Harmonious Hearts 2017 Page 22

  “Not yet. They’re working on it. Anything you have, Sulvan, will be helpful.”

  “You want information from me?”

  “Yes.”

  Sulvan sits back up, turning to face Kyel. She’s standing with her arms crossed, her thin face pinched. “How do you know anything I say will be truthful?”

  “I can hope. You look like a trustworthy guy.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “I really think you do. You have a trustworthy face.”

  “If you think you’re flattering me, you would be wrong. I don’t aim to have a trustworthy face. I don’t even let people see my face.”

  “You let us see your face.”

  “One of your coppers asked me to remove my mask. I complied.”

  “If you’re such a good fighter, why didn’t you just fight your way out of it?”

  “I didn’t want to kill that many people.”

  “Well, you wouldn’t have had to kill them.”

  Sulvan crosses his arms and leans against the cell wall. “Yes, I would have. Anybody who knows the extent of my abilities, if they aren’t finis, can’t continue to live.”

  She blinks at him.

  Sulvan grins. “You don’t believe me.”

  “Well, it’s a little hard to. There were a lot of officers that showed up to the manor, Sulvan, and you think you could have killed them all?”

  “There were a lot of coppers. Ten floaters, if I remember, and there are, what, two or three coppers per floater. So that’s between twenty and thirty people. Each of them have about three years of training, so that’s between sixty and ninety years I would have had to fight against.” He drops his arms and approaches the bars, raising one eyebrow. “I’ve done far worse.”

  “Oh, have you?” Now she just seems amused.

  “Believe me or not. It doesn’t make a difference.”

  Kyel watches Sulvan for a long moment. Then she says, “Any information you have for me will help.”

  “You’ve already said that.”

  “I’m hoping you’ve changed your mind.” Her long fingers wrap around the bars, the jitte tucked safely back into her waistband. “If you aren’t the killer, Sulvan, help us catch who was the killer.”

  “What makes you think I’m not the killer? Your coppers are probably washing that guy’s brain matter off my clothes right now.” He picks at his uniform and smiles. “If you ever wash things in here.”

  “We wash things.”

  “The stains on these pants are about four years old. At least.”

  For the first time, Kyel laughs a little, and Sulvan allows himself to laugh with her. That’s it, he thinks. Datrians value a sense of humor, and Kyel is no different.

  “Can I ask you a question?”

  “You’ve never asked for permission before.”

  She doesn’t laugh, but she does smile. “What was your Hand like?”

  “You know I can’t tell you that.”

  “Do you want me to tell you about my Hand?”

  That catches his attention, but he prevents the surprise from reaching his face. “You were part of a tribe?”

  “Grew up in one. Same as you, I suspect, so I have connections.”

  So she’s undercover here. Interesting.

  “I can get you out,” she adds.

  “No, you can’t.”

  “I can.”

  Sulvan slides back to his cot and nudges off the ratty old blanket the coppers provided. It’s early in the morning now. He was taught to pay attention to the passing of time, to know when he needs rest and when he needs to be awake—he was taught to memorize people’s routines automatically. Rylan, who was sent away when Kyel arrived, yawns every half hour. Adryel passes by his cell every fifteen minutes. Judging by how many times they’ve gone through this and accounting for the fact that Sulvan was captured at about midday and spent about four hours going through whatever shite the coppers demanded, it must be about two hours into the next day. “Your Hand,” he says, looking over his shoulder. “Are they still alive?”

  “Oh no. They were killed long ago.”

  “Surprising the coppers let you in with your background.”

  “How do you know I even told them?”

  Sulvan closes his eyes.

  “I’ll talk to you in the morning,” Kyel says decidedly to him. “Maybe you’ll have something to say to me then.”

  “TELL ME how you got caught up in all of this. In finis. In… in killing.”

  “I can’t. Would you tell me the initiation process of your tribe?”

  Kyel leans over in her chair until the back touches the wall. The boy sits across from her, on the chair the guards gave him. There was some hesitation—from Rylan especially—that he be provided with anything that could be used as a weapon. Kyel had scoffed.

