CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT - REDBRICK SARCOPHAGUS

"...looking into it."

Tanner was almost growling under her breath at this point. Almost. Very almost. She kept her voice down, though, and only let out her frustrations when she was out of earshot. Well. To everyone but Marana, who was infuriatingly calm. By all that was godly and lucky, by all that was decent in the world... looking into it. The governor, sitting there, calm as you like, drumming his fingers on his desk while his half-paralysed face stared blankly at her, unwilling to yield a single emotion that she could latch onto... Mr. Canima, materialising from the room like some sort of chameleon, muttering agreements and consolations in equal measure, his lips moving, his voice operating, but not a single actual word passing into the world. Just... noise. Looking into it. That was all. The Erlize were looking into the matter of this hidden knife-wielding maniac. The governor was deliberately reserved about his own opinions, save for a general wish to resolve this matter quickly and quietly. Oh, she was sure that he had a thousand wheels spinning at once, a thousand thousand all in the air, rumbling away like clockwork, but guess what, that didn't help her. Hadn't even managed to see the damn chambermaid, wanted to let her know that her father might stop by for a visit, but no. Nothing. Marana stumbled to catch up with her as they proceeded down the hill with all safe speed. Tanner marched furiously, ignoring everything else. Maybe if the governor had moved faster, maybe if the soldiers had been better, maybe if Tom-Tom had come sooner, maybe, maybe, maybe if Mr. Canima was a competent individual instead of a pile of terrifying bureaucracy wrapped up in a too-tight suit, a living mound of paperwork that was always eager to devour more people, maybe-

She slipped.

For a moment, all composure was gone. She skidded downwards for a moment, all control lost, her arms flailing like windmills, her legs surging with adrenaline, her entire body screaming 'this is bad, this is bad, this is bad, this should not be happening, evolutionary impulses instruct us that this is not very good at all'.

And then she stopped.

Her arms projected outwards at ninety-degree angles.

Her face flushed.

Her eyes wide.

Adrenaline like a shot of clarity injected at the base of her spine with an enormous hollow icicle.

She took a deep breath... and let it out through lips pressed into a clownish 'o'. The blinding white fog that emerged in front of her face was just the icing on the proverbial cake.

"Is somebody feeling calmer?"

Tanner turned around with all the dignity she could muster, brushing her blouse of any non-existent flakes of snow.

"Somewhat."

She took another deep breath. Don't rant. Don't rant. That would be uncouth, irresponsible, unpleasant. Ranting meant talking uncontrollably and interminably, it meant talking without restraint, and when she did that, she became a tiresome little bore. And once you planted that impression in someone, it festered, infected, spread. Lingered long after you were gone. Rant to Eygi in a letter she'd never send. That worked. Victimless crime. Even so. She kept her voice as controlled as possible, and let out a tiny hint of steam from the boiling irritation inside her.

"They're looking into it."

"Please don't start with that again, a bad slip and you'll be doing the rest of this investigation in a wheelchair. And I really don't want to push you around in the snow."

A pause.

"Because snow is very hard to push people through in general, of course."

Well, that was nice of her. Tanner flushed slightly, burying it as quickly as she could, rubbing her hands together as a wish for luck, imagining her lodge-candle, etcetera etcetera. Would the Coral-Spinal-Judge be doing this? No, no it would not, and the spectral fingers dug into her shoulders wriggled with shame. How dare she discredit the name of a decent god by acting like a petulant child.

"...it's... moderately annoying. I hoped they'd have more information. Or at least more urgency."

"I think it's completely explicable. And slightly funny."

"Explain the latter."

Marana shrugged, tucking her hands into her coat pockets, rocking back and forth on her heels while snowflakes accumulated in her dark hair, streaking it with white, like she was ageing further and further with each second she stood still. Alcohol and snow, combining to turn her into some sort of frost-wine-witch. Tanner ought to calm down.

"My father was governor at the end of a colony. When a colony was dying around him. He was sent in as a replacement captain while the boat was in the middle of sinking. And I thought that his inaction on some matters as because of all the constraints that age placed on the colony. Nothing moved quickly, nothing operated smoothly. Throw a hundred coins at a problem, and maybe one makes it to the right people, and fifty to the Sleepless. Now, though... I mean, this is a fresh colony, very fresh, positively raw. And the same constraints apply."

