by Kat Ross
“What number?” he asked.
“Seven.” Kasia pointed. “Over there.”
The car glided up to the curb. A uniformed doorman hurried out with an umbrella and opened her door. It was like being paroled from prison after a twenty-year stretch.
“Goodnight, Fra Bryce,” Kasia said acidly. “Thanks for the lift.”
“Goodnight, Domina Novak.” A quick, humorless smile. “I’ll be in touch.”
As Kasia watched his taillights vanish into the darkness, she realized she’d left her own umbrella in his car.
Fogging perfect.
Chapter Twelve
Dr. Massot’s townhouse was a hive of activity.
Alexei slowed at the corner but didn’t turn down the street. Three Curia cars were parked out front and a pair of priests stood on the front steps, talking under umbrellas. He didn’t need to see the insignia on their robes to know they were General Directorate. Kireyev’s men.
Then one turned his face to the light of the streetlamp. It illuminated the shiny pate and blond beard of Fra Gerlach, who had questioned him at the Institute. The other was probably his partner, Fra Brodszky.
Alexei sped up before they noticed him.
Kasia Novak was still lying. He couldn’t pinpoint exactly what she was lying about, but taking her into custody had been an empty threat. What he should do is finish his report and give it to the archbishop before they demoted him to candle-lighting duty.
Yet Alexei couldn’t stop thinking about her.
She was his very last lead.
And she knew something. He could smell it.
He needed leverage and there was one other place that would have records on her—although unlike the Tabularium, these would be under lock and key.
Alexei drove back to the Arx, speeding through red lights whenever he could get away with it. If Malach was still in the city, every Oprichnik of the City Watch would be hunting him. It made no sense. Why bring down the wrath of the Curia by Turning Massot when he could have killed the doctor and quietly disposed of the body? Massot would simply have been a missing person, with no one the wiser that he was Nightmarked.
Then there was the matter of who had murdered Massot in a public and messy way. Someone couldn’t risk the doctor talking. But about what? Something that threatened the Church as a whole or merely the individuals involved?
Either way, he was running out of time. Chess matches or not, Misha was dying. Nurse Jeyna had told him so. His body was slowly wasting away. In the last few weeks, he would turn his face away when she brought the tray of food and no amount of coaxing could make him eat. If it continued, she would need Alexei’s permission to insert a feeding tube down his throat. When she described the procedure, he nodded calmly and said he would have to think about it. Then he ran to the staff lavatory and threw up. She didn’t ask again.
But every time the telephone rang, he half expected it to be the Institute informing him that his brother had slipped away in the night. Just another number to be bagged and burned, his ashes presented in a cheap tin urn.
Someone else would become 26—perhaps an Invertido he brought in himself—until they too died and the number was recycled again.
The image haunted him and not even Alexei’s Marks could dampen his grief and terror.
* * *
The offices of the Probatio were in the Tower of Saint Lieven, a six-story stone structure with narrow barred windows. The most secretive, opaque organization in the Curia, its members rarely associated with anyone beyond their own Order. The Probatio had only existed for thirty-odd years, since the defeat of the rebel nihilim cities, but it wielded immense power and was accountable only to the Pontifex.
Twice a year, agents fanned out to elementary schools across the city, where they administered a battery of psychological tests designed to weed out children who were unfit to wield the ley. Individuals with pathology, but not just any pathology—the kind of moral deficits that characterized the nihilim and their sympathizers. It was a complex calculus that no one but the Probatio fully understood, but there were certain common traits. Lack of empathy and remorse. Diminished fear response. A tendency to lie and manipulate others.
Alexei remembered taking the tests himself three years after Misha. They’d both had tutors but were required to go to Saint Clara’s school a few kilometers away on the day of testing. He still remembered the palpable anxiety among the students. The questions changed every year so older siblings couldn’t coach the younger ones.
A runaway tram is about to kill five people. You are standing on a footbridge next to a large stranger. Your body is too light to stop the train, but if you push the stranger onto the tracks, killing him, you will save the five people. Would you push the man?
