5: The False Fortune

3 Pluvo 712, 7:13 a.m. (IV)

“Serendipity,” Jon whispered.

He got out of bed and relieved himself, then went to the speaking tube and told Bitali to tell Anna to cancel all but his last appointment, then to bring him walking clothes. He put the clothes on when they arrived, then left the house for the solitude of the morning countryside. He walked and thought, and a plan grew in his mind as the sun ascended.

Jon returned home just before noon. He strode through the front door, through the parlor, and directly to Anna’s office. He was surprised to find her door closed. He opened it without knocking.

Anna was sitting behind her desk, as he had expected, but her chair was tilted back, and her feet were up on the desktop, which was something he had never seen her do before. She was reading a small clothbound book that was propped up on her knees.

For the briefest instant Anna’s face showed fear. Then the fear was replaced by the annoyed embarrassment a serious person caught being silly. She tossed the book into a drawer, put her feet down, pulled the chair up to her desk, and sat straight. Her face became a mask of disinterested professionalism, eyes fixed on air above Jon’s shoulder.

“Hello, sir,” she said. “I canceled your first three appointments as you asked. Mr. Claythun and Dutchess Harnow sent replies expressing dissatisfaction. I have them here if you’d like to read them.”

Jon looked at Anna’s bland face and heard her flat tone, and he felt a throb of sorrow. He remembered her mourning the derelict villages of the Low Plains. How beautiful she had been with her thoughts in the past and eyes on the distance. How dull she was in his house, talking to him.

“What were you reading?” Jon asked.

“Nothing, sir. Something frivolous.”

“Nothing you do is frivolous, Anna. You never waste any time.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“That isn’t a compliment. You’re always so… alert. You’re like an eagle. Or a rabbit. I can’t imagine you sleeping.”

Anna met Jon’s gaze. Her eyes were blank. It was not the blankness of boredom or stupidity. They were blank like telescopes, observing intensely, but communicating nothing except their will to observe.

“Two,” Jon said.

“Pardon?”

“You didn’t cancel three appointments. You canceled two. Alton de Lome canceled himself because he hurt his hand tinkering with an automobile engine.”

The blood drained from Anna’s face.

“What were you reading?” Jon asked.

“Do you already know?”

“Yes,” Jon lied, “but I want you to show me.”

Anna opened the drawer and lifted the book out. Jon stepped forward and took it from her.

“The Testament of the Resurrection,” Jon read from the spine. “I didn’t know you were interested in cults, Anna.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” she said. “I didn’t think you’d mind me having it here because you… No one else knows I have it.”

“I don’t mind.” Jon tossed the book onto the desk. “Lots of people read this secretly, don’t they? Isn’t it secretly popular?”

“I’ve heard that it is.”

“Where did you get this copy?

“I don’t remember– I mean, I shouldn’t tell. But you already know, don’t you?” Anna said. “You’ll know whether I tell you or not.”

Fear — disgust? — contorted Anna’s face. She slumped in her chair. Her head drooped, and for a moment Jon thought she would cry. But then she tensed. She raised her eyes, and they were full of anger.

“How do you know?” she said, loudly, almost shouting. “If you know everything, then why do you need me? If you know everything, then why won’t you leave me alone?”

Jon sat down in the single chair that stood before Anna’s desk. “How is Simon?” he asked.

Anna inhaled as if to speak, but instead she breathed out a long, slow sigh, and the anger left her face with her breath.

“Simon is fine,” she said.

“Where did you get the book?”

“From Gretel en Sturn.”

“The smith’s daughter. Why were you talking to her?”

“I talk to people, sometimes. Gretel is… someone I talk to.”

“She has a son too.”

“Yes.”

“Is she one of those… What do you call those people who read the Resurrection book?”

“Restorationists.”

“That. Is Gretel a Restorationist?”

“I think so.”

“How did you find that out?”

“Just talking.”

“Gretel just casually mentioned to you that she is a heretic? Well, I guess if the Prohibition Bureau doesn’t bother her, then the Inquisition isn’t going to either. Not that the Inquisition seems to do much anymore. I haven’t heard of anyone being arrested for blasphemy since…”

Jon had been going to say “for years,” but as he formed the words he realized that he had no idea how long it had been. “Years” for him might be almost any amount of time for Anna, and he didn’t even know how long it had been for him.

