“Don’t be late for breakfast, then,” said Luana Lei, directing an emerald wink at Ruban even as her hand connected with Ashwin’s behind in a sharp little smack. The Aeriel giggled, and Ruban groaned. Watching Ashwin Kwan in action had been strange enough when he thought the man was real. Watching the Prince of Vaan giggle nervously after being spanked by the owner-cum-manager of their little bed and breakfast was nothing short of surreal.

A part of him hoped Safaa didn’t have any spies in the vicinity.

A direct train to Ibanborah being unavailable before the weekend, they had decided on an overnight stay at Daranj, a little town on the border of Ibanta, before boarding a local train to the state capital the next morning. And this was only after Ruban had firmly – and at one point rather aggressively – rejected Ashwin’s blithe offer to fly them directly into the city.

“That woman’s infuriating,” the Hunter snapped, throwing his damp towel over the backrest of the nearest chair as the door swung shut behind their hostess. “I almost wish she was an Aeriel so I could skewer her with a clear conscience, no offence to you.”

“None taken. And she isn’t so bad,” Ashwin smirked. “This place certainly delivers on the promise of ‘personalised service’, if nothing else.”

Ruban frowned. “You shouldn’t be encouraging her. I’m not sure your sister would appreciate you getting distracted on the mission and spawning the next generation of hell-raising vankrai with the local hospitality staff.”

Ashwin doubled over, tears running down his face as he shook with spasmodic laughter. Ruban had to suppress the urge to slap a hand over his mouth, lest somebody hear them. Now that he knew what he was looking at, he found it hard to believe he hadn’t noticed it before. There was something innately inhuman about that laughter – both Ashwin’s and Safaa’s. Like an orchestra of temple bells. It would be impossible to miss for anyone paying the slightest amount of attention.

Not that he had ever heard an Aeriel laugh before. The ones he had had the displeasure of meeting – before Ashwin came along – certainly hadn’t been known for their sense of humour. He supposed few mortals living could really claim to know what a laughing Aeriel sounded like, which was probably the only thing keeping Ashwin from a sif-lined cell in Jahagrad.

Not that he truly believed Jahagrad could hold Shwaan for long, unless he wanted it to. If he ever had to take the Aeriel prince down, Ruban knew he would just have to kill him. “Safaa wasn’t kidding when she said discretion wasn’t your strong suit, was she?”

“My sister rarely ‘kids’ about anything, and would be mighty offended if she knew you had accused her of such a thing,” Ashwin gasped, finally pulling himself together. “Come on, we don’t want to keep the lovely Luana waiting, do we now?”

Rolling his eyes, Ruban followed the Aeriel down the stairs and into the common dining hall.

***

The dining hall was big, sparsely decorated with mismatched curtains and generic prints of rural scenery on the walls. The dining table – a humongous weather-beaten ten-seater – was covered with a table-cloth that had once been white. Now it was a tapestry of coffee and curry stains occasionally intermingled with what Ruban suspected might have been baby puke. The scent of stale tobacco permeated the air, coalescing strangely – though not unpleasantly – with that of freshly baked Southern bread.

Six people, including their libidinous hostess, sat at the table, helping themselves to bread and watery tadka. Three of them were middle-aged men, business travellers in sensible suits carrying large briefcases. The other two were women. One was a local lady of about sixty – she had hazel eyes and umber skin, which led Ruban to believe she was a native of the state. Being just a short boat-ride away from Kanbar, Ibanta hosted a lot of immigrants, and consequently saw a far greater incidence of green eyes and darker skin amongst its citizenry than the rest of the country.

The other was a young woman, little more than a teenager, with lanky brown hair and a face that looked like it had just recovered from a vicious outbreak of pimples. She was reading a book that looked to be almost double her weight as she shovelled bread-wrapped tadka into her mouth. There could have been a dead mouse in her food and Ruban didn’t think she would have noticed. One of the aspirants for the civil services exams scheduled for the end of the month, he supposed.

“Ruban, my dear young man! Do come in. Have a seat,” Luana exclaimed the moment they stepped into the hall, her voice brimming with far more cheer than Ruban thought the occasion warranted. “My lord,” she turned to Ashwin, her enthusiasm undiminished. “Take a seat. Have some tadka. It’s our speciality, you know. You’ll find nothing like it in all of Vandram.”

