The Devil's Detective (2 page)

“Hush, Balthazar,” said Adam softly. “He means no offense.”

Balthazar
, noted Fool. The arm and guard to Adam's brain and command; the other two would be mere archive and scribe, and would not be introduced. He sometimes wondered if they even had names, if they were not things defined solely by their roles and without personality.

“Perhaps it does not understand respect, or who it is and who we are,” said Balthazar. His glow had faded, dropping and thickening so that now it was almost red, and Fool risked looking at him. He was taller than Adam and younger (
No
, he told himself,
not younger but
appearing
younger. They have no age except that which they choose to show, wasn't that what Elderflower had said once?
), and now there was something in his hand, held up, wavering in front of Fool. He thought at first that it was a sword, aflame, but it was not; it was simply a column of fire that danced and writhed around itself and threw its furnace gleam across his face.

“Balthazar,” said Adam, his voice still soft. “Do not find battles where none exist, my friend. He is Hell's chosen representative and meant no offense, I am sure. Did you?”

“No,” said Fool, looking into Balthazar's beardless, handsome face. The angel was smiling, revealing teeth like polished marble. The fire wavered in front of Fool's eyes for a moment longer and then was gone, not lowered but disappeared. Balthazar clasped one hand in the other in front of his flat stomach and stepped back, his wings flapping slowly in the air above him, alabaster-white and silent. He nodded, although whether to himself, to Adam, or to Fool, Fool couldn't be sure.

Fool turned and began to walk back down the path, glancing over his shoulder to make sure the angels were following. Adam was close to him, smiling, and his head bobbed slightly when he saw Fool looking at him. Balthazar came after and then the other two. They were smaller, their shoulders folded forward and their heads down so that their faces were invisible. Balthazar still held his wings aloft, angled forward so that they looked like scythe blades now, sickles against Hell's nighttime sky. As they walked, Adam's and Balthazar's light pressed the darkness back from the path, revealing thin, twisting plants and scrubby earth and something that capered just beyond the edge of Fool's vision. It followed them all the way down to the carriage, making slopping noises and lip-smacking sounds and, once, calling, “Man! Man and friends! Nice friends” in that too-full voice, stretching the last word out as though it were tasting it, sucking something sweet. At the sound of it, Adam cast his gaze into the darkness and said, “Be quiet, creature.”

“Brave man, brave friends,” said the creature.

“Be silent,” said Adam, his voice not changing, “and bite your tongue.” He glowed briefly, the blue flash revealing something large in the scrub that wheeled around and darted away, and they heard nothing more from it.

“Is this how we are to travel? Is this what they send for Heaven's delegation?” asked Balthazar when they reached the bottom of the slope. They were standing by the carriage, Balthazar in front of the rear door, blocking it, and Adam watching him. Fool was standing between the two angels, the scribe and archive at his side, faces still downcast. Balthazar was beginning to glow again, the light rippling out from his skin like sweat, his arms opened wide and his wings shivering as they slowly expanded, stretched out behind him.

“Balthazar,” said Adam. Fool stayed silent, knowing that there was
nothing he could do. The carriage was small and had seats for only four in the rear, meaning that the angels would be cramped for the duration of the journey, but this was what the Bureaucracy had given him. There were bigger vehicles, but not many, and none that he could drive. Most of the inhabitants of Hell walked or used the massive trains that shunted slowly back and forth between the farms and the industries, jumping on and off whenever they could. Fool and his colleagues, Hell's two other Information Men, were usually among them.

“We should fly,” said Balthazar, stepping away from the carriage and beating his wings downward fiercely, sending billows of dust and grit into the air around Fool. One of the nameless ones, looking at Balthazar, began to unfurl its wings, and Fool watched, fascinated, as they unfolded from its back and stretched out. They were smaller than Balthazar's, less grand, reminding Fool more of the scrawny things that he had seen on the birds in Hell's flocks, flocks preyed on by the larger flying things that sometimes filled the sullen sky. Delicate feathers bristled at the wings' edges, and then Adam made a gesture with his hand and the scribe, or archive, immediately folded its wings back in. Pressed close against its back, they became almost invisible, fading and vanishing into its robe.