“Where did Gretel get the book?” Jon asked, brushing his unfinished thought aside.

“She just said it had been in the family.”

“Her side, or her husband’s?”

“Both, I think.”

“Cultists like to marry each other, don’t they?”

“I’ve heard they do… Sir? Please don’t tell anyone about Gretel, sir.”

“Anyone? You mean don’t tell the Inquisition?”

“Yes… No…”

She looked at him pleadingly. He did not know what she was pleading for.

“Don’t tell who?” he demanded.

“Anyone! If you tell anyone about Gretel, then she might find out that I told you about her. I don’t want her to know that. I want her to think she can trust me.”

“Oh.”

Anna hung her head. Now she did cry. She made no sound, but Jon could see tears gathering on her lashes. The tears filled Jon with emotions he could not parse.

He pitied Anna. He wanted to comfort her, to offer his shoulder for her tears. He wanted to lift her up and carry her away from her worries.

But he was the cause of her worries. He was the reason she was bewildered and lonely and afraid. It was he who caused her pain.

But he resented her pain. Because of him, she could spend her mornings reading heretical books with her feet up. She had no right to be sad. She ought to be grateful.

But he was unworthy of her gratitude, because he gave her nothing that she did not earn. He could not be the Great Detective without an accomplice who experienced time as others did. He needed Anna. He was dependent.

But he was powerful. He could do anything he wished to her, and he would not be punished.

But he could not compel her respect.

“No one will ever know what you told me,” he said, “so stop crying. Now collect all your notes about Cynd Ceramics. I want to bring them with us.”

“Bring them with us? Are we going somewhere?”

“We’re going to Norbus. We need to be on the road before Lowdous de Cynd arrives here for his appointment.”

“Why?”

“Because I said so.”

* * *

Jon left Anna at the hotel in Norbus early the next morning. He had instructed her to do whatever she liked, but to return to the hotel periodically in case he needed to find her. This was a lie: he did not expect her to be there when he returned.

Jon wore a simple disguise of a false beard, a bright orange robe, and a matching hat. He left the hotel through a side door, traveled West for half a mile, then ducked into an alley. There he discarded the disguise to emerge bearless, hatless, and wearing a green uwagi. He retraced his steps back almost to the hotel, then headed North, toward the harbor, the Temple, and the home of Anniisa en Koven.

* * *

Jon strode up Spinnaker Street, looking for the house numbered forty-seven. This part of Norbus was genuinely old. The cobbles beneath his feet were worn to a glassy smoothness, and the trees that lined the street nearly met above his head. The pagoda of the Temple of Tartest poked out above the trees at the end of the street, like an ancestral spirit looking down on its children.

Most of the houses on Spinnaker were made of dyed bricks, as had been the fashion in the Fifth Century, at the height of the False Empire. Number forty-seven was a deep purple color, obtained from mixing crushed amethyst with dark clay. Like every other house on the street, it was set on a rectangular lot bordered by a waist-high stone wall. Most of the other houses had neat lawns within their walls. Forty-seven had vegetable beds.

Jon traced his finger over the nameplate on the gatepost: “Johannes de Koven, Physiologist and Surgeon.” The gate was locked, and there was no bell. After a moment’s deliberation, Jon vaulted the wall. He walked to the front door, where there was a bell, and pulled the rope.

A narrow slot slid open in the door, and a woman’s eyes peered out of it. The slot closed, then opened again, this time revealing a man’s eyes. Jon smiled and made a friendly wave. A moment later, a bolt was drawn, the door was opened, and Johannes de Koven stood in the doorway, looking at Jon with an expression that mingled curiosity with suspicion.

“Did you jump the wall?” Koven asked.

“I did,” Jon answered. “I didn’t see a bell on the gate.”

“I don’t have a bell on the gate because I don’t want people coming to my house uninvited. Who are you?”

“I am Johannes de Alder, a private detective. I sent you a telegram yesterday saying I wished to speak with Anniisa about a case I am investigating.”

“I got the telegram, but I thought it was a joke.”

“Do you often get fake telegrams as jokes?”

“No. But I’m an admirer of Mr. Alder’s work, and” — Koven leaned forward and lowered his voice — “my wife likes to pull pranks.”

“Pranks like hiring an actor to come to your door and pretend to be Johannes de Alder?”

