Bronze Gods Page 8

  “May I see your identification please?”

  “I showed your assistant before she showed me in.” But Ritsuko got her ID packet out, nonetheless.

  The old man laughed. “I daresay you could’ve shown her a napkin with ink spilled on it, and her reaction would’ve been the same.”

  She raised a brow. “If you think so poorly of her acumen, why did you hire her?”

  “I’m an old man. I have few pleasures left, and one of them is looking at pretty girls.”

  She smiled at that, for he reminded her of her grandfather: acerbic but amusing. “I understand. Will you send word to your instructors for me?”

  “Unless it’s confidential, I’d prefer to know what this is about.”

  “A girl was murdered,” she said quietly. “And her killer built this horrific apparatus to do the deed. I thought, perhaps, your engineering and mathematics teachers might know which students have the technical skill to create such a thing.”

  His gray eyes were shrewd. “And you’ll take the measure of the professors, who won’t be on their guards, as they’ll believe you’re searching for a student?”

  “Sir, I’ve told you all I can. Will you help me in this?” He was a clever old devil.

  “Absolutely. If there is a madman among my students or staff, I wish to see the blackguard brought to justice. I’ll have Miss Winters carry a message at once. Will you have tea while we wait for her to return?”

  “That would be lovely.”

  Ritsuko used his facilities and prepared the tray once the assistant had gone. The dean watched with narrowed gaze, looking pensive. When she returned to the maroon upholstered chair before the window, he said, “You have some skill in that.”

  “Yes, I did my share of fetching tea and coffee in the beginning at the CID.”

  “You speak as if you’ve been working there for years.”

  “Ten,” she said proudly. “I spent three years as a clerk. Then I talked my way in into a lab position. Another four years there while I studied the field manuals, memorized procedures, and spent my free time practicing.”

  “Practicing what?” the dean asked, lifting his cup.

  “Everything I needed to work as an inspector.”

  A smile creased his face. “When did your receive your promotion?”

  “Just over three years ago.”

  “It is most gratifying to see hard work rewarded. You know that it was only eight years past that we started accepting female students at the Academy?”

  “I am aware. Most forward-thinking of you, sir.”

  “Can’t imagine why some of these girls want to work when they’re pretty enough to marry, but you know what they say, changing times and all.”

  Their cups were drained by the time the red-haired assistant returned. “Some of the instructors complained, but I’ve carried the memo to both departments.”

  “Good, Miss Winters. You may go.”

  Once the door shut behind the other woman, Ritsuko stood. “I wonder if I could request a final favor of you, sir.”

  “Nothing ventured,” he said.

  “Could you request the registrar to search your records and collect a list of those who have graduated with applicable courses of study?”

  “That will be quite an undertaking. For how many years?

  She considered, then answered, “Fifteen should be sufficient, I think. I can’t imagine a man of a certain age constructing such a contraption.”

  “A man my age, you mean?” He rose, offering a polite half bow, then assured her, “You should have no trouble, and if you do, deliver the scallywag to me. Trust that I shall deal with him harshly.”

  “Or I could arrest him.”

  A laugh escaped him, quite deep and merry. “So you could. I suppose the days are past when a woman needs a man to be gallant.”

  “Need is, perhaps, the wrong word, but it’s always charming. Thank you for the tea.” She shook his hand and strode out.

  The assistant provided her with a hastily drawn map of the campus, showing where the mathematics and engineering departments were located. Both were situated away from administration, a fair walk across patches of grass that grew between sprawling buildings. Each discipline reflected a different design, so that made it simpler to tell the study areas apart.

  That probably helps new students.

  It made her job easier, too. She went to the mathematics department first, where she interviewed five professors; a sixth was absent. None of them seemed like a good bet for creating such a monstrous device, and though she lacked Mikani’s uncanny sense for such things, her intuition was decent. The last instructor made a list of students who were also taking engineering courses.

  “Thanks for your time,” she said, moving on.

