I'm the One Paying the Rent

The ARC general manager had commandeered the bed in my room, while the surveyor fellow had claimed the agency sofa.

I, the sole person actually paying rent, was left without a place to lie down. Orban laid a blanket beneath his desk, mumbling some nonsense about how taking catnaps was the hallmark virtue of a part-timer. Lacking the energy to argue, I simply crawled under.

The bastards from the Central Branch Security Section who had clashed with Section Chief Irina at the docks had likely returned to their headquarters by now. With Martin and me vanishing into thin air, it was only a matter of time before they placed this office back on their suspect list.

"Let's take two-hour night watches in shifts."

"I'll take the first watch, Sonya. Get some sleep."

Irina spoke as she dragged a wooden chair beside the back door. Her immense greatsword, tightly wrapped in gray cloth, stood propped against the wall within arm's reach.

"Right after I clean my gun."

I unholstered the Sermaize Revolver from my hip. Having fired five consecutive rounds against Irina back at the docks, thick soot from the black powder had caked the octagonal barrel and cylinder. Old Bram's nagging echoed in my ears—leave it like that for even a single day, and rust would claim the chambers.

I poured a splash of hot water from the kettle on the stove into a tin basin and spread a dry rag across the desk.

With the hammer drawn back to half-cock, I tapped out the barrel wedge. Black soot smudged my fingertips as I separated the barrel and slid out the cylinder.

Sitting across from me, Irina silently watched as I pushed an oiled cloth down the bore, scrubbing away the fouling. I cleaned all six chambers and applied a thin coat of clear oil to the cylinder axis pin.

Once the maintenance was finished, I reloaded. I filled five chambers with cartridges and left one empty.

I lowered the hammer over that empty chamber.

With a crisp mechanical click, I slid the revolver back into its holster at my waist, welcoming back its heavy, reassuring weight.

"Wake me up in two hours, Chief."

"Yes, of course."

I crawled beneath the desk, pulled up the blanket, and stretched out my stiff right leg. The muscle along my inner thigh throbbed with tension, but the moment I closed my eyes, my consciousness plummeted into the dark.

When my eyes snapped open, the wall clock read three in the morning.

Tossing aside the blanket, I got up. Irina was still sitting beside the back door, not even leaning against the backrest. Did she intend to spend the whole night like that?

"...Two hours passed long ago, didn't they?"

"You were sleeping so soundly that I decided to let you rest a little longer."

"Wake me next time. Having a part-timer make their superior work ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠overtime doesn't sit well with my conscience."

"Understood."

When I took the chair and sat in front of the back door, Irina didn't crawl under the desk. Instead, she laid her charcoal-gray trench coat on the floor beside the sofa, rested her back against the wall, set her greatsword down beside her, and gently closed her eyes.

"You're going to sleep like that?"

"I'm used to it."

The guards on night duty back at the facility used to doze off leaning against walls too, their hands leaping to their sidearms the instant anyone stirred. Irina was different. Her hands relaxed in her lap, and before long, her breathing settled into a steady rhythm. She slept better than I did.

Until dawn broke, not a single footstep disturbed the back alley.

Eight in the morning. The day began with the metallic clatter of the downstairs laundromat opening the doors of its coal-fired furnace.

The carriage driver from the transport corps, who had spent the night traveling to and from the telegraph office directly supervised by headquarters at Central Station, slipped in through the back door. From inside his coat, he produced a single slip of paper bearing a wax seal—a telegraph receipt.

It served as proof that the encrypted dispatch had been duly received by the Director of Headquarters Security Bureau. Unless it received expedited priority processing, the formal approved directive would take another day or two to arrive.

Boss Orban threw a coat over his vest and prepared to unlock the front door. From the inner room, Beltz watched through a crack in the door and called out:

"Do you still intend to open the office today, Mr. Orban?"

