A Novel (9 page)

“On a ledge below the cap,” I clarified. I fished the loop of cord from my pocket and tied my hair back so I could look him full in the face.

“I think you are right,” he said. “The body has been examined, which—without your report—would not have happened, and the coroner concurs. Death resulted from a single, narrow incision just right of the spine, penetrating the heart.”

I closed my eyes for a second.

“You know the spire above the exchange?” he said. “Where the Beacon was housed?”

“Yes.”

“Could you have climbed it?”

“Yes.”

“You sound very sure,” he said.

“With the right equipment I could scale any tower, chimney, or spire in Bar-Selehm,” I said. It wasn't a boast. It was simply true.

“Could any steeplejack have made that climb?” he asked.

“No,” I said. “The steeple is stone clad. Tight grout lines. There's nothing to fasten to.”

“And, other than yourself, do you know any such person in Bar-Selehm?”

I frowned and shrugged noncommittally.

“Berrit?” he asked.

I shook my head.

“As a helper?” he asked.

“Only in the most basic way. For anything involving actual climbing, he would have been a liability.” I felt disloyal saying it, but it was true.

“But you think he was involved,” said the young man with the shrewd green eyes.

“He could have been bullied into helping,” I said, choosing my words as if I were selecting from a range of tools, “by someone he looked up to who didn't trust his more experienced workers with something illegal.”

The man's lip twitched knowingly. I forced myself to stop looking at the scar, the way it produced that strange, slanted quality when he smiled. “Mr. Morlak,” he said.

“It's possible.”

“And your mentioning his name has nothing to do with any personal hostility you may have toward the gentleman in question, of course.”

“Are we still talking about Morlak?” I asked, my face suddenly hot. “Only I don't think I've ever heard his name in the same sentence as the word ‘gentleman.'”

He nodded so fractionally that his head barely moved, but he let the remark stand.

He watched me, saying nothing, and my next question emerged without thought, some of my former panic spiking and driving it out. “What are you going to do with me?” I asked.

“Well, I think you should have something to eat, don't you?”

I blinked again, and as I did, the door behind the desk opened and one of the men from the street appeared, the one who had carried the truncheon, though he didn't have it now. The young man craned his neck slightly and the other leaned down to hear his whisper before nodding and leaving as quietly as he had come in. It struck me once more as strange that someone who seemed to have so much wealth and authority should be so close to my own age.

“So,” said the young man as soon as we were alone again. “What can I tempt you with? The chef makes an excellent Rasnarian goat curry. I can have him tone it down a little if you don't like it spicy, but I prefer to let the man follow his heart. There's also a very fine sterrel and onion chutney.…”

This was all very strange.

“I'd like to go home,” I said.

I didn't believe it was an option, but if I was going to be kept prisoner, I would prefer he were honest about it, rather than pretending I was a guest.

The young man sat back in his chair, regarding me with a thoughtful frown that softened his predatory intensity. “Home,” he intoned. “A warm, comforting word. But what does it really mean to you? The Drowning, where you are despised; or the weavers' shed, where you have been a slave to the odious Mr. Morlak? I don't think either of those places is terribly … secure,” he concluded. “I think you are better here with us.”

I swallowed, trying to gauge how close to a threat this was, but I floundered, thinking not just of Morlak and his gang, but also of Rahvey's baby, who I had promised to take care of. “Who is
us,
exactly?” I asked.

He smiled again, that same thin smile, then tapped his fingertips on the desktop. “Let's just say,” he said musingly, as if making an important decision on impulse, “that you can trust us.”

I made a scoffing noise without thinking. “I'm sorry,” I said, “but I don't trust people who kidnap me.”

He chuckled. “Very well,” he said. “My name is Josiah Willinghouse, and I work for the government housed in the fair city of Bar-Selehm.”

“You are a civil servant?” I returned, not troubling to mask my skepticism.

“A politician,” he said. “Albeit a junior one.”

