Melissa McShane (15 page)

“I wonder if he could be behind Nacalia’s mystery man.”

“It certainly suggests that he’s playing a deeper game.”

Zerafine hesitated. “He might not be the only one. Castinidou told me that Dakariou became much more interested in the investigation after we arrived. And he’s been our link to the council.

I think...maybe we should be careful what we tell him.”

“That’s what I’ve said all along. The man is a weasel.”

“He is not! But he might have a private agenda.”

“I said that too.”

“Fine, you’re so smart, thank you. We’re meeting with him tomorrow afternoon to pool

information. I hope it’s not a mistake.”

“If he’s our conspirator, it should be easy to tell. Give him what we know and then talk to Castinidou and see what got back to him.” Gerrard rolled onto his back and stretched out on the couch. “I think he’s a good man. Castinidou, I mean. How he came to have such a rotten nephew is beyond me.”

“Akelliou? I meant to talk to him, but Dakariou forgot to introduce me.”

“Oh, he didn’t forget. Dakariou’s a weasel, but he’s smart enough not to let you anywhere near that toad. I had a conversation with him I’d rather forget.”

“You know I won’t let you get away with not telling me.”

Gerrard sighed. “Akelliou has a reputation with the ladies that isn’t savory. Because I was pretending to be a dumb ox, I had to act like I didn’t understand his insinuations about every woman he cast his eyes on. Including you. Aside from that, he’s rude and arrogant and makes no secret that he has no respect for his uncle, whom he actually calls a castrate in public. Not to Castinidou’s face; he’s not stupid, and he’s his uncle’s heir. But he’s a foul excuse for a human being.”

“Why would he say that about Castinidou?”

“I gather it’s not a secret that Castinidou is sterile. He had the plague when he was five and it left him infertile. ‘Castrate’ is just Akelliou’s natural charm at work.”

Zerafine grimaced. “It must be killing Castinidou to have an heir like him. Even if he

doesn’t talk like that to his uncle’s face, Castinidou has to be aware of it.” She took off her other sandal. “I’m so tired I can’t think straight,” she said. “Did we come up with a plan?”

“The clerk’s office,” Gerrard said. “Dakariou. The five families. Get an invitation to Alita Talarannos’s estate.”

“Why the last?”

“What place in all of Portena has been totally free of apparitions? There’s even been one in Berenica’s back garden. Darlen told me.”

“I see. Yes, Alita’s estate.” She yawned.

Gerrard knelt in front of her. “Are you ready,” he said gently, “to talk about what happened with Alestiou?”

Zerafine thought of how frail his hands had felt. “Yes,” she said, and told Gerrard

everything about her encounter with the
Marathelos
. By the end, she was sobbing. “I don’t know why,” she said through her tears, “it matters so much. He is in so much pain. But that such a life is coming to an end...”

Gerrard wrapped her in an enormous hug. “I understand,” he said.

She clung to him, comforted.
When he falls in love, I’m going to lose this
, she thought, and cursed herself for a fool. What were the odds Gerrard was going to find someone he could settle down with, given the life they led? Besides, maybe it would be she who found someone else to share her life with. Better not to worry about it, she told herself, but Dakariou’s handsome face filled her memory, and she wasn’t sure that worry was the right word for how she felt.

The news that Alestiou,
Marathelos
of Kalindi, had died in his sleep came early the next morning via a messenger from Dakariou. Zerafine took the news dry-eyed; she’d finished her crying for Alestiou and now felt a familiar sorrow mixed with joy at the thought of his passing into a realm where there was no more pain. Nacalia cried a little, but without much personal feeling; she’d lived her whole life with Alestiou a powerful presence far in the background, whose actions had no effect on her personally. Gerrard said nothing, but watched Zerafine closely until, irritated, she told him to stop hovering. Instead of taking her bad mood personally, he seemed pleased that she’d recovered her spirits enough to snap at him.

At nine o’clock, they set out on their investigations. Nacalia led the way toward the Capitol, but after a few minutes, she stopped in the middle of an intersection and turned in a full circle.

She headed off in a different direction, her back hunched, her attention firmly on the ground. At the next turn, she stopped again.

