Sam

  “Well, Sam, you've definitely been had, haven't you? You twat,” Sam said to no one, though he still managed to attract a few curious glances.

  The street Sam roamed seemed busy, cold, and weary in the morning of Ipness, just like any other start of the week in the great city of Candstone, capital of the Great Kingdom of Asprain, where all the powers and riches of the nation were found and jealously guarded, amid a labyrinth of concrete, human stench, and social indifference. Three million lives had to fend for themselves here, tightly packed in a sea of chimneys, but distant in thoughts and hearts. Sam hated Ipness, and Ipness in Candstone even more. The day always arrived after an exhausting weekend patrolling the dark corners of the city. This had been his sentence for three years since he joined the Metropolitan Police.

  Sam stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, ignoring the stares and complaints of passersby who evaded him, and studied the building in front of him. It was five stories high, and the ground floor served as a storefront, though the venue was currently vacant. The windows had been covered with newspapers, making it impossible to see the interior, and a sign hung on the front door that read: “Closed.” The place looked dirty, as though it had been abandoned long ago. The upper floors of the building, he imagined, were used as apartment units, just like the rest of the buildings that lined the street.

  Sam rolled up the newspaper he was carrying and put it under his armpit, then took a piece of paper from his trousers pocket and began to read it:

  Go immediately to Baker's Runners courier agency in Enfield, south of the city. You'll find the premises on Bow Avenue, near Hawley Street. For reference, Henry Fielding Square is two blocks away. Don't be late!

  Sam looked ahead: there was no name anywhere on the building. Then he looked to his right: Fielding Square was visible in the distance. He reread the note. Shit! Could it be that the sergeant gave me the wrong note? He thought bitterly.

  The man who sold him the newspaper, whose stand was near the square, helped him find the place, though he added that he was wasting his time—the company had gone bankrupt weeks ago, and the shop had closed. He recommended another courier service two blocks down. Sam barely heard him. The news hit him like a ton of bricks.

  Now what? Sam looked around. Should I forget everything and go home?

  Sam put the note away, grabbed the newspaper, and began beating his legs with it in rage as he paced back and forth in front of the empty shop like a madman. People walking along the sidewalk glanced at him and moved out of his way in fear. A panicked mother hurried her young child away from him. Two elderly women placed their hands on their hearts and prayed to the gods for protection. A burly man ignored his madness and strode defiantly toward him, chest puffed out, but then he lost his nerve when he saw Sam's mad eyes and face, dodging him at the last second.

  Sam cared nothing for what people would think of him. He was tired, hungry, and above all, sore. He just wanted to go home and collapse on his bed until evening. He would have done so right then and there if it weren't for the note he received from his sergeant, along with the order to obey it without any explanation. The man had practically rushed Sam out of the precinct; he barely gave him a chance to take off his uniform.

  The previous night's shift had been brutal. First, he had to deal with two individuals who, posing as vagrants, tried to break into one of the houses in his patrol area. The pair escaped, but the adventure proved costly, as they had to abandon their bag with all their gear behind. After that, he had to break up a fight outside a pub. Four men, with more alcohol than blood in their heads, were eager to eat truncheons and cement. It took ten constables to control the brawl. The alcohol seemed to have given the drunks superhuman strength. One of them knocked the wind out of Sam with a punch to the stomach, forcing him to his knees. Sam still remembered the pain as he rubbed his belly.

  A loud noise from inside the shop pulled Sam out of his tantrum, luring him to one of the windows to hear better. He heard hammers slamming the walls, saws cutting wood, and men shouting over the noisy uproar; it seemed that people were working inside, but the newspaper covering the windows frustrated his view. Sam jumped from one side to the other, his face pressed against the glass, trying to find a gap to see.

  The shop door burst open. A bald man with a thick mustache that covered his lips hurried out. He was of average height and wore a black coat and trousers. The stranger stood in front of Sam with his hands on his hips and looked at him with a grim expression.

  “What the hell is wrong with you, mister?!” the man shouted. "Your damn harassment is making the workers nervous. Do you want me to drag you out of here?"

  Sam trembled, startled by the man's furious and commanding voice, and took a step back. He was going to apologize, but then he remembered that he was a constable, an officer of the law, and therefore deserved respect, even though the other man had every right to be upset. But he was tired, and his head wasn't thinking straight at the moment.

  “Wait a minute!” Sam said in a loud, authoritative voice. “Don’t you dare to shout at me, or we’ll see.”

  “What do you want? Who are you?” the man asked, ignoring Sam’s warning.

  Sam smiled and lifted his chin. “I'm a law enforcement officer, and my business here is none of a civilian's concern.”

  The bald man looked surprised. “So you’re a policeman. But I imagine you’re just a constable, seeing as you still have a baby face.”

  “Constable or not, I have authority. And I expect you to respect it, or else—”

  “Or else what?’ the man asked defiantly, taking a step forward. “So young and already messing with the badge. What’s your name, rookie?”

  Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  "Rookie?" Sam muttered.

  The man opened his coat, revealing a badge pinned to his waistcoat. “Detective Inspector Noel Fletcher, Candstone Metropolitan Police. At your service.”

  Sam's face went blank. His mouth trembled. He had screwed up.

  “Crimson eyes, light brown hair, and in good shape,” Noel said, examining him from head to toe. “You must be the one we were missing: Sam Read, right?”

  “Y-yes, sir,” Sam said, lowering his head.

  “You’re late.”

  “I-I’m sorry, sir. The transport was slow. Is this the place?”

  “It is. Couldn't you get a two-wheeler and tell the driver to hurry up the horses?”

