Theatrics

            The Inked Man had a gold chain he wore around his neck. It was a small thing, and hardly remarkable. There was an eight-pointed Star of Kerahn that hung from it. Such outward displays of faith were generally thought tacky by even the most devout within the Temple of Kerahn, but it was the one thing he allowed to link himself to his former life.

            The House had provided for him. He’d proven useful to them. Generally, there is a subconscious assumption in most people that one’s intelligence is inversely proportional to the care one puts into one’s physique, and that a massive tower of brawn like the Inked Man must, inevitably, be the dumb muscle.

            The Inked Man had never killed anyone. The closest he had ever gotten was taking clean-up duty. He had no illusions about the House. He knew exactly what kind of things they did, but as of yet, he’d never been asked to actually commit an act of violence as part of his duties.

            The House was smart about its Agents. They knew there were certain lines he would be uncomfortable crossing, and they used him accordingly.

            Before he was the Inked Man, he was Charlie Oren. The star necklace reminded him that he still was. The House provided him a stipend, which was actually somewhat rare. Most Agents, as he was given to understand, were unpaid. They joined for a different reason, and in fact, he would be lying if he denied that this was the main reason he’d joined as well: being an Agent of the House made you part of the most powerful thing in the world. It gave you a secret that set you apart from the rest of humanity. The House had been controlling events for untold ages, and to know that meant you could not simply return to the mundane life from before.

            The money was not for him. There was a friend, back then, who he had hooked up with on one stupid, drunken night, and the result was a child. He’d been selfish and stupid, and said some very bad things and neglected to do what he should have done. He’d fallen in with criminals and peddlers. The friend, to make a long story short, did not want him raising the child with her.

            It was a poor fatherhood, but he saw little choice.

            Regardless, he hardly thought that the mother would be any more approving of his current lifestyle than his previous one. This thought occurred to him as Nightsong pulled a latex glove onto her hand, tight, before opening the case containing the rifle with which she intended to kill Jaroka. Immediately after Jaroka was confirmed dead, Nightsong would scrub the barrel, using a special powder that Four Eyes had acquired, which should leave the metal scored and brittle. The rifle would then be broken down and its various parts would be either incinerated or melted by a number of means. All the Inked Man had to do was let Nightsong know when Jaroka was coming, and receive the remains of the weapon for further disposal.

            “What have I told you about the target?” asked the Inked Man. Nightsong was calibrating the scope now.

            “Jaroka? Not a huge amount. Some sort of wetworks person for the Stag’s Head?”

            The Inked Man nodded. “You won’t see me shed any tears.”

            “Anything big I’d know about?”

            “Mostly in Retrein. Heard she blew up an entire train car to get to her target once.”

            Nightsong frowned as she drew the curtains to obscure as much of the room as possible. “Not exactly surgical precision.”

            The Inked Man shrugged. “It’s the Stag’s Head. They’re all about theatrics. They would have died out ages ago if there weren’t so damned many of them.”

            “We’re not exactly being subtle either, are we?” She smirked.

            “It’s a calculated risk. Jaroka has more enemies than just us. If the Rookery’s coming to take her in, it wouldn’t be much of a stretch to allege they really just wanted her dead.”

            “Except they would know.”

            The Inked Man nodded. “We show our cards to the Rookery and thus we hide them from everyone else. Make no mistake, Nightsong. The Retrons and the Narcians get along fine, but the Rookery and Narcian Intelligence are bitter rivals. I doubt the Narcians would be all that pleased that Queen Elona is giving amnesty to a terrorist. They’ll probably be happier thinking the Retrons killed her.”

            “The House moves in mysterious ways,” said Nightsong.

            Nascine sat at the table. Her heart was beating louder than she thought possible. It was a difficult thing, to sit in the middle of a shooting gallery. She prayed that Jaroka would not change her mind and put a bullet through her head for her trouble. The Queen wanted her taken in alive, but that did not mean she was not dangerous.

            In truth, Nascine imagined she would detest Jaroka, the murderer and terrorist that she was. But it was a question of the greater good, and if it meant getting dirt on the House, it was probably worth it. Besides, she doubted very much that Jaroka would only have to answer a few questions and then be let loose.

            The way Nascine saw it, there were three reasons to catch a criminal. One was to allow for retribution – a sort of catharsis for the public. The second was to attempt to help the criminal, to rehabilitate them and make them into a productive member of society. The third one, and the one that Nascine really thought the most practical, was to simply remove a danger, to contain someone who could do harm to others. Jaroka certainly qualified.

            She checked the time. Jaroka would be here in only two minutes. She hoped that Jaroka was not the kind of woman to be late to such an important meeting.

            When the waitress came by to take her order, she nearly had a heart attack. “Black Tea, Canwick Style, please,” she said, aware of the tremor in her voice. She tried to think of Tartin and what he had told her all those years ago, but then she began to think of the Offices out in the Sarona Desert.

            The day she’d gotten this assignment, she had been bringing a sketch made by a woman down in Carathon that was just like the faceless men Tartin had described. It was a strange line of thought to fall in to – the whole ordeal had been forgotten during her time in Omlos, but she wondered if it was something she should look into some more.

            Then it occurred to her that Jaroka was late.

            Certain allowances must be made, but if Jaroka was off by more than two minutes, Nascine would leave and not look back.

            Her eyes became sharp, searching ever window for the flash of a sniper scope. It was pretty futile – the square was surrounded by buildings with large, glossy windows, and light shone off of all of them. Had Yasik really thought this meeting through?

            The waitress came by again, this time appearing behind Nascine so quickly that she jumped. “Dear lord! Do you have to go sneaking about like that?” her accent nearly broke there, and the waitress seemed more shocked by her reaction than Nascine had been at her appearance.

            “I’m sorry. I just wanted to give you this. Someone left this for you.” She handed Nascine a crisp white envelope. Nascine tore it open, ever mindful that this act could be the moment her killer was waiting for.

            There was a handwritten note. It read:

            “Please, forgive the theatrics. Jaroka is not coming. I could not pass up the opportunity that she presented to give us some insight into the workings of the House. Your performance as a decoy is essential to this operation. Once we’ve gotten what we need out of her, we’ll be sure to sent the relevant data over to the Rookery.”

            Nascine sighed, exasperated, but read on.

            “On a personal note, I do apologize sincerely that you have risked life and limb to track down and take in this woman, and must return with nothing to show for it. I know that Kilarny died, and I have lost a friend and coworker as well in this pursuit. We can only hope that it is all worth it.”

            “Lest you think that all your efforts have been for naught, I will give you this bit of information for your troubles: there is a House mole in the Rookery. We do not know who it is, but if you can track this man or woman down, you’ll have far more answers than you would get out of Rosanna Jaroka.”

            “Oh, and enjoy the wine. My treat.”

            “-Y”

            The waitress presented Nascine with a fine Hesaian bluewine.

            “Cheers,” she said, and poured herself a glass.

(Copyright Daniel Szolovits 2012)