7. Cain
7
CAIN
It was late morning when Cain stepped inside the olive oil shop at the mouth of the Grocer’s End just off the market square. Old Agatha’s expression turned grim when she saw him, but the owner of the eatery across the street was at the counter haggling over a tall bottle of oil, so the old woman made no comment about Cain’s lateness.
A pile of fresh olives in the corner of the shop gave off an inviting perfume. Though all of the shop’s oil was pressed and imported from Dalosia to the north by ship, Agatha kept fresh olives on display at all times. She had Cain throw them out when rot set in, then would buy another pile and the cycle would repeat. All four walls of the shop were lined floor-to-ceiling with shelves, bottles of olive oil both new and long rancid crowded together.
Cain got to work without a word, picking up a large jar of bad oil with both hands, the first of the score he would need to empty that day. It was work he should’ve finished the day before, but Fienna—the image of her lying in the patrollers’ morgue rose in his mind, and he shoved the thought away. The inquiries, as it were, had kept him away from his work.
The customer exited. “Come here,” Agatha called.
Pretending not to hear, Cain carried the heavy jar outside. As he stepped back in and lifted a second jar, Agatha said, “In all these years, I’ve never treated you like some provincial guttersnipe”—on the contrary, she’d been regularly reminding him of that fact for the past five years that he’d worked here—“despite my having brought on some urchin from the street. Because I thought you had a clever look about you, the air of a diligent worker, I taught you the work and paid you almost as much as a heartlander apprentice. But you keep going about town making trouble!”
Cain carefully lowered the second jar to the ground outside the shop and came back for another.
“What could you possibly be doing that such people would darken the doorstep? If it were the city patrollers, I would assume the silly boy had gotten into drunken mischief or whatnot, but this is the Ministry of Intelligence—”
The Ministry of Intelligence?
A muscle jerked in his right arm. Cain almost dropped the oil jar, but kept his voice calm.
“Ministry agents were here? What did they want?”
Had it been Ministry agents who ambushed him in the alley? Cain decided against it. Those men were too clumsy to be the secret eyes and ears of the Empire.
“They wanted to know where you were, that’s what. I told them I didn’t know, and they left. Look, did you join in a rebellion or something? Is that what you’re up to? You were such a hard worker until now, why would you do such a thing?”
“I haven’t.”
There was no resistance movement in Arland. Or at least, there wasn’t anymore. The only Intelligence business Cain could think of involved his parents. He did not know what his parents had done to have been executed for treason all those years ago. All he knew was that they were dead, and that Arland was a distant memory. His life was built from scratch right here in the Capital, in this oil shop and around the market square. He had neither love nor hate for the Empire. It was just a place where he ended up, safer than where he had been. It was the place where Fienna was. Had been. But the Ministry of Intelligence would not care. He put the third jar outside and went back in the shop.
“It’s that Fienna’s doing, isn’t it? What’s that little wench got you mixed up in?”
Cain could hear the undercurrent of panic in Agatha’s words. But she had good reason to be afraid. Ever since the whole world fell under the reign of the Empire, the Ministry of Intelligence’s mission had been to keep the prefects under surveillance and punish even the smallest sign of disorder or rebellion. They never brought in just one suspect for questioning; if their agents were looking for Cain, it meant Agatha was not wholly safe either. But somehow, Cain found it hard to concentrate on the very real danger to his person, the danger of the Ministry taking an interest in him.
“Nothing.” He lifted the fourth jar and turned to the door.
“Wake up, you fool! Or you’ll end up just like her!”
The feeling of weight on his chest that he had been fighting since he learned of Fienna’s death suddenly gripped his heart like a vise. Cain threw the jar he was holding. It shattered, spilling oil and pottery fragments everywhere, and causing his boss to gasp and step away from him to back behind the counter. The rancid scent of spoiled oil filled the shop. Cain gave Agatha a cold stare, then opened the door and left the shop.
His head was swimming with two thoughts, and two thoughts only. Why did Fienna die? Who killed her? If he didn’t get answers fast, he was going to lose his mind.
