The Golden City

by Cheney, J. Kathleen

  “You gave it to her to read?”

  “She has time to do so,” Duilio pointed out.

  “And I don’t?” Joaquim shook his head and pointed to the pastry still on his desk. “Eat that last one before I give in to temptation. You must trust your Miss Paredes a great deal.”

  Duilio picked up the last tart. How could he respond to that? His instincts told him to trust her. And he wanted to trust her. Neither was actual proof that she was trustworthy.

  “Are you bedding her?” Joaquim asked when he didn’t respond immediately.

  “Excuse me?” Duilio found it hard to believe that Joaquim had asked such a thing. He expected that sort of question from Erdano. Erdano didn’t often think of females in terms other than bedding them. But Joaquim? “She’s Mother’s companion, for heaven’s sake, Joaquim.”

  Joaquim shrugged. “Just asking. Gustavo thinks you’re sweet on her, to use his phrase.”

  This would be a good moment to say something snide about Gustavo’s deductive abilities, but Duilio didn’t want to defame him unfairly. “She needs protection,” Duilio said. “That doesn’t extend to her bed.”

  Is she even sleeping in that bed? He hadn’t heard any more scandalized whispers from his valet, so, if not, Miss Paredes must be dutifully rumpling her covers.

  Joaquim nodded slowly. “I see.”

  Now he’d protested too much over the matter. Duilio sighed and took a bite of the last pastry.

  “I prepared a list of the missing items,” Joaquim added, “and I sent it over to your man of business so he can negotiate with Lady Amaral about compensation. . . .” A brisk knock at the office door prompted Joaquim to go open it.

  “Are you going to let us in?” a now-familiar voice asked.

  Duilio craned his neck about to see Inspector Gaspar standing in the doorway, Captain Santiago behind him. He stuffed the remainder of the pastry into his mouth and swallowed it with unseemly haste as he rose, brushing some pastry flakes off his frock coat as he did so. “Captain Santiago,” Joaquim said, stepping back to allow the newcomers in. “What can I do for you?”

  The two newcomers came inside, making it crowded once Gaspar shut the door.

  “You’re being reassigned, Inspector Tavares,” the captain said. “I’ve received an official request for use of your services by the Special Police, signed by Commissioner Burgos himself. “That includes you too, Mr. Ferreira. I do understand this is temporary, though,” he added with a glance at the silent Gaspar, who nodded once. “Good, then. Carry on.”

  And with that said, Captain Santiago let himself out of the office and shut the door.

  Gaspar regarded Joaquim with that piercing gaze of his, then turned back to Duilio. “Well, gentlemen, where do we begin?”

  • • •

  Oriana woke far later than she’d expected. She quickly dressed and made her way down to the kitchens, only to discover that the staff had been given orders to allow her to sleep as late as she wished. Lady Ferreira was still abed, she was told, and Felis thought the lady wouldn’t rise for hours yet.

  After asking Cardenas to inform her when the lady needed her, Oriana made her way back up to her bedroom and stared at the rumpled covers of her bed. She’d actually slept in the bed the previous night, since her skin seemed recovered enough that she no longer needed to sleep in the tub. The temptation to crawl back under those sheets and stay there a while longer was strong, but she turned her back on the silk-draped bed and went into the dressing room instead.

  The journal Mr. Ferreira had given her had dried overnight. Many of the pages were stuck together and a great deal of the ink had smeared, but most of it was legible. She located a letter opener in a desk drawer and settled on the leather settee near her bedroom door. She flipped through several pages, using the letter opener to pry apart pages that were stuck together. In the interest of thoroughness, she decided to start at the beginning.

  After describing his original idea for the artwork—apparently provoked by a conversation he’d had, although he didn’t specify with whom—Espinoza recorded his research. He listed his reasons for choosing that very spot in the river to locate his masterpiece: an easy depth and calmer tides, since it was on the Gaia side of the river, protected by the breakwater and out of the regular path of commercial shipping. He talked about taking measurements for the lengths of chain, calculating the approximate weight and buoyancy of the planned wooden houses, and then drawing the sketches of the houses he intended to replicate. Oriana hadn’t given much thought to the technical aspects of building such a creation before, but she was beginning to understand the vastness of such an undertaking, even without its murderous aspects.

