Clearing the body and erasing the hopscotch board made the transients lose interest. The bale leak was still there, but there wasn’t any immediate danger as long as nobody worked any calls in that alley. I made sure constables were posted to keep people out, and I headed off to the Hall of Records.
“The rest of you don’t need to come along,” I muttered, as they flanked me through the streets.
“Still hoping for bloodshed,” Droit declared.
“This is a sentinel-related murder,” Aronson said, casting Droit a disgusted look. “I’d like to learn more about it so that I can offer some assistance, Captain Lorencz.”
Axton didn’t say anything, but I assumed he just didn’t have anywhere better to be.
Elliot grinned when I told him why we were there.
“Hopscotch?” He pushed up his glasses and smiled. “You want to know how to play hopscotch?”
“It’s part of a murder investigation,” I explained, defensively.
“Well, grab a chair while I find some chalk.”
“I know how to play,” I protested as he rummaged through his desk drawers. He glanced up. “I mean, a little. I … did play it a few times, when I was a kid.”
“How about the rest of you?” he asked. The three men looked at each other with a kind of communal masculine self-consciousness. “That’s what I thought.”
He ushered us back into the reading room, holding several sheets of paper, an inkwell and pen, and a stick of white chalk.
“As it happens,” he said, “I have a young niece and two little nephews, so I’ve done some research into childrens’ games. Hopscotch looks simple, but it has a number of rules.”
He drew three designs on the paper. I pointed to the middle one, which had diamond-shaped patterns along the sides.
“That’s what I’ve been seeing.”
“What do the differences mean?” Aronson asked.
“Nothing, really; just regional variations. Now, in hopscotch, each player has a different marker. They drop their marker into a square and hop on one leg through the pattern, avoiding the square that contains the marker. The top zone,” he pointed to the tombstone-shaped pattern, “is called Home, Safe, the Grave, or the Cellar, depending on where the game is played. The player can put both of their feet down there to rest a moment before the return trip. It’s the only place both feet are allowed to touch the board.”
“I bet the kids drawing our boards call it the Grave,” I said, thinking of the dead animals.
“After resting,” Elliot continued, “the player hops back. When they reach the square adjacent to the one in which their marker lies, they lean over, still balancing on one leg, and pick up the marker. Then they finish the pattern. When they’re done, they can rest while the next player takes a turn. When everyone has played, the first player steps up again and drops their marker into the second square. The game continues until only one player remains or until all of the players have finished the full pattern.”
“How are players eliminated?” Droit asked. Elliot scribbled a quick list next to the board.
“There are five outs. A ‘loss’ is when a player’s marker lands in the wrong square, out of sequence. A ‘break’ is when a player steps on a line. A ‘tip’ is when a player touches the ground with their hand or raised foot while they’re picking up their marker. A ‘foul’ is when a foot lands in the same square as the marker, and a ‘death’ is when both feet land in the same square. Except the Grave, of course.”
“Hopscotch is a macabre business,” Droit murmured.
“Do you know the game’s origin, Mister Chime?” Aronson asked. Elliot smiled at him, and I felt a pang of jealousy. Aronson was a good-looking guy, and rich, too. I didn’t know Elliot well enough to be certain which way he inclined, but I was painfully aware that I’d have a hard time competing with the polite Nobilis if that’s the way things went.
“I’ve read that it was originally a training exercise for soldiers,” Elliot replied. “Imagine playing this in full armor.”
Droit smirked. “It would have done me a world of good to see my mercenaries playing hopscotch during drill.”
“Don’t laugh until you’ve tried it, General,” Elliot challenged, pushing his chair aside. In moments he was chalking a pattern on the stone floor.
“Hey, easy there, handsome,” I yelped, hastily discerning the Line. It was pale grey and oozy with the leak in the Sepulchres. “That could be dangerous.”
“How? Children play hopscotch every day. nd I think all of you should try it — it’ll help you understand the game better.”
“That’s not really necessary,” Aronson said, looking uncomfortable. “We’re only interested in the history of the game, not its implementation.”
“Scared?” Elliot raised an eyebrow, took off his shoes, and tossed one on the square marked 1. Then, he hopped the pattern, turned, and hopped back, gracefully picking up the shoe before jumping out. “I play with the niblings all the time. Next?”
The four of us looked at each other. Then Droit shrugged and sat down, pulling off his gleaming boots and piling his knives on the table. We all stared a moment, startled by how much steel he kept secreted around his body. So much for carrying weapons without a permit.
He dropped one of his smaller knives in the first square. His form was impeccable and his execution effortless. He’d set the bar.
The rest of us sat down, glowering competitively, and pulled off our shoes.
We didn’t finish the whole pattern. I was puffing and panting after I’d gotten my marker to square 4 and tipped while picking it up from square 5. Aronson broke a line on square 3, and Axton fouled on square 6. All three of us were flushed and sweating by the time we dropped out. Only Droit, the bastard, was breathing evenly. He grinned, the winner by default.
