13 Mink Street

Chapter 43: Prep The Ingredients

Alfred drove while Karon and Tiz sat facing each other in the back of the hearse. Tiz had his eyes closed, resting. Meanwhile, Karon kept staring into the rectangular recess in the floor. With every bump of the road, the editor-in-chief and Mr. Morf shifted, pressing against each other, their bodies overlapping and tangling.

Inside the cabin, the scent of cigars mixed with the faint sharpness of pen ink. It was not unpleasant. In fact, with the windows cracked open for ventilation, it was even mildly soothing.

Pu’er lay beside Karon, appearing to be half-asleep. He reached one hand out the window, feeling the wind flow across it. The weather was still cool, especially the night air. Even so, his palm felt warm.

When he had stood over Mr. Morf’s body earlier, he had spoken from the heart, “Praise Order.”

Yet reason continued to remind him that while the Church of Order was undeniably powerful, the real reason he was able to act without restraint tonight was not the church itself, but his grandfather.

In other words, it was not because Tiz was an Inquisitor, but because the Inquisitor was Tiz. Alfred had said it before: Tiz was not an ordinary Inquisitor.

Of course. A man willing to say to his own grandson that the God of Order had been raised by a whore, a grandfather who had conducted an over-scaled divine descent ritual just to resurrect his grandson, how could such a person be merely ordinary?

Thinking back again, Karon recalled Alfred’s words in the hearse yesterday: “You should go back and ask your grandfather, Mr. Tiz.”

There had also been Pu’er’s comment in the stairwell: “Go talk to Tiz... He will always give you the most suitable advice, the calmest advice.”

Were they really referring to the man’s identity as an Inquisitor? Or were they talking about Tiz himself? Perhaps what Karon was seeing was nothing more than the tip of the iceberg of this world’s true face.

So what came next? Would he continue lifting the veil, or after indulging tonight, bury everything and return to an ordinary life, like Mason?

The truth meant cruelty. His parents’ deaths were proof enough of that. Still, after catching a glimpse of something extraordinary, burying his head in the sand felt like self-deception. Could he accept that?

No.

He knew himself well. He had always been fiercely driven. Someone who had spent a life striving forward could briefly rest in calm waters, but it was impossible for them to lie flat forever.

Still, whether he could or could not was not entirely up to him. Tiz had made that clear; Until the day he died, Karon was not to have independent ambitions.

And yet, tonight, Tiz had brought Karon along, and had even used that ritual array so that he would be able to enjoy himself. Tiz must have known the array would have little effect. Perhaps it had not been obvious at the time, but it should have become clear by now.

And yet Tiz had still done it, as if deliberately giving Karon a stool to stand on. Forbidding him from driving, yet taking him along to show him the scenery by the roadside.

So, Tiz, what do you really want? Is this some tangled, complicated kind of grandfatherly affection?

“Are you happy?” Tiz asked. At some point in time, he had opened his eyes.

Karon withdrew his hand from the window and nodded. “I am.”

“Do you feel burdened?” Tiz asked again.

Karon started to nod, then shook his head. “Yes, but I can manage it.”

Watching living people die before his eyes undeniably created a heavy psychological shock, but he was skilled at self-regulation. More importantly, people like Humir and Mr. Morf had treated other people’s lives the way one might idly toy with a pen cap or a cigar. The rules of society made them nearly untouchable, and yet they deserved to die.

A life for a life. That principle was universal. Karon was doing something everyone believed was right, yet something that almost no one believed could actually be done.

Of course, Karon did not see himself as some shadowy avatar of justice.

Because he could not deny it: he felt a quiet joy. That joy had been building ever since Tiz’s reaction. While frying the spring rolls, watching the funeral, watching crowds’ performances of grief, the anticipation had piled higher and higher, transforming into pleasure as night fell.

Karon was enjoying this. Mr. Morf dying from eating cigarettes, the editor dying by his own pen, what artistic expression!

His thoughts drifted back to an afternoon a month ago, when the voice of the demonkin possessing Mrs. Hughes had come through the phone. “You’re interrupting my artistic creation.”

And, “Perhaps you need some valuable advice on your art?”

Mrs. Hughes, look. This is art.

A chill suddenly ran down Karon’s spine, like a child playing building blocks only to abruptly lose interest mid-game.

“So,” Tiz said, “do you want to turn back now?”

“No,” Karon replied.

“Why? I just saw negativity in your eyes.”

“It’s unfinished, the—” He swallowed the word “artwork,” and instead said, “It isn’t finished yet. The light of Order over Roja City has yet to cleanse all the dust away.”

“Good,” Tiz said, nodding. “Very good.”

After a moment, he added, “Remember this: the first application of Order is always upon oneself.”

“I will remember, Grandpa.”

That must be why heroes wear masks; not to hide their smiles when punishing evil, but to conceal the emotional exhaustion that follows.

Recalling Tiz’s earlier acts of enforcement, Karon murmured, “Order is like a mask.”

Tiz closed his eyes again, seemingly unmoved. Yet his fingers, folded in front of him, gave a slight tremor.

Pu’er lifted her head. A memory surfaced in her mind from decades ago, when a young Tiz had returned from the Church of Order’s central headquarters.

“The elders asked me a question,” Tiz said. “They asked what Order is like to us believers.”

“And what did you answer?” Pu’er asked. “Light? The sun? Air? The truth governing all things? A lifelong faith?”

“I said it’s just a mask. Others can’t see the real you behind it, yet in its name, you can do anything you want.”

“Tiz,” Pu’er replied. “That elder must have been truly merciful, as I cannot imagine another reason for you to have returned alive.”

