Painted devils, p.20
Painted Devils, page 20
“It stands for the eyes of Justice.” His voice takes on the brutally earnest tone I remember from Minkja, when we sat by a fire and he told me his dream of holding the powerful to account. “Justice sees the entire story. There are no shadows to exploit. And that’s what I want, to bring the whole truth to light in every case, not just what’s convenient.”
I can’t say what I’m thinking; I can’t ruin this for him. What I see in a lantern isn’t what he sees, and that’s that.
Instead, I force humor into my voice. “I have terrible news about who you’re courting.”
Emeric laughs then, and twists back around, only to draw me to the bedroll we share in the wagon. “I made my bed, Queen of Roses,” he says wickedly, flicking a hand. The wagon’s door closes, the curtains drawing shut with a silvery glimmer as he blows out the candle just beyond the pillow. “I’m more than happy to lie in it.”
* * *
“All right,” Helga Ros says as she emerges from our Rammelbeck inn the next afternoon, “let’s go find more of my horrible brothers.”
I stand up from the bench by the inn door, where I’ve been enjoying the spring sunshine and secretly scoping out the flower boxes. We got out of Dänwik before the red morning glories could raise questions, but I’d rather not see how long we can push it. “They have room for everyone?”
Helga snorts. “This place is massive. Of course they have room.”
She’s not wrong. Rammelbeck spills down a mountainside like a landslide, and the mining town it used to be still shows in its rough edges. The higher the lanes climb, the rougher those edges get. But there was a time when Rammelbeck united with Welkenrode, its posh sibling on the opposite riverbank, to serve as the empire’s capital for a dynasty or two. Our sprawling inn, the Jolly Magistrate, seems to be a relic from those days. Even though it’s on the Rammelbeck side of the river, it takes up a long stretch of the street, with multiple courtyards and a large-enough stable to put up the caravan’s mules.
When we arrived, Mathilde and Vikram split off to get Mathilde to her family before the Week of Barley festivities start. Kirkling insisted on checking in at the local prefect outpost to see if it had lodgings available— and on dragging Ambroszia and a slightly annoyed Emeric with her. That left Helga and me to carry on with the caravan and hope the inn Bajeri picked had room. I should have known better than to second-guess him.
“Let’s start with Erwin,” Helga says, adjusting the strap of her satchel with a wary eye to passersby. “Erwin and Dieter are twins, so you know what to expect. Henrik is across the river and the nicest of the lot, so we should save him for last, and Ozkar’s … Well, let’s just get Erwin first.”
It’s a quick walk to the riverside, but it takes longer to make it to the docks, where Erwin should be working. The Trench River runs deep and swift, branching from the Ilsza back in Hagendorn and threading all the way to the Night Sea in the north. It also ran lamentably narrow until the days of the imperial capital demanded wider banks; now the man-made canal walls accommodate all but the greatest of trade ships and barges. Rammelbeck and Welkenrode may no longer be the seat of imperial power, but controlling Almandy’s greatest inland port is a decent consolation prize.
The Trench’s waters are oddly deserted, though, especially for a day with clear skies and a calm current. Even more ominous: The closer we get to the shipping docks, the more Helga and I have to circumvent larger and larger crowds.
By the time we reach the docks, the problem is self-evident. A long cargo barge has somehow drifted askew, wedged diagonally across the entire width of the Trench. The words Grace Unending are painted in blocky white letters across the stern. It’s large enough to make ants of the various crews working to dislodge it, and from the number of ships piling up downriver, I’d say it’s been there at least a day.
“I swear to Brunne,” Helga mutters under her breath, “if Erwin had anything to do with this…”
That seems improbable to me. “I thought you said he was a dockworker.”
“I never said he was a good one.” She leads us to the wharf, where teams of longshoremen are sitting around idly grumbling, and calls out, “Erwin Ros? Anyone seen Erwin Ros?”
More than a handful of dockworkers spit on the ground, and they all stay silent. Maybe Helga’s theory isn’t that outlandish after all. We follow a trail of jabbed thumbs and breadcrumb mutters past four different piers until we get a solid answer.