She sniffed.

"It's all a bit wank, isn't it? Makes you wonder why we bother."

Tanner hummed, drawing her scarf tighter around her face.

"I suppose. How would you explain the inaction now, then?"

"There's only a few Erlize. The colony is fresh and vulnerable. It's winter. The governor's keenly aware of how other colonies have collapsed because of one idiot making the wrong decisions at a high enough level. We've already talked about why. You know why."

"...yes. Yes, I do."

"So, what now?"

"We go. You, go to the Barrack-Room inn, see if the innkeeper has any insights. I'm heading to the cold-rooms. Still staffed during the winter, should be plenty of his co-workers willing to talk to me. Or at least a few. They're the people he associated with the most, I imagine, they'll know him on the most intimate and everyday level. Might even be hiding with one of them."

Which raised the question - if Tanner saw a guilty man, would she be able to spot him? Guilt wasn't a matter of hunches, not for the judges. It was a matter of logical deduction, the slow unravelling of a crime and its motive. 'He feels guilty' was a line of thought expressly forbidden by several passages in their rulebooks, and almost every legal philosopher opposed it. If the law demanded irrational assumptions of innocence or guilt, then the law was irrational, and an irrational law was no law at all. Ergo, be dispassionate. And Tanner wasn't... the sort of person to deal with serious crimes, she dealt with property, employment, land disputes, nuisance. The big criminal cases were always for more senior judges. This case, for instance - manhunt, assault, stalking, fugitive from the law, possession of a deadly weapon, this was something that one of her wittier colleagues ought to handle. But they weren't here. And here she remained. And here she continued. What more was there to say besides that? The two stood in silence for a moment, staring out into the rolling grey cloud approaching them. Another snowstorm. Another light of lockdown, where stepping out meant wrapping oneself up like a mummified corpse. Huddling around the stove and waiting for the windows to stop rattling so Tanner could get some sleep without being terrified of the house breaking down around her. Marana gave her a look, but said nothing. Tanner stared ahead. Face completely flat, as it always was when she was nervous.

The Coral-Spinal-Judge would move, roundabout now, the spiritual fingers in her shoulders told her, communicating through the subtlest of superstitious shivers.

And thus, Tanner moved, her boots making the compacted snow squeak underfoot, her hair trailing to the small of her back, unbound from a hat.

Marana turned away, and moved on her own assignment... before calling over her shoulder, voice almost devoured by the increasing wind.

"You have your stick, I trust?"

Tanner called back.

"Never leave home without it. Yourself?"

"You carry the tree, I'll carry the seeds. Leaden and fertile."

She heard something heavy being drawn out of her coat, but didn't turn.

In her heart of hearts, she couldn't be sure which of them she'd rather find Tyer.

* * *

The cold-house was an odd place. Never exactly usual, for a judge, to so directly confront the place which was single-handedly stopping her from starving to death. Usually there were a few interruptions - food could come from elsewhere, food muddled through different suppliers and servers, food was obviously available from a number of places out of sight and mind... but here, no. Not for a moment. If this place burned to the ground tomorrow, people would die. No amount of rationing would stop that. Appropriate, then, that the place somewhat resembled an enormous sarcophagus. Long and narrow. Fired red bricks, not a single window to be seen, but... bizarrely, there were indents where windows out to go. Completely bricked up, never designed to be opened, under no circumstance could there be a window there, yet the indents remained, with lintels and sills picked out. The roof was barely there, just a slight rise and fall in the stone. Seemed remarkable that most of the colony's food could fit into this place, honestly. But... well, that was the way of things. And appropriately for its appearance, it was silent as the grave. Nothing but an enormous set of metal doors holding back the cold. Idly, she wondered who'd made those. Not like metal was easy to ship up here, not in such quantities, not even during the salad days of the summer. Did they forge these doors here? She had a brief, strange image of the colonists entering the city and melting down anything in sight, any piece of metal that looked functional and high-quality, forging them together into these colossal, inestimably heavy doors.

Dredging the remains of the dead to build the only house that could sustain the living.

