CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX - THE SILK NOOSE

For some time, Tanner didn't respond to any inquiries from the outside world. She refused to engage with anyone save her inner circle - a chambermaid and a souse, dragged out of a crime scene and hosed down before getting hauled, firmly yet gently, back to the mansion. Then the doors locked, and the three of them were sequestered away with piles of notes and ledgers. For hours they pored over them, absolutely hours. Their conversations were hushed, muffled, and frequently with hands over their mouths at the insistence of Tanner - not for an act, she was genuinely paranoid about someone finding out. Papers flapped in the wind as she levered windows open to muffle their voices further, to scatter them to the four corners. They were high up enough that their voices wouldn't drift to anyone outside, the danger was of ears at keyholes, eyes at peepholes, that sort of thing. And for them, the wind would have to serve as an effective... what had Mr. Canima called it? A baffler. Tanner didn't bring up Fyeln. Not for a moment. Marana had been in a better state than Tanner had anticipated, honestly. Slept off most of her hangover, apparently, though she had clumsily concealed a bottle as they left. Tanner wondered what had possessed her to go back to the house, rather than to the mansion, where she had guards, a known ally, all manner of luxuries. Why she'd chosen to go to Tyer's house to sleep it all off... well. Tanner didn't intend to put it in her final report, to state it as mildly as possible.

She was getting the distinct feeling that Marana wasn't cut out for judicial work. Even if she conquered the chemical habits, she was still... well... for Tanner, the law was engraved into her heart, into each damn chamber of that oversized organ. It was closer to her than the veins in her neck. Going against it would be akin to going against her own nature. Marana... maybe it was environment, coming into her own in Krodaw, maybe it was rebellion against her family, maybe it was just one of her quirks, but she had a shaky relationship to the concept of law. Tanner saw it all the time - people who thought that the law was basically just a clumsy bureaucratic interface that, if you were well-meaning enough, could be circumvented. The law was just for bad people, and if you weren't bad, then you could bend the rules a little bit to properly punish or prosecute the truly bad people. Bribing someone for information was perfectly acceptable in such a context.

Maybe Tanner was reading too much into it.

Either way.

They worked unceasingly, putting together the final pieces of the puzzle, as far as she saw it. Yan-Lam contributed insights on names, faces, parentage... and Tanner spied the inconsistencies in data, the problems which only really emerged once you saw how often they appeared, too often to be coincidences. And hours later, as the darkness drew in and the colony buckled down for another storm...

Tanner summoned Sersa Bayai into this cloistered den of investigation.

And with him, she outlined a plan.

"We need to interrogate Tom-Tom."

Bayai blinked, and tugged slightly at his high, military collar. Tanner wanted to smile reassuringly, but... no, no, a proper judge would have a firm, almost regimental expression. Why did people only say 'regimented' or 'regimental' when it came to organisation? Why not 'battalioned' or 'brigaded' or 'companied' or 'platooned' or 'corpsed'? Silly thought. Unbecoming.

"I see. Am I permitted to know why?"

His face was stiff with tension. The mutants were still weighing on him, as they did on Tanner. Honestly, if they hadn't arrived, she'd be spending days more confirming everything before she dared to move, just to be certain. Now? If something was going wrong, she had a duty to get this done quickly. Justice delayed was justice denied, especially when dark events were on the horizon. Her compatriots looked between the two speakers, Marana leaning back lazily in her chair, eyes half-lidded, and Yan-Lam was practically shaking with anticipation, her eyes every so often flashing with unpleasant fires.

"It'd be best if you didn't know all the specifics. I need to talk with her about the case."

"Do you think she murdered the governor, honoured judge?"

"No. I don't. But... the colony is a closed system. Everything interrelates. She's connected, even if she's not totally aware of it."

"Why do you think she'll talk? She's going to be watched, I can guarantee that - the Tyer business was loud enough to make her a known quantity, if you think she's connected, then..."

Then the killers will be keeping a very firm eye on her, as they'll keep an eye on any judicial activities. If you make a move now, you're making a definite move, with no opportunity to backtrack. If you move, the idea of you still investigating the merchants dies a fiery death. Ready for the consequences, honoured judge?

She could read the inferences easily enough. And... well. She intended to keep her friends locked up in here until the danger had passed. If she died, they'd have all the documents necessary. If necessary, she'd be the canary in the coal mine. That was her job, after all. No matter what the spasms in her stomach told her.

A judge may be expected to die under these circumstances, and would be honoured for their sacrifice. No more paranoia. No more planting poisonous impressions of herself. Just...quiet, and a legacy that she could be proud of. All her misdeeds and missteps erased, an examination reduced down only to the final, successful grade, no sign to be seen of the individual mistakes within.

Anyway.

"That's what we're going to discuss. I need her alone, likely for an extended period. Depending on how things go, she might even be able to help us with maintaining our cover. Obviously, she can't come to the mansion, that's too obvious - but this map has all the unoccupied houses marked out with pins, as you can see here."

