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Old wizard Galen grabbed his apprentice and dragged him from his chair. The young novice spilled the ale that had almost reached his lips and couldn’t help cursing as his mentor dragged him out of his seat.
“What have I done?” asked the novice.
“Nothing,” replied Galen, waving towards a barstool with a glass of liquor sitting before it, glitter floating all around it. “But a tavern that serves a sprite spirits is bound for trouble.”
The novice had learned, for an old man, Galen could hustle. He got him and his apprentice out the door just before the pub exploded.
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In the thick smoke and loud noise of Serpent & Wren that evening I sat with my cloak about me, my rapier and broad-brimmed hat on the table. I had arrived early enough that I could order similar courses to those Chand and I had taken together last time, substituting a decent soup for the sauerkraut. By the time he walked in, the wine was already on the table’s oil cloth and the pheasant being prepared.
He continued to lean on his cane slightly, but otherwise his entrance was the same as always, him glad-handing lowlifes who recognized him, which is to say most of the pub’s denizens. He even tipped his hat to the barkeep who betrayed us both to the Red Hooks, receiving a queasy smile in return.
I waited for him at my corner table, fingering the hammer of my repeater in its holster. Eventually, his eyes lit upon me and he smiled as if spotting an old friend. I tried not to let the joy this brought me show on my face, afraid that it might cause him to disappear.
He made a greeting yards from the table that I couldn’t hear over the cacophony of conversation. This gladdened me, as I had prepared a topic unfit for others’ ears.
“How kind of you,” he said, sliding the cup closest to him and reaching for the bottle. “But why meet here instead of your fabulous chateau?”
“Porridge is one of the few dishes I can make myself,” I answered, holding my own cup for him to fill after his own. “I thought you might appreciate a better selection.”
“Family coffers coming up empty? Nothing to pay the servants with?” he questioned with a grin.
“The household servants left with my uncle,” I responded with something like the truth.
“Well, at least the larder cellar hasn’t – ” Chand stopped pouring the wine, bottle still raised. “You’re baiting the Red Hooks?”
I felt the corner of my mouth tick up at the perverse pleasure that Chand’s detection of my falsehood brought me. “Indeed. If there’re any remaining that are foolish enough to come for us, I’d prefer to know about it.”
Chand harrumphed. “Well, until one of these ginhounds says he saw me, the Red Hooks most likely think me dead.”
I raised my cup in a toast. “Then let us hope they’ve learned their lesson.”
I expected a mocking rejoinder, but Chand only finished filling our cups and raised his to mine. We had barely clinked our mugs when the waitress arrived with our first course. She smiled and tousled Chand’s curly dark hair as he grinned at her. If she knew of his travails, it made no distinction in her greeting or in his flirtations.
We spooned into the soup, soaking up it with bread, munching in silence for a time. Instead of hiding my perversity in the candle’s paltry light, whenever Chand looked up from his soup I gave him a wolfish grin. He only puzzled at this, both of us saying nothing until more wine was consumed and the oysters were served.
It wasn’t until the pheasant arrived that my grin or the gin eventually moved Chand to ask, “So aside from eating and drinking together, what’s the next step in this great plan of yours?”
I pushed the pheasant around my plate with my fork and knife, then around in my mouth with my tongue. I couldn’t keep the grin from my face as I answered, “I’d say we rob your parents.”
Chand looked up from his fowl. Even through the tavern’s smoke his eyes blazed with an uncustomary anger, so much so our intuitive waitress veered away from her approach to our table.
“I assumed you were jesting. My mother was an ayah.” He gestured to his brown skin. While his color might forever put him on the outside of Dunhill society, his Hindustan ancestry also gave him his greater height, burnished skin, and charming smile. I imagined his mother must have been quite beautiful.
I raised my hand in a conciliatory fashion. “Quite right. I mean your father and his wife.”
“Robbing the Red Hooks and tweaking the Blackcoats’ noses by continuing to inhabit this fabulous establishment,” Chand waved at the old stones of its walls and the knotted wood of its roof. “That’s not enough? Now you want to anger Dunhill’s nobility?”
“Yes.” I interwove my tapered fingers around my cup to stare at him over its rim. Waiting for him to arrive I had been sitting with contempt toward my uncle and any father that would throw a son such as Chand out.
Chand leaned back in his chair, watching my reaction. In a tone one would use to call a bluff in a card game, he said, “My father is Lord Guillemin Pawlett, Duke of Glevum. He has several estates. Which one would you have us rob?”
“Oh, I think the one in the city would be easiest. Don’t you?”
“So I came here to discover your mad.” Chand clucked his tongue. “A and E will be so disappointed.”
