Torrin decided Mallough was far less neglected and cared for than Broom's Town. But equally as contrived, one of those country towns that only exists to be slightly nicer than another one near it. Here they cleaned the walls it seemed.
Arron mentioned something about mining there in his last message. Along with more information.
They were finally going after the Blind-Mute, his personal name for him.
Reporters called him the blind prophet or something, Torrin thought that was pretentious. Probably wrong also, he took a passing interest before he left and figured it was probably an immigrant.
The state had not done well caring for them, half the outer city was still basically a ghetto. Not to mention the animosity of capital residents.
He'd heard the killer was rather artistic, with his victims. Now that was Torrin's speed. Not whatever this was.
Rebekah was probably in that case too. He hated that, she always got the best jobs.
Not that he could complain, he owed her everything. He smiled at that, as benevolent and motherly as she could be, she was never the hero type.
Besides, Torrin had another job.
—
"Could have killed the bishop a bit quieter." He'd just about finished talking from the driver's seat, before Torrin pulled the pistol he'd hidden in his luggage to the back of his head.
"Explain quickly." Torrin hissed. "My finger may slip."
The older man chuckled but there was no humour in it.
"And how would you get to the mission? Walking." Torrin stayed silent. But he wasn't wrong.
They had found that he was probably best never getting behind the wheel again earlier that day.
"Who are you? Laurence." Torrin leaned back, put distance between him and the man in case he went for the gun.
"Laurence is my name if that makes you feel better." The older man said with a sigh. "I'm your handler."
"Handler?" Torrin asked, honestly bemused.
"Yeah, handler." Laurence said, apparently feeling comfortable enough to look at Torrin now.
"Ain't that getting heavy?" He asked, nodding at the gun.
It was. The gun was a lever action pistol, ancient by standards of weapons, still used balls not shells. Arron gave it to him for a job, he'd pretended he'd lost it.
He lowered the gun reluctantly.
"And why would I need one?" He asked, irritation clouding his mood.
"Torrin." He said frankly. "Three months ago you blew up a mail office." Torrin went to say something but was cut off. "Four before that you threw a chancellor in Arkon off his balcony."
Maybe he had a point.
"I'll be honest. I was sent with you to kill you." Gun back up. Then gone ripped out of Torrin's. He could barely see the motion.
"If." He wagged the gun in front of him. "You exposed us." Tossed the weapon onto Torin's lap, who immediately panicked. The safety was not on.
"Wasn't that Arron's gun?" Laurence asked.
Torrin only looked at him exasperated. The older man only laughed.
"Don't worry I've 'borrowed' a few things off him too." He said as he went to carry on driving. "He always had a great eye for firearms."
"Weapons in general." Torrin said from his place in the back. Looked out the window, more hills.
"I'm guessing your part of the Conclave?" The younger man asked as the engine thrummed back to life.
"Kid." He said, bemused. "I helped build it."
"I'm twenty eight, Laurence."
"Exactly." He said, then laughed.
"You helped build it?" Torrin asked only just catching on, tapping the repeater against his shin, crouched on the seat. Childish almost.
"I was an MP at the time Arron started doing." He paused, not sure how to describe it. "Whatever he does." Torrin snickered at that. It was common knowledge to agents. The biggest mystery of their organisation was its founder.
"I leaked information to him, advised him in his early days." Laurence said proudly. Jovial expression baffling Torrin.
Torrin accepted that answer.
"Got any idea what my cover will be?" He asked his mentor's mentor.
"That's the second reason I'm with you." He said. "Town up ahead, you will learn more there."
—- the next day —-
"An MP?" Torrin asked once in their hotel room again. "In what universe do I look like one of those bints."
"I'm a bint now am I?" Laurence asked, brows raising.
"A retired one." Torrin chimed in. They had gotten the suit in a black case. A large C painted in copper on the face.
"What have you learnt about military police?" His new mentor asked.
Torrin listed off his fingers. "Generally boosted from private by parents, usually pompous, mostly arrogant, pragmatic to their credit." He went on.
"Not so different from you, then. you'll be fine." He said, smiling snidely.
"What do you mean?" The younger man asked, glancing at the uniform as if it were something evil.
"Act like yourself and for once things might go well." Lawrence said. "I'm only here to tell you enough to get through drinks with other officers."
"Code words and shit?" Torrin asked.
"More of what officers' school was." Laurence explained as if to a child. Irritation welling.
"How best to arch your back to better take your superior's fat co—." Torrin started. Laurence hurled himself up, strode to Torrin and slapped him harder than anyone had before. It was loud, flat, final like a thunderclap.
