Chapter 33: The Corpse Without a Name
Coyote arrived at Haven carrying two cases and a bad mood. The familiar savoury smell drifting from Mireal’s kitchen was already improving it. The mirror closed behind him with a soft shiver of glass. He put the cases down and flexed his fingers.
The Keeper waited in the mirror-lined corridor. They looked at the luggage, then at Coyote. “Moving?”
“Considering my options.”
“What happened?”
“Someone searched my apartment.”
The Keeper’s expression barely changed. “What did they take?”
“That’s the interesting part.” Coyote picked up the cases again. “Nothing valuable.”
“Ophelia?”
“Her bags.”
That changed the Keeper’s face. Barely. Coyote had known them long enough.
“They knew what they wanted,” the Keeper said.
“Rude, after I’d kept everything so nicely.”
They entered the Central Hall. Voices were a little too lively, as usual, rising over cutlery and glasses knocking against the tables. Coyote caught two words from somewhere ahead.
“Collared bastards.”
He stopped.
A couple of Walkers stood in front of one of the new notices on the wall. Official Great Council paper. ORC seal. Beneath the heading was a detailed sketch of a purple collar.
WARNING TO ALL MIRRORWALKERS
DO NOT ENGAGE WITH INDIVIDUALS WEARING THE ILLUSTRATED COLLAR.
DO NOT ACCEPT CONTRACTS, WORK, GIFTS, OR INVITATIONS FROM THEM.
DO NOT FOLLOW THEM THROUGH MIRRORS OR TO PRIVATE LOCATIONS.
REPORT ALL SIGHTINGS IMMEDIATELY TO THE OFFICE OF REFLECTIVE CRIMES.
Coyote read it twice. Then he noticed what was missing. Registered. For once, the Great Council had remembered that Shadowwalkers existed too.
“Well. Someone finally remembered we’re useful enough to keep alive.” His voice came out rougher than he would have liked.
The Keeper stood beside him. “They should have issued this years ago.”
“But?”
A faint satisfaction touched their face. “But they issued it.”
Coyote looked again at the purple collar. The Council had acted before everyone involved was dead. Progress.
“Any news about the missing Walkers?”
“Nothing useful. Measures have been taken.”
Coyote looked at them. “That sounds ominously official.”
“It is.”
“In that case, I’d like to borrow your expertise.”
Coyote followed the Keeper into one of Haven’s workrooms. A small furnace kept the room hot. Machine oil and paper dust hung in the air.
Bren Reed was dismantling a strange mechanism. Tiny brass parts clicked into a tray beneath his hands. His head turned before Coyote reached the table. The unmistakable scent of Coyote’s blood had reached Bren first.
“You brought rubbish.” Bren grinned.
“Rubbish from Epinalium.”
Bren looked up. “Luxurious.”
Coyote opened the first case. Most of the artefacts received restrained enthusiasm. Bren turned pieces over, tested them, rejected two as decorative, then called up several holographic files to identify the less obvious ones. Pale light moved over brass, glass, and his fingers.
The Keeper shifted closer and examined the two rejected pieces. “I’d check with your birds before throwing these away.”
Coyote looked over. Both objects were shaped in ways that suggested decoration had not been their only intended purpose. He raised an eyebrow, laughter already in his voice. “Ah.”
Nothing changed in the Keeper’s expression or tone. “Quite.”
A moment later, Coyote produced the smaller crystal. He pulled the dirty handkerchief from his coat and unfolded it on the table. The cloth had gone stiff with old oil.
The Keeper went still. Only for a moment.
They were looking at the cloth, not the crystal. Most of the embroidery had been ruined by dirt and grease. One letter remained.
M.
The Keeper said nothing. Coyote looked at them, then at the handkerchief. Interesting.
Bren had already picked up the crystal and turned it beneath the lamp. “Fuel storage.”
Coyote frowned. “That little thing?”
“Rare. Properly charged, it could hold gallons.”
That improved Epinalium considerably. Coyote reconsidered the client’s final price. “How?”
“You need a transfer device. Specialised. Fuel goes in compressed and comes out at usable pressure. With one, the crystal is probably worth twice as much.”
“Have one?”
“No.”
“Know where to get one?”
“Underground market.” Bren glanced at him. “Badly made ones explode.”
“Less attractive.” Coyote reduced the imaginary surcharge slightly.
Bren searched another file, then opened one of the shelves lining the room and pulled out a scroll. Dust lifted from the edge.
“I have a blueprint. Never built one. Not sure I could.”
