a market in west and long
late morning on the 20th of roalis, 2720
H
er name was Daisy. She was large even for a chrove. There were old scars tracing her squat, bulky legs and her short snout, and her crest was beginning to look hoary, her spots faded and her fur tough. He walked alongside her, even though he had been invited up onto her back several times. He did not fancy the idea of chafing, or the rather undignified waddle a man unaccustomed to chroveback took on after dismounting, especially on a hot day; and more than anything, he did not fancy Daisy or any of the rest of her species. It was not for nothing that he was an inspector and not a sergeant.
Ensign Rowell had been sneaking bits of dried fish to her all afternoon; Morandi had, in fact, noticed, even if he was continuing to pretend otherwise.
“Well, what do you think?” Tanqueray called down from her back, jostling cheerfully behind Rowell. “This will be your first time out and about in the Rose, won’t it?”
“Yes, Constable, I believe so.”
Morandi had arrived in Old Rose Harbor on the fifteenth, in fact. He had spent most of the time since then in Graywatch, either in his quarters or in the office they had so graciously provided him.
It wasn’t as if there wasn’t plenty of space; Graywatch – or the Vineyard, as his colleagues in Vienda liked to call it – sprawled nearly three blocks, to his estimation, at the edge of Redwine. Every day he had walked a brisk circuit on the grounds at morning, at noon, and in the evening, before retiring; and every moment in-between, he had spent engaged in paperwork, or in the Sisyphean task of trying not to argue with Squad Sergeant Clérisseau.
Or restraining himself from disciplining Graywatch’s skeleton crew of a patrol squad – mostly ensigns, mostly mere boys, and mostly Rowell and Harlowe. Rowell was as short and blond as Harlowe was tall and dark, and deeply fond of chroven; he might have been a decent Seventen, if not for Harlowe egging him on.
Morandi was still unsure as to which of them was responsible for the eel in his bed on his first night here, but that, at least, would never happen again.
“Oh, it really is something,” Constable Inspector Tanqueray was saying, pulling at his wispy red goatee with freckled fingers. “I could scarce believe a place like this existed, when I was assigned here; of course, I was fresh from Numbrey, and had – much to learn.” When Morandi looked up, Tanqueray was grinning down at him. “What do you think?”
“A splendid place, I am sure,” Morandi bit off, taking a deep breath. “What a shame that I am here on business.”
“It really is. Isn’t that right, Rowell?”
Rowell laughed, though he cast a nervous glance behind and below him at Morandi, gripping Daisy’s reins a little more tightly. “Yes, sir.”
The other galdor snorted and looked away, and his weak clairvoyant field gave a pulse of amusement. Morandi frowned, his lips twisting. He walked with even, steady strides; there was a low throb in the middle of his forehead, getting worse and worse, and the muscles of his back already ached.
There was no way to account for this anxiety. While not a matter of routine, this was hardly the most difficult operation in which he had ever participated; it was merely – sensitive. He was, of course, deeply honored that Captain Haines and Inspector Megiro had trusted him to send him as liaison. He had no doubt in his abilities.
It was, he told himself, Graywatch’s poor excuse for an investigative division that had him on edge. Tanqueray had already made several comments on the case which he disapproved. All of them lacked dignity; it was this, he suspected, which concerned him the most.
They were coming into West-and-Long, now. It was still quite early in the morning, and it had rained heavily for last few days. The sun peeked through the spaces between the buildings, gleamed over the edges of the rooftops; the light sparkled and danced in sprawling puddles and in a spiderweb of rivulets criss-crossing the stones. The water was beginning to evaporate, making the air soft and misty. It smelled of petrichor.
It was not so hot in the Rose as it was in the capital, though the ensigns had spent a tiresome amount of time back at Graywatch complaining of their uniforms after patrols. Morandi had pulled his hair back at the nape of his neck, as was his usual habit on the job; he could already feel the sweat prickling underneath his high collar.
“... Here,” Tanqueray was saying, swinging off of the saddle. They were in a small market, stalls beginning to set up, the crowd – mostly humans, with only the occasional tsat – beginning to thicken. Tanqueray patted Daisy as he moved around, smiling brusquely through his thin red beard at Morandi.
Rowell took Daisy on, the crowd parting nervously for the low rasp of her spiked tail; as he disappeared around the corner, Morandi heard him begin to whistle.
The crowd were giving him and Tanqueray a wide enough berth, too. He watched curiously as Tanqueray reached into the pocket of his green coat, taking out an oblong, pale, smooth-cut seerstone. A clear, well-pronounced invocation, and Tanqueray’s field flared etheric; Morandi took a deep breath, relieved by the feeling.
A high voice came through, too muffled to be understood.
“Yes?” Tanqueray murmured, pulling at his beard. “Yes,” he said. “Thank you, Ensign.” There was a hint of strain on his face even now; he sagged a little as he resumed the spell, speaking through the amandation. Morandi looked down at him, not particularly concerned about looming, raising his heavy brows.
“Has Ensign Chevreau found the – target?” The spry, red-haired young ensign investigator – perhaps the only one with any discipline at Graywatch – had gone in plainclothes to West-and-Long a few hours before.
“Yes. A quarter of an hour ago, in the market where Bailey crosses Silverfish, just a street over.” Tanqueray grinned, tucking the seerstone away. “With any luck, we’ll have her within the hour. Try to keep that head of yours down; it’s enough we’re coming in here in uniform.”
Morandi snorted irritatedly, scowling, but said nothing, and set off after Tanqueray.
The sun was a little over the rooftops by the time they reached Bailey and Silverfish, and the air was still thick with mist. The crowd shivered aside for them. Among humans, Morandi had no great vantage point, but his was better at least than Tanqueray’s; frowning, he found himself skimming the tops of heads, jumping from one stall to the next, listening to the criers with their thick, strange Old Rose brogue.
His head ached, and his throat was dry. Beside him, Tanqueray looked as cheerful as ever.
