CHAPTER FORTY-TWO - WEBLESS WASP

"I'm terribly sorry, we'll have to step outside for a moment."

Tanner wasn't a prideful person. But the fact that she kept her voice below a panicked shout-scream-rasp-shriek was probably one of her prouder moments, and one she might be reliving in the years to come, whenever she found herself confronted with awful, shriek-worthy truths while in company that wasn't exactly dominated by shriekophiliacs. She stepped out of the kitchen, leaving a shivering young woman behind her. Still didn't know her name. And her story... a reasonable man, combined with the oddness of the treatment they'd received, the strange actions the man had taken... none of this was jibing with the image she'd started with, of a brutish, slobbering oaf swollen with liquor and sent out to made an absolute ass of himself amidst the dark and the cold and the boundless pale. Mad as a snow-blind horse, gnashing at air, spitting at sounds, rearing at the slightest provocation. And... a gentleman. A decent individual. Not a drunkard. Oh, she could see her way around all these excuses, of course. The young woman, Femadol 25, had known him during their relationship - if he was going to take to drink and folly, it'd be after a relationship collapsed. Presumably. Annals of Tenk had that as a plot point constantly, so much so that it was presumably accurate. And all they had was hearsay from a... canoodle-addled, a canaddled drunkard, and the rambling statement of a random woman. The latter, admittedly, was rather stronger indeed. But... not indisputable.

But even so. If hunches were stored in some sort of gland in the brain, and presumably they were, she was about to have a stroke, given how much her hunch-gland was expanding. Swollen with notions, bristling with conjectures, absolutely tumescent with inference.

Goodness gracious. This was just a... a can of worms, wasn't it? No matter how many she ate, there were always more worms, and at no point did she get used to them.

The cold was a slap in the face - they'd been inside longer than she'd thought. Darkness had totally swallowed the colony, the stars were invisible behind the thick clouds, even the moon was nothing more than a gentle inclination towards silver, refusing to commit to actually existing. The snow was whirling, cutting into her skin with ragged crystals. Already, her hair was shining with the stuff, and she could feel the flakes slowly melting, seeping through, caressing her scalp and stealing away vital warmth. She rubbed her hands together for luck and warmth... ah. There. A soldier, not one she recognised, was standing stiffly by the door. How had he... known they were here? Hadn't told anyone. Was... no. No, Erlize. Had to be. They'd tracked their movements with cold detachment, followed them here, and to her consternation, they hadn't been improper in doing so. If they hadn't, people would be running around like headless chickens to find them. And headless chickens, unlike headless eels, were basically totally aimless. Even headless eels still vaguely 'knew' where to go, headless chickens were just morons. No, stop, focus her thoughts, curtail all tangents. The man had been seen. Tyer.

"Where is he?"

Her voice was low and serious, doing its best not to reflect the thoughts churning in her. The soldier saluted uncomfortably, breath fogging up in front of his face. Was he Erlize? How many were there? How long had they been watching her? Were they the source of the unease in her stomach, the feeling of eyes watching her from the dark, the pale shapes at her window? No, no, focus.

"Sighted a few streets away. Bouncer saw it, reported it."

"I thought we were keeping this quiet."

"Bouncers were the exception. Governor's men."

Right, right, idiot. She'd known that. Sersa Bayai had mentioned that, just earlier today. Moron. Her face was very still indeed.

"How long ago?"

"Not long. Ten minutes, maybe - took time for the bouncer to report it, took time for me to get over here. Orders?"

Tanner blinked. Orders? She was a judge, she... no, no, she knew what needed to happen. Ran quickly through the list of potential vulnerabilities. Potential targets.

"Find Sersa Bayai, let him know. Are there any soldiers near here?"

"Squad of five, nightly patrol."

"Get some of them to keep an eye on the woman in this house, don't let her leave, and make sure she doesn't get hurt. Send someone to let the guards at my house know what's happening, make sure the woman there is still alright. Same procedure for Mr. Lam, he's not too far from here."

Marana shot her a look that was... approving, yes, definitely approving. Good. Good. She was covering all possible angles. He'd have grudges against... yes, against Tom-Tom, Mr. Lam, maybe Femadol 25 (she really needed to find out her actual name), and... well. Herself. Probably. Doubted he'd take overly kindly to the judge investigating him. Still had her stick, though. Wait, wait, Femadol had talked about overseers keeping her and Tyer apart while they were on the city work crews, and there was clearly some sort of tension in the cold-house... crumbs, crumbs. She didn't know how many people he was angry at, for all she knew, he could be angry at the whole damn colony. Couldn't exactly tell the garrison 'guard everything and everyone at all times until something happens', doubted there were enough soldiers, and doubted the governor would ever allow something that close to martial law. Damn, damn... Marana spoke suddenly, her voice eerily calm.

