him. Just one wrecked train and a lot of
scared citizens."
"This is why you were late? Why I had to fight off the
whole stinking pile of them myself? Your ... channels were interfered
with?"
"Yeah, that's part of it. These things go out,
sometimes. Bad timing."
"Terrible timing. The worst timing." I leaned
back in my seat and cursed as my articulated sheath rattled against some gear,
knocking it to the ground. "Can we go somewhere, already? Can we just ...
just turn that siren on and let's go?"
"Where are we supposed to-"
"Go," I howled, then leaned forward and slapped
the siren on. The rest of the patrol piled into the wagon and hauled the doors
shut. We sat there in the wailing of the siren, the Justicar and I looking
daggers at each other. Finally, he sighed and turned to the driver.
"Get us to the Harrington Square station. We'll check
in with the land line there, see where we should deploy."
The wagon lurched forward.
I smiled at the Justicar. "It's a good start, sir. A
good start."
"Glad you're happy with it."
"Happy enough. Your name's Arron, right?"
"Owen," he said.
"Owen. You're doing fine, Owen. Alexander would be
very proud."
"To hell with that," he said, then twisted back
to the driver. "And turn that damn siren off."
he station was a squat brick
building, sprouting a crown of heavy communication wires that crisscrossed the
city like a spider's web. Inside it was hot and crowded, everything painted a
dull, chipped white, the paint applied sloppily and thick. The air smelled like
kitchen cleaner.
We checked in with Owen's patrol coordinator and were told
there was no news. We checked in with headquarters. No news. A runner came from
the Strength, specifically to tell us that there was no news.
The Fratriarch of the Cult of Morgan was missing, and no
one knew anything more than that. I gave my interview to one of the
representatives from the palace of Alexander, a real efficient-looking guy in a
suit who asked brief questions and got brief answers. When we were done he
folded up his notes and walked out of the station. Everyone seemed relieved
when he was gone.
The city was busy enough, that's for sure. The printsheets
were stuttering out of the vendors splashed with big, black letters: FRATRIARCH
OF MORGAN KIDNAPPED. Every time I got up to pace to the door, one of the
whiteshirts would put a hand on my shoulder to say that their boys were on the
case, they had people working leads, that it was best if I stayed put and let
them do their work. I felt caged. I felt like those Amonites in the Library
Desolate must feel, only I hadn't signed up for it. It was well past noon when
I gave up being patient and kind, and decided to go ahead and be a Paladin of
Morgan. It was my nature.
"I'm going," I told Owen as I marched to the door
for the fifth time that hour. They had tried to take my sword and bully when I
got there. They settled for the bullets on my belt, and a promise not to draw
steel. More for their own good, I think. Owen followed me to the guard station
and tapped his foot while I checked out the ammo. I examined the bullets. All
in order.
"You can't do any good," he said. "We've got
people. Let them do their thing."
"What thing are they doing?" I asked.
"Interviewing people. Searching the scene of the
crime."
"Scene of the crime. Like someone's precious bike was
stolen." I slapped the cylinder shut, opened it again, spun it, slapped it
shut. Nervous. "This isn't stolen property. This isn't even a murder. It's
an act of war, Justicar."
"We don't know that. Honestly, we don't know much of
anything. This stuff takes time, Eva."
"Time. Right. We're just awash with time. Probably a
whole twenty-four hours before they kill him, right? Isn't that what the
statistics say?"
"For a normal kidnapping, yes. But this isn't a normal
kidnapping-"
"That's what I've been saying! Brother-damn hell,
Justicar, we should be turning this city inside out."
"There's ... we don't want to upset the
populace."
scared citizens."
"This is why you were late? Why I had to fight off the
whole stinking pile of them myself? Your ... channels were interfered
with?"
"Yeah, that's part of it. These things go out,
sometimes. Bad timing."
"Terrible timing. The worst timing." I leaned
back in my seat and cursed as my articulated sheath rattled against some gear,
knocking it to the ground. "Can we go somewhere, already? Can we just ...
just turn that siren on and let's go?"
"Where are we supposed to-"
"Go," I howled, then leaned forward and slapped
the siren on. The rest of the patrol piled into the wagon and hauled the doors
shut. We sat there in the wailing of the siren, the Justicar and I looking
daggers at each other. Finally, he sighed and turned to the driver.
"Get us to the Harrington Square station. We'll check
in with the land line there, see where we should deploy."
The wagon lurched forward.
I smiled at the Justicar. "It's a good start, sir. A
good start."
"Glad you're happy with it."
"Happy enough. Your name's Arron, right?"
"Owen," he said.
"Owen. You're doing fine, Owen. Alexander would be
very proud."
"To hell with that," he said, then twisted back
to the driver. "And turn that damn siren off."
he station was a squat brick
building, sprouting a crown of heavy communication wires that crisscrossed the
city like a spider's web. Inside it was hot and crowded, everything painted a
dull, chipped white, the paint applied sloppily and thick. The air smelled like
kitchen cleaner.
We checked in with Owen's patrol coordinator and were told
there was no news. We checked in with headquarters. No news. A runner came from
the Strength, specifically to tell us that there was no news.
The Fratriarch of the Cult of Morgan was missing, and no
one knew anything more than that. I gave my interview to one of the
representatives from the palace of Alexander, a real efficient-looking guy in a
suit who asked brief questions and got brief answers. When we were done he
folded up his notes and walked out of the station. Everyone seemed relieved
when he was gone.
The city was busy enough, that's for sure. The printsheets
were stuttering out of the vendors splashed with big, black letters: FRATRIARCH
OF MORGAN KIDNAPPED. Every time I got up to pace to the door, one of the
whiteshirts would put a hand on my shoulder to say that their boys were on the
case, they had people working leads, that it was best if I stayed put and let
them do their work. I felt caged. I felt like those Amonites in the Library
Desolate must feel, only I hadn't signed up for it. It was well past noon when
I gave up being patient and kind, and decided to go ahead and be a Paladin of
Morgan. It was my nature.
"I'm going," I told Owen as I marched to the door
for the fifth time that hour. They had tried to take my sword and bully when I
got there. They settled for the bullets on my belt, and a promise not to draw
steel. More for their own good, I think. Owen followed me to the guard station
and tapped his foot while I checked out the ammo. I examined the bullets. All
in order.
"You can't do any good," he said. "We've got
people. Let them do their thing."
"What thing are they doing?" I asked.
"Interviewing people. Searching the scene of the
crime."
"Scene of the crime. Like someone's precious bike was
stolen." I slapped the cylinder shut, opened it again, spun it, slapped it
shut. Nervous. "This isn't stolen property. This isn't even a murder. It's
an act of war, Justicar."
"We don't know that. Honestly, we don't know much of
anything. This stuff takes time, Eva."
"Time. Right. We're just awash with time. Probably a
whole twenty-four hours before they kill him, right? Isn't that what the
statistics say?"
"For a normal kidnapping, yes. But this isn't a normal
kidnapping-"
"That's what I've been saying! Brother-damn hell,
Justicar, we should be turning this city inside out."
"There's ... we don't want to upset the
populace."
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