“No.” Koven laughed. “She wouldn’t go that far. But you understand my skepticism. The Great Detective spontaneously visiting my home seems like…”

“Some sort of fraud? Well, I can prove that it isn’t a banal fraud, at least.”

Jon reached into his sash and withdrew his coin purse. He rummaged around in it, clinking the coins, and tilting it so Koven could see that it was filled with silver and platinum. He withdrew a platinum 100 gil and held it out to Koven.

“Take this,” he said. “If, in an hour, you believe that I am Johannes de Alder, keep it as payment for your help. If you don’t believe, give it back.”

Koven looked at the coin, but did not take it. He met Jon’s eye, then stepped back into the house, beckoning for him to follow.

Koven led Jon through a small foyer (where Jon removed his shoes) then down a short hallway to a spacious room that seemed to be a combination of parlor and greenhouse. Large skylights welcomed the sun, and tall windows showed a pleasant backyard with fruit trees and a fire pot surrounded by benches. The windows were not solid panes, but soldered patchworks of blue, green, and transparent glass which cooled the light that passed through them. Potted hibiscus stood around the edges of the room, filling it with a comforting aroma.

Cushioned chairs surrounding a low wooden table filled the center of the room. Anniisa stood behind the table, pouring tea. Her wooden foot thumped softly on the floorboards, but her limp was slight, less noticeable than her pregnant belly, which showed clearly through her silk kimono and got in her way as she moved around the chairs.

“You just assumed I’d let him in?” Koven asked Anniisa, gesturing at the tea cups.

“You’re too curious not too,” she replied, smiling at him.

Koven moved to his wife and kissed her, one hand behind her neck, the other resting on her belly. They smiled as they pulled away, meeting each other’s eyes with a gaze as tender as the kiss had been.

They turned toward Jon expectantly, but for a moment he was speechless. He assumed that there would be some tension between a husband and a wife, latent resentment, distrust, worry. There was none. They radiated happiness, and this amazed him. Had he ever felt that way? Had he ever felt simply happy with Katerine, back in the old life, before he had died that first time? He couldn’t remember.

“Thank you for taking the time to speak with me, Mr. and Mrs. Koven,” Jon said, collecting himself. “As you know, I am Johannes de Alder, a private detective. I am here because I believe that you may have information relevant to a case I am pursuing.”

“Your telegram said you wanted to talk about my injury,” Anniisa said. “Are you trying to find out who attacked me?”

“Yes, but no. I am trying to locate your attacker, but it is incidental to my investigation.”

“Can you tell us about that investigation?” Koven asked.

“No.”

“Can you promise that my wife will not be put in any danger by talking to you?”

“I promise absolute discretion. No one will ever know that you spoke to me.”

Koven looked to Anniisa, who nodded. “Sit down,” he said, gesturing at a chair. “I’m sorry, but I have patients to see at noon, so I’ll have to ask you to be somewhat brief.”

“Do you see patients here in the house?” Jon asked, taking the offered seat.

“No. I have a practice on Salt Street. I do have some supplies here, but it’s more of a storeroom. I can’t do surgery here.”

“But the night Annissa was injured, she was brought here, correct? That was when you met her?”

“How do you know that?” Anniisa asked.

“Logical deduction,” Koven said. “He knows where you were hurt, and that you soon married a doctor whose house is nearby. The simplest way to correlate those facts is that you were brought here for treatment. Is that right, Mr. Alder?”

“Close enough,” Jon said, giving Koven an approving nod. “You must have been quite taken with each other. The injury was less than a year ago, and you must have been married for at least” — Jon gestured toward Anniisa’s belly — “six months? How did you decide to marry so quickly?”

“I had to put Anniisa under anesthesia to perform the amputation,” Koven said. “There was no hope of saving her foot. When she started to wake up, the first thing she asked me was if she was going to live. I told her yes, she was, and then she immediately said to tell the trolley driver, so he wouldn’t think he’d killed someone. I’d never heard of anyone being so unselfish. I fell in love immediately.”

“For me it was because he was a doctor,” Anniisa said. She grinned at Koven. He laughed loudly, and she joined him. They laughed for what seemed to Jon an excessively long time, stopped, looked at each other, then laughed again.

“Yes, that’s wonderful,” Jon said. He continued in a tone that cut off the previous subject: “Anniisa, are you certain that your injury was not an accident?”

