Relocation

             “At 2:15, a steamcart traveling at twenty miles an hour ran through an intersection, striking Kilarny. According to the coroner, Kilarny was thrown to the sidewalk, and it was the impact of her head with the pavement that was ultimately responsible for her death. Enforcement has been unable to find the driver or the cart, but the Rookery believes it is unlikely they will have any luck. Project Sardok Gold is still in operation, but agents are advised that hostile elements are suspected. Relocation and silence advised.”

            Nascine put down the paper tape. Tarson had the little device sewn into his pants. It was flat, but she still could not imagine it was particularly comfortable. It was made of brass, and there was a small bump for the wheel that fed the paper through the machine.

            “It could have been an accident, though, right?” Tarson seemed paralyzed. He was new to all of this. Retrein had always romanticized the life of a thief. They had touted their non-violence, replacing brutish armies with subtle, nimble thieves, but many rookies were shocked to discover that not everyone played by their rules. Really, the Rookery didn’t play by its own rules either, not when it was inconvenient.

            Yes, it was theoretically possible that Kilarny had just been the victim of horrifically bad luck, but it would be ill-advised to assume that to be the case. The receiver came up with the books and a metal rubbish bin. “The good news is that I never filed your papers. Even if someone’s reading our books, they’d only know you were here if they were inside the building.”

            Nascine nodded. “And if that were the case, there’s not much we’d be able to hide from them anyway. Besides, if we’re going silent, there’s no way we’re going to be able to get new covers. We’ll be out of here as soon as we can.”

            The receiver flashed a grim smile. “I’m on the next ship home. Crow’s Nest is burnt. Are you two staying here or going home?”

            Tarson and Nascine exchanged a hesitant look. The receiver picked up a stack of files. “Right, forget I asked.” He dumped the files in the bin, struck a match, and tossed it in with them.

            The hotel they found was fancier than the Crow’s Nest, but not nearly as homey. The Crow’s Nest had been set up in a residential apartment building. As far as anyone knew, the receiver was just Tom Cart, a perfectly ordinary freelance writer who had friends over on occasion.

            Now, however, they were staying in the somewhat sanitized “Vindicator Suites.” Tarson had collapsed on his bed, throwing his bags to the ground and seemingly falling asleep the moment his body hit the mattress. Nascine, exhausted as she was, could not yet bring herself to lie down. She closed herself into the bathroom. The light here was somewhat soft, almost yellow. She stared at herself in the mirror.

            It would have been immediately obvious to anyone who knew her that she had just spent a long time at home. Abroad, her skin always darkened and even freckled, but when she was in the cozy, rain-drenched dreariness of Retrein, her skin returned to its natural ghostly white. She had considered bleaching her jet-black hair for the mission, but ultimately decided against it. Sometimes less is more.

            Kilarny was dead. Nascine had only met her once, back at the Rookery. She felt only a kind of intellectual sadness at the fact. For now, she didn’t want to think about the mission. She took a washcloth and wiped some of her makeup off. Despite what most people assumed, she never wore eyeliner. As a teenager, she had started wearing makeup relatively young, less because she wanted to look any better, and more because it made her eyes seem ordinary. At home, she had learned to embrace this about herself, but on the job, it was best to hide any distinguishing features.

            The shower took ages to heat up, but when it finally did, it was ecstasy – it was like her entire body was drinking a cup of tea. Sometimes Nascine dreamed that she could bathe in tea. She realized it was a bit of a national stereotype to be so obsessed with the beverage, but she lived up to it. She’d even filled her canteen with tea when they were out in the Sarona, at least until they ran out. Tartin loved to make fun of her for it, though of course, these days he didn’t like to talk about the Sarona trip much.

            When she got out, the view out the window had darkened. It had been slightly careless to leave the curtains open, but on the other hand if anyone knew to be looking in, all they would have seen was Tarson sleeping on the bed. Her fifteen minute vacation was at an end. She put on a pair of trousers and a t-shirt and sat at the cramped desk the hotel provided.

            Jaroka was out there. It was possible, if not guaranteed, that she had killed Kilarny. That made this a bit more difficult. The mission was not exactly a conventional one. Jaroka was a heinous criminal, really more akin to a terrorist, given her work with the Stag’s Head, but they were not there to arrest her. Queen Elona wanted to talk to her – that was all. But Nascine could imagine that a woman in Jaroka’s line of work wasn’t just going to come with the first Rookery Thief who invited her to meet the queen.

            All they had were a bunch of unlikely leads. Supposedly, Kilarny had been close to finding their mark, but any information she had was lost when her head collided with that sidewalk.

            Nascine finally went to her bed. Tarson was almost motionless in his sleep. His chest rose only slightly with each breath, but Nascine could not hear the breath at all. It was odd, though. Somehow, in sleep, he seemed older. Nascine closed her eyes, hoping she would dream of home.

            Tomorrow would be a difficult day. Jaroka didn’t want to be found, that was clear. That left them one alternative. It was time that they let Jaroka find them.

(Copyright Daniel Szolovits 2012)