"What exactly was he doing?"

"Miss?"

"The man. Tyer. What was he doing? Walking, talking, smoking, drinking, standing around staring at the moon while drooling, come on, spit it out."

The soldier coughed, his face reddening a little. She examined him quickly. Contemporary-looking, like he'd just been squeezed out of a tube and was still a little damp around the edges, caul still needing peeling. Large brown eyes. The vague aspirations of a military moustache marching across his upper lip, the pink flesh beneath thinned to try and make the hairs seem larger than they were, making him look like he was sucking perpetually on a lemon. Dirty blonde hair cut to a severe fringe, and a supple look about him, a flexibility which made her feel naturally clumsy. His fingers were long, one of that species of digit which seemed to have more joints than a usual human, and a nimbleness reminiscent of a stage conjuror.

"In transit from one location to another. Walking quickly, coat turned up at the collar to shield his face. That was what made him stand out, miss. Weather like this, any man goes around with a scarf, gloves, a hat. Nothing for him."

Going out unprepared. Staying with someone who didn't have anything in his size, or only had enough for him or herself. Tanner could imagine the knife under his coat. Remembered the gap in the case. A knife designed for killing men, a knife with brass knuckles around the handle, a blade intended to penetrate helmet and skull alike with mechanical ease. If she could hide a truncheon, he could hide a knife. Her hand reached into her coat, feeling for the comforting weight, remembering how it felt to smack that wolf-mutant away. Thought about the dead coachman. Thought about the flat-eyed man-things staring at one another in the dark. Happened on a night like this one. Her stomach twisted at the memory of violence. Her hands ached with the need to hold something and hit something, to bludgeon the fear away.

No, no, no. If she found Tyer, she wasn't to kill him, or even hurt him unless absolutely necessary. She needed answers. Needed to resolve the conflicting stories, needed to stitch it all together. This case had a gap where Tyer ought to sit. Like a nesting doll, with each shell made out of impressions, anecdotes, judgements, actions, inferences. And each time she thought she'd reached the middle, she found the seam, and pulled to find the shell sliding free, revealing something else, and even then she could see the vague outlines of yet another seam. If she found him, she could reach the bottom. If.

If.

"Take me to where he was seen. Where's the bouncer?"

"Should still be there, he said he was heading back after reporting it."

"Good. I want to talk with him, if at all possible. Marana, stay close."

The soldier saluted with his stage-magician hands, Marana nodded curtly, and they were off, striding through the snow. Tanner was feeling physical discomfort from having to match the pace of the others, not rushing ahead like she knew she could. The streets flashed by, and for once, Tanner didn't think about what lay behind those dark windows. 'What lay behind' had emerged, and if she had her way, it wouldn't retreat back behind their sheltering anonymity. Her stomach growled, and she felt unsteady, just for a moment... before focus crashed back down, and she soldiered on. Should've eaten more. A crust of bread wasn't enough, not remotely... no, no, the hungrier she was, the leaner she felt. Could almost imagine her cheeks sinking inwards, her teeth becoming more visible, her eyes gaining a savage, ravenous sheen. Sharpened her mind. Stopped her feeling complacent. Maybe that was slightly deranged, but at this point, she didn't care.

They moved quickly. And before they knew it, they were standing... ah. Barrack-Room. This place kept coming up when it came to Tyer, apparently. The bouncer outside was bundled up until it was almost impossible to see his face, and his truncheon tapped lazily against his leg, more chipped and weathered than she thought it'd be. His eyes were dark, and his face, what she could see of it, were clawed by the touch of a hastily applied too-blunt razor, leaving him looking strangely flayed. His coat could barely hide the fact that he was cadaverously thin, but Tanner could already gauge that he was simply a dense person, by no means weak. The sort of person for whom exercise brought no outwards growth, but an infinite quantity of inner reinforcement. His eyes narrowed, and he said nothing until the flexible solider with his stage-magician hands nodded, giving him leave. The bouncer's voice was like his face - clawed by something. His face, clawed by a razor. His voice, clawed by tobacco, by the cold, by lungs that seemed determine to wheeze every word. Needed to come up with names for them, if they refused to supply any. Mr. Claw, for the bouncer. And... Mr. Supple, for the contemporary-looking soldier. Mr. Claw rasped out a few words, snow eating them alive before they could reach too far.

