She went at it in a rush, getting halfway up the building through momentum alone. After that it was a slow, painful matter of jamming fingers and toes into whatever insufficient crevices presented themselves, and hoping for the best. She nearly fell off twice, but finally she crawled over the side of the warehouse and onto the roof. In comparison, getting the hatch open was easy; though it was locked and bolted from the inside, the hinges were exposed, allowing her to unscrew them.
Once she’d eased the door downward as noiselessly as she could, she stuck her head through the hole. As her eyes became accustomed to the dimness inside, she saw that the hatch lined up with a square opening in the floorboarded rafters of the loft, creating a channel for goods to be lowered all the way down to the warehouse floor below. It was a long drop. If she screwed it up she’d break a leg, or worse. And so she went for it before she could change her mind, hanging by her hands from the hatch frame and swinging herself past the gaping hole to land on the loft floor beyond.
Her landing sent a thud reverberating around the loft, and also produced a large cloud of dust. She crouched where she was for a while in silence, holding her breath so that she wouldn’t sneeze and straining to listen above the rush of her heartbeat for any sounds from the warehouse below. There was nothing. Slowly she rose to her feet and set off across the floor, stepping from rafter to rafter to avoid the holes in the worm-eaten floorboards.
As she moved further away from the hatch and its square of daylight, the shadows descended and it became harder to see where she was putting her feet. She began to wonder if this was a fool’s errand. Yet then, as she approached the front of the loft, she finally heard something: a metal clunk, the creak of a door, a low murmur of voices. Crouching again, she peered down through the nearest gap and caught a glimpse of lamplight. Several people were passing beneath her. Hard to tell how many, since only one of them carried a lamp – and that was telling in itself. If they’d been here on legitimate business, they’d have unshuttered the windows and thrown open the vast doors at the front of the building to let in the daylight.
She tracked the orange glow through the cracks beneath her feet, following it further away from the hatch she’d entered by and into the deeper darkness. Finally it stopped, and again she heard the murmur of voices. The light flared brighter through a gap ahead of her, as though the single lamp had been joined by several others. Acutely conscious, now, of even the slightest creaking sound caused by her movements across the floor of the loft, she lowered herself to her stomach and eased forward along the nearest rafter until she could see through the gap. Yet it didn’t help much. Although she now had a clear view of the half-dozen people standing in a tight circle below her, ringed by lamps, all of them were hooded and masked. She couldn’t make out any identifying features, only the glitter of eyes and the muffled murmur of voices.
Bloody stupid theatrics. Like children playing at revolution. It was almost funny, until she remembered that it could very well lead to war. If these people really had murdered the ambassador then they were too dangerous to laugh at, silly masks or not.
She lay still, breathing as quietly as she could, trying to pick out their voices; yet the damn masks distorted everything. She might as well have been listening from outside the warehouse – would have been a damn sight safer, too. Then one voice lifted forcefully above the rest, and finally she was able to distinguish individual words.
‘She’s done her job. Now we need to keep her quiet.’
‘Yes, but surely …’ The second speaker sank back into a mumble. Sorrow gritted her teeth in silent frustration and waited for something more audible.
‘… useful … someone in Darkhaven …’
‘I don’t think … outweighs the risk …’
She couldn’t make out the whole of the rest, but from their gestures and the rise and fall of their voices, the thing she wasn’t hearing was an argument. According to the snatches of conversation she could piece together, the group had an agent in Darkhaven who had performed a task on their behalf – though whether that was poisoning the ambassador or something else, it was impossible to tell. Three of the six seemed to be arguing that this mysterious girl could be useful again in the future; the others thought she was a liability. One of the latter was a softly spoken man who had been the one to connect them with the girl in the first place. His chief opponent was a tall man who spoke with the accent of the Mirrorvalese elite and gave the impression of being in charge. He was of the opinion that being able to pass on orders to someone on the inside was worth any degree of risk.
‘Well, then,’ he said at last, raising his voice just enough that the individual words became distinct. ‘At least we can all agree that it’s important to make sure she doesn’t talk.’
‘I am glad to hear you say so,’ the softly spoken man replied. ‘Because, as it happens, I have already taken care of it.’
‘What does that mean?’
He shrugged. ‘I silenced her for good.’
‘What?’ That was nearly a shout. One or two of the masked men glanced over their shoulders; they moved in closer still, and the indistinct murmurs began again. Sorrow made out just a single word: murder.
She pressed her cheek against the splintered wood, her heart thudding against her ribcage. So, the softly spoken man had taken matters into his own hands. He had brought the girl on board, and disposed of her just as easily. Which meant she’d been right: these people were dangerous, despite their melodramatics. If they could kill one of their own with such little care, then they’d have no hesitation in dispatching Sorrow herself, if they caught her.
Admittedly, the rest of the group hadn’t known about the murder. But listening to them, she heard no remonstrations with the softly spoken man for his actions, only a certain amount of anxiety that the crime shouldn’t be traced back to them.
‘What’s done is done,’ the rich man said finally. ‘As long as her death can’t be connected to …’
And then it was all mumbling again, broken by the occasional phrase that suggested more than it revealed.
