Chapter 12 – Hangover from Hell

Mas gasped and rolled over. His head hit something hard. He’d been dreaming of hands tight around his throat. He supposed that was because he’d been snoring. His bed felt much harder than usual. And it smelled of wood, not cloth. He rubbed his temple where he’d just bashed it. Not in bed but on the floor next to it. His tongue felt thick. Jacket. Where was his jacket? Did he leave it in the Bocado? He sniffed. The smell of stale alcohol and all kinds of flavors of smoke. Mas tried to stand. Both legs ached like hell. His arms weren’t much better. Had he been dancing last night? He had. Gods, he must have been drunk. He remembered having his arms around someone. Minu, the serving girl. Had he danced with her, too? Had there been kissing?

He sat up, briefly contemplated the idea of brewing his own racta, then thought better of it. If he needed to go to the Bocado anyways, in search of a missing jacket, he could just as easily get racta there, and maybe see if anyone had dried any of that fish from last night. Mas stumbled to his door and walked down the stairs into the work-span.

Everything was quiet. No sound of the market, or sellers, fights or Tinkralas singing praise to their odd God. Even the air was still. Mas walked to the end of his road and turned into Bocado Street. He twitched his whiskers to get a better Air-sense. Then twitched them again. The street outside the Bocado was crowded with folk. But everyone was almost quiet, a faint rumble of mumbled conversation was the most there was. It was like a reenactment of the previous evening’s proceedings, but with little sound or movement. The crowd was thick in the small clearing outside the bar, and he needed to force his way in. As he did, people who recognized him by scent started to mutter his name: “Mas”, “Teller Mas is here”. It seemed to precede him pushing through the folk to get to the doors, like a bow-wave. When he reached the swing doors of the bar, he didn’t need to announce himself. There was total silence.

Once a constable let him in, the other side of the bar doors was a clear open room, with bar furniture much the same way he had left it last night, with two or three folk pottering about. There was no smell of food or racta, only a stronger concentration of the smells that hung to him: sticky alcohol and tobacco and blood. So much blood. One of the folk he’d clearly mistaken for a constable was not moving at all. Sat upright, back to the bar, legs out in front, leaning slightly to the left on a chair. It was the source of the blood. He dragged himself forward to Air-sense better, but found he was starting to feel too dizzy for that. He stood still to stop himself falling, and another smell drifted up from the floor. Minu, the serving girl. Gods.

Mas felt a hand on his shoulder. The gentle touch enough to tip the balance in him, and he fell to his knees. He could feel a presence either side of him. One was Knia, competent and quiet, the other side, with a gentle hand supporting his side was Yayu of the Midwives. No-one seemed to have washed from last night.

“When did you leave the bar last span, Mas?” said Knia quietly.

“I don’t—” Mas heard his own voice, but it wasn’t like him speaking.

“I’m sorry, Mas, I’ve got to ask you.”

“I don’t remember.”

“Do you remember anything from last night?” Knia asked.

“I remember eating and drinking and dancing, I guess.”

“What was the last thing you remember?”

“Dancing with Minu.”

“And what did you do then?”

“I told you, I don’t remember.”

“And where did you stay last night?”

“I was… at home… I woke up at home.”

“I’ve got to ask you—”

“I know. Ask.”

“Did you—?”

“No. I was— I liked her. Gods, she was too young to—”

“I know. Hey for what it’s worth, none of us think—”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Thanks. It means… something.”

Something wafted across and tickled Mas’ nose. Someone had one of those damned old pipes again. The smell was cropping up everywhere.

“Hey, Knia,” Mas said.

“Yeah?”

“None of your lot have taken up pipe smoking, have they?”

“What? No. All too young. Why d’you ask?”

“I keep smelling it about, it’s driving me crazy.”

“Not us. One of your friends?”

“No one I know, these days,” he took a deep breath slowly through his nose, turning gently as he did so. The smell was gone now. “I seem to be running out of friends.”

“Hey, Mas,” the midwife on duty called him. “Mas!” She had to come all the way across the crime scene and poke him. She was carrying something. She was new, too. He hated it when someone knew his name first. “You want this jacket back? Or can I keep it?”

“Isn’t it—?”

“Evidence? No. I’ve been right over it. Not a stain or smell on it, ‘cept it’s been here. No blood, no fluids. It’s clean. Even your ‘toy’ in the pocket, not opened.”

“Oh, sorry,” he said.

“It was a bit of a surprise when it went off. I dropped it and nearly speared my foot. Oh, and it’s not the murder weapon,” the midwife had a gruffer voice than the last trainee. “She was strangled.” Mas was going to ask her name but somehow forgot. He found himself fingering his throat.

“Shreds,” said Mas.

“What?” asked the midwife.

“Knia!” Mas called out, she’d gone to the far side of the room. He ran over to where he heard the grunt in reply, but round the edge of the room to avoid disturbing the scene.

“What?” she said. “We’re busy here and I’ve said you’re not a suspect. Now take your stuff and beat it.”

“But what if it’s me?”

“Are you confessing, you head-case?” said the constable, now sergeant, Don-po, popping his head up from sweeping with a tiny brush.

“No. I said. I didn’t kill her. But what if it’s about me?”

“Ego much?” said Knia.

“No, listen, what if all of this is for my benefit?”

“Why? Who?” Knia sounded cross at the idea.

“I don’t know.” He found his hands at his throat again. Maybe he did know. All his instincts were saying ‘past’. Somewhere back there. Way back with the River-folk. “You sure you don’t need me?”

“No, why?”

“I’m gonna leave town for a few spans. I’ve got a theory, but I need to find someone.”

“’Kay. Check in the moment you get back.”