"Saw him thirteen or so minutes ago. Was going that way. Wearing a dark blue coat, collar turned up. No hat, no gloves, no scarf. Looked pale. Hungry. Hurrying, but not running. Trying to look inconspicuous."

Tanner hummed.

"And his face? Any distinguishing features?"

"Sandy hair. Well-muscled arms. Slight paunch around the stomach. No scars. Unshaven. Brown eyes. Bruise around his eyes."

Mr. Supple looked over, nodding as if to say 'there you go, have fun'. Tanner rubbed her hands for luck, and adjusted her pince-nez. Right. Plan. Quickly. She had the vague direction, and... what lay over there? Nothing much, though... ah. Ah. She might know what he was up to. That way led to the city, to the ruins of Rekida. Maybe he was ditching his hiding spot in the colony, and was heading for something more permanent, something harder to scrutinise. If he got into the city, they'd basically have lost him for good, the city was still filled with rubble, multiple buildings were deeply unstable... and it wasn't like a judge could ask harmless questions. She spoke quickly, firmly, her tone brooking no argument.

"Right. Officer, could you divert a patrol, make sure the Breach is completely covered? And can you send out his description to any other patrols?"

"Not necessary, honoured judge. Already aware of what he looks like. Anything else?"

"...well. Let Sersa Bayai know about this."

Marana spoke suddenly, her voice equally commanding, though... definitely not hers. She was imitating someone, and only someone who'd spent long enough around Marana would know that this was an impression. Her father, perhaps?

"He's one man. Split patrols up, if you can, and station soldiers either alone or in pairs at key junctions, focus on residential areas, they'll be quieter. Do you have means of signalling to one another?"

"Yelling."

"Anything more subtle?"

"Flashing lanterns is quieter. Visible, though."

"Workable. If at all possible, do that. If the city is inaccessible, and the targets for any grudges are guarded, he's going to probably wander around before trying to go to ground again. If any of the teams see him, have them signal to the others, gather a fair number, then run him down."

Tanner blinked. That was... actually a good idea. She'd still been thinking of sending out hunting parties, patrols moving solidly through the streets, accounting for every little shadow... this was much better. Much more subtle, covered as much ground as possible in a quieter fashion. Did they do this in Krodaw? Was it... yes, yes, she could see the use. Marana had talked about how the appearance of power had been necessary, the appearance of omniscience, omnipotence, even if the reality was one of profound limitation. As a military strategy against insurgents... not ideal. As a manhunt strategy for a single odd individual armed with a knife? Workable. Workable. Tanner interjected suddenly.

"And don't shoot him. If at all possible, take him alive, incapacitate him, but don't kill him."

Mr. Supple glanced at Mr. Claw.

"...we'll do our best, honoured judge. But if the choice is between him living, or one of us living..."

He trailed off. Fair. Understandable. She nodded curtly, and... paused. What was she meant to do? Stand here like a jackass, rocking back and forth on her heels while watching the snowdrifts mount higher and higher? Mr. Supple saluted again, clicking his heels slightly, and strode off, vanishing in moments. Mr. Claw kept his dark eyes fixed on Tanner, and his jaw continually moved, bones slithering under his skin as he chewed his own teeth. Marana stood quietly, hands deep in her pockets. Tanner felt her stomach rumble. She looked around. Was this it? Did she stay still, let the others do their jobs, just... wait, wait and watch, wait and remain available for consultation? She imagined Tyer struggling through the snow. Paranoid. Harried. Armed. A wolf around the fire, looking for any kind of entrance, any failure of the light, of the heat. Would he sniff around his grudges, or would he just soldier on immediately? Over ten minutes. If he was trying to move quietly and carefully, he might not be too far away. Slipping from shadow to shadow. And once the net was properly set up, there was no telling how he might react. She almost imagined him behaving like a child. Seeing all the opposition, seeing his windows of opportunity fading, and... sitting down. Curling up. Hiding in a wood-store, shivering in fear. If a human was willing to remain very still indeed, there were all sorts of places they could hide, and dragging them out... picking a tick out of your skin was easier.