Icicles hung like spears from the various overhangs. Long. Pendulous. And shivering alarmingly. Tanner did much the same - the hill was bitterly cold, and the snowstorm was rolling ever-closer. Hesitantly, she knocked on the enormous door.

For a long few seconds, no response.

And then...

A man slowly pulled open a sub-door, smaller, more... human-sized. And he gazed up at her with red-rimmed, tired eyes, shrouded beneath a heavy brow, with equally heavy eyebrows festooning it. Like scraggy grass hanging over the edge of a barren crag. Dark hair was loosely combed over his scalp to cover his developing baldness, and his eyes had a habit of perpetually twitching, like he was always trying to squint, and yet kept insisting on keeping his chestnut-brown peepers as wide open as possible. Made it look like he was having something of a fit, honestly. He was deeply hunched, too, and a spade-like hand was pressed against the metal of the door, always ready to slam it shut.

"May I help you, miss?"

"I'm... Judge Tanner. I'm here to talk with whoever's in charge."

"...judge? Can't rightly remember getting ourselves a judge..."

His eyes twitched a few times, sometimes in a blink, sometimes in an oddly suppressed tic. Never sure which was which. Tanner had no idea what to say. 'Well, now you do' (too rude), 'well, I'm here now' (painfully obvious), 'I suppose we haven't met, I'm Tanner' (already said that), 'how often do you leave this sarcophagus' (by all the gods no), 'it's the law, open up!' (shut up, Tenk), 'I'm here to talk to you about a knife maniac' (descriptive, but curt)...

"Oh. Ah. Well. I'm new. Mostly stuck down below. I've come up here once before, when I first arrived. Nice to meet you."

There. Just nervously splutter and something eventually came out correctly. Her face was completely flat, and this seemed to unnerve the older man slightly, enough to make him curl his... oddly red fingers around the edge of the door, eager to slam it shut and end this nonsense once and for all. Tanner didn't blame him.

"I'm... just here to talk with someone about a man called Tyer, if that's at all possible."

The man narrowed his eyes.

"Hm. Well. Come on in. Need to wear yourself a mask, though. Bad for the meats, having people breathing all over them. Bad for the air."

Tanner thought she was about to get given a gas mask of some description, but... no, no, just a cloth wrap that slotted over her ears. Uncomfortable, but tolerable. And with that... the metal door clanged shut, and she was sealed into the dark, musty interior of the cold-house. And... it wasn't overly cold, actually. This room was rather pleasant, honestly. Homely. A little vestibule with tables, chairs, a few enormous cupboards, a merrily burning stove, a handful of abandoned playing cards... looked more like a working man's club than anything else. Goodness, is this what these fellows got to do during the winter? No windows to rattle, no foundations to shake, just... stay here, stay toasty? No wonder she'd never met this strange hunched creature, he had it made up here. And... ah, yes. Limp. Rather a bad one, too. Looked like a war wound, but... hm, he lacked the mottling of most Great War veterans she'd seen. Must've gotten pretty lucky, getting wounded without getting mutated. Doubted they'd let him touch the food supply if he had contamination in his blood. He shuffled awkwardly over to the cupboard, painfully hauling it open to draw out...

A coat. And a very heavy one at that.

Threw her one. It barely came down to her thighs, but she appreciated the effort, slipping it over her own overcoat. Warm. Smelled of labour - all sweat and muscle, bad breath and slowly liquefying pomade, warmed up too far by the body heat of a man at work. She shivered. Felt like sleeping in someone else's warm bed. Which had only been slightly enjoyable when it was Eygi's, and Tanner was still basically a child at that point. Now, it was just uncomfortable. He moved to another set of heavy doors, these ones soaked with moisture, and started to heave at them... Tanner immediately shivered. It was like going from a cold bath to a hot bath to a cold one again, just constant shocks to the system. A wave of frigid air came rolling out of the gap in the door, and she...

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

Goodness.

Efficient.