I laughed at his disapproval, making Chand uncomfortable in a way that brought me a perverse pleasure. “You knew I was mad when I came for you in the Red Hook’s lair. That’s why you disappeared afterward, wasn’t it?”
“Apparently so,” he brought his dark eyes back to me and I held my smile even as his gaze made me blush so that it felt like hot iron. Unable to hold his gaze for long, I commanded, “So tell your madman why we shouldn’t do it.”
“Don’t you already have the Blackcoats eyeing you?” Chand responded with a caution I hadn’t seen in him yet.
“Certainly. But this won’t change that.”
“You realize I haven’t been inside Guillemin Hall in over a decade? I don’t know where the treasure chests are kept.” His sarcasm was unmistakeable, painting a portrait of some dungeon within his father’s home where they stacked lockboxes filled with gold crowns.
“I suspect, like most of the other nobles, your father has much of his actual wealth in The Exchange.” I settled back in my chair, showing that I had some knowledge of how the wealthy in Dunhill operated.
“Then how would we rob them?”
“Surely there are things of value, possibly, yes, even gold, within the Hall?
“Guillemin Hall isn’t some mews. It’s huge. We could spend weeks searching such a place.”
“I’m sure that’s true. That’s why I thought the Pershings might come in.”
“Who?”
“Aaron and Erin?”
For the first time, Chand looked at me as if I might truly be bad instead of just mad. “You want to send children in?”
Insulted that Chand might actually think I would, I replied, “Don’t be daft. Other than getting them boiled alive in the Requiter’s Square, what would that accomplish?”
“Then what are you suggesting?”
“That they spy,” I leaned into the last verb. “A manor as large as your father’s must have an army of servants. The men and women who serve them food, wash their clothes, and clean their rooms certainly must have some idea of the family’s strongboxes.”
Chand watched me carefully. Washing down some of his questions with wine, he ventured, “The nobles of Dunhill, I’ve heard,” he stretched the last two words as far as he felt from from his erstwhile guardians, “keep crowns in their halls in case of sudden need.”
“Such as ransom?” I offered, considering an entirely new and ill-advised plan.
“Or bribery,” Chand countered, bringing up the specter that perhaps, like my uncle, many of Dunhill’s upper class were not virtuous and temperate dedicates to the Church. “But also for everyday expenses.”
“Well, then, A and E will simply have to watch the Guillemin Hall until a servant leaves for the shopping. Lifting the purse from them will surely loosen their tongue. Get them to discuss where the Lord and Lady of the house keep their gold.”
“Then why involve the scampers at all? I can do that,” Chand replied.
I raised my glass. “An excellent point. I wrongly thought you wouldn’t want to be near the manor for fear of being recognized.”
Chand let out a laugh that practically blew back my dark hair. “My father threw me out over a decade ago. I doubt anyone would know me from Adam.” Settling back into his chair, he added, “Robbing a servant for blackmail will require putting the fear of God into them, though. Threatening their place in the house, their residence, their livelihood. Are you sure you’re ready to threaten some innocent hardworking mug who’s just unlucky enough to be the one who does the shopping?” When this question clearly produced consternation on my face, Chand added, “It’s most likely to be a woman.”
Thinking of Gildred’s bright white smile as she consumed human flesh in league with my uncle, I swatted the concern of gender aside. However, my life in McDowell Hall had also been populated with any number of tutors and governesses that had only sought to do their best by me, having no knowledge of my uncle’s plans.
With this floating to the top of my mind, my lips pulled into a frown. “I do not think I would enjoy that.”
“Neither would I,” Chand replied.
“Then what do you suggest?”
I watched Chand’s long fingers run along the rim of his cup. “On occasion, the Lady of Guillemin goes out shopping with her own purse.”
“I don’t see how lifting her purse would give us the information we seek.”
“No, stealing her gold would yield nothing. But kidnapping her might.” I could see the revenge Chand would like to extract from the Duchess, a woman who had demanded his own mother and self be ejected from the noble home once his true father had been revealed.
I puzzled at Chand, thinking perhaps whatever madness possessed me was catching. “That would make all of this very public. Surely, the Duke would alert the Blackcoats. Perhaps even the Redcrosse Knights.”
“Only if we tried to ransom her. That,” Chand gestured with his cup across the table as if were the Empire itself, “would be as disastrous as the blood pudding.” Unable to hide my agreement with Chand’s estimation of the dish, I snorted laughter. He rightly took this as permission to continue. “But if we were merely to hold her,” he paused carefully searching for a word, which was not something I had seen him do. “We could extract the information from her.”
“Which would require threatening her life.”