With nothing to do, all she could manage was thinking. Reminiscing. A night, much like this one. A dead man, face-down in the snow, cleanly killed. The screaming of horses in the dark. A gun kicking in her hands as she put them out of their misery. Seeing the steam emerge from their wounds, meat still warm, blood still flowing. A high-pressure bag of matter, ready to erupt at the simplest opportunity. A wolf-thing in the snow, loping towards them. Carrying Marana. Murmuring to herself, over and over, desperate to escape. Cold eyes. Flame. Shivering in the dark. Waiting for the end. The way mutant-meat twitched when you struck it, adapting to the damage, resisting the impact.

Shivering in the dark. Marana wrapped around her for warmth. Listening to the mutants cannibalising one another.

That time, she'd been... been helpless. All her size, all her strength, and all she could do was run and hope for the best. The night had been won by mutants killing their own kind. If that hadn't happened, the fire in the horse's ribcage would've flickered, going lower and lower, weaker and weaker, and when it winked out...

She moved.

Marana blinked in surprise, but tried to follow, struggling to keep pace. Tanner couldn't stay still. This was too similar. And she couldn't just sit around thinking about the sound that joints made when wrenched apart by mutated hands. Judges were expected to do things, they couldn't just... wait. Nor could she. The cold had terrified her ever since that night, it'd terrified her since she'd found out about hypothermia, how it entered the mind and planted delusions of warmth. Left people to die smiling, fully believing they were warm and safe. And she'd started walking in the snow, regularly, just to try and... get over it. Get over herself. And it'd worked, in a way. The cold frightened her less, she soldiered through it just fine, could even last through the snowstorms without much difficulty.

So when she found herself in a situation like this...

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Well. The last thing she wanted to do was stand still. Accept what came her way with passive resignation.

Just like last time.

Her hand itched where the mutant girl had nibbled the contamination away.

Marana glanced her way as they walked, and Mr. Claw stared silently from his post, truncheon tapping out a low, steady beat against his thigh. Matching him, Tanner drew her own, relishing in the solidity, the weight, the heft.

"I take it we're not going for a light stroll?"

"No."

"Excellent."

The older woman patted her coat, showing a familiar, heavy, prosaic weight.

"I came prepared, naturally."

"Don't kill him."

"Not intending on it. And, ah, keep an eye on that club of yours. You'd be surprised how easy it is to turn someone to a drooling wreck if-"

"I'm aware."

"Well. Wonderful."

Marana leaned over quickly, squeezing Tanner's shoulder, almost making the judge jump out of her skin. Didn't say anything. No more psychoanalysis attempts, no words of consolation, no little jokes about the current situation. Just... there. Tanner flashed a tiny, tight smile, but her face was otherwise as stoic as ever. The snow whirled around them both, the flickering lights of the inn vanished, leaving them with a boundless stretch of darkened, curtained windows, a vague silver sheen where the moon ought to be, and... nothing else. The houses clustered around them, and the winding, well-planned roads made her think of an intestinal canal, of the meat-filled passages underneath the cold-house, the sleeping twice-dead organs that gleamed like jewels in the dark. The sky pressed down, grey and terrible, gently releasing a constant stream of snowflakes upon their heads, and even blink sent a tiny shower of them from their eyelashes. The cold stung her nose, her ears, her mouth, turned them all numb, projecting long, slender fingers of frigid air through every opening and chilling her right to her core. She looked around cautiously as she followed the direction the bouncer had pointed in, checking for any likely hiding spots... the houses were dark, their doors were shut up, locked securely. Most of them had small gardens behind them, though. Could be hiding in them. She looked down into the snow, checking for footprints... the snowfall was too fast, even her own footprints, heavy and massive, were devoured hungrily in a matter of moments. Idly, she wondered if the man had collapsed, if he'd... gods, she had the image of him becoming desperate, cutting his own wrists, and falling into the snow. In moments, the snow would cover him. Soak up the blood. Eventually freeze it solid. A few minutes, and he might be utterly invisible. He might be right here, in one of the drifts. Face pale, eyes wide open, too cold for rot to set in. Snow-cured.

They walked.

They looked.

They acted busy. And Tanner wracked her brains for any kind of clue, anything that might suggest his next destination. The grudges were being guarded. Tom-Tom. Mr. Lam. No, no, think... how would he be thinking? Remove the specifics. Focus on generalities. Panic. Fear. Isolation. Backed into a corner. If he was going into the ruins of the city, he'd... yes, there was a narrow list of things he'd need. Supplies, or means to smuggle them in. But for a brief period, he'd be on his own. Blankets, fuel, things to keep himself warm in this awful cold. And if Tanner was in his position... she'd want something sentimental. Her ribbons. Her cape. Letter-writing tools. A little reminder of what she'd once been, and what she might become again. The umbrella her mother gave her when she visited Mahar Jovan. Even if it wasn't practical... well, you couldn't just live on warmth and food. Maybe he was going back to his own house, hunting for the case of knives, the chipped cup, the book of poetry, picking up what he'd left behind... claiming his last little heirlooms. He wouldn't find any of the knives, at least, those were all secure in Tanner's house, locked up as evidence. But... wait. Wait.