The cold-house was, as the name implied, cold as all hell. But she'd assumed... well, something like an armoury, with racks of sausages and slabs of meat laid in orderly rows. Instead... instead, it felt like walking into that reactor within the mutant-hunter's boat. Eerily organic. There were huge quantities of food in here, huge. Stored in huge bell jars, glittering in the dim light of overhead lamps, which glowed an infernal red. The jars were stuffed with food - vegetables, meats, even some fruit. Frost kissed the sides of the jars, stretching up in long, slender fingers to caress everything, until it seemed like the bell jars were the bizarre crystal fruit of some crystal tree, with roots of frost connecting it to the ground. From the ceiling swung enormous cuts of dried meat, cured until the flesh was the dim red of Marana's nose, and scaly as a leper's skin. Shrivelled by the loss of moisture, until they seemed barely recognisable as organs and muscle, more... well, more like some kind of strange mineral. Chains clicked and shivered, meat swung slightly from the ends, long trails of sausages, glittering fringes of ribs, amorphous masses of ham, rolls of pork coiled up into strange scrolls... fish, too. Strange, sightless, eyeless fish, smoked and salted, green where herbs still lingered in them, eye sockets glinting with salt crystals, scales shimmering dimly. Some of the fish were larger than her entire torso. Some were the pale, ghastly things which lived in deep caves and had long, slow existences.

And in the middle of the room, surrounded by glass fruit and shivering meat, was a metal engine. A pillar, stretching from floor to ceiling, heavy with tubes and cables that extended outwards to connect to... just about everything else. It wheezed and moaned, exhaled little puffs of steam, and drew in straggling breaths through mouth-like apertures. Confidently incomprehensible. Monolithic with its strangeness. Places where the metal was too hot to touch were wrapped in long rags, some of them fairly colourful, until the whole thing looked like an ornate totem pole or monument, like something that ought to be danced around and worshipped. Little protrusions along the central pillar gave it a spinal appearance, too - the backbone, surrounded by shrivelled organs. The trunk, surrounded by glass fruit. And all around, men and women in heavy coats tended to the garden, monitored the glass jars, their boots crunching on the frost which perpetually lined the floors... darkness all around. Darkness but for the dim red glow of the lamps overhead. Everywhere, strange, chemical smells that made her nose wrinkle.

The old man glanced over, grinning with a mouth that was missing more than a few teeth. A grin that expanded when he saw her nose twitching at the unfamiliar, acrid smells.

"Welcome, young lady, to the place that's stopping your limbs from shrivelling and your stomach from swelling. Y'ever had your breath stink from starvation?"

Tanner didn't reply.

"Smells like death. Body eating itself to stay alive, eh? Well, bad as this place smells, trust me, ye don't want to smell that. So, give it a good old sniff, thank your lucky stars it smells this way. Long as this place smells like chemicals, your breath doesn't smell of death."

"...who's in charge?"

"Governor."

"Is there an overseer of some description, though?"

The workers were starting to notice her, and they glanced over, their eyes cast into anonymous shadows by the strange lighting. With their mouths covered, their eyes shadowed, their bodies rendered sexless and featureless by their bulky, uniform coats... she found nothing to latch onto, no expression to read. Might as well be surrounded by statues. Might as well be talking to chunks of cured meat the metal pillar in the centre had released to serve as petty functionaries, regulating its processes.

"Can't say there is. What, you think we need a boss around here?"

One of the workers spoke up, his voice muffled by his mask, his body half-concealed by the tattered, shrivelled remains of a sheep, white ribs protruding like the legs of a monstrous centipede.

"Ignore him, he's cranky that you dragged him away from his stove. No, no overseer. No need. Governor sends some boys round to inspect us from time to time. But..."

The worker shrugged.

"Don't exactly need an overseer when things are this slow."

Hm.

"I... see. Very sorry to bother you, then, but I wanted to ask people a few questions with regard to a worker here."

A ripple of discomfort around the room, visible only through a slight stiffening of posture, a slight curling of fists, and a few more shadowed eyes turning away from the innumerable dials and tubes that kept this place running. Actually, now she came to think of it... that engine in the middle, it looked theurgic. And from what she understood, you needed... well, a theurgist to manage a theurgic engine. And to put it bluntly, theurgists stood out, and she hadn't seen any around the colony, nor in this building. The boat had been the same, and that had only kept a theurgist around for a while. After he left, there was basically a time limit on how long the boat had in the wilds, before it needed to go back for servicing. Otherwise...

