Duilio tugged out a handkerchief and dabbed his cheek. It had nearly stopped bleeding. Still keeping his distance, he gazed at the assassin. A youngish man with a stocky build and regular features, there was little to distinguish him from thousands of other men in the Golden City—save that Duilio had been attacked by him in a tavern earlier in the week. “This is Mata, isn’t it? The same man who killed my brother?”
Anjos regarded Duilio with narrowed eyes. “Yes. Don’t get ideas. He’s our prisoner.”
Did the man think he was going to attack Mata? Duilio turned his eyes back to the assassin. Gaspar was attempting to staunch the wound with a handkerchief, but Duilio suspected it was already too late for a hospital. An internal injury like that was almost always a death sentence.
I should feel . . . more, Duilio thought.
“He’s not going to make it until she can get here,” Gaspar said, looking up at Anjos.
Anjos nodded grimly. “You ask him, then.”
Gaspar grasped the wounded man’s chin with a bloody hand. “Who ordered you to kill Alessio Ferreira?”
The assassin laughed wetly. “I don’t know.”
Gaspar shot a glance up at Anjos, who nodded. He turned back to Mata. “How did you get the order, then? Who gave it to you?”
Mata coughed, and blood speckled his lips. “No one.”
“That’s true,” Anjos inserted quickly.
Duilio glanced at the Brazilian. How did he know that?
“How did you get the order?” Gaspar asked again.
The assassin laughed. “They’re left on my desk in my home. Don’t you get it? I can’t tell you anything. You might as well shoot me now.”
Duilio frowned, trying to recall where he’d heard such a story before—a note left on a desk.
“He means that,” Anjos told his partner. “It’s the truth, as much as he knows.”
Aha! Duilio glanced back at the Brazilian. Anjos must be a Truthsayer, able to parse out the truth or lie in another’s words. It wasn’t a common gift, but not nearly as rare as Gaspar’s ability. It explained why Anjos had been doing the questioning of members of the Special Police. They couldn’t lie to him, not successfully.
Gaspar gripped the assassin’s chin. “Same with Ferreira here?”
But Mata coughed, and blood splattered the back of Gaspar’s hand. Duilio had a feeling they weren’t going to get any more answers. “He’s dying, man.”
“I know.” Gaspar wiped away the blood that now bubbled from Mata’s mouth. Mata slumped to the ground, lacking even the strength to sit up. Gaspar propped him on his side, but Mata’s coughing grew fainter.
Duilio watched Mata as the man’s breathing calmed again. He’d expected to feel more anger, but Mata wasn’t truly Alessio’s killer. He’d simply been the tool that carried out the orders. No, someone else had pulled the man’s strings.
Anjos glanced back toward the quay and waved to a group of uniformed police officers who approached from the town. Workers were beginning to return from their lunch breaks, and a few stood watching curiously at the construction yard gates. Two of the officers stopped at the gates and took up a position there, keeping the civilians out, while another pair entered the construction yard and approached them.
Anjos drew out a handkerchief and covered his mouth as he coughed. “I would rather have gotten him back to the city,” he said as he folded the handkerchief, “but I don’t think he would have spilled anything useful. The best way to keep an assassin from talking is not to tell them anything in the first place.”
The two uniformed officers had reached them and knelt to inspect the body. Gaspar picked up the assassin’s discarded pistol and came to Anjos’ side. “He’s unconscious.”
Duilio watched as the officers prepared to carry Mata out between them. “I had an investigator looking for something previously stolen from my house,” Duilio said, figuring it was better not to say what was missing in front of the two unfamiliar officers. “He was warned off by a note left on his desk, in a locked house.”
Gaspar snorted. “Someone picked his lock—nothing more.”
He’d thought exactly the same at the time. “But the same method was used, which struck me as important. We have reason to suspect Paolo Silva was behind that theft, but no proof.”
