6: Vivdauro

Jon left the beehive at first light and made his way on foot back to the Continental Hotel. The walk would take two hours, but that was good. He wanted the time to think, to finalize his plan for the day. He bought a loaf of bread from a street vendor — Sharkey had been happy to exchange a bag of aluminum ones for one of Jon’s remaining platinums — and coffee from another. He ate as he walked.

The path from the slums on the East side to the rail hubs in the South took him through many districts of Norbus. Each was an architectural time capsule. The slums were mostly new buildings, made of steel and concrete, built quickly to accommodate the workers who had flocked to the city in the years of the Technological Revolution. Older than this were the angular structures of finished stone and timber that characterized the “traditional” architecture of the post-Rebellion period. Older still were the tall redwood buildings that had been popular during the Rebellion, when the False Empire had been reliant on imported Palmurban timber. Randomly interspersed among the various Imperial styles were cylindrical Antua buildings, most newer imitations, but a few that had actually been built by the Antua and survived into the present day.

Despite this diversity, there was an imposed sameness: every street, regardless of its pedigree, was flanked by electric lights, overhung with telegraph wires, or shadowed by billboards with garish advertisements. And in front of any place where people might gather was a prohibition ward, suppressing the past and enforcing the present.

Jon understood (because he had read it on a plaque in the lobby) that the Continental Hotel was intended to unify ancient and modern architecture by reflecting the sinuous timber and stone of the old Norbus in the polygonal steel and glass of the new. But as Jon approached the hotel from the North, it seemed to him that the building was not a union, but an exclusion. Its tall windows reflected the city in front of them, but this could be mistaken for a view of the city behind, and so its steel pillars and cornices seemed to frame nothing. It cast a sharp shadow, but its substance was obscure.

Jon strode casually through the lobby, nodding at the desk clerk on his way to the elevators. He rode to the third of its ten floors.

The interior of the Continental was a clash of soft and hard materials that reminded him of his own home in Nordarosso. The carpet in the hall was thick and spongy. He stepped heavily, almost stomping, hoping that his footsteps would be audible as he approached his own room. When he reached his door, he jammed the key into its lock as loudly as possible, then pushed it open hard, so that it banged against the inside wall. He stepped in and slammed the door behind him.

When he had arrived from Nordaroso some thirty-six hours ago, he had rented the largest suite in the Continental. He had told Anna that this was for her comfort, but it had actually been in anticipation of this moment. The suite’s door opened onto a short hallway that ran for about six feet before connecting to a lounge that was separated from a kitchenette by a bar. This arrangement provided two points — one in the corner of the lounge to the left, and one behind the bar to the right — from which to set up a crossfire covering the entrance.

Jon walked into the lounge with his hands raised halfway, enough to show that they were empty, but not enough to signal surrender. He looked to his left and was gratified to see Marle crouched in the corner. He looked right and saw Barnaby peering over the bar. Both were pointing guns at him.

“Hello, Marle,” Jon said, nodding to her. “Hello, Barnaby.” He did not slow his pace, but walked casually between them, ignoring their weapons, heading for the other side of the lounge where a second short hall led to the bedrooms. “I’m just going to change,” he said. “There’s some wine and cheese in the icebox. Help yourselves if you haven’t already.”

He did not look back to see their reactions, but they did not shoot him, so he assumed they must be frozen in mute astonishment.

He entered his bedroom and closed the door. Marle and Barnaby had emptied his suitcase onto the bed and rummaged through the contents. Expected. They had taken the weapons and the dam that had been inside, but his clothes were all there. He really did want to change: his time in the beehive had left him feeling grimy, and a clean shirt against his skin felt almost as refreshing as a wash.

After changing, he stepped into the connected bathroom. While he relieved himself, combed his hair, and brushed his teeth, he reviewed what he had learned yesterday, and what he hoped to learn today. Facts aligned in his mind, connecting like a constellation. Some stars were missing, but it was obvious where they must fit.

Beatrace was an extremely competent, dedicated, and well-funded spy. Her sudden disappearance could only mean that she had fulfilled her mission and gone back to whomever had sent her.

Who had sent her? What had her mission been? She had not done anything to damage Cynd directly, and she had not stolen money or treasures. Therefore her mission must have been to steal information. Becoming Cynd’s wife had given her access to a secret of immense value. What secret?

Beatrace had feared being blamed for Anniisa’s death. The false fortune had been a measure to deflect that blame. But there had been no reason for the police to suspect Beatrace. If not the police, who had the false fortune been intended to deceive?

Marle suspected Hanns of some sort of treachery. This lead was thin, but Jon thought he could leverage it. If Jon could position himself as Marle’s ally against Hanns, then he could gain a strong influence over her…

Jon walked out of the bedroom with his hands again half raised. Marle and Barnaby were standing in the middle of the lounge. They pointed their guns at him, but they looked awkward rather than commanding, confusion evident on their faces. Marle opened her mouth to speak, but Jon cut her off.

“You should really get the wine,” he said. “We have things to discuss.”