Suddenly she felt slightly nervous.

And thought that maybe it would be a good idea to have an overseer.

"Who?"

Tanner swallowed. Numerous eyes riveted on her. Silence, awaiting her words. Stage fright building... no, no, look at the meat, look at the bell jars, the mechanisms. And think of Eygi. Think of sending her a nice long letter detailing all of this once things were properly concluded. Think of odd little descriptions, think of peculiar turns of phrase, remember how it was always easier to act when she was around, making her comfortable, making her secure. Just think of that, and... alright, her breathing was fine. Her face was locked. Her voice was steady.

"His name's Tyer. Now, I'd like to interview everyone here one at a time. There's no need to provide your names, this is completely anonymous, if I need more information I'll ask you for it, but otherwise your names will appear on none of my documents. Would it be convenient if I waited in the entrance hall, or would you prefer it if I interviewed you here while you work?"

A unanimous mumble of approval for the former idea. Wonderful. Cold minds thought alike.

And with that...

* * *

Male, 27

"Quiet. He's quiet. Gets on with his work, really. Think he started working here... maybe two years ago, maybe three? Really can't tell, easy to blend into the background up here. Not much else to say, we don't go to the same inns. No idea if he has any friends."

Male, 41

"Can't rightly say if there's anything unusual about the man. He drinks like a man, walks like a man, talks like a man, and by gum, I think that makes him a man, and I don't exactly know what else he could be. If I don't pay attention to him, that means he's a hard worker, doesn't start trouble, shows up on time, and hasn't offended someone's mother. Why are you asking, anyway? What's the point? Did he do something wrong? Is the poor bastard dead? Oh, fine, keep it to yourself. No, the man has no friends I know of, and I'm not his friend either. I have work to do, unless you feel like starving this winter."

Female, 33

"Well, he's... definitely a fellow, one of the lads. Not really interacted with him all that much, he just... blends into the background, you know? Can't even say that he's noticeably bland, he's just... well, he's just there. I mean, if you put him in a conversation I'd recognise him, he's got a personality, but if you asked me to pin down what that personality was, I'd be stumped to give you an answer. That being said, don't think he's really started trouble, don't think he's had any relationships with any of the girls up here... we don't drink at the same inns, really, not at the same time, and we don't drink together, and if you're not drinking with someone, you don't really know them. Still, plenty possible for someone to be odd without showing it, I used to court this one lad, nice fellow, but he had a real thing for collecting his fingernails in a jar. Freakish. But, you know, you don't notice that sort of thing until you're in his bedroom, basking in the afterglow of a good shag, and you tilt over to see a little jar of yellow clippings. So, well, I wouldn't be surprised if Tyer turned out odd. No, no idea if he has any friends. Why, did something happen?"

Male, 20

"Gosh. Tyer's... he's a decent bloke, I suppose. Helped me out when I arrived here, gave me tips, but so did everyone else. Well, most everyone else, some people... anyway, sorry. I swear I used to know him better, when he arrived. Drifted apart once I started making some of my own friends. He never went out of his way to make friends, I'll say that. He... yes, he didn't go out of his way to make friends, didn't like going away with groups, seemed to prefer being alone whenever possible. Bit of a loner. Can't say more than that. Not really friends now, weren't really friends them. Didn't make a habit of staying around my house, have you seen the houses? No room."

Female, 40

"Who? What, that guy with... what did he... oh, right, I remember, he's... yeah, he's that one with the knives. Always had one on his belt, keeps it nice and polished. Barely know his name, but he's knife-man. What, I don't learn everyone's name, I'm just trying to get a job done and go home to boil a foot bath, I've got fungus down there, can't be arsed learning some random man's name. As for friends, don't know if he had any. Yes, honoured judge, he has a knife. Yes, he wears it around. Has it on his belt. All bright and gleaming, nicely polished, nicely oiled, whatever. Looks professional. My guess, the guy is lonely, and when you're lonely and you're a man, you either start mashing the downstairs until it gets the colour and consistency of an overripe plum, or you get into your hobbies. I mean, knives? Rubbing polish up and down it all night? Just a big cock, innit. Anyway. I have work to do, thanks for the interruption."

