Volume 18: Oslov Unlocked
Chapter 1
Prologue: The Night Before
“There’s blood on your face,” Stefan said.Einara had been staring at the wall of the Brothel suite—white, white, everything here was always so white. Now, for the first time, she felt wetness on her cheek and dabbed it with one of her dark gloves, already stained with red. Fresh blood came away with her touch. “I made a mess.”“It’s usually messy, don’t you think?” Stefan leaned forward in the large bed, hugging the spread around his naked form. “Murder, I mean.”“Yes. It’s been a while for me, though.”Einara’s gaze moved from the soaked gloves to the bloody knife, from which small drops still trickled occasionally to the white carpet. She forced herself to keep looking down, taking in the whole form of the dead man at her feet.A minute or so ago—it felt like hours—Councillor Lindahl had clutched his gushing jugular vein, staggered backward, and collapsed. His chest had spasmed. His hands had clawed the air. His eyes had wheeled. His throat had gurgled. Finally, when the struggle was nearly over, his bowels had evacuated—she could still smell that.And she had stood and watched, calmly ignoring the wild plea in the old man’s eyes.He had to die to protect Tilrey’s interests and her own. He deserved to die, as did all of his puffed-up brethren in the Council. But it was not a pleasant sight.Now Einara had to get her wits about her. She knelt beside the body, suppressing a shudder, and slid her hands down the dead man’s tunic, into the right pocket and then the left.“What are you looking for?” Stefan asked.“Tilrey needs his handheld back.”She found some tissues and a handheld, but it wasn’t the one Tilrey had described to her, so she put it back. Lindahl’s trousers pockets were empty. She would check his coat in the cloak room next, but it seemed unlikely that he had brought Tilrey’s confiscated handheld to the intended site of his pleasures. It must be in his office at the Sector or in his apartment. Either way, reclaiming it was Tilrey’s problem now.She had promised Tilrey she would take care of Lindahl, but she hadn’t told him precisely how. He would learn in due time how she planned to turn his mishap to her own advantage.All she had to do now was tidy herself up. She would leave the room exactly as it was, corpse bled out on the floor, for the morning cleaning crew to find.Well, not exactly as it was. “Get dressed and go back to your room,” she told Stefan, peeling off the gloves and crumpling them into a pocket of her smock. The garment itself was untouched. “Try not to let anyone see you.”“Why bother?” Stefan looked almost reluctant to leave the safety of the bed where she had posed him, naked bait to lure in a dangerous prey. He hadn’t moved from it while he watched her execute Councillor Lindahl.Now he let the spread slide off him, his eyes looking a little glassy, and stood up. “When they find me in my room tomorrow, the circumstances will speak for themselves. I was alone in here with him. No one else could have done it.”He sounded so calm that bile rose into Einara’s throat, though she herself had coached him through the plan. And he had consented—that was the important part, wasn’t it? She hadn’t pressured him; he had practically volunteered. It’s time to bring the whole thing down. This is the only way. Only I can do it.But Stefan was risking his life, and she wasn’t risking hers—at least not yet.“We want to create reasonable doubt,” she explained, holding Stefan’s clothes out to him. “From what I understand, your judicial system at least has to pretend to respect that. Doubt will buy us the time we need—and sympathy for you, if we can get the news to the people. You represent them now, Stefan. Because of Their Ways Parted, they see themselves in you—their disappointments, their hopes, their dreams and fears.”Stefan laughed bitterly, pulling up his leggings. “Then I feel sorry for them.”“Don’t.” Einara’s voice strengthened with conviction, though she wasn’t sure even she believed what she was saying. “That man” — she pointed at the cooling corpse — “wanted to punish you for a trivial offense to his precious dignity. He’s already hurt you once before, in a callous, brutal way. If you had killed him, you would have been justified.”Stefan gazed at the corpse now, too. A furrow appeared in his smooth young brow. “I don’t know. I hated him, sure, but…”Was Einara the only one in this whole blasted city who was willing to embrace necessary violence? “You’re innocent, Stefan,” she said, jaw clenched, “no matter what you did or didn’t do. The low-born of Oslov will see that. And they will rise to your defense.”