A thought.

Her pace increased slightly.

She was remembering the soldier who was keeping an eye on Mr. Lam. Even if Tyer decided not to go for revenge, even if he was just trying to get to the city, he might stop by his house for something. And his house was very, very close to Mr. Lam's house, to Tom-Tom's house. And Tanner remembered that guard saying how he endured the cold - he didn't stay out in it. Good move. The cold numbed the fingers, made guns painful to hold, slowed reaction times, and the snow destroyed visibility and audibility. So he was sheltering in Tyer's house. Kept an eye on Mr. Lam that way.

Marana was panting as she struggled to keep up. The colony, usually so small and cloistered, suddenly felt much, much larger as Tanner tried to cross it, hunting for Tom-Tom's street. Not sure what she expected. More soldiers were coming out, patrols were dispersing - they communicated efficiently out here, would shutter and unshutter their lanterns to convey messages in silence, each patrol bouncing the message to the next. They were, indeed, starting to stand on street corners, monitoring the quieter spots which could shelter a fugitive. The cold was both ally and enemy - the snow destroyed trails, made everything harder, turned the world hostile... but it was also a constant, nipping hound, snapping at Tyer's heels. He couldn't remain exposed. Had to keep moving. Had to find actual, reliable shelter.

She hurried.

The streets became more familiar. Coverage by soldiers was still spotty. They hadn't expected this, and it'd take time for them to fill things up. She realised that his house was actually a diversion from the path to the city - he'd be delaying himself if he went this way. But soldiers were busy covering the most relevant areas, keeping the Breach under lock and key. Her pace increased further, and now Marana was wheezing a little. Tanner forced herself to slow a little - would be an idiot if she ran around alone, with just a stick. Could just take her revolver. Could... no, no, Tanner had no idea how to use it, the last time she'd held a gun she'd been killing two paralysed animals, the idea of shooting a human...

The streets were very familiar. Her steps were more practised, she knew which areas were solid, which weren't. They were close. If she hopped over those fences, she'd be in Tom-Tom's garden, with its enormous, illegal well. A little further...

The street opened up.

Tanner stared.

Silence. Nothing. There was Tom-Tom's house, dark and locked. There was Tyer's house, equally so. And there was Mr. Lam's house, a few lights burning behind thick curtains. Safe. She let out a long, relieved breath. Safe. She'd gotten here in time. Or Tyer had never been heading here. Even so. A little knot of paranoia unwound - now, where else. Check the houses more thoroughly, perhaps. She adjusted her pince-nez where they'd started to slip, and focused. Right, start checking any general stores - not many of them, but if he wanted supplies in abundant quantities, they'd be the next port of call. Better still, he might need to break and enter, which would leave very obvious marks. Marana stood beside her, looking relieved. As much as they wanted to find him... well. Well. There was a luxury in letting someone else find him. A terror in having that kind of responsibility suddenly descend. Well. No, no, a judge ought to be glad for the responsibility. Frustrated at not finding him. Tanner glanced around...

...and saw footprints in the snow.

She stared at them.

They weren't military boots.

The snow swallowed footprints quickly. These were recent. They weren't military.

She moved forwards, tracing the prints, her grip tightening around her club.

The dark windows of the surrounding houses seemed to glare at them. Dead and cold.

Her breath fogged up in front of her face.

The footprints led... led to... yes, they headed towards his house, then paused very suddenly. She stared at those prints, studying the size of the boot, the imprint it left. Marana's revolver was out, low, held in both hands. Frost clinging to the barrel.

He'd not gone inside. The footprints went somewhere else. Went towards...

Towards Mr. Lam's house.

Tanner moved quickly, feet crunching in the snow, eyes widening.

Mr. Lam's house had an unlocked door. Light spilled through the crack. Could see where someone had forced the lock.

There was a leaden weight in her throat.

She pushed the door open with her club, and Marana stood behind her, aiming carefully, eyes narrowed...

The house was the same as it'd been last time. Small. Tidy. Nothing out of place. Her throat was dry.