‘The Helm already know … asking questions about the taransey …’
‘… believe the seal was tampered with. So there is nothing to connect …’
‘… unaware of the antidote. That part remains our secret.’
Finally, the rich man held up his hands for silence, projecting his voice even through the mask.
‘Thank you, brothers. We have done well. We have brought an end to the false peace that would have been a betrayal of everything our country stands for. Soon the Kardise scourge will come to an end. We will drive them from our towns and cities, crush them at the border, and Mirrorvale will belong to the Mirrorvalese once more!’
Each of the six figures extended a hand into the centre of the circle; six voices spoke as one. Free Arkannen.
‘Good night,’ the rich man said. ‘I will send word of our next meeting time and place through the usual channels.’
They began to disperse, each taking a lamp and carrying it off through the darkness towards the door; yet the ringleaders, rich man and softly spoken man, remained where they were, conversing in whispers. Sorrow scrambled to her feet as quietly as she could, using the noise of the others’ departure to cover her own. If she was quick, she could get back out to the street before the final two conspirators emerged. That way, maybe she’d have the chance to find out who they were.
She picked her way back to the square of daylight on the other side of the loft, leapt out across the plummeting drop below with scant regard for anything so limiting as safety, and caught the frame of the open hatch with both hands. Once she’d hauled herself back up to the roof, she darted across – keeping low – and peered down over the side of the building. If anyone caught her climbing down the fire ladder, she’d be a goner for sure.
Two of the men were already disappearing in different directions down the street; as she watched, two more left the warehouse and did the same. Once she
could no longer see the second pair, she swung her legs off the roof of the warehouse and descended the ladder in a rush, hoping the final two had been in deep enough conversation to delay them a while longer. She landed just as the door swung open again, and whisked herself round the corner of the building, where she flattened herself against the wall and tried not to breathe loudly. Had they seen her? She thought not. A few more low-voiced words were exchanged, before one of the men in his hooded cloak passed by the mouth of her alley. The softly spoken man.
She hesitated only a moment. He was the one who’d murdered a girl; he was the one who had been able to offer a connection inside Darkhaven. Uncovering his identity must surely be the most beneficial action she could take.
She stole to the end of the alley and peeped out. The rich man was striding away in the opposite direction. The softly spoken man hadn’t stopped or turned; he must not have seen her. So she followed him. Along the street, round the corner, back towards the canal –
He glanced over his shoulder. She glimpsed the mask beneath his hood, still in place despite the fact that he was walking in broad daylight. For an instant she froze, reaching for a weapon, thinking him about to return for her.
Then he broke into a jog, slipped down a side alley, and was gone.
She stood and swore for a moment, but only a moment. Because she might not have succeeded at identifying any of the group, but she’d still gained some valuable information. She’d take it to Caraway and see what he made of it.
Later that day, once she’d sent a message up through the city and received a meeting-place and time in response, she and Caraway sat in an inn – which was, admittedly, a far more sensible location than last time – while she related what she’d overheard. He listened in silence, occasionally scribbling a note.
‘Interesting,’ he said when she’d finished. ‘So how, exactly, did you identify this group in the first place?’
‘By the content of their barges.’ Sorrow smirked at his obvious confusion. ‘Trade is a wonderful weather-vane, Captain Caraway. I assume you’ve noticed that in summer, the merchants’ investors request ice, and in the winter they demand firewood? When a new factory opens on Canalside, the price of coal goes up. When we have a good harvest, the price of wheat goes down. And in times of peace, people stop smuggling black-market weaponry into the city, because demand for it lessens and so the profit they can make isn’t worth the risk.’
‘All right,’ Caraway said doubtfully. ‘What’s your point?’
‘My point is that when it comes to wealthy investors, there is nothing more predictable than money. They chase it like hounds on the scent. And so when I heard that one particular set of barges was due to bring a vast shipment of illegal firearms into the city, despite the impending peace treaty between us and Sol Kardis, it got me asking questions.’
‘You mean …’
‘When the news broke of the ambassador’s murder, the price of a pistol doubled almost instantly,’ Sorrow said. ‘So I had to wonder whether the investor behind my barges had known about it in advance.’
‘Which he had, if the conversation you just described is anything to go by,’ Caraway agreed. ‘I’m impressed, Naeve.’
She shrugged. ‘I know this city far better than you and your men. Well, maybe not you. The years you spent drowning your guilt in the lower rings must have been good for something. But a lot of your young Helmsmen come to the fifth ring, do their training and disappear into the tower. They never feel the city in their veins like I do.’
‘So who is the investor?’ Caraway asked, dismissing the insult to the Helm with a wave of his hand. ‘I’ll bring him in for questioning as soon as –’
‘I don’t know,’ Sorrow interrupted before he could get too enthusiastic. ‘I looked into it, of course. But the merchants who run those barges were all commissioned by Jack Malone.’
‘Jack Malone,’ he repeated. ‘Why does that sound familiar?’