“What is
wrong
, Nacalia?” Zerafine asked, more sharply than she’d intended. Perhaps her bad mood hadn’t worn off as much as she’d thought.

“Can’t find the road,” Nacalia said, every bit as irritable as Zerafine.

“The road’s right there,” Gerrard pointed out.

“It a’nt the
right
road,” Nacalia said. “This is the road goes off to market way. See here? The stones? The way they poke up like eggs in a basket? Road to the Capitol is all smooth pavers.”

“How did we get on the wrong road?” Zerafine asked.

“I don’t know!” Nacalia shouted. “We was on the right road to the Capitol and then it wa’nt the same road!” She sat down in the middle of the street, oblivious to the traffic passing around her, without care for the dirt.

“These people don’t seem to have any trouble,” Gerrard began, but Nacalia cut him off.

“These are who lives here. They a’nt going farther than home or market. Bet they don’t even notice. Or they figure they just took a wrong turn.”

Zerafine and Gerrard looked at each other over the girl’s head. “Could the roads really

change, or...” Zerafine pointed down at Nacalia. She was only nine. Even she could make

mistakes.

“I a’nt crazy, so stop pointing at me,” Nacalia said, not looking up.

“Portena’s legendary for its maze of streets,” Gerrard said. “Maybe this is why.”

“But—streets changing? Stepping into one street and out on another? That doesn’t seem

possible.”

“If you a’nt going to believe me, why did you hire me?” Nacalia shouted.

Zerafine looked down at her small, angry head. “You’re right,” she said. “I’m sorry,

Nacalia. Let me see if I understand. We were on the road to the Capitol, and then we were on the road to the market, yes?”

“I just
said
,” Nacalia muttered.

“I mean, you don’t see any changes? There’s no, I don’t know, ripple or fading or

anything?”

The small head went back and forth in a ‘no’.

Zerafine looked at Gerrard. “Let’s see if I can do better. Guide me?”

He took hold of the back of her robe. “Let’s move on, whelp.”

Zerafine centered herself and opened her heart’s eye. She was aware of buildings as

immaterial shapes, but people shimmered with a pale glow, spirits safely encased in bodies. Far to the left, mostly concealed by the press, she thought she saw the brighter knot of energy marking an apparition. She was barely conscious of the road as more than a pressure on the soles of her feet, and Gerrard’s hand at her back kept her from stumbling. “Tell us when the road changes again,” she said.

In just a few minutes, Nacalia turned a corner and said, “Right there,” but Zerafine knew before she spoke. The world pulsed, like a heartbeat, and the buildings and the stones of the street glowed briefly red. She opened her physical eyes. “Where are we now?” she asked.

“Three streets south of where we was before,” Nacalia said.

“It was like a pulse, or like a muscle flexing,” Zerafine told Gerrard. She turned to look back at the street they’d come from; it didn’t look any different. “And now, according to Nacalia, that street connects to one it didn’t before. What I don’t understand is how nobody else notices. I mean, suppose you were shopping at a stall and suddenly you’re five blocks away?”

“Only ever happens when we turn a corner,” Nacalia chimed in.

“That just means we haven’t seen it happen any other way yet.”

Gerrard shrugged. “Can you still get us to the Capitol?” he asked, scratching his beard.

Nacalia matched his shrug. “Streets keep changing.”

“But you know every street in this city,” Zerafine pointed out. “You must know every

possible route to the Capitol, no matter what street you’re on. Could you assume you’re going to have to keep changing your route?”

Nacalia looked up. “I suppose,” she said, but she looked more hopeful. “Takes longer.”

“We’re not in a hurry.”

Nacalia led the way with more confidence. This time, Zerafine watched, not the buildings, but their fellow travelers. Most of them kept their heads down or conversed loudly with their companions. A pair of ghost hunters with a shiny new trap crossed the street to avoid her, unable to meet her eyes. A few people, however, would come around a corner toward them and look

around in confusion, turning one way and another as if lost. Some even turned around and went back the way they’d come, muttering curses. So some people did notice. Why hadn’t anyone

reported
this
weird occurrence?