"Keeping the doors open as usual is the only way to avoid suspicion from their surveillance nets. I'll lock the door to your room, and I can handle turning away any walk-in clients."

That morning, a petty commission came in from a neighboring carpentry shop looking for a missing wheelwright. Orban dutifully recorded the advance of six copper coins into the ledger and saw the client off with practiced affability, promising to ask around the taverns the technician frequented.

And before noon had even arrived, what was bound to ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠come finally appeared.

The neat, rhythmic clicks of dress shoes echoed up the stairs. The front door swung open, and a young human male clad in a gray overcoat entered, clutching a black leather briefcase. Though not wearing a uniform, a glint of an ARC employee identification badge was visible just inside his lapel.

It was the accounting clerk from the Central Branch Finance Section, currently dispatched to the Security Section.

The official summons he presented bore an order for compulsory appearance: General Manager Beltz and Surveyor Martin were to report immediately to the branch interrogation office by 3:00 PM.

Irina took the document and cut in with a cool, detached tone.

"Both gentlemen have sustained severe injuries and are entirely immobile. If you send the necessary interrogation queries in writing, I, as a Section Chief of Headquarters Security Bureau, shall oversee the taking of their depositions."

"The Security Section Chief personally instructed me to verify their custody and physical condition with my own eyes."

"I will submit a physician's diagnosis and written opinion alongside it."

"I must at least confirm whether both individuals are physically present within this office before I can file my report."

Irina stared intently at the clerk's face for a few tense seconds before slowly pulling open the door to the inner room.

"Do not cross the threshold."

Martin lay on the sofa, his arm wrapped in bandages, while a pale Beltz sat propped against the pillows on the bed inside. The clerk scanned both faces rapidly, checking them against the descriptions listed on his documents.

Yet the clerk spent far longer looking at the windows than at the patients.

With shifty, snakelike eyes, he took in everything: the placement of the windows, the blind spots beneath the bed, the stacks of paperwork on the table, and the bolt mechanism on the back door leading into the hallway. Even as he departed, he paced his steps with unnatural regularity, like a man pacing out distances between the hallway and the stairs.

Irina drafted a formal notice of deferred appearance, stamped it with the headquarters seal, and handed it over. Without offering any further objection, the clerk gathered his briefcase and retreated down the stairs.

Click.

The instant the front door swung shut, I sprang up from my chair like a coiled spring.

"Chief, why the hell did you let that bastard look inside?"

"My protective order only prevents the branch from making an unauthorized arrest. Refusing even custody verification would give them an excuse to file for a warrant with the City Watch under charges of harboring fugitives."

"He didn't come to check on patients. On his way out, he was measuring the distance to the stairs and windows with his strides."

"...I saw."

Irina's eyes darkened, cold and sharp.

"The summons was a pretext. He came to scout the layout."

By afternoon, brazen rats began gathering in the alleys surrounding the agency.

The first was a fellow sitting at an outdoor table of the tavern across the street, nursing a single cup of lukewarm tea with a newspaper spread before him. He kept the exact same page open for hours, slipping a pocket watch from his coat to time the intervals whenever a City Watch patrol marched past.

The second was someone who dropped by the downstairs laundromat to leave a single shirt. He paid more attention to the iron door leading to the rear emergency stairs than to any stains on his laundry, lingering until the proprietress cursed him out and chased him off.

The third, appearing at dusk, was a fake chimney sweep clambering onto the roof of the warehouse opposite us. His cleaning gear was gleaming brand new, and not a single speck of soot stained his overalls. Prone beside the chimney, he squinted, using his fingers to gauge the drop distance between our second-floor window and the first-floor awning.

They're not just watching us, I thought. They're ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠calculating breach angles for tonight.

Boss Orban acted immediately.

Calling the laundry owner aside in secret, he slipped a few coins into the man's palm and warned him to send his children to sleep at a relative's house tonight and to extinguish the furnace fires early. Horrified, the owner rushed to evacuate his children.