“Or her chastity,” Chand countered. The expression this caused my face to assume must have been striking, as he quickly added, “Neither threat of which I would follow through on. The noble ladies of Dunhill are not renowned for their steadfast courage. Sufficiently believable threats will do.” I wondered at that, allowing him to continue, “If we make no demands, but she goes missing, the household will be thrown into chaos while they search for her Ladyship.”
“Providing us the perfect opportunity to go in and rob the strongboxes.” I warmed to the idea of terrorizing the nobles of Dunhill without the dangers of actually ransoming one.
“Exactly. And we would have even more time if Lord Guillemin was seeing to his actually holdings at the western port of Glevum.”
“If his holdings are so far from Dunhill, why does he maintain an estate here?”
Chand shrugged. “Because Queen Gloriana’s intelligencer insists every noble family do. The better to keep an eye on them. Plus, the extra expense makes it difficult to amass the wealth necessary for a revolt.”
The idea that there might be unrest among Dunhill’s nobility had not been a part of my historical education. “Why would her Majesty need to concern herself with a revolt?”
Even the dim ofSerpent & Wrencouldn’t hide Chand’s expression on my naivete. “There are those among the nobility that still side with the Papists in that they believe that magic, any magic, including Gloriana’s, is heresy. There are others that resent Her Majesty’s monopoly of it.”
I stared at Chand, suddenly aware that he clearly knew much more about the machinations of Imperial society than I did. I did not wonder long on this, though, as what I had seen of Dunhill’s alchemist and sorcerers, I tended to agree.
Instead I reached for a different conclusion. “So when he’s in Glevum…”
“Much of his yeoman-at-arms accompany him,” Chand concluded for me. “Guillemin Hall here in Dunhill is at its least defended. The Ladyship doesn’t often attend him. I don’t think they get on.”
We fell silent into our thoughts. While Lady Pawlett would certainly be with an entourage while her husband was away, outside of the Hall would be the best time to secure her for a discussion away from listening ears.
Chand’s uncustomary silence marked him with similar thoughts. This continued as we finished the meal, then he donned his cape and cane.
Escorting him to the exit, I offered, “If walking still pains you, you’re welcome to return with me to McDowell Hall.” I would, of course, offer him his own bedroom, while my desire conjured us in one room. Beyond that was a black wall of loneliness that allowed nothing more to be seen.
Clearly distracted by other ponderings, Chand offered a, “Huh?” Then making my gesture to his cane he said, “Oh, the cane isn’t for aid in walking.” Gripping its straight handle, he pulled a long, hidden blade from its wooden scabbard. “Dunhill law forbids me from carrying a weapon, but this allows for a good surreptition.”
Admiring his ingenuity, but regretting having no excuse for him to come with me, we departed. At McDowell hall thoughts of Chand kept me awake. Was I only perverted by my uncle’s touch, or perhaps by merely sharing blood with him? I lie rigid deep into the night, tortured by these questions as thoughts of holding Chand would not be banished from my head. As dawn began to color the sky, I could only take solace in that thinking of Chand brought none of the fear or shame of my uncle’s nightly visitations. I had tried to rid myself of these in the past with the service of prostitutes, but these only granted temporary reprieve. Simply looking at Chand, though, banished thoughts of the sins that I had committed and had been committed against me.
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I am a killer, a poisoner by trade, and a thief by convenience. Of course, it was not always this way. To be a poisoner, one needs a clientele.
Even with the murder of my uncle, his servants, and so many of the Dunhill mob under my cloak, I still did not think of myself as a killer-for-hire, though, but merely as an ersatz noble of the Empire. The years away from my parents’ country home and the tutelage of my uncle as he groomed me to be his vessel had seen to that. And Chand, my one connection to the world outside of McDowell Hall, had vanished.
After rescuing Chand from the erstwhile kingpins of Dunhill, the Red Hooks, he disappeared into the crushing humanity and din of the city. That was not difficult for him. Even wounded as he was, he was still a better thief than I. We had clamored across the city roofs in our escape together, climbing down into the crowd that had gathered to witness our arson ofthe public house that had beenthe Red Hooks’ den. Then I looked around and he was gone, disappeared into the humanity and smog, the capitol’s mills grinding away as if nothing had changed.
Forlorn and slighted, I retreated to McDowell Hall before the Blackcoats noticed my presence. While the fire burned, it was unlikely any were looking for me, but I did not wish to encounter Inspector Rotella again with his multitude of incriminating questions. Fortunately for me, I had discovered my uncle’s manor had many entrances and exits, some of them meant for the public eye, while others were not.
I did not return to Serpent & Wren to search for Chand as I had before, instead sulking in the great empty mansion. I spent hours drunk, staring at the secret door that I had sealed my uncle behind, wishing I could kill him again. His nightly visitations had left me with a stain that I felt all could see, his miscegenation with the subhumans of Nr and the priests ofLechia a blight on our entire bloodline. With this upon me, I felt that I would live here in the darkness of McDowell Hall alone, one more monster at the heart of the Empire.