They passed through a nearly empty market, stalls that should have been full of food empty and untended. One of the lone vendors, a woman selling turnips off a cart, gave them a look as empty as her neighbors’ booths. Zerafine took a look around at the quiet neighborhood.

Unemployed men on the street corner gazed at her narrow-eyed as she passed. She could feel their eyes on her long after they’d fallen behind. It was a relief to reach the Capitol and duck into the coolness of the Rotunda.

Having reached their goal, however, Zerafine realized she didn’t know what to do next.

After some discussion, she and Gerrard decided to try their luck with the hall that led to the Council chamber. Nacalia, already looking bored, followed in their wake; Zerafine still hadn’t forgotten the mystery man’s threat. After peeking into three or four rooms, badly startling their occupants, she found an office that contained Paola, a broad desk, and many piles of paper.

“Madama
thelis
,” Paola said, surprised. “Were you expected?”

“I’m here to look at the records on the apparitions,” Zerafine said. “I assume you’ve

collected more since my first visit?”

“Certainly. Were they helpful?” Paola began to rummage through a stack of papers at least four inches tall.

“Very much so.” Zerafine put out a hand to stop the papers from sliding away. Paola

murmured her thanks.

“Here they are,” she said, handing Zerafine a few sheets of paper. She scanned the top page, noting how the reports had been organized by district or hill, then by neighborhood, in an orderly fashion.

“What I’m actually interested in,” she said, “are the reports themselves. They can’t arrive at your office this neatly organized.”

“Well, no,” Paola said, “but we don’t keep those. There are so many. We collect them and

then list them on this document. And not everything gets reported. The lists from our, um, more notable citizens are complete, but we’re certain that in some neighborhoods, people just can’t be bothered to tell us about the problem.”

“I’m not sure how you can tell that certain, um, notable citizens are making complete

reports?” Zerafine said, and instantly felt sorry for mocking the young woman’s attempt not to say “the rich people who matter.” But Paola seemed not to notice. She was becoming

enthusiastic about the topic. She was apparently one of those people who thrived on bureaucracy.

“We do keep track of multiple reports of the same sighting,” she said. “We’ve found that the more affluent the neighborhood, the more likely we are to hear about a sighting. But that makes sense, because—” She cut herself off, mid-sentence.

“Because?” Zerafine prompted her.

Paola looked around as if she expected some invisible person to take note of her words for her future punishment. “Because
tokthelos
Genedirou is more willing to come out for important people,” she said in a hushed voice. “So it’s to their advantage to report every apparition they see, because then the
tokthelos
will know to take care of it.”

“Thank you for your honesty,” Zerafine said. “Walk me through the process by which the

reports arrive.”

Paola looked as though her desire to know why the emissary wanted such information was at war with her keen sense of self-preservation. Self-preservation won. “Someone sends a runner to bring the message,” she said. “The runner brings the message to the receiving office—you

understand we get messages, requests for the Council and so forth, all day. A clerk puts the message about the apparition into the proper bin. And at the end of the day another clerk sorts through the messages and produces a list like the one you have there.”

“I’d like to talk to these clerks,” Zerafine said.

Paola opened her mouth to object, closed it, then said, “I think your presence might be a little...disturbing to their work.”

“They’ll have to deal with it. I promise I won’t take much of their time.”

Paola led them back down the hall and to a stairway leading down. Gerrard said, in a low

voice, “You’re wondering about the chance one of them could be bribed.”

Zerafine nodded. “This setup sounds like a perfect way to obscure what’s really going on up on the hills.” She raised her hood. It was a calculated risk; either she’d need the intimidation factor of the red robes, or she’d make a handful of innocent clerks wet themselves in terror.

The low-ceilinged room they entered looked far less orderly even than Paola’s office. A

handful of men and women were occupied with sorting paper of all sizes, from mere scraps to immense folio sheets. A middle-aged woman wearing spectacles and a frown came to meet them.

Her collar bore the circle pin of one of Kalindi’s worshippers.

“Emissary,” she said coldly. Not madama or
thelis
. Interesting. “What can I do for you?”

“I’d like to see today’s apparition reports,” Zerafine said politely. The woman raised her eyebrows, but indicated a box on the deep shelf that circled the room. The other clerks had stopped their work and were eyeing her nervously.