The imperial smiled, no doubt catching the startled recognition in Ripka’s eyes.
“I am from the Scorched diplomatic delegation, and it is within my authority as an instrument of the empire to assure you, watch captain, that Thratia is within her rights to claim the wardenship. Although we would prefer she call it a regency, at least until such a time as the elections can be held.”
Under the milky eye of the empire, her own masters, all Ripka could do was tuck tail and bow. No matter how much she wanted to tell them all to get fucked, this was her crime scene, she knew, clear as the skies were blue, that being abrasive now would only get her thrown out on her backside.
“As you wish, I obey, diplomat. But regarding this incident, my team are equipped and experienced for just this sort of puzzle. If you’ll allow me until tomorrow morning, I believe we can uncover the cause of this mess.”
The whitecoat shook her head. “It is within Thratia’s authority to seize control of this investigation, and not within mine to limit her. I recommend consultation between both divisions, but that is not a Valathean order.” Callia bowed, Valathean-style, with her hands held before her head, palms facing the blue skies.
“Nothing personal, Leshe, but I want a crack at this tick of a doppel.” Thratia’s voice was laced with the quiet waver of tightly reined anger. Ripka blinked, she’d never heard Thratia come close to losing her calm before.
“Do you have reason to believe the doppel did this?” Ripka asked, smoothing her voice with professional curiosity.
“Look around you, captain, it’s a mess. The doppel is clearly targeting important figures of Aransa, and when I take the wardenship it will be my head that has a target on it, if it doesn’t already.” She waved a dismissive hand. “You may take your people and go. My own investigators will arrive with the next ferry. See that everything is left as you found it. I will call upon you if I need you.”
“Warden, I must insist that the Watch be allowed to do its job here.” Ripka was annoyed to hear a pleading note enter her voice. Banch’s hand settled on her shoulder. She hadn’t realized she’d taken a step forward, that her fists had slipped from behind her back and come up low and ready.
Thratia eyed her from tip to toe, and waved a dismissive hand. “I have heard you. Now go.”
Banch tugged her sleeve, urging her back. With a clenched jaw she snapped a salute to Thratia and turned on her heel, knowing her blues would follow. None of them would want to be left alone in the same room as that woman.
They marched in silence to the ferry dock, Ripka keeping her eyes averted from the corpses of the men and women she’d sent to keep watch over Galtro. Five good watchers, and none of them dead by the same weapon as Thratia’s people. One still had a crossbow bolt sticking from her throat, black and insectile. Her name had been Setta. Ripka burned the names of each into her memory as she passed.
At the ferry they watched Thratia’s so-called investigators unload. Debt collectors, mudleaf smugglers, fire-protection men. Cutthroats, all of them, and every last one avoided so much as acknowledging the existence of the watchers arranged before them. They marched across the dock and toward the Hub like they owned the place, and with a sour taste in her mouth Ripka decided their mistress did, and that was close enough.
Across the gap, with the city’s bedrock firm under her feet, she dispersed her people back to their homes and stood thinking, arms crossed snug over her chest. It was a moment before she realized Banch was still at her side, watching.
“What?” She sighed.
“You’re planning something.”
She threw her hands in the air. “Of course I am. Galtro’s dead and something needs to be done about it, dammit.”
“Thratia said…”
“Thratia wants the city and the doppel, she doesn’t care about what’s right. Pits below, Banch, did you see our people? Opened with swords and crossbows, not daggers like Thratia’s and Galtro.”
“You think her people did for ours?”
“Yes.”
“Then you’d better keep your nose clean of it.”
She sighed and dragged her fingers through her hair, thinking of the single wine bottle at home in her pantry. Knowing Banch had so much more waiting for him. A wife. A child. A warm meal.
“Go home, Banch.”
“I’m your sergeant, captain. I stay.”
“You got a family, don’t you?”
“Yes, but–”
“Go. Home. That’s an order. And on your way there, stop by the station. Tell everyone to go home and lock down.” She waved an arm to encompass the city before her. “Thratia’s taken the reins, and there’s no telling what she might do. Aransa is not safe for the Watch. Not tonight.”
He gave her a long, anxious look, sweat sticky on his brow, then snapped a salute with a hundred times better form than she’d shown Thratia.
“Stay safe, captain.”
“I’m working on it.”
He turned crisp on his heel and strode off towards home and shelter.
Chapter 22
Ripka went home before she went to the station, and changed into the Brown Wash clothes of mourning. She would not do what she was about to do while wearing her blues.
The black cotton was pounded smooth by stones, and the supple fabric covered her from throat to foot. It was a variation on an old Catari tradition, or so her mother had told her, though the original rites were long since lost. In the Brown Wash, one donned their blacks and stole an item of personal significance from the house of the deceased on their pyre night.
Galtro would have no pyre night. Ripka suspected Thratia would chuck him into an unmarked grave, or garbage burn, to keep from establishing a site that might turn into a symbol for martyrdom. That was all right by Ripka, she’d never been much of a traditionalist. She’d find her own way to mourn. A way that involved punching Thratia right in her smug little mouth.
The black cloth made slipping through the city unnoticed easy, and she found herself walking through the station house’s door before she had a plan firmly in mind. The station was quiet, the lamps snuffed and the halls emptied. Papers were left in haphazard stacks on desks, half-drunk tea cups gone cold beside them. At least someone had remembered to lock the door on their way out. Ripka’s lips quirked in a smile adverse to her mood. Probably Banch.
She drifted through the darkened halls by rote, found the aisle of long-term inmates and reached for the lantern she knew would be there. It felt light in her hands, not much oil left. Not much time to burn.
With care she struck her flint and lit the already charcoaled wick, coaxed a small flame into life. A few muted groans of protest sounded down the hall. The regulars, annoyed that their darkness was disturbed. She ignored their grumbles as she continued down the hall. She wasn’t here for the regulars. Ripka sought a much more recent addition.
The unnamed woman’s cell was second to last, a palm-sized piece of wood with “Unknown #258” hastily tacked in place of a name placard. Ripka ran her fingertips over the number, wondering at the motives behind the two hundred and fifty seven who had come before this one. Most were long before Ripka’s time, but in her experience few kept their numbers long. The last, however, had kept his number until his death. Unknown #257. The doppel caught impersonating Mercer Agert.
She resolved that this woman would not die in obscurity.