It was only a few days of this self-flagellation that passed before there was a knock on the Hall’s main entrance. Cracking open the Judas hatch, I saw no Inspector Rotella or other Blackcoat, only the crowds and carriages crossing the cobblestone boulevard in front of the Hall. I moved to close the hatch again when I heard a familiar, high-pitched voice say, “Where’s my knife, you knut?”
Opening the Judas hatch fully, I was able to look down and see the urchins from nights before. I had to admire their courage at taking my invitation to McDowell Hall. Even in daylight, the mansion was intimidating, with its high steepled roof, many wings, and windowed turrets.
The sister was standing next to the boy instead of behind him in fear as she had before. That was not the only change. Both were dressed in warmer clothing, and looked better fed. I took these as signs they had spent the crowns I had given them prudently. The pale skin under their red hair, though, showed the same dirt stains as before, telling me they were still sleeping rough.
I blinked away the blots from last night’s wine. “What knife?”
“The one you took from me!” the brother shouted, his cheeks already reddening with the expectation of betrayal. This would have be added to by the long walk from Gallowgate, the lower part of the city where they plied their trade as cutpurses.
I pushed my dark hair out of my face, remembering I had left the brother’s dirk buried in the neck of a Red Hook. “Hold on,” I looked at the many bolts that held the studded and sturdy portal in place. Still feeling a bit of last night’s drink, I replied through the hatch, “Walk west to the gatehouse and cross into the courtyard. I’ll let you in there.”
I closed the Judas hatch on the sour face of the brother and his giggling sister. I headed over to the courtyard entrance, pulling on longsleeves as I did. Once at the courtyard door, I opened it to invite the pair in. While the younger sister moved to step, her brother blocked her with an outstretched arm. “Where’s my knife, ninnyhammer?”
I rubbed an eye, responding, “When asking for something, politeness is usually recommended over insults.”
“It’s my knife!” His yell was loud enough to echo throughout the stone walls of the courtyard.
“Yes,” I agreed. “You’ll also remember I said I would return it to you when you had learned how to use it without hurting yourself.” I eyed his sibling. “Or unintentionally wounding others.”
I stepped back into the Hall, gesturing to its interior. “Now you may come in and we will commence lessons.” I swept my hand to the gatehouse, “Or you may leave.”
With a grumble that demonstrated his accomplished grasp of vulgarities, he stepped inside. The sister followed her brother without hesitation, giving me a toothsome grin as she did. Without further ado, or breakfast, I led them into the armory, a long room dedicated to an assortment of weapons that my uncle had collected over the years of his oceanic explorations of the Britannian Empire. It was long, with nothing but a strip of carpet lying over the floorboards that separated the vitrines of the collection. It doubled as a gymnasium of sorts, where I had taken my own lessons in fencing and physical education.
Recalling the urchin’s dirk as best I could, I looked over the displays to see which of the many blades might make a good substitute. While doing this I said, “I am Cole McDowell, Lord of McDowell Hall.”
“Aren’t you a pooter?” replied the brother. I wasn’t familiar with the term, but his derision was unmistakeable.
I turned to him, adjusting my longsleeves into some semblance of dignity. “No, young sir. This is the part where you tell me your name.”
“I’m Aaron,” he responded. Pointing to his sister, whose eyes were wondering across room’s contents, he added, “This is Erin.”
I blinked, their resemblance making it clear they had at least a mother in common. Presumably the one who named them. “You’re both named Erin?”
“You can call me A. She’s E. If that helps your keep track of who’s who.”
“And your last name?”
“Pershing.” Erin added this without thought, taken as she was with a display of polearms.
“Pershing,” I repeated, eyes on the brother.
“You deaf? Yah, Pershing.”
“You are named after the man who founded the Blackcoats?” History was one of the many subjects my uncle had made certain I was tutored in. Aaron Pershing, now deceased, had played a crucial role in the creation of Queen Gloriana’s modern Dunhill.
Aaron eyed me with the suspicion of someone expecting a joke to be sprung on them. “Who?”
My mind tried to reach for an explanation that would cause a mother to name her children after a lawgiver that most likely threw her into debtor’s prison. I suspect gin may have been a factor.
I abandoned this pointless conjecture by returning to my search. I quickly settled on a poniard, excellent for stabbing, but sturdy enough to block a larger, heavier blade. I unlocked the glass lid and extracted it and a waster.
I faced Aaron. “I must confess that I lost your dirk.” He began to curse what I’m sure he saw as my inevitable betrayal until I held the poniard out to him, its cross-guard balanced across my palm. “I believe you will find this a worthy substitute.”