Anjos produced a cigarette case from a coat pocket. “I’m familiar with the case. We don’t have any grounds to question Silva, but other recent developments suggest he doesn’t have the missing item.” He withdrew a cigarette, lit it, and put away the case with a fluid ease that spoke of long practice. “We do, however, intend to question Silva the first time he gives us an excuse. I suspect he knows a lot more than he’s told anyone.”
Duilio held his tongue. With a Truthsayer present, it would settle the matter of the theft permanently. It would be nice to know.
The two uniformed policemen carried a now-unconscious Mata out of the construction yard, leaving Duilio with the two foreigners. “They’ll take him to the station,” Anjos said once they’d gone. “They’ll bring a doctor in, but I don’t think he’s going to regain consciousness.”
Duilio had to agree. He touched his cheek again and found that the nick there seemed to have stopped bleeding. “Well, I got two things from Father Barros, who, as it turns out, is an old friend of Espinoza and talked with him back in January when he came here. First, Espinoza’s work might have been subverted. And second, he thought the Open Hand wanted to use it to make the prince into a king.”
Anjos ground out what remained of the cigarette with his foot. “How the devil is that supposed to work?”
“I don’t know,” Duilio said. “But Espinoza saw something. That’s why Espinoza fled to Matosinhos in a short-lived attempt to hide from his patron.”
Anjos nodded. “Did Barros know who that patron was?”
“Not exactly,” Duilio admitted. “Barros thought the artwork was funded by the Ministry of Culture, overseen by Maraval himself.”
Gaspar cursed under his breath and turned to Anjos. “She went to go talk to him. To ask about the table spell.”
The Lady? Duilio recalled her mentioning she knew Maraval. “If he’s involved . . .”
“Then she could be walking into trouble,” Anjos said. “Miguel, go.”
Gaspar tossed the assassin’s discarded pistol to Anjos and took off at a run.
“Should we go with him?” Duilio asked.
“No.” Anjos checked the safety on Mata’s pistol and tucked it in a pocket. “If Maraval harms her, Miguel will kill him. The fewer witnesses, the better.”
Duilio wasn’t quite certain whether the Brazilian inspector was serious. Given the unforgiving look he’d seen in Gaspar’s eyes, Duilio wouldn’t be surprised if it were true. He wondered if the man intended to run the full four miles back to the city.
That question was answered before he asked it. Joaquim came jogging into the construction yard, a rifle slung over his shoulder by the strap. He held his hands wide. “Where did Gaspar just go? He took the carriage.”
“Back into the city,” Duilio answered him. “Where were you?”
Puffing out his cheeks, Joaquim pointed back toward the row of businesses that lined the road leading up to the construction yard. “Rooftop.”
“Well done,” Anjos told him. “You picked a good spot.”
“Thank you,” Duilio added. Joaquim did have a talent for being in the right place at the right time. “Good shot.”
“No, it wasn’t,” Joaquim protested. “I was aiming for his leg. Damn. Please tell me he was the one who’s been after you. The one who killed Alessio?”
“Yes,” Anjos answered him.
Joaquim rubbed a hand over his face. “Good.”
“He wasn’t going to tell us anything,” Anjos said. “I’ve seen that often enough, so I know what it looks like.”<
br />
Duilio would bet money that a Truthsayer was indeed a good judge of whether a man was going to spill information. “So, where do we go from here?”
“Inspector Tavares, would you accompany me down to the station?” Anjos asked. “I doubt Mata has anything on his person, but you might be able to smooth things over with the locals for me if he does.”
Joaquim nodded. “Come by later,” he mouthed at Duilio.
Duilio watched as Joaquim and Inspector Anjos headed out of the construction yard, leaving him standing alone on the blood-stained gravel. A light drizzle began to fall, a reminder that they were headed into the rainy months of the year.
He was still holding his pistol. Sighing, Duilio holstered it. Now that the initial flush of adrenaline fostered by the attempt on his life had faded, he was tired . . . and hungry. He needed to consider everything he’d learned today, and try to work in the little bits with what they already knew. Hopefully the tram ride back to the city would provide him with time to do just that.
