Blood stained the rubble. Gobs of flesh lay scattered here and there, some looking like they could possibly be human and others sporting weird bunches of fish bladders strung together like grapes. About ten feet to the left, a chunk of an oversized, flesh-colored tentacle curled around a piece of cloth. Long strands of yellowish slime covered the entire scene. And to top it all off, the slime stank like days-old vomit, harsh and sour. The deputies downwind, on the opposite side of the ruined plaza, valiantly tried not to gag.
The tall, broad bruiser, who was the sheriff of Adriana, was giving him an evil eye. His name was Kaminski, and he was clearly having doubts about the wisdom of Kaldar’s presence at his crime scene. Kaldar couldn’t blame him. His skin was at least two shades darker than most faces in the crowd. He wore brown leather, fitted neither tight nor too loose, and he looked lean, flexible, and fast, like a man who scaled tall fences early in the morning.
The sheriff stared at him. He could just go over and introduce himself, but what fun would that be?
Kaldar grinned. The sheriff’s blond sidekick began weaving his way through the crowd toward him.
Strange pair, these two, but probably highly effective. And respected, too. They didn’t bother with putting up any barriers, not even a rope. Just a line of paint around the crime scene and a dozen undersheriffs, but the crowd stayed way back.
Cops were the same everywhere, Kaldar reflected. In the Broken, they called you “sir” and Tasered you, while in the Weird, they called you “master” and hit you with low-level flash magic, but the street look—that wary, evaluating, flat look in their eyes—was the same everywhere. Cops noticed everything, and few of them were stupid. He had committed too many crimes in both worlds to underestimate them.
The blond undersheriff stopped before him. “I’m Undersheriff Rodwell. Your name?”
“Kaldar Mar.”
“Do you find the destruction of Adrianglian landmarks humorous, Master Mar? Perhaps you would like to visit our jail and spend some time in our jail cell to collect your thoughts and explain to all of us what is so funny?”
“I’d love to,” Kaldar said. “But my employer might take an issue with that.”
“Who is your employer?”
Kaldar sent a spark of magic through his spine. A faint sheen rolled over the earring in his left ear. It dripped down, forming a dull tear hanging from the hoop. The tear brightened, and Rodwell stared at his own reflection in a mirrored surface.
“Kaldar Mar, agent of the Adrianglian Secret Service.” The tear sparked and vanished. “The Mirror is grateful for your assistance, Undersheriff. Thank you for securing the crime scene for me.”
“I just want to know one thing.” Sheriff Kaminski kept his voice low. “Is the Hand involved in this?”
Kaldar considered before making his answer. He needed their cooperation. It would make things easier, and he needed to build contacts in law enforcement. “Yes.”
The sheriff chewed on it for a long breath.
“How do you know?” Rodwell asked.
Kaldar cycled through his options. Neither one of the men struck him as a social climber. They were good at what they did and were happy right where they were. If he came on with an imperious aristocratic air, they’d stonewall him. The buddy-buddy approach wouldn’t work, either—their town was on the line, and they were both too grim for jokes. A straight shooter, just-doing-my-job type was his best bet.
Kaldar delayed another half a second, as if weighing the gravity of the information, and pointed at a fragment of a tentacle a few feet away.
The two men looked in the direction of his fingers.
“That’s a piece of a Hand operative, pieuvre class. Six to ten tentacles, amphibious, weighs in close to five hundred pounds. A nasty breed.” He clipped his words a bit, adding a touch of a military tone to his voice.
“You’ve seen one before?” Rodwell asked. The hint of challenge in his voice was a shade lighter.
Kaldar pretended to think for a moment and grasped the sleeve of his leather jacket. The clasps on his wrist snapped open, and he pulled the sleeve down, revealing his forearm. Four quarter-sized round scars dotted his forearm in a ragged bracelet, the reminder of a tentacle wrapping around his wrist. The suckers had burned into his skin, and not even the best magic the Mirror had at its disposal had been able to remove the scars. He let them see it and pulled the sleeve closed. “Yes. I’ve seen one.”
“Did it hurt?” Rodwell asked.
“I don’t remember,” Kaldar answered honestly. “I was busy at the time.” He heard people say that you couldn’t kill a pieuvre operative with a knife. You could. You just had to have the proper motivation.
The sheriff stared at the wreckage. “What do they want here?”
Kaldar gave him a flat look and clamped his mouth shut. Giving up the information too easily wouldn’t do. Kaminski didn’t like him and didn’t trust him. However, if Kaldar risked his neck and broke the rules to put his fears to rest, well, it would be a different story. But no straight shooter would break the rules without serious doubts.
A wise man far away in a different world once said, “Give me a lever long enough and a fulcrum on which to place it, and I shall move the world.” Kaminski was worried about his town. It was written all over his face. That worry was the lever. Apply the proper amount of force, and Kaldar could shift the sheriff to his side.
The silence won.
“Look, Master Mar, I know you’re breaking regulations,” Kaminski said. “I just need to know if my people are safe.”
Kaldar rocked back on his heels, looked at the sky, and sighed. “I don’t normally do this.”
Kaminski and Rodwell took a step closer, almost in unison. “It won’t go anywhere,” the sheriff promised. “You have my word.”