While he clearly knew little of dueling or snickersnee, he clearly had an appraising eye for value. He slowly took the dagger and spoke, for the first time, with admiration. “Pukka.”
Inferring his approval, I snatched the poniard away and replaced it with the waster. “We’ll begin by learning with this.”
Disappointment curdled Aaron’s features as he stared at the wooden knife. In the moments we were chatting, I noticed that Erin had somehow gotten ahold of a blunderbuss which I crossed the room to take from her. “That is a separate set of lessons,” I chided, impressed at her quick work on the cabinet’s lock. “Let’s begin with the blades and perhaps we can move forward from there.” Replacing the musket in the vitrine she had pulled it from, I added, “Perhaps you can teach me a thing or two as well.”
So over the next several weeks I began instructing both Aaron and Erin on the finer points of knife wielding; effective feints, offensive techniques, and defensive parries. After the first few days, with the lesson completed, I led them to the kitchen where I’d make a breakfast of porridge for us. Aaron initially ridiculed my manhood for even this paltry demonstration of domestic skill, insults which struck me in my narrow chest. With my uncle’s predatory touch still haunting me, and my own deviant longing for Chand, it stung me in a way that I desperately tried to hide. This was quickly remedied, though, when Erin suggested I not provide him with any of the oatmeal that I cooked, which shut her brother right up. While blithesome, Erin was laconic, and her insights proved effective in teaching both of them. I began to worry what might happen to her when she grew to unmistakably a girl, living on the streets of Dunhill, but also knew that I was far from their trust to do anything about it.
As such, each day after our breakfast, I invented a reason for them to stay. Aaron often fell asleep in whatever furniture was available while his sister taught me how she had opened the vitrine with no key. I was familiar with the concept of lock-picking, but it wasn’t one of the subjects I was tutored in.
Eventually, they would leave the Hall, often scouting out into the busy streets around the manor to tell me if Rotella or any other Blackcoats were about. They had become so inclined to avoid the constables that they never asked me why I would be concerned.
One day, though, I opened a side door for the siblings’ daily exit to find Chand standing there, leaning jauntily on a gentleman’s cane. His smile lit out from under his aquiline nose as if he had been expected this entire time. His dark hair was barely contained by the pearl grey top hat that had replaced his old one, the rest of his clothes shopworn, but in fashionably subdued colors that complimented his honeyed skin. I do not know what he had been doing in the few weeks of his absence, but he had evidently been up to his old thievery, and successfully at that.
His smile shrank to an expectant grin. “May I enter?”
The siblings stared up at Chand’s tall form, then joyously cried his name and wrapped themselves around his legs in embrace. I was surprised by this warm welcome. I knew they had all worked under the same Red Hook taskmaster, but hadn’t been aware of any mutual affection.
Hobbling in with the urchins strapped around him like a favored cousin, Chand’s smile returned like the sun clearing Dunhill’s smog. “I hope you don’t mind,” he said, prying Erin off and lifting her into his arms.
“Not at all,” I replied, unsmiling. I stared at Chand, expecting him to disappear with the siblings even as he walked further in.
Aaron let go of Chand’s leg to pull out the poniard he had only recently earned. “I know snickersnee now!”
Chand, with the sister held in one arm, handed his hat to me, which I took without thinking. “Knife fighting? Who’d be fool enough to teach a street rat like you that?”
Erin whispered in his ear, and Chand smiled at her. “Really? No flapdoodle?”
She giggled and buried her face in his hair. Feeling like a stranger in what was nominally my home, I hung his hat by the entrance and walked to the dining room. Breakfast had been finished and there were dishes to clean.
Before I even began this menial task, Chand was following, Aaron right behind. “You’ve been teaching these two how to handle a blade?”
I stopped what I was doing, trying to cool my hot feelings at Chand’s continued presence. I thought about my uncle and how I wished dearly that I’d had a knife when he had first come for me. “Every gentlemen and lady should know how to defend themselves.”
Chand looked down at A and E. “Did you hear that? He called you a gentleman and lady.” Erin giggled at this while Aaron brayed his mocking laugh.
Feeling ridiculed, I stared hard at Chand. “Perhaps I could show you a thing or two about being a gentleman.”
His smile faded to a grin of secrets. “Perhaps you could.”
I felt my cheeks flush at these words, but I pressed my lips together, fearing what might come out. After sorting out the rock tumbler of my mind, I decided to act as the good host. “Would you like some breakfast? I believe there’s still some porridge.”
Instead Chand set Erin down and ordered her and her brother to, “Help clear the table now. Quick like a bunny.”