• • •
Oriana walked down the alleyway toward the Street of Flowers, her nerves on edge. Someone might be hunting her, but her conversation with Mr. Ferreira late that morning had given her more to worry about. How had that woman learned she wasn’t human? The rain had stopped, but the street glistened with wet, a reminder to watch her footing—especially important given that the mantilla’s lace obscured her vision. And she wished she had a warmer jacket or a shawl. She rubbed her silk-covered hands briskly along her arms.
She had almost reached the end of the Street of Flowers when she realized she was being followed. A man trailed behind her at some distance. She stopped and laid one hand on a wrought-iron fence, pretending that her heel was caught in the hem of her skirt. Turned to one side as she fiddled with the fabric, she could see the man wore a dark suit, but he was several houses away. She could lift the veil and squint to see him better, but that would surely alert him. She continued on toward the Customs House, noting with relief that he hadn’t gotten any closer.
Once past the Customs House, she joined more pedestrians strolling along the tree-lined Alameda de Massarelos. She walked on slowly, being passed by workers on their way home for dinner, chattering loudly when she wanted silence to listen. She tried the same trick again, pretending she had caught her heel, and glanced behind her.
Thank the gods. Her pursuer had been joined by another man, and the two were walking companionably along the avenue. She dropped the fabric and walked on. It was probably just her imagination, along with an excessive dose of caution. While the mantilla hid her features from notice, it was distinctive. She wished she’d thought of that before leaving the house. But it covered her face, which might allow her to evade anyone looking for her.
I need to plan better. She strode more quickly along the avenue toward the spot where Heriberto moored his little fishing boat among a dozen others. Watching her footing, she made her way onto the ramp and down to the boat. The deck smelled of gutted fish, making it clear that Heriberto did occasionally pursue his stated occupation, if not tidily.
Careful of her skirts, Oriana climbed over the rail. She removed the mantilla, tucked it into her handbag, and banged with one fist on the low cabin wall, clenching her jaw to ignore the jarring vibrations that set off in her webbing. “Heriberto,” she called down toward the cabin, “I need to talk to you.”
Her words were greeted with a stream of invective that didn’t surprise her overmuch.
“Wait a moment,” Heriberto called back. A moment later he emerged from the small cabin, still tying the drawstring of his rough-spun trousers. He hadn’t bothered with shoes. He wasn’t even wearing a neckerchief to hide his gill slits. His hair was mussed, making Oriana suspect he hadn’t been alone in that cramped cabin.
His eyes narrowed in the afternoon light. “What are you doing here?” He looked frazzled, which had to be better for her.
“I hear you’re looking for me.”
“Your father told you, did he?” he asked.
His casual mention of her father surprised her. After two years of never speaking of him, it was bizarre to have Heriberto say that so baldly. “I haven’t had any contact with my father since I got here, as per our orders. Not a word.”
Heriberto crossed arms over his bare chest. “And I went directly to him, so how else would you have found out?”
She could claim that Carlos, the footman she’d seen with him, had told her, but she was going to have to go with the truth if she wanted to get her father off Heriberto’s hook. “I followed you Wednesday when you met him at the Golden Church. I was standing right under where you were talking. I believe what I heard was called extortion. If you’re looking for me, there’s no reason to bother him. He doesn’t know my whereabouts.” He didn’t deny the charge of extortion, she noted. “Who is Maria Melo, and why did you tell her that I’m not human?”
Heriberto shook his head. “You’re not entitled to that information.”
“Extortion isn’t in your orders,” she reminded him. “My aunts are high up enough in the ministry that if I should happen to mention your extra source of income, it would come back to haunt you. There are other ways of getting correspondence out of the city than by going through you. I can go around you.”
For her first attempt at blackmail, it seemed to work. “Do you think it’s that simple?” he asked. “There are those in the ministry who outrank me. When she demanded a list of my people in the city, I didn’t ask why.”
