgrown adolescents. He didn’t argue though. No one argued with the Old Man except for me, and even then, unsuccessfully.

The two of us were left alone, staring at each other from opposite ends of the table, over the picked carcass of the lunch tray. He’d asked for a word, but he didn’t offer one, just sat there beaming at me. It was like looking into the sun: do it long enough and you start to get a headache, do it longer and you go mad. I broke first, but then someone had to. The Old Man would have happily continued at it till we both dropped from dehydration.

‘What exactly can I help you with?’

‘Regarding Coronet – it’s important we remain on the same page,’ he said.

‘Of course.’

‘Any concerns you have, these would best be shared between us and us alone.’

‘I understand.’

‘There’s no need for Bohemond to be exposed to anything which might make him … anxious.’

‘I’m sure he’d agree.’

‘Then we understand each other?’

‘Hand in glove,’ I answered.

‘Very good,’ he said, standing and ushering me out. ‘And do give my best to Albertine.’

Hearing her name in his mouth made me faintly nauseous. But I smiled through that and followed him into the hallway.

My promotion to Special Operations had brought with it a shitty little office crammed into a corner of the third floor. It was hot in the summer and cold in the winter, but it smelled of mildew and old paint regardless. The window was stuck, had been since my arrival.

There was a stack of papers on my desk that needed looking at. There was perpetually a stack of papers on my desk that needed looking at, as if at night elves materialized from beneath the floorboards and undid everything I’d finished during the day. I spent twenty minutes in my chair, chain smoking and pretending I was about to get to work. Then I gave up, stuffed out my butt, locked the door and left. It was almost quitting time, anyway. I figured I’d stop off and see Albertine. Catch her before she left work, take her out to dinner.

The desk sergeant flattered me as I walked out, and I nodded and took it as my due. Spring was shaking off winter’s hold, my coat was an encumbrance. The Old City is beautiful at dusk, or at least I found it so that evening. It was a long walk over to Albertine’s office, and I smiled all the way through it.

T
he guard came in early the next morning, sweating despite the autumn chill. Part of that I attributed to the fact that he was, in the grand tradition of the hoax, carrying around a few toddlers’ worth of excess weight. The rest I assumed was a function of his presence being an implicit violation of the agreement I had with his superiors. Which was, in essence, that I saw the guard once a week, during which I gave them money they didn’t deserve, and in exchange I spent the rest of it inured against any unexpected visits.

He shuffled nervously from one foot to the other, like a child waiting to piss. It seemed I would have to take the initiative.

‘Good morning, officer. Is there something I can do for you?’

‘The Captain was wondering, if you ain’t got nothing going, maybe you could stop by and see him?’

He was new to the force, his age and the fact that I didn’t know him were enough to confirm that. I made a point of at least recognizing by sight every member of the city guard working in Low Town or its immediate environs. It was good policy, insurance on top of the cut of my operations I gave to them. The worker ants, they’d never know the specifics of the deal I’d made with their superiors, and I doubted they were getting much of a percentage off the one I kicked up. A free beer, a friendly word – these can get you more than a cart-load of ochres on the back end.

I don’t have any more against the hoax than I absolutely have to, and less than I probably ought. Even as a child, when I’d roamed the streets little short of a savage, I felt kind of bad for them. Dragging twenty-pound suits of mail in hundred-degree weather, having to duck and bend to every two-copper crime lord that paid that week’s tithe. It’s not their fault that the Crown doesn’t care a sweat stain for what goes on in Low Town, nor that the native population would sooner slit their throats than give them the time of day. You can’t blame the croupier because the game is rigged – they’re just playing their part, like everybody else.

‘You’re from the fourth district, right?’

‘Yessir, that’s right.’

‘Didn’t I pay you this week?’

‘Yessir, you did, last Tuesday. Ain’t about that – no problem with the tax, I mean. The Captain would just like to see you at your,’ he paused to remember the wording he’d been given. ‘At your earliest possible convenience.’

‘Captain didn’t say what this was about, did he?’

The guardsman shook his head.

‘No, I guess he wouldn’t. How long you figure this is going to take?’

‘Not long,’ he said promptly, happy that I wasn’t going to make an issue out of it. ‘Just a couple of minutes.’

I finished my coffee and got my coat. When bowing to the inevitable, it’s best to do so low, and quickly.

It was a sunny morning, and the walk over was almost pleasant enough to justify the errand on its own. I reminded myself that it was an inconvenience and stitched a scowl across my face.

The Fourth District guard station was not a sight that inspired much by way of civic pride. It could have been mistaken for a budget whorehouse if it hadn’t been for the two hoax sitting on the stoop outside. Not that the presence of the city’s elite brotherhood of defenders was unknown amongst Low Town’s brothels. Far from it – most of the pimps I knew paid their weekly tax out in kind.

The Imperial flag hung limply in the still morning, halfway down its wooden pole. ‘Who died?’ I asked.

‘Some noble, Harriben or Harrison or some such. A big hero during the war, they say.’

In his mind at least. By the Scarred One, but Black House worked quick. Double-agents tend to have short lifespans, but I couldn’t quite see what the rush was in stamping out Harribuld.

The reception hall was quiet. A guardsman sat yawning at a counter. Apart from him, there was no one else to be seen. I guess there wasn’t any crime happening in Low Town that day. To judge by the efforts of the hoax, we seem to be an astonishingly law-abiding community. My escort fell quickly into conversation with another officer, and I was left to find my way to their boss on my own. A glaring lack of hospitality, but then I was a frequent guest.

Captain Kenneth Ascletin was a sight to make a whore’s heart flutter. He was tall enough to take notice, but not so much as to make an issue out of it, and though he wasn’t broad, the meat he had was well-muscled. His hair was dark and his eyes were dark and he had a bright smile that he gave without much prompting. ‘Warden, good to see you.’