“Yes,” she replied, forcing the grin off her face. “I was attacked.”

“Do you think that you were targeted personally, not just because you were on the bridge at the wrong time?”

“Yes.”

“Did anything unusual happen that day prior to the attack?”

“No. It was just a normal day. I don’t really remember work that day, to be honest. I left the Hart at nine o’clock. It doesn’t close until ten, but they would send servers home early if business was slow. I walked down Archer to the trolley stop, like I always did. I rode to the stop near the Temple.”

“Were you living in one of those apartment buildings to the North of the park?”

“No. Well, yes, to the North, but not one of those right on the park. I couldn’t afford those. There are cheaper apartments further North, closer to the harbor. So, um… I got off the trolley at the Temple park stop, like usual, and I crossed the street, to go to the Temple gate.”

“Why did you go to the Temple gate?”

“There are monks at the gate who tell fortunes. I used to get my fortune told once a week. I knew it was a waste of money, but it made me feel… hopeful.”

“How much did it cost?”

“A tenth-gil. That was actually a lot for me at the time.”

“Did you always go to the same monk?”

“Yes. A monk named Karlis de Roon. He sets up under the statue of Tartest, on the east side of the Temple gate. The bridge is right there. I would use it to cross Iron Street after I talked to him.

“This is where it gets strange,” Anniisa continued. “I started across the bridge, like always, but in the middle there was a woman, standing there. She was standing right in the middle of the bridge, kind of in people’s way. She was wearing a cloak with a hood up. I couldn’t see her face, but I could tell she was watching me.”

“How do you know it was a woman?”

“Because she was short, about my height, and she spoke to me. I was going to walk around her, but then she said my name. ‘Anniisa de Monet,’ she said. She didn’t shout, and her voice wasn’t creepy or anything. If her face hadn’t been hidden, it wouldn’t have been strange.”

“Did you recognize her voice?”

“No. So, she says my name, and I stop. I ask her what she wants, and she asks me what time it is. That’s a ridiculous question, because there’s a clock tower in the park, and you can see it from the bridge. So I point to the clock tower, and then she starts talking about how she thinks the clock tower is pretty, and don’t I think so too? And she just keeps making small talk like that, talking about nothing. I was going to walk away, but she grabbed my arm and said that I needed to stay for just a minute more.

“That’s when a trolley went by under the bridge. And she threw me off, right down in front of it. I tried to get off the tracks, but the trolley was already right there, and… I don’t think anyone saw where the woman went. Everyone was looking at me, and she just slipped away.”

“Have you seen the woman again, or noticed anyone else who you felt was threatening you?”

“No.”

“This woman tried to kill you, failed, but didn’t come back to finish the job,” Jon said. “So it wasn’t important to her that you actually die. She just wanted you out of the way.”

“Out of the way of what?” Koven exclaimed. “Anniisa was a waitress!”

“Was there much turnover at the Joyful Hart?” Jon asked.

“No,” Anniisa answered. “Most of us had been there for at least a year. It’s hard for a woman to find a safe job in the city. None of us wanted to leave, even though the Hart doesn’t pay a lot.”

“So if this woman wanted to become a waitress at the Joyful Hart, then she would need to get rid of a woman who was already working there.”

“What?” Koven snorted. “You think someone tried to kill Anniisa so they could steal her job?”

“What other motive could there be?”

“But that’s crazy! A waitress job isn’t worth killing for!”

Jon shrugged. “You say this woman was no bigger than you,” he said, returning his attention to Anniisa. “But she was able to throw you over the bridge railing. How did she do that? Did you struggle with her?”

“No,” Anniisa said. “I don’t really understand what happened, actually.”

“I think there must have been a second attacker who Anniisa didn’t see,” Koven interjected. “The woman must have had a male accomplice who came up from behind.”

“I know someone must have pushed me hard,” Anniisa said. “But all I remember is that I was suddenly tipping over the railing. The woman and me, we were near the middle of the bridge, maybe four feet from the railing. And suddenly I was going over. That doesn’t make sense, but it’s what I remember.”

For the first time in their conversation, Jon was surprised. It was obvious that the assassin had attacked Anniisa with magic, but she seemed oblivious to that possibility.

“Have you considered that she might have used magic against you?” he asked.

“That’s impossible,” Koven said. “There are prohibition wards on both sides of the bridge.”

