CHAPTER FORTY-SIX - COLD CUTS

The first thing Tanner thought was that the mortuary assistant was fat. It seemed oddly... well, you almost wanted people to soak up their jobs like a sponge, to wear them clearly in every line of their face. Blacksmiths with burly arms and heat-hardened skin. Soldiers with sun-tanned faces, bristling moustaches, and a sense of presence and competence. Bureaucrats with good suits and a perpetually neutral expression, not a trace of emotion visible. Judges with capes and thoughtful eyes. And mortuary assistants ought to look like corpses. Sallow skin. Emaciated frames. Long, skeletal fingers. A ghoulish sense of humour, like they were one of the bodies that didn't quite want to move on, and had been asked to at least have the decency to help out around the place in exchange for room and board. Or at least something priest-like, something distinctively separated from the normal world. The more unusual the job, the more unusual the person, that was the rule. It helped keep their jobs unusual. The governor acted a certain way because it made his job seem abstracted from anything normal, and thus made him beyond question, beyond challenge. Mystics acted a certain way, because it made their work seem beyond the world, and thus operating by different, irrational rules. And mortuary assistants ought to act a certain way, because it made their jobs unusual, arcane, beyond anything normal, and thus kept death as a terrifying, obscure thing in the corner of one's mind. Rather than something which happened every day. Rather than something which was creeping closer with every second.

And that stopped you from thinking about how the corpse on that table might be you, one day. It wasn't a corpse, not really - it was a prop in a reality-divorced profession.

Not here. The assistant was fat. Burly. Arms that reminded her of overstuffed, undercooked sausages, all pale and mottled with patches of pink. His eyes were bright, his teeth reminded her of seashells, and his hair was plastered across his scalp with the aid of pomade, pushed back so tightly that it almost seemed like he was trying to haul his own sagging face back into shape. He moved rather like a bear trained to walk on his hind legs, meandering over his place of work with little, cumbersome waddles. His voice always seemed to emerge with a strange lilt - he began with enthusiasm, sometimes, then sank into almost comic solemnity, in deference to the dead. And other times, he began with solemnity, then warmed to his theme, became greatly enthusiastic... before coughing in mild embarrassment, flashing a seashell-smile, and rubbing his hands together to try and distract, like a stage magician doing theatrics to deceive the audience.

His name was Mr. Tallug. And Tanner stood silently before him, clasping her hands over her stomach like a mourner at a funeral.

"Ah, yes, so - of course, lovely to meet you and whatnot. Rude health, I trust?"

"Quite well. I'm... here to see the-"

"Cadavers, yes, of course, qu-ite happy to help on that front. Please, please, please, come in. And your associate, of course."

He smiled weakly, and led them inside. The mortuary was grim, cold, and grey. Reminded her of a kitchen, oddly enough, with the polished stone slabs, the abundance of cleaning equipment... and Mr. Tallug reminded her, faintly, of a butcher at work. He had the red-faced enthusiasm of one, certainly. Four bodies lay before them, all under sheets.

"Now, which one is the lucky fellow you wish to examine first? Ah, honoured judge. If you'd like to choose, of course. I can choose for you, if you'd prefer."

Tanner swallowed, and pointed at the body of the governor. She knew it was him - the sheet covering him sagged around part of his chest, where he'd been battered to death and had one side of his ribs had collapsed. The assistant waddled forwards, uncovering the man... pausing, and stopping at the waist, with an embarrassed glance to the ladies present. Kind of him. The governor's face was utterly unrecognisable now that it'd had time to soften further, and his chest was littered with little fastenings where the assistant had cut him open and clipped him back together like a repaired piece of clothing. The assistant donned a pair of light, cotton gloves, gleaming with some sort of waterproofing agent, and began to prod at the corpse with sprightly vigour.

"Now, the governor suffered from major blunt force trauma across his entire body, with a particular focus upon the chest. Ribs on one side have snapped, organs are largely pulverised, one rib has pierced the lung. Though, you can see... here, that his arm was substantially bruised, wrenched almost out of its socket. Minimal damage to the legs, beyond some incidental scrapes around the knees. But you can see... here, he was strangled as well, the windpipe has completely collapsed. The head, you can see, is severely damaged, and based on the pattern of fracturing, was slammed into a large, hard object repeatedly. Unsure what order this all happened in, but all the injuries, save the strangulation, was pre-mortem. Cause of death, specifically, is uncertain. But it seems likely that the strangulation was last - if it came first, you wouldn't find some of these signs of struggle, particularly around the knuckles."