***

Alfred spoke from the driver’s seat, “Sir, Young Master, we have arrived. They are waiting for us.”

Ahead of them stood the Roja Grand Hotel. The gathering was being held on the thirteenth floor.

Karon stepped out and rolled his neck lightly. Across the street, a group of young people passed by, singing and dancing. One carried a large radio on his shoulder, blasting rhythmic music. Such sights were common. A radio was all it took for a crowd to gather and burn off excess youth.

Alfred noticed Karon’s gaze and approached the young man. “Sell it to me.”

“Huh? Are you crazy?” the young man shouted. “This is my faith! Faith... Faith... Faith. You dare sully my faith with dirty money? Get out of my sight before I kick your ass with my canvas shoes.”

Alfred took out a stack of rupi and placed it in his hand. “Three thousand rupi.”

Even the new model only sold for fifteen hundred, while the man’s radio was old, covered with stickers and graffiti, and worth far less.

“Well then,” the young man said, pocketing the money. “I now decide to entrust my faith to you. Take good care of it.”

He turned to shout to his friends. “To the bar! Move out.”

They abandoned their faith for alcohol with cheers.

Alfred carried the radio back. “Young Master, I believe you need this.”

Karon shook his head, only to then pause. “No. The night needs it.”

“You are right, Young Master.” Alfred’s fingers slid over the buttons. Guitar music emerged, low and light, like folk accompaniment. When a great being requires music, you play it. You do not ask what song they prefer.

Alfred began to sway slightly, breaking the awkwardness. He called Tiz “sir” out of respect, rather than fear. Alfred’s true devotion belonged to the young man before him.

Karon raised his hands slightly and also began to move with the rhythm. He had never liked clubs or noisy places in his previous life, but how many people went to Crown Ballroom to actually dance?

Behind them, Tiz watched as Alfred and his grandson walked and danced, maintaining his same restraint.

Pu’er, resting on the old man’s shoulder, commented, “That is youth.” She then teasingly asked, “Are you jealous, Tiz?”

“When old people envy youth, it means their own youth was wasted. Like a free soul trapped forever in a cat’s body.”

“...”

They entered the hotel and took the elevator up.

As they exited on the thirteenth floor, the guards, under Alfred’s kindly gaze, entered the elevator, dancing as they pressed the button for the underground garage.

The trio soon stood before a private room. Alfred stopped the music, as the notes of a piano flowed from within the room, the song reaching its climax.

“I know this piece,” he said. “Delyss composed it. Nature’s Companion.”

“It sounds good,” Karon said. The melody conjured images of running through forests and dancing with green spirits.

“Yes,” Alfred said. “Which is why people who truly accomplish things rarely become great artists. Human energy is limited.”

“You’re right.”

“Shall I open the door now, Young Master?”

“No. Wait until the song is over. Music deserves respect.”

“Yes. I stand corrected.”

***

Inside the room, Delyss’s fingers danced across the keys.

Councilman Harget, already tipsy, leaned back, his gaze growing increasingly brazen. Years ago, he had been exposed for crimes against minors, only to silence them all with power.

Orkan swirled his wine, lost in self-admiration.

Forde laughed to himself, completely drunk. “Hello. Please call me Forde. No. Call me Mayor. Or better yet, Your Honor.”

From a corner, Alothar watched Harget. Before the banquet, the councilman had invited Delyss to a private dinner.

Alothar hesitated. Should he arrange a natural death for the councilman?

Yet doubts lingered. The Church of Order’s headquarters lay in Veyn, across the sea from Swillen. Upon arriving in Roja City, Alothar had sent his calling card. It had been met with silence.

That was normal. Inquisitors were powerful, but free or lazy. As long as only a small bit of chaos occurred, they would turn a blind eye.

Thus, Order had become both feared and corrupt. Respected, yet compromised.

That was the Church of Order in Alothar’s eyes, which was why he had accepted Orkan’s request. Just some poor family had died. They would have disappeared eventually anyway, he had simply purified them.

The piano reached the final notes of the song.

Outside, Alfred counted the beat.

As the last key fell, Delyss stood and bowed, and the door opened. Tiz stepped forward. “You are accused of violating Order and directing demonkin. Under the Code of Order, you are to be questioned.”

“What nonsense is this?” Harget roared. “Which police station are you from?”

Forde slurred, “Call me Mayor and I’ll buy you a drink.”

Orkan raised both hands. “I will fully cooperate with the Church of Order.”

Alothar began chanting as he seized Delyss. His robe expanded and the two crashed through the window. Glass shattered. They fell.

Cold air rushed in, causing Orkan to shudder. Is it this serious?

It was then that he noticed the young man who had promised him spring rolls.

“A demonkin has resisted arrest and taken Delyss hostage. Under Article Four, Article Five, resisting arrest compounds one’s sentece,” Tiz stated while strolling towards the window.

He jumped. Karon instinctively flinched.

“I assure you, Young Master,” Alfred said cheerfully, “Sir Tiz is very strong. I cannot defeat him.”

Karon turned to Orkan. “Mr. Orkan, I came to deliver your fried spring rolls.”

Alfred bowed. “My apologies. I forgot them.”

“How careless. Won’t that disappoint Mr. Orkan?”

“You can prepare them here. They will be fresher.”

“But we don’t have any wrappers.”

“Councilman Harget’s skin is thick enough.”

“Not with that filling; I prefer vegetarian.”

“Mr. Forde’s head is full of straw.”

“No oil.”

“Mr. Orkan has plenty.”

Karon nodded. “Perfect. Alfred?”

“Yes.”

“Prep the ingredients.”