  It wasn’t long before she discovered that the charms on the tops of the houses weren’t responsible for their buoyancy after filling. Espinoza hadn’t trusted in the efficacy of the buoyancy charms, and had built the houses out of cork over a lightweight frame. The wooden exteriors were merely facades. Hadn’t she tasted cork when she was inside the house? She was certain she remembered that correctly. That helped explain why she’d been able to so easily pry open the corner of the house.

  At the beginning of the journal, there’d been no actual purchasing, building, or sinking. Then she hit upon the word that changed everything from planning to actualization: patron. The artist had found a patron whose funding had allowed him to rent an apartment and the vacant floor below to use as a shop. Only after that had he started building the first house.

  The journal didn’t tell her the patron’s identity. The artist never used anyone’s name in his writings, not even his own, guarding them as if they were state secrets. But as she continued to read, she began to spot hints that the patron was of the aristocracy.

  And Espinoza didn’t mention his victims at all. There was nothing about the chairs or the table, nor could she find anything about the kidnapping of the victims. It was as if Espinoza hadn’t added that aspect until later. Or perhaps someone else added it. His mysterious patron might have made that change.

  Oriana caught her lower lip between her teeth. The Lady had indicated that the Open Hand had members in the Special Police. Could the prince himself be directing them? After all, the mandate of the Special Police was to carry out the orders of the prince. They were known for hunting nonhumans and Sympathizers, but that didn’t mean that was all they did.

  Hadn’t they been guarding the artwork? It was under the guise of patrolling the mouth of the river, but they still kept boats away, save for the scheduled visits by the submersible captains. The orders for the regular police to shut down the investigation of the artwork could have come from someone in the Special Police. And the newspapers hadn’t questioned the artwork’s presence at all, citing the guidelines that came down from the Ministry of Culture. But that body also answered directly to the prince.

  What would happen if they could prove the prince himself was behind the deaths? Would that force him to abdicate, perhaps, if it became public? Would his younger brother, the infante, assume the throne and possibly overturn the ban? The journal in her hands took on new significance. She stroked the water-damaged cover with a fresh respect.

  Then again, those with power and money had a tendency to stay in power, the worst of their sins swept under the rug. That was as true here in Portugal as it was back on the islands.

  Sighing, Oriana rubbed her eyelids. She hadn’t been such a cynic when she was younger.

  CHAPTER 23

  Joaquim and Inspector Gaspar got along well, although on occasion Duilio noted Gaspar aiming a narrow look at Joaquim when Joaquim wasn’t attending. Given that Gaspar was a Meter, it made Duilio itch to know what the man saw when he looked at his cousin.

  They went through the details of the case, starting with the very beginning. Duilio made his decision early on: he was going to trust Inspector Gaspar. So he told the truth about Erdano’s complaints abo
ut the taste of death in the water near The City Under the Sea. He told Gaspar how his gift had warned him that Lady Isabel was dead, and delineated most of the steps they’d taken since. He even admitted he’d kept the journal and had Miss Paredes reading it. Joaquim followed his lead, volunteering his rather copious notes, including what he’d gleaned the previous day from the Amaral servants.

  “So, your Miss Paredes was clearly the target, rather than her mistress,” Gaspar said. “This Maria Melo must be our saboteur or working with him, but there have to be a thousand women with that name in this city. Likely a false name anyway. Is there anything more you can tell me about her?”

  “Frequents The White Rose, although I suspect she’ll hear about my inquiries and stop doing so. Dark hair, dark eyes,” Joaquim read from his notes. “Always wears black—good-quality cloth, though. That would make her an upper servant at the least. Moderately tall, with a nice figure. Heavy eyebrows were the only distinguishing characteristic anyone could give me.”

  Gaspar puffed out his cheeks in disgust. “I suspect that’s a dead end. I’ll post an officer there and see if she shows up again.”