Oh no. Oriana stifled the desire to walk away. The saboteur knew she was a sereia not because Heriberto revealed that fact . . . but because she was a sereia herself, a member of their intelligence ministry.
She’d been put in that house to watch Isabel die by one of her own people.
Oriana lifted her chin. “Where can I find her?”
“Thanks to your appearance in the gossip columns of this morning’s Gazette, she knows exactly where to find you.” Heriberto grabbed her arm and hauled her closer. “Don’t think . . .”
Oriana bared her teeth and dragged her arm free from Heriberto’s grasp.
He smirked. “It’s all over the street whose house you’re living in now, girl. If she wants to talk with you, she will. Take my advice: keep your distance. She’s been undercover a long time, and we’re all expendable if we endanger her mission.”
Did her government have agents who’d been here longer than Heriberto? That was news to her. “What mission is that?”
“You think she would tell me? A male?” He laughed, a short bark. “I learned long ago there are times it’s better to stay still under the water. Act like everything’s normal, stay hidden, and perhaps the storm will pass without all of us getting killed.”
Oriana had a sinking feeling in her stomach. The woman who’d handed her and Isabel over to the Open Hand had a greater mission, one so important that Isabel Amaral’s death was acceptable. Putting Oriana Paredes in danger of exposure was also acceptable. Oriana couldn’t think of too many missions important enough to warrant that much leeway, but assassination might be one of them. Perhaps Silva had been right about an assassination after all, although not about the assassin. It was hard to believe her people’s government would condone such a thing. “Why were you looking for me, then?”
“She ordered me to,” Heriberto said. “She claims someone’s trying to kill you. If they succeed, it would spoil her plans, whatever those are. She said she wanted to warn you.”
Oh, that much is true. “So you threaten my father, just to warn me?”
Heriberto crossed his arms over his chest and glared. “Girl, I don’t like you. You think you’re better than me. You think you don’t have to do the things the rest of us stoop to because you’re superior to us, because you’ve got old family ties in the ministry.” He gestured at her mitt-covered fingers. “I notice you’re not at the doctor’
s appointment I made for you to get your hands cut.”
Was that today? Oriana had a vague recollection of him ordering her to do that the last time they’d spoken, but she’d had other concerns since. “I forgot.”
“Of course.” Heriberto set one fingertip under his eye, the sign for doubt. “The truth is that I don’t like my people getting killed. Even you. If your getting killed by these other people would ruin her plan, then the easiest way to ensure that doesn’t happen . . . is to kill you herself.”
Oriana felt a chill run down her spine. Why had she not figured that out? She folded her silk-covered hands together to hide their shaking.
She’d come here to tear into Heriberto’s fins, but instead he’d given her information he shouldn’t have. If Maria Melo was his superior, he shouldn’t have divulged the woman’s intentions, not even obliquely. Yet he’d done it to warn her. It was possible he’d been guarding her all along, although she doubted that was the case. Instead, she suspected he didn’t like this superior of his. “Thanks for the warning.”
He waved away her words. “I haven’t seen you. I haven’t spoken to you. Just get out of my sight.”
He didn’t wait for her to say any more, but climbed back down into the hold of his boat. Oriana turned and carefully walked back up to the quay. Her mind was spinning. She pulled the mantilla out of her bag and settled it over her hair again, taking a moment to put the comb in firmly.
She’d been concerned about the mysterious Open Hand coming after her, but not truly afraid. The prospect of being hunted by Maria Melo worried her far more.
CHAPTER 25
Duilio walked along the quay, mulling over the death of Donato Mata. His gift lay quiet now, not a hint of concern for his safe journey back to the house, although it would be foolish to rely overmuch on that.
When he reached the road that wound behind the Customs House, he noticed a woman walking briskly some distance ahead of him. Miss Paredes. It wasn’t her plain black dress that identified her, or even the mantilla that covered her head, an unusual choice for a Friday afternoon. He’d recognized her walk, the faint swing to her hips that he’d always considered enticing.
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