“Erwin’s not reported for work today,” grunts a burly woman leaning against a stack of crates. “But that usually means he’s gone and blown his wages in the Sünderweg.”
“Not just his wages, boss,” cracks another longshoreman with a smirk. “He was on a proper tear last night.” His face falls. “You’re neither of you his wife, aye?”
“No,” Helga says vehemently. “Sister, here on family business. Still don’t want to hear about his bedtime adventures.”
From context clues (chief among them the fact that Sünderweg means “way of sinners”), I feel like I’m getting a decent grasp on the situation. “Does he have a favorite brothel?”
“Think he’s sweet on one of the mietlingen at the Green Sleeve,” Boss muses, rubbing her chin.
The longshoreman who piped up does so again. “Aye, but last I saw him, he was headed into Madame Treasury’s.” He shakes his head. “Wouldn’t be the first time some lout’s gotten into trouble there.”
“Thank you. One more question.” Helga gestures to the Grace Unending, still wedged across the breadth of the Trench behind us. “Did Erwin do that?”
Boss barks a laugh. “Your brother may not be the sharpest mind in the empire, but no. High winds and a new hand at the helm, that’s what I heard.”
I don’t miss the doubtful looks traded behind her back. I file that away for later.
“We’ll send him down here if we find him,” I lie.
“Don’t bother.” Boss sighs. “Until that damn barge is put to rights, whole port’s shut down.”
I wait until Helga and I have climbed up the bank to the street again, then ask under my breath, “So he definitely had something to do with it, right?”
“Told you so,” Helga says dourly. She turns to the nearest bystander gawking at the Grace Unending. “Excuse me, how do you get to the Sünderweg from here?”
“Keep walking along the river,” the man starts as he turns, only to pause as he sees us two. Sharpness darts through his face like the glint of steel between sheath and hilt. He swallows, touching his collar, where there’s a faint pucker of something below the shirt. “Sorry, I, er. Anyway. Follow the river north until you hit the ropewalks, then you’ll see it.”
“Thanks,” Helga says stiffly. We head north. After a minute of walking, she grits from the side of her mouth, “Is he following us?”
In answer, I twist to dig in the satchel at my side and don a frown as if hunting an elusive item. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the dark blond curls of the man we just spoke to trailing at a distance. “Yes.”
“Scheit. I’m pretty sure I’ve seen him in Hagendorn. Is he the only one?”
“Hold up a second.” I stop and keep rooting around as Helga obliges. Four people also come to an abrupt halt behind us, including the blond man. I pretend to find a little jar of balm in my satchel and start walking again. “Four.”
“Scheit-scheiter-scheiten. All right, I guess we’re going to Ozkar’s first. His workshop’s on the way to the ropewalks.” Helga starts to pick up the pace.
I grab her elbow and wind my arm through hers, deliberately dragging. “Take it from someone who’s made a lot of escapes,” I say, terse. “There’s one rule to getting out intact, and that rule is don’t panic. Is Ozkar’s workshop on this street?”
“I—I don’t know, it’s been a while. No. No, you can see the river only from the second floor. There’s an apothecary on the street corner.”
I keep an iron grip on Helga. “They think we’re going all the way to the Sünderweg and that we don’t know we’re being followed. If we run, we give away both of those. So we keep walking, and when we get to the apothecary’s corner, we’ll sprint the rest of the way to the workshop. If we’re lucky, they won’t catch up fast enough to see us go in.”
Helga huffs through her nose, still taut. “You are good at this.”
“There’s a reason it took a, well, an Emeric to catch me.” I add, a bit self-consciously, “And even then, I was distracted with turning into jewels at the time.”
“That’s fair.” Helga sneaks a look. “They’re getting closer.”
“Good for them,” I say through clenched teeth. I’m putting on a stoic show for Helga, but my scars give a twinge as a prickle runs up my back. “Focus on looking for the apothecary.”
Despite my calm, Helga’s voice is pitching higher. “Do you have a way to—to call your prefect boy?”