At this simple command, the siblings moved spritely to clear the table, taking the bowls and spoons to the kitchen. I tried not to resent the sudden improvement in behavior Chand’s presence created.
With the children gone I looked in his dark eyes. “What brings you here?”
With the weight of Erin off of him, Chand hobbled a bit, leaning on his cane. Evidently he had not yet healed entirely from the tortures of the Red Hooks. I felt my hard judgement soften as I hoped there was no permanent damage.
Shifting his weight, he replied, “After I had found a place to tend to my wounds, I went to see what had become of Peyton’s gang.” Chand looked at me. “I wanted to make sure that without Peyton’s guidance they would not become more lost than they already were.”
“How noble of you.”
“Sure enough, the others were afraid enough of Peyton that they kept showing up to the same place to give the old codger his piece of that night’s take. I – ” he paused, then continued, “I reassured them that their place in the world had become a bit brighter with Peyton’s disappearance. But I did notice A and E were missing.”
“So you tracked them here?”
“Indeed. They didn’t show up to wait in line for Peyton, so I deduced they knew of his demise.”
“Murder,” I corrected Chand, my eyes feeling heavy and cold as coal. “You make it sounds as if he fell down. I murdered him.”
Chand tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing, looking at me in new way. “I know. I was there. I wouldn’t call killing a man who would have me crucified ‘murder,’ so I thank you for that.”
Even at these small kind words I felt as naked as the open breast of my longsleeves. “If you wanted to find Aaron and Erin you could have just followed me home after our escape.”
“True,” Chand acquiesced.
“Then why did you not simply come with me and heal from your wounds here rather than in whatever four-penny coffin you climbed into?”
Chand pushed his hair out of his eyes, raising his chin to look at me. “I assumed you wanted something. So I left.”
“I do want something. I told you that.” I stepped closed to him, feeling my own skin heat as I did. “I think we can do great things together.”
Chand snorted into the narrow space between us. “Killing a few dozen Red Hooks and burning down a public house is hardly great.”
“Everything great starts small,” I answered, feeling his words depreciate the effort I had gone to in rescuing him.
As if pushed by magnetic torque, Chand stepped away from me and pulled out one of the wooden dining chairs. He sat, kicking his feet up to the table, his unassailable confidence returning. “Then what would you suggest we do next?”
I gave Chand my own smile then. Judging by the guarded change in his eyes, it did not have the warmth or charm his did. “I would suggest we start by robbing your parents.”
“I don’t know if she’s going to be OK,” Doctor Imogen told McPherson. The inspector had brought in the young tribeswoman to the clinic, and Imogen was almost certainly breaking a number of HIPPA regulations by giving the inspector medical information with Nola unconscious and unable to consent. Chief Veregge, though…well he hadn’t ordered personnel to work with McPherson, but he had made a strongly worded suggestion. Imogen didn’t know how federal laws applied to her clinic, anyway, and she really didn’t care. The people who made those laws were the same as those who had herded her ancestors onto a small patch of land, so she considered the clinic her own sovereign nation.
The clinic’s newest resident was one Nola Strong, a young woman who had disappeared from tribal lands a few months ago. Most of the young people did that these days, and despite Nola’s reddish, fuzzy hair and lighter skin, the doctor suspected she had as much luck as the rest of them. Now she was here, back home and poisoned.
With the same protectiveness she felt towards all dying breeds, Imogen said, “I don’t think she’ll be able to answer any questions, Aggie.”
The diminutive inspector shrugged in her charcoal suit. With her black hair and somber expression, she could have passed for a child pallbearer. “She answered my questions on the way here. I wanted to know if I was right about the diagnosis.” Imogen questioned if Aggie’s story about having just met Nola a few hours ago was true. Most people didn’t appear this sad over a stranger.
Imogen thought about Nola under the oxygen tent and decided that, either way, Aggie deserved answers for having brought her this far. “It looks that way. Heavy metal poisoning, damage to respiratory and capillary systems. It’s hard to tell the extent of the damage just yet.”
Aggie turned to the doctor. The inspector didn’t so much sweep her gaze as lock her eyes on one thing, then another, taking each into account before moving onto the next. Imogen found this to be uncomfortable as the full attention of her visitor landed on her. Under the focused gazed, she pushed a loose lock of her own dark hair behind an ear, suddenly and irrationally concerned that she hadn’t had time to wash this morning.
To cover up her sudden discomfort, she wondered aloud, “She seems like the type who would have better options than dangerous work. I wonder why she did it.”
Without hesitation Aggie answered, “He made her feel special.”
“Who made her feel special?”
“I’m gonna find out real soon,” Aggie said with a certainty that Imogen wasn’t sure she liked. While it might be too frequent an occurrence, she didn’t like violence around the clinic.