Outside the shop, the market square was brimming with colorful tents, full carts and teetering wheelbarrows, and itinerant peddlers from all over the world, their words coming and going in standard Imperial, accented Imperial, and the occasional provincial languages. The smell of sweat, perfume, and cheap food assaulted his nose. As his anxiety threatened to boil over, Cain made his way through the square toward the port, trying to shed every useless memory as he went: the fear on old Agatha’s face, the sound of the jar shattering, the smell of oil, the clamor of the square—they faded to nothing. All of his inner focus centered on Gladdis, the Kamori merchant. And on Fienna, drenched with river water, her long braids glistening, so slick in his trembling hands with slime and scum.
Lukan had said Gladdis had a house on the docks. Since she had other bases of operations all over the Imperial heartland, as well as in her homeland Kamori, and since she went back and forth regularly between the Capital and the three provinces of Lontaria, there was little chance he would find her if he went to her house now. But if the man in the velvet trousers was indeed working for Gladdis, Cain knew he would find him there.
Cain could smell a hint of the ocean in the wind. The sun rose over a bell tower in the distance. Once he made a turn at that tower, he’d be at the place Lukan had told him about. The streets were as crowded as the market, but his pace quickened, and he suppressed the urge to break into a run. The answers were ahead. He was sure of it.
When he had first met Fienna, Cain was starving and in tears, ignorant of the language of the Imperial heartland. To a twelve-year-old boy, a seventeen-year-old girl might as well be an adult. Fienna talked to him in Arlandais, brought him an orange and bread and soup, found him a place to sleep. She taught him the language of the Capital and helped him make friends.
From behind, someone was cursing at him; come to think of it, he did feel like he had bumped into something just now. He couldn’t even remember what the color of the man’s tunic was. Cain did not slow his pace.
Just as he was about to turn a corner, someone grabbed his left arm with a grip so strong he could not easily shake it off. He turned and saw a skinny giant, at least two heads taller than himself, latching on to him and not letting him go. The giant’s face was dead serious. Was he the man he had bumped into just now? Cain’s eyes grew wide. He couldn’t remember. But how could he have not noticed such a tall man passing right by him?
Like an errant child caught by an angry parent, Cain was dragged into an alley by the bell tower. Cain pretended to resist as he discreetly took in his surroundings. A stout man in gray was urgently trying to cross the busy street, his eyes fixed in their direction. The main street was filled with carts on their way to market, but the alley was narrow and shaded. Neither the stout man nor the skinny giant had been among the group that assaulted him the other night, but there was a chance they were part of the same gang.
First things first. He had to do something about this giant if he was ever to have a chance of escape. Without hesitating, Cain drew his dagger and sliced along the giant’s forearm in one motion. Blood gushed, and the giant yelled out. Cain swiftly kicked him in the shin, then stomped on the giant’s sandaled foot, and when he bent over in agony, Cain delivered a perfectly timed blow to the chin with his left palm. As the giant staggered, Cain plunged his dagger in and out of his foot—the giant was unlikely to come after him now. Cain raced down the alley, glancing back briefly to see that the stout man was still impeded from crossing the street by the river of carts and people.
Cain turned a corner at full sprint. While he knew every little alley and dead end around his market square, he didn’t know much about this dockside neighborhood other than the main streets. He could only hope that if he kept running and tried to lose himself in the maze, the people pursuing him would not be able to follow him either.
He was getting out of breath. Finally, he collapsed against a dirty wall, his mouth and throat burning. A drunk with a large bushy beard was sitting against the same wall a stone’s throw away, cradling a wine bottle that didn’t even have a label. Judging by the worn-out bottoms of his sandals, he was not a fake vagrant.
Only then did Cain notice that his vision was blurry. His spectacles were gone. He didn’t know at what point he’d dropped them. When he bumped into someone? When he fought the giant? Or while he was running for his life?
Cain sighed in frustration. At least he was almost sure the two just now were of a different pack than the five from the previous night. He hadn’t been anywhere since the assault except Lukan’s tavern. Last night’s gang was probably hoping their threat had worked, and it wouldn’t make sense for them to have people out on a busy street to watch for whether he was coming for them or not. The giant’s mannerisms were completely different from those of the ex-legionary woman from the night before. So there was one final option, and that was what they had to be.
He leaped to his feet. Why the Ministry of Intelligence were looking for him and how they knew it was Gladdis’s place he was headed to, he didn’t know. But what he did know for sure was that he was in trouble.