Tanner hummed, feeling sick. Marana was just staring dully at the corpse. Come on. Breathe lightly through the lips, don't try and smell the stench of preservatives, the long-lingering hint of death that clung to the walls like grease in a bad kitchen. It was odd, but without the mnemonic of her pince-nez, she actually found it hard to see this place in anything but the most unflinchingly uncharitable light. And this place was truly unlovable. The partially paralysed face of the governor seemed to be bearing with the exposure with admirable dignity, soldiering on just as she ought to. Almost felt like apologising for the invasion of his privacy. The assistant rubbed his hands together thoughtfully, studying her... Tanner adjusted her cape, coughed, and spoke. As she was expected to do.

"...so, is it... possible to identify the number of attackers? How hard would it be to..."

She looked dumbly at the pulped mass of flesh. The assistant hummed.

"Well. Interesting question, honoured judge. There's no way of saying for certain. But if we assume it's a group, as the magnitude implies, then there's a little inconsistency you might want to note. If you look to the back..."

He reached, turning the body over a little.

"There's very little damage. Usually, and I don't wish to prejudice your decisions, but usually, blunt force trauma of this sort is inflicted by a group, attacking from multiple angles. The target falls on their front, maybe curling to protect their organs. Leaving the back exposed. But if you see here..."

He gestured at the bare, blank back, mottled with early decay and exposure to cold, scarred from old war wounds...

"Minimal. Damage came almost entirely from the front."

Tanner tried to picture the scene. Governor, outdoors. Person, or people, attack from the front. She quietly asked for a pair of gloves, and slipped them on, leaning closer. Ignoring the smell. Ignoring the... way she could still smell a lingering touch of aftershave about his cheeks. Bay rum. Alright, someone attacks him in the street. Maybe several someones. They start attacking him from the front. Chest injuries, head injuries... no, no, the head injuries were from contact with a hard surface, like a wall or a floor. Not a fist. So... attack from the front. Then grab the head, and slam it into the ground or the nearest wall. He'd fought back, had a chance to, based on the damaged knuckles... injuries mounted up, and finally, one attacker choked him to death, crushing his throat in the process.

Tanner hummed.

Something... there was something about this that made her feel wrong. Not morally, just... logically. She turned to Marana.

"Marana, could you... possibly stand still?"

Marana blinked.

"I'll keep doing what I'm doing, then."

"Right. Right."

Tanner moved forwards, biting her lip. Marana looked up with a certain amount of bemused caution. And then Tanner got to work.

"So... I attack you from the front. I hit you in the chest."

She poked Marana, who let out a deadpan 'ow'.

"...but you fight back-"

Marana poked Tanner, who flinched slightly.

"I get angry. So I grab your head..."

She gently grabbed Marana's hair, and pushed her into a wall. Marana was clearly trying not to laugh.

"...and I slam it here, over and over. Then, I strangle you to death. You fall to the ground, skinning your knees."

Marana collapsed, smiling faintly all the while. Tanner stared down.

"...no, no, no, that's wrong."

"How so?"

Marana stood back up, and Tanner poked her roughly. Marana immediately stumbled back a few steps, almost bumping into the wall. The assistant watched on, wringing his hands slightly, one eye twitching to his tools, to anything delicate in the vicinity. And... oh. Oh. She'd just seen that. A plate laden with cold cuts. Had... had he been eating in here? With the corpses? Or had he prepared a little platter for the three of them, just in case they worked up an appetite while examining the bodies? Somehow, this one plate absolutely dominated her mind for a moment, and she stared at it for a good few seconds before ripping her gaze away back to Marana. They were bizarrely nice cuts, too - cured well, sliced thinly, tiny droplets of grease lingering on the surface, glistening like jewels floating on a pink-red sea. Sometimes, sliced so thinly she could see the other cuts through them, like piles of rose petals. Hoped this was just because she was hungry. Regardless. Marana.

"...that wasn't a very hard poke, Marana. It wasn't a punch."

"Well observed. A little slanderous, a little insulting, but I can bear up with it."

"If I punched you, you'd go backwards. Or fall. And... those ribs, they're completely... well, pulverised. Is it possible anything was inflicted after death, sir?"

She returned to the body. The assistant hummed in thought.