  “I don’t have money for a cab, sir.”

  “Cheap bastards; they couldn’t even lend you some money.” Noel snorted. “Forget it, lad. It’s not a big deal. Come on, follow me inside.”

  Noel led Sam through the interior of the shop towards the back, where green sofas were arranged in a corner and stairs leading to the other floors lay near them. A girl, reading a small book, occupied one of the sofas. She stood up when she saw them arrive.

  “This is your partner, Ruby White. Miss White, this is Sam Read,” Noel said, trying to speak over the noise of the workers remodeling the place. They had removed all the old furniture and were now tearing down walls and ripping floorboards. It was hard to think with all the racket.

  Sam gave a slight bow to the girl, and so did she.

  “I apologize for making you wait here, miss,” Noel said, “but there aren’t any chairs to sit on upstairs yet.”

  "No problem, sir," Ruby said with a gentle smile. She wore a blue plaid blouse and a long black skirt. Her face was pale and adorned with minimal makeup, just enough to enhance her natural beauty. A white lace tied her long brown hair, and a silver necklace adorned her slender neck. She smelled lovely. Her perfume reminded Sam of oranges and flowers.

  “Excuse me, sir, but where are we?” Sam asked. “The note they gave me said this is a courier agency.”

  “I know—I wrote it myself,” Noel replied. “Unfortunately, the agency went bankrupt not too long ago; they couldn’t handle the competition, although rumors on the street say they fell ‘cause they provided a very poor service. In any case, these will be our new offices from now on. The government bought the building at a bank auction.”

  “We’ll finally have a place of our own,” Ruby said as she looked around.

  “That’s right, miss. Although it still needs a lot of work before it’s ready. Well, now that we’re all here, it’s time to go see the director,” Noel said. “He and the deputy director are eagerly awaiting us upstairs.”

  “Will we meet the director, sir?” Ruby asked, her voice betraying her astonishment.

  “But of course, miss. The job they have prepared for you two is extremely important. The director wants to make sure, through an interview, that you can handle the task. Come on, let's not waste any more time; the man is known for having a bad temper.”

  Sam and Ruby followed Noel silently through the stairs until they reached the last floor of the building. The stairs left them at the beginning of a corridor, with doors on both sides and a couple of windows at the end, the only source of light in the place. It looked like the typical floor of an apartment building, except that the doors did not have number plates, but names. Noel kept walking and stopped at the last door next to the windows. Sam looked at the street below and the people and carriages passing by. Two blocks to the left was Henry Fielding Square. He remembered the man who sold him the newspaper, imagining him in his little stall across the street, opposite the square, surrounded by customers buying coffee and penny pies as well as newspapers. A clear sky covered the city.

  "Here we are," Noel said, glancing at Sam and Ruby. The door in front of them had a brass plaque that read: "George Smith, Director."

  George Smith… I’m finally going to meet the man, Sam thought. Reading that name felt like taking an icy shower on a cold Derator morning, after enduring a hard shift. He gripped his hands, trying to contain his nerves. I wonder if the others have already met him. He remembered his old campmates. He hadn't seen them since the camp ended and he joined the police force.

  “Nervous, miss?” Noel asked.

  “I won’t lie that I am, sir.”

  “I believe you’ve seen them both before, but never spoke to them, correct?”

  “Yes,” Ruby answered.

  “Over there it’s the Deputy Director's office, if you are curious.” Noel pointed at the closest door. The plaque on it read: ‘Christine Walls, Deputy Director.’ “She doesn’t like the title. She thinks it is a fancy name for a secretary.”

  “But I like the title,” Ruby said, staring at the plaque.

  Is the deputy director a woman? Sam raised his eyebrows. In the Metropolitan Police, there were no female officers or anything with authority held by a woman. They were usually found working as secretaries, police matrons, or domestic staff. He found the novelty somewhat interesting.

  “Why were we called here, sir?” Sam asked.

  “It was George's idea. Your target is currently in the city, but tomorrow morning it will leave for Luton, and we want you two to follow it. That's why you've been summoned here so urgently. George wants to talk with the two of you personally before you leave.”

  “But what about my work, sir?” Sam asked. “If I don’t report back at the station, I could get in trouble.”

  “Don’t worry about that—you’re no longer part of the police. You’ve been officially transferred to our division since yesterday. Welcome back home, Mr. Read.”

  Sam became stunned. “B-but, why didn’t anyone tell me any of this?”

  “George will explain it to you,” Noel said with a shake of his head. “Before we get inside, I need to first give you some rules which I recommend you two to follow. George is a very delicate person. His short temper makes him hard to work with.” He raised a finger.

  “First: mind your manners before him. Sit straight and speak clearly. No slang or swear. Second: don’t talk unless he allows you. If you think he’s wrong, or you have something to add, you must wait for him to give you the word. Third: be honest. If you don’t want to ruin your future with us, we need to know we can trust you. And last and more important: don’t say anything about the smoke. Never! You’ll earn his ire if you complain about his hobby. Have I reached you both?” He glared at them.

  “Yes, sir,” they both said.

  The man’s moustache wiggled; he was smiling. “But don’t be afraid of him. He might look intimidating, but he doesn’t bite, I swear. Although if you forget what I just told you, and act like fools, he will crush you both into dust, then smoke you with his pipe, as if you were made of tobacco. So better be careful in there with what you say.” He opened the door.

  “Now, go in, you both. Oh, before I forget, let me give you one last suggestion: be very careful of the woman—watch where she puts her hands. Don’t blink. Keep your eyes always open, or you might never see it coming.” He laughed, dark and threatening. He pushed Sam and Ruby inside and went after them.