A Novel (16 page)

“Just don't touch the bag,” I said. It wasn't really a plea, and it certainly wasn't a trick. It just came out.

His brow furrowed. Skeptical ideas chased themselves through his eyes, which flashed momentarily to the discarded satchel. He kneed me hard in the stomach, and I doubled over, wheezing.

“How stupid do you think I am?” he rasped. “We will not be making any deals. There is nothing you have that I can't take for myself, and you have nothing worth having anyway. You have nothing, you are nothing, and that is what I'm going to teach you before you die.”

I kept very still. His hand was not on my mouth, but if I cried out for help, he would stab me where I stood, and there was no one to hear anyway—not here, not now.

And then, with the softest of sounds, and just as it had done when I was sitting by the fire with the Mahweni boy, the satchel moved.

If he had been looking directly at it, he might have been less surprised, but he caught the shifting of the fabric out of the corner of his eye and jumped. For the briefest of seconds, his knife hand was forgotten. I was forgotten.

I was still half doubled over, my head level with his stomach, with the bandaged hole in his side. I butted the spot hard as I could and he staggered back in pain, releasing my hand. I stepped between him and the satchel and, as he raised his hands to grapple, went low. I kicked him in the groin, then scythed at his left leg, catching him hard on the knee.

He crumpled, but I had bought myself only a few seconds. He was bigger than me, stronger. Stay a moment longer, and he would kill me. There would be no talk. Just the blade of his knife.

I had one advantage, and that was speed. I stooped to the satchel, snatched it up, and was running before I had it slung safely over my head.

Astonishingly, the baby never truly woke. I ran, taking a thoughtlessly direct route along the dirty side streets between Pancaris and the north wall to Morgessa and eventually out through the West Gate to the Drowning, and as the wind turned, I caught the familiar stench of filth and refuse on the air. Watching me as I approached the edge of the shanty was a huddle of heavyset baboons, so I doubled my pace and arrived at Rahvey's hut breathless and trembling. Baboons are strong, fearless creatures with almost human cleverness, and they bite. I had always been more comfortable in the city than in the wilder places at its edges, but now it seemed that nowhere was safe.

My sister answered my knock with drowsy irritation, anxiously glancing back to where her husband lay snoring. She took the child from me without a word, seeming not to notice my mood and closing the door in my face.

I looked around for the baboons and then curled up on the porch. I did not, could not, sleep.

*   *   *

I WAS UP AT
first light for my Kathahry exercises as soon as I had washed and changed, Rahvey watching, bleary eyed, as the child nursed.

“What are you doing?” she asked, her face skeptical, even contemptuous. “Not the exercises. Your life. Job. Are you still working for Morlak?”

I hesitated. “No,” I said. “I have a new position. I was going to talk to you about it. I was wondering…”

I faltered, and she framed a brittle smile.

“If I could keep the baby here,” she said.

“Well, yes,” I said. “Just for today. I can pay.”

Her eyes narrowed. “How much?”

Reluctantly, I showed her the last of Vestris's silver coins. It was a week's wages for anyone in the Drowning.

Rahvey took it, sensing what it cost me to give it up. “Trying to make a good impression?” she said, and this time the smile was less bitter, more knowing. “At work, I mean. Yes, all right. But don't tell Sinchon, and be sure to get back here tomorrow.”

“Yes,” I said. “Thanks.”

“This changes nothing,” she said, in case I might get ideas. “You took the oath. The child is still your responsibility.”

“I know.”

She considered the baby at her breast, and her smile—a tiny pocket of joy glimpsed through the crack in a wall—betrayed her. She looked at me and closed the crack, but at the same moment, the door of the hut juddered open and Jadary, her youngest, shuffled out and gave me a sleepy wave. She drifted to her mother's side, all eyes on the baby.

“You can help me with her today,” said Rahvey.

“We're keeping her?” exclaimed the girl, her face lighting up.

“Just today,” said Rahvey sternly.

The girl crumpled but recovered quickly. “I'll wash my hands,” she said, knowing that completing this tedious duty would get her to the baby faster.