*The crawl space was low-roofed, dusty, and cold. In his youth, Tilrey might have slithered through it easily, barely noticing the tight fit. Now all his joints protested, and his breath came short in the stifling space.He trained the headlamp—borrowed from Ceill’s hiking supplies—on the ceiling panels in front of him. Here was the boundary of a room, the third office after Gersha’s if he was counting correctly. One more to go.He crept on, ignoring his protesting knees. There were higher-tech ways to break into Councillors’ offices, but the hallway cams were a problem. A common thief’s route was the safest.That was what he was now: a common criminal. At this very moment, in the Brothel, Lindahl might be gasping his last breath.Think about it later. Don’t think about it. He used his elbows to haul himself forward. A sneeze built at the back of his throat.Lindahl’s office was below him at last. He found a loose panel and slid it open a few centimeters, his heart thudding.The office was dark and silent. He opened the panel all the way, swung his legs through, and took a second to gauge the distance before letting himself fall to the floor.He landed safely, no furniture in the way. He would need a chair for his reverse climb, but he could kick it aside once he was in the crawl space again.Worried that the hallway cams might pick up the headlamp through the transom, he aimed it at the floor. Then he headed for the desk.Fifteen minutes later, he had to admit defeat. Like most Government Sector offices, Lindahl’s was protected only by its locked door. None of the desk drawers or filing cabinets was secured, and none of them contained that cursed handheld.Could Lindahl have found some sly hiding place? But no, Tilrey knew the Councillor. Lindahl had never learned to be sly or secretive because he had rarely faced opposition in his charmed life, let alone danger. Chances were good that he had also never learned the secrets the device held, which meant he didn’t know how important it was.He must have left it at home, then. Damn, damn, damn.Tilrey hoisted himself back up through the ceiling panel, awash in sweat. He had done what he could; there weren’t enough hours in the night for him to figure out how to break into Lindahl’s home, too. Once the Councillor was reported missing, tomorrow or the day after, detectives from the Judiciary would search every inch of his apartment.With any luck, they wouldn’t recognize the handheld as a clue.
“There’s blood on your face,” Stefan said.
Einara had been staring at the wall of the Brothel suite—white, white, everything here was always so white. Now, for the first time, she felt wetness on her cheek and dabbed it with one of her dark gloves, already stained with red. Fresh blood came away with her touch. “I made a mess.”
“It’s usually messy, don’t you think?” Stefan leaned forward in the large bed, hugging the spread around his naked form. “Murder, I mean.”
“Yes. It’s been a while for me, though.”
Einara’s gaze moved from the soaked gloves to the bloody knife, from which small drops still trickled occasionally to the white carpet. She forced herself to keep looking down, taking in the whole form of the dead man at her feet.
A minute or so ago—it felt like hours—Councillor Lindahl had clutched his gushing jugular vein, staggered backward, and collapsed. His chest had spasmed. His hands had clawed the air. His eyes had wheeled. His throat had gurgled. Finally, when the struggle was nearly over, his bowels had evacuated—she could still smell that.
And she had stood and watched, calmly ignoring the wild plea in the old man’s eyes.
He had to die to protect Tilrey’s interests and her own. He deserved to die, as did all of his puffed-up brethren in the Council. But it was not a pleasant sight.
Now Einara had to get her wits about her. She knelt beside the body, suppressing a shudder, and slid her hands down the dead man’s tunic, into the right pocket and then the left.
“What are you looking for?” Stefan asked.
“Tilrey needs his handheld back.”
She found some tissues and a handheld, but it wasn’t the one Tilrey had described to her, so she put it back. Lindahl’s trousers pockets were empty. She would check his coat in the cloak room next, but it seemed unlikely that he had brought Tilrey’s confiscated handheld to the intended site of his pleasures. It must be in his office at the Sector or in his apartment. Either way, reclaiming it was Tilrey’s problem now.
She had promised Tilrey she would take care of Lindahl, but she hadn’t told him precisely how. He would learn in due time how she planned to turn his mishap to her own advantage.
All she had to do now was tidy herself up. She would leave the room exactly as it was, corpse bled out on the floor, for the morning cleaning crew to find.