Bayai peered at it, humming.

"Well... may I?"

He gestured to the pins. Tanner nodded, and he started removing a few.

"I assume we're ignoring all houses too close to an inn. And..."

Tanner interrupted, moving forwards and consulting one of her documents. A list of overseers.

"And we'll be removing these as well, they're too close to certain persons of interest with a known ability to observe."

"Past bouncers?"

"Past bouncers."

"Hm. I understand. Well... the question is, finding a house which is far enough away from any observers, while still being easy to take Tom-Tom to without arousing suspicion."

Marana spoke up suddenly.

"Why not take her... here? One of the abandoned shops near the place where the governor's body was found. It's not unusual for people like us to be around them, so we could arrive easily, and they're central enough for Tom-Tom to reasonably go there. Question is, how to lure her in without starting a fuss..."

Tanner thought. No, no, too central, too easy to observe, and she didn't want too many soldiers around. Not that she thought they were all traitors, but at least one of them might be, and that was too much of a risk for her to work with at this juncture. Yan-Lam hummed.

"Why not the Breach, honoured judge, miss, sir? There's plenty of empty houses nearby, but it's isolated enough, and people have reasons to go there, if they want to enter the city, find a cantina..."

Bayai grunted.

"We've been keeping those on lockdown since the governor's death, be unusual if she headed out and no-one stopped her."

A glance shared with Tanner - and the mutants. Keeping people away was for the best, and there were a fair number of soldiers keeping an eye out at all times, driving people back to stop them stumbling into any kind of trouble. Tanner studied the map... and Marana snapped her fingers loudly, and her slightly glazed eyes sharpened up significantly.

"Hold onto thine proverbial horses. I do believe, darlings, that I have an idea. Merchant houses. I go there frequently, as you well know. I know which are in use tonight, and which are basically empty, save for a servant or two. It wouldn't be unreasonable for me to go there, there's several entrances for Tanner to get in hours in advance, they're central enough for soldiers in plainclothes to easily watch over them... and I could get Tom-Tom to go there if I offered enough booze."

Tanner considered this one. It had a certain elegance to it, a certain... skill. Two issues. First, could Tom-Tom be convinced to go there, alone, with someone she knew to be an investigator in a case she'd been involved in? Second, servants. Tanner checked the ledgers quickly - she had lists, obviously she had lists, she'd been working for days. The merchant houses had small numbers of servants, generally just a cook (frequently swapped between houses depending on who was hosting a dinner party), a maid or two... and a little circling cloud of handymen who shovelled coal, repaired structures, did all sorts of little jobs but weren't employed permanently by any one house. The ledgers informed her on the permanent residents, and Marana filled in the temporary ones. Finally, the 'infiltration' was somewhat paying off, not just as something to maintain basic investigative standards for Tanner. Wonderful. How pleasant. Terrifically satisfying.

Narrowed it down. Who was out tonight? How many servants would be left behind? The servants invariably had Fidelizhi names, at least the permanent ones did, quite possibly brought up here with the families they'd served for quite some time. Temporary servants, scratch them off. Cooks, scratch them off. Maids... would they be at the inns? Would they just go home? Could they be trusted? A few houses presented themselves, and Bayai politely offered to supply one or two men to keep an eye on entrances, and to maybe silence the maids if they were present. One of the soldiers would go as a companion for Tanner when she entered, as soon as possible. That soldier would then clear up matters with the maids (if present). Bayai was confident in the soldier's loyalty, and Tanner didn't have time to do proper checks. Strike while the iron was hot, that was her current motto. So...

They had a location. They had a plan. The details were swiftly hammered out... and Tanner was already buttoning her coat up. She'd committed the map of the colony to memory after so long studying it for addresses over the last week or so, and could already visualise a route that would keep her out of public view. Stay away from inns. Stay away from the main routes. Move quietly, firmly, check for people following her...

She was used to this.

And she hadn't even removed her boots since she set out from the wilderness.

Conclusion hung in her nose like perfume. A scent that overpowered even the paranoia that usually lurked around her.

"Well. Ladies, gentleman. Let's move."

* * *

The merchant house was placid. The soldier with her was the contemporary-looking fellow with stage-magician hands - Mr. Supple, in her mind. Still hadn't worked up the courage to ask for his name after meeting him on three separate occasions. Three. No way back at this point. He was healing up from the injuries Dyen had dealt to him, been out of uniform for a while, Bayai was of the opinion that he looked enough like a civilian at this point. For most people, individual guards tended to vanish into their uniform, and he hadn't been seen in his for a little bit. He kept a scarf on, nonetheless. Just to be safe. Not sure if anyone had seen them on the way over - streets had been dead, they kept to backwards areas, the snow had muffled their footsteps, and Tanner had been running around all damn day, not like people would find it notable after she'd been asking every person with a mouth where Marana was. The house was pleasant enough, at least. Marana gave them a spare key for the place, gained from quite a bit of schmoozing. One maid had been inside, upstairs. Mr. Supple was keeping an eye on her, making sure she didn't overreact.