On the second-floor landing, Orban placed two large tin buckets filled to the brim with water, plunging two heavy blankets deep into the soak—improvised fire-suppression blankets.

Once the sun dipped fully below the horizon, we extinguished even the gas lantern mounted on the agency's hanging sign.

I took the first watch. One by one, the alley's gas lamps flickered out, and the rumble of the water wheel below came to an absolute halt. Past midnight, the diner across the way barred its shutters, closing up for the night.

It happened right after the clock tower toll heavily chimed two in the morning.

Two City Watch guards on the night patrol passed through the alley, their whistles shrill. Exactly ten minutes after the rhythmic stomp of their boots faded toward the main boulevard—

Clink.

From the foot of the rear emergency staircase came the faint, ominous clinking of glass bottles knocking together. Soon after, the pungent, stinging reek of petroleum began creeping up through the cracks in the wooden steps.

Kerosene.

Here they come, the bastards.

Without making a sound, I rose from my chair and nudged the toe of Irina's boot with my foot where she lay on the floor beneath her coat.

Rustle.

Irina opened her eyes instantly.

I brought an index finger to my lips and pointed toward the back door. Grasping her greatsword, she woke Orban. Orban lifted Martin from the sofa and carried him into the inner room. He laid him on a blanket on the floor beside Beltz's bed, drew his sidearm, and shut the door behind him.

Scrape, scrape.

The sound of a thin strip of sheet metal sliding through the seam of the back door to jimmy the latch reached our ears. Pressing my back flat against the wall to the right of the door, I drew my Sermaize Revolver. Irina positioned herself at an angle opposite the entryway, smoothly unwinding the gray cloth from her greatsword.

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

Click!

The moment the latch bar lifted completely free—

I yanked my hand off the doorknob and slipped aside. Unable to check his momentum, the assailant leaning his shoulder against the wood pitched forward, tumbling heavily into the office!

"Guh?!"

Irina didn't draw her blade. Gripping the hilt with her right hand and supporting the scabbard with her left, she drove the heavy chape upward in a lightning-fast strike.

Thwack!

The intruder's jaw snapped backward with a sickening crack. Before the man even hit the floor, a second assailant following close behind shoved a short carbine forward over his shoulder.

A gun!

I tried to bring my revolver up to aim. But the stairwell was so cramped that through my front sight, the assailant's chest precariously overlapped with the hem of Irina's long coat.

Firing now risked hitting her.

No friendly fire on my watch!

I pulled my finger off the trigger, slammed the revolver back into its holster, kicked off the threshold, and launched myself down the stairs.

BANG—!

An ear-splitting gunshot shattered the tight corridor. The bullet tore through the top of the doorframe, spraying sawdust, an instant after the tip of Irina's scabbard thrust the muzzle toward the ceiling!

Her scabbard struck downward across his wrist. As the carbine clattered to the floor, her pommel slammed into his temple. She swung that massive weapon in the narrow confines of the hallway without even grazing the plaster.

As the man's knees buckled, I seized him by the collar and slammed him violently against the stairwell wall. His hefty, grown frame convulsed against the masonry.

"You crazy bitch...!"

He lashed out with his left fist, aiming for my face. Slipping my head back just enough to let it breeze past, I buried my fist straight into his solar plexus.

Thud!

I put only half my strength into it. Even so, his mouth gasped uselessly like a landed fish, unable to draw breath, before his eyes rolled back and he collapsed.

Just then, a third assailant charged up from below, brandishing a crowbar and sloshing a bottle of kerosene.

"Die!"

He raised the crowbar, swinging it down with vicious force. Irina glided down two steps, her jet-black hair whipping behind her shoulders like a dark lash.

Clang!

Angling her scabbard diagonally, she deflected the descending iron bar, sending it skittering off. As the crowbar scraped sparks against the exposed brickwork, Irina's left hand shot forward, driving the tip of the scabbard deep into his gut.