Balthazar looked angrily at Adam and beat his wings again, creating a savage gust of air that rocked Fool back on his heels and made the carriage shake. Adam watched patiently as Balthazar tried again, furiously hooking his wings around his body in brutal downthrusts. Another, much smaller, pair of wings unfurled from around the angel's feet, and these, too, began to beat furiously. Fool closed his eyes as the grit rose into them and as Balthazar's light flared, fiery and intense.

“Balthazar,” said Adam, “this is Hell, the place of no freedoms. You cannot fly here, my friend, because flight is a joy and no true joy is allowed. Only the chalkis and their ilk can take to the air, Balthazar, because they take no pleasure in it; you know this. It was explained to you before our arrival. We are here by invitation, yes, but we have to obey the rules like everyone and everything here. Be calm, my friend.”

The beating, shifting air settled and Fool opened his eyes again. Balthazar was staring at Fool, his face curling and distorting into something that was impossible to look at, something beyond human or demon, beyond beauty. Something terrible, a thing not of rage but of absolute
belief in itself, of justice without question. He took a step toward Fool, one arm rising and the shimmering tongue of fire coruscated in the air, stretching out from his hand, and then Adam spoke again, saying only, “Balthazar.”

The angel whirled away and wordlessly lashed his wings out, banging both into the carriage. The vehicle bounced violently, lifting and then settling back onto its wheels with a metallic groan and a splintering of glass. There were new dents in its doors, and one of the windows wore a starred crack.

“I apologize for my companion,” said Adam, walking over to Balthazar, who was finally pulling his wings down, gathering them against his back and wrapping the smaller pair around his ankles, where they melted into his skin. The fire vanished again, leaving behind it an after-image of red embers, the memory of burning imprinted on the air. He did not turn as Adam came close to him, and did not flinch as a feather was pulled from one wing. Adam turned, bringing the feather to Fool and holding it out.

“Balthazar is, perhaps, overwhelmed to be here for the first time in the territory of the Great Enemy, and he forgets himself. Or rather, he remembers himself too much, remembers his role in the Above and forgets that an angel of Michael in Hell cannot act as he would in Heaven. He will learn, though, because whether he likes it or not, he and I and the rest of our delegation are your guests and must act accordingly,” he said, holding out the feather farther so that it danced, like the flame before it, in Fool's face.

“A symbol of our regret. Please, take it as a sign of your forgiveness,” Adam said.

Even detached from the wing, from its host, the feather glimmered with some internal glow. Flakes of light drifted away from the shaft, spun lazily, and then fell and landed on Adam's outstretched hand. Fool reached out, then hesitated. It was an angel's feather, and although he could feel no heat coming from it, he had the impression that it would burn him if he touched it, that its wonder was a raging, pure thing that would be too much for his Hell-born flesh to cope with.

“Please,” repeated Adam. His smile widened, and in his face Fool saw a kindness that would accept no denial, a compassion that had no end. The thought of standing against it was more terrifying than the thought
of taking the feather, even if its touch caused his flesh to burst into flame. Helpless, he reached out and grasped it.

It still shone, even after Adam let it go, but it did not burn; Fool looked at it wonderingly, waving it gently in front of his face. It left trails in the air, little constellations of light like the birthing of distant stars, and he couldn't help but smile. It was almost weightless, despite its size, and felt soft against his fingers.
To have these as a part of you
, he thought,
to know that these things
are
you, must be the most glorious sensation imaginable.
He waved the feather again, his eyes following the arc of glittering sparkles that it left behind. He felt he could look at it forever, be lost in its twinkling distances.
Little mesmerized Fool
, he thought, and then Adam said, “It is beautiful, is it not? Keep it, and may it bring you Heaven's truth. And now, please, we must go. There is work to be done. We have Elevations to decide upon.”

Carrying a feather from an angel's wing, Fool took the four angels into Hell.