If Ashwin doubted the veracity of this tall claim, he gave no indication of his misgivings, seating himself primly to Luana’s right and giving her one of his beatific smiles. “Ah yes, I’m sure. It smells wonderful,” he said, his speech slightly warped by the heavy Zainian accent that Ruban couldn’t remember having heard until that moment. He leaned slightly closer to Luana. “And please, call me Ashwin. Vandram is such a lovely country, with such lovely people. I’m quite in love with it. It feels like a home away from home, doesn’t it? So let’s not allow such formalities to come between us.”

Luana all but swooned, which made Ruban feel vaguely sorry for her, but not enough to suppress the snicker that rose unbidden to his lips. He snatched a napkin from the table and pretended to dab at his mouth with it, seating himself opposite their hostess.

As Luana ladled steaming tadka onto his plate, Ashwin directed a winning smile at her and said with the air of nonchalant, touristy curiosity: “And you were saying something about a body…”

“Oh, so you heard that, did you?” Luana shook her head, although her eyes lit up in a way that made Ruban think she wasn’t as crestfallen at having been overheard as she would have them believe. “Not the kind of thing you want to talk about with guests to the country, now is it? It’s quite true, though. They’ve found a body upriver. Near Chetla, I think it is. Happened just the day before yesterday, if I’m not mistaken. Quite the shock, as I’m sure you can imagine, my lord – ah, I mean Ashwin.” Ruban would never have thought a simple two-syllable name could be enunciated with so much subtext, but somehow, Luana managed it. “I was just saying to Geeti,” she nodded at the hazel-eyed, elderly woman seated to Ruban’s left. “What a shame it is that such things are happening in Ibanta now. It used to be so peaceful here back when I was a girl. Nothing but boats and fishermen. And of course, the foreign traders passing by on their way to Ragah and the central cities.”

“It’s all these tourists,” the old woman said, biting into her bread rather aggressively. “Time was, there’d only be tourists in the winter, for the pilgrimage. But now they’re here all the time. Like bugs. Drinking and gambling and making a disgraceful mess everywhere they go. Of course you have bodies turning up all over the place! What else can you expect, with all these tourists?”

“Oh Geeti, I do think you’re being too harsh,” Luana said, shooting Ashwin an apologetic glance. “They’re not all bad.”

“This probably had nothing to do with the tourists anyway,” said one of the men, taking a sip of his coffee. He was dressed conservatively in a dark green coat that fell below his knees and loose black trousers. Heavy, black-rimmed spectacles sat uneasily on his wide, stubby nose. “As likely as not, it was the gangs. Apparently, the man was stabbed, then dumped in the river. And his eyes were burned out when they found him. Acid, they say. That’s a premeditated murder if ever there was one, not just some random bar-brawl gone wrong.”

Looking up from her book, the young woman shuddered. “Eyes burned out with acid? Who’d do something like that?”

“The gangs do it sometimes,” said Ruban, sitting back in his chair. “When they think somebody needs to be taught a lesson, or to send a message to a rival gang. That sort of thing. Or, of course, if they’ve managed to find a new source for their raw material.”

“You think this has got something to do with the feather trade?” the girl asked curiously.

“Everything in this part of the country has something to do with the feather trade,” said the man in the green coat. “It’s bloody ubiquitous.”

“Well, at least it’s not as bad as it used to be,” said the man sitting beside him, sporting a more casual, waist-length maroon jacket over a long, cotton tunic. “They’ve become more organised over the years. Certainly far better than when I was living here. Still, I’d never heard of anything like this happening in Chetla before. It was one of the few neighbourhoods in Ibanborah untouched by the gangs. Had the most beautiful houses too.”

Ruban hummed. “Not that I ever lived in Ibanta for any length of time, but I did spend some of my summers in Chetla as a kid. My father’s grandmother was from Ibanborah, and I think her family left her the house in Chetla. Baba used to visit the place every few years for maintenance and stuff. It really was a beautiful house. And so far as I can remember, it used to be a pretty quiet neighbourhood, though it’s been a while since I last saw the place.”

“Ah, so you have Ibantian blood?” said Luana, her lips quirking upwards. “That explains a lot.”

Ruban raised an eyebrow.

“Ibanta produces handsome men,” said their hostess, raising one shoulder in a careless shrug. “What can I say? It’s just a fact.”

“What are you called then, young man?” the woman called Geeti asked, leaning forward with some interest. “I spent a few years in Chetla myself, before my marriage.”