"Khhk!"

The attacker doubled over, and the glass bottle slipped from his fingers, smashing against the railing.

Crash!

A deluge of kerosene cascaded down the wooden steps and walls like a miniature waterfall.

And down at the very base of the staircase, a fourth figure crouched, a match flaring to life between his fingers with a hiss.

"Burn together, all of you!"

That crazy psycho!

Vaulting off the railing, I cleared four steps in a single bound. The muscle along my inner right thigh shrieked in sharp protest upon landing, but I ignored it.

Mid-swing, I caught the wrist attempting to fling the match.

Snap!

At the sickening crunch of bone, he thrashed wildly and kicked me hard in the ribs. The breath rushed out of me, my grip slackened, and the ignited match dropped into the kerosene-soaked floor.

WHOOSH—!

In an instant, crimson flames engulfed the landing, leaping knee-high.

"Fire! Fire! Hey, laundromat folks, get out here!"

At my roar, Irina whipped around halfway down the stairs, her dark hair tumbling over her shoulders.

"Step back!"

Irina grabbed one of the soaked, heavy blankets from the buckets on the landing with one hand and slammed it over the blaze. With a violent hiss of steam and smoke, the flames subsided slightly, and she pounded the blanket down with the flat of her scabbard, choking off the oxygen.

I snatched the second sodden blanket, hurled it against the flames licking up the wall, and stomped along the edges with my combat boots. Downstairs, the laundry owner and his workers sprinted up carrying buckets of furnace ash, shoveling heavy ash around the perimeter of the blankets.

Sssssss...

As thick black soot and choking smoke settled, the fire was finally quenched. The stairwell walls were blackened with char, but the fire hadn't spread to the building structure itself.

Four intruders lay sprawled across the stairs.

One knocked out cold from a shattered jaw, one gunman with a broken wrist, one wheezing for air after a strike to the solar plexus, and one match-lighter crawling on the floor with splintered wrist bones.

Irina checked their hands and called for rope.

While she bound their arms securely behind their backs, I squatted before the first unconscious thug and started ransacking his coat pockets without hesitation.

Four copper coins and a well-sharpened folding knife acquired. The coins vanished into my pocket; the knife tucked into my belt.

Looting the second gunman's pockets yielded seven coppers, half a pack of cigarettes, and five rounds of small-caliber handgun ammunition. As I reached for the bullets, Irina's slender hand shot out and snatched them away.

"Firearms and ammunition are vital pieces of evidence to be handed over to the City Watch."

"Oh, sure. By all means, keep the evidence."

I pocketed only the seven coppers and the half-pack of smokes. Pausing in tying the knots, Irina stared at me with pure bewilderment. Her brow furrowed as she looked at my bulging coat pockets.

"...Sonya, what on earth are you doing right now?"

"Farming."

"Farming...?"

"We worked hard to take down the mobs, so looting the drops is the unwritten law of the land."

"The unwritten law?"

Irina glanced between my bulging pockets and the fallen thugs. When I reached down to strip the battered leather boots off the third thug, she hurriedly caught my wrist.

"Please, leave the shoes alone."

"Tsk. They're too big for me anyway."

Abandoning the boots, I searched the inner coat pocket of the fourth thug who had tossed the match. Along with nine coppers, my fingers brushed against a sheet of paper folded several times over.

Unfolding it revealed a rough architectural layout of Orban Agency sketched in pencil. It displayed only the front door, the back door, and the interior view visible from where the clerk had stood at the threshold. None of the inner furniture had been drawn.

In the corner of the diagram, written in harsh black ink, was a scribbled directive.

When I handed the paper over, Irina immediately read the line concerning the notebook. Without bothering to fold it back up, she called out for Orban.

TWEEEEEEET—!

From out in the street, the piercing whistles of the City Watch began shrieking in sharp, frantic bursts.