Elliot applauded as we pulled our shoes back on. I had to give him credit; he’d tried real hard not to laugh while we’d hopped and stumbled through the game. When I’d tipped out I’d seen him sitting with both hands clapped over his mouth, eyes twinkling behind his glasses. He’d met my eyes and dropped his hands, revealing an adorable grin. Hell, if I’d known him just a little bit better I might have kissed him right then and there, but … well. I didn’t think Elliot would go for smelly little Axton, and I was pretty sure Aronson wouldn’t go for Elliot, although the jury was still out on that, and but Droit might chase him just to piss me off. So … better not to set any precedents.
“That was good for your first time,” Elliot said. “Now one of you owes me an explanation of what this has to do with murder.”
I filled him in. The others listened closely, too. None of them had been there for all of the murders. I glossed over the parts that weren’t appropriate for gentle ears, but I didn’t spare them the threat a broken Line posed to the city. Then I told them all what Droit and I had learned from Arlin the Knave the day before.
“So,” I concluded, “with Wry Dick dead, we got a possible link between nix smugglers, kiddie-slavers, and the hopscotch murders.”
“What worries me is that it all comes back to a sentinel,” Aronson said, frowning. “Nix is fixed bale, and only a sentinel can call a transient across the Line.”
“Arlin mentioned another name,” Droit pointed out.
“Jack Rake.” I nodded. “And right before I got called here, I was thinking I wanted to ask some girls who witnessed Hanks’ murder a few more questions.”
“We should break into pairs, then,” Droit declared. “I’m better at beating up hoods than talking to children. Axton, you’re with me.”
“Thank you.” Axton seemed pleased. “Perhaps while we walk, you could tell me why you left Yzyrchye’s service, General, and where you went after you did.”
My ears perked up, since I’d asked him the same thing.
“Don’t hold your breath,” Droit said, disappointing both of us.
“I would have chosen to go with Lorencz, anyway,” Aronson muttered, barely loud enough for me to hear.
“I wish I could go with you.” Elliot sighed. “Can you requisition a librarian as an assistant, Arcady?”
“I can ask,” I said, grinning at him. He hesitated, then scribbled something on a scrap of paper and handed it to me.
“My address, in case you need to find me outside of my normal working hours.”
My grin widened as I took it and carefully tucked it away.
“We are very grateful for your assistance, Mr. Chime,” Aronson said, half-shaking and half-bowing over Elliot’s hand. Elliot blushed, giving me a startled look over the nobleman’s shoulder.
“Just so you know,” I growled after we left the Hall, “he’s mine.” Caution be damned; I wasn’t about to let Aronson muscle in on me now that I was getting somewhere.
“Congratulations,” Aronson said, glancing over his shoulder. “He’s charming and intelligent. I imagine he’s quite handsome without his glasses.”
“I think he looks just fine with his glasses,” I shot back. “And you need to stop mentally undressing him.”
“I wasn’t —” Aronson protested.
“Lorencz’s got it bad.” Droit sounded amused.
“I just want you to behave yourself around him, you saps.”
“Why?” Droit asked. “He’s competition.”
Aronson shot me a startled look.
“Don’t pay the Butcher any attention,” I said through clenched teeth. “You know he doesn’t like women. He’s just bored, and he likes to rattle my cage for laughs.”
“Oh. I understand,” the nobleman said, blinking. “Really, I do.”
“At least I like my companions warm-blooded,” Droit shot back.
“I’d choose an iguana over you any time, Tegeus.”
“Aren’t you a little old to be playing with lizards instead of ladies?” Droit grinned. “What’s wrong, Michael? Potency, personality, or preference?”
Aronson flushed and clenched a fist.
“How many more Line crossings would it take to breach the Line for good?” Axton asked, out of nowhere. We all paused, collecting our thoughts.
“Nobody knows,” Aronson replied. “It’s never been tested. For obvious reasons.”
We fell silent, brooding over that pleasant idea until we split up in Dockside.
“So, what’s your beef with the general?” I asked Aronson, after the other two had left. “And just for the record, you don’t need to tell me if it’s something personal.”
Aronson’s expression darkened.
“We’re cousins. That’s why he retired here. He could have become notorious in Candor or Saldon, or gotten himself lost in the plains of Travioch, but he decided to come back to his home town, instead. Don’t ask me why. He hated me.”
“And you don’t like him, either.”
“Does it matter?”
“I suppose not. Not as long as you don’t kill each other on my case.”
The Dockside tenement hadn’t gotten any cleaner since I’d been there with Sergeant Connas. The Nobilis didn’t look pleased at getting his expensive shoes all covered with the muck on the stairs, and he shuddered when he looked at the crumbling, waterstained walls. We trudged past the drunks who looked like they hadn’t moved since I’d been there last, ignored the shouting and the sound of something shattering, shoved through doors and curtains and tried not to look too closely at anything until we reached the small room with the window that overlooked the courtyard. The space was cold and dirty. Just like last time.