"Unlikely. Harder to tell with bruises, though. You see... well, honoured judge, bruises are complex things. Inflammation by the body, natural response to the rupturing of certain blood vessels. And normally, bruises don't form after death. The body can't exactly heal anything at that point, no blood pressure for it. I mean, I had to handle this body, soldiers had to in order to move it here, not a trace of bruising from that. Possible, naturally, for some things simulating bruises to meerge, mostly through decomposition, pressure effects from gas... there was a body, years ago, "

Tanner pondered this. So, all of this damage was inflicted before death. The strangulation came last, most likely. The back was unharmed. Meaning, the governor had more or less stood rigidly still as a group of people inflicted massive damage upon him, before slamming his head into a wall and then choking him to finish him off. If she thought about this all clinically, she could keep her breathing steady. She examined the wrists... no, no bruises there, so he hadn't been held up like a punching bag for someone to get to work on him.

"...anything else unusual about... it?"

Felt wrong saying it. But felt even more wrong to say he.

"Hm. Hm. Well. I can't... say a great deal. Oh. One detail. Coat. Who exactly donated their coat to cover up the body? Wanted to ask if they wanted it back."

Tanner turned to stare at him for a moment. Right. Sersa Bayai had draped his coat over the governor to preserve a little dignity in death. Doubted he'd want it back, Tanner wouldn't. Then again, maybe soldiers thought differently about this sort of thing. Her eyes drifted to the plate of cold cuts. Clearly some people thought very differently indeed. Regardless, she promised to ask him when she had a chance. And with that... the other bodies. There was little to note, here. A slashed throat. A slashed stomach. A cracked skull. Three mouths, sterilised and growing odd-coloured by their exposure to the cold, by their bloodlessness, by the loss of all vitality and the paradoxical loosening of flesh by decay and tightening of flesh by rigor mortis. She observed them out of necessity, like an undertaker standing by at the funeral of a stranger. She had to bury these bodies - she might as well observe what was going underground. Swift, but stately. Tyer looked blank, none of the fear on his face at this point. Looked younger than she'd thought. Thought she could detect a trace of... hm. A little scarring around the knuckles, hands that seemed a little outsized for the body, horned with calluses... Tyer had had a violent life before his violent end, or at least a life characterised by exertion. The soldier was younger than she wanted to think about. And Mr. Lam...

His red hair was almost luminous on the slab, and the blue of his eyes was almost chemical. The skin and the slab, pale and dead, almost made them comical. The wound in his stomach had been closed, but it was still a ragged mouth, almost curling into a mocking sneer at the sight of her own inadequacies.

"May I see... is there a container of their belongings?"

"Of course, honoured judge. Clothing's here, contents of pockets are here."

Tanner examined Tyer's first, just out of... well, interest. Found nothing. Nothing but a knife, wrapped up and still stained with blood from his two kills. Almost a lacquer at that point - they didn't say how blood turned brown when it dried long enough. Made the knife almost look natural, like something formed from wood. Kill enough people, and the knife might return to the earth, indistinguishable from a root or a tuber.

The soldier had some gear on him. Nothing worth considering. Mr. Lam was much the same - just pocket fluff, a battered pocket watch (sans chain) stained with blood until the face was invisible, and only a light 'tick-tick' indicating it was still functional...

The governor...

She checked his clothes, first. He'd been properly dressed for the outdoors, that much had to be said. No hat, but hats had a tendency to make some people look undignified, squashing the visible range of their face down to a single sliver - and not everyone's sliver was equally attractive. But he had gloves on, proper boots for the snow, a very light, tasteful scarf... and a thick black coat. Dressed appropriately for the outdoors. And the clothes were fairly intact, too - hard to soak your clothes with blood when you were bludgeoned bloodlessly to death. Could almost be worn again, after a good wash. Nothing so positive for the others, their clothes were below even being rags. Unrecognisable where they'd been cut from the body, too soaked to be removed normally. The governor's, though, those were folded like they were about to go back into a wardrobe. She examined them closely... he had been dressed for the weather, that much was true, but there was something off about them. She ran her hands over the coat... yes, a little marred by their time in the snow, by the fall... hm. Hm. Examined the trousers. Scuffed around the knees, threads worn from black to grey. The scrapes on the governor's knees confirmed that. But... she felt around the inside of the coat, feeling for something... found nothing but the same vaguely damp cloth as was on the rest of the coat. Imagined how it might've still been warm when it was taken off. Snow-damp, but... she turned to the body, peering at the utterly demolished half of the chest. Lacerations had been basically incidental, seemed to not have bled a great deal... more a case of old skin finally giving up, splitting like paper. Old wounds reopening. But if she checked his shirt, she could find notable stains blotching the fabric. The jacket worn over top, damp in a way meaningfully distinct from water, a bit too thick...