“First of all: He is not my boy, he is a strong, independent young protractor,” I reply tartly. “Second: We can handle this on our own. And third: I do not.”
Helga tenses like she’s about to bolt.
I tighten my grip. “Are you sure you can beat them to Ozkar’s from here? Because once you run, they run.”
“They’re going to catch up—”
“Whatever they want, if they could do it in broad daylight with witnesses, they would have already. Do you see the apothecary yet?”
“I…” Helga cranes her neck a bit too obviously for my preferences. “I think it’s coming up on the left. Green awning.”
I spot the green canvas not far ahead, then scan the oncoming traffic. A bitter-looking nag is pulling a cart laden with pickle barrels down the street toward us. “We’re going to cut in front of that cart at the last possible second, got it?” Helga nods. I wait, biting my lip, until we’re lined up just so, and then—“Go.”
Startled shouts follow us across the street as we dash in front of the cart. The horse lets out a decaying whinny and shies to the side, making the cart tilt as its swearing driver grabs on to the bench for dear life. For a moment, the street behind us is nothing but chaos and yelling.
And we need that moment, because Helga has slowed her run, staring at a nearby storefront advertising a streetwitch’s services. Then she blanches. “Oh, damn, that’s right, Jakob said he moved over to Welkenrode—”
I see the feet of our pursuers as they try to find a route through the fracas, and make an executive decision. “Doesn’t matter.” I shove Helga into the shop and follow, whipping the door shut behind us.
A rather pinched-looking fellow looks up from the counter, wide-eyed. “Liebeskind’s Pest Control, how can I help you?”
“Uh,” says Helga.
I grab the back of her shirt and tug until she’s out of sight of the storefront windows. There’s a tattoo of footfalls, followed by confused, disgruntled accusations.
“We’re looking for Ozkar Ros,” I tell the man, partially to distract from the muffled voices outside.
His face falls. “Oh. Of course you are. Here, I’ll write down his new address.”
The voices are getting quieter, but I want to buy us more time. Besides, the least we can do is patronize our involuntary harbor. “Aaaand Helga here is looking for a cure for her bed lice.”
“I—” Helga starts. I jab her with an elbow. She scowls at me, then finishes: “… would really appreciate that, yes.”
“I just made a fresh batch today!” Liebeskind (I presume) brightens considerably as he turns to a wall of jars; the ingredients range from garden variety to deeply troubling. “Mine’s the best in town, uses an extract from dead lice…”
He keeps chattering to a begrudgingly intrigued Helga. It’s in the nick of time: A shadow has fallen over the storefront windows. A very cautious look tells me it’s the blond man peering through the glass.
I blink. For a moment, I could have sworn I saw a strange—familiar?—glimmer of gold. But it’s gone in a trice, and Blondie, too, seems inclined to leave, turning away.
By some miracle, he doesn’t notice us all but pressed against the door, too busy thumbing a polished-bone amulet that I’m sure was beneath his shirt before. For a split second, I see the amulet’s face—and go cold.
I’ve seen that mark before. I see it nearly every night.
Blood-red paint is smeared over the bone, making the crude shape of the hand of the Scarlet Maiden.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
A PREFECT'S TIME
Helga and I don’t make it back to our inn, the Jolly Magistrate, until just after dark has fallen. While Helga managed well enough in Dänwik, I’m starting to realize that larger cities aren’t her forte. Part of the reason we’re so late is that she insisted on going to the nearest guard post. When that turned out to be a modest brick station right next to the Sünderweg with but a lone guardswoman puffing away on a pungent pipe at the front desk, I knew the best we’d get would be smoke in our faces. Helga, however, tried to file a report (declined), then elected to wait until enough guards returned from their rounds to escort us to the inn.
As one might suspect, the guards at this station take specific duties very seriously, such as preventing any outbreaks of embarrassing pests or sensitive diseases. This naturally requires them to spend quite a lot of time inspecting the brothels along the Sünderweg. Just about all of their time on duty, in fact—despite Rammelbeck having its own designated inspectors for this very purpose.