“I’m not here to discuss anything with you,” Marle said. She tried to harden her voice, but her tone was exasperated. “I’m here to–”

“You’re here to take me to Lowdous. Yes. Don’t worry. I’ll come along. But we need to talk first.”

Marle glanced at Barnaby. He shrugged. She returned her gaze to Jon. He smiled encouragingly and wiggled his fingers to emphasize their emptiness.

“Talk about what?” she asked.

“We can start with the fact that Hanns is a traitor.”

The effect of this statement was immediate. Marle gasped. Barnaby’s aim wavered, dropping from Jon’s heart to his knees. They glanced at each other again, and this time Barnaby gave a nod of acknowledgement.

“How do you know that?” Marle demanded.

“Sit down, and I’ll explain,” Jon replied. “I’ll get that wine.”

Jon moved into the kitchenette, no longer bothering to keep his hands raised. Marle and Barnaby kept their guns pointed at him, but half-heartedly now, an obligatory gesture with no real threat behind it. Jon opened the icebox and was pleased to see that the two bottles of wine and the block of hard cheese were still there. He placed the cheese and a bottle on a tray and added plates, glasses, a corkscrew, and a knife, then carried the tray to the low table that stood in the center of the lounge. He sat down in one of the soft chairs, and set about opening the wine.

Marle and Barnaby exchanged another glance, then Marle slowly lowered herself into the chair opposite Jon. Barnaby remained standing. Neither holstered their gun, but both let their aim drop to the floor.

Jon poured himself a glass of wine and cut himself a hunk of cheese. He slid the bottle and the knife toward Marle, but she scowled at them.

“How do you know our names?” Marle asked.

Jon ate a bite of cheese and washed it down before answering. “Who am I?” he said.

“You’re Johannes de Alder. The famous detective.”

“Do you think that Johannes de Alder would be unable to learn your names?”

Marle’s scowl intensified. Jon waited until the corners of her mouth began to lift in preparation for speech, then he spoke first.

“The question you mean to ask,” he said, “is why do I know your names? The answer is that Lowdous de Cynd is not my only client. I am working on several cases, and Lowdous — and therefore you — is involved in more than one of them.”

“Mr. Cynd isn’t your client.”

“He will be after I meet with him today.”

“I don’t think so. He was furious when you stood him up in Nordarosso. You lied to him, and you embarrassed him, and you wasted his time. Mr. Cynd doesn’t forgive those things.”

“No, but he very much wants to know where his wife is. I think he will swallow his pride to learn that.”

“You know where Beatrace is?!”

“No, but I think Hanns does. We need to make him talk.”

“How can you–” Marle stuttered. “Why would he–”

“This will go faster if you just let me explain. We can’t stay here too long, or it will look suspicious. You’re supposed to be kidnapping me, remember, not sharing a bottle of wine. Speaking of kidnapping: my associate Anna: is she well?”

Marle looked at Barnaby. “I didn’t hurt her,” he said. “She went along to the factory without any fuss, and I left her there with Hanns.”

Jon nodded. “Good. She’s in position, then.”

“In position to do what?”

Jon was pleased to hear amazement in Barnaby’s voice.

“I told you that I am working for more than one client,” Jon said. “My primary client — now and historically — is the Prohibition Bureau. Because I am not visibly associated with the Bureau, I can follow leads that are difficult for them to investigate. For instance, yesterday I interviewed Anniisa en Koven. She spoke freely to me, but she would have been reluctant to speak to a Prohibition agent — or to a Cynd agent.”

“Anniisa en Koven?” Marle exclaimed. “You mean Anniisa de Monet! The waitress from the Joyful Hart!”

Marle now sounded amazed as well. She learned forward, putting her gun hand on the table. She looked down at the gun as if she had forgotten she was holding it. A moment’s hesitation, then she shoved it into the holster at her waist, then returned her now empty hand to the table.

She’s mine, Jon thought. He suppressed a grin.

“Yes, I thought you’d remember Anniisa,” Jon said. “Lowdous is no fool; when a woman who seemed supernaturally perfect for him suddenly appeared on the Hart’s staff, he was suspicious. He assigned you to investigate Beatrace, to find out where she had come from.”

Marle nodded. Her eyes had grown wide.

“Turnover at the Hart is very low, so you were curious how the waitress position had become available. When you learned that Anniisa had been forced to vacate it because of an injury, you were suspicious: it looked as though Anniisa had been removed to make room for Beatrice.”

Jon paused, gauging Marle’s disposition. Up to this point, he had been confident of his deductions, but now he needed to start asking questions. Had he gained enough of Marle’s trust that he could safely reveal some ignorance to her? He judged that he had.

“Why didn’t you questio Anniisa?” Jon asked

“I should have,” Marle said. She grimaced. “Mr. Cynd told me to investigate Beatrace, but he was already obsessed with her before I could find out anything. I knew he was going to marry her. I was afraid that if I accused her, and then she was innocent… If I’d talked to Anniisa, it would have been like accusing my mistress of being unfaithful.”

