Forty-one days after the imperial ambassador’s murder.

Undersurface, Thi district, Radaar, 11:45 am.

The narrow pathways through stench and squalor eventually yielded to open spaces. Home to all sorts of entertainment, the wide street meandered across the northwestern part of West Island all the way to Crook’s Funnel, the pass between West and North. Although the place likely bustled with activity during nighttime, even now the establishments were far from empty: patrons who favoured daylight milled about the street, heads swivelling from one building to the next.

Aside from those tempted by pleasure and fun, there was a considerable amount of gang activity. Members of Rising Sun patrolled the area with paranoid vigilance, rifle in hand, and with numbers great enough to quell trouble within the first two minutes.

“I wasn’t aware guns and threatening looks were good for business in entertainment districts,” Devan said, turning away from a nearby knot of gang members.

“There’s some gang war going on,” Raid said offhandedly. “Mostly up North at the pass, but a nearby place was hit once so they upped security.”

“Is that your wisdom from the holonet?”

Raid shrugged. “Holonet’s how you stay alive down here. We wouldn’t want to be swept up in their conflict.”

“Will we?”

“Not today, no.”

Up ahead, ensconced between two small warehouses stood a three-storey building with reds and violets for lights and windows. There were gang members around, too; however, rather than rifles, they held cigarettes and engaged in merry conversation with women in varying degrees of nakedness: from strings that covered only the essential parts, to black leather that left a little more to the imagination. If there was any doubt about the establishment’s purpose, the neon-purple sign above the door reading “Smoke and Pleasure” dispelled it. They’d arrived at the right place.

The foyer was dim and the walls were crimson, the incandescent bulbs hanging overhead casting the room in warm tones of red and orange. The air smelled faintly of smoke and fruit. The sweet scent lingering about tickled even taste buds. At the back, there was a reception desk with an elderly woman, somewhere around sixty or seventy, grey-haired and dark-skinned, with thick-framed glasses.

She looked up from her tablet, gave an appraising glance, then nodded to herself. “Welcome to Smoke and Pleasure,” she said, her voice deep and hoarse. “Will it be for one or both of you?”

“Well, I certainly wouldn’t mind—” Raid began.

“We have a few questions first,” Devan turned to Raid and gave him a stern look, “before we talk about anything else.”

“The girls get regular health check-ups,” the woman said in monotone. “You won’t pick up anything.”

“Not that,” Devan said, then continued before the woman could offer any other answer. “It’s about a recent murder.”

“You aren’t CitySec,” she said, and it wasn’t a question. “People die all the time. Just last week Jed – nice young man, one of Sun’s people – died at Silver’s.” She peered into their eyes, squinted. “But you’re not looking for that, no. You’re looking for someone bigger. More important.” She leaned back into her seat. “I don’t want any trouble knocking on my door.”

“A dead man won’t cause you trouble,” Devan said.

“A dead man causes the most trouble. People who offed him don’t want their tracks found. Small wonder, no?”

“They won’t come here,” Devan said, his words coming out slow and serious. “I can promise you that.”

She snorted, waving dismissively. “The Ascendants themselves couldn’t promise me that.” Devan’s gaze was unrelenting. She clicked her tongue and turned away, then rubbed her chin with gnarled fingers, looking up at the ceiling. With a deep, resigned sigh, she set her hands down on the reception table. “Fine. I’ll meet your halfway.” She tapped two icons on her tablet and turned to the hallway on the left side.

Half a minute later, two women came out. The first wore her black hair in thick curls that fell to her shoulders. The second was blond, straight hair down to the waist. Nothing was missing: full, red lips; lightly tanned skin; curves in all the right places; and pretty eyes of green and blue that could easily floor a man. They were beautiful – and extremely distracting. Devan turned away.

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

“How exactly is this meeting us halfway?” he asked.

“You want information? My girls have it. You go with them. You pay for their time. They talk.” She smiled. “I run a business, young man, and I’m a brothel manager, not an info broker. But if my girls were to,” she nodded towards the two women, “let slip a thing or two in the sheets, that’s all good, isn’t it?”

“A good deal,” Raid said, nodding.

Devan gave him a flat look, and the captain raised his arms with mock indignation and gave a silly grin. “We’ll take it,” Devan said.

“Lua and Neah will take care of you then. Just remember, my girls are free to speak as much or as little as they wish.” The woman’s smile widened. She showed teeth. “I look forward to your patronage.”

***

The sky had begun to darken by the time Devan and Raid exited the club and found their way to a nearby bar. It hadn’t yet filled up, so there were still several empty tables. The rest was populated mostly by the unsavoury sort, the type that started bar fights after a few drinks or made a din that matched the most crowded bars even when there were less than a dozen of them.

