Tomorrow, the Killing by Daniel Polansky Page A

self-defeating in the long run. He’d gotten out after five months, which was shorter than I had expected – putting a digit on a noble pays out the same as murdering a dockworker. Yancey wasn’t soft, but the time he’d spent inside had done him no favors. His eyes were older and there was an occasional tremor to his vibrato. More than that, having gained a reputation for brutalizing members of the audience, his old fans weren’t quite so enthused about having him round. He’d been forced into accepting gigs he’d have laughed off not long earlier, which was why I found myself in a shitty bar in an ugly part of the city, surrounded by a group of people who seemed distinctly unenthused to be consuming the poetic stylings of one Yancey the Rhymer.
    Ironically his misfortune had been a boon for me – since being deprived of the opportunity to make money off his craft he’d had to put more work into his sideline: playing middleman for rich folks who wanted my services. I felt a little bad about it, but then we’re all making our bread off someone’s misery. Me more than most, I supposed.
    Happily I’d come between sets, so I didn’t need to watch him demonstrate his abilities to an unappreciative audience. He was at the counter dripping honey into the ear of a waitress two stone past pretty. She laughed and slapped at him playfully with a dishrag. Whatever else the Rhymer had lost, he could still string together a sentence.
    ‘If it ain’t the Duke himself.’ He ticked his bare skull toward a side booth and turned back to the maid. ‘Pour two beers for us, sugar – my man and I need to hash out some truth, and that always goes better well lubricated.’
    The waitress went to get us our drinks, and I followed Yancey to the corner.
    Yancey was a small man, with a coiled intensity that kept him constantly in motion. In the past he’d run to thin and wiry, biceps like pulled rope, but his time inside had bloated him and hemmed a ring of flesh around his midsection. Despite that his face seemed thinner and somehow paler, though his lineage was uncrossed Islander and his skin black as ink. He’d always been something of a coxcomb, his sense of style near as sharp as his ear, but lately that too had gone to pot, a casualty of his loss of income or interest.
    My ass had barely scraped the wooden bench before he leaned in and tapped a finger against his nose. ‘You got a toot for me?’
    ‘Fresh out.’
    ‘Pity.’ Breath was a habit Yancey had taken to with unfortunate enthusiasm. ‘So how you been?’
    ‘I wouldn’t mind getting rained on, like everyone else in the city. How ’bout you?’
    ‘Nah, the heat don’t bother me.’
    ‘What’s your secret?’
    ‘I get my dick sucked a lot.’
    ‘I didn’t know that helped.’
    ‘It helps with everything.’ The server came by holding a pair of tankards in front of a pair of plump breasts. ‘Something about these Vaalan girls,’ he said after she left, sucking his teeth and falling silent – words failing him, for once.
    ‘I’d prefer a woman I could share a carriage seat with.’
    ‘More for me.’
    ‘A lot more.’
    Yancey laughed. ‘Your boy said you wanted to speak to me on something.’ His grin was wide. ‘I remember when he came up to my waist, and wouldn’t meet my eyes. Child’s growing.’
    ‘As it turns out, he’s the purpose of the conversation.’
    He motioned for me to continue. ‘Your mouth ain’t sewn shut.’
    No one was listening, but I took a look around anyway. ‘Wren has the gift.’
    ‘Indeed.’ He took a sip from his brew, white foam around his pink lips.
    ‘I need someone who can give him the ins and outs of it, and who isn’t affiliated with the Throne – someone as far off their map as you can get.’
    ‘I’m no practitioner.’
    ‘But somewhere, in your long list of acquaintances, I suspect you’ve a person who fits my description.’
    The Islanders had fled their homeland a millennium back, taking to the