Slow, determined footsteps rang from the end of the alley. It was the giant from before, blocking the narrow alley as he approached. His clothes were bloodied but he didn’t move as if he’d been injured. The foot Cain had sunk his dagger into seemed to support the man’s large frame with no pain or trouble, even though the sandal was soaked in blood. Cain sprang toward the other direction, half expecting the stout man in gray to be there, but instead there was the woman in the black stola with the brooch who had sat next to him in the tavern the night before. She was looking at him intently, one of her delicate hands holding up Cain’s spectacles.
Cain took the bloody dagger from his inner pocket and tossed it onto the ground, holding up his hands in surrender.
A sack covering his head, Cain was pushed into a chair as his arms were tied behind his back with rough hands. Despite his lack of vision, he took in his surroundings as best he could. A room with a chair. Echoes from a high ceiling, with windows mounted near the top of the wall betraying the noise of the street. A basement. There were maybe three other people there, judging by what he could hear.
Finally, someone spoke.
“My name is Septima.”
He assumed this was the woman in the black stola. Soft clicking sounds, as if she was playing with his spectacles, folding and unfolding the legs. He shrugged to show he was listening.
“We work for Intelligence.”
This he had already guessed. What he didn’t know was why Ministry agents, of all people, had captured him. This particular office of the Empire was tasked with surveilling prefects and rooting out rebels, neither of which Cain had anything to do with.
The sack was whipped from his head. There was just enough light for him to make out the figures in the room, despite the lack of his spectacles. The stout man from before was holding the sack. His arms, sleeves curled up, were covered with hair. Septima stood facing Cain, her arms crossed, her left hand deftly playing with his spectacles. The giant whom Cain had stabbed in the foot was leaning against a wall and giving him a look that simmered with resentment. He had changed out of his bloody clothes. Neither his arm nor foot showed any sign of being cut or stabbed. Cain couldn’t help but stare at the giant in amazement.
Noting his gaze, Septima said, “Devadas is an amrit, ” as if he was supposed to know what an “ amrit ” was. Apparently, that word explained his lack of injury. “From Varata.”
Cain shrugged. “What is he doing outside an Office of Truth cell?” The Office had a monopoly on sorcery and didn’t tolerate anything outside Imperial generator magic. The first thing the Empire did after conquering a land was unleash their inquisitors to round up local magic users and priests. There were stories around the market square, about old-magic sorcerers from all over the world and their horrible fates. In those stories, the magic users had many different names and powers, but to the Empire they were all sorcerers. This man Devadas would qualify as one, regardless of the term his people had reserved for him.
Septima answered. “Oh, he was in a cell, until we got him out on a permanent loan. Sometimes, Intelligence needs more than Truth dogma to protect the Empire.”
Until the Office needs him more, Cain thought. All sorcerers, wherever they came from or whatever they were capable of, were obligated to serve the Empire as Power generators in their deaths.
The stout man added, with an unmistakable note of pride, “He’s the last of his monastic order.”
Devadas let out a low groan. Septima sent the briefest frown in the stout man’s direction, and he promptly shut up. Holding Cain’s spectacles still in her fingertips, Septima clapped her hands twice. “Now, enough questions from you.”
Cain had his run-ins with the patrollers. He had been on the receiving end of interrogation more than a few times. Septima seemed to be the head of this team and chief interrogator. The stout man was probably in charge of beating Cain if he happened to give them the wrong answer; it didn’t look like he used any special tools to do it other than his fists. The giant Devadas had the demeanor and build of a proper warrior. He seemed embarrassed to have been ambushed in the alley like that.
Cain looked Septima in the face. His vision unaided, he could barely make out the shape of her eyes. “So, what is it you want from me?”
She didn’t answer, and instead asked a question of her own, playing with his spectacles again.
“The dead girl, Fienna. What were you to her?”
“A friend.”
“A lover?”
“Not really.”
Septima slightly raised an eyebrow, perhaps in surprise.
“Why were you going to the docks?”
The clicks of his spectacle legs in her fingers were starting to annoy him.
“Thousands go to the docks every day, why shouldn’t I?”
Septima placed the cold tip of her right index finger on his forehead.
“We ask the questions, not you. What business do you have at Gladdis’s house?”
“Didn’t you already hear everything at Lukan’s?”