The two sat at a table by a window, furthest from the rest. A barrier of air surrounded them, muffling their voices, and keeping most of the clamour outside. Two large mugs of ale stood between them.

“So they were both there,” Raid said, idly turning his mug. Devan stayed quiet, staring at the pictures on his phone. “And the one that was with the ambassador went to a new place soon after. Bryna, was it? Lua thinks the other girl’s working—are you listening?”

“I am,” Devan said without removing his eyes from the screen. Images of the destruction Olmeen had caused populated the fifteen-centimetre display.

“The fullness of your ale would disagree.”

“I’m not in the mood for it.” A nagging doubt grew in the back of his mind as he continued scrolling through the images. What had he missed?

“It’s alcohol.”

Devan looked up, then nodded towards his drink. “This? Its coloured sewage water.”

“Alcoholic coloured sewage water.”

Sighing, Devan lowered his phone onto the table and turned his thoughts on the sex worker who’d been with the ambassador: Bryna. Why would she have left? Raid said something, but Devan ignored it. Neah had mentioned that Bryna had been terrified after the ambassador’s death, believing that the Emperor’s Hand might come for her simply because she had been with him that day. So, she had switched to a new place for a fresh start. It was ridiculous.

“Not to the people down here,” Raid said. Devan arched a brow. “You were mumbling.”

“I don’t have that habit.”

Raid shrugged. “Maybe you’re tired.”

Devan might have entertained the idea if not for the captain’s lopsided grin. It was obvious what he was referring to. “Get to the point.”

“Folk down here jump at the mention of the Hand or the Val Tairi. You saw how they stayed away from the crime scene.”

“What if she did something instead that made the fear flare up? Something that she was sure would get a Hand’s attention?”

“Such as?”

“That’s the question, isn’t it?” Devan tapped his finger on the table’s metal surface. “She got her hands on a large amount of money afterwards.”

“Highborn tip good,” Raid said and took a large swig of his ale. He scanned the bar, and his eyes said he was looking for trouble. He found none. The patrons were keeping calm for the moment. “Took me a while to get some of those numbers out of Lua. You could earn a small fortune if you play your cards right.” A minute of thoughtful silence passed. “What do you think happened?”

“Nothing that makes sense.”

“Enlighten me.”

Devan raised his closed fist in front of Raid. “She spends a night with the ambassador. He gets killed,” Devan said, lifting a finger with each piece of information. “She moves to another place. Rumours say she’s well off.” He pointed to his four raised fingers. “There’s motive and opportunity in that.”

“I’m following so far. Where does the issue start?”

“Right afterwards. There was nothing she could have done to the ambassador. He walked out of there on his own two feet. Perfect condition. She’s alive, which means she didn’t attack him in any way.”

Raid raised his mug to his mouth. “Then he heads to some abandoned alley and dies to an augment.” He took a sip. “He really didn’t put up much of a fight, did he?”

“No, he…” Devan trailed off, blinked, then looked at his phone. The images of destroyed buildings and alleys stood against the memories of the alley where the ambassador had been killed. They were incomparable. There had been only two furrows in the ground. Devan leaned back, his gaze heading for the ceiling, and sighed. He’d been a fool.

“What?” Raid asked. “Share with the company.”

Devan opened his mouth, then closed it. The brilliance of his idea that would tie everything together faded and crumbled as he ran it through a scenario in his mind. He looked down at the table and furrowed his brow, trying to make sense of things.

Raid coughed.

“Poison,” Devan said finally. Raid gestured for him to continue. “It has to be poison, but that should have been impossible. A sufficiently skilled adept can expel any quantity with the Gift.”

Raid scratched his temple. “Say he didn’t do that. What then?”

“The RRD found the ambassador soon after his death. That means he had an ECD with him. That thing spots the slightest changes in a person’s body: any poison would have been logged.”

“But it wasn’t mentioned.”

“It wasn’t mentioned.”

“So, it’s not poison—” Raid began.

“It has to be poison.”

“—or it’s not Bryna.”

“Or.” Devan paused, considering his words. “Or this goes a lot deeper than we thought.” If someone had tampered with the investigation itself, that would complicate things.

Raid gulped down the rest of his ale. “Do we go to Bryna, then?”

“Do we know where she lives?”

“I have an address, but,” Raid said, scratching his head, “it’s old. Years old.”

“It’s better than nothing. Can we get there now?”

Before Raid could answer, both their phones rang. Devan checked his and frowned. Raid had a similar expression. Mannock, who should have been at the oversurface, the safest place on Radaar, had sent a single message: “Help. Danger. Urgent.”