  “An officer of the Special Police?” Duilio asked. “Can you trust them?”

  “My associates have vetted a dozen of them so far. They’re not working with the Open Hand and admittedly have Liberal leanings, so we’re safe using them.”

  “Your associates?” Duilio echoed.

  “You haven’t met Inspector Anjos or Miss Vladimirova yet,” Gaspar said. “They’ve been working their way through the ranks while I was off hunting Mata.”

  Although Anjos was a Portuguese name, Vladimirova sounded Russian to Duilio. “Are they witches, like you and . . . the Lady?”

  “Yes. You’ll probably meet Anjos later, but you’d rather not meet Miss Vladimirova.” Gaspar smiled grimly, not showing his teeth. “Unfortunately, they haven’t turned up anyone associated with this floating-house business. With so many officers to question, it may take them weeks to root out the right men, and the ones whose names we did have all disappeared as soon as Commissioner Burgos gave us permission to start questioning them.”

  Duilio didn’t doubt that. “What about Mata?”

  “I haven’t seen him since yesterday afternoon, Mr. Ferreira. I have no doubt he’s still after you, but is keeping his distance because he’s seen me.” Unfortunately, Gaspar was difficult to miss in a country with relatively few representatives of its former African colonies.

  Duilio licked his lips. Joaquim wasn’t going to like this. “Silva spoke of using Miss Paredes as bait, Inspector. Why not use me that way?”

  “No,” Joaquim said immediately.

  “I’m not suggesting standing in the middle of a plaza all day to be shot at,” Duilio told him. “Just doing what I would be doing anyway.”

  Gaspar regarded him with narrowed eyes. “What did you have in mind?”

  Duilio shot a glance at Joaquim. “Miss Paredes mentioned that Espinoza was raised in Matosinhos. I could go there and ask around about him.”

  Gaspar looked intrigued, but Joaquim wasn’t placated. “Mata is not going to get on the tram out to Matosinhos with you,” Joaquim pointed out. “You know what he looks like.”

  It was about four miles out to the town of Matosinhos on the Marginal line. “No, he’ll know he has to take the next one, try to catch the steam tram out of Boavista, or find some other means of transportation.”

  Joaquim sat back, a scowl twisting his lips.

  “I’ll head up to Matosinhos,” Duilio said. “I can ask a few discreet questions about Espinoza, and that should give Mata time to follow me. Matosinhos is small enough that he should be able to find me if he tries.”

  Joaquim sighed heavily. He didn’t like it, but Duilio knew he understood. If this man had killed Alessio, Duilio wanted him brought in. “Start with Father Barros at the Church of Bom Jesus,” Joaquim suggested. “He’s been there forever and knows the parish better than anyone else. He can tell you whom to talk with about Espinoza.”

  One of Joaquim’s teachers from his days in seminary, no doubt. “I’ll do that.”

  “And watch your back,” Joaquim added.

  Duilio patted the pocket where his holster was clipped, his Webley Wilkinson revolver quiescent within. “I’ll stay on my guard.”

  • • •

  Mr. Ferreira showed up at the house near lunchtime, evidently wanting to change clothes. He came into the front sitting room, where Oriana sat on the couch, poring through the journal he’d left with her, gesturing for her to stay seated as he entered. “Miss Paredes, I hope you were able to get some sleep last night.”

  “Yes, sir,” she said. “Your mother is still abed, and Felis is reading to her, so I thought I would give this a try.”

  He settled in a chair across from her, much as he’d done the day before. He seemed to have forgotten their . . . closeness . . . of the previous evening. Or he was pretending so to set her at ease. It was a pretense she was willing to join, as discussing the issue would surely be embarrassing for him. “Rough going?” he asked. “From what I glimpsed before I pocketed it, it looked fairly technical.”

  “I’m not mathematical, sir,” she admitted. Languages, history, and literature: those all made more sense to her than this confusing tangle of numbers and symbols. “A great deal of this is calculations and plans that mean nothing to me.”