  It was noisier in the engineering lab, less time spent with pen and paper, more time devoted to practical applications. She had to search hard for the professors, who were getting their hands dirty along with their pupils. In exasperation, she waited for the class to end, then she snagged a beanpole of a teacher.

  He pulled off his safety glasses and eyed her with faint annoyance. “Yes, yes, I got the memorandum from the dean. I’ll answer your questions. Follow me.”

  His office was quieter, but cramped compared to the dean’s. Books and schematics overflowed his shelves, tumbling down to a cluttered desk, littered with the remnants of lunch. Ritsuko tried not to show her disdain, but she must’ve done so because his lip curled.

  “I imagine your digs are much nicer down at the CID.”

  Cleaner, anyway. She didn’t answer aloud, however, no point in antagonizing a potential resource. Instead, she began with her customary inquiries, running down the list, and his answers were much as expected, until she asked, “Do you know anyone capable of building such a thing?”

  “What do you mean, capable?”

  “Having the necessary aptitude, knowledge, and even . . . potential desire.” Her tone was grave, as she knew how serious an accusation it would be.

  “Give me your list,” the professor said. He skimmed it, then took up his pen and drew two stars. “I’m not saying either of those boys is guilty, but neither is quite right. They don’t work well with others. They’re quiet. Odd.”

  “And they’re both taking engineering and mathematics,” she said softly. “Thank you for your time. Are the other instructors around?”

  “You won’t find anyone smarter than me to provide information,” the man said.

  “Perhaps that’s true, but it’s my job to be thorough.” With that, she turned and went in search of his colleagues.

  None of them cared to speculate on their students’ state of mind, but one of them, Mr. Hollis, seemed excessively nervous. Finally, she asked him, “Why are you tapping, sir? Do you have a prior engagement?”

  “No,” he stuttered. “It’s simply that this is very unnerving. I’ve never been questioned by the CID before.”

  That could be it, she supposed. But she put him in a mental list, along with the two boys the other professor had singled out. At least this junket had given her lots of leads to pursue. That might keep them on the case, provided no more bodies surfaced.

  Somehow, she didn’t think they’d be so lucky.

  CHAPTER 7

  FAR OUT TO SEA, DARK CLOUDS ROIL, HEAVY SWELLS BREAKING FAR BELOW against a beach of boulders and gravel; a cold wind brings hints of the storm’s fury. Ships bob on the towering whitecaps in the distance, there but not there, shadows of things to come. As the veil between the worlds thins, stretches . . . and breaks with a boom of thunder, the clouds open and rain falls, icy cold needles driven by the mounting gale.

  The fleet vanishes. Lightning crashes.

  A great wail rises from Clíona, who guards the strait; her call vibrates from the seafloor, shaking through sinew and bone, a pitiless, piercing alarm to the Summer and Winter Courts. The ocean splits, disgorging a massive wave, and on its crest surge the missing ships. Some have broken ma
sts, and bearded men list on the decks, hair sodden with salt. Belowdecks, children are weeping below the raucous call of circling seabirds. The gulls dive, again and again, seeking in the storm-dark water.

  Bodies float upon the sea; this crossing is not made without cost.

  The once-mighty vessels limp toward the shore while arguments rage. Oarsmen have been washed away. Supplies are missing. Families weep and search for the lost. Eventually, four ships run aground, and exhausted wayfarers tumble to the sands, desperate, bewildered.

  “What is this place?” a man asks in a harsh, guttural tongue.

  “It doesn’t resemble our world. Alfheimr, perhaps? Or Valhalla.”

  A woman pales, clinging to the hand of a weeping child. “Are we dead, then?”

  The leader strides forward, his eyes reflecting a fierce and indomitable spirit despite a bruised face and bleeding shoulder. “Wherever we may be, we shall prevail.”

  • • •

  MIKANI STIRRED, THE movement of the underground vibrating up through the soles of his shoes. He still smelled the brine and the cold wind on his cheeks. This dream reminded him strongly of the legends he’d heard of how humans first came to the fey isles; and it seemed so real. His hand closed on a man’s wrist—the chieftain in the dream, he’d thought—but real world and fantasy were overlapping. Today, not a thousand years ago, someone was rummaging in his pocket without any particular skill, and he cried out at Mikani’s iron clasp.