Male, 52

"I don't know who you're talking about."

Male, 65

"Right, then, missy. Done with the others? Liking the smell any more than you did earlier? Don't worry, you get used to it. Don't think I didn't see how nervous you were around the pillar, too - don't worry, we're all nervous about that thing. Drains air out of the jars, keeps them dry as dry can be, keeps this place dry as dry can be. Stops stuff rotting. What you do, really, is you make the meat and the vegetables as dead as possible. Funny, thinking that most of the animals you kill are still alive, really. Still got little mites in them, little grubs, gnawing away. Not death, really, just succession. King's dead, long live the king. So what we do is interrupt it. That stuff in there? The stuff you're eating? It's dead-dead. Deader than any meat you've ever had before. Not a speck of rot in them. Now, let me tell you about the man called Tyer. Because I can tell you a story or two about him. The others, right, they might tell you that he's a reasonable man, that he's quiet, loner, doesn't talk much, but me, I know him better. We do go to the same inns, see. Barrack-Room, mostly. That, and the Bloodied-Hero, sometimes. But mostly the Barrack-Room, when he could get in past those damn bouncers. And when that man drinks, oh, and he drinks, no sense of moderation, no sense of reason, just drinks, drinks, drinks until he can barely walk. You never think it to look at him. Not got a drunk's face. Lucky, got bright eyes like a lady, fair skin, all the things the sober types have, but he can just put it all back like there's no tomorrow. He gets drunk, then shambles home. And he talks about... oh, awful things. What sort? Right, right, he says... he complains about people. The bouncers, the other workers, the ladies who won't warm his bed at night. Complains, and gets vicious. Me, I see that man go up to one of the bouncers who won't let him in, I think he's about to stab him in the chest, with that pretty little knife of his. Oh, he never says he's going to hurt them, just says that 'next time they mess him around, they'll get what's coming to them', when he's deep in his cups. Bad lad. Bad, bad lad."

"And let me tell you, I hear me some rumours about what he did in that last colony he was in. Heard some things about ladies and whatnot. But rumours are rumours, eh? Not suitable for this sort of thing, no, no, and I've been interviewed by enough of your lot in my day to know what you like to hear and what you don't, and this, missy, is something you don't, eh? Oh? Or maybe you do? Little twinkle in your eye? You can't use this rumour, can't have it written down in your judgements, but you know you want to hear it, for your own satisfaction...? No? Well. As for his friends, none. None in all the world. Might well be freezing to death in a snowdrift, drunk as a skunk. Anyhow. Enjoy warming yourself, filled up the stove right before you arrived, meant to curl up in that big chair you're using like I was a cat, curl up and fall asleep. Hope you're enjoying all the work I put into it."

Male, 35

"Weird bloke. Likes knives. I don't drink with him, though. Different inns. Heard he had a lady-friend in another colony, roughed her up badly, cracked her teeth out at the gums. Not a good sort. But quiet. Can I go?"

Female, 25

"Piss off. I don't want to talk to a judge."

* * *

Tanner reviewed her notes in the warm confines of the entrance chamber. The floor was slick with melted ice from where workers had trudged in and out in their heavy boots, and for all the warmth, and all the cosiness, this place still... it was hard to say why, but it unnerved her. Well, there was the obvious part - it was a giant sarcophagus filled with meat and an obscure engine that might explode, because apparently keeping a theurgist in the colony permanently was impossible. At least, the way the colony was now. Maybe when it got bigger they'd be able to keep one on retainer. Anyway. Anyway. She glanced around, and... hm. She stood. Examined something on the wall. Another cast-iron decoration, like in all the inns, like in Tyer's house. Heavy, mounted on wood, nailed solidly into the wall. Not intending to remove it, apparently. Another series of abstract swirls, but... different figure in the centre. Not a man. A bird, dissolved down to a plunging, comically curved beak, wings that stretched from frame to frame at completely irregular angles, feathers in the form of single, austere lines, talons that curled until they could touch themselves... it was a bird, dissected down to the most basic features, which were then exaggerated in the most abstract way possible. Every inn had these. Tyer's house had one. And she still wasn't sure of the significance. Seemed to be a Rekidan thing, but... well, something about it made her uneasy. Anyway. She shuffled back to her chair, incapable of relaxing, taking her mind away from the current problem for longer than a minute.

