Tomorrow, the Killing by Daniel Polansky Page B

seas as it disappeared beneath the waves, a catastrophe so inconceivable and distant it had long ago merged into myth. Centuries of living as half-wanted guests in foreign lands had given them an aversion to government that was virtually a racial trait. Their entire civilization flourished out of sight of the authorities. They had their own banking houses, their own religious practices – and their own magical traditions. After the war the Bureau of Magical Affairs had made it their business to bring the nation’s practitioners under thumb, combing the disparate threads of the Art into a single weave – but the Bureau of Magical Affairs, like every other government organ, held small sway amongst the seafarers.
    I imagined there were other avenues of the Art that the Throne had yet to strangle. Tarasaighn augurers drying herbs deep in the swamps of their homeland, heretics drawing otherworldly diagrams and whispering strange prayers – but I didn’t know any of them. I knew the Rhymer, and I hoped he’d come through for me. He always had before.
    Yancey drummed his fingers against the table, unconsciously and in perfect rhythm. After a moment he matched the beat with a nod. ‘Yeah, I might know somebody – how far out you want to look?’
    ‘Far as I can get.’
    ‘There’s a witch-woman, lives in the Isthmus. I’ve never had occasion to seek her services but word on high is she’s legit – even the mobs toe her line, leave her little offerings and make sure not to cross her.’
    ‘And the Throne remains blissfully ignorant of her activities?’
    ‘Brother, her corner of Rigus, there ain’t no Throne.’
    ‘She got a name?’
    ‘Mazzie. Mazzie of the Stained Bone. Ever hear it?’
    ‘Muttered under the occasional breath. You think you could put us in touch?’
    ‘I’ll send someone around tonight – Mazzie keeps late hours. She gives the go ahead, I’ll leave directions to her place for you tomorrow morning.’
    ‘Stand-up, as always.’
    Yancey was confident enough in his character not to be particularly grateful for my validation. He went back to his drink. I realized suddenly we’d run out of things to talk about. I didn’t remember that happening so much between us, back in the day. ‘How’s your mom?’
    ‘She’s all right. She asks about you some.’
    That was a lie, though a kind one. I’d been close to Ma Dukes once, before my blindness and stupidity had put her son into danger some years back. Yancey had eventually forgiven me for my foolishness, but his mother wasn’t so casual about the peril I’d brought down upon her seed.
    I pulled a couple of ochres from out of my money pouch. ‘I almost forgot – I owe you some coin for dropping my name to the Count of Brekenridge.’
    ‘Yeah?’ His eyes narrowed quizzically. ‘You sure?’
    ‘I’m sure,’ I said, setting them next to his drink.
    He looked at the coins for a long moment, then raked them off the table. ‘Sweetness, bring me a bottle of something that bubbles,’ he yelled over his shoulder, before turning back to face me. ‘You sticking ’round to enjoy it?’
    ‘I’ve got somewhere to be,’ I said, standing. ‘And I imagine our server will be a better companion – help keep you cool.’
    His laughter was well bought at twice the price.
14
    T he Queen’s Palace was not the second, nor fit for the first. A flophouse a few blocks from the docks, ugly even by the standards of an ugly trade. Its clientele consisted mostly of streetwalkers renting love nests by the hour, and addicts one short rung above abject destitution.
    I knew it all right. Better than I’d like to admit, well enough that I didn’t need to waste any time dancing with the clerk at the front desk. I plopped down an argent and tapped two fingers beside it, and my silver was replaced with the register. There wasn’t a real name to be found, but one from three days prior was so obviously made up that I felt certain I had my quarry. I took note of