As promised, a chartered coach picked me up from Dr. Hawkins’ house the next day. Hobbling on crutches and dressed in the clothes Aronson had so generously loaned me, I felt like one of those rags-to-riches characters from a romance novel, except they never had to go back to work. Doctor Hawkins had forbidden me to enter the morgue until my wound healed, but I wouldn’t get paid if I didn’t turn in my reports. The coachman wrangled with me a little over getting dropped off at Blackstone Hospital instead of Aronson’s house, but when I pointed out that this way he’d get two charter fares from the nobilis, he finally acquiesced.
I was just finishing my last autopsy when he knocked on the morgue door, shouting that it was time to go.
“I need to clean up,” I called back. I covered the bodies and straightened my tools, then ran upstairs to sign the paperwork in my office. As I picked up the files, I realized my satchel was still at Lud’s — or, more likely, sitting in some pawn shop in the Chifes. I rolled up the papers and tied them with string.
“You’ve got sommat on your shoes,” the coachman remarked, standing in the doorway waiting. I looked down. So I did — blood and tissue. I wiped them off with Nobilis Aronson’s silk handkerchief and took a closer look at the rest of my clothes. A stain on my right knee had come from maneuvering over a corpse to examine the stab wounds in its chest. Marks on my shirt cuffs and sleeves had been made when I’d folded them back with dirty hands. I wiped ineffectually at my borrowed trousers, remembering Hawkins’ warning about infection.
“I need to pick up a change of clothes before we go to Parkside,” I said, pulling on my borrowed coat.
“Sure. Where’s your kip?”
“Flashing Cheat,” I said.
He snorted.
“Get out, Doc. I ain’t taking my rig down there.”
After much persuasion and several of my hard-earned shillings up front, he finally, reluctantly, agreed. The snow made traffic slow, and by the time we reached my street, it was already dark. I maneuvered out of the coach and nearly fell as the tips of my crutches slid on a patch of ice. The coachman stayed put, scowling and muttering about hungry thieves who’d nip a horse from its harness for stew meat.
Negotiating the narrow steps down to my cellar flat was a challenge, and when I reached for my keys, I remembered that they were gone, too, along with my coat. I leaned against the stairwell wall, closing my eyes, and shuddered.
Just a normal memory lapse, I told myself. A normal lapse, exacerbated by painkillers. I took a deep breath. A normal lapse. The kind that can happen to anyone.
When my pulse evened out again, I turned and hobbled back up the stairs. My landlord, Squint, lived on the first floor. As usual, he was running a card game in his flat.
“Hey, Ratsie.” He took in my stained finery and crutches without comment. “Wanna buy in?”
“Not tonight. I’m locked out of my room. Would one of you please break down the door for me?”
“I c’n do better’n’that.” He grabbed my coat and satchel off a chair. “Lud ran these by yestermans. Your keys’re still in ‘em.”
I took them, eyebrows climbing. He grinned, showing bad teeth.
“Seems the Red Dog was throwin’ around some cramp words t’other night. Lud says he don’t want no trouble with the Watch.”
Bless Droit. My money was gone — no surprise — but my keys and the rest of my possessions were intact.
“Tell Lud I owe him one,” I said, slinging the strap over my shoulder.
“Yeh.” He scratched his nose, his eyes narrow slits. “And Mirk’s lookin’ for you.”
“Did he say why?”
“Said he’d come back. I tole him when you usually get off work.”
“Thanks.” I glanced over Squint’s shoulder at the players and recognized one. I lowered my voice. “Trick taps his feet whenever he’s got a good hand.”
“Does he? Too bad for him.” Squint winked and closed the door. I began the slow descent back to my flat.
The cellar seemed darker and colder than ever. I opened the back room and found the bone-warped corpse untouched. Down here, in this weather, the decay wouldn’t be noticeable for days. I pulled down my sketches and stuffed them into the satchel, along with the four small old books that I’d ordered from Candor. I tucked the Banishat ring I’d cut off the corpse’s hand into an inner vest pocket, where it clinked against two rings that were already there.
That left me with the ring of the Vigilance of the Snowy Owl. I held it in a tight fist, looking around. It was important — far more important than the Banishat ring. I needed to keep it safe. I unscrewed the top of one of my specimen jars and dropped the ring into the coils of cancerous intestine that floated there. Nobody was likely to search for it in there.
Then I pulled off my autopsy-soiled clothes, changed the bandage on my wound, and put on my best clean outfit. I left Aronson’s clothes folded in a corner. I’d get them laundered as soon as I could, although I doubted my liege would ever want to wear them again.
I was about to leave when I heard boots on the steps.
“Hey, Ratsie.” The property owner, Mirk, strode into my room, tracking snow over the floor. He was a short, powerfully build man, his face criss-crossed with scars. He flopped on my bed. His two bloods remained outside, leaning on the stairwell wall.
“Still got that napper?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“I need it.”
I limped into the back room and returned with an old woman’s head floating in a large glass jar. Mirk set it by his feet. I didn’t know who she was or why Mirk had wanted her head preserved, and I didn’t want to know. He and I had an understanding. He brought me corpses that he wanted to go away, and I prepared and sold their parts to needy medical students. It was a mutually beneficial arrangement, and I didn’t see any reason to poke my nose where it didn’t belong.
“I heard you had some trouble t’other night.” He eyed my crutches.
“A man named Malkin stabbed me. There’s a reward if you bring him to Bright Street Station alive.”
“How much?”
“Twenty crowns.”
He whistled.
“Red Dog and Firebitch?”
I nodded.
“How much if I just finger him?”
I hesitated.
“I could probably get you ten,” I said at last. “If they caught him.”
“Huh.” He looked thoughtful. “Make it fifteen, and I’ll keep my eyes open.”
I tightened my hands on the crutches.
“Do you know where he is?”
He shot me a disdainful look.
“All right.” I nodded. “I’ll get the money. When?”
He shrugged.
“I’ll give you a shout when I’m ready.”
“I’ll be at Nobilis Aronson’s tonight. On the Hill.”
“You boil bones for the nobs, too, Ratsie?” Mirk sneered.
“Yes.”
He laughed, liking that. I waited until he and his bravos were gone before limping back outside. The coachman grumbled about it all the way across town.