And Tanner was slowly arraying her documents in the dining room. Arranging chairs, moving them out of the room, all save for two. She'd be sitting, obviously, Tom-Tom might want to, but Tanner wanted more floor space for it. Funny, thinking about interrogation interior decoration. The table was cleared of cutlery and plates, stacked neatly in the kitchen. The table had papers arrayed over it, spreading in front of her like playing cards, written in tiny, tiny quill-strokes. On second thought... she removed the tablecloth, it was a bit too cheery. Solid brown wood looked more professional. Lights... hm, oil lamps were a bit too warm, and darkness made it easy to feel concealed, and feeling concealed meant feeling safe... she steadily gathered a good number of them from various rooms, turning them up as high as the flames could rise, until the room shone. The windows were shrouded in thick sash curtains, and inside, there was a dreamlike air. Over a dozen lamps burning away, banishing all darkness... little haloes of light that swam at the edge of her vision. She considered lighting some candles too, but that felt a bit too excessive. A second... and she quietly drew aside to grab a clock from the drawing room, mounting it quickly on the dining room mantlepiece. And then she removed all the pictures she could find.

A bare, shadowless, dreamy room, with walls the colour of raw liver, and a ticking clock that filled the silence with a low, foreboding tension. A table of strange papers. A giantess in a thick black dress, eyes heavy with weariness, writing implements arranged like surgical tools at her side.

There, that was the sort of place you interrogated someone. Reminded her of the terrors of her graduation dinners... and the warmth of the fireplace was spectacular, once it was going, the room in general became almost too warm for comfort. Enough for sweat to bead at her own forehead while she got used to it, and he had time to acclimatise. Tom-Tom... well.

Tanner wondered how the lure was going. There was to be a delay between her arrival here and Tom-Tom's designated arrival, but there was going to be a margin of error, whether she liked it or not. Mr. Supple could barely be heard upstairs, moving around calmly. Soldiers outside, waiting in alleys in civilian clothing, ready to move in at a moment's notice. And a secret weapon, hidden alongside the soldiers, ready to accompany them. The snow devoured sound, and she had no idea if someone was approaching.

Time flowed...

And a voice echoed over the silence. Piercing.

"All's well that ends well, in my view. I mean, yes, that business was indubitably ghastly in every possible detail, by all means, but it's over, it's concluded, it's overshadowed by all that's come since. And you need a drink, my lady, you need a drink, and I can promise free ones. I tell you, that damn judge, she's so boring, she just sits around, doesn't talk to me..."

Steady on, Marana. Don't paint the deception too thick.

Tom-Tom wasn't talking, though she might be humming in agreement, the sound muffled by the walls...

A door clicked as a key was inserted, and Marana's voice dropped to a whisper.

"Now, there might be a maid, might explain the lights, but don't worry, she's decent, and knows to keep her trap shut, trust me, so..."

The door clicked shut, but no latch was drawn. The signal had been given. The soliders were moving.

"Right, so where's this... wine..."

Tom-Tom's voice came to a slow, terrified stop as she looked at Tanner, seated amidst her swirling haloes of fire, face hard as stone. Tanner didn't smile. And her voice was humourless.

"Hey-ho, Tom-Tom."

Tom-Tom, smelling danger, immediately whirled... to find Marana pressing her flat against the wall, lifting her hands to slam against the liver-red paint, searching her from top to bottom with the oddly exaggerated actions of someone who'd seen this, but hadn't necessarily done it before. A fish knife was removed from her pocket, but nothing else. The door clicked - two doors, actually, soldiers entering from different angles. This time, when they shut, they locked. Marana nodded to Tanner, confirming she'd finished searching, and one of the soldiers double-checked. Three soldiers in the house. Marana. Tanner. And a secret weapon currently in the corridor, ready for a signal. Tom-Tom was, as Tanner expected, sweating through every pore in her body. A light scent of fish drifted from her, and she curled into herself as she stood, shivering under the gaze of her captors. She saw the closed curtains, and already she was tensing, ready to rip them open and shriek for help... Tanner began to talk, though. And the sound of her voice stilled the woman.

A woman she'd once tried to keep safe. Gone out of her way to do it.

And it'd gotten three people killed at minimum.

Add the governor. Add Myunhen. Add Dyen, possibly. Add an attempt on her own life, and Marana's life.

All beginning when Tom-Tom knocked on her door.

Tanner steepled her fingers.

"I won't keep you longer than necessary, Tom-Tom. I wanted to have a discussion with you, to clear up a few details. Did you have any plans tonight?"