  “I’m more curious if there’s anything useful in there. Names?”

  “Not a one, I’m afraid. He’s very cagey about the people he’s working with.”

  Mr. Ferreira sighed heavily and sat back in the chair, crossing his legs and lacing his fingers over his knee. “Then we’re wasting your time.”

  “Not at all,” she said. “I’ve noted, for example, he doesn’t mention the victims in his calculations. Or the table on which the spell was inscribed. Those had to have been added later in the process.”

  “That would throw off all his calculations,” Mr. Ferreira said. “For buoyancy and weight, I mean.”

  She nodded. “Also, the houses aren’t wood, as everyone thinks. The wood is a veneer, over cork. That’s what actually makes them float. If the chain broke on any one of them, it would probably pop to the surface like a rubber ball.”

  He shrugged. “I was told those charms on the top were useless.”

  She told him then what she’d read about the patron who’d made it all possible, but didn’t have a name for the man, which made the information useless. “I’ll read more this afternoon, sir. Perhaps he’ll say who’s paying for his creation.”

  He nodded, his lips pursed, and then cautiously asked, “Does the name Maria Melo mean anything to you?”

  It was a common name, but Oriana didn’t actually know anyone who bore it. “No, sir.”

  “Have you ever been to a tavern called The White Rose?” he asked then.

  That tavern was frequented by servants from up and down the Street of Flowers. Carlos had once suggested she meet him there, although at the time she’d thought it a joke. And it was one of Heriberto’s favored haunts. When her master wasn’t on his boat, he could often be found there. “I’ve never been inside,” she said. “Can I assume that Mrs. Melo has?”

  He looked grim. “My cousin talked to the Amaral servants yesterday. Both the first footman and the lady’s maid said they met her there. They said she asked after you. How you were faring, how you liked the household. The maid thought Mrs. Melo was your cousin. Do you have any cousins here?”

  Oriana laid one mitt-covered hand over her mouth. How should she answer that? He’d met Nela and so must suspect about the exiles, so it was a logical question, but her father was her only direct kin. No, the woman had to be lying. And given it was a tavern Heriberto frequented, he had to figure into this somehow. Oriana dropped her hand back to her lap. “She’s your saboteur, isn’t s
he?”

  “We don’t know that,” he said swiftly, as if to reassure her again. “But if she is, then she had to know you’re not human.”

  “You knew,” she pointed out, and then felt guilty for withholding information he might need. “My master frequents that tavern, as well. It’s possible he gave her that information, although I can’t think why he would.”

  Mr. Ferreira pinched the bridge of his nose. “Would your master willingly put you in that position? In the floating house?”

  Oriana thought of her father speaking of paying Heriberto more money. If Heriberto was willing to stoop to extortion, what else might he be willing to do? “He might,” she admitted. “I’m not one of his favorites.”

  “And you lived in one of the houses in question,” Mr. Ferreira said. “Are there other spies like you in comparable positions? Or some of your people who chose to live here? I don’t need specifics—just a general idea whether you were one of a hundred or the only choice.”

  Oriana knew of six other spies currently in the city, none of whom worked on the street of the aristocrats. Of the exiles, the only one she knew who frequented the street was her own father. He visited the Pereira de Santos mansion often, but that house had already appeared in the water, so he’d been bypassed. He didn’t actually live in that house anyway. “I may have been the only choice,” she whispered, a sick feeling swelling in her stomach.

  Mr. Ferreira pushed himself out of his chair and came to loom over her. He set a hand lightly on her shoulder. “I meant what I said last night, Miss Paredes.”

  She looked up at him. No, he hadn’t forgotten last night’s extraordinary discussion either. She could see it in his eyes, an awareness of her as more than a servant. He looked at her like she was a woman, perhaps even a lover. But opening that door would only lead her to pain. She wasn’t the sort who could take a lover and then go on her way. She just . . . wasn’t. Her scruples wouldn’t allow it. Even for a male as fascinating as Duilio Ferreira. It would break her heart, and she refused to do that to herself. She nodded jerkily. “I know, sir.”