The finger went away. Septima nodded, finally answering a question.
“Gladdis is being secretly investigated.”
“Why?”
“Treason. We suspect her of conspiring with undesirables in a province. If you go to her and make things loud and unpleasant, we’ll have a more difficult time of it. Which is why we stopped you.”
This answer only raised more questions for Cain. That they happened to be in the same tavern the other night could not have been a coincidence. But why would they have sought him out in the first place?
“Is Lukan being investigated?”
Septima placed her index finger on his forehead once more.
“You came to the Capital about twelve years ago, correct? When you were twelve? Thirteen? That’s around the time there was an insurrection in Arland. And you ran away because your parents were involved in that?”
Cain didn’t answer. Septima moved his spectacles over her knuckles, all the while managing to click their legs.
“You don’t have to say anything to that. The prefect of Arland has all the records. But I don’t want to make him skittish over such a small matter, and we don’t want to be trapped here while we wait for a reply to our inquiry, do we?”
“Is the prefect of Arland under investigation as well?”
“All prefects everywhere are always under investigation.”
The stout man stepped forward, but Septima stopped him with a gesture. “It’s fine,” she said, “it was a long time ago, and he was a child. And all the instigators were apprehended.”
The stout man nodded and stepped behind Cain, seeming disappointed he hadn’t been needed to break a finger or throw a punch to Cain’s jaw.
Septima continued. “Unless, of course, you are involved in seditious activities. After all, you must feel some grudge against the prefect of Arland for what he did to your family.”
She was trying to scare him, preparing him for the real interrogation. If she really had suspected him, this whole affair would be going very differently. “Enough about my parents and this nonexistent sedition. You said yourself that I was just a child back then, and I assume you already know I don’t hang around other Arlanders. I’m busy with my life here, so let’s dispense with these Intelligence pleasantries and get to the point. What do you want from me?”
Septima let slip a short laugh and nodded. “This morning, I heard you were quite well-known around the market square for being rather helpful. That even the district patrollers received your help a few times.”
“A few times.” He shrugged as best he could with his arms tied behind his back. “I’ve got eyes and ears. Speaking of my eyes, be careful with those.”
Septima scoffed, clicking the legs of the spectacles again. “You really need these to see properly, don’t you? Lenses are not something street riffraff can afford, even if they work at a moderately successful oil shop. How did you come by these?”
Cain licked his lips. “You already know that I do odd jobs for people in my neighborhood. It was a gift from a glassmaker for a job well done.”
Septima raised her eyebrow again. “What did you do for him?”
“ Her son was being held for ransom by a street gang. The patrollers couldn’t be bothered, but I could.”
Her hands unfolding the spectacles, Septima floated a faint smile. “So, you are something of an investigator, a problem solver, much like I am. You know how to handle these things.”
Cain almost returned the smile in pride. “I’d like to think so.”
Septima suddenly leaned toward him. Unable to read her face, Cain felt his muscles tense. She gently placed his spectacles over his eyes. Cain relaxed a little as his vision cleared. Septima’s eyes showed a hint of concern.
“Then why were you off to that house like a charging bull when you should’ve known better? What was she to you, that made you so reckless?” Septima lowered her voice a little. “Do you want me to tell you what might have happened to you if we didn’t intervene in time? That house is a vipers’ nest. It wouldn’t have ended with a little beating in an alleyway. Two of our own informants have gone missing.”
“Maybe the Ministry of Intelligence needs better training for its agents.”
At this, the stout man grabbed Cain by the throat. Devadas detached himself from the wall and took a step toward them, but Septima raised her hand again, directing them both to stand down. Despite the show of rage, the stout man’s grip was measured. He was a professional, and a good actor too. He hadn’t volunteered his name, nor had Septima introduced him. Would he give his name, real or fake, when asked? The hand fell from Cain’s neck.
Septima continued.
“You’re different, right? You never miss a thing? You never forget what you see and what you hear? That’s what the patrollers say. You must be very chummy with the sergeant. He even showed you Fienna’s body.”
Cain didn’t answer.
“You must know then that her funeral is tomorrow?”
The words were like a blow to the head. He hadn’t known there would be a funeral, much less who would pay for it or who would come. He was ashamed. He lowered his head and shook it.
“Let me make you an offer.”