Silence. Tom-Tom glared at her, mouth practically clamped shut. Tanner, with a slightly official sigh, started writing. Immediately the tension increased - this was no longer just a temporary nightmare, this would have records. Tom-Tom gritted her teeth, and Marana spoke up very quietly, her eyes still slightly glazed from her binge.

"She doesn't. When I found her, she was heading to an inn."

"Which one?"

"The Bloodied-Hero was the closest."

"I see. Did you intend to meet anyone there, Tom-Tom?"

Silence. A shantytowner's silence, the kind trained by years of Erlize interrogations. Tanner sighed slightly, once again, and kept writing in neat, cramped letters.

"I understand. Gentlemen, could one of you keep an eye on the outside, quietly as you can?"

One nodded and left, leaving his companion, a sturdy, short fellow with a bristling moustache. Looked like a tortoise without his shell, standing around as he was without his military uniform.

"Your name is Tom-Tom. You migrated here several years ago, and have since taken up work as a fisherwoman, working more in the summer and largely settling in the winter. Could I ask the name of your father?"

The woman looked at her venomously... and spoke quietly. A shantytowner's silence was predicated on the threat of violence, in Tanner's mind. The Erlize, if met with nothing at all, could just lock you up, beat you bloody, do whatever they pleased. You didn't give nothing, you just gave enough. Never elaborate, never fill in details, never give more than you absolutely had to. Make the Erlize think you were co-operating and just knew nothing, because then they had no reason to keep you around. Hopefully. Yan-Lam did it. And Tom-Tom did it too.

If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.

"Tom."

"What was his full name?"

"Tom-Cam."

Tanner wrote this down carefully, already preparing for the final point of the interrogation, the climax of tension. Laying foundations.

"Why did you move here?"

"Work. More opportunities than in the shantytown."

"And you were interviewed several times, your background was examined, your appearance and medical history were thoroughly documented, and the final seal of approval came from..."

She turned a few meaningless pages.

"A Mr. Gulyai."

Tom-Tom immediately froze a little, but returned to agitated silence a second later. Ah ha. Tanner leaned forwards very slightly, still writing.

"What colour hair did your parents have?"

"...brown. My... mother's was brown, my father's was red."

"And you took after your mother?"

"Sure."

"I take it that you entered Mr. Lam's house on occasion, being neighbours and all. Did you have any opinions on his cage?"

A flicker of confusion... and then recognition. A spark of pride.

"No opinions."

"Were you aware of its function?"

"Catching bad luck inside it."

Tanner kept writing.

"What kind of nails did it use?"

A pause.

"Iron."

Tanner made no indication that anything was wrong. Just kept talking.

"You have an excellent knowledge of skull measurement."

"Thanks."

"Might I ask where you learned?"

"Father taught me."

"Is he still alive?"

"Tuberculosis killed him a while ago. Told the Colonial Office."

"Where did you get your tools?"

"From him. Inherited."

"What was your father's background?"

"Rekidan. Came out of the north."

"When?"

"Not sure. Before I was born."

"How old are you?"

"Twenty seven."

"How old was your father when he died?"

"Sixty five."

"How old was he when he had you?"

"Thirty eight."

"When did he come from the north?"

"...must've been in his teens. He never said."

"What was his background?"

"Rekidan."

"What was his trade?"

"Farmer."

More writing. Tom-Tom was still sweating, but the rapid patter of questions was oddly soothing, presumably. Probably was utterly familiar, and the lack of resistance was... well, viscerally appealing, but Tanner could see her wrestling with a rising feeling that this was too easy. And indeed it was. Indeed it was.

"What's your opinion on bears?"

A startled blink. A cock of the head.

"...they're animals. Steal fish."

"Killed them before?"

"Not many bears in the shantytown, so no."

"Out here?"

"Never seen one. Well, one bloke killed one, so I suppose they're out here."

A wobble - she elaborated too much, felt the urge to speak more, like someone spreading their arms wide while balancing on a tight-rope - it made you more ungainly, it made you easier to shoot (not that that was likely, but it was still true), but it also kept you stabilised. She was making up metaphors as she went, because it made her feel more experienced, more professional. Professionals had oodles of metaphors, in her experience. Oodles. And when she used them, she felt... worldly.

"But you've never seen one."

"No, I haven't. Not once."

"Impressed by the fact that one was killed?"

"I mean, sure. Pretty impressive, I suppose."

Tanner kept writing. Tom-Tom was desperately trying to read it upside down, but... well, even if that was easy, the light in here was chaotic, and Tanner wrote in letters so absolutely tiny that there was no hope for Tom-Tom. All she saw was the increasing number of lines marking the smooth white page, and the similar lines covering all the others. No diagrams, no pictures, none of the things the illiterate (which this situation made her) could usually anchor onto.

"Take me through the application process for entering the colony, if you wouldn't mind."

Another blink.

A second.

And then a coarse string of sentences, all of them short and sharp and rapid as bullets from a revolver.