“There have always been,” Anniisa said. “They’re up on posts so you can’t miss seeing them.”

“Wards. Of course,” Jon said. “You say this woman had one hand on your arm. Could you see her other hand? Was it inside her cloak?”

“I think it was.”

Jon sat back in his chair and scowled at the ceiling. He was confident that Anniisa had been attacked by a proficient magician, one who knew how to disable prohibition wards. The purpose of the attack had almost certainly been to create a hole in the Joyful Hart’s staff, which the woman who would become Beatrace en Cynd had immediately filled. Jon had little doubt that the cloaked assassin had been Beatrace herself. It was interesting to learn that Beatrace was a magician, but that did not bring him closer to learning her real identity.

Jon searched his mind for more questions. What would the Great Detective ask? He found himself wondering what Anna would ask. Thinking of Anna made him think of The Testament of the Resurrection.

“Are you religious?”

“What do you mean?” Koven asked.

“Anniisa,” Jon said, “you used to get your fortune told every week. Do you believe in them? Do you believe that the monks can predict your future by examining your past lives?”

“No,” Anniisa answered, slowly, as if thinking hard about the word. “I guess I never did. I was just… I didn’t feel like my life was going anywhere, and getting fortunes made me feel like… If my past lives were important, then this life must be important too, right?”

“Do you still get your fortune told?”

“No.”

“Why not? If you didn’t believe in them before, but you still went every week, then why don’t you go now?”

“Because I’m happy now. I don’t need to trick myself into feeling hopeful. I am.”

“That’s only part of the reason you don’t go anymore,” Koven said. “Tell him about that last fortune.”

“Oh, that’s silly,” Anniisa said. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Let me decide that, please,” Jon said.

“That last fortune,” Anniisa said, “the one I got that night — it was bad. It said… I don’t remember exactly what it said.”

“It predicted that Anniisa would live a life of frustration and disappointment, then die alone,” Koven said, “ostensibly because she blasphemed the Emperor in a past life. After she died, she would spend 1000 years being flayed in the Hollow Moon because of her lack of penitence.”

“That seems unusually specific for a Pliigist fortune,” Jon said. “Aren’t they usually riddles?”

“Yes,” Anniisa said. “It was the first really clear fortune I’d ever gotten! But it didn’t come true. Just the opposite happened! That was the last day I was alone.”

Anniisa held her hand out to Koven, and he took it tenderly. They looked very much like they wanted to kiss, but they restrained themselves.

“You got a fortune predicting that the rest of your life would be horrible,” Jon said. “And then a stranger immediately threw you off a bridge?”

“Yes.”

“This monk you got your fortunes from, is he still there?”

* * *

It was near midday when Jon approached the Temple of Tartest. The front of the Temple faced North, toward the sea. He remembered the view from that side being impressive, wide gates overlaid with beaten copper, red lacquered wood topping high stone walls. Approached from the South, it was much less impressive. The Temple complex was surrounded by a low wooden wall that was painted green in an unsuccessful attempt to imitate copper patina. Its posts and awning were painted red, but it was otherwise undecorated. Much of the paint was peeling.

Jon walked around the circumference of the grounds to the gates. The street there was less crowded than he had expected. Noonday prayers would begin in a few minutes, but the Temple courtyard was less than half full, and there were few people going in. The worshippers seemed to be mostly women, despite the Temple’s proximity to the harbor, with its swarms of sailors and stevedores.

Jon had been worried that he might not find Karlis de Roon, but he quickly spotted a heavyset monk with a gray braid, a gray mustache, and bright green eyes. He sat on one corner of a square rug near the feet of the statue of Tartest, where its shadow would fall on him in the afternoon. Three bowls of dice sat in a line down the center of the rug, dividing it in half, corner to corner. If there had been any doubt that this was Karlis de Roon the fortune teller, a placard saying so rested on the flagstones next to the rug.

Jon waited while Roon told a fortune for a young woman with a parasol. The woman sat on the empty corner of the rug. After speaking with her for a moment, Roon tipped the first of the three bowls and spilled its dice out. He read these, then drew a small twine-bound book from a chest on his right. He spilled the dice from the second bowl, read them, then opened the book to a certain page. He silently read the text, then spilled the third bowl. He pondered these dice for a moment, then took up a clipboard and a pen and wrote a short note on a slip of paper. He folded the note and handed it to the woman. She thanked him and dropped an aluminum coin into his money box.