“Ruban. Ruban Kinoh,” he said with what he hoped was a friendly smile.

The old woman tilted her head to one side. “Kinoh…Kinoh. Ah yes, big house by the river. How odd,” she said, squinting doubtfully at Ruban. “I’d have expected you to be older. What’s that no-good brother of yours doing these days?”

Luana laughed. “I think you’ve got the wrong Kinoh there, my dear Geeti. I do believe this is Abhas’s son, aren’t you dear? Your father used to be quite the sensation in these parts back in the day, you know.” She smiled, a faraway look in her eyes. “I do hope he’s doing well.”

Now that Ruban thought about it, Luana couldn’t have been much younger than his father. She was fifty if she was a day. “He...ah. He passed away a few years ago, I’m afraid,” he said, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. This was not a conversation he wanted to have. Not now, and definitely not here.

Luana’s face crumpled, and for a moment he feared she was going to cry. She didn’t, though. She simply sat still for a few seconds, her eyes bright. Then she smiled a watery little smile at Ruban, dabbing at the corners of her eyes with a tissue. “Oh,” she said after a moment. “Oh, I am so sorry to hear that, I am. He was a good man, your father. A very nice man. Of course I was only a girl when he left for the capital to be a bigshot officer,” she laughed. “He never did like being cooped up in a small town, that one. And then Subhas went after him, following in big brother’s footsteps. I can hardly believe it’s been so many years since I last saw either of them.”

“Y-you knew my father?” Ruban stammered, staring wide-eyed at Luana. He supposed he looked like an idiot, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.

Luana nodded. “Of course. My mother worked at the Kinoh House, way back in the day. Prettiest house in Chetla it was too, less than a five-minute walk from the river. Still is, I’d say. All these great modern buildings with their chrome and glass exteriors. They look like bloody great mirrors, in my opinion. And ugly to boot. I’d take a cosy little old-fashioned villa any day over all this modern rigmarole. Well, your father left for Ragah soon after my mother passed away, and then Subhas went after him. I got married and moved out here to Daranj the year after they left. It’s strange, isn’t it? How quickly time goes by. I remember them all like I saw ‘em yesterday.”

Ruban frowned. “My father…he went to Ragah?”

“He did, indeed. He’d gotten a scholarship to that Hunter training school in the capital. Bracken, it’s called, isn’t it? Yes that’s it,” she nodded, a hint of pride in her voice. “He’d always wanted to study there. Although everyone said that it was almost impossible to get in. Not that that was going to stop Abhas, of course. He got a full scholarship too; I remember that day as clearly as if it was only last week. It was just before Mummy got sick. And then he took Subhas with him to Ragah a couple of years later. I believe he went to Bracken as well.”

“Well, couldn’t have been that hard to get in then, could it?” scoffed Geeti, taking a derisive bite of her bread. “Not if that no-good boy got in.”

Luana laughed. She seemed to have gotten over some of her melancholy. “Subhas wasn’t that bad. I always think he only acted out sometimes because everybody kept comparing him to his brother. Couldn’t have been easy, that.

“Still, ‘tis a very pretty lady that lives in the Kinoh House now. A relative of yours, is she? Don’t remember having seen her around here before. Now that’s a lady pretty enough for that beautiful old house, I always say to Lidan. That’d be my son, of course.”

“A lady? At the Chetla house?” Ruban repeated, his brow furrowing in surprise. “Uncle Subhas never told me he was planning to sell the house…though I guess it’s just as well. Not like there’s anyone to look after the place anyway.”

“Ah, so you don’t know her then?” said Luana, collecting their plates. “That’s a shame.”

“Well,” began Ashwin, rising to take some of the utensils from their hostess, despite her protests. Ruban had almost forgotten the Aeriel was still there. “I suppose it can’t hurt to go and introduce ourselves, if she’s as stunning as you say she is. Wouldn’t you agree, Ruban?”

***

Ibanborah looked like it was in the middle of a festival. But then, Ibanborah always looked like it was in the middle of a festival. Canopies of multi-coloured fairy-lights illuminated the streets, forgoing the mundane street-lamps preferred by the more mainstream towns. The houses, especially those closer to the river, were exquisitely designed and painted in colours more exuberant than anything one would ever see in Ragah. Stalls selling everything from junk food to handicrafts lined the pavements, displaying their wares under colourful awnings. Rickshaws done up like old-fashioned carriages plied the streets, giving the whole town the general feel of an elaborate cosplay.

