Free Low Town by Daniel Polansky Page B

had never seen a death so horrible. Whatever torment he now suffered was a release from that which had sent him there.

What with all the excitement I figured that was a good time to pass out, so I never learned who called the guard or when they brought the small cadre of agents surrounding me when I awoke. I suppose the brutal murder of a child rapist by a demonic force managed to break through even the aversion to governmental authority ingrained in the heretics.
    Of course I wasn’t thinking about any of that as I was roughly shaken from my repose, my attention taken up with more immediate issues. The first of these was the unfriendly mug of a former colleague from Black House. The second was his fist balled up in front of my face.
    And then my jaw hurt and the men in ice gray were shrieking questions at me, any memory of our shared past buried beneath the violent inclinations universal to law enforcement officials across the Thirteen Lands, or at least every one I’ve visited. Happily, my position against the wall and the exaggerated number of participants—I’ve hit enough men in shackles to know that more than three people is just showing off—rendered their enthusiasm less effective than it might have been. Still, it was no great addition to an evening already marked by unpleasantness.
    Crispin managed to pull my attackers off long enough to drag me to my feet and lean me up against the morgue cart. The Kiren’s shattered carcass lay over the dray, conspicuously uncovered. Despite the blood draining from my mouth, the madness of the evening had left me manic and strangely jubilant. “Hey, partner! Miss me?”
    Crispin was not amused. For a moment I thought he was going to indulge the darker shades of his character upon my bruised face, but he kept his rage under control like a good little soldier. “What in the name of the Oathkeeper happened here?”
    “I’d say divine justice, but I don’t have such a grim view of the Daevas.” I leaned in close enough that no one else could hear me. “The thing next to us is the shell of the man responsible for the last corpse we had a conversation over. As to what killed him, if it has a name I don’t know it. But if I was responsible, you wouldn’t have found his remains, nor would I have passed out next to the corpse.” I noted with a petty sort of joy that our contact had smeared a swath of sanguinary fluid on his duster.
    A crowd of heretics had gathered at the mouth of the cul-de-sac, chittering loudly, fear and anger in their eyes. The frost needed to cover up the body, and they needed to set up a decent perimeter, and they needed to do it quick. What the hell had happened to Black House since I’d left? It’s all well and good to engage in a little bit of casual violence against a suspect, but not at the expense of professionalism. Who did they think they were, the hoax?
    The years we had spent tracking the lowest scum of humanity through the general detritus of civilization were enough to convince Crispin of my reliability as a witness, but the guarantees of a disgraced exagent-cum-criminal wouldn’t be sufficient for the brass. “You have any proof?”
    “None whatsoever. But if you get his name and residence you’ll find a memento he kept, maybe a piece of her clothing. You’ll probably find a few of them.”
    “You don’t even know his name?”
    “I don’t have time for these trivialities, Crispin—I work in the private sector now.”
    The crowd was getting rowdy, shouting past the loose cordon of troops blocking off the alley, although about what I still couldn’t tell. Did they want my head for killing one of their kind? Had word somehow spread of the man’s crimes? Maybe it was just the contempt for police countenanced by all reasonable people. Regardless, this whole thing was starting to get ugly. I saw one of the guardsmen get into it with a member of the mob, stiff-arming him back into his fellows and shouting ethnic slurs.
    Crispin