The inspector’s tone shifted back into its softer dynamic. “She should be safe to move to another facility soon. If you need to do that.”
Imogen wasn’t sure why Nola needed the sanctuary of her peoples’ reservation, but she thought of Chief Veregge and decided not to ask. Instead she said, “That’s good. We don’t have the equipment or expertise to treat her here.”
Aggie nodded and spun her diminutive carriage towards the exit, blazer flapping as she executed an about-face. At a slow gait, she headed towards the exit, throwing a wave and a “See you around doc,” over her shoulder.
###
Outside, the SUV that drove into the clinic parking lot was designed to look like trouble. Big and black, even the bumper and trim were matted into a mute darkness that absorbed light. Watching it from his taxi, Rafi pulled his cap low, slid down into his seat like he was taking a nap, and waited to see if it was enough trouble to warn his boss. Without realizing it, he smiled. This is what he loved about working for McPherson. You never knew what was going to happen.
Three white men got out of the SUV. They were all dressed in the same style, clothes as black as the car they arrived in, bulging jackets and dark turtlenecks protecting them from the cold that blew off the river.
Rafi had to hand it to them – they looked so serious that they went all the way around and came out the other side of silly. With their uniform dress, they almost appeared like a military unit, but one was so fat and the other so tall and thin that they could have been Laurel and Hardy. Rafi decided he could wait on warning his boss.
The man in front though, Rafi kept an eye on. He was fit and chewing on gum like he was practicing for the biting Olympics. When his gaze settled on Rafi’s taxi, its intensity felt like he was trying to melt it with heat vision. Or Rafi.
McPherson’s knock on the window startled him enough that his hat fell off his head. What he hated about working with the inspector was her penchant for sneaking up on him. He didn’t care for it.
He straightened up in his seat and rolled down the window, its perfect electric purr reminding him of where he got the money from to keep his car well-maintained. McPherson already had her eyes on the three men, but asked Rafi anyway, “Anything interesting happening out here?”
Rafi pulled his hat back on, tipping it towards the trio. “The fine group of gora you see just arrived.”
“They hassle you yet?”
“They seem to be considering it much.” Rafi paused as the trio formed into the world’s smallest phalanx and headed towards the taxi. “And here they come now.”
McPherson watched the approach before saying, “I guess I’d better go say hello.”
Rafi smiled to himself and, despite the stiff wind coming off the river, rolled his window all the way down. He wanted to be able to hear everything.
Rafi had wrestled with his father and brothers a long time, first in Pakistan, then in the labor camps in Alhali, for fun, then competitiveness, then money. Since coming to the States he had fallen out of practice. He still knew enough to admire the way his boss managed to look casual walking over to the three men, but with her small feet balanced carefully along the ice of the parking lot, leveraged against any possible attack.
McPherson launched the first salvo. “Hello, brave Legionnaires!”
Rafi noticed this made no one happy. All three men stopped, Laurel and Hardy looking around as if they’d been spotted by a sniper. The one in front, if it were possible, intensified his glare. Rather than just stand there and look like an idiot, though, he at least had the good sense to close the remaining distance to McPherson. “You’re that stupid Jew who got Boswell in trouble,” was his charming introduction.
The inspector actually laughed, which wasn’t something Rafi heard often. “I’m a lot of things,” she replied, “but I’m not Abrahamic. In any way.” She bowed, head raised so she could keep eyes on Wayne. “I’m Aggie McPherson.” Coming up to stand straight, she added, “I think you’re going to need to remember it.”
“Fine, mongrel-lover. Have it your way. What are you doing here, McPherson?”
There was a pause, as if McPherson were actually considering the question. Then, “I don’t think that’s any of your business.”
“You’re here on Silver Shields’ business, which makes it my business.”
McPherson responded with a slowness that suggested she had forgotten something. “I’m sorry. Who are you?”
The man in front of Laurel and Hardy raised himself up, putting his full height against the diminutive inspector. “You know who I am.”
McPherson took time with her response, leaving the honesty of it an open question. “I haven’t the faintest idea.”
The man hitched his thumbs into his armpits, crossing his arms as he reevaluated Aggie. “I’m Randall Wayne. And I’m here to collect the rod Haddo hired you to find.”
“Well, Mr. Wayne, I’m not working for Haddo.” Rafi wished he could see McPherson’s face. He didn’t know from direct experience, but he bet she had a hell of a poker face.
“Don’t bullshit me,” was Randall’s reply. “He told me that he hired you.”
Rafi didn’t have to strain to hear McPherson’s reply, even over the wind. “No he didn’t. You’re lying.”
The man took a step closer, towering over the inspector. “What did you just say?”