  The first kick on his shin shattered any lingering doubt.

  Coming fully awake, Mikani twisted and pulled the pickpocket’s arm, yanking the other man against the wooden side of the train carriage. His first blow shattered the thief’s collarbone; Mikani followed with an elbow to the throat. He didn’t hold back, wasn’t known for mercy. Officers of the Guard were left to pursue their own training for self-defense: Mikani’s chosen trainers had been the sailors and mercenaries he’d managed to provoke throughout the bars and dives of Dorstaad and beyond.

  When he saw that the thief wasn’t resisting, he slammed the other man against the carriage door and pinned him there with a forearm pressed to his chest. The train slowed with a screech of brakes and a hiss of venting steam; Mikani unlatched the door, dragging the thief out behind him. A small group of tradesmen scattered out of his way.

  Bastard’s lucky I didn’t draw the blade from my walking stick and skewer him in my sleep.

  He let out a long breath as his heartbeat slowed. When he realized how frightened the passengers on the platform looked, he dug out his bronze badge of office and held it up. “I’m Inspector Mikani. This chap is a pickpocket who had a bit of a stumble and nearly fell off the train in his haste to get away. I’d appreciate it if one of you fine citizens would summon one of the ward officers.”

  He straightened his jacket, tugging at the torn lapel and shoulder seam. He offered them his best semblance of a friendly smile as they scattered in search of a constable, casting a few final, quick glances at the thief cowering against the wall. He rubbed the gritty feeling from his eyes. The lingering scent of the sea remained, as did the chill in his bones. I’m having those dreams more often. And it’s getting harder to wake up from them. Maybe I should take a couple of days after we get this mess wrapped up.

  Eventually, constables showed up to take charge of the pickpocket. Well, that was inopportune. Damn it. I think I lost my hat.

  It was lucky that South’s Officer of the Watch was an old acquaintance from his days walking the beat, so the formalities were brief before they carted the thief off to a quick hearing before his final processing, but logging the incident for the record delayed him further. Reporting at Headquarters in a torn and dirty suit would be more trouble than he was willing to endure. The paperwork for showing up to work garbed in a manner unbefitting an inspector was one of the few regulations the commander was happy to enforce, probably because it involved a fine. So that meant he had to go home and change.

  Ritsuko won’t be happy I’m making her wait.

  An hour later, Mikani disembarked at South Ward Station, not far from his house. A young hawker with a sheaf of newssheets thrust one in his hand and wouldn’t take no for an answer. He ran alongside Mikani until he dropped a few coppers in the boy’s hand. On the front page, there was a long article about the grisly murder in Iron Cross. He skimmed it and sighed.

  Damned gutter press. At least they didn’t print Miss Aevar’s name.

  He hurried through the early foot traffic dotting the cobbled roads that ran parallel to the Summer Highway, a mile or so to the east—he could make out the faraway whistles of the trains and heavy steam coaches that carried traffic and passengers from Dorstaad to far-flung towns and villages throughout the Summer Isle. Hy Breasil was made up of a number of smaller islands, but Summer and Winter were the largest.

  He stepped out of the way of a couple of bondswomen headed for the local market, then quickened his pace. Mikani ducked out of the alley across from his cottage, keeping his head down and shoulders up for the final dash across the street before his neighbors could add this tidbit to the growing volume of rumors about him that had accrued over the years.

  Sometimes, when there are no more roads to follow, we must make our own trail. His father had taught him that. And sometimes, the best way to solve a problem is to hit it repeatedly and see if it breaks. His first Officer of the Watch had taught him that; he’d then demonstrated the precept by beating a confession out of the smuggler responsible for most contraband leaving Rivermouth Docks.