"Got myself an application form from the Colonial Office. Filled it in. Waited. Was invited for an interview. Then a physical examination. Then another interview. Then a background check. Then a final interview. Sent me off on the next steamer. Plenty of other people with me. Took several weeks of constant travel. No stops."

Tanner wrote this down.

And finally, finally, laid her quill down. But not for good. Not yet. Drew the paper closer to herself... and studied it wearily. A bureaucrat with yet another form to do, yet more paperwork. Bored, tired, underpaid and overworked, eager to get home. Not passionately connected to the case. And somehow, that was worse. Passion made it personal. Passion turned people into animals with simple commands - in the chaos was something every human had experienced. But bored rationality... that could be uncanny. The tired bureaucrat would feel exactly the same whether she deemed you innocent, or sent you to be hung. Humans were numbers, values, data. Humans were meat on an assembly line. Tanner only had a small number of close acquaintances, and one real, true friend that she trusted with her life. A bureaucrat knew the intimate personal details of hundreds of people over the span of a single day. By the time the next day came, those hundreds might as well be dead they were so absent from the memory.

Bureaucrats created smallness.

Tanner tapped a firm hand on the table, the echo deafening in the silence. Tom-Tom almost jumped out of her skin... then the blood drained from her face.

Yan-Lam walked through a door, removing her bonnet.

Glaring at Tom-Tom with open venom.

Silence reigned for a moment... then Tanner, with exhaustion written on her features (most it unfeigned), picked up her quill and got back to work.

"The name Cam is familiar to you?"

"No. Rekidans aren't called Cam, I've never heard of a single one of us being called Cam."

Tanner hummed.

"I've heard of people called Cam. It's a Fidelizhi prefix. Camima. Camlug. Camdol."

"Me too."

"Is Tom a masculine name?"

"It is not."

"Is it conventional to name the daughter after the father."

"No."

"What are Rekidan cages made of?"

"Nothing but wood, no metal nails, ever."

"Are you familiar with skull measurements?"

"No."

"The city is full of sculptures with measured skulls, of course."

"Yes, miss."

"But that's public monumentality. Cages are more personal. Associated with a certain group."

Slaves.

"Yes. That's correct."

"Ms. Tom-Tom, do you understand the Rekidan script?"

The woman coughed, her throat deeply and uncomfortably dry.

"I... no, my father never taught me."

"That's fair. The people who wrote that script never taught it to most of the population. Kept very hidden."

A pause.

"Much like their arts of skull measurement. You base yours on the movements of the stars and the moon... very similar to how Fidelizh manages their gods. You know an esoteric art, but you don't know the language of the city."

"No-one does! I mean, shantytown, Erlize, not fond of people speaking their own languages, and we all end up with similar accents after a generation or two..."

She slammed her mouth shut, realising she'd fallen into the trap of elaborating more than she needed to. Too many defences for something that most people would take for granted, hm?

"Your father was a farmer."

"Sure. Sure. Back in the old days."

"A peasant."

"Sure. Low-down."

A pause.

A hard stare.

"And bears..."

Yan-Lam spoke. As prescribed.

"Bears are kingly animals, you're not meant to kill them."

"And the process for applying to join the colony..."

"You don't get a form from the Colonial Office. You put your name on a waiting list, and once you pass an initial check, they bring you in to fill out the forms in person, at no point do you take them home, or remove them from the Colonial Office. Everything's very fast once you do that, minimal waiting. The longest wait is after registering interest."

Tom-Tom exploded a little.

"Shut up, you little maggot. You don't grass to judges, didn't anyone teach you that? You don't grass-"

One of the soldiers held her back, but it was basically unnecessary. Tom-Tom settled down quickly, clenching her fists, angry at herself for her own outburst. Tanner wrote down a few more notes... and gestured for Yan-Lam to leave. The room was silent, save for the scratching of a quill, the crackling of the fire, and the low panting of Tom-Tom. She wiped a hand across her brow, and it came away dripping with nervous sweat. She glanced longingly at the one other chair in the room... left it be, churlishly choosing to stand. Didn't even let her tower over Tanner - even seated, Tanner could easily look her in the eye without having to incline her head an inch.

The truth was...

She was acting more certain than she was.

Much more certain indeed.

There were details she didn't know. Cam? Knew that was Fidelizhi, but to her it sounded as Rekidan as any other two-pronged name she'd heard. Skull measurements being an elite activity? She could guess that, but had no idea. Yan-Lam had been surprised by the news that bears were kingly, first time she'd heard of it. Duplicate names? Just because she hadn't heard one didn't mean a damn thing, she hadn't heard very many in the first place. If she was particularly daring, she'd start claiming that nobles only had a certain type of name, distinct from the form that commoners had.

But still.

The guilt was written all over her.