But the coat, the overcoat, nothing.

A pause... a wince... and she dragged her fingernail down the inside of the lining, expecting...

No. No residue. Nothing but a little fluff. None of the putrid matter she'd anticipated.

Sad to think about his tie, she thought. It had been pounded into his chest, had sat like a languid snake amongst his caved-in ribs, soaking it up. Lovely design, all of it quite marred by the stains, by the snow... silk, couldn't do anything with it once it took up something else. Dark blue where it was still immaculate, swirling with paisley embroidery, huge, almost silvery teardrops spiralling her and there, something organic, floral, marine about it. Could be flowers, could be exotic fish, could be tears, could be the undulations of oil atop water...

The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

Nice scarf. Nothing more to say about it. A bit frayed, slightly warm, perfectly nice. Nothing more to say about it.

Contents of pockets... battered leather horseshoe coin case, mostly filled with odd buttons from a whole suite of clothes and coats, some tiny and insignificant, others pearl, others metal studs from formal shirts, others heavy brass things from sturdy coats. Made her think, oddly, of the rings the mutant-hunters wore around their necks, the rings of their old husbands. There were labels for all of this - the coin case was from the left coat pocket. Keys, heavy and anonymous, left trouser pocket. Pocket knife, left pocket, folded, tortoiseshell with the blades darkened to prevent glare. Looked hard-worm. Wrist-watch, face sanded for the same reason. Nothing else. Nothing... no, no, tiny tin, filled with pills. Anonymous, no directions... she idly wondered if he had a chemical problem, but... no, he was older. Plenty of older men needed a few pills now and again, especially if they could afford them. Painkillers for his war wounds, perhaps. Sleeping pills he didn't trust to leave unattended.

Nothing more.

Her last rites were concluded.

"How long... can we keep them around? If I need to look at anything in future."

"Oh, the cold keeps things from going off completely. Internals won't be much good, I'm afraid, though. A week, I imagine, and subtle traces will be gone. But they'll be here until spring, if you truly need them. Can't say there'll be much after a few weeks, but..."

Tanner nodded quietly. Right. So... she stared at the four bodies, arrayed before her like she was at a showroom. Marana was being very quiet too, all the mirth of their little mock-wrestle vanishing as the affairs proceeded. A few matters were discussed, mostly to do with evidence withdrawal. As the presiding judge, she had the right to... basically do what she wanted. Always felt wrong, handling evidence belonging to dead men, but... what else was she going to do with these items? Heard rumours about identifying fingerprints from a colleague or two, but that sounded like something out of her more imaginative theatrophone plays. Still, she'd leave the bloodstained things here, uncleaned. Taking evidence felt off, but cleaning evidence while the murders remained unsolved felt distinctly worse. And so, with her face expressionless, she took what she needed. Keys. Knife. Pills, to check what they did (not via self-experimentation, obviously). Everything else, really. Bagged up in a small canvas sack that smelled strongly of shoe polish, and...

That was all.

The closest thing these bodies would get to a funeral until the case was solved. A judge and her assistant, going through their belongings, examining their naked bodies, before leaving them to a fat mortuary assistant with his plate of cold cuts. A meagre funeral feast, but...

Anyway.

She moved on. Contents of the sack clicking and clacking. Once more, she thanked the judges of the Golden Door for... well, doing such a good job over the last few centuries. If they hadn't... this evidence would remain locked up, there'd be forms to go through, she could imagine all the bureaucracy that would surround a crime like this. But... who'd question a judge? Judges were devoted to the law, they had nothing but the law. Incorruptible... maybe not, but close enough. Close enough.

And she emerged from the lingering chill of the mortuary, into the flaying cold of the outside world.

* * *

There was to be no eating. That plate of cold cuts had made her too nauseous when it came to food. If it was cold, it made her aware of how the consistency of cold meat was... well, probably similar to the consistency of those bodies. If it was warm, it meant going somewhere, sitting down, committing to the act of eating, rather than just gnawing on something while doing something else. Hm. Maybe she could grab a crust of bread, gnaw on that... anyway. Even thinking about eating was a waste of time and effort, she had other things to consider. More data points were being added to the scattered mass of this case. Her memory room slowly expanded, and she imagined her bed, her lovely, lovely bed in the inner temple... no, no, not that one. A different one. She needed a strong mnemonic. Remember Eygi's bed, smelling faintly of the scent she used on her wrists, the warmth of her hair... yes, that one stood out clearly, it blared its way through her memory. And she imagined objects laid upon it. A coat button, rolling between the sheets... the feeling of the metal, the cold, the crest engraved on the front, the tiny loop with a straggle of thread... yes, that reminded her of the coat. And so on. Evidence upon evidence, scented by an old friend. The case entering her memory room and sitting like an unwelcome guest, encoded into the things most precious to her. Each texture, smell, even taste (who hadn't licked a piece of metal once or twice, just to see how it tasted) rich with meanings, that led to more meanings.