  He slipped into the cottage. Just inside stood a coatrack draped with miscellaneous rumpled jackets. Atop it, he would’ve perched his favorite bowler; Mikani experienced a fresh, fleeting twinge of regret for the loss of that hat. Leaning against the door, he let out a sigh and afforded himself the luxury of a half minute’s rest. Without wanting to, he remembered how Ritsuko’s hand felt in his hair, that spun-glass moment where she’d been close enough to kiss, the scent of camellias warmed on her skin.

  No more of this. I have a job to do.

  With a muttered curse, he headed to the bathroom, tugged his tie loose, and shrugged out of his ragged coat. Most men would’ve left the walking stick at the entrance, but he kept it close, as it was all that remained of his father. After hanging the cane on a sconce, he grabbed a towel.

  Twenty minutes later, he’d sluiced off sweat and grime; next he dug through his armoire for a clean shirt. His hair was a sodden and tangled mess, dripping onto his shoulders, plastering the thin cotton undershirt to his back. He murmured an oath when he heard the knock on the door.

  • • •

  WHEN MIKANI FAILED to report for duty at HQ and the incident report hit Ritsuko’s desk about his scuffle in the underground, she’d come looking for him. Hope he’s not trying to walk off broken ribs again. Her partner had a habit of trying to self-treat injuries that required stitches, bone-setting, or a visit to the apothecary. One of these days, he might appear in the office with a gash in his head, dripping blood.

  She pounded harder on the front door.

  If he’s passed out in there, too stubborn to seek help—

  But no. From within, Ritsuko heard movement, then a muffled curse. A few seconds later, Mikani unfastened the dead bolt and opened the door. Clean trousers clung to his hips, as he hadn’t dried off properly. Beads of water slipped down his tan skin, tangling in dark chest hair. He was more muscular than she would’ve imagined, not thin as Warren had been, and he looked incredibly strong. His biceps flexed as he beckoned with an impatient gesture, and for a few seconds, she forgot why she was here.

  “Come in,” he muttered.

  Ritsuko stepped through, smoothing her skirt. Partner or not, entering his home felt oddly intimate. We’ve had drinks. Now, I’m coming into his house while he stumbles around half-dressed . . . oh, bronze gods, turn my grandfather’s eyes from me. He wouldn’t approve of this.

  Of course, he hadn’t supported her decision to work for the CID e
ither. It wasn’t womanly. He’d wanted her to marry and give him great-grandchildren instead. He hadn’t liked Warren, or appreciated their choice to handfast instead of a legal binding, a local custom, not a cultural one. When he was still alive, her grandfather had shown her various dossiers on good men from marriageable Mountain District families, descended from university students who had washed up like other immigrants. The students had claimed to come from the Kingdom of the Rising Sun; she didn’t know precisely where that was, but she guessed the other side of the veil, past the dreaming sea.

  “You were late.” He’d hate the idea that she’d come out of concern, so Ritsuko wrapped the truth in faint annoyance. If he pondered the explanation, he’d realize it was a long way just to round up an irresponsible partner, but fortunately, he was only half paying attention as he rushed to dress.

  She glanced around the receiving room, noting the dark wood shelves dominating the far wall. They were filled with books and odd knickknacks—a wine bottle holding a candle, a broken toy horse. He had a collection of small crucifixes and tokens of various gods scattered over the writing desk crammed into a corner, facing a window overlooking a small herb garden. An overstuffed chair sat alone in the center of the room, facing the fireplace: half a dozen books lay open, upside down, or stacked around the seat. What wall space was not covered by the shelves was covered in prints and framed sketches. The space felt cozy if a little crowded; it was chaotic and unkempt.

  Just like him. I wager Mikani spends his time here when he’s home.

  “I ran into a bit of trouble on the train,” he called from deeper in the house. “Duty before everything, all that.”

  “I heard,” she murmured, low enough that he wouldn’t catch it.

  Ritsuko followed his voice, peeking into a well-appointed kitchen: polished brass pots and pans gleamed from hooks on the wall. Yielding to curiosity, she stepped into the kitchen. Herbs were drying over the windows, alongside onions and garlic strands. The room smelled faintly of bread, baked a few days ago. Ritsuko shook her head as she stepped out of the uncharacteristic island of order.