“So you investigated by more covert means,” Jon said, once again confident of his deduction. “Lowdous has contacts in the police. You used one of them to get the report on Anniisa’s injury. That was how you learned about the bad fortune in her pocket. That fortune was as good as a suicide note. Later, Anniisa returned to the Hart and told everyone she hadn’t jumped off that bridge; she’d been pushed. But by then it was too late.”

Marle nodded. “Mr. Cynd was in love with Beatrace. He wasn’t reasonable. He’d convinced himself that Beatrace was…”

“Bernice reincarnated.”

“Yes!” Marle exclaimed. Hope kindled in her eyes as they met Jon’s. “It almost made sense why he thought that. Even with the age difference, the resemblance was… I can’t believe that Bernice was somehow reincarnated as a woman in her thirties. But I don’t have a better explanation for it.”

“That’s not how reincarnation works,” Barnaby broke in. “Souls have to be judged before they go into new bodies, and souls only go into babies, when they take their first breath.” Barnaby suddenly looked embarrassed, as if he had just admitted a shameful secret. “I mean, that’s what the monks say,” he added.

“But Lowdous doesn’t respect Pliigist doctrine,” Jon said. “He has his own religion, one that accommodates this… fantasy.”

Marle nodded grimmly.

“Even if you had discovered the truth about Beatrace,” Jon said. “I don’t think you could have stopped her. She was too prepared. She had too many resources at her disposal.”

“Who is she?”

“She is an operative who was selected and trained to infiltrate Lowdous’s household. More than that I don’t know yet. But I think Hanns does.”

“Why?” Marle asked.

Jon considered his response. In truth, his only reason for suspecting Hanns was Marle’s own suspicion, that and his assumption that Beatrace would have needed help to disappear from Cynd’s mansion. He had no evidence against Hanns, or even the knowledge to invent believable slander.

“What is it you suspect Hanns of doing?” Jon asked, pitching his voice to make the question sound rhetorical.

“Selling secrets to rival companies,” Marle answered, pitching her voice in anticipation of Jon’s response.

Jon thought quickly. He had no idea what secrets Hanns might be selling, who he might be selling them to, or what reasons Marle had for suspecting him. Whatever Jon said next would have to create the impression that he already knew all of these things while prompting Marle to reveal more about them.

“But there are secrets that Hanns couldn’t access,” Jon said. “So his employer sent a second agent, one who could gain greater access, one who could gain all access.”

Marle nodded, comprehending. “Hanns knows who Beatrace is working for because they’re both working for the same people!”

“We need to make him tell us who.”

Jon locked eyes with Marle. A stream of communication flowed through their gaze.

I’ve felt so helpless.

I will help you.

I’ve felt so useless.

You are useful to me.

I want justice.

We will get it together.

“I don’t understand,” Barnaby said. “What secrets does the boss have that would be worth that much effort to steal? Cynd Ceramics makes tea cups. And why does the Prohibition Bureau care about any of this?”

“We should go!” Jon said. “We’ve been here too long already.”

He got up and walked out the door before anything else could be said.

* * *

Jon insisted that Marle and Barnaby pretend to be kidnapping him as they exited the room and then the building, in case they were being watched. Barnaby kept a loose grip on Jon’s arm while Marle walked behind him, keeping one hand hidden in her tunic as if gripping a hidden gun. Jon was surprised when he was guided to an automobile, parked near the train station about a quarter mile from the Continental.

There had been a period when Jon had taken an interest in automobiles, just before he had created the Great Detective, about five years ago in the world’s time, perhaps thirty in his own. He had not had enough money then to buy more than one automobile, but, through hundreds of iterations, he had bought every model that existed, and raced them all, and crashed them all, and orchestrated spectacular crashes that destroyed every vehicle in a race all at once. It had been distracting for a time. For a long time. But like everything else, the thrill had worn out, and he had been forced to seek new distractions.

This automobile was an Osward, one of only two companies he knew of that made them. Why only two? Jon thought. There must be enough demand to support more than two manufacturers… What was it that Gretel en Sturn had said? Prohibition is all about controlling industry.

Of course that was true, in a sense. Prohibition might not be intended to control industry, but it surely did. All manufacturing at significant scale used magic, and no company could use magic without a license from the Prohibition Bureau. There could be only as many manufacturers of automobiles as the Bureau chose to allow.

Jon had always known this on a subconscious level, but he had never had reason to care. Now a thought that had occurred vaguely to him on this morning’s walk suddenly snapped into clarity: the Bureau’s control over manufacturing meant that little profit could be made from stealing corporate secrets. Beatrace had clearly been sent to steal information, but Barnaby was right, even if his reasoning was wrong: Cynd could have no secrets that would be very valuable to a competitor, because no competitor had license to manufacture his products. If Osward suddenly began making tea cups, it would be obvious that they were performing unlicensed magic, and the Bureau would punish the violation. What, then, was the goal of Beatrace’s infiltration? What end could justify such elaborate means?

The automobile was luxurious, fully enclosed, with a padded back seat. Barnaby drove. Marle and Jon sat in back. The engine was very loud; when Barnaby pressed the accelerator, it made a noise like a rifle firing continuously. Jon was glad of the noise: it meant there would be no conversation during the trip, no questions for which he would have no answers.