Jon sat down on the vacated corner of the rug. He was pleased with his progress so far this day. Satisfaction made him confident, and confidence made him impatient. He decided to skip introductions.

“I know you’re a fraud,” Jon said, glaring at the monk. “I know that you give false fortunes for bribes.”

Jon had expected Roon to be either enraged or abashed by this accusation. Instead he met Jon’s gaze and asked “What do you mean by ‘false fortune?’” He spoke quietly, his voice barely audible over the street noise.

“I mean… a false fortune…” Jon stammered, astonished to find himself on the defensive.

“There can be no false fortunes unless there are real fortunes. A thing cannot be counterfeit unless there is something genuine for it to imitate. Do you believe that my fortunes are usually real?”

“Uh…”

“Do you believe that I can see into your past lives?”

“No.”

“Do you believe that I can tell your future?”

“No.”

“Then what are you accusing me of?”

“You take money to…”

“To tell fortunes? Of course,” Roon said, gesturing at his money box. “Every fortune is bought, so how can you complain that some are bought?”

“But you have a process! The fortune is supposed to be gotten by rolling the dice and interpreting the books. If you don’t follow the process, then you’re violating your customer’s trust, and that’s fraud, whether you can really tell the future or not!”

“You say yourself that the fortuneteller’s interpretation is part of the process. As long as I roll the dice and read the text, I have followed the process, and I am not a fraud. Now pay for a fortune, or get off my rug.”

Jon’s attack had been defeated so quickly that there had not been time to think of an alternative tactic. Finding himself suddenly faced with the choice of either leaving or paying, Jon reached for his purse. He was not carrying any aluminum coins, so he chose a silver gil and dropped it in Roon’s money box.

“Welcome, good sir,” Roon said. “What question do you seek an answer to this day?”

“I want to know about a bribe you took–”

“That is not a question.”

“Fine. Um… Last year near the start of Glacio, a woman was hit by the trolley under that bridge.” Jon pointed over his shoulder. “She was pushed off, but it looked like she jumped. That woman was a regular customer of yours… Uh… Do you know who I’m talking about?”

Roon spilled the dice from the first bowl. He looked at them, then slowly reached into the chest and withdrew one of the twine-bound books. He spilled the second bowl.

“Do you need to do all that?” Jon asked, annoyed.

Ignoring him, Roon read the second bowl’s dice and slowly turned to a page of the book. He read the page silently, then spilled the third bowl, looked at the dice, and wrote on a slip of thick paper. He offered it to Jon.

“A skilled arborist knows each of his trees by its roots alone,” Jon read. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Roon raised one eyebrow. This was the most his expression had changed since Jon sat down. He said nothing, but his persistent stare made it clear that he expected Jon to speak.

“You want me to solve the riddle?” Jon sighed. “This is stupid. Fine. I asked if you remember a certain customer. You reply that an arborist knows each of his trees. You must be the arborist, and the trees must be your customers. So you’re saying that you remember all of your customers. (I doubt that!) If customers are trees, then roots could be feet. Anniisa has a distinctive foot. So the answer is yes, you know exactly who I’m talking about.”

Jon looked to Roon for confirmation, but the monk gave no sign if he had guessed correctly. Instead he said “May this fortune give you insight to live a noble life.” He inclined his head and raised his hands palms up, indicating that their business was concluded and Jon should leave.

“I have more questions!” Jon said.

Roon tapped his money box.

“You’re going to answer all of my questions as riddles? You’re wasting your own time! Fine. The fortune that you gave to Anniisa de Monet on the day that–”

Roon tapped his money box loudly.

“I already put in a whole gil,” Jon said. “I should get ten fortunes for that.”

“Putting a coin in the box is part of the process,” Roon said. “If I gave you ten fortunes for one coin, that would be fraud.”

Jon laughed. He waited for the monk to laugh too, but the green eyes did not waver. Jon hardened his face as he reached into his purse for another silver gil. He shoved it forcefully into the box.

“This woman, Anniisa,” Jon said, “she used to come to you once a week. You always gave her ‘real’ fortunes, until… You’re ignoring this. You’re only going to respond to my actual question… The fortune you gave Anniisa the day she was pushed off the bridge, did a third party pay you to interpret the text for that fortune in a specific way?”