“This is not a government building,” I said. “It's a town house. Your men drove me around for a while, but I'm guessing from the sound of the cobbles that we're still east of Old Town, close to Ruetta Park.”

He smiled again. “Very good!” he exclaimed. “I like that you pay attention. That will prove most useful.”

“Useful?” I shot back, bridling at the sense of being patted on the head.

“Not all government work—good work,” he said delicately, “work for the benefit of the nation and its people—is done at official buildings where there are reporters and assessment committees and battles over public opinion. Some of it must be done more … quietly. In the shadows, as it were. Things are happening in Bar-Selehm, Miss Sutonga. Troubling things. Occurrences that must be stopped before the situation overwhelms us all.”

I said nothing, but he read my skepticism.

“If you are dissatisfied with this simple truth after you have begun work,” said the man who called himself Willinghouse, “you will be permitted to leave. No questions asked.”

“Work?” I echoed blankly.

“Oh, I'm sorry,” he said, smiling once more. “I thought I had made that clear. I mean to hire you.”

I stared at him. “As a steeplejack?” I asked.

“Oh, dear me, no,” Willinghouse answered, beaming with genuine pleasure. “I want you to investigate the murder of Berrit Samar.”

 

CHAPTER

8

IT WAS, OF COURSE,
absurd. I was to be a private detective? I couldn't even say the words without smirking. Did such people really exist? If so, they were not stray Lani girls who spent their days dangling from chimneys in the hope of a decent meal.

And yet.…

All my life I had been told that anything significant was beyond me, that I was no more than a tool, an implement like a spade or a pick, useful to wealthier, more powerful people—useful, that is, until I fell and broke, when I would be replaced by another implement with a different face, as Papa had been replaced by another man with a pick. I was nothing—like Berrit, like all Lani street brats—except that I was less even in the eyes of my own people because I was the cursed third daughter.

But here was this sophisticated and powerful man telling me I was special, remarkable as a two-headed coin.…

And then there was what he had said about how the death of Berrit heralded crimes yet to come, troubling occurrences that would overwhelm us all if not prevented.

“Your friend Berrit is the lion's tail,” Willinghouse said. “A detail you spot but think is part of the bush until the beast pounces. There are larger things afoot here, Miss Sutonga. We stand on the very brink of disaster.”

The goat curry was, as promised, remarkably good. It was served with tea in translucent china cups and saucers by a silent, elderly white man who I could only describe as butlerish, and I wolfed it all down as if I hadn't eaten for days.

Willinghouse watched me, fascinated, as hunger stripped me of pride.

The door opened and another white man leaned in. He was tall, about Willinghouse's age, and dressed in a slightly old-fashioned suit. He had sandy hair, no mustache, and freckles that emphasized his youth, as did the smile that lit his face when he saw me. “Ah!” he exclaimed. “Our new employee! The steeplejack, yes?”

I blinked at him and checked Willinghouse, who frowned with disapproval.

“We are still working out the details,” he said.

“Nonsense!” said the newcomer, striding over to me.

I rose, flustered, wishing I had left my hair down.

He took my hand and shook it vigorously. “Charmed and delighted,” he said, beaming. “I am Stefan Von Strahden. Call me Stefan. I'm a colleague of Willinghouse's.” He had pale blue eyes and an infectious manner, but his familiar frankness was unnerving.

“A colleague?” I managed.

“In Parliament,” he said, adding in response to my chastened look, “Oh, it's not so grand as all that. Shuffling papers and making dull speeches most of the time. Powerfully tedious compared to what you do up there in the clouds! That must be extraordinary!”

“Shouldn't you be at dinner, Stefan?” said Willinghouse icily, the scar contracting into a thin pink line.

“I should,” he said, “but I just had to meet this talented young lady. And now I seem incapable of leaving her company.”

“Find a way,” said Willinghouse.

“Really, Josiah!” exclaimed Von Strahden. “So churlish in front of a lady! Don't you find him churlish?” he asked me. “You'd think a politician would be better at talking to people, wouldn't you?”