And she called.

"Hello?"

Silence.

She moved in.

Pushed open the door to the kitchen with her club, stepping backwards immediately in case someone was standing there...

Blood.

Blood on the floor. Luminous in the candlelight.

She stepped in, feeling sick.

Two bodies. A soldier. And Mr. Lam.

Marana swore quietly. Tanner just stared. Processed the sight.

She'd seen a dead man, once. The coachman. But his death had been almost bloodless. He'd been crushed to death, and gruesome as it was, he'd been swallowed by the snow, but the churned debris. This... this had no such comfort. The shelter had kept the bodies immaculate, just for her. The soldier had been killed immediately. A force had slammed the door open, and a knife had slashed across his throat. It leered at her, purple and red, the front of his body completely soaked with blood. She could see the winking entrance of his bisected windpipe, the pale outlines of his spine. The head had flopped backwards at a nauseating angle, nothing supporting it, tendons and sinew snapping like violin strings. His eyes were wide with shock. His flesh above the neck was pale as milk, but his eyes... his eyes were bulging out of his skull, and she could see where he'd struggled to breathe. The air stank of meat. Reminded her of pork. Could see long, pale scars along the floorboards - the soldier had fallen, and kicked viciously, wriggling like a fish on a hook, scraping up everything around him before falling still. His palms were crimson where he'd tried to hold his throat together. Pieces of his own neck-veins were stuck under the nails.

Mr. Lam had died next.

He'd tried to defend his throat. His fingers were mangled where he'd made the attempt, and his nose had been crushed. Brass knuckles. Fingers looked like the growths of some strange, chaotic, pale weed, one that grew in any direction it could muster. Less a hand, more a bag of shards hidden in a red ooze that seeped from the shattered knuckles. The knife had been used to go for his stomach, then. A long, ragged wound. Terribly wide. Terribly deep. A cavernous black mouth, toothless, with purple-black lips, and the scent of digested stew wafting out of it. Silver-grey intestines were barely visible, and were arranged chaotically - the man had tried to scoop them back into himself in his last moments. Died with tears in his eyes. Died with his teeth clenched so tightly that they looked liable to never come open again. Spit lingered at the corners of his mouth, giving him a rabid, feral look. But the eyes. The eyes held nothing but absolute sadness.

He'd slashed a throat. Shattered hands. Opened the stomach to the world, opened that stinking cauldron, which issued steam from the churning interior. And left.

She could see where the door had opened.

Marana was pale. Tanner felt sick. Three strikes, and two men were dead. Left to bleed out on the kitchen floor.

The door had been opened. The back door had been used to depart.

Thoughts of misinterpretations, of innocence, of complication fled from her mind. Subtlety shredded with the point of a man-killer knife. She'd been so concerned with the nuance. Who he really was. What he really wanted. What had really happened, and why. But all she saw here... all she saw here was the foam-flecked leavings of a rabid animal. Her grip on her club tightened.

And she moved without thinking, her boots bringing up little quantities of blood as she went, and as she dived out through the back door, they left sharp red imprints in the snow. Imprints that she knew would fade.

All she could see were the footprints leading forwards. Heading into the dark. Away from the city.

* * *

Marana was saying something. Tanner wasn't listening.

She couldn't even say that she was angry. Just felt cold. She'd made a mistake. If she'd been smarter, faster, more decisive, this wouldn't have happened. She thought of that small chambermaid in the governor's mansion. Thought of all the self-indulgent speculation. Judge, couldn't even solve a crime before another body was found. She wasn't angry. Just cold.

She ran.

And for once, she opened up.

Marana vanished quickly. Tanner's legs pumped, and her lungs felt like a set of iron bellows. Cold was non-existent, her body was a furnace, a steaming comet in the dubious night. Weariness and hunger were irrelevant, adrenaline was pulsing in her veins. She felt distance vanish, she devoured distance, devoured street after street as she raced forwards, snow trailing in her wake. Her hair flew behind her, and her club was held absolutely still, her knuckles white, her hands trembling. Her eyes were wide with focus. And her face was absolutely stoic.

A cavernous mouth in the stomach. A bleeding purple smile. Pale scars on the floor.

Sad eyes.

Shocked eyes.

The god on her back dug his fingers in deep.

She'd make this right.

If she didn't, who the hell was she.

The god dug deeper. Demanded satisfaction. Satisfaction she was eager to provide.