The river sparkled in the distance like an earthbound rainbow, reflecting the prismatic lights of the city.

“Geeti wasn’t kidding about the tourists, was she?” said Ashwin, gaping at everything with the wide-eyed wonder of a country kid on his first visit to the big city.

In a strange way, Ruban could almost relate. After all, he had once been the wide-eyed country kid awed by anything that wasn’t a sprawling corn field. “Nope. Thirty years ago, this place had nothing more than a tiny fishing community. As nondescript as they come, and poor as fuck. Then Jimena Washi – that’d be Casia Washi’s grandmother – swept to power as an independent candidate and within the next decade, Ibanborah had turned into one of the most popular tourist hotspots in the country, not to mention one of the richest cities. Now they have everything – the hippies, the pilgrims, the backpackers and the gangs.”

“And the food!” added Ashwin, gliding from stall to stall with an ever-increasing pile of junk food in his arms. Ruban could have sworn the Aeriel had cartoon hearts in his eyes every time his gaze landed on anything remotely sugary. Popping a handful of caramel popcorn into his mouth, Ashwin slurred through dessert-induced bliss: “I’d forgotten how good the food was on earth. And it’s only gotten better in the time I was gone. Vaan is in dire need of mortal chefs.”

“What for? Aeriels don’t need to eat.”

“And you don’t need to knife my mother. Life’s not just about the needs, my friend. It’s about the pleasures.”

Ruban rolled his eyes as Ashwin purchased an orange popsicle and slurped on it with an expression of ecstasy that would have put crack addicts to shame. “You’re going to make yourself sick if you keep going like that.”

The Aeriel tittered, confirming the Hunter’s suspicions of a sugar rush. “Advantages of immortality, my dear. ’M physically incapable of getting sick.”

“I’ll believe that when you’ve gotten all that syrup off your face. Honestly, you make Hiya look like the epitome of self-control.”

“Nothing wrong with enjoying the fruits of hard labour,” Ashwin proclaimed, extending a hand to accept his stick of candy floss from the smiling shopkeeper.

“The only ‘hard labour’ you’ve performed all day is flirting with Luana,” Ruban grunted. “I’m gonna go make a round of the local Quarters. See if I can find any info on the body. Meet me by the river when you’re done courting diabetes.”

“Roger that,” said Ashwin, lifting the candy floss to his temple in a mock salute. Ruban decided he needed to keep the Aeriel away from Hiya, if only to preserve his own sanity. “Have fun investigating.”

***

In an inexplicable way, Juwi Mesrani, Deputy Hunter (East Ibanborah Division), reminded Ruban of Simani. The two looked nothing alike, of course. Simani was a native northerner – light-skinned, dark-eyed – with an ectomorphic body-type that would not have been poorly represented by a stick figure. Juwi, by contrast, was built like a baby bull, wide-set jade eyes stark against her dark-brown face.

Her mouth set in a grim line, shoulders taut with tension, Juwi paced the atrium of the Hunter Quarters like a caged lion waiting to spring. Her movements were so reminiscent of Simani that Ruban could have sworn he was watching his partner in another body. She looked like she was about to punch something.

“Forensics found sif particles in the wound, can you believe it?” she growled, her pace quickening. “Bloody sif in the stab wound and they say the case is closed. Orders from Ragah my foot. They’re knee-deep in the black market, man, everyone from the DSP upward. That’s why they’re all trying to push this thing under the rug.”

“So you don’t think this is a normal gang job?”

“Gang job?” Juwi laughed. “I grew up in this town, Kinoh. I know what gang violence looks like, and this ain’t it. Acid in the eyes? Sure. That isn’t exactly uncommon around here, despite what the tourism ads will have you believe. But gangsters don’t go around stabbing their victims. Not if they’re human, anyway. Why go through all the trouble of up-close-and-personal when a simple bullet from half a mile away would do the job, and better? A knife might have been used in a bar brawl gone wrong, which is what they initially thought it was. But then again, drunk tourists don’t usually pour acid into their victims’ eyes after offing them.

“This thing is all over the place, almost as if someone was trying to make it look like something it’s not. And all of that I could ignore, but you can’t argue with the forensic evidence. Sif particles in the wound – that could only mean one thing. And anyone who says otherwise is wearing a blindfold made of blood money.”