  But she hadn’t been looking Sulvan in the eyes at that time. Now, sitting across from him with his hard blue gaze piercing hers, she thinks that maybe she’s made a mistake.

  Sulvan hasn’t moved since he answered. She knows that was probably part of his training—getting the upper hand in any conversation. She’d had the same training. But even though he’s behind reinforced metal and the only weapon he could possibly have is a rotted old chair, Kyel still feels like he has the upper hand here.

  “No,” she says at last. “No, they wouldn’t permit that.”

  Sulvan blinks slowly at her, and in that brief moment when his eyes are closed, Kyel is reminded again of how incredibly young he is. He can’t be more than twenty. God, Kyel barely remembers when she was twenty. It was only, what, eleven years ago? But it feels like a lifetime. She was still with stella then. She was still with her family.

  “Do you know where the term ‘Hand’ comes from?” His voice is soft when he speaks, barely audible.

  “Of course I do. My Hand told me.”

  Sulvan waits, and Kyel realizes he wants her to say it out loud, to confirm that she does actually know it.

  “They call them Hands because they keep us in line. They have a grip on our lives. Without them, we would fail. They call them Hands because they are Hands, and they’re holding us, the weapons.”

  “That’s what they told you?”

  Kyel searches his face, but she can’t find anything on it. She never can. Gods, he’s young. There’s still a little bit of baby fat around his cheeks—not much, but just enough to be noticeable. The rest of him is all sharp angles and edges, a product of probably over a decade of constant training.

  It’s odd, she notices, that he’s got such long hair. And it is long—as a braid, it nearly reaches his waist. Down, it would probably go past that. It’s certainly beautiful hair—long and black and shining with health—but Kyel can’t imagine why any tribe, let alone the legendary finis, would allow one of their hitters to keep such long hair. It’s a disadvantage in fighting.

  “Should they have told me any different?”

  Sulvan lifts one shoulder. “It’s not my place to question the teachings of different tribes. It is not even my place to question the teachings of my own tribe. What your tribe told you and how they tell you is their business, not mine.”

  A little paradoxical, since he asked. “Finis told you something else, then?”

  “Yes.”

  “What was it?”

  He wavers for a moment, cocking his head slightly to one side. He doesn’t want to tell her. He doesn’t want to divulge precious secrets to her, a lowly copper.

  “Oh come on, Sulvan. Knowing the stories your tribe tells about Hands isn’t going to put anybody at risk and you know it. Enlighten me.”

  One of his eyebrows lifts and another moment passes before he moves his head upright again. “The Hands are meant to protect us, not wield us. The Hands, they cradle us until we are ready to be on our own. To teach the meaning of Hands as you were taught, well.”

  “Well,” Kyel repeats.

  “It is harmful. You learn that you are nothing without your Hand. You lear
n that you are only a weapon. Weapons,” he says, “can be wielded by anyone.”

  “And your way of learning. It is better, you think?”

  “We learn to be loyal to the people who are good to us. My Hand was stern but good. I could depend on my Hand, and I knew she would be there if I needed her. But without her, I was fine.”

  Kyel is almost offended by how Sulvan is making stella sound. “I was fine without my Hand,” she says, and she knows she sounds like a petulant child, but she doesn’t care.

  “I didn’t mean to imply that you weren’t, Kyel. My most sincere apologies.” He turns his head, long braid brushing across his back. “Your fornies. Have they finished processing the scene?” he asks, and Kyel realizes he’s looking over at Adryel as she passes. Adryel’s not yet been filled in on the full extent of the situation, but she has read the reports and blanches when Sulvan speaks. “The reports have been filled in, then,” Sulvan says, looking back toward Kyel.

  “Some of them.”

  Adryel finishes passing, her steps a little more hurried.

  “Have you read the reports?”

  “I’ve seen the crime scene.”

  “But have you read the reports?” His voice is flatter now—a command to answer, not a request.