She sprinted. Marana was gone in moments. And the footprints... oh, they were getting deeper. More panicked. More clear. All her nuance, all her investigation, all her interviews, and the closest she was getting to her quarry was by running without ceasing. Pale faces flashed by from time to time, shocked. Soldiers with winking lanterns were visible in the distance, too slow, too slow. One hand on her club. One hand on her skirt, hitching it up clumsily.

The footprints turned a corner.

She almost fell over while turning. Steadied herself...

Her gold pince-nez fell from her nose. She didn't stop to retrieve them. Barely remembered the street.

Her lips parted slightly, and she let out a long, sibilant hiss.

Come on. Come on.

A dark figure.

Moving between houses.

Tyer. Dark coat. Sandy hair. Cheeks unshaven. A knife. A knife. Murderer. Murderer. He glanced behind him, and she saw a pair of terrified eyes.

Her pace increased, and she was huffing and puffing like a bull, her own huge bootprints demolishing Tyer's meagre little footprints, blasting them out of existence. Her club ached to feel his bones breaking. She knew how delicate people could be. Every time she touched someone, or was touched by them, she felt how delicate their bones were, how brittle and fragile, like the hollow bones of birds. And with a squeeze, they'd pop. Snap. Twist out of position.

She felt like she was losing weight with each step.

Ten pounds in ten seconds. Muscles tightening, straightening. All weak excess being boiled away. Her face felt narrow and mean, flesh clinging to her skull like wax, bones standing in sharp relief. Her arms felt like they were corded with metal wires. Her jaw was a bear-trap. Her eyes were the lamps of twin lighthouses, blazing and unambiguous. Organs shrinking and hardening like the cured meats in the cold-room labyrinth, surface like opals, like rubies, lungs like chunks of volcanic pumice. The light of lanterns around her turned the steam rising from her skin a sickly yellow. Abdicated flesh, burning all around her into steam, some of it coloured yellow with fat. Her club might as well be growing out of her arm. An extension of her body. Could feel her bones flowing through it, could feel nerves spreading like fungus, could feel muscle intertwining and caressing.

The man was close.

She was close.

He was weaving between buildings. Leapt over a tiny fence. She didn't even blink - the flimsy wood shattered in her wake.

She could hear him breathing.

He was barely staying ahead. He moved like a monkey, bouncing from the walls, turning corners faster than she could blink. Useless.

Her club swung, and almost clipped him - she saw his hair prickling where he'd felt the breeze of the strike.

She wasn't a person, now. A criminal had broken the law. Violently. As a judge, she stood to enforce the law. Prevent him from inflicting further violence. Her entire identity rested on this man. Judge. Lodge-member. Loyal daughter. Beneficiary of a patron. Sole judge of this cold, blasted place.

She swung...

Almost...

He moved quickly. He clambered swiftly up a fence, and this time it was too heavy for her to smash through. She scanned it - lock, door. The club swung, and vibrations ran up and down her arm, her spine, her body, and she felt the metal giving. She smashed it again, face blank. The metal whined, and almost gave. She could hear something happening. Swung again. Again.

The metal squealed like a stuck pig, but it gave. The lock snapped. The door opened.

She ran...

And froze.

Could see the man.

And could see another man standing over him.

Tyer had blood running down his face from a wound along his scalp. The man in front of him... a bouncer, she'd seen him around. Even knew his name. Lyur. The first bouncer she'd ever met. Navy coat. Navy jumper. Navy trousers. Heavy, scarred boots. A face like a bulldog's. Flat with anger. A club in his hand...

A club marked with blood and hair.

Her eyes widened, and she started to rush.

Tyer was staring up at Lyur, his eyes wide with terror, one of them filling with blood from his wound. His voice was slurred, but he was trying to speak. Raising his hands to defend himself feebly. The air was leaving him in rattles. Exhausted. He looked like a starving rat, hollow cheeks, unshaven whiskers, terrified eyes, heart pounding away, breath coming in empty shudders. Sweat marking his limbs like dew. She noticed his fingernails. Filthy. Blackened. He said something...

She barely heard it.

"Please."

Lyur struck him again.

His head cracked. A bloody spew issued from the crack, a black thing that ran over his scalp. Chasm. Tanner was frozen. Lyur swung again. Just once.

And when his club came back, it was marked with blood, with hair, and with little fragments of pale bone.

Tyer was on the ground. Twitching as phantom impulses ran through him.

Tanner stared.

Lyur looked down, eyes dark.