Like the chains on the walls of Rekida. Link upon link upon link, going into the mist. Maybe there was a statue on the other end. Or maybe it was one of the broken chains, wafting lazily like the flag of a defeated nation.

"Thoughts?"

"Some."

"Going to share?"

Tanner hummed non-committally, and Marana flashed a faint smile.

"I understand, darling, don't worry. Rather like a premature birth, sometimes you need to let the thoughts harden before you expel them into the world, lest the fontanelle have the consistency of custard."

"Delightful. As always."

"I do my best. Do your lot ever keep the evidence?"

Tanner shot her a look.

"I'm just asking. I might, in your position. If someone won't take those things, if you don't feel like selling them, if the case is concluded and to all the world these things have no further value..."

"Sometimes. It's... impolite to discuss."

"Ah. I quite understand. A little like having someone critique your choice in undergarments."

Tanner was silent.

She wasn't wrong. Oddly violating, slightly embarrassing... they ought to surrender all unclaimed, irrelevant evidence at the end of a case to the outer temple for auctioning off. Always needed the extra pennies. But she knew, for certain, that some of her colleagues occasionally pocketed a knife or an interesting knick-knack or doo-dad. Not usually born of greed. More... a desire for a souvenir of a case, something to keep in a box and occasionally mull over. They were taught to encode physical devices with endless chains of memory, of course that cultivated a liking for souvenirs. Taking something out of the memory room and into the real world, lock it up, seal it from the mind. It was a souvenir for future recollection, and a way of locking something away for good. Recollection and closure.

And, yes, it was like having someone critique your undergarment drawer.

Feh.

...well, she was a little more cheered, now. Focus on the tiny steps in terms of evidence, try not to look at the grand picture, not yet. That was too overwhelming, demanded too much. Examining evidence was like fitting together jigsaw pieces on a tiny scale. Solving the governor's murder was like trying to put a whole jigsaw together at once - she had a frame, a terrifyingly vast one, and emptiness within. Where to start? Even if she put together a chunk, where should it go? Build out from the frames and work inwards, or just slot together whatever worked and hope for the best? Better to work with a small number of pieces, and maybe, one day, she'd be able to put it all together properly.

Oddities with the coat. A lovely tie. Scarred trousers. A decent scarf.

The street where the governor was murdered was cordoned off by soldiers, but people were still moving through. Only the truly vulnerable area was really secluded - everything else had long-since been churned up into mud, erasing all tracks. Tanner and Marana paced steadily along the street, examining the houses like they were inspecting soldiers on parade. Black windows faced them, impassive and studious. Bayai was waiting for them, as arranged. He saluted automatically, and the confidence of the action helped to make it seem less out of place. All around them, Tanner could feel eyes. Neighbours, watching through cracks in the curtains. Remarkable, how this place could always feel so absent, so... anonymous. It was a populated colony, but it didn't open itself to them. Not at all. Bayai's breath steamed as he talked, and Tanner found herself staring at his moustache. Eye contact wasn't... it was silly, but she found it easier to be reserved and ordinary when she stared at his mouth, and the whiskers above it. If she looked into his eyes, the case became real, affecting real people, not just isolated points on a graph. And if that was the case...

She'd been a panicked little girl with the Tyer case. Made mistakes. Found nothing. Let people die, if she was being honest. If she'd been faster...

If she was clinical, she was fine. If she was clinical, she could get through the day.

Night... night was for working. For reviewing. Sleep was rare. And she never welcomed it.

"Inspection of the mortuary done, honoured judge?"

Tanner smiled faintly.

"All finished. A few thoughts. Nothing to share, yet. Your coat can be picked up, if you like."

Bayai snorted, pulling his new coat, slightly ill-fitting, tighter around his shoulders. Highlighting the broadness of his chest, the power in his upper body.