Barnaby guided the auto down a road that ran parallel to the train tracks for about a mile, then curved North around the periphery of Norbus as the tracks continued East. The road was very new, paved with concrete rather than bricks, and divided into two lanes by a raised median. Although the road was adjacent to many buildings and public spaces, Jon saw no pedestrians on it. The autos that traveled the road, though few, were fast enough that no pedestrian dared compete with them.

Cynd Ceramics’ factory was part of the industrial district on the East side. Prevailing winds carried the soot from a hundred smokestacks out over farmland, leaving the air over the city relatively clean. The industrial district was the newest part of Norbus. The Royal Engineers had constructed a massive coal-burning electric plant in 670 — forty-two years ago — and new factories had sprung up around it every year like spreading fungus.

Cynd’s was one of the oldest factories, directly adjacent to the electric plant. Its main building was a barn-like structure of whitewashed bricks, three stories tall and about one thousand feet long. It had sparsely-spaced square windows, and a half-dozen smokestacks near the middle, but it was otherwise nearly featureless. The property was surrounded by a low iron fence, atop which prohibition wards were placed at regular intervals. The purpose of such fences was not to prevent trespassing, but to keep dams from being smuggled out.

They drove past the main entrance, where workers entered and left on foot, to a gate that seemed made for autos. Barnaby stopped, hopped out, unlocked the gate with a key, returned to the auto and drove it through, then hopped out again to re-lock the gate. He repeated this sequence at a sliding door that admitted them to a garage attached to the factory. The garage was the full height of the building, clearly made to house objects much larger than automobiles, but it was mostly empty at the moment. They exited the auto and began ascending a stairway in the garage’s corner.

Jon went first, leading. Behind him, Marle said, “I’m not–” She faltered, then began again: “I don’t actually know that Hanns has been selling secrets to anyone. There have been– I have reasons to be suspicious, but I don’t know. I don’t have proof.”

“I have proof,” Jon lied. “Just follow my lead.”

Marle and Barnaby exchanged a look but said nothing. Their confidence in Jon seemed to have decayed over the last twenty minutes. Jon was not surprised: he had not told them any actual plan, or explained why he was interested in the case. By this time it had probably occurred to them that bringing Jon to Cynd under these circumstances could itself be viewed as treacherous. But it didn’t matter; they were entrapped now: they would help him even if they decided not to.

They ascended to the third floor, and Marle used a key to access a narrow hallway that seemed to run the length of the building. The hallway was not fully enclosed: on the right side there were windows that opened onto the factory floor below. Jon glanced down through one of these and saw a line of men and women hunched over a conveyor belt. Items that looked like shirts or vests passed by them on the conveyor. Each worker focussed on each item as it passed, their heads swiveling. Each worker’s hand rested on a large cuboid dam.

They soon came to a door made of lacquered wood that was both finer and heavier than any Jon had yet seen. Marle opened it with a brass key, and they stepped through.

The room they entered looked like it had been transplanted from a palace. Furniture of light woods upholstered with purple silk. Electric lights in silver fixtures. It had chairs and couches but no desks or tables, save for a small table in the center on which a water jug sat next to a stack of brightly colored ceramic cups — a waiting room. It had three doors: the one they had entered through, and two on the opposite wall.

There were two people already in the room. One was Delko. Jon winced involuntarily as he remembered killing the man, spilling blood mixed with spilling wine.

The other was Anna. She was sitting hunched on a chair with her hands in her lap and her eyes on the floor. She looked up as the door closed. She met Jon’s eye. She had looked fearful, but when she recognized him her expression became intensely blank, eyes like telescopes.

Jon nodded to her, then looked away. Anna had no idea what the nod meant, but it had not been for her; Marle and Barnaby had seen it, and they would remember Jon’s words in the hotel room: She’s in position.

“Is Lowdous here?” Jon asked, in the confident tone of a man who expects a prompt answer.

Delko, surprised, glanced at Marle and Barnaby, but they averted their eyes.

“Is Hanns with Lowdous?” Jon asked.

“Yes…” Delko answered.

“Good,” Jon said. “Make sure Hanns stays in the room when we go in.”

Jon did not wait for an answer, but turned his attention to Anna. He sat down on the chair next to hers and leaned close to whisper.

“Have you talked to Lowdous yet?” Jon asked.

“Yes. Yesterday,” Anna said. “He asked me why we came to Norbus. But I don’t know why we came to Norbus.”

“What did you tell him?”

“I told him I don’t know! Then they locked me in a storeroom until a few minutes ago.“

“Listen, Anna. We’re going to see Lowdous again in a moment. I want you to be quiet unless someone asks you to speak. If that happens, you must look to me and follow my lead very closely. And you must appear confident. Whatever happens, look as if you expected it to happen. Understand?”

“Speak when spoken to,” Anna whispered. “Follow your lead. Look confident.”

Anna’s head had been bowed, her hair, loose, obscuring her face. Now she looked up and met Jon’s eye. “You knew they would come for me at the hotel,” she said. “You did this on purpose.”

