"This is why you were late? Why I had to fight off the whole stinking pile of them myself? Your… channels were interfered with?"
"Yeah, that's part of it. These things go out, sometimes. Bad timing."
"Terrible timing. The worst timing." I leaned back in my seat and cursed as my articulated sheath rattled against some gear, knocking it to the ground. "Can we go somewhere, already? Can we just… just turn that siren on and let's go?"
"Where are we supposed to-"
"Go," I howled, then leaned forward and slapped the siren on. The rest of the patrol piled into the wagon and hauled the doors shut. We sat there in the wailing of the siren, the Justicar and I looking daggers at each other. Finally, he sighed and turned to the driver.
"Get us to the Harrington Square station. We'll check in with the land line there, see where we should deploy."
The wagon lurched forward.
I smiled at the Justicar. "It's a good start, sir. A good start."
"Glad you're happy with it."
"Happy enough. Your name's Arron, right?"
"Owen," he said.
"Owen. You're doing fine, Owen. Alexander would be very proud."
"To hell with that," he said, then twisted back to the driver. "And turn that damn siren off."
he station was a squat brick building, sprouting a crown of heavy communication wires that crisscrossed the city like a spider's web. Inside it was hot and crowded, everything painted a dull, chipped white, the paint applied sloppily and thick. The air smelled like kitchen cleaner.
We checked in with Owen's patrol coordinator and were told there was no news. We checked in with headquarters. No news. A runner came from the Strength, specifically to tell us that there was no news.
The Fratriarch of the Cult of Morgan was missing, and no one knew anything more than that. I gave my interview to one of the representatives from the palace of Alexander, a real efficient-looking guy in a suit who asked brief questions and got brief answers. When we were done he folded up his notes and walked out of the station. Everyone seemed relieved when he was gone.
The city was busy enough, that's for sure. The printsheets were stuttering out of the vendors splashed with big, black letters: FRATRIARCH OF MORGAN KIDNAPPED. Every time I got up to pace to the door, one of the whiteshirts would put a hand on my shoulder to say that their boys were on the case, they had people working leads, that it was best if I stayed put and let them do their work. I felt caged. I felt like those Amonites in the Library Desolate must feel, only I hadn't signed up for it. It was well past noon when I gave up being patient and kind, and decided to go ahead and be a Paladin of Morgan. It was my nature.
"I'm going," I told Owen as I marched to the door for the fifth time that hour. They had tried to take my sword and bully when I got there. They settled for the bullets on my belt, and a promise not to draw steel. More for their own good, I think. Owen followed me to the guard station and tapped his foot while I checked out the ammo. I examined the bullets. All in order.
"You can't do any good," he said. "We've got people. Let them do their thing."
"What thing are they doing?" I asked.
"Interviewing people. Searching the scene of the crime."
"Scene of the crime. Like someone's precious bike was stolen." I slapped the cylinder shut, opened it again, spun it, slapped it shut. Nervous. "This isn't stolen property. This isn't even a murder. It's an act of war, Justicar."
"We don't know that. Honestly, we don't know much of anything. This stuff takes time, Eva."
"Time. Right. We're just awash with time. Probably a whole twenty-four hours before they kill him, right? Isn't that what the statistics say?"
"For a normal kidnapping, yes. But this isn't a normal kidnapping-"
"That's what I've been saying! Brother-damn hell, Justicar, we should be turning this city inside out."
"There's… we don't want to upset the populace." He looked back to the den, to the bunch of officers milling about desks and talking into clockgeists. "We don't want to scare anyone."
I sighed, like a steam engine bleeding off pressure.
"I'm going out."
"You can't," he said, trying not to sound timid. Well. Trying to sound forceful, I guess.
"I can't."
"There are orders. I was trying to tell you, but… it's complicated. We're supposed to keep you here."
"Whose orders?" I asked, twisting the grip of my bullistic in cold, sweaty hands.
"From the top office. From the god himself."
"Alexander?"
He nodded. "There have been threats. Warnings. Someone's saying they're going to kill off the Cult of Morgan."
"Someone," I said. "Someone said that. And you're keeping me here, keeping me safe."
Again, the nod. "Got word just after we reported in. The Strength of Morgan is on lockdown. Most of our men are focused on that, and finding out who made the threat."
"And keeping Alexander safe, no doubt. People start bumping off his brother's Cult, can't be long before they come for him."
Owen looked down and shrugged. "Security measures have been taken. Tightened. Sure, we're stepping up protection."
"Between guarding Alexander's precious white ass and keeping the Strength on lockdown… Owen, do you have anyone looking for the Fratriarch?"
"We're prioritizing resources, Eva. We have to. There are people looking, sure, but-"
I laughed, an angry laugh that cut the room to silence. He stood there looking at me, gaping, face white as his sloppy white desk. "I like the part where you were going to keep me here, Justicar," I said, shaking my head. "That's good."
I turned and kicked the door open, splintering the lock some idiot had installed. The street beyond was mostly empty. People were home by now, getting ready for dinner. The first shades of dusk were starting to dust the city in gray.
"That's real good," I said, and walked out into the city to find the old man.
* * *
Owen took some liberties with his orders, modifying "keep her in the station" to "try to keep up with her," and came along. Members of his patrol, too, though not the whole group. I had the feeling that frantic calls were being made back at the station. Not my problem.
"Where are we going?" he asked after we had walked the first five blocks at a brisk pace. These guys were used to rolling around in that stubby battle wagon of theirs. "I mean, are you following some kind of plan, or are we just going to kick in doors until we find your guy?"
"You guys could do with some door-kicking practice," I said. Honestly, I didn't have a plan. I just didn't like the idea of sitting on my hands. Didn't want to admit that to these whiteshirts, though. I ambled to a halt and pretended to fuss with the hang of my holster while I thought about where we were and where we might be going. The patrol stood around me, looking nervously at the dark windows and shadowy alleys.
"You don't have a plan, do you?" Owen asked.
"I have a sense of direction," I answered, folding my arms across my chest. "A sense of purpose. And, as you've noted, I have some experience kicking in doors."
"But no plan," he said.
I grimaced. "Not yet. I prefer to develop these things organically. That way I don't have to fight my own presumptions when the situation changes."
"Yeah," he said. "Don't think, just jump."
"Look, if you'd rather be back at your desk, I'm not keeping you here."
"Yeah."
We smoldered at each other, then he shook his head and sighed.
"We have to start somewhere. What was the first strange thing you noticed about that fight?"
"That we were going to the Library Desolate. That we were talking to Amonites. That it was the Fratriarch doing all this, rather than some attendant or man-at-arms."