“I'm
trying
to talk to her,” Willinghouse inserted, sparing me the responsibility of responding. “So if you wouldn't mind—”

He was interrupted by the door opening briskly. A young white woman with hazel eyes and chestnut hair stood in the doorway, her face taut with an exasperation at odds with her elegant formal wear.

“Mr. Von Strahden,” she said, somehow managing to sound both bored and irritated, as if the world had let her down, as was to be expected. “Cook says he will not serve dessert until at least one of the male guests is actually at the table, and since I would prefer not to starve to death this evening, I ask that, for the sake of common courtesy, you leave whatever you are doing here immediately.”

I was standing right in front of her, but she didn't seem to see me at all.

“Oh,” said Von Strahden. “Right. I was just meeting your brother's new associate.”

He nodded in my direction, and I, not knowing what else to do, extended my hand toward her. Her eyes found me at last, moved to my hand, and lingered on it, her posture still rigid, her head held high so that she had to peer at me down her perfect nose. Her hands, which were gloved in lace, remained at her side. I lowered my hand, wiping it on my dirty trousers.

“Charmed, I am sure,” she said in a brittle voice before turning back to Von Strahden. “Now, Mr. Von Strahden, if you can tear yourself away from my brother's foundlings, I really am rather hungry.” She turned on her heel and left.

I lowered my gaze, my face hot with anger and humiliation.

“Ah,” said Von Strahden. “Yes. Well, Willinghouse, I will see you shortly. You, my dear steeplejack, I will see when next our paths cross, which will be, I hope, soon.” He bowed, smiling at my blushes, and left.

Willinghouse continued to frown. “Stefan is…,” he began, but could not conclude the sentence. “I don't know what he is. A force of nature, perhaps, but a good man for all that. I will try to keep him at bay as best I can.”

“I'm sure he was just being polite,” I said.

“Making up for my sister, you mean,” he said as if reading my thoughts. “Indeed. I apologize on her behalf. Believe me when I say that it is not the first time I have done so.”

“Is she always that rude?” I asked, made bold by my anger.

“Dahria is rich, and beautiful, and spoiled,” he said, “in a world that expects nothing more of her. She is not a bad person, but she has no purpose in life and is therefore lost. One day she will, I hope, find herself. But till then, I would say that her existence is of questionable value.”

“She is still your sister,” I said, taken aback by his candor.

“Yes,” he answered, giving me a frank look. “Which is why I know her worth.” He smiled at my shock. “This is not the Drowning, Miss Sutonga,” he said. “There are things more important than family, even for one who has recently taken a blood oath.” He indicated the slash marks on my face with one finger, and I flinched away.

So he knows more of the Lani way than he has implied. How?

“That is not your business,” I said.

“No,” he agreed. “Nor do I want it to be. Your private life is of no interest to me, and I would prefer that you keep it to yourself. You may stay here,” said Willinghouse, “or I can have my coachman drop you—”

I raised a hand to silence him. “There is something I have to say,” I said, marshaling the words. “Whatever else might be going on, Berrit is the reason I am working for you, and his murder will be my primary focus. It may seem like a small thing to you, merely the tail of the lion. It's not. Not to me.”

“I thought you didn't know him,” said Willinghouse.

“I didn't,” I said. “And that doesn't matter. So if you attempt to redirect my investigations, our …
understanding
will come to an end. Clear?”

I am not sure why I felt the need to say it, or why—surrounded by such evidence of power and influence—I felt I
could
say it, but I did, and felt better—doubly so when he did not argue or smirk or express incredulity that some street girl should dictate terms to him. He nodded, and I felt some kind of hurdle had been cleared.

It was only later, as I climbed back into the darkness of his carriage, cradling a purse weighted with my “expenses” and surrounded by the hollow, uncertain noises of the night, that I wondered if my righteous bravado had not, in fact, played directly into his hands, committing me to perils I could not yet imagine.