Ruban sighed, pressing two fingers to the bridge of his nose. “That’s pretty much what I thought. You’re sure this has something to do with the feather trade?”

“What else could it be? Wasn’t a Hunter that did this.”

“And you are positive it was an Aeriel that died?”

“Have you ever heard of a man being murdered with a sifblade?”

“Touché,” Ruban conceded. “Still, would’ve been helpful to have a proper autopsy.”

“You think? I wanted to wring the Chief’s neck, I did. ‘Orders from Ragah,’ horse’s balls! It’s a cover-up if ever I’ve seen one. They’re all dirty, right up to the goddamn IAW.”

Ruban rose to his feet, holding his hand out to the young Hunter. “Well, thanks for your cooperation, Mesrani. I really appreciate it. I’ll see what I can do from here.”

“You really plan to look into it then?” she said, her smaller hand wrapping around his in a firm grip. “Do you have clearance?”

Ruban raised an eyebrow. “Does it matter?”

Juwi grunted. “I s’pose not. What’s the worst that could happen? We’d just be discharged. I’ve always secretly wanted to work private security anyway.”

Despite himself, Ruban laughed. “I’ll keep your name out of it, Deputy. If it comes to it, they’ll never know we spoke about this case at all. Not from me.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I don’t need your protection, Kinoh. Didn’t join the Corps for the job security. Just give me a call if you need anything. I want to get to the bottom of this mess as much as you do. I feel like I’m being played, and I don’t like the feeling.”

Ruban nodded, his voice grave. “I will. And thank you.”

***

“You know, I really wouldn’t do that if I were you.” Shwaan smiled easily, catching the boy’s wrist between his fingers moments before he had fully withdrawn the tourist’s purse from her handbag. “That’s not very nice, is it?”

The boy stumbled, jerking backwards and trying to pull his hand away from Shwaan’s grip. His eyes widened with an almost manic desperation as he jerked violently in the Aeriel’s hold in a futile attempt to free himself. The boy was skinny, almost to the point of malnutrition, and he appeared to be small for his age – not that Shwaan knew what his age was, of course. Had he been human, the thrashing might have been a minor inconvenience to him. As it was, he held the boy with the ease of a child holding a particularly recalcitrant butterfly.

“You’re going to break something if you keep that up,” Shwaan informed him in the tone of one commenting on the weather. When that did not yield the desired result, he sighed. “Take a breath. Calm down. Really, you’re going to hurt yourself.”

The boy was trembling, and his eyes looked like they would pop out of his skull any minute now. After a few more seconds of violent jerking, his movements subsided to a more half-hearted wriggling as he gasped, defeated: “Look mister. Just-just let me go, okay? I will’na try ’nything, I swear. Y-you can have all my money, all of it! Just let me go. Don’t take me to the cops. Please, man. I din’na even take any of her money, you know that. I’ll gi-give you everything I have, I swear it on me life.”

Shwaan frowned, dropping to his knees in front of the boy. He loosened his grip on his captive’s wrist, but not enough to allow him to flee. All around them, tourists in various stages of inebriation turned to look at the pair as if they were aliens duking it out in the middle of the sidewalk. Of course, in Shwaan’s case, they weren’t that far off the mark.

“What’s your name?” he asked the boy, who looked at Shwaan as if he had grown a second head. Shwaan let out an annoyed huff, holding a chocolate donut out to the young man. “I am not going to take you to the police, and I don’t want your money. Plus, you can’t leave unless I want you to. So you might as well make it easier on yourself and just answer the question. It can’t be that hard to pronounce your own name.”

After a few more seconds of staring disbelievingly at his captor’s face, the boy seemed finally to come to a decision. Reaching out with his free hand, he snagged the donut, shoving the whole thing into his mouth at once. This was followed by another few seconds of silence as the boy chewed on the confection while peering suspiciously at Shwaan.

“Biskut,” he said finally, squinting at his companion through narrowed eyes as if daring him to challenge that statement.

At the latter’s elevated eyebrow, he snapped irritably: “You asked for me name, didn’ya?”

“Ah, forgive me. That’s a rather…unusual name.” At the boy’s enraged glare, Shwaan held out another donut – a peace offering. “It’s a good one, don’t get me wrong. Sounds a bit like a ‘biscuit’, is all.”