"I think I'll be alright, on that front. Might want to put that coat in a collection, once all of this is over. Governor had a rich military career - the coat that covered his body might be appreciated by some enthusiasts. Something to bolster the pension."

She saw his mouth smiling, but didn't look to see if it reached his eyes. Right.

"Anything with the houses?"

The three of them began to walk, boots crunching in the snow that had fallen over the course of the night. Covering the muddy churn, and turning it into a strange, barren, chaotic landscape, full of erratic peaks and valleys. Quite alien from the flawless plains that sprawled around the colony, where no human footstep would trouble the drifts until spring. A flurry of movement caught her attention, suddenly. A bird, sitting on a rooftop, staring at her. She blinked. It was a crane. One of the cranes that came from this part of the world, but migrated south for the winter. Face a livid red, beak straight and certain, wings touched by stripes of black amidst the impeccable white. Very odd. She'd seen one of them on the way here, back when she was fleeing to Rekida. Thought it was a vagrant, a sad lost bird with a broken mind, incapable of getting south as it was meant to. Was this the same one? Another vagrant? Miracle that it'd survived this long, these storms were fast enough to snap their wings like twigs and send them to earth. It peered at her, looking oddly professorial, with its dark, intelligent eyes, and severely long face.

Bayai's voice dragged her back down to earth.

"The houses have all been inspected. Minimal concern from the residents, people seem to recognise the necessity, don't want to cause a fuss. Still. Bit of a flurry of activity when we started, people stuffing undergarments into drawers. Can't say we found everything that needed finding, need days and a team before you can tell if a house is totally clean, and by that point there's not much house left."

Marana spoke mildly.

"Familiar with searching houses, honourable friend?"

A small cough.

"Colonial work, back in the hinterlands. You'd be surprised what people hide away, and how they do it. Need a few days, and a team. But we did what we could with the time we had."

He gestured vaguely at one part of the street.

"Those houses are clear. Completely and utterly. Tiny places, meant for a single worker. Nothing we found that looked egregious. No signs of intense violence. Same with the houses... there. But there's a few which caught our attention."

Tanner turned to him, locking her eyes on his moustache once again, watching it jump about like an agitated caterpillar, frustrated at having not yet become a butterfly.

"Go on."

"Two categories. Four residential houses which are unoccupied. Obviously, we checked them, found nothing obvious, but there's more room to manoeuvre in places like that. And these three houses, here, here, here, are larger than the others, while remaining unoccupied. Idea was for them to be general stores, small businesses. Governor wants... wanted to build the colony with a mind for future growth - space set aside for businesses, more houses than we necessarily require. Don't worry, I know what you're thinking - when Tyer hid himself, we checked the unoccupied homes, each and every one. So, these buildings are larger, have more room for, say, a group to operate."

Tanner stared into the houses, with their dark windows... no curtains to obstruct view, but no light from within to assist it. Only dim sunlight, mostly reflected away by the glass. They weren't the largest - size seemed to be an issue out here. You built something too large, and it became harder to warm, more expensive. Harder to tear down or rebuild or maintain. And, of course, easier to congregate inside. Still.

"May I have a look inside?"

"Of course. They're unlocked - not as a rule, in preparation for your arrival."

Tanner hummed mildly, and pushed open one creaking door. Like he'd said - business-intended. Even had a counter, though it was laden with dust. The floor was caked with it, too. Everything looked abandoned. She could see clear footprints in the dust, and a querying glance confirmed that these were from the soldiers, not from past intruders. Right. Front room, with shelves and a counter. Back room, with a long table and nothing else. Upstairs, via a flight of creaking stairs, a set of low-ceilinged, barren rooms for a family to live in. Could see this place being a general store, or... anything, really. Easy enough to tear out the counter, and you'd have a decent-sized house for a well-to-do individual. Hm. Had a back garden, too... high fences. She had an image of the governor being brutalised in private, then dumped on the street like a sack of garbage ready for collection. If they managed to bind his mouth, then do it at a time when everyone was at work, the group responsible might be able to get away with it. But... well. How did they fill this mouth to stop him from yelling? How does one account for the odd wounds? Again, the sense of broadness overwhelmed her, the need to fit everything together fraying at the idea of simply putting something together. For now, she just charted the garden, and moved back to the house. As she peered around the anonymous dusty contours, she murmured to Bayai. A few more questions.

"Any disturbances in the others?"

"None that were overly obvious. Not all the houses had dust on the ground, though, which obviously removes some opportunities for tracing prints."

"How did that happen?"