  “Yes. I’ve read the reports. But they haven’t finished going through everything. They’re still searching the manor.”

  A small smile graces his lips. He’s almost beautiful with that smile—if that look wasn’t in his eyes, he would really be stunning. “Find anything interesting yet?”

  “Should they be looking for something in particular?”

  “They’re the professionals,” he says, but he almost sounds disappointed. “I’ll let them do their jobs.”

  Frustrated, Kyel stands and calls for Rylan. “I’ll be back.”

  Rylan shrinks, bringing his weapon closer to himself, eyes darting to the cell and back to Kyel again “But, ma’am—”

  “He’s just a boy. You’re really that scared of him?”

  Rylan looks over at Sulvan again. Sulvan gives him another one of those smiles, which would look innocent on anyone else. “Uh. I don’t know, ma’am.”

  “Don’t be. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  She walks to the bathroom, which is just down the hallway. It’s unkempt and therefore dirty. The floors are caked in soil, and water leaks out of them when she plants her foot on one of the boards.

  Spiow Shua is sinking. It’s happening slowly, but it’s happening nonetheless. Leadership is too corrupt and funds are too low to bring it back up. Guess that’s what happens when you build a city in the middle of a sea.

  Kyel deftly avoids the more rotted boards and goes over to the sink, pumping out some water from the faucet and splashing some of it on her face. She’d try to drink some of it too since her throat is so dry, but it’s dark brown and would probably kill her sooner than quench her thirst.

  “Gods,” she whispers. Face dripping, she looks up into the mirror. Her face is haggard. There are big, dark bags under her eyes, which look hollow and flat.

  What’s happened to her? She used to be so strong, so lively. Of all the stellas, her Hand had said, it was she who seemed most alive, and that’s why she never fit in.

  And now look at her—she’s like a dead woman walking. She looks far older than the actual thirty-one years she has under her belt. It must be this pissing job, she thinks. It has to be the job. Once she was the best hitter in the stellas. Now she’s a deadbeat detective, insignificant enough for her subordinates to think she too is a lowly copper. A copper in a corrupt precinct, no less, that’s constantly pressing her to join them in the corruption. So far she’s been able to dodge such suggestions.

  This case, it could make or break her career. If she could get the suspect to talk, the captain said, she might see a promotion in her future. If not, she might be seeing the wrong side of the door or worse.

  So now she’s doing this instead of investigating.

  Kyel splashes more water onto her face. The body in that room had been absolutely destroyed. It had been torn to shreds. The head and face had been caved in. And on the wall….

  She turns the faucet off and pats her face dry with the inside of her shirt. She’ll never be able to get what was on that wall out of her head. Big, right in the middle, dripping with excess blood and guts and brain matter—Sully.

  Is that his calling card? Kyel’s never heard of any hitters having a calling card. That’s what doesn’t make sense. Sulvan, he’s old enough to be a professional. The stellas took people in as early as seven and no later than twelve, and finis probably isn’t any different. Sulvan, if he’s around twenty like Kyel suspects, is old enough to be professional. He’s old enough to have gone through all the ropes, to know what’s right and wrong in terms of how his tribe operates.

  If finis exists, it makes sense that they haven’t ever been heard of. Kyel gets that. Tribes aren’t ever heard of until they make a mistake, and if finis is as good as everybody thinks it is, they wouldn’t have ever made a mistake.

  Until now.

  Right?

  She rubs her hands on her pants and exits the bathroom, treading carefully over the boards. Maybe Sulvan is just a bad hitter. Maybe he misses more than he hits.

  But that doesn’t sound right, because she looked into the kid’s eyes. He’s a killer—a trained killer. She knows that technically it’s possible he’s a rookie, but she won’t believe it for a second. Not a pissing second.

  She gets back to Rylan, who’s practically cowering in the corner. Sulvan is sitting in the same spot. He probably hasn’t moved. He probably hasn’t said anything either. He’s got a way about him.

  “Get off the floor, Rylan,” Kyel snaps as she passes him. He scrambles upward, giving her a clumsy salute. “Oh, shut up.”