The notes were fine. She'd write them up fully later - one document with all the quotes outlined in full (albeit in shorthand), one document with the summaries that she could cite more easily. Standard practice for this sort of interview. Back home, they'd keep the full transcripts for about ten years, then pulp and recycle them, leaving behind just the summaries tucked as an appendix to the judgements. Always about space-saving, keeping the paperwork down, keeping the archives slim. Halima had always stressed that. 'The Golden Law isn't a single law, it's the entirety of the legal code, expressed as a perfectly fluid formula, stretching elegantly from one statement to another in a progression so logical it can't be disputed, and is self-evident to whoever reads it. And the legal code isn't just a body of laws, it's precedent, interpretation, philosophy, bureaucracy. The whole kit and caboodle. The Golden Law, by its very nature, denies precedent, interpretation, philosophy, or bureaucracy - it's perfect, it has no waste products. Every additional shelf we have to build in our archives is an insult to our very purpose. So, yes, Tanner - write smaller. Write much smaller. There are priests who cut off parts of their bodies to honour their gods - we just sacrifice our eyesight. So don't dare complain.'

Rude. She hadn't complained. She never complained, except to Eygi. And, in one or two moments of lamentable weakness, to Marana. Ought to cut down on that. One did not complain to colleagues. Simply didn't.

The notes... yes, the notes. The interviews. A combination of vagueness and specificity. Enough to continue forming her opinions. This entire outing had been a complete success, she had enough evidence here to put together a very convincing judgement, one that might well prompt drastic punishment, convince the governor to put Tyer on the first boat back to Fidelizh. All she lacked was the man himself. Once she had him, she had more than enough, she could already see some lines in her final judgement, the usual ritual arrangements of words, with all the relevant passages inserted.

So... why did she feel slightly nervous?

Well, there was a fugitive at large. That was why. Obviously. And none of the people here had mentioned a thing about where he might be at this very moment. Oh, she'd tried to probe them on the topic as gently as she could, but most had no ideas whatsoever. Couldn't rightfully say 'this man is hiding somewhere', had to phrase it as 'does he have any friends or associates'. But what the old man had said, the hunched, tic-laden man who'd led her inside, that might rationalise it all. He spoke openly when he drank. At work, he was quiet, lonesome, and polite. If he had a friend close enough to stay with, it'd be a drinking partner, not a work colleague. That being said, odd that he'd be so open with a man twice his age, and not the other working men. Maybe the old man insisted on hanging out with him. Maybe Tyer felt comfortable letting his guard down around some harmless old coot he could easily thrash in a fight. Common threads - lonesomeness, knife enthusiasm, quietness. The old man's account stood out as the most dramatic. The youngest man here, younger than her, was the most positive, though. If she was going to guess who might be sheltering him...

Male, 20, due to past associations and little animosity. Female, 25, mostly because she was so resistant to talking to Tanner, which immediately made her a little suspicious. But then... Male, 52 and Male, 27 were both so limited that they could be lying by omission. Female, 40 might have some sort of maternal instinct, might be blustering. Seemed to know a fair amount about someone she claimed to barely remember. Male, 41 might be blustering too, standard method for covering up deceit. If she squinted, she could even see Female, 30 and Male, 35 fitting the bill. Even the old man might qualify, even the old man, if his morbid personality was an act, if he was being forced to cooperate... Tyer might think he could control the old man, if he was willing to be so open during their drinking sessions.

Damn.

A grunt from the door.

Female, 25 was here, coat undone, hair soaked where ice had melted, pulling the mask from her face as she went for the nearest samovar, filled with boiling liquid and with a tin of freeze-dried coffee at the side. Fancy stuff. Thought only the military was allowed to have that sort of stuff... hm, well, on the side there was a small label attached. 'With thanks'. Governor, maybe? Little bribe to the people keeping the colony alive? Looked to be an effective one, based on how the young woman was shovelling in healthy helpings into her drink. She pointedly didn't look at Tanner as she worked. The only words Tanner had heard her say were 'piss off, I don't talk to judges', and that really... well, put a stop to things. Maybe getting Marana to pop by would work. Tanner looked around uncomfortably, unwilling to look at the woman, uncertain of where to look instead, ending up just looking everywhere and... hm. Hm. That was odd. There were ten people in this place, if you counted Tyer. And nine of them were wearing heavy coats. Assuming they had a few spares lying around in case of damage or guests... why were those large cupboards full of so many? Had to be nearly two dozen, stuffed so tightly together it was a miracle they could even fit.

