Thursday, October 17

Gray Watch

Nymir frowned at the report. “I wouldn’t exactly call this a lead on the weapons we’re looking for, unfortunately.”

“No.” Indirk shook her head numbly. The sun through the window of the fishmonger’s shop was cold. Everything had felt cold since last night. Nothing might ever feel warm again. “Not on its own. I wasn’t able to follow up on the lighthouse, just the embassy angle.”

Closing the file and hiding it beneath the table, Nymir said, “I’ll keep an eye on the lighthouse. Me and Myrel will, anyway. We’re out on the bay every day. Gives us a good vantage to see everything they’re doing from the outside, at least.” He straightened and looked elsewhere. “Phaeduin, any chance you can get transferred to the embassy district? Maybe get in on this place Indirk found?”

“Sounds like hell to me,” the sleepy man said, leaning against the wall in his full armor. “I think I’d rather catch crooks and cutthroats than get put to work in some secret prison facility. Anyway, not much hope for a transfer yet. I’m still the new guy. Night patrols. Raids on unlicensed fruit shipments.”

“Well, we’ll work on it.” Nymir shrugged, and then looked up on Indirk. “Hey, where are you going? There’s more to report on.”

Indirk was on her feet, brushing at black Writheblood staining her jacket. “I’m done, Nymir.”

“Hey, this job’s hard, but we’ve got to do it right or there’s no point.”

“I’m fucking done for the day,” she snapped, turned her back on him, and marched out of the building.

Amo was on the quay outside, one of the rare mornings they had free from their undercover work on port inspections and record-keeping. It was a chilly blue morning, but compared to Pharaul, it was a bright summer day, and Amo stood with their long coat open and their face high to the sun. Their short, dark tussle of hair shivered in the wind and they breathed deeply. They were still full of hope.

Indirk collided with them, throwing her arms around them and hugging so tightly that Amo coughed. Amo stumbled, off-balance, but Indirk held them up easily. After a few seconds, Amo lay their arms over Indirk’s arms and said, “Good morning.”

“Go to the Sickle-Sough Festival with me.”

“Huh?” Amo tried to look behind them, to where Indirk had buried her face against their back. “We’re not exactly here for festivals, you know. A busy night like that might be a good night to get some sneaking done.”

“This is more important. I need something warm to look forward to.” She shook a bit. “I need it. I really need it.”

Amo was quiet for a moment, moving their hands on Indirk’s arms, slowly working them loose so that Amo could get their hands around Indirk’s hands. They turned as much as they could, just barely getting Indirk’s face in the corner of their eyes. But Indirk pressed their face further into Amo’s back, not wanting to be seen. Amo said, “What happened?”

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Indirk shook her head.

“Indirk, tell me what happened.”

“No,” Indirk snapped, almost angry. “No, I’m not telling you.”

In her heart, Indirk had slammed shut the iron door before she’d seen anything. In reality, in her memory, and in her nightmares, the metal door had swung open and the burning wind had billowed around her, filled her nostrils, stung her eyes. She’d seen the rows of cells where the broken furnace sound came from, the sound of hot breath, but it was not a machine and it was not just magic. Those were throats making those sounds. Breathless throats open, forever open, fonts of fire and choking breath that tried to scream long after they’d run out of breath. How long had these people been burning, crammed tight as livestock into these cells? How many people stood here, by the hundreds, their bodies red with searing magic that did not let them crumble away?

Indirk had stood there for a long time, staring, forgetting where she was and what she’d been running from, going numb to even that weight on her shoulders. She shocked awake when her knees hit the ground, blinking, noticing the tendrils hanging around her. She slid the Writhewife off her shoulders and held her across her knees, said, “Look. This is it. This is what they’re hiding.”

But the Writhewife was limp and cold and had nothing to say, eyes open and sightless, their light gone. It was said that the Writhe considered all of Gray Watch to be its partner, the nation itself a wedded spouse, but would the Writhe be able to trust Gray Watch if it had seen this in its depths?

Indirk stood, stepped back, and closed the door. To the immensity of the torment beyond, Indirk turned her back and walked away. A torture chamber, she would tell the others. That’s what this was. A secret prison, an ornate torture chamber. Rattling cells. Just rattling. Nothing else.

She went back to the tunnel she’d been fleeing down earlier. She followed it to the exit, where she emerged into a confused mess of clerks and Watch officers arguing about who was allowed to know what about the happenings in the highly classified facility. Walking out of the mess, Indirk went to the beach and laid the Writhewife in the surf. She stepped back and watched the darkness rise in the water, the great limbs of a Grim Confidant that rose to wrap up the dead woman and pull her into the sea.

* * *

“Something on your mind, Half-face?”

“That’s Mirian, to you.” Beneath his eye patch, Mirian’s scar-ridden face shifted in disgust. Normally, Watch officers would refer to their superiors by their rank, but whereas words described the ranks of ship crews and officers, in Mirian’s profession all ranks were silence. Shaking his head, Mirian instead looked to the meditation candle, the only light in his office beside the little gray that seeped in through the door. “I think I heard a gunshot.”

“A gunshot?” The Watch officer in the half-closed doorway sounded clueless.

“A small gun. RVA soldiers sometimes have small guns – pistols – they can hold in one hand. Weak. Almost not even worth shooting.”

“You think you heard a gunshot today? At the embassy?”

“Maybe. You forget about it.” Mirian blew out the candle and turned to the officer. “What do you have?”

“The woman that we caught before the Writhewife showed up.” He held out of folder. “Thought she was suspicious, but she checks out. Agent for the Admiralty, like she said, cleared for embassy access.”

“Hm.” Mirian took the folder, opened it in the sparse gray light, looked it over briefly. He smirked. “Oh, Indirk Correlon. I know that name.”

“Someone on your radar?”

“You forget all about this. Just go back to your work and don’t think about this anymore. We’re already working this angle.”