"Cut the remarks now." He barked, no longer caring who heard next door. "We have a job to do, you're going to listen.
Torrin put his hands up in a half surender.
"You have a job here also, the telegram will bring information once again." It was a rule of the Conclave that only the agents necessary for the job knew the details. "But bear in mind Torrin. My orders are still on. You fuck this up somehow, you won't leave this town." He took a step back, breathed deeply.
"If all goes well and you've been reading that book." Laurence continued, all tension gone. "Then we will be there in a week or so. Job should take a couple months."
"Months?" Torrin asked, it wasn't an unusual amount of time for a job. But for a job like translation he figured.
With that unnerving conversation over, Torrin went to the local station.
It had no nice furniture. At least not like the ones from Broom's Town. One thing he could appreciate about the place.
But like Broom's town its buildings were of concrete.
all bloody concrete.
That didn't bother Torrin, he just thought it was ugly. He wondered how people found god in that disgusting perfectionist architecture. The idea was that perfectionism represented order, order to remind those of their place. The church labelled it perfectionistic architecture Torrin thought it was far too brutal for that.
Another old lady spoke as he entered, this time with all her fingers, a mark of a richer town. Torrin pressed his thumb to another builder's mark, this one a female depiction of a marionette. Then was on his way, returning to the hotel past concrete buildings, some painted even.
He assumed now that wall painting must have been a pre existing tradition on the steppe and in the border towns. less priests to complain of the unsightliness of visual expression.
He took a right out of the square, this one without a monolith. In fact Torrin noticed how little iconography there was, inquisition probably died seventy years ago. by Torrin's estimate. He had learnt ironically little of history, though.
He wondered at the inquisition now. The curiosity of using violence and cruelty to instil holiness. The hypocrisy of his hatred for him did the same thing.
Fear was almost as powerful a tool as a god, almost. For love will always overcome fear.
The job itself was a simple one. Pass a package to another person who'd take said package south. People had been trying to track Arron's mail Torrin assumed. But what would he be sending south?
It didn't matter either way. Torrin cared little as what it was probably advanced their goal.
—-
Laurence barged into the room throwing down maybe six large files on a desk in the corner of the room, he was dressed like an auditor.
"Four children hung from their windows, all paraplegics. All put down as suicides." He told Torrin. Who's expression went from confused amusement to horror as fast as the man had said.
Torrin's feelings flashed across his face and were gone. Anger, then vague pity.
"My heart breaks for them." Torrin said, genuinely meaning it, to Laurence's apparent astonishment.
"But how does it relate?" He asked, putting another cigarette in his mouth.
He threw a document over to him. Dated 13-NE. New Empire Calendar. Looked like it hadn't been touched in that amount of time, dusty and frayed as its rims and the faces were almost clean. He opened it and started reading. Orphanage records.
"Deaths were post Conclave, only a year ago. Manager of the orphanage retired six months after, and died two months ago." Laurence filled him in. "Back then they used to give grants to orphanages when kids died, to help take their minds off it all."
"I'm sorry, what exactly led you to this?" Torrin asked, starting to grasp half of it.
"Arron asked me to have a look into it. Don't know how he found this." Laurence mumbled to himself as he pulled out a bunch of documents, sat down on the chair. pulled out a pair of glasses.
"Reckon he took the grants and left?" Torrin asked, falling onto his wooden bed, pulling out more files. "Didn't most of that money get stolen anyway? It was one of their more obvious cons." He flicked through photos, a couple from ground level. None of them could have been older than thirteen.
"Yes and yes." Laurence said. "Main reason why the church gave them out was to encourage the liquidation." He continued, mumbling, eyes down again. "And these payments are far bigger than they'd ever need."
"orphans are not absolved from the builder's wrath." Torrin mumbled, then said. "plus this way they could make their benefactors into contributors, make them donate large sums back to clear suspicion." Torrin said, staring at the roof, watching the smoke pirouette.
"How does a small town have four anyway? Children no less."
"There is a Tungsten mine three miles west." Laurence told him, hurling their map at him from a desk in the corner. "Most likely there will be some kinds of accidents there."
"Didn't know the state still allowed children in factories." Torrin mumbled as he tried to find the place on the map, tapping his cigarette behind a cabinet. Laurence promptly hurled a coaster at him, implication taken.
"They don't." Larence said. Getting up from his seat he turned on his heels. "Plus whoever they had her would never expect us to come. That's where we're going first."
Torrin nodded. "Let me grab my coat."