Tanner gestured for the soldier to leave, and for Tom-Tom to sit. A second of resistance, and she obeyed. She knew that if she ran, the game was up, there might be more guards, she might be shot, her guilt would be absolute, and unlike Dyen, she wasn't getting away. If Tanner had to physically embrace her from here until her sentencing, she'd damn well do it. Day after day, night after night, forcefully wrapped around a shorter, weaker, fish-scented woman. Really hoped it wouldn't come to that.

Tanner leant forwards, and spoke quietly, quietly enough for Yan-Lam to not hear.

"Rekida had no farmers, no peasants. They had slaves. You don't know what you're talking about, but you're trying your best. You have a Rekidan name, almost. You practice Rekidan arts, but not perfectly, and the wrong sort."

Tom-Tom was absolutely silent.

But her shoulders were shaking. And her eyes were wide with fear. She knew. She knew the game was up, that she was going to be judged, and she was terrified of the consequences. The thumping of her heart was practically audible across the room. Tanner turned a few pages... and sighed slightly.

"Let's start by you telling me your real name."

Tom-Tom lowered her head. Her voice was barely audible, and it shook with each syllable.

"Pyulmila."

"You were given the chance to come here. It was offered. You didn't go looking for the opportunity."

"Yes. I'm sorry, I... never meant for this go so far, I'm sorry. Please, I'm sorry I lied to you, Tanner, I felt awful every moment I was doing it, I really did, I never-"

Tanner overrode her, swallowing a hint of pity. A hint. Then she thought of the night of three mouths, of a purple face swinging in an empty house, of the governor's broken body in the street, discarded like a piece of waste, and the pity chilled and sank away, to the depths of her stomach where it could barely be felt.

"Pyulmila. Could you tell me, for my own benefit, exactly how you were brought up here, leading to the point where you engaged in the business with Tyer and Lam?"

Tom-Tom... Pyulmila, the name didn't feel right to her, even though it was the correct one, shivered, hunched in her chair... her feet were pointed to tip-toes, and she was pressing them down with great force into the floor, exerting some of the tension going through her. Tanner stared blankly. Let her dwell in the silence, let her-

"How about you tell me? You seem to know so much."

Her voice was broken. Hollow.

Tanner studied her carefully.

And began.

"You were approached. This colony is meant to be for Rekidans returning home. However, the project was started without proper knowledge of Rekidans and Rekida. The governor would send quotas to Fidelizh, and they were expected to be filled out. But the Colonial Office was its own beast. It deals with things by itself - it doesn't mix. And so long as the governor was up here, he couldn't manage anything personally. He got files with all the details of incoming colonists, but all he can ask for are vague requests for who should go up next. He adjusts priorities. He very rarely selects specific people - like he did for Mr. Lam and his daughter, and that was done on personal appeal. Hardly a usual method."

Pyulmila was absolutely frozen. Staring at the ground while her jaw clenched and unclenched, forming little nubs of bone at the corners of her face, like she was growing and retracting tusks every other second. Tanner kept going.

"But the Rekidans don't want to come back. The Rekidans that survived going south were slaves, not the nobility. Huge numbers of them died on the journey, and the policy of the survivors was not to tell their children to go home. With very few exceptions, this was the case. So the governor asks for people to come to the north, to resettle... and the Colonial Office isn't getting anyone on board. Almost no-one, at least. Even if some Rekidans want to come back, they're limited in number - not every Rekidan went to Fidelizh, not all of them had children, most of them didn't teach their children anything but small practices, and didn't encourage going back. They'd never reach the numbers they needed. But as you said. The shantytown blends accents. No-one talks to the authorities anyway, if they can help it. The Erlize have been cracking down on national identities for years. Most of the children there haven't known anything but that policy. So the Colonial Office decides to be inventive."

She leaned forwards, closer, her voice lowering slightly. Pyulmila didn't dare look her in the eye. In the harsh light of the overlapping haloes, she looked corpse-like, ready for dissection. Only the still-dripping sweat and still-beating heart confirmed her as alive - she was barely breathing, barely dared to make such a noise.

"Why not send up other northerners. Scrub their backgrounds. They've already been doing this - the bouncers, for instance. No criminal records, apparently. But they're willing to kill people after a little time here - each and every one of them. And not just once, but on multiple occasions. So, they just... keep going, expanding the practice. Laundering more than just bouncers. They go for individual civilians. It's a tempting offer - go north, and be absolved of anything. Get a house for yourself. A job. Fresh air. If you have a criminal record, it's a fresh start. If you just want to get out of the shantytown, it's second to none."

Pyulmila looked up, her eyes vague and shimmering behind layers of moisture. Tanner paused... and when no sound issued from the woman, she powered on.

"The Colonial Office gets to meet their quotas. Maybe they even get some money out of the deal. The governor gets his colony to grow. And the civilian gets a fresh start. A clean slate."

She leaned in.

"Where do you fit in?"

