He looked back to the den, to the bunch of officers milling
about desks and talking into clockgeists. "We don't want to scare
anyone."
I sighed, like a steam engine bleeding off pressure.
"I'm going out."
"You can't," he said, trying not to sound timid.
Well. Trying to sound forceful, I guess.
"I can't."
"There are orders. I was trying to tell you, but ...
it's complicated. We're supposed to keep you here."
"Whose orders?" I asked, twisting the grip of my
bullistic in cold, sweaty hands.
"From the top office. From the god himself."
"Alexander?"
He nodded. "There have been threats. Warnings.
Someone's saying they're going to kill off the Cult of Morgan."
"Someone," I said. "Someone said that. And
you're keeping me here, keeping me safe."
Again, the nod. "Got word just after we reported in.
The Strength of Morgan is on lockdown. Most of our men are focused on that, and
finding out who made the threat."
"And keeping Alexander safe, no doubt. People start
bumping off his brother's Cult, can't be long before they come for him."
Owen looked down and shrugged. "Security measures have
been taken. Tightened. Sure, we're stepping up protection."
"Between guarding Alexander's precious white ass and
keeping the Strength on lockdown ... Owen, do you have anyone looking for the
Fratriarch?"
"We're prioritizing resources, Eva. We have to. There
are people looking, sure, but-"
I laughed, an angry laugh that cut the room to silence. He
stood there looking at me, gaping, face white as his sloppy white desk. "I
like the part where you were going to keep me here, Justicar," I said,
shaking my head. "That's good."
I turned and kicked the door open, splintering the lock
some idiot had installed. The street beyond was mostly empty. People were home
by now, getting ready for dinner. The first shades of dusk were starting to
dust the city in gray.
"That's real good," I said, and walked out into
the city to find the old man.
Owen took some liberties with his orders, modifying
"keep her in the station" to "try to keep up with her," and
came along. Members of his patrol, too, though not the whole group. I had the
feeling that frantic calls were being made back at the station. Not my problem.
"Where are we going?" he asked after we had
walked the first five blocks at a brisk pace. These guys were used to rolling
around in that stubby battle wagon of theirs. "I mean, are you following
some kind of plan, or are we just going to kick in doors until we find your
guy?"
"You guys could do with some door-kicking practice,"
I said. Honestly, I didn't have a plan. I just didn't like the idea of sitting
on my hands. Didn't want to admit that to these whiteshirts, though. I ambled
to a halt and pretended to fuss with the hang of my holster while I thought
about where we were and where we might be going. The patrol stood around me,
looking nervously at the dark windows and shadowy alleys.
"You don't have a plan, do you?" Owen asked.
"I have a sense of direction," I answered,
folding my arms across my chest. "A sense of purpose. And, as you've
noted, I have some experience kicking in doors."
"But no plan," he said.
I grimaced. "Not yet. I prefer to develop these things
organically. That way I don't have to fight my own presumptions when the
situation changes."
"Yeah," he said. "Don't think, just
jump."
"Look, if you'd rather be back at your desk, I'm not
keeping you here."
"Yeah."
We smoldered at each other, then he shook his head and
sighed.
"We have to start somewhere. What was the first
strange thing you noticed about that fight?"
"That we were going to the Library Desolate. That we
were talking to Amonites. That it was the Fratriarch doing all this, rather
than some attendant or man-at-arms."
"Or woman-at-arms," Owen said. His patrol was
getting antsy. I was getting antsy.
"Don't be smart. It was a weird bit of business."
"I agree," he said, "but I don't think
that'll help us find your man. Unless what he was doing might have
about desks and talking into clockgeists. "We don't want to scare
anyone."
I sighed, like a steam engine bleeding off pressure.
"I'm going out."
"You can't," he said, trying not to sound timid.
Well. Trying to sound forceful, I guess.
"I can't."
"There are orders. I was trying to tell you, but ...
it's complicated. We're supposed to keep you here."
"Whose orders?" I asked, twisting the grip of my
bullistic in cold, sweaty hands.
"From the top office. From the god himself."
"Alexander?"
He nodded. "There have been threats. Warnings.
Someone's saying they're going to kill off the Cult of Morgan."
"Someone," I said. "Someone said that. And
you're keeping me here, keeping me safe."
Again, the nod. "Got word just after we reported in.
The Strength of Morgan is on lockdown. Most of our men are focused on that, and
finding out who made the threat."
"And keeping Alexander safe, no doubt. People start
bumping off his brother's Cult, can't be long before they come for him."
Owen looked down and shrugged. "Security measures have
been taken. Tightened. Sure, we're stepping up protection."
"Between guarding Alexander's precious white ass and
keeping the Strength on lockdown ... Owen, do you have anyone looking for the
Fratriarch?"
"We're prioritizing resources, Eva. We have to. There
are people looking, sure, but-"
I laughed, an angry laugh that cut the room to silence. He
stood there looking at me, gaping, face white as his sloppy white desk. "I
like the part where you were going to keep me here, Justicar," I said,
shaking my head. "That's good."
I turned and kicked the door open, splintering the lock
some idiot had installed. The street beyond was mostly empty. People were home
by now, getting ready for dinner. The first shades of dusk were starting to
dust the city in gray.
"That's real good," I said, and walked out into
the city to find the old man.
Owen took some liberties with his orders, modifying
"keep her in the station" to "try to keep up with her," and
came along. Members of his patrol, too, though not the whole group. I had the
feeling that frantic calls were being made back at the station. Not my problem.
"Where are we going?" he asked after we had
walked the first five blocks at a brisk pace. These guys were used to rolling
around in that stubby battle wagon of theirs. "I mean, are you following
some kind of plan, or are we just going to kick in doors until we find your
guy?"
"You guys could do with some door-kicking practice,"
I said. Honestly, I didn't have a plan. I just didn't like the idea of sitting
on my hands. Didn't want to admit that to these whiteshirts, though. I ambled
to a halt and pretended to fuss with the hang of my holster while I thought
about where we were and where we might be going. The patrol stood around me,
looking nervously at the dark windows and shadowy alleys.
"You don't have a plan, do you?" Owen asked.
"I have a sense of direction," I answered,
folding my arms across my chest. "A sense of purpose. And, as you've
noted, I have some experience kicking in doors."
"But no plan," he said.
I grimaced. "Not yet. I prefer to develop these things
organically. That way I don't have to fight my own presumptions when the
situation changes."
"Yeah," he said. "Don't think, just
jump."
"Look, if you'd rather be back at your desk, I'm not
keeping you here."
"Yeah."
We smoldered at each other, then he shook his head and
sighed.
"We have to start somewhere. What was the first
strange thing you noticed about that fight?"
"That we were going to the Library Desolate. That we
were talking to Amonites. That it was the Fratriarch doing all this, rather
than some attendant or man-at-arms."
"Or woman-at-arms," Owen said. His patrol was
getting antsy. I was getting antsy.
"Don't be smart. It was a weird bit of business."
"I agree," he said, "but I don't think
that'll help us find your man. Unless what he was doing might have
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