“Hi, Kay,” I said to the girl who sat there drawing on the walls. She looked up, her eyes too big in a pinched face. A cold sore bulged dark and painful-looking over one lip.
“Who’re you?”
“I’m Lorencz, remember? The sentinel. This is Nobilis Aronson.” I crouched. “Is Angie around?”
“No.” She turned back to her drawing. Her nails were dirty and broken, and grime darkened her neck. Her clothes were hand-me-downs, probably from her older sister. I couldn’t tell if her hair was brown or if it was just dirty. It was all depressingly familiar.
“Is that a horse?” I asked.
“It’s Dobbie, the meatman’s mare.”
“You’re a good artist.”
“Uh-huh. I like to draw.”
“Do you remember Jim Hanks?”
“Ned’s dead.” Her voice was unmoved as she chalked in the horse’s mane, thicker and wilder than any street nag’s. “The bogeyman got him.”
“That’s right.” I wished I could pull out a cigar, but I didn’t want to risk a fire. These old tenements burn like tinder once they get started. I happen to know. “What’s the bogeyman look like, Kay?”
She lifted a thin shoulder.
“Scary. He gets people. Mean people. He gets them and kills them.”
“Is that the bogeyman?” Aronson asked. Both of us looked up. He pointed to a sketch of a man wearing something big and long and carrying a knife. The figure was standing next to some kind of scribble. I thought it might have numbers on it.
“Uh-huh.” She went back to her horse.
“What is that next to him?” Aronson continued, his voice gentle.
“A hopscotch board.”
“Really?” he exclaimed, as we exchanged meaningful looks. “I didn’t know bogeymen played hopscotch.”
Kay gave him a disgusted look.
“He doesn’t play it. That’s how he gets here. You play hopscotch and whistle and he comes and kills the bad men.”
“What kind of whistle?”
“Any kind. But it’s gotta be at night.” Her voice became solemn. “And you gotta be good and not lie or he kills you instead.”
“Did Angie tell you that?” I asked.
“Everyone knows that.”
“Where is Angie?”
“Getting money.”
“Isn’t there any adult here to look after you, Kay?” Aronson asked, looking troubled.
“Missus Browning’s downstairs with her boyfriend.”
Aronson muttered something. I looked at the little girl drawing pictures of horses and bogeymen and wondered what Angie did to feed her, and what Kay would do when she got a little older. I could guess how their story would end, and I didn’t like it much.
“When did you draw that picture of the bogeyman?” I asked.
She shrugged. Time didn’t mean much at that age. But it had to have been after Hanks’ death, or I would have noticed it when we’d visited the apartment with Sergeant Connas.
“Who whistled up the bogeyman that killed Jim Hanks?”
She puffed a strand of hair off her face, looking irritated.
“I’m not s’posed to say.”
“Can you say who drew the board out there? The one the bogeyman came to?”
“Uh-uh.”
I dropped back on my heels, frustrated. I’ve got lots of ways to make someone talk, but none I’d use on a little girl.
“Would you tell us if we got you some pretty colored chalk?” Aronson asked.
“I’m not s’posed to say nothin’.” But her eyes wavered from her drawing to the nobleman.
“I’ll be right back,” Aronson said, glancing at me.
“There’s a shop two blocks down that might have some,” I told him. He nodded and left. I wondered for a moment if it was safe, letting him run around this part of town on his own, then shrugged. He was the Vigilance’s third-ranked sentinel. He could protect himself.
“Where’s he going?” Kay asked.
“To buy you some new chalk.”
“Good.” She smiled and I had one of those moments where I think maybe it wouldn’t be so bad having a kid of my own. Fortunately, they never last long.
Kay and I were discussing the merits of dogs with long ears versus dogs with short ears when Aronson returned with his hands full of chalk sticks, each in different colors and different lengths. Kay’s eyes lit up as he set them on the floor.
“They’re all yours if you’ll tell me who drew that hopscotch board out there,” he promised.
She hesitated, torn, and I felt like a heel because we were bribing a little girl who’d given her word not to tattle. Aronson didn’t look too happy, either, but neither of us backed down. It was one girl’s ethical development versus a lot of people’s lives. Still, the equation didn’t make me feel any prouder of myself.
“Angie did it,” she said at last, snatching the chalk up in both hands.
“Thank you, Kay,” Aronson said, standing. I frowned.
“How did Angie know what to do?” I asked, as she began coloring her dog bright blue.
“Milka told her,” Kay replied, absently.
“Milka Nevenek?”
She shrugged.
“What does Milka look like?”
She shrugged again, but I finally found out that Milka had brown hair and dark eyes, which didn’t help me much, and sold gin, which wasn’t much help, either. We left in silence and didn’t say anything else until we were on the street.