Jon shrugged.

“Will I get home?” Anna asked. “Do you know that?”

“Of course you’ll get home! I have this all under control.”

“You have this under control,” she echoed, her eyes blank.

Marle, Barnaby, and Delko had begun a huddled conference on the opposite side of the room. Jon could not hear what they said, but their gesticulations showed confusion and frustration. Good, Jon thought.

At that moment one of the doors opened and Hanns stuck his head into the room. Silence fell. Marle, Barnaby, and Delko stared at Hanns, who stared back, aware that his arrival had disturbed them, and perplexed by it.

“Is Lowdous ready to see us yet?” Jon asked, standing up and striding forward. There was a rustling as all four of his captors reached for their weapons. Jon stared at Hanns, demanding an answer.

Hanns hesitated, looking Jon up and down before answering, “Yes.”

Hanns was a heavyset man with broad shoulders and a heavy jaw. There was gray at his temples. Jon had expected his voice to be a low growl, like Bitali’s, but it was high. He spoke with the clipped and precise Eastern accent. “Bring them in,” he said to the others.

Jon and Anna were herded into the next room. Jon had expected this to be Lowdous de Cynd’s office, but instead it was a kind of museum, filled with rows of glass cases displaying what must have been products from the forty years of Cynd Ceramics’s existence. There were the expected cups, plates, and pitchers, but also knives, wheels, and items Jon did not recognize. All were bone white ceramic. Lowdous de Cynd sat at a small wooden table in the center of the room, near a case containing a white suit of armor.

Jon and Anna were compelled to sit in chairs opposite Cynd. The four guards stood in a loose circle around the table, Hanns and Marle flanking Cynd, Barnaby and Delko standing behind Jon and Anna.

Cynd began to speak, but Jon cut him off.

“I know where your wife is,” Jon said.

Cynd’s white eyebrows rose in surprise. Marle’s jaw dropped in confusion. Hanns’s face hardened. He glared at Jon through narrowed eyes, his gaze roving suspiciously between Jon and Anna.

He thinks I might actually know, Jon thought. He wonders how much I know, which means he knows something he wants kept secret.

“I don’t believe you,” Cynd replied. He settled back in his chair and waited for Jon to reply.

Jon had expected more reaction than this, something he could play off of. Cynd’s terseness left him groping for words.

“Lowdous,” Jon said. “You know my reputation. You know what I can do.”

“I know what people say about Johannes de Alder, but all I really know about you is that you lured me halfway across the Empire on a pretense and then came to snoop around my city while I was gone.”

“That is just what I did,” Jon said, finding footing in this response. “As you have deduced, our appointment in Nordaroso was a ruse to get you out of Norbus. It was necessary, because I needed to speak with a contact at the Temple who was unwilling to meet if certain of your personnel were loitering there. I knew that if I lured you away, your people would be redeployed, eliminating that problem. I had no need to meet with you, because I had already decided to take your case.”

Cynd said nothing, but his posture changed. He leaned forward slightly, his face assuming a purposeful calm. He was listening.

“You have known for some time,” Jon continued, “that someone in your organization is selling company secrets. This parasite has made a good income from his treacheries, but never enough to satisfy him.”

Jon paused to observe reactions to this statement. He was gratified to see that Hanns’s face had hardened completely. He stared forward with a scowl, betraying his nervousness by attempting to hide it.

If Marle was attempting to hide her nervousness, she was failing. Her eyes were wide; they darted back and forth between Hanns and Jon.

“If that were true,” Cynd asked, “how would you know it?”

“This is not an interrogation,” Jon said. “You contacted me because you needed the services of a detective, and I am here to sell those services. If you want answers, you must buy them.”

“You puzzle me, Johannes de Alder. You are obviously extraordinarily intelligent, but your behavior is extraordinarily stupid. This is an interrogation. I can say a word and Delko there will put a bullet in your head. And since I don’t believe that you know anything valuable, you have no leverage to stop me.”

Anna inhaled sharply. Out of the corner of his eye, Jon saw that her hands, clasped in her lap, had begun to tremble.

Jon smiled. “You won’t,” he said. “You won’t kill me if there is any chance that I might know where Beatrace is. I know what she means to you.”

“You think so, do you? Actually, Mr. Alder, I might kill you just out of spite. Your arrogance disgusts me. You think you can manipulate me, play me for a fool, and then demand that I pay you for lies? No. But if I kill you, I’ll have to kill Anna too, and I don’t want to do that.” Cynd looked at Anna. “Anna en Koldom,” he said, “you told me yesterday that the only reason you’re here is because Johannes made you come, and don’t you even know why he did.”

Anna looked to Jon. He did not look back, but obviously he would want her to corroborate his story.

“I was lying yesterday,” Anna said. “I am here to support Mr. Alder’s investigation.”

Cynd shook his head. “I pity you, Anna. I don’t know what hold this man has over you, but he does not deserve your loyalty. He is a manipulator, and he does not value your life. The danger he’s put you in here is reason enough to hate him. But I can’t kill him and leave you as a witness.” Cynd returned his attention to Jon. “Is that why you brought her with you, Johannes? To use her as a shield?”