Rahvey watched her go and the crack reopened, though this time the joy was mixed with sadness and regret, so that for a moment, and for the first time in many years, I almost threw my arms around her. She was afraid of Florihn and did not know how to be anything other than a Lani of the Drowning, but giving up the child was, I realized with shock, tearing her quietly apart.

She caught me looking and fought to get her face under control. When she spoke, it was to change the subject, and her voice had to shrug off a tremor. “You seem … different,” she said. “These last two days. Worried, but more confident. Why? What kind of work are you doing?” When I didn't answer right away, she considered the coin and said, “How can you afford to give me this?”

“Let's just say I have friends in high places,” I said.

I was almost out of the Drowning when it struck me that Berrit had used the exact same phrase mere hours before he died.

 

CHAPTER

15

I BOUGHT A PAPER
from the Mahweni girl because I could, and then made my way to Crommerty Street, where the luxorite shops had not yet opened for the day. There was no sign of Billy, but that didn't matter. I walked past Ansveld's place twice, moving quickly, as if intent on getting somewhere else, not pausing to look into the barred windows. I noted the position of number 23, the Macinnes place, then crossed the street, took a left at the corner of Sufferance Avenue, and looked for a way down the backs of the shops.

The Macinnes store was across the street from Ansveld's. If a Lani boy had visited the dead trader, there was a good chance someone inside would have seen him.

The buildings formed an imposing terrace, all three-story structures of rich sandstone. They had gated backyards—locked—with outhouses and storage sheds, all surrounded by high walls topped with wrought iron spikes, fair deterrents against casual thieving but no obstacle to serious burglars.

Or steeplejacks.

I chose a point in the shade of a sisal currant tree, startling a pink roller from its perch, and climbed up, over, and in.

One flight of stone steps went up to the back door of the shop and main residence while another led down to the servants' quarters below ground level. There was a hand pump and trough beside the outhouse, but neither looked well used.

Indoor plumbing, then.

That meant I couldn't count on Billy's lady friend coming outside anytime soon. I tried to remember what he had told me about her and realized I had forgotten the woman's name. She was a scullery maid, the lowest of the household servants, and would be responsible for unskilled chores: fetching and carrying, scrubbing floors and washing dishes, boiling water, disposing of kitchen refuse. That would have to be my way in. I steeled myself to talk, even to act, then descended the steps and rapped on the door.

It was opened by a harried-looking white woman in her forties, too old and plump to be Billy the pickpocket's belle.

“Yes?” she said, looking past me to the locked gate.

“I was wondering if I could speak to whoever is responsible for your trash collection,” I said.

“That would be the butler, but he doesn't talk to tradespeople without an appointment,” said the woman. She had opened the door only wide enough to squeeze her florid face through it, and she was already starting to close it again.

“Actually, I would prefer to speak to the person who actually handles the refuse,” I said, improvising. “We have a new line of pails and crates specifically for trash that are lighter and stronger than what most people have access to.”

“I don't think we're interested,” said the woman I took to be the housekeeper.

“Enables the carrying of twice as much in considerably fewer trips,” I pressed, wondering where this newfound confidence came from. “Our clients say the kitchen operates far more efficiently for their use.”

The closing door hesitated. “Wait here,” said the woman.

The door closed. Somewhere inside, pots clanged. I heard voices, distant and muffled, one of them low and masculine. There was another silence, and then the door flew open.

It wasn't the housekeeper or the scullery maid. It was a man in formal black and white, and his face was flushed with an anger that made his eyes flash. “How did you get in here?” he demanded.

“The gate was unlocked,” I lied, taking a step backwards.

“No, it wasn't,” he shot back. “Reporters!”

“Not a reporter, sir,” I said, fighting the urge to run, all my usual diffidence returning like a blanket thrown over my head. He was a big man, and for all his civilized attire, he looked capable of taking a swing at me. “I'm a consultant working with a governmental office—”

“Ha!” he sneered. “Badge? Warrant?”

“I don't carry any formal identification—” I began.

“I'll bet you don't, you Lani whore,” he said, taking another step toward me. “Now, get out of here before you feel the back of my hand
and
I have you arrested for trespass.”

I did not need telling twice.

