The main peacekeeper HQ occupied a renovated mansion on a side street off the main market square in B-town’s Hightown district. The area was obviously alwar, obviously restored to its prewar glory after the violence of the last surge. All that fluted stonework, the panoply of statues carved into walls and sills and crowding under the eaves. A series of artfully placed teslas illuminated the doorway and windows and the big, plain-lettered sign over the door.
PEACEKEEPERS
It was dark otherwise on that street, and quiet. Rain spat in irregular gusts from the low-bellied clouds. Rattled on the windows, the old-style metal gutters. The main doors—double-wide, a good polymer copy of wood, inset with narrow windows—swung open on automated hinges. The hallway beyond looked less historical, more utilitarian-modern. Off-white tiled floor and walls, benches lining both sides. The reception desk sat at the far end of that hall in its own small office, separated behind a presumably impact-resistant window with a hinged slot at the bottom that looked wide enough to pass documents and tablets and ID chits through. That window was closed now, and latched from the interior. One officer on duty back there, who looked up as the doors opened.
“Officer,” said Iari. “Good evening.”
The officer’s (un)welcoming frown deepened into a scowl. The two shapes in his doorway—templar, vakar—were obvious, and troubling enough. But then those shapes came inside, trailing water on the tile. He stood as they approached. He had a little sidearm jacta, standard issue, toward which his hand drifted.
Iari walked past the empty benches lining the wall and leaned on the counter. The rain that had beaded up on her rig threaded into minuscule rivers and puddled on scuffed polymer surface.
“Lieutenant Iari, here on Knight-Marshal Tobin’s orders. The Aedis is assuming jurisdiction over case files Q-1745 and LN-B7. You were told we were coming to get them.”
The PK was having a hard time meeting her eyes. Too busy staring at Gaer. She took the time to study him. Human, somewhere in his thirties, with an arrogant chin and unlined eyes. Thin, wiry, uninspired blond hair. Eyes like chips of summer sky, when he did manage to look at her, almost as blue as Iffy’s. He seemed familiar, in that way people did sometimes. The glare he was giving her seemed more personal than just-met-you resentment.
That arrogant chin stuck out just a little bit farther. “Lieutenant,” he said, lifting his voice on the last syllable, turning it into a question. Of her name, or her worthiness to bear that particular rank. And then, grudgingly, “Ambassador.”
“Officer Arlendson,” Gaer said, smoothly and poisonously. “What a delight to see you again.”
Oh sweet sizzling Ptah. Now Iari recognized him. This was one of the PKs who’d pointed a jacta at Gaer and threatened to arrest him outside of Pinjat’s house.
Iari made a fist of her gauntlet and thumped it gently on the counter. “The files, Officer. Please.”
“A moment, Lieutenant. They’re in the back.” Arlendson made a great show of crossing the little office area as slowly as possible. He pressed his hand on the lock-pad to the very modern, metal door on the back wall and held it there long enough someone could’ve hand-drawn his palm-print, long past the panel turning green and beeping. The door opened as he lifted his hand. Quick, efficient mechanism. He dragged himself through. The door flicked shut again, and stayed that way.
Silence. No one came back. One minute, two, five.
Behind them, the main door swished open. A gust of wet autumn chilled the little vestibule, snaking around into the open visor and settling around the back of Iari’s neck.
She did not turn around. Pointedly.
Gaer twisted his head just far enough. He laughed through the sides of his plates. “I think Char’s losing patience.”
“I’m losing patience,” Iari said, not softly. She found the very obvious surveillance camera in the corner of the reception area, perched where it could see both sides of the desk, and stared up at it. “Officer Arlendson. The Aedis called ahead. You knew we were coming. Your prompt cooperation is appreciated.”
The camera stared back, one of those rounded black half-globes, shiny and blank as a neefa’s eye.
There was another modern, metal door to the left of the poly-alloy reception window, presumably for admitting visitors, arrestees, whoever might come in from the street and need access to the back offices. There wasn’t a keypad on this side of it.
Iari laid her palm flat against it. A web of hexwork flared, sizzled, produced a cascade of sparks. That would hurt on unshielded flesh. Barely registered on the battle-rig.
“There are surveillance devices,” Gaer said. “Decent hexwork. Not impossible to bypass.”
It was an offer. And it was tempting, if only because Iari was tired, hurt, and feeling more than a little out of sorts.
But, “Not starting a war with the PKs today.” She flicked a look at the camera. “Yet.”
Gaer hissed, which could be fine and was probably some variation of setat. He was unhappy because he’d left his tablet in Tobin’s office—at Tobin’s request, not from any loss of memory—and he seemed certain something dire would happen to it. Probably would. Keawe and Tobin would read it.
No one’s going to erase the data, Gaer. Most they’ll do is find you a linguist.