Slowly and methodically, Roon rolled, rolled, read, rolled, wrote. He handed the fortune to Jon.

“The flight of the arrow is changed by every breeze that swayed the tree from which the bow was made,” Jon read. “That’s easy! The flight of the arrow is influenced by events that occur before the bow was drawn. If the fortune is the arrow, then the fortune was influenced by events that occurred before it was requested. So, yes, you did take a bribe to give Anniisa a pessimistic fortune.”

Jon slammed another silver gil into the money box. “The person who paid you,” he said, “did you get a good look at them? Could you identify them?”

The skillful herdsman knows each cow by horn, tail, and hoof.

“So yes. Was the person an unremarkable woman in her thirties? Average height, petite, short brown hair, amber eyes?”

The ringing of a bell may topple a wall, though no ear hears it.

“I know that line. That’s an answer to that old thought experiment: ‘If a bell rings, and no one hears it, does it really ring?’ Yes it does, because the sound can move objects. So you’re saying ‘yes.’ That has to have been Beatrace en Cynd. Beatrace paid you to give Anniisa a bad fortune because if she had that in her pocket when she died, then her death would look like suicide. A girl with no family and no prospects gets a fortune that says her life is hopeless. She takes it seriously, and she jumps in front of a trolley. No foul play is suspected, so there is no police investigation. Clever, but it seems paranoid. There wouldn’t have been any reason for the police to connect Beatrace with Anniisa anyway, so why would she fear an investigation? Wait! That wasn’t my question. My question: Do you know any information about this woman that could be used to locate her? Not where she is now, I mean, but where she was then. Her address, her real name, a bank account number, anything like that?”

The eagle sees each stalk in the field, and so he sees which stalk the mouse climbs.

“You do! She didn’t tell you, but you found out, somehow, because you anticipated that knowing might be profitable for you. Ha! I guess you can tell the future! So, what do you know? Do you know her address?”

Jon reached into his purse but found that he had used all of his silver gils. He rummaged in it, pushing aside platinum coins, and found a silver tenner. He put it in the box.

Yes, read the fortune.

“Well, what is it?” Jon demanded.

The two moons shine less brightly than the one sun.

“Two moons, one sun? Three? Twenty-one? That’s not enough numbers for an address. Is the place she was staying in Norbus?”

The fox boasted that he was the greatest beast because of his wit. The buffalo sat upon the fox and boasted that he was the greatest beast because of his weight.

“Fox and buffalo? Is that a reference? I don’t recognize it. Is the address in Norbus?”

The hasty man profits little, but patience is repaid one thousand fold.

“What? Those last two were answers to the same question, but they have nothing to do with each other. A buffalo weighs a thousand times more than a fox? Foxes are more patient than buffaloes? Well, I’m done being patient! Tell me the address, now, or I’m going to ask with a bullet instead of a coin.”

Roon tapped his money box.

Jon reached again for his purse and found that he had run out of silver. The least valuable coin he had left was a platinum 100. It was more valuable than any two silver coins, weighed more than silver, and was worth one thousand times the normal price of a fortune.

“Oh.” Jon said. “Ha.” He dropped the 100 gil coin into the box.

The shark mauled a whale calf, thinking it could not fight back. But the father whale impaled the shark’s 177 pups on his tusk.

“177 Narwhal Street,” Jon said. “That’s where Beatrace was staying.”

“May this fortune give you insight to live a noble life,” Roon said. He inclined his head and raised his hands palms up, indicating that their business was concluded and Jon should leave.

Jon headed in the direction of the trolley stop, feeling dazed. He was not sure how long he had sat on the rug, or how much money he had spent. When he looked back, Roon was already telling another customer’s fortune.

* * *

177 Narwhal Street was a small complex of “beehive” apartment buildings, not unlike the one he had found Anna living in four years ago. This surprised him, because Beatrace had used magic and must therefore own a dam, and even the simplest dam was worth a year’s rent in a beehive. If Beatrice could afford a dam, why would she stay here?

Flashing platinum got Jon an immediate interview with the complex’s manager, a skinny young man with a greasy face and greasy hair who introduced himself as “Sharky.”

“Yeah, I remember her,” Sharky said. “She was weird.” He wore an uwagi that had once been dark blue with white embroidery, but blue and white had both faded to gray. All of the furniture in his tiny office was covered in a layer of grime that made it similarly monochromatic. He and Jon sat on flimsy stamped metal chairs with a collapsible wooden table between them.