The boy shrugged, munching on his new donut, this one covered with pink icing. His struggles had subsided to nothing more than the occasional twitch of long, bony fingers. “I liked ’em as a kid.”

“Biscuits?”

He nodded, shaggy brown hair falling over his eyes like a ragged curtain drawn over vibrant dark gemstones. “So me mum just called me Biskut, ’cause I liked ’em as a kid.”

“Makes sense,” agreed Shwaan. “Do you still like them?”

Licking grubby fingers clean of pink icing, the boy grunted. “Sure.”

Rising to his feet, Shwaan tugged lightly at the boy’s hand before finally releasing his prisoner. “Okay. You can go now, if you want. I won’t stop you. Or,” he said, looking conspiratorially around them as if to ensure secrecy. “We could make a deal.”

The boy – Biskut – looked conflicted, one foot extended away from the Aeriel like a deer preparing to bolt, while the other wavered uncertainly, still on the pavement. “Yer a foreigner,” he said eventually, his tone accusatory.

“I am,” Shwaan admitted with appropriate contrition.

“What kind of a deal d’you wanna make?”

The Aeriel shrugged. “Some information. In exchange for a month’s supply of the best biscuits available in this town.”

“Okay…” the boy said, his tone suggesting he expected a catch. Nothing could really be that easy.

“Okay,” agreed Shwaan, turning on his heel. “Lead the way to the best biscuit shop you know of. I’d like to see what this town has to offer. On the way, you can tell me about the body they found in the river the day before yesterday.”

***

“So, you know about the murder?” Shwaan prompted, his fingers wrapped around a mug of steaming ginger tea. They sat on the steps of a roadside café not far from the riverbank, Biskut devouring biscuits and cookies of every kind ever invented by man while the Aeriel sipped more sedately at his beverage.

“’Course I know ‘bout the murder,” the boy said indignantly, cookie crumbs flying out of his overstuffed mouth in all directions. “It’s all anybody’s been talking about these last couple o’ days.”

“Is that so?” said Shwaan, letting a hint of scepticism seep into his voice. “So you know who he was? The murdered man, I mean. You know why he was killed?”

The boy smirked. “He wasn’t no man; that’s the one thing I know for sure.”

“No?”

“Are you kiddin’ me?” he said, in a voice that implied exasperation at stupid foreigners who had no clue about life. “You don’t stab a man when you can shoot ’im. And you certainly don’t melt his face with acid before dumpin’ the body in the river; not unless there was omething’ in it as you didn’t want the cops to see.”

“Not that I doubt your expertise in the fine art of murder, my friend, but I have to say I don’t quite follow your reasoning there.”

Biskut scowled at Shwaan, popping a chocolate-chip cookie into his mouth to better deal with clueless foreigners. “It was an Aeriel, is what it was. An Aeriel as was killed.”

“A Hunt?” asked Shwaan, frowning.

The boy laughed, derisive. “Fat chance. Hunters would’na burn out a dead Aeriel’s eyes, would they now? They’d be proud of the kill, flaunt it even. ‘Tis the gangs that’d want to make a dead Aeriel look like a dead man.”

“A gang Hunted down an Aeriel? Why?”

The boy looked at him pityingly, lifting a can of cola to his lips before continuing. “It wasn’t a Hunt. ’Twas a theft.”

“A theft?” Shwaan repeated, genuinely mystified. “A theft of what?”

“Whaddaya think? Feathers, of course. They found some sucker of an Aeriel dead in front of the old Kinoh place by the river. Mum always says that house’s haunted, what with the witch livin’ in it and all. And so they got a sickle and chopped off its wings, poor bastard,” he explained with a relish bordering on the morbid.

Aeriels did not, of course, feel nausea, but Shwaan felt he was cutting that biological advantage rather close. He hoped he didn’t look as disturbed as he felt. The thought of having your wings chopped off, even in death, was not an agreeable one.

Not that Biskut would have noticed either way, in any case. The young man was by now far too engrossed in his own gory tale to spare much thought for his companion’s reaction to it. “And ‘course then they had to burn out its eyes, didn’t they? Couldn’t have a wingless Aeriel lying around. Aeriel feathers are guvmint property. There’d be raids and they’d all go to jail if the cops got wind of it. Or the Hunters. The Hunters are worse. They take it personal, you know, with the underground feather trade, like ‘tis their property bein’ smuggled off.”