The sound of the samovar's tap shutting off drew her attention back.

"...might I ask why there's so many coats?"

"Piss off."

"This isn't an interview, I promise, I'm just curious."

The woman narrowed her eyes suspiciously at Tanner.

"I don't talk to judges."

"...I'm really just asking about... well. Coats."

She shouldn't be this stubborn, but she was tired, stressed, and felt like she'd gotten everything and nothing from this place. All the evidence for a judgement, none she needed to catch the bastard. Like being told that all her money was now going to a savings account available after retirement. Oh, she'd have a wonderful pension, she'd be minted, but that really didn't help with today's bills, now did it?

Feh.

"For when we're bringing crap in before winter starts. Obviously. We get more help when that happens."

"That much help?"

She paused.

"...how much food is stored in here?"

"Stop interviewing me. Just let me drink my damn coffee."

Tanner didn't reply. Fair enough. She lingered in silence, mulling over the idea. Still felt like too many coats for the amount of food getting stored in here. Sure, it was a lot, but a fair amount of that food would be cured, salted, and that didn't need to happen in the cold-house. Indeed, if it was being smoked, it'd have to happen outside. And if it was happening before winter set in, why would those workers, who did the bulk of the labour of curing, salting, smoking and whatnot, need such thick coats, when only the people moving the food inside would need them? She stared off vaguely... and the woman opposite her suddenly burst out with sound, like a kettle boiling over. Just expelled noise, and when Tanner refocused on her, she saw that Female, 25 had a slight reddening around her face, and she was clutching her cup tightly.

"We do things above and below ground. That's why we have so many coats. We're not just bringing food into the cold-house."

"...below ground?"

"Sure. It's cold down there, it's dry, it's dark. Just a couple of cellars. All the cold-houses have them. If the pumps go out, the bell jars stop being vacuum-sealed, the humidity stops being regulated, we have to go back to basics. Like storing things underground. Mostly root vegetables. Potatoes. Carrots. Turnips. Some salted meat, too."

She was being strangely elaborate.

"What, never had a house with a root cellar before?"

"...no, I don't believe I have."

"Well, good for you, some of us have. Don't let the old man give you any damn nightmares because of that pump blowing up, if it does, you just have to live on fucking potato soup for the next few months. Well. Maybe you have been living on potato soup for the last few months anyway, they say you are what you eat, and you look like a potato in a dress."

Tanner was wounded.

Deeply wounded.

She did not look like a potato.

She didn't think very many flattering things about her own appearance. Nose was too big. Ears were too prominent. Whole face screwed up like a monkey's when she smiled too broadly, and her smile could be uncannily broad. A bit too pale from living underground. The beginnings of a judge's squint from too long focusing on her books. But while that all might be true, she was not a potato.

Why would she say something so hurtful?

...well, it could be a compliment. Potatoes were nutritious and delicious.

"Oh."

The woman looked almost ashamed at calling her a potato. Well. Hm.

"Sorry. Anyway. I have work. Piss off."

And with that, she was gone, downing her coffee in a single painful-looking gulp before buttoning her coat back up and soldiering into the cold-house... with its underground segments. An idle thought. Was he hiding down there? Was he hiding amidst the potatoes and assorted tubers? If he was, and if he had the right vegetables, he could probably survive there for a good while in complete security, hidden by all his colleagues. A spark of interest. Maybe she could ask to search the cellars. Check them for anything remotely suspicious. It made sense, really. He knew this place. He understood it. He had some people who knew him and maybe didn't dislike him. How often did they inspect the underground portions? How long could he remain until circumstances forced a departure? Tanner was already moving.

She had a potato cellar to search.

And that was genuinely a highlight of her day. The notion of searching a dusty potato cellar.

Gods.