Free House of Dust by Paul Johnston

suggested she was very curious about the severed arm. Or perhaps she’d had some bad news from the dreaming spires.
    â€œHowever,” Raphael continued, “she has come to no conclusion about the instrument used to produce such wounding.” She glanced at me. “How about you, citizen? What do you think? I’m told you have extensive experience of mutilated bodies.”
    â€œThat’s not something I’m proud of,” I said, irritated by her neutral tone. “For what it’s worth I’ve never seen such a clean and surgical job, at least on the arm.” I held up the stump of my right forefinger but Raphael gave no reaction. “The finger stump trauma is more standard.” I decided to turn the heat up. “Have you had any experience of mutilation?”
    â€œCertainly not,” she said, giving me a steady look. “I’m a university administrator, not a surgeon.” Her hauteur would have persuaded most people to take her words at face value. “I ask you again, citizen: what are you doing to find the responsible party?”
    â€œMy colleague is finalising things with the City Guard command centre as we speak. An all-barracks search for the amputee has been instituted. He’ll either be dead or in a serious condition by now. Either way, we’ll find him. The tattoo shows that he’s in a youth gang that we know well. The guard has already started bringing his fellow members in for questioning.”
    Raphael raised a hand. “You haven’t told me how the responsible party gained access to this place.” Again a tremor ran across her fingers. “Is it safe for me to close my eyes even for a second?”
    â€œDon’t worry,” I said, suddenly feeling sorry for her; she was far from home, in a city where she probably imagined that violence of the kind she’d encountered was commonplace. “This is the most secure accommodation block in Edinburgh, especially now.”
    She looked at me closely then nodded. “Thank you for that at least.” She got up and moved away. “I will try to get some sleep now. I have a series of meetings with guardians and senior auxiliaries throughout the day.”
    That made me think of Andrew Duart. “I gather you know the first secretary of Glasgow.”
    She nodded, her face giving nothing away.
    â€œHe was wondering if this whole thing might just be some kind of prank.”
    â€œI think not, citizen,” Raphael said.
    I thought not too.
    Dawn was breaking, grey with no more than an unreliable promise that the sun might make an appearance, as Davie and I headed across the esplanade to the castle. If I hadn’t recently become accustomed to all-night investigations caused by the city’s youth and to Katharine appearing in the small hours, I’d have felt more in need of my bed. As it was, I reckoned my batteries – unlike those you get in exchange for Supply Directorate vouchers – had a few more hours in them.
    An old but highly polished black taxi pulled up ahead of us, blocking the drawbridge.
    â€œShit,” I said in a low voice.
    â€œDitto,” added Davie.
    The senior guardian, a.k.a. the welfare guardian, Lachlan Lessels and Slick, jumped out and stood waiting for us, his arm in the tweed jacket worn by his rank resting on the vehicle’s door. For some reason Edinburgh’s top dog had dispensed with the Land-Rover normally used by guardians and taken possession of a restored cab. He’d also done away with his chauffeur and insisted on driving himself, even to official functions. It’s easy enough when you don’t have to worry about finding a parking space.
    â€œCitizen,” he said, eyeing me beadily through his thick, round glasses. He didn’t favour Davie with ocular contact. “Proceed, commander. This is private.”
    Davie strode away with a spring in his step. The last thing he wanted was an early