"Some people own these places, they just don't use them yet, not until business picks up. Early investors. One of them isn't even here, he went back south to attend to another business. Left instructions for maintenance, though - sometimes they stop by to dust, or have someone assigned to the task. We're looking into them now, you can talk to them if you like. I'll draw up a list of owners and people approved to enter."

"Thank you, that's very kind. Anything in the back gardens?"

"Nothing obvious. Snow was undisturbed, nothing but animal tracks."

Tanner murmured, almost absent-mindedly:

"Any cats?"

The others glanced at her strangely, and shrugged. Bayai continued.

"Possibly. There's a handful around the colony."

"Do you... regulate the cats, at all?"

"None are local, to my understanding, all of them got brought here by colonists as ratters. Not sure why it's necessary, not like rats are a problem in these sorts of conditions."

Marana murmured 'well, my dear boy, some people quite like snuggling to them on cold nights, but I can't provide any citations for this', and Bayai smiled very slightly. Tanner kept going, pressing. She still remembered that cat with bizarrely blunt teeth, holding something in its jaws. It was odd, but... might as well. It was tiny enough to pursue. And if the Tyer business had taught her anything, it was that sometimes you just needed to keep your head down low and drive forwards, unerring and unyielding, until matters were properly concluded. No hesitation, no deviation, just launch at the enemy. Maybe if she'd strode out of her house first thing to collar that man on suspicion of a crime, she might've avoided three deaths. But no, had to be meandering and gradual, had to build a case. Should've just gone for him like a bloodhound with scent in its nostrils. Anyway.

"So, theoretically, one could examine the records in the governor's mansion, and there'd be information on all the cats in the colony?"

"Theoretically. Probably included in the shipping manifests, those tend to be detailed. Just search the ones with living passengers, should narrow it down, honoured judge."

"Hm. Thank you."

Tanner walked around the central area, with its counter... then slammed her fist into the surface.

Everything rattled. The whole house rattled, really. The others, again, shot her an odd look... Tanner said nothing. Hm. Then she moved to the wall, and slammed her fist into that as well. The entire house vibrated for a moment, and she could hear people moving in adjacent homes, investigating the commotion. Based on the governor's injuries, he'd need to be slammed, face-first, into a solid surface, over and over and over. Best surface for that would be the counter, solidly built... but even that was noisy. The area was a bit too populated, and in a town like this, people would notice when a scuffle was happening. Too quiet, too small for it to fade into the background. Write off the houses with dust. Assume they cleaned up any residue left by the beating, and she was still left with the fundamental issue of noise. A possibility - he was beaten in one of the houses, and when people came to investigate the noise, the perpetrators slipped into the crowd... hm. Unlikely. That would require some very fast movements, and maybe no time for cleaning things up, for cleaning themselves up. If they were careful, they'd be discovered due to noise. If they were fast enough to avoid the noise issue, they weren't cleaning up.

The murder hadn't happened here. She inspected the other houses, but they went by quickly. She knew what she was looking for, or she thought she did. Signs of violence - none. Signs of any area being cleaner than the others, particularly the counter - none. Tanner knew what it looked like when one area was favoured during cleaning, it was common for the lazier students she'd worked with. Liked to do things quickly, so they just cleaned what was dirty, preferred repair to maintenance. More viscerally satisfying, perhaps. Faster, in the short term. Not her, she'd always been thorough with her work. Happened when you grew up in Mahar Jovan - so much damn fish meant that you learned how to clean every nook and cranny, a single piece, hidden in a dark corner, could stink up a house if it was allowed to spoil.

Focus.

The houses were fine. He'd been murdered elsewhere, then moved here by stealth. Which raised the question - how did they do it? Who'd seen them? Where was the actual site of the murder? Again, she felt the cloying edge of paranoia creep into her thoughts. Even if someone had seen them, would they come forwards? She didn't believe for a moment that Tyer had gone unnoticed, and they still didn't know who'd hidden him. What had the governor said about the silent war he'd waged when he got here? Breaking up the insular groups which filled the colony, shattering old bonds, atomising people and then reassembling them as he pleased, in neighbourhoods with exactly the right arrangements to keep them docile. Bouncers, to keep the inns regulated. Houses designed to prevent secretive gatherings. Exiling people from the colony if they were too much trouble to deal with. Convinced that he'd achieved peace... maybe someone had a grudge from those days?

Hm.

"...may I ask something?"

"Of course, honoured judge."

"Last night. In the governor's mansion. Those people, the... well-to-do individuals. Who are they? I've not seen them around."