Coyote studied the design. Work for Corvell.
“What do you want for the appraisal and the blueprint?”
Bren pointed at the small Epinalium measuring device in the open case. “That.”
Coyote considered it, then pushed it across the table. “Highway robbery.”
Bren took it. “Coming from you, I’ll treasure that.”
“Bren, if you still have hopes after that kiss ten years ago, forget them. Immortals aren’t my type.”
Bren laughed. “Coyote, if you change your mind, I always carry a feeding partner contract in my pocket.”
“That is profoundly reassuring.” Coyote smiled. He copied the blueprint and stored it.
The Keeper finally spoke. “Where did you find it?”
Coyote looked at the crystal, then the handkerchief. “Which part?”
“Both.”
“Abandoned camp in Epinalium.”
“Anyone there?”
“Not by the time I arrived.”
A soft knock interrupted them. Mireal stepped inside. “Keeper. A messenger is waiting for you. Urgent.”
The Keeper inclined their head and left.
Lady Elena Maris Venn-Areenholm waited outside ORC, the Office of Reflective Crimes. A dense black lace veil covered most of her face. The Keeper looked at it once. Elena had never been particularly shy about being seen. Today, apparently, she had reconsidered.
She showed a sealed Council authorisation at the entrance. The officers let them through.
ORC occupied several floors beneath the Council complex, all grey walls, reinforced doors, stale steam and sharp disinfectant over sweat uniforms. The Keeper prepared for the blood beneath it. Old blood always meant a migraine later.
“They caught one,” Elena said. “One of the purple collars.”
The Keeper looked at her. “How?”
“A Walker recognised the collar from the warning and reported three men. ORC set a trap. Two escaped. One was arrested.”
They passed an open operations room. An officer sat beside a table, pulling off a dark wig and scratching his damp scalp. Another gathered civilian clothes from the floor while two more argued over what had gone wrong.
The Keeper watched for a moment.
Centuries passed. Empires collapsed. Technology improved. Police bait remained police bait.
Elena kept walking. “The arrested man is a Mirrorwalker.”
“Registered?”
“No record of him anywhere.”
That was more interesting.
An officer opened the observation-room door. The Keeper smelt fresh blood before the door closed behind them.
Beyond the glass, the detainee sat under harsh white light. Or tried to. Dried blood covered one side of his face and the front of his shirt. One eye was swollen nearly shut. His hands trembled on the table. Every few seconds he shifted, looked around the room, then stared at the table as though he had forgotten where he was.
The purple collar sat tight around his throat. Too tight.
Two ORC officers questioned him. “Again. Name?”
The man hesitated. His mouth moved. Nothing came out.
“Your name.”
He swallowed. “Pipkin Brassbutton.”
The Keeper narrowed their eyes. A name from a children’s book.
One of the officers moved closer and slapped him. The sound cracked through the room. “Stop playing games.”
Fresh blood ran from the detainee’s nose. He did not even lift a hand.
“World of origin?”
“I travelled.”
“Where are you from?”
“I travelled.”
“Where were you born?”
“I don’t remember.”
The officers exchanged a look. “Who employs you?”
“No one.”
“Who were the other two men?”
The detainee frowned. For several seconds he seemed to search for the answer. “Friends.”
“Names?”
Silence.
“Where did you meet them?”
“I don’t know.”
The Keeper watched the detainee carefully. His answers were not evasive. Questions reached him. Sometimes nothing came back. Elena stood beside the Keeper, arms folded.
“He can cross,” she said quietly. “Tests confirmed Mirrorwalker blood.”
“And the collar?”
“We tried to remove it.”
The Keeper looked at her. Elena gestured through the glass. One of the officers approached the detainee with a small mechanical tool. Metal clicked as he opened it.
The detainee saw the tool and recoiled so hard that the chair scraped backwards. “No.”
The second officer caught his shoulders and forced him back.
“No, no. Don’t.” The man grabbed the collar. His nails scraped over the smooth surface. “Don’t touch it.”
“Sit still.”
The tool moved towards the fastening. The detainee began shaking hard enough to move the chair beneath him. Not resistance. Fear.
Elena said, “There is some sort of mechanism inside. We cannot find the release.”
The Keeper watched another minute. Enough. They turned and left. The heavy door shut behind them, reducing the interrogation to a dull murmur.
“He needs a medic and a mental assessment,” the Keeper said. “They are only making him worse.”
“He is a criminal.” Elena’s tone cooled.
The Keeper stopped. “I haven’t noticed a judge in that room, Elena.”
She said nothing.