The day began with Gordie, who knocked on Fool's door and entered the room without waiting. He bustled over to Fool, waving a blue-ribboned canister in front of him like a torch that had lost its light as Fool pulled himself up onto an elbow, rubbing one hand across eyes that were thick with sleep. He was pleased to see that in Gordie's other hand was a mug, steam curling out from it and bringing with it the smell of weak, thin coffee. Gordie set the mug down on the table by Fool's bed and said, “One came through. It's blue. I've never seen a blue before.”

Fool picked up the mug and sipped, glad of the heat of the coffee on his tongue even if the taste was buried beneath its scald. He twisted, careful not to spill his drink, and looked up at the high, small window, trying to work out from the light coming in around the grimy linen blind what time of day it was. Beams of gray, sickly illumination crawled across the wall at low angles, throwing shadows from right to left, meaning it was still morning. Escort duty hadn't finished until … when? Sometime between the bars starting to close and the factories starting to open, he thought. He had returned in darkness, that he remembered, although his eyes had populated the nighttime shadows with after-images of light, shifting and dancing at the corners of his vision. If it was still morning, he had had only a few hours' sleep. He groaned and sipped more of his coffee.

“It's blue,” said Gordie again, helpfully, holding out the canister, its tangle of blue ribbon hanging down in loops. “It's a blue, it's just arrived. I saw it was a blue; we never get them, so I thought I'd better bring it to you. I wouldn't have woken you otherwise, you know. It might be a Fallen.” As he spoke, Gordie was doing the thing he thought Information
Men should do, darting his eyes around the room and looking for things. For
clues
, although what they might be, Fool had no idea. His room was tiny, as all theirs were, and usually contained little other than his bed, a table, a small set of open-faced drawers, a rail for his smock shirts and trousers, and a tiny bookcase that held no books except for his
Information Man's Guide to the Rules and Offices of Hell.

Today, however, it also contained the feather.

Gordie saw it as Fool sat up fully and took the canister from his colleague's hand. The younger man's mouth fell open and his hands dropped to his sides and Fool smiled despite himself, despite the early morning and the lack of sleep, because Gordie looked, for the shortest moment, like a child, a thing of innocence and joy. There was awe on his face, and his skin looked clean and smooth, youthful, his eyes opening wide.

The feather was lying on the top shelf of the bookcase, alongside the
Guide
and Fool's gun, and it was beautiful. Curved, the shaft and barbs gleaming, it was perhaps a foot long and whiter than bone and it shivered lightly as Gordie walked toward it and reached out.

“Where …?” he started, and then stopped loosely. “Where …,” he started again and then, again, stopped. Fool didn't reply. He looked at the feather and his eyes watered mildly, as though the brightness of the previous day had returned to the room for a moment.

“It was a gift,” said Fool, “from one of the angels.” Even saying it made him feel foolish,
little silly Fool
, because in Hell no one received gifts.

“Can I?” asked Gordie and Fool nodded. His colleague lifted the feather, gasped slightly, and turned to Fool.

“It's beautiful, like Summer,” he said and then started, glancing down at the feather with a look on his face that Fool thought was almost suspicion.

“Yes,” Fool replied. What else was there to say? Gordie was still holding the feather and suddenly, sharply, he wanted him to put it down, to let it alone, so that he could pick it back up himself. He took another sip of his coffee and nodded at the tube.

“A blue?”

“A blue!” said Gordie, the excitement coming back to his voice. He placed the feather back on the bookcase and twisted the cap off the tube, emptying out the roll of paper from within.

“Let's see what we've got,” said Fool. “Let's see what Hell wants to show us today.”

The body bobbed facedown in the water about six feet out from the shore, snagged on a clump of branches and leaves. It spun as it bobbed, caught in eddies that sent the water at the lake's edge into choppy arrhythmia. Despite the dark oiliness of Solomon Water, it was obvious that the naked corpse was human; its skin was pale and torn, hanging in loose ribbons that exposed the darker meat of muscles and flesh.

“I saw it on my way to work,” the man by Fool was saying. “I mean, I saw the flash as I passed the lake, but I didn't see the body until a few minutes later.”