Jon felt a stab of guilt. He anticipated it, deflected it, ignored it.

“Anna is perfectly safe,” Jon said, “because you are going to hire me, because I know where Beatrace is, and you are going to pay me to tell you.”

Cynd stared at Jon for a long moment, then laughed.

“Sage’s balls!” Cynd swore. “Devils flay me in the inner sphere! You’re hired! Tell me where Beatrace is, and I’ll give you anything you ask for. Name your price.”

Jon smothered a grin under a look of intense sobriety.

“Then I will give you your wife, and also your traitor,” Jon said. “The man who has been selling your secrets is the same man who kidnapped Beatrace. He is standing behind you.”

“What?” Cynd exclaimed. He turned and looked over his shoulder as if unsure who would be there. “Hanns?” He turned back to Jon. “You expect me to believe that Hanns kidnapped Beatrace? That’s so stupid I don’t know what to say about it!” He laughed. “Are you joking? Are you joking with your life at stake?”

Jon’s face was stern as iron. He stared Cynd down, and the old man’s amused incredulity wilted into angry confusion.

“You’re insane,” Cynd said, but his voice lacked conviction.

He doesn’t want it to be true, Jon thought. That means he thinks it might be.

This was the moment when Jon would succeed or fail, and success or failure would depend on the accuracy of a guess. If he guessed right, he would appear to already know the information he sought, and then it would be told to him. If he guessed wrong… he would have to try again.

Jon looked at Anna. He needed her to be confident in the next moment. She met his eyes, and he could tell that she was terrified, her shell of forced calm barely containing a scream. What if he could tell her that she was in no danger, because none of this was real? If he could tell her that her last three days would be erased, never to have happened, would she be less afraid, or more?

Jon turned on Marle, his eyes suddenly blazing. “Tell them, Marle,” he commanded.

The words hit Marle like a paralyzing dart. She gaped in astonishment. All eyes were drawn by this reaction, which intensified it. She took two steps backward as her knees loosened.

“Tell us what?” Cynd demanded.

“That– That–” Marle spluttered. “That Hanns was– Beatrace was– Nothing! Nothing, Mr. Cynd! You’re right, he’s insane!”

“What is this?” Cynd stood up, knocking over his chair. Marle took another step backwards.

Calmly, quietly, Jon said: “Marle found a secret cache of documents belonging to Hanns.”

This was untrue, but, if such a cache did exist, Hanns would not know that it was untrue. If Hanns reacted defensively before Marle could disavow the words Jon had put in her mouth…

“I don’t have any secret documents!” Hanns exclaimed. But his tone was far too insistent. Cynd heard. Like a cannon changing its target, his head slowly swiveled from Marle to Hanns.

“You do have a secret cache,” Jon said. “You keep it at the Temple. Why do you think I visited there yesterday, while you were gone to Nordarosso?”

Hann’s eyes went almost as wide as Marle’s. Correct guess, Jon thought. One more push…

“I don’t make accusations without evidence, Mr. Cynd,” Jon said, his voice cool as lead. “I have photos of treacherous correspondence between Hanns and his handlers. I have evidence of espionage, and I have evidence of kidnapping.”

“You can’t possibly…” Hanns murmured.

“Show them, Anna,” Jon said. He turned to her, caught her eye. He glanced down at her torso, then back to her eye.

Anna understood. “Yes sir,” she said. With corpse-like calm, Anna reached slowly into the folds of her kimono. All eyes turned on her now. She reached slowly, slowly, seemed to grip something just under her breast, then began to draw her hand slowly back out.

“Beatrace wasn’t kidnapped!” Hanns blurted.

Anna was immediately forgotten as all attention turned to Hanns. She jerked her empty hand out of her kimono and sat on it.

“How do you know that?” Cynd demanded.

“Because–” Hanns began, faltered. He glanced frantically from Cynd to Marle to Jon, their faces snarling, gaping, and cooly accusing. “Mr. Cynd, I can explain–”

“Then explain!”

“Mr. Cynd, I’ve worked for you for twenty years. You know–”

“Right now the only thing I know is that you’ve been keeping secrets about my wife!” Cynd shouted. He took a step toward Hanns. Hanns stumbled backwards.

“I didn’t want to!” Hanns said. “I didn’t know what else to do! I thought she’d come back!”

“Come back? Where is she? Do you know where she is?”

“No!”

“Hanns,” Jon said, loudly, but evenly. “It will be best for you if you tell us exactly what happened.”

Hanns glared at Jon with hatred, then looked at the floor and said, “Beatrace wanted to leave. I helped her, but it was her idea. I told her when to go so that the other guards wouldn’t see her, and I reset the wards that she passed.”

“You told me you didn’t see her at all that night!” Cynd shouted. “You’ve been lying to me this whole time!”

“I thought she’d come back! I thought she’d come back, and she’d explain to you where she’d gone, and then– When she didn’t come back, I didn’t know what to do. What was I supposed to do?”