“When he can sit upright, call me.”
Elena’s mouth tightened, but she nodded.
“And tell those idiots to leave the collar alone. Send a competent mechanic to check it first.”
“I will.”
The Keeper resumed walking. “How many escaped?”
“Two.”
“Walkers?”
“Probably.”
Elena led them into one of the Investigation Bureau rooms and closed the door. Several files waited on the desk.
“This is everything I can give you on the missing Walkers. Reports, confirmed disappearances, suspected disappearances. Some material is still restricted.”
The Keeper picked up the first file. “And the corpse?”
“Still Greyname.” Elena sat down.
“No identification?”
“Someone identified the body by appearance, but we cannot confirm it yet. The fingertips were deliberately destroyed.”
“How?”
“Acid.”
The Keeper looked at her. “And the reflective information?”
“Almost useless. The body remained in the Scarlet Valleys’ mountains too long. Most of the reflective trace bled into the surrounding snow and ice.”
“Cause of death?”
“Not clear. The whole body showed repeated punctures from a very thin blade. Blood loss was significant.” Elena paused. “If someone was collecting it, that is strange. Walker blood without the living Walker who carries it is nearly useless.”
“Nearly. Anything else?”
“One of our experts believes magic may have been used.”
The Keeper’s attention sharpened. “What kind?”
“We don’t know yet.” Elena folded her hands on the desk. “We contacted relatives. If the identification is right, they’ll confirm it.”
“That will take time.”
The Keeper opened another file. Names. Dates. Worlds. Last confirmed crossings. Too many gaps. Then one name stopped them. Eric Still.
The Keeper looked at Elena. “You had a report on him.”
Elena nodded. “Yes.”
“When?”
“Months ago.”
The Keeper waited. Elena activated the hologram box and opened the internal record. “There should have been a missing-Walker alert attached.”
There was none.
“The report never entered the active system,” Elena said.
“Lost?”
“Or removed.”
She closed the record.
Coyote stayed in Haven long enough to eat. Mireal made certain of that. A couple of hours later, reasonably fed and considerably less relaxed, he headed towards the Steamhollow mirrors.
He nearly walked into Samara.
She had obviously come in a hurry. Her coat was still buttoned high for the Scarlet Valleys, a bit too heavy for Steamhollow. Her amber hair had escaped its pins, and one hand gripped an envelope hard enough to crease it.
Usually Samara arrived immaculate. Not today.
“Samara?”
She looked at him. “Coyote.”
Something in her voice made him put the cases down. “What happened?”
“I came for the Keeper.” She glanced towards the Central Hall.
“They left a few hours ago.”
Samara exhaled and handed Coyote the envelope. The ORC seal hovered above the text.
You are requested to attend the Office of Reflective Crimes immediately regarding the disappearance of Eric Still.
Her hand shook as Coyote took it.
“They know something.”
“Maybe.”
“You knew he was missing.”
“I knew you hadn’t heard from him.” Coyote looked at the letter again. “That’s all. I didn’t know ORC had a file. I don’t know where Eric went.”
Samara stared at him, waiting for more. There was none. Mireal appeared before the silence became unbearable. She took one look at Samara and guided her towards a table. “Give me your coat and sit.”
“I need to go to ORC.” Samara remained standing.
“You need tea first.”
Samara sat. That told Coyote more about her condition than the shaking had. Mireal took her coat, then placed a hot cup between her hands and sat beside her. Steam rose against Samara’s face. Her fingers kept trembling anyway.
Coyote stood there for a moment. One name stayed with him. Ophelia.
He picked up his cases. “Samara, I can’t go to ORC. Obviously. But if you need me later, leave a message with Mireal.”
Samara nodded without looking up.
Coyote finally left Haven. The moment he stepped through the mirror into Steamhollow, cold rain caught him full in the face.
Of course.
Halfway to his destination, he stopped outside a florist and went in.
Coyote pointed at the largest arrangement in the shop. “Add more.”
The florist blinked. Coyote added several flowers whose names he neither knew nor intended to learn until the price became offensive enough to satisfy him.
The card was simple.
To: Renna Rouge
Gilded Stag
He wrote a short message, folded the card, and sealed it in an envelope. “This goes with the flowers. Into Renna Rouge’s hands only.”
“Of course.” The old florist smiled.
“I mean only.”
The florist looked at Coyote again. The smile disappeared. He nodded firmly.
Coyote transferred far too many credits for the delivery. He checked the amount once and decided it was acceptable only because it was appalling.
For once, extravagance felt like sensible planning.