*   *   *

“I HAVE NO AUTHORITY!”
I protested. “I'm not police. I'm not army or government. I'm not even a licensed private investigator. No one will talk to me!”

Driven by frustrated humiliation, I had taken a cab all the way to Willinghouse's town house, insisting that I be reimbursed for the expense the moment I arrived. This was my one day away from the baby. I had to achieve something with the time I had bought.

“Pretending to be a salesman?” Willinghouse shot back, his scar reddening. “You are supposed to be using your abilities to investigate. No one hired you because of your people skills. I must say that I had hoped you would have made more progress by now. Now, I have to get to Parliament, so if you don't mind—”

“I do mind!” I exclaimed, surprising us both. I stood in front of him, face hot, fists clenched, but when he gave me a long, thoughtful look, I managed to calm down enough to say what I meant. “I can't do what you want me to without earning people's trust. The police can demand that people tell what they know. I can't.”

“But that is the point!” Willinghouse shot back, returning his gaze from the cuff link he was trying to fasten. “You are supposed to use
unofficial
channels. I can combine those with the
official
channels in order to get to the truth.”

“Then I need to partner with the police.”

“Unacceptable.”

“Then how can I do my job?”

“The police will not share information with a private investigator,” said Willinghouse.

“So they can tell you and you can tell me.”

“You don't understand.”

“Then explain it to me,” I said, snatching his shirtsleeve and deftly fitting the cuff link in place. Morlak wore cuff links; he thought they made him look sophisticated.

Now Willinghouse gave me a fierce look, but when I held his gaze, he sighed and glanced away. When he turned back to me, it was with eyes and voice lowered.

“I am not entirely sure that the police can be trusted,” he said. “That is why I need someone to investigate independently.”

I hesitated, taken aback. “I don't know that I can,” I said, mentally sidestepping the implications of what he had just told me. “Can you at least protect me if I am arrested?”

“Probably,” he replied.

“Probably?”

“I don't suppose we'll know for sure till we have to try,” he said.

“Not good enough,” I said.

“It is the best I can do,” he replied. “Listen, Miss Sutonga, I came to you because I thought you a person of talent, ingenuity, and dedication to the truth. If my faith was misplaced, you should let me know so that I can seek someone more suitable.”

I felt stung, as I had when Florihn said I wasn't a real Lani. For a moment, I wanted to run away and climb the highest chimney I could find and stay there. But I also felt that this was a defining moment, that if I said the wrong thing, I would not be able to take it back.

I drew myself up. “There is no one more suitable for the job than me,” I said.

“Then I do not know why we are having this conversation,” he replied. “Do your job in the ways that seem best suited to your abilities, and I will get you what information I can from the police investigation. And please, try to act with a little discretion.”

I produced a folded paper on which I had written an address and a few short sentences in pencil. “Could you see that this gets mailed?” I said.

He glanced at it, and his gaze seemed to linger over Vestris's name. “What is it?” he asked.

“Just … catching up,” I said. “Family stuff.”

He considered me, and I sensed both his desire to read what I had written and the certainty that he would not. “Again,” he said, “I hope you will act with discretion.”

“Of course,” I said. I had shared with Vestris nothing beyond the fact that she should write to me at Willinghouse's town house.

For a moment he looked as if he was going to say something significant, but thought better of it. “Now, if you will excuse me,” he said.

I was waiting to be driven back to Crommerty Street when I caught the unexpected sound of music drifting down the hall: not the raucous, folksy music of the Drowning or the sensual, drum-heavy music of the Mahweni. This was music from countries north of Feldesland—precise, layered, and complex music played on a keyboard and a tenor viol, over which came the voice of a woman, high and exquisite, touched with melancholy so piercing that it stopped me in my tracks and made me strain to catch the words. It was music like Willinghouse's porcelain through which you can see the sun, music like filigree or finely cut crystal, like luxorite. It sounded like longing, and I who was not born to such elegant sophistication, such poignant and heavenly reach, was suddenly overcome by images of Berrit, of the child I had left with my sister, of Papa, whom I needed now more than I ever had. I moved quietly to the door through which the sound was coming, fighting an urge to weep.