  “You’re in a mood.” Sulvan nods at Kyel when she comes into view, and she jerks her chin at him.

  “Be civil for another few minutes?”

  He bares his teeth at her. “Another few minutes? Whoever said I was civil in the first place?”

  “Very funny.” It was a little funny. “I’ll be right back.”

  She walks back down the hallway, Rylan whimpering behind her, and works her way toward the supply room. Tobs smiles at her.

  “What can I get you?”

  “Do we have any new uniforms?”

  “New uniforms? Come on, Kyel. You know we haven’t gotten any new uniforms in years.”

  “Do you have anything clean, then?”

  He starts rooting through some wooden crates. “Who’s it for?”

  “Who do you think?”

  Tobs stops and looks back at her. “Why you treatin’ him so nice?”

  “I have to get information out of him.”

  “And a new outfit’s gonna do that?” He finds one and brings it forward, but he looks skeptical. “I don’t know, ma’am.”

  “I have to try something. He’s closed off. You know how hitters are.”

  “I know how you were, ma’am.”

  “Exactly.” She gives him a grim smile. “And if he’s anything like me, he’s worse by tenfold.”

  “Good luck, then, ma’am. You’re gonna need it.”

  Kyel walks back to Sulvan’s cell, holding the new outfit carefully in her hands. It’s by no means clean, but the stains are less noticeable and it doesn’t smell nearly as bad. She presents it when she stands in front of the boy again, and he lifts an eyebrow.

  “Is that soap I smell?”

  Kyel doesn’t even try to stifle her laugh. “Not from here. But these clothes are cleaner than the ones you’re wearing.”

  “Oh, for me?” He stands, stretching out his long limbs. Rylan takes a tiny step away. “You shouldn’t have.”

  “Probably not,” she concedes. “But I thought you might be more willing to talk if you didn’t have to smell the body odor of the last four prisoners.”

  “Only four?”

&
nbsp; She passes the clothes through the bars. “Probably more.”

  “I thought your trained nose would be able to detect better than that.” Sulvan strips off the outer shirt and throws it through the bars. Kyel catches it.

  “I’m trying not to breathe in. Can you do any better?”

  “I can detect at least twenty distinct smells.”

  “Maybe one person smelled like twenty different things.”

  He looks unamused. “Don’t insult my abilities.” Now he pulls off the undershirt, exposing the scales that prompted that slur to be used. Kyel bites back her gasp—gods, it’s severe. They’ve spread almost over his entire torso, pale and shimmering. The disease is never more life-threatening than a fever, but the scars it leaves are permanent, and it seems even hitters aren’t immune to its effects.

  But there are more scars than just the scales, Kyel notices. Webbing across his arms are the scars Kyel’s own arms bear. Whipping was commonplace in tribes, and apparently it hadn’t died out after Kyel got out. There are also small, thin scars scattered across his skin and, she notices with abject horror, two angry red scars beneath his pecs. They’re identical and parallel to the ground, and Kyel’s never seen anything like it.

  “Gods,” she whispers. “Who did that to you?”

  Sulvan looks down and blows a little air out of his nose, like he thinks her question is funny. “Do you mean who made the scars or who ordered for them?”

  “Both.”

  “My Hand and me, respectively.”

  “You asked your Hand to give you those scars?”

  Now Sulvan sighs. He finishes pulling the shirt on before he drops back onto his cot and looks over at Kyel. If she didn’t know any better, she might say he was forlorn. “Yes. It was… easier.”

  “Easier? For whom, finis?”

  “Ha! Finis, they didn’t give two shits about whether or not I did this. When I went to them with the proposal, they told me that it was my decision—I should do whatever would make me the best hitter I could be.”

  “How would getting your chest cut up do that?”

  “I felt… better.”

  Kyel scoffs. “Better after getting sliced up?”

  If Sulvan’s gaze was hard before, it’s even harder now. Kyel feels cold looking into his eyes, and she rubs at her arms.