“Why did you help her leave?” Jon asked. “Why did you help her deceive Lowdous?”

“Because… It’s not what it seems like, Mr. Cynd.” Hanns said. “I would never betray you.”

“She blackmailed you,” Jon said. A confident guess. “She knew you’d been selling information, and she threatened to tell Lowdous unless you helped her.”

“Yes, but– Flay me, I should have just told you, Mr. Cynd! I should have told you everything, but I thought she would come back!”

“Who were you selling information to?” Cynd asked, his voice dark.

“Not to a competitor! It was to Vivdauro. It was about… about six years ago. Vivdauro contacted me and said they would pay for reports about research and development. I didn’t think there was any harm in that, because it’s Vivdauro. They already know everything, don’t they?”

“You’ve been selling my research to Vivdauro?” Cynd screamed. This revelation seemed to anger him even more than Hann’s lies about Beatrace.

“You hadn’t started working on the void matrix stuff when they approached me,” Hanns pleaded, taking another step backwards. “It was harmless when it started.”

“You sold my designs for void matrix ceramic to Vivdauro? My original designs? My life’s work?”

“It didn’t start like that!”

Suddenly there was a gun in Cynd’s hand, the automatic Jon had glimpsed in his parlor. Cynd did not raise the gun. He held it loosely, dangling toward the floor. The other guards — Marle, Barnaby, and Delko — all reached for their own weapons.

“Do you know where Beatrace went, Hanns?” Jon asked.

“No.”

“Why did she leave on that particular night?”

“Because she got a letter. I got a letter. I get letters from Vivdauro at the Temple, when they want to know about something specific. I got a letter, and there was a second envelope inside it, and a note that said to give that envelope to Beatrace. It said that she was expecting me to give it to her.”

“So Vivdauro sent a letter to Beatrace, using you as a courier?”

“Yes.”

“That’s impossible–” Cynd started, but Jon cut him off.

“Please, Mr. Cynd,” Jon said, “let’s hear what he has to say. Hanns, did you give Beatrace that envelope?”

“Yes.”

“Did you open it yourself? Did you read the note inside?”

“Yes. I steamed it open. But the note didn’t make any sense. It said… I remember exactly what it said… It said ‘Larisa de Lulia, inheritance insecure with current strategy. Aware of special talents. Meet to discuss.’ And it was just signed ‘Vivdauro.’”

“What in the Emperor’s name is that supposed to mean?” Barnaby exclaimed. “Who is ‘Larisa de Lulia?’”

“I don’t believe any of this,” Cynd said. “You’re all lying!”

All four of Cynd’s guards started shouting protests.

“Hanns!” Jon shouted above them, and they quieted, glad to let him claim the room’s attention. “You gave that note to Beatrace, and her response to it was to sneak out of the house, and not come back?”

“Yes,” Hanns said, miserably.

“And she did not tell you where she was going?”

“No. I swear, I thought she’d come back! I thought she’d just go meet someone in the city and be back by morning. When she didn’t… What was I supposed to do?”

There was silence for a moment as everyone except Jon held their breath.

“Well, I’ll be going,” Jon said. He stood up. “I think I’ve learned all I can here. Come, Anna.”

“You’re not leaving!” Cynd snarled. He wheeled around to face Jon. He raised his gun. “You said you know where Beatrace is. You lied.”

“I did not lie,” Jon said. “I do know where she is, and I will tell you. But not now. What I have learned today changes certain factors, and I believe that telling you now would put her in danger.”

“Factors? You’re lying! You’re manipulating us!”

Cynd pushed the table aside. He stepped forward aggressively and thrust his gun into Jon’s face, pressing the barrel into his cheek.

“Think, Lowdous,” Jon said, calmly, meeting Cynd’s gaze even though the pressure of the gunbarrel was pressing one eye into a squint. “Why would I lie? I am the only person in this room who stands to gain by telling you the truth.”

Cynd said nothing.

“Suppose I am lying, and you kill me. What do you gain? Nothing. Suppose I am telling the truth, and you let me go. What do you gain? Beatrace.”

Cynd’s glare did not soften, but it changed. His anger became mixed with fear.

“She didn’t leave me,” Cynd said. “She didn’t just sneak away in the night. I don’t believe that.”

“I’m not the one who says she did,” Jon replied.

Cynd glared at him for another moment, then his face fell. He seemed to somehow shrink, becoming smaller, so that his robes sagged around him. He lowered his gun.

Jon turned to Barnday. “Barnaby, give me the keys to the auto,” he ordered.

“What?”

“Lowdous has hired me, and he has said that I may name my price. Give me the keys.”

Barnaby looked to Cynd, but Cynd didn’t seem to have heard. Jon held out his hand, and, with a look of hopeless bewilderment, Barnaby drew the keys from his sash and gave them to Jon.

* * *

Jon pressed the accelerator to the floor, and the automobile surged forward. “Woo hoo!” he shouted. He leaned his head out the window and howled like a dog, then leaned further, until only his grip on the steering wheel kept him from falling out onto the road.