Pyulmila's throat twitched as she swallowed, gasping a little for air. A hand passed over her brow again, coming away with sweat coating it like a frog with slime.

"I..."

A pause.

"...criminal record. Criminal record. Little things. Petty. No murder. Promise. Just... shantytown stuff. You get mugged, so you slash the other person, now you're under arrest for assault, or you've got a little note in a police report, the Erlize keep an eye on you. Got told there was a way out. Can't go to the hinterland colonies with a record like mine, they think you're a troublemaker from the start. Can't get a good job in the city. Was fishing in the canals just to stay fed. Going up here... just had to lie. Say my name was Tom-Tom. Was good."

She swallowed again.

"Then I got here, and it was full of people I'd known from Fidelizh. Criminals. Hard criminals. Did things I wouldn't dream of. And now... now they…"

"They had blackmail material. Which they used."

Tanner studied her. The story absolved her of a little blame... made her more of a passive victim than an active perpetrator. Some inner optimist wanted to believe it immediately... but she needed more details. She desperately needed more details. This was her best interview, a witness like no other, she had her opening into the conspiracy. Like that first nick in an orange peel. Now she could get to work exposing the juicy, sweet, succulent, vulnerable matter she wanted. Wanted more than anything else.

"...they did. Got me to help with the act. Oh, measure skulls, governor was wondering why more people don't do that, there's busts in the city of people with measured skulls, hey, get Tom-Tom to do it, she's easy to blackmail, and she's out of the colony so much with her fishing that she doesn't have to do very much before running away. Go on, use her. Suppose they wanted to get more people to do it..."

"Who's they."

"...bouncers."

"Is there someone in charge?"

A second of hesitation.

"Lyur."

Tanner blinked.

"Lyur's not... been here for very long."

"He killed the last guy. Cracked his skull open. Lyur's in charge. I promise you, he's..."

There was a rumble from outside, and both of them turned sharply to the door. Tanner stood slowly, and her hands automatically gathered up her papers, moving them towards her satchel... should've had a secretary here, making copies of every one of her notes. The soldiers weren't saying anything, at least. She glanced around... nothing unusual yet. And she didn't want to just leave T- Pyulmila alone in here, not when she might make a break for it. Didn't believe Lyur was really in charge, the excuse was too convenient, too personal, and it didn't answer a variety of questions. She needed to... hm. She called out, asking if the soldiers were alright, if something was happening... no response. Her nervousness grew, and she shot Pyulmila a look. The woman shrugged helplessly, and gave a small, sickly smile.

"I'll stay put, don't worry. Not running from you. Think you'd catch me."

"You came alone."

"Totally alone, promise."

She seemed genuine. Seemed. And after the Lyur line... well, it was easy to tell if she was telling the truth, when it was juxtaposed with such a bare-faced lie. Tanner moved for the door, clutching her satchel tightly to her side...

Everything happened very quickly indeed.

The door exploded open, and a dark shape, presumably a man, came driving in at top speed, running right into Tanner's chest. He yelled in surprise, and Tanner stumbled backwards, not remotely braced. Her satchel flew around her, and she instinctively grabbed for it... before she processed what was happening.

Her face flattened.

Her muscles moved with the smoothness of liquid mercury.

She had one free arm - and with it, she brought down a crushing strike on the body beneath her. Right in the middle of the back. She felt bones shift with the strike, felt a shudder run through his entire body. Felt his vertebrae poking sharply against her fist, and she brought it down again, almost relishing in the sound of the man wheezing. His arms started moving, he was trying to hit her... Tom-Tom was just sitting there, pale, wide-eyed, mouth moving silently. Tanner started driving the man back towards the door, ignoring his feeble strikes. No knife in his hands, no truncheon... fallen to the ground when he'd run into her. She kept hitting him, again, again, again, feeling... feeling in control. He was Lyur. He was Dyen. He was Mr. Canima. He was all the ones that got away, he was every suspect ever born, and she was slamming her powerful fist down, over, over, over, over, over again, until she could feel bruises blooming across his flesh, like she was tenderising a piece of meat - all her tension unwinding at once, and-

The door burst open again, and another shape came through - she knew this one, knew his face. The bouncer from earlier today, Byuln. Truncheon in hand. She was right, she was right. They were conspiring against the colony, she was right, oh, thank every god... she drove the man clutching at her feebly forwards, trying to use him like a battering ram, while her face remained utterly flat... one grown, powerful man was one thing, two was something else. Byuln moved around the improvised charge, and swung his gleaming truncheon right into her side. A flash of pain, a rush of air out of her lungs...

Not as much as she feared.

She kept... kept moving, and-

Byuln tried to tackle her.

Two large, powerful bodies shoving backwards, the first man gaining a second wind.

She stumbled backwards, exhausted already from her two days of walking, not expecting this...