Well, not exactly as it was. “Get dressed and go back to your room,” she told Stefan, peeling off the gloves and crumpling them into a pocket of her smock. The garment itself was untouched. “Try not to let anyone see you.”
“Why bother?” Stefan looked almost reluctant to leave the safety of the bed where she had posed him, naked bait to lure in a dangerous prey. He hadn’t moved from it while he watched her execute Councillor Lindahl.
Now he let the spread slide off him, his eyes looking a little glassy, and stood up. “When they find me in my room tomorrow, the circumstances will speak for themselves. I was alone in here with him. No one else could have done it.”
He sounded so calm that bile rose into Einara’s throat, though she herself had coached him through the plan. And he had consented—that was the important part, wasn’t it? She hadn’t pressured him; he had practically volunteered. It’s time to bring the whole thing down. This is the only way. Only I can do it.
But Stefan was risking his life, and she wasn’t risking hers—at least not yet.
“We want to create reasonable doubt,” she explained, holding Stefan’s clothes out to him. “From what I understand, your judicial system at least has to pretend to respect that. Doubt will buy us the time we need—and sympathy for you, if we can get the news to the people. You represent them now, Stefan. Because of Their Ways Parted, they see themselves in you—their disappointments, their hopes, their dreams and fears.”
Stefan laughed bitterly, pulling up his leggings. “Then I feel sorry for them.”
“Don’t.” Einara’s voice strengthened with conviction, though she wasn’t sure even she believed what she was saying. “That man” — she pointed at the cooling corpse — “wanted to punish you for a trivial offense to his precious dignity. He’s already hurt you once before, in a callous, brutal way. If you had killed him, you would have been justified.”
Stefan gazed at the corpse now, too. A furrow appeared in his smooth young brow. “I don’t know. I hated him, sure, but…”
Was Einara the only one in this whole blasted city who was willing to embrace necessary violence? “You’re innocent, Stefan,” she said, jaw clenched, “no matter what you did or didn’t do. The low-born of Oslov will see that. And they will rise to your defense.”
The crawl space was low-roofed, dusty, and cold. In his youth, Tilrey might have slithered through it easily, barely noticing the tight fit. Now all his joints protested, and his breath came short in the stifling space.
He trained the headlamp—borrowed from Ceill’s hiking supplies—on the ceiling panels in front of him. Here was the boundary of a room, the third office after Gersha’s if he was counting correctly. One more to go.
He crept on, ignoring his protesting knees. There were higher-tech ways to break into Councillors’ offices, but the hallway cams were a problem. A common thief’s route was the safest.
That was what he was now: a common criminal. At this very moment, in the Brothel, Lindahl might be gasping his last breath.
Think about it later. Don’t think about it. He used his elbows to haul himself forward. A sneeze built at the back of his throat.
Lindahl’s office was below him at last. He found a loose panel and slid it open a few centimeters, his heart thudding.
The office was dark and silent. He opened the panel all the way, swung his legs through, and took a second to gauge the distance before letting himself fall to the floor.
He landed safely, no furniture in the way. He would need a chair for his reverse climb, but he could kick it aside once he was in the crawl space again.
Worried that the hallway cams might pick up the headlamp through the transom, he aimed it at the floor. Then he headed for the desk.
Fifteen minutes later, he had to admit defeat. Like most Government Sector offices, Lindahl’s was protected only by its locked door. None of the desk drawers or filing cabinets was secured, and none of them contained that cursed handheld.
Could Lindahl have found some sly hiding place? But no, Tilrey knew the Councillor. Lindahl had never learned to be sly or secretive because he had rarely faced opposition in his charmed life, let alone danger. Chances were good that he had also never learned the secrets the device held, which meant he didn’t know how important it was.
He must have left it at home, then. Damn, damn, damn.
Tilrey hoisted himself back up through the ceiling panel, awash in sweat. He had done what he could; there weren’t enough hours in the night for him to figure out how to break into Lindahl’s home, too. Once the Councillor was reported missing, tomorrow or the day after, detectives from the Judiciary would search every inch of his apartment.
With any luck, they wouldn’t recognize the handheld as a clue.