Eventually Helga accepted that we weren’t getting an escort, but by then it was already sunset. And the rest of the reason we’re so late is because she wanted to avoid walking along the river, which actually wasn’t a terrible idea, except it meant finding our way back through Rammelbeck’s labyrinth of side streets.
As we enter the Jolly Magistrate’s main courtyard, I hear chair legs scraping on flagstone off to the right. Emeric bursts from a little waiting area, his face taut. “Are you all right? I thought you’d be back hours ago.”
“There were some, uh, complications,” I start, before a harsh laugh cuts me off.
Kirkling—I don’t use this word lightly—slinks out of the same waiting area. “You mean you were concocting some new racket.”
“We were chased by cultists,” Helga snaps, “and the local guard was no help, and we had to figure out how to get back by a different route.”
“Cultists?” Emeric puts a hand on my arm.
“I don’t buy it,” Kirkling says a little too loudly, moving even closer. I catch a faint whiff of brandtwein on her breath. “You really thought I wouldn’t notice that Saint Willehalm’s goblet magically returned to the library? How the guards in Dänwik were looking for a thief who left a red penny behind? And now you’re making up stories about cultists—what kind of fool do you take me for?”
It’s been a long day, and I am desperate for a plate of spätzle and a bath, and all in all that means I am pretty much done with Kirkling.
“The kind who’s so obsessed with being a pain in my ass that she can’t see she’s preaching out her own,” I spit back, “so yes, I am surprised you noticed. Give yourself a star. Now, if you’ll excuse us, the adults are having a conversation.”
Kirkling reels back. I’m pretty sure she’s about to throw a punch (which I would find respectable, in all honesty).
Emeric seems to get that sense, too, because he swivels to subtly place himself between the two of us. “Let’s just get some dinner—”
“Arrest her,” Kirkling barks.
Emeric pauses. “Coming back late is not a crime,” he says carefully, “and neither is being impolite—”
“She stole an artifact from royalty, damn you, and she’s clearly planning some new scam.” Kirkling just looks angrier. “She’s only free because of your bias. If you weren’t utterly besotted, you’d have already done your duty.”
I know the nerve she’s trying to hit with Emeric, but she just dropped a load of bricks on the absolute wrong one. Emeric draws himself up. I’ve only ever seen him this icily angry once: when I told him how the von Falbirgs expected me to bear the worst of Adalbrecht for them.
“My duty,” he says frostily, “is to serve Justice. If you think Justice will be served by opening a new case into how a prince-elector stole a holy relic, exploited our legal system to reduce it to a trophy, and turned a critical public archive into a hazard so deadly, its patron saint had to ask a civilian for intervention, then I will be happy to do so—after we have resolved the Scarlet Maiden case. In the interim, if my bias means an innocent person stays out of jail, I believe that serves Justice far better than the alternative. If I’m wrong, on my head be it.”
And without another word, he threads an arm through mine and leads me into the inn, leaving a red-faced Kirkling in our wake.
Helga follows a moment after. “I take it you’re staying here?”
“Yes, if there’s room,” Emeric answers. “The local outpost’s dormitories are all spoken for. Something about a shipping-fraud case.”
“I figured you’d rather stay with Vanja.” There’s a flicker of humor under the weariness in Helga’s voice. “I’m going to go take a bath and sleep for a day. Tell the nice people at the front desk that you’re staying in the room for two under ‘Helga Ros.’”
She disappears remarkably quickly for someone who’s as tired as I am. It isn’t until halfway through checking in that I start seeing hints of why. The clerk breaks into a bright smile when she finds the reservation. “Of course! We’ve already had your luggage sent up. Will you be taking dinner down in our tavern or in your room?”
Emeric looks to me. “I think I want to stay in tonight,” I say.
The clerk winks. “Understood. I’ll let our cook know to send up the special. Now, if you’ll follow me…”
She leads us up not one but two flights of stairs; it gets considerably quieter the higher we go. “We’re very proud of this suite,” the clerk says peppily. “You’ll find our finest in-room bath, with the latest in water-heating enchantments, and a variety of aromatic tinctures and lotions.”