“I noticed her because she didn’t have any schedule,” Sharky continued. “Most of the men who live here work in the warehouses up the street, so they come and go with the shifts. Most of the women here work in the brothels, so they have shifts too. This girl, she came and went radiantly, just any time, day or night.”

“Randomly?”

“Yeah, that. I bet a rich guy like you doesn’t need to go to brothels, huh? Girls must hear your money jingling and come like cats smelling fish.”

“I have a wife,” Jon said, offended by the insinuation that his purse was his most attractive feature.

“Yeah, nobody here has that. You don’t live here if you can afford a wife. Anyway, this girl– What did you say her name was?”

“Beatrace. But I don’t think that’s her real name.”

“No, she didn’t call herself that. She went by… um… Larisa, I think? It started with an L.”

“Can you look it up? You must have a record of your tenants?”

“I only write down the ones that owe. This girl never owed. That was another weird thing about her. When she moved in, she paid for six months up front. No one pays up front. But then she only stayed one month.”

“Did you refund the extra money?”

“What!? No! She didn’t ask for it either. She just disappeared one day, didn’t even tell me she was leaving.”

“When did she leave?”

“She moved in here about the middle of Malvarma last year. I remember, because it was flayed cold, and I used that up-front payment to buy a nice coat. She stayed about a month, until the middle of Glacio. She had a nice coat. She had a gun, too. I saw her pull it one time.”

“Why?”

“One of the guys was bothering her.” Sharky shrugged. “Nobody got killed, so it wasn’t my problem.”

“Do you know where she came from?”

“When she first showed up, I would have sworn she was from the Low Plains. She had one of those rural accents, and her hair was real long like girls have out in the country. I didn’t talk to her much, but you could tell she didn’t feel easy in the city. But then she changed. Her accent changed. She cut her hair. She started to walk different. Everything about her changed. It was weird.”

“Why was that weird? Don’t people usually acclimate to where they’re living?”

“Yeah, but it wasn’t like that. It wasn’t like a country girl turning into a city girl. She still didn’t fit in, but… At first she seemed scared, like she wasn’t sure she could survive in the city, but then later she seemed contemporary, like she was too good to be here.”

“You mean ‘contemptuous?’”

“What?”

“Never mind. You keep calling her a girl. How old was she?”

“At first I wouldn’t have thought she was older than twenty. But when she left I would have guessed forty.”

“She seemed to get older?”

“Yeah.”

“What was different?”

“I don’t know. Makeup, I guess. The way she walked. She just seemed older.”

“You say she left the building at random times. Do you have any idea where she went?”

“Well, if I’d known you were gonna show up with a money bag, I’d’ve found out. But I didn’t.”

“What time is it?” Jon muttered. He felt his watch. Six o’clock. “Do you have any empty apartments right now?”

“Yeah,” Sharky said. “I just kicked a guy out yesterday. Warehouse fired him. Couldn’t pay.”

Jon reached into his purse and grabbed three coins at random. He tossed them onto the table. The platinum thudded loudly on the thin wooden surface.

Sharky’s eyes grew wide. “Hollow Moon!” he swore.

“Clean up that room,” Jon said. “I’ll sleep there tonight.”

* * *

Two hours later Jon lay on a thin mattress in one of the beehive’s tiny apartments. A man was shouting in the apartment next door, but Jon didn’t expect to sleep much this night anyway.

He pondered what he had learned, fitting the pieces together one way, and then another. There were not enough pieces, and he was not sure they all went to the same puzzle. But that was fine. He hadn’t expected a breakthrough today. Today had been preparation for tomorrow. If he was clever, tomorrow he would get the missing pieces from Lowdous de Cynd.

And if he was not clever, he could just try again, in the same way, or different. His cleverness was irrelevant, really: he would succeed because success was inevitable. He need merely stay interested, and he would eventually learn everything worth knowing about Beatrace en Cynd. No stupidity on his part could prevent this.

He would always win. He would always win. Millennia of cheap, hollow victories loomed before him, without consequence, without possibility of escape, until finally…

He drove his mind in forceful cycles, smothering brooding thoughts with urgent thoughts. What did he know? What did he need to know? How could the former be used to gain the latter? He brought tomorrow so near that the future could not be glimpsed around it.