She rolled her eyes at his blank expression. ‘It’s the name investors use when they don’t want to be identified. Stops them being tied to any illegal activity.’
‘All right. That’s useful to know.’ He flicked back through the pages of his notebook. ‘But there’s also something I’ve heard recently … ah. Damn it.’
‘What?’
‘Jack Malone is also the name of the person who bought the taransey that was used to poison the ambassador. Ree and Penn got a list of possible purchasers from the distillery and spent all day yesterday following them up, but everyone could account for their own bottle except one. Jack Malone. His address turned out to be a lodging-house, but there was no longer anyone of that name staying there.’
‘Right,’ Sorrow said slowly. ‘So it’s likely the same person bought the taransey and invested in the barges, but we’re no closer to discovering his identity. I can give you a few names of merchants involved in gun-smuggling, but that won’t help you with your murder problem.’
‘No,’ Caraway agreed. ‘But if you never found out who the investor was, how did you come to overhear the group?’
‘Well, the barge workers unloaded their legitimate shipments at the docks, and then a handful of them took the black-market stuff across to a warehouse. So obviously I followed them. Most of them didn’t hang around, which makes sense under the circumstances, but one man stayed. That seemed odd enough to investigate, so I broke in –’ she raised an eyebrow at him – ‘off the record, of course. And that’s when I heard them talking.’
‘Right. Then for a start, we can find out who owns that warehouse –’
‘One step ahead of you, Captain Caraway.’
‘Well?’
‘He died several years ago. The deed has remained in his name, but I think we have to assume he’s not stocking up on illegal firearms.’
Caraway absorbed this new blow with barely a flinch. ‘Give me the name anyway. Just in case.’
‘Maurais. Giovano Maurais.’
He wrote it down. ‘Sounds like a Kardise name.’
‘Yes,’ Sorrow agreed. ‘But given that he’s dead, that could be a piece of misdirection on the group’s part.’
‘And what about the barge worker? Would you recognise him if you met him again? Presumably he’s the only one whose face you saw.’
‘I don’t know,’ Sorrow admitted. ‘It was only a glimpse. I suppose you could get the names of everyone who was working on those barges, haul ’em all in and let me try to identify which one was playing dress-up in a warehouse down on Canalside. But I can’t guarantee to get it right. And if I were him, I’d go to ground for a while anyway.’
‘It’s something for us to be working on, at least,’ Caraway said. ‘And what about the man you followed?’
‘Nothing, I’m afraid.’ She scowled. ‘I picked him because he was talking about having murdered someone. The rest of the group were taken aback by it. They came round to his way of thinking easily enough, but it still indicates he’s the most ruthless member of the group. So it seemed important to know who he was.’ She looked Caraway in the eyes, daring him to respond in a way she didn’t like. ‘But I lost him almost straight away. Whoever he is, he’s bloody good at keeping out of trouble.’
‘They seem to have covered their tracks very well,’ Caraway agreed. ‘Hana was their only possible weak point, but Hana is dead.’
‘Hana?’
‘The girl your man killed. She was a maid in Darkhaven.’
‘You think she was part of the group?’
‘It would seem that way, from what you’ve said. She was involved somehow. Her friend gave the impression that a man had talked her into it. I asked the staff, but none of them had any idea who it might be – not surprising, if it was your softly spoken man. She must have seen him on her days off.’ He looked sad. ‘It’s hard to believe of her. She always seemed such a sweet girl.’
Sorrow rolled her eyes. ‘Your problem, Tomas, is that your natural paranoia is in constant tension with an almost patho
logical desire to believe the best of people. Sweet tells you nothing. Fuck it, I could be sweet if the occasion demanded.’
They looked at each other. Caraway’s lips twitched. Sorrow glared at him for a moment before conceding.
‘Maybe not. But you take my point.’
‘I do. I also didn’t fail to notice that you called me by my name. Which, since I have an almost pathological desire to believe the best of people, I’m going to take to mean you’re finally beginning to like me.’
‘Think what you want,’ Sorrow said. ‘What difference does it make?’
He shrugged. ‘I prefer to like the people I work with.’
‘So you like me, do you?’ She said it mockingly, but he nodded.
‘Of course.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I trust you.’ He gave her a warm smile, ignoring her incredulous look, and proceeded to confound her further by clasping her hand. ‘Thank you, Naeve. I really appreciate it.’
‘It’s not much to go on,’ she muttered.
‘It’s a lot more than we had before.’ He stood, ready to leave, then turned back to her and said, ‘And they definitely mentioned something about an antidote?’
‘Yes.’
‘Thank you.’
Once he’d left the inn, Sorrow propped her head on her hand and sighed. First he accuses me of trying to do the right thing, and now he tells me he trusts me. What am I, a fucking priestess?
Still, she was working against the kind of people who thought peace with an old enemy was a betrayal, rather than a genuine chance for change. The kind of people who would happily engineer a war, because they’d never have to fight in it. The kind of people who could use the phrase Kardise scourge to refer to ordinary citizens of Mirrorvale, getting on with their lives, who happened to have one or more foreign-born ancestors somewhere in their family tree.
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