“I am the First Sage, and the Emperor is the son of a whore!” he shouted.

He pulled himself back into the cabin as a telegraph pole nearly took his scalp, jerking the steering wheel and causing the vehicle to veer into the oncoming lane.

Anna let out a strangled scream as the auto’s left front wheel leapt up onto the median, then bounced violently as Jon swerved back into his lane. She whimpered, pressing herself down into the passenger seat.

Jon laughed at her. “Don’t cry, little girl!” he jeered. “I have this all under control!”

They arrived at the Continental just after noon, the automobile severely worse for wear. Anna tumbled out. She fell on her hands and knees and vomited.

Jon stretched and sighed happily. It had been a most excellent morning! He felt elation even greater than when he had defeated Marle and Delko in the Temple basement, and this time he did not have a fatal wound to keep him from enjoying it.

Vivdauro. He had heard that name before, more than once. It was a corporation. He could not remember what it made, or where it was headquartered, but no matter. He knew that Beatrace worked for Vivdauro, and that she had been recalled to it after completing her mission against Cynd. That was a strong foundation from which to launch a new phase of the investigation.

Had the other parts of the note meant anything? Larisa de Lulia… Inheritance insecure… Special talents… Had all of that been code?

He would worry about that later. Right now he wanted to… He realized he had nothing left to accomplish in this iteration. He would have to fall back to continue work on the case. But he didn’t want to go back to his bed in Nordarosso just yet. He was enjoying himself. He wanted to have some fun.

Anna straightened up, wiping vomit off her lips. She looked horrible. Her hair hung in dirty tangles over bloodshot eyes. She hugged herself as if she were cold, even though the sun was high and hot.

“You need a shower,” Jon laughed. And then he knew exactly what he wanted to do. “Let’s go back to the hotel room and get cleaned up,” he said. He offered her his hand.

Anna stared at the hand and rocked slightly, shifting her weight between her feet. For a moment Jon had the impression that she was going to run, and he chuckled, because he had never seen Anna run, and the idea struck him as funny. But then she took his hand and allowed him to guide her.

“You were really good back there,” Jon said. “When you pretended to have those photos. Just perfect. I wasn’t sure I could count on you for something that intense, but you came through. You really fooled them. You’re really clever.”

“Thank you, sir,” Anna said.

They entered the hotel and crossed the lobby to the elevators.

“I think you’ve earned some time off,” Jon said as the elevator doors closed. “Real time off. How’d you like to go to Palmurba? Take six weeks and go with Simon.”

“That would be wonderful,” Anna said. She smiled.

“You deserve it. I really appreciate your work.”

“Thank you, sir!” Anna said, warmth creeping into her voice.

They left the elevator and walked to their suite. As they entered, Jon was pleased to see the wine bottle still sitting on the table.

“You must be thirsty,” he said, picking up the bottle and thrusting it at Anna. “And you’re definitely tense. Have a drink.”

Anna accepted the bottle and took a generous swig.

“Now, go get in the shower,” Jon said. “Get cleaned up.”

Anna tipped the bottle back and drained the remainder of the wine. She smiled at Jon with purple teeth. She laughed. Then she turned and walked into the kitchenette. Jon could not see from where he was standing, but he heard her rummaging in the icebox, then in drawers and cabinets. She came back into the lounge holding the second bottle of wine, a corkscrew, and two glasses. She smiled again, then walked toward the bedrooms, swinging her hips more than ambulation required.

Jon lay down on a couch and sighed happily. This was a most excellent day!

He listened, and after a moment he heard the shower start. He felt his watch. He would wait 5 minutes to let her wash. He counted them off, then rose and moved to the door of Anna’s bedroom. It was not locked. He entered, then moved to the door of the attached bathroom, also unlocked.

The sound of the shower grew loud as he swung the door open. He entered, humid air wafting pleasantly over him. The shower was directly opposite the door, surrounded by a high round curtain. Warm water rained sonorously into it from a showerhead in the ceiling. Anna’s kimono lay discarded on the floor.

Jon stepped forward and put his hand on the curtain, slowly drew it back.

The shower was empty. Jon was so surprised that he did not immediately believe what he was seeing. He stuck his head in and looked from side to side to be sure that Anna was not crouched on the floor, or hidden in a fold of the curtain.

Behind him, he heard a single soft step, then a grunt of exertion. Pain flared in his back, then pressure in his chest. Even before his groping fingers found the handle of the kitchen knife, he knew that it was too late to save himself. The knife had entered in the middle of his back, near his spine, angled upward toward his heart, into his heart. Blood poured over the handle, making it slippery as he tried to grip it.

He turned around and saw Anna backing out of the bathroom. Her face held a cold anger Jon had never seen there before. Her white juban was splashed with his blood.

He pulled the knife out and looked at it dumbly. He was already weak; his blood was pumping directly onto the floor. He stumbled, slouched against the doorway. The knife slipped from his grip and thumped softly on the bedroom carpet.

“You never really knew anything, did you?” Anna said. “You were always bluffing.”

She backed out the bedroom door and closed it behind her, leaving Jon to die alone.