That’s my research! Oh, sss. You don’t understand.
True. Iari didn’t. What she did understand was the need to know, oh, now, who this false-Yinal’i’ljat was and how she fit in with murdered artificers, hacked riev, targeted Brood. And maybe—Ptah forfend, she didn’t want to think too closely about it—Corso, because Gaer said he’d sent him out looking for her, after the explosion at Tzcansi’s sister’s house, and hadn’t heard back.
A fact he’d dropped on her—much like that house—on the walk down, because he wouldn’t have said it in Tobin’s office, no, not where Keawe could hear and ask questions. So yeah. She was a little worried about Corso, whose silence since then might be nothing, and might be dead-in-a-gutter or Brood-food.
“You come out with those files,” Iari said, staring at the camera. “You do it now, or I ask the templar-initiate behind me there to open this door so we can assist you in finding them.”
The interior door reopened. Arlendson came back through, but he wasn’t alone. A woman followed him, alw, dark-skinned, light-haired, medium build. Sidearm jacta in a shoulder harness. Not uniformed, which meant she ranked higher than patrol officer. Some kind of commander, maybe. Iari made a tentative, positive judgment: the woman was straight-backed, neat, neither smile nor scowl on her face. She held a tablet embossed with the Peacekeeper logo and the B-town seal in both hands.
Very deliberately official. Very deliberately slow, like Arlendson had been, crossing the tiny office. She looked at Iari. At Gaer. Past both of them, at what was presumably Char and Luki standing at the end of the corridor, forcing the outer doors to stay open to the rain.
“Lieutenant,” said the woman. She had a B-town native’s accent, same as Iari. “I’m Chief Inspector Elin. B-town is under council jurisdiction. The Knight-Marshal sits on that council as a courtesy. I have already registered an official complaint. I’m repeating it now. This is another example of Aedian overreach in local affairs.”
Oh, blessed Elements. Relations between the PKs and the Aedis were supposed to be cordial. Elin’s attitude seemed personal. All right, fine, an exploding house and murder-arson looked high-profile, important; a chance for a chief inspector to prove herself, maybe, get a promotion, rise in the ranks, and here was some templar lieutenant coming in to take all the glory. Or maybe Elin just didn’t like templars. That happened. Iari wondered what Keawe would do with a recalcitrant PK. Probably put a gauntleted fist through that alloy window. Tobin, though, would stay calm.
So Iari swallowed temper and impatience and said: “Confederate law states the Aedis takes over all matters in which there is Brood activity. This is standard procedure, Chief Inspector.”
“Only the house-fire on Tenth Street involves alleged Brood activity. File Q-1745 concerns a murder, Lieutenant. Multiple witnesses report a riev in the area right before the attack.” Elin’s eyes flicked past Iari. “A large one.”
Oh, for the love of the Four. Iari held out her hand: gauntleted, rigged, palm scuffed with years of use and abuse. “May I please have those files?”
Arlendson stepped around his boss and opened the slot in the window. Held it like a voidspit doorman.
Elin didn’t look. Didn’t move. Her fingers tightened on the file. “I’m responsible for the safety of the citizens of B-town, Lieutenant.”
“So am I. And everyone else in the Confederation, if and when it comes to a surge. Chief Inspector, listen. I’m the templar who was buried under the house on Tenth Street. I am the reason the Aedis locked down the crime scene and kept your people out. And I am just as dedicated as you are to finding out what happened, who’s responsible, and making sure it doesn’t happen again.”
Elin blinked. Some of her tension drained out. Less stiff-knuckled gripping of tablets, fewer lines around eyes and mouth. “I see. And why were you there, Lieutenant?”
Elin didn’t expect an answer, clearly. Expected some evasive I am not at liberty to divulge that information. Maybe the question was just an investigative reflex; Elin was an inspector, and it had to be all kinds of maddening to have questions with no answers, no hope of answers, and some battle-rigged templar coming in to take all her work.
But the asking, Iari thought—that seemed like, if not an offering, then an opening. A willingness to talk. So: “I was there because I was looking for a woman named Tzcansi. Local ganglord. Small time. You know her?”
Elin laughed, dry as dust. “Not so small time. Tzcansi had business all over B-town. Fingers everywhere. A little black market dealing, a little enforcement. Never loud. Never messy.”
“Never? There’s a district in Lowtown says otherwise. Businesses burned out. People gone missing.”
“You mean that fire in the public house in Ward Seven?”
“You do know about that.”
“It wasn’t my case, and it’s not my district, but yes, I know about it.” Elin pursed her lips. “Organized crime isn’t something the Aedis usually bothers with, unless it’s interstellar operations. We don’t have anyone on all of Tanis who’s that connected. Certainly not Tzcansi. So what’s the Aedis’s interest?”