Behind his sunglasses, Wayne’s surprised showed when McPherson took a step closer to him. “I said you’re lying. Haddo didn’t tell you that. In fact, he didn’t tell you the rod was missing.” McPherson shifted her gaze from Wayne, round to the other two, then back to the lead gora. “I’m not working for Haddo. So I know you’re lying about that. Which brings up all sorts of interesting questions, doesn’t it?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Oh, use your imagination Randall. Why would you think Haddo hired me? Why would you think I have the rod you’re talking about?” McPherson clucked in a manner that was unmistakeable in its condescension. “Would Haddo be interested in you being here, looking for the rod?”
The last question actually made Randall angrier, shoulders bunching, arms uncrossing so his hands had the freedom to curl into fists. Aggie might be able to handle herself, but Rafi found himself reaching for the door handle. If things were about to get violent, three against one odds weren’t anyone’s friend.
Randall raised a fist, finger pointed towards Aggie, when she cut off any impending threat with, “You really want to do that, Randall? Start a fight, get arrested on tribal land? You think three white supremacists are going to do well in the custody of local law enforcement?” Rafi could practically see the glow of McPherson’s smile reflect off the man’s sunglasses. “I’m sure Chief Veregge would order all three of you to get special attention.”
Randall may not look too bright, but Rafi conceded he must have a few brain cells. His pointed finger slowly curled back into his fist and his mouth closed. McPherson continued, “If you don’t want to be arrested on tribal land, do you want to know what happens next?”
Rafi could see Wayne clench his jaw, but couldn’t hear whatever response he muttered through clenched teeth. McPherson went on, “If you don’t want Haddo to find out about our little encounter here and start asking questions, you’re going to leave Nola Strong alone. And you’re going to stay out of my way.”
“In fact, I think the Slakterquay PD may start turning up clues on who committed those unexplained robberies for the last few months. Call it a hunch.
“Seems like there’s all sorts of trouble headed your way.” The smile reflected in Randall’s sunglasses increased a few candelas. “I’d disappear if I were you.”
Randall stepped forward, nearly bumping his chest into McPherson who was unmoved. His mouth worked around whatever threats he wanted to spit. Then Laurel stepped forward and a hand zipped out of the inspector’s pocket to touch him on his chest and the thin man collapsed. Randall cursed at him as Hardy went to pick him up, then stepped back from McPherson, muttering a threat so watered down it didn’t reach Rafi. The trio headed back to the SUV, Hardy helping a wheezing and limping Laurel, Randall stomping across the ice. As they went, McPherson waved at them as if she were giving a bon voyage to a departing vessel. “Enjoy Idaho boys!”
Rafi had his window rolled up by the time Aggie got back into the car. “Idaho?”
“Inside joke. But don’t ever go to Idaho.”
“OK,” Rafi started the car, not sure if he cared to know what that meant. “Where to?”
“Back to the office. Even with Randall and his little hit squad out of the way, I don’t think this is over yet.”
Rafi sighed as he watched the trio get back into the black SUV. The trip to the Bundhaus, now this run in with Wayne, who was, in addition to being a gandu, a gora supremacist and a dangerous, potentially violent criminal. Getting mixed up with the Silver Shields wasn’t something he was sure he wanted.
Deep in these thoughts, Rafi nearly swatted at his shoulder when he felt a light touch, prepared to assassinate whatever spider or bug had alighted there. Instead, he found himself staring at his boss’s pale hand, a fold of sizable bills between the carefully manicured fingers. He chuckled to himself and took it.
McPherson patted him on the shoulder then indicated the seatbelt. “Safety first.”
Rafi smiled, put on his seatbelt, and pointed the car back towards Slakterquay.
Select the play button above for an audio reading.
It was as silly sounding as it was serious: The Bounce Hypothesis. It wasn’t so much a competing idea to the Big Bang Theory, but a cyclical interpretation of its better known cousin, which the universe contracted and expanded across infinite time. Rather than the Big Bang being the source of our universe, it was the result of the previous universe’s collapse.
To humans, this made little difference. To Cosmologists, it was an idea that was largely discredited in the latter half of the 20th century. However, long into the 21st century Professor Hardwick continued to spend at least a day every semester teaching this interpretation of the universe’s cycle.
The professor was often teased by friends, ridiculed by rivals, and questioned by the Dean about wasting his students time in teaching a defunct theory. He always replied that it was good to explore competing ideas, even old ones, to illustrate the flow of academic thought.
That was a lie, though. Hardwick taught the idea because he wanted to believe it. If the universe always began and ended in the same way, it would move on for eternity, in endless renditions. And if it went on for eternity, eventually there might be a version where he would get to see his Susie again.