At that, Cain raised his head again. “An offer?”
“There is quite a lot of… interference. In Gladdis’s case. She has ties to the Senate, you see.”
Lukan had also mentioned the rumor that Gladdis was close to an Imperial senator.
“Which is why our office is having so much trouble handling her,” Septima went on, a note of distaste in her voice. “Every time we try to do something, an order comes down from above. We could use a little help from the outside.”
Cain had a feeling about where this conversation was headed. This could be a valuable chance for him, in his own investigation into Fienna’s murder.
“The reason we brought you here,” continued Septima, “is to make sure our goals are the same. You want to catch your friend’s murderer, correct? If it’s revenge you want, work with us. We want the same thing, in the end.”
Cain thought for a moment before saying, “So what do you want me to do?”
Septima’s eyes narrowed as she smiled. “Fienna was being paid by Gladdis. That much we know. What we don’t know yet is why. Find that out for us.”
This was something Cain hadn’t heard. From what he knew, Fienna had no money coming into her pocket other than her wages at the dye shop. He had even loaned her a small amount recently. Why would Fienna ask him for money if she was receiving pay from a rich merchant like Gladdis?
“We’ll give you a clue to start. If Gladdis is indeed the murderer, she will send someone to the funeral to make sure everything has gone to plan. You must find out who this person is.”
“If they were watching Fienna, they’ll know my face.”
“They know our faces even better. And wouldn’t they think it strange if you didn’t show up to your good friend’s funeral?”
Cain nodded. “Fine. If you can answer one more question, I’ll do as you tell me.”
“Ask.”
“Why were you at Lukan’s last night?”
Septima glanced at the stout man and then at Devadas as if seeking their opinion. They both shrugged and offered nothing more.
“That’s a separate affair,” said Septima. “Last month, Imperial outposts were attacked in Arland, the guardhouses burned and dozens of soldiers killed. There are always insurrectionists, this isn’t something unprecedented… But five Powered soldiers from the legion that had come to relieve the previous one all died near the border with Kamori. Their Power generator is missing as well.”
The stout man laughed. “Those sons of whores in the Office of Truth must be scattering like bees from a knocked-down hive, losing a whole legion Power generator like that. Couldn’t have happened to a more deserving bunch.”
“The Power generator doesn’t fall under our purview,” said Septima, “but the treason very much does.”
“So you’re putting every Arlander in the Capital under surveillance?”
“We can’t watch every single one of you. We were just going to take a look around. Sometimes, that’s enough to smoke out the fidgety ones. Besides, Arland neighbors Kamori, which means there’s a slight chance the outpost attack might have something to do with our Gladdis investigation. We think that’s unlikely, but of course we can leave no stone unturned. For all we know, maybe it has something to do with Fienna.”
Cain’s heart skipped a beat. Septima had just lied to him for the first time.
She’d spoken of the incident in Arland casually, not attempting to hide what was going on there, as if it only mattered to her if it had something to do with Gladdis, which she didn’t think it did. But that wasn’t what she was really feeling. Cain didn’t know what had happened in Arland, but he could feel in his bones that the events there weighed heavily on her mind and that they almost certainly had something to do with Gladdis. This was the most profitable moment of the whole interrogation for him.
Septima glanced once more at the stout man and nodded, whereupon the latter began untying Cain from the chair. Adjusting his spectacles, Cain observed them as closely as he could from the corner of his eye. He didn’t sense any suspicion from them as yet, but it wouldn’t hurt to put a stake in it with another gesture.
“My help will cost you,” he said. “I lost my job because of you, and I have no place to live now—”
The stout man scoffed. “That was your own fault.”
Septima slipped a hand into her sleeve, took out a small pouch, and set it on Cain’s knee.
“Cleaning out rancid oil? We can find a job for you that’s just as remunerative. And if you prove yourself to be as good as they say, you can keep working for us. That’s the thing about Intelligence—we don’t look down on you just because you’re a provincial.” Septima glanced at the giant Devadas.
Cain nodded and put the coin pouch in his inner pocket. He stood up and, rubbing his wrists where the ropes had dug into the skin, passed Devadas and walked out of the room.
“Be here tomorrow at midnight,” Septima called after him.
The pressure that had gripped his heart in the oil shop came back.