“This isn’t about organized crime. It’s about Brood. That burned-out tavern had Brood nesting in the back room. I doubt Tzcansi didn’t know about them. We wanted to ask her, but then she turned up dead.”
Elin’s brows rose. “Tzcansi’s dead?”
“She knew that already,” Gaer murmured. Barely a breath, meant to carry as far as Iari’s ears and no further.
Huh. All right. “Thought you knew that.”
Elin blinked. Her throat worked around a swallow, as if she had glass in her throat. “No, I did not.”
“Sss.” Gaer drifted close to Iari’s shoulder. Brought that whiff of burned sugar, and a slightly louder, “That’s a lie. And she’s worried about something. Some . . . one? A certain P.R.I.S. maybe?”
Good thing Elin couldn’t shoot jacta bolts from her eyes—at Gaer, at Iari. “What did he tell you?”
“What did who tell me?”
Elin pressed her lips flat. “Nothing. Never mind. If that’s all, Lieutenant.” She pushed the file through the slot in the window: unfolded, stiff, screen off. “Here are your files.”
Iari took a breath. Let it go slowly as she picked up the tablet. “Thank you.” She woke the screen and flicked through the pages. Wasn’t too hard to find Yinal’i’ljat’s name. Chief witness, interview as yet unconducted, current address and contact information—
Ptah’s flaming left nut. “This isn’t complete.”
The Chief Inspector had begun to turn away. She froze, with the promptness of the guilty. She stared resolutely at the wall. “Of course it is.”
“Yinal’i’ljat. The murdered artificer’s cousin. Your primary witness? There’s no contact information here.”
Elin controlled the flinch. Arlendson didn’t.
Gaer drifted close to Iari’s shoulder. Brought that whiff of hot metal, and a slightly louder, “Apprehension. Recognition. Guilt. That’s interesting.”
The inspector puffed up like an affronted cat. “I don’t know how you think you know that, Ambassador, but—”
“He’s an arithmancer, and he’s reading your aura.”
Elin recoiled. “Get out.”
Iari put on her best I’m rational mask. “I can’t leave without information about Yinal’i’ljat, Inspector. I think you know that. Last known address, comm channel, anything you might have. This woman is linked to both cases.”
“You’re linked to both cases,” Elin snapped. “That vakar is, too. You have your files, Lieutenant. Everything pertaining to the investigations the Knight-Marshal requested.”
Iari gathered up the frayed remains of her patience. “I can file an official request, and we can waste time, or you can help me now and maybe save some of those B-town lives we’re both responsible for.”
Behind her, behind Gaer, the wind gusted, as if Hrok, too, was exasperated. And then no more wind, and a faint vibration through the floor tiles, as two large, heavy shapes—riev and battle-rig, more or less equally massive—came all the way inside. Rain rattled on the door like a tossed fistful of pebbles. Iari stared at the alloy window until she could make out the faint reflection of Char and Luki behind her.
“Problem, Lieutenant?” Luki asked, mildly enough.
Char said nothing. Char wouldn’t have to.
Iari blinked her focus back through the window. Elin remained adamantly, furiously unimpressed. Arlendson, however, looked nervous. That chin-jutting arrogance had given way to lip-nibbling. Maybe he knew something about the missing information. Or maybe it was just the Aedian battle-rigs, the Aedian sigils, the recollection of what templars were designed to fight. And, yeah, probably Char.
Iari drilled her stare into Arlendson. “Anything you can add, Officer, would be appreciated.”
Arlendson coughed. He slid an apologetic glance at Elin. “We had a last known address for Yinal’i’ljat, Lieutenant, and a comm-sign, but there was a fire at her hotel. We don’t know where she is now. Comms aren’t responding.”
“Another fire?”
Elin cut Arlendson off. “There was no sign of Brood, and no fatalities. You want access to that file, Lieutenant, you go make your official requests.”
“That’s also not totally true,” Gaer said. “She’s not sure no one died. She’s afraid someone did. That’s the source of her guilt.”
Elin stared at Gaer, incredulous and indignant. “All right. There were no confirmed fatalities at the hotel. But we haven’t been able to contact everyone registered there. This Yinal’i’ljat is one of those missing persons.”
Gaer’s optic flashed like a mirror in sunlight. “There’s someone else missing, too.”
And oh, Iari wanted to ask who, was it Corso, was this straight-backed Chief Inspector feeding information to a P.R.I.S. on the side, maybe for bribes, maybe for friendship or personal reasons or whatever. But if it wasn’t, name Corso to this woman and she’d chase him down, find him out. Jack up all his clandestine business.
If he wasn’t already dead somewhere, he wouldn’t thank her for that.
So Iari chewed her worry back down, swallowed it. Waited until it hit her gut like a hailstone and sat.
“Thank you,” she said. “Now, please. We’ll need the address.”