She tried to grab at them, feeling bones that felt thin, and she began to squeeze at Byuln's arm, feeling the bones shift... a hoarse yell escaped his throat, she was close to snapping it, and-

The window shattered.

The curtain was split by the shattering glass.

A pair of hands slipped through, male, clad in a thick coat...

A handkerchief held between them.

The two bodies shoved with renewed vigour - surprised, Tanner buckled for a moment, still upright, and the handkerchief slipped around her neck...

She felt a coin in the fabric. A wide, hard coin.

And then the arms snapped backwards.

Breathing stopped.

Closed off completely. Her mouth opened, and her throat twitched...

The handkerchief pulled. The person was... was using his own weight, he'd leapt up to enter the window, grabbed her neck, and was now... he was hanging from it, not pulling, not dragging back...

Her throat was tensing, muscles resisting the hard imprint of the coin as it tried its best to crush her windpipe...

She released the two men, reaching up to claw at the thing, her eyes going wide, bulging, her mouth opening and closing like a fish drowning on air...

A truncheon slammed into her side.

Stars exploded in her vision, and she tried to move... the handkerchief was chaining her like a bear being baited. Lashed to a fixed point. Incapable of going too far. And dogs, snapping around her flanks - the first man was moving for his truncheon, his face purple with fury... three on one. Tom-Tom still immobile, just... staring. Tanner's vision darkened...

She was going to die here.

She was going to be strangled to death, and then she was going to be buried in a shallow grave.

She was going to be beaten. Strangled.

Her satchel was still here.

Her notes were here.

Tom-Tom would die, and the lead would be gone.

Was Marana dead?

Was Yan-Lam?

Idiot, idiot, assuming the soldiers would keep them safe. Idiot. Got a child killed. Got Marana killed. Spent so long worrying about dragging them into the firing line. Moment she'd relented, the moment she'd relented and taken a risk...

She would be fine dying here. Terrified. Alone. But she knew her work would continue. Knew she'd be remembered well. Not a death a judge would regret.

But a black fury was rising in her.

Not them. Not them.

A primal urge to survive, to save the others, rose up faster than she thought possible.

Blackness clawed at the edge of her vision.

And she yanked.

The man outside yelled in surprise as he was dragged through the window by his own garotte... and Tanner immediately swung for the others. A fist made contact with a face. Not sure whose. She felt bone splinter. Felt blood run over her knuckles. Felt a tooth pop loose of its gum. The face disappeared from vision, the body with it. Irrelevant. Wounded. Blinded by blood.

The other... she swung wildly, still blinded by the terrifying proximity of unconsciousness.

Felt an arm shake, maybe even come close to snapping... she grabbed, like a baby grabbing anything that came close...

Squeezed.

A pained yell filled the air.

Her face was utterly flat.

Three one one. Not enough. Not enough for her.

Her mouth opened, her vision clearing... the garotte was loose enough, she could breathe, she could...

A rag clamped down.

Her lungs were screaming.

She was already mid-breath.

She saw three bodies. A man with a mask of blood instead of a face. A man nursing an arm riddled with hideous purple blotches in the shape of her hand. A man sprawled on the ground, cut apart by glass shards he'd caught on the way in...

And another.

Her mouth was already open. The breath was already coming. And no matter what she tried... she took in a great gulp of air.

Chemicals. Hideous, awful chemicals. Anaesthetic. Sedative. No, no, she was large, she wouldn't just be knocked out by a single... wooziness was overcoming her mind, she wasn't... wasn't going down like this, not like this, she tried to swing... the rag disappeared, but the sluggishness remained, grey wool was crowded inside her brain, drowning thought, more and more with each second...

A needle in her neck.

Long.

Entering her vein. Not the muscle. She tried to move...

But numbness was already flooding her body. She fell to her knees, a crash that sent the entire room shaking... no, no. Defy them. Defy them. Focus on that chilling little core of anger, on the tightness of her muscles, on the strength ratcheting through her, the feeling of letting go, ignore the numbness... no, couldn't...

Spite them. Don't let them get the notes. Don't let them get the notes.

Her hands were wet with blood from the floor, from the fight... desperately, with the last bit of strength remaining in her, she grabbed at her papers, dragging them messily over the blood-slicked ground with all the vigour at her disposal, smearing them with blood.

Erasing evidence. Don't let them know how much she knew. Don't let them know everything Tom-Tom told her. Don't let them know a damn thing. If she left anything behind, they'd burn it, destroy it, remove it from existence anyway. Get there first.

Mad. Inspired by the numbing fumes that were coiling around her brain.

The blood-masked man was picking up his truncheon with blood-slicked fingers, was already coming closer...

The man with the purple arm was using his other arm to hold the truncheon clumsily.

The shredded man with the garotte was just writhing in pain, moaning feebly.

And...

And another one.

Smiling faintly.

Darkness spread around her... wider and wider, deeper and deeper, wooziness running through her body...

She slumped.

And knew no more.