"Unsurprising. They keep to their own areas during winter, nothing for them to do but wait for spring. Only thing keeping them here, by and large, is the fact that the governor has a residency demand for some of the bigger investors. Stay here and keep your assets, or go home and, after a while, surrender them to the governor. Mandatory purchasing. Policy from the hinterlands, people out there hate being owned by someone they'll never meet. They like to have a face to throw things at."

"I thought some of these shops were owned by people who weren't here?"

"Shops. Empty. Could be purchased compulsorily if they never build anything once business picks up... but those people, they own meaningful things. Equipment production, shipping companies, specialist labour firms, construction, medical suppliers... when the spring comes, you'll find them out of the colony, in the fields. They buy up the fur, too, and pay the trappers to range further. You're seeing the colony at its quietest, during spring it can be quite... lively, honoured judge."

He winced at the poor choice of words.

"...hm. And the cold-houses...?"

"Governor owns those. Buys food from the big farmers, then distributes it with fixed pricing. Stops price gouging."

Interesting. Interesting.

Marana was looking at her with... calm interest. No snarky comments, no silly little tangents... she was waiting for orders. Actual orders. A few angles presented themselves to her. Could see threads forming in her mind... now, which one to tug on first? With murders, she could investigate the motives and the means. The means was starting to become problematic. Moved from a different location to here, post-mortem. That, alone, presented an issue. Not one street, but the whole colony was a potential site for the murder. Unfortunate. Searching all of the colony would be slow, difficult, would spread discontent, and would take so long that the actual location could be cleaned up well before anything happened. Even now, tracks were gone. Wouldn't take long for the rest to follow. Motive was another possibility... but it raised one problem. She didn't know the governor enough. Didn't know his entire history out here. Needed to look into this earlier period. Mr. Canima said she had access to any documents she needed, meaning she had the right files, presumably. Maybe there'd be something, some obvious villain yelling 'I'll get you one day, you see, I'll make your head look like a battered grape!', and that would be that. Maybe there'd be nothing.

Right now, she was just working one step at a time.

Marana spoke mildly, all of a sudden.

"I wonder, perhaps, when he was last seen."

Tanner twitched.

Ah, shag.

She really... ought to have thought of that. Gone straight for the mortuary. Then here. Should've asked the obvious questions.

This boded well, missing the blindingly obvious.

She stared at the featureless piece of earth where the governor had been dropped unceremoniously. Her stomach had a sudden spasm, a sudden feeling of you're not meant to be doing this, you're not ready, you're not ready, you never were, you couldn't deal with Tyer, you can't deal with this, you're breaking it down into tiny pieces to try and stay sane, but the bigger picture will always elude you. You're likely missing a thousand details. Missing everything. You're not ready for a case of this magnitude, a whole team of judges would be needed for this, experienced ones. Not you. Never you. Run home, idiot girl, and hide away in shame and fear. The things you're poking here are things you'll never understand, and can easily crush you.

Run. And stop this nonsense. Stop pretending you know what you're doing. You don't. You know absolutely zero. You're just doing what a judge ought to do, you're playing a role, and underneath it all, I can feel the terror. You're moving by muscle memory. And the moment you break from the routine, you'll find how unmoored and moronic you really are.

She shivered.

"Yes. That would be wise. Need to head to the mansion anyway. Sersa Bayai, thank you for your help. Let us know if anything turns up in your moustache."

Sersa Bayai blinked.

"Pardon?"

"Searches. Your searches."

Her tongue was already rebelling and trying to kill her. No, not just her tongue, her throat, her lungs, the entire vocal apparatus. Bayai coughed.

"I'll... let you know. We'll do some questioning too, but I'm afraid we're... not exactly trained for this sort of investigation."

She burbled something about arranging things properly. Yes, it was true that a statement recorded by soldiers could be challenged as being sub-par, biased, incomplete, inaccurate... maybe some of them were interrogators, but they weren't investigators. Nor was she, to be honest. But anything, anything would be useful. Even if, in her heart of hearts, she knew they'd find nothing. A fishing net with a single hole wasn't much of a net at all, in the end.

Sersa Bayai saluted and departed.

Tanner's stomach spasm settled as she focused on it, and she felt a trickle of sweat ease down her back like it was mocking her, patting her and saying 'go on, champ, doing a great job, just do your best, even if you fail, at least you tried'. Mocking her.

She was characterising her sweat.

This definitely boded well.

This definitely, definitely boded well.