“But how could anyone not notice that the victim was an Aeriel? Eyes are hardly the only things that distinguish a man from an Aeriel.”

Biskut shrugged. “Well, ‘tis not just the eyes. They usually chop off the hair too, and dye it omething’ darker. Though I guess they would’na need to do that in Zaini, would they, if they all have hair like you? That’s ’bout the right length for an Aeriel, if an Aeriel fancied a braid, and black hair.”

Shwaan laughed. In less than an hour of acquaintance, this boy had noticed the one thing about him that could have given him away. The one thing that all the trained Hunters in Ragah had ignored with a blasé indifference that had surprised even him. His hair was exactly the right length for an Aeriel, if the Aeriel fancied a braid, and black hair.

“So this gang,” began Shwaan, in an attempt to distract the boy from that line of reasoning. “They found a dead Aeriel in front of the Kinoh House and chopped off his wings for the feathers. Then they burned out his eyes and dyed his hair after cutting it short, to make him look more human. And then what, they dumped this body into the river for the police to find at their own leisure?”

The boy nodded, nibbling slowly on an oblong biscotti. He seemed to have had his fill of desserts for the day.

“Still, that might fool a casual observer. But those are just cosmetic changes. They’d know the victim was an Aeriel the moment they examined the body closely.”

Biskut shrugged. “Maybe, but why would they? Ain’t no policeman’s gonna get his knickers in a twist o’er some dead dude nobody gives a fuck about. The Hunters came nosing ‘round for a bit – guess they might’ve suspected omething’. But then they got called off and the police didna give any fucks. Even if they knew – and I don’t think they did – the gangs would just pay ‘em off and be done with it. Don’t matter so long as the TV people don’t get wind of it. The TV people cause all kinds of trouble. And then the cops have to go on raids and make arrests and have all kinds of shitstorms hittin’ the streets.”

Shwaan stepped into the café and paid the cashier, then caught up with his juvenile quarry in a few quick strides. “Still, I’m curious. What do these gangs plan to do with the hacked off wings of a dead Aeriel?”

He knew about the feather trade, of course. Humans had hoarded Aeriel feathers since the time of Zeifaa, in the same way they hoarded gold and diamonds. Shwaan didn’t really understand the mortal obsession with all things shiny, but he was aware of it. After all, his sister had paid the real Ashwin Kwan largely in undamaged Aeriel feathers for the loan of his identity – he supposed the things must go for a pretty price. Especially now that the only remaining source of supply was from Hunted Aeriels, and he didn’t suppose their feathers remained in pristine condition after the Hunt was over. Still, it seemed a little much to go through all that trouble just for a collector’s item, no matter how fetching.

Biskut, for his part, was looking at him like he was an idiot. “Not the sharpest knife in the drawer, are ya?” the boy grinned.

“I suppose not,” Shwaan conceded, smiling sheepishly.

With a longsuffering shake of his shaggy head, Biskut deigned to explain. “Don’t you foreigners know anything? The guvmint takes all the feathers you get on Hunts. Now the gangs, they don’t like that. So they kill their own Aeriels. Or if they’re very very lucky, they’d find one just lying around, waitin’ to be picked, like the one outside the Kinoh House. So they make like the dead guy was…well, a guy; so the guvmint won’t come lookin’ for the wings. And they take the feathers and sell ’em.”

“Sell them to whom?”

“To whoever would be stupid enough to pay a fortune for a shiny feather, obviously. You wouldn’t believe the kind of money some morons would pay…just to put the thing in a lantern and watch it burn pretty. You know how they light up when you burn ‘em, right? The feathers I mean.”

Shwaan nodded.

“Yup, that’s what they do with ’em. Can you believe it? All that cash, up in smoke for a li’l bit o’ firework. Me brother used to run errands for the gangs sometimes, right up until Mum caught ‘im and put ‘im to rights. God does give all the money to all the idiots in the world, doesn’t he though?” With that philosophical pronouncement, Biskut let out a deep breath and came to a halt near the river, his feet buried in the cool sand.

On the horizon the sun was setting, bathing the sky a deep pinkish-crimson. Oddly, it reminded Shwaan of his own mother – her crimson-tipped wings flaring as she rained havoc and hellfire down on the hapless mortals. He wondered momentarily, how much her feathers would go for; how brightly they would burn in mortal hands.

***