And then he crouched, and started to wipe his club clean on Tyer's coat, leaving a thin residue of Tyer's blood, flecked with Tyer's hair, studded with Tyer's skull. He looked up, mouth set into a grim line.

"Violent means come to violent ends. He was violent, wasn't he?"

Tanner nodded silently.

"Do believe he even had a knife. Saw him reaching for it. Looked like it'd done some work tonight."

"...he did."

A pause.

"...he's dead?"

Lyur spat, and rocked on his heels a little.

"He's certainly not alive. That ends my end of the ending business. I'll leave the rest to you, then, will I?"

The sound of guards were nearby. They were coming. The net closing in, a little too late.

It was... it was over?

She stared at the sad, shrivelled form on the ground, hollowed by hunger and fear. Tanner spoke automatically, her eyes not leaving the black chasm in Tyer's skull.

"Stay. I need to ask you a few questions."

Lyur grunted.

"Mind if I ask you one, first?"

Silence.

"Heard folk feel kinship over dead bodies. Feeling that what divides us is pointless when there's such a big division staring us right in the face. Makes you feel petty, dividing people up so arbitrarily. Don't you think?"

Tanner didn't answer.

"I think so. But what do I know."

Silence once again.

Was it over?

Had to be. The main protagonist was dead in front of her.

Over...

No. No, it wasn't.

Tanner, with calmness she didn't feel, slid her club back inside her coat. Couldn't be over. Not because she was unwilling to accept the truth. Too many questions. Too many problems. Why had he done this? Who was he? Everything that Tyer had been was ready to ooze through that chasm, like he was birthing his own mind out of his skull, squeezing it free in grey chunks. Water was leaking out... or something thicker than water. She crouched, pulling his coat open. He was still warm. Burning up. Could even still feel the rattling of breath, but... no, it was stilling. His mind was gone. All he had been or would have become. All his motive was smashed into a clean paste. Her body wasn't quite catching up with the idea that he was dead, that it was over. Her brain wasn't, either. None of her was convinced. Even as Lyur stood around, going over his truncheon with a small cloth, reaching for a cigarette... she just couldn't... she kept thinking this body wasn't Tyer's. That this was just another clue in an investigation that was still ongoing.

Oh, gods, she'd been willing to open that chasm in his skull.

She'd genuinely been willing.

And Lyur would've found her bloodstained and feral, her club studded with pieces of curving bone, flecked with a mane of stolen hair. Like the club was trying to become some savage effigy of the man it killed, stealing flesh, bone, blood, hair... each strike building his memorial.

Life just kept going. The systems didn't come to a clanking stop because Tyer had died. Battered to death by a bouncer's club.

She searched his coat... nothing, nothing, and...

A knife.

The knife.

She removed it gingerly, letting it fall upon his chest like a funerary tribute, like something he would carry into the next world. Heavy. Huge blade, designed for plunging through layers of bone and armour. Brass knuckles around the hilt, studded with little spikes. Ready to crunch through anything that was inconvenient to stab.

Marked with blood. Around the blade.

Gods. This...

She sat back, feeling her chest rising and falling slightly slower with each passing moment. Almost wanted to keep running. Just because...because she could feel the humanity oozing back into her. Accumulating around her organs like layers of visceral fat. Wanted to keep moving. It wasn't over - none of this was over, there were last rites to perform, she had to keep investigating, find out what was really going on, pursue these last tangents... she couldn't do it as Tanner Magg, the soft, spongy, flabby creature which blushed at the slightest hint of impropriety and was incompetent. Could only do it as the single-minded thing she'd been a moment ago, club growing into her flesh, eyes burning, flesh tight, muscles unfettered...

She reached for her face.

Pince-nez were gone. Eyes felt naked without them.

Some of her buttons had snapped off. Her skirt was filthy, and she'd lost yet more buttons there. Her hair was in disarray. Splinters embedded where she'd smashed through a fence. Gone off the leash, and... all for nothing. Her chest was rising and falling like a set of bellows, and she wanted them to keep on going, to never slow down, to never stop.

Felt, dimly, Marana approaching, out of breath.

Felt, dimly, her arms wrapping around Tanner's shoulders, easing her up.

And her eyes refused to leave the cold body on the ground. Black chasm in its skull. Ceasing to be a he, becoming an it. Inanimate matter. Tanner bit the inside of her lip until she almost drew blood. Kept thinking of the last word to come out of those lips. Kept wondering why he'd said it. What he'd thought would happen. Kept thinking of the absolute, paralytic terror in his voice.

'Please.'