There were others in the same vein, moral dilemmas that had seemed inexplicable at the time. Now he knew they were designed to force a truthful answer. Others were open-ended. How do you like to waste your time? If something breaks, what is the first thing you do? If you work hard, do you deserve a reward?
Alexei had never seen his own scores, but he was summoned to the Arx to receive his first Mark a week later.
Bells summoned the faithful for supper as he parked in the lot behind the Tower of Saint Lieven. Alexei killed the engine. He hadn’t eaten all day, yet he didn’t feel hungry. His mind was clear and alert. Did passing out behind the wheel count as a nap?
Sure it did.
He waited as a dozen priests emerged, hoods raised against the rain, and set off for the dining hall. The communal meals were intended to bring the various orders together, though in reality they tended to segregate themselves by table. The exception was Patryk Spassov, who had friends everywhere. Alexei pictured him with a cup of wine in hand, amusing his companions with jokes and anecdotes related in his signature deadpan style. For some reason, the taint of the Interfectorem didn’t touch him. Spassov was universally liked.
The tolling of the bells faded to silence. Alexei approached the tower with no plan, only the determination that he would get what he came for, one way or another. He pounded on the door until a bespectacled clerk appeared. The young man’s cassock bore a trident on the breast, the symbol of all three aspects of mind. It was identical to the one on Alexei’s own robes, except that the trident of the Interfectorem was inverted.
“I’m here to view a file,” he said.
“I’ll need prior written authorization to grant you access,” the clerk replied in a bored tone.
“Written authorization from whom?”
“Archbishop Kireyev.”
That wouldn’t be happening. “I’m the primary investigator in a sensitive case. I need those records tonight.”
“I still need written authorization. Or he can telephone it in.”
“The archbishop is a very busy man.”
The clerk gave him a condescending smile. “Surely you’re aware these records are highly confidential. I can’t simply hand them over to anyone who asks.”
“I understand.” Alexei turned away. He slipped his gloves off as the clerk started to close the door. “Oh, one last thing, brother.”
The man sighed. “I already told you—”
Alexei slammed a palm against the wooden door, pulling ley into his Marks. He drew deep, reaching through the blue surface current to the violet liminal power beneath. And then deeper still to the abyssal ley.
He’d never touched it before. He hadn’t been sure it was even possible. Abyssal ley was forbidden to the clergy under pain of exile. The currents ran in the opposite direction from the surface ley, and were ten times stronger. Alexei’s Marks burned with white-hot agony even though it was just the barest trickle. The muscles of his arm cramped. He gritted his teeth and drew more. Primal urges stirred in the limbic system of his brain. The frontal cortex, which governed judgment, impulse control and reasoning, packed its bags and took an extended holiday.
The priest opened his mouth to yell for help. Alexei’s ungloved hand fou
nd his wrist. Scarlet light bathed the doorway like a mouth to Hell. A ragged sigh escaped the clerk’s lips. His eyes were wide and staring. Ley pulsed between them.
For a moment, Alexei forgot what he was doing there. A tight, dark well opened beneath his feet and part of him wanted to see how deep it went.
Temptation. Forbidden knowledge. Both had led to the fall of the nihilim.
I am a priest of the Eastern Curia. I will not succumb so easily.
With an oath, he wrenched his palm from the door, severing the connection. Rain beat against Alexei’s face as he fumbled for the corax in his pocket, clutching it like a lifeline.
“You already have the authorization,” he said, barely recognizing his own voice. It was calm and controlled even as molten ore scoured his veins. “If you misplaced it, that’s not my fault. If I’m forced to get another one, the archbishop will be quite annoyed with you. So the best thing for everyone would be to let me see the records immediately.”
He released the clerk’s wrist, letting the power ebb away, and pulled on his gloves with shaking hands. The man’s eyes looked vacant. Alexei feared he’d hit him too hard, but then he blinked rapidly, returning to his senses like a diver surfacing from the depths.
“Don’t worry,” Alexei said. His own knees were weak, his stomach cramping with spears of ice. Holy Marks did not like abyssal ley. “I won’t tell anyone you lost the paperwork. I’m sure it will turn up.”
“I’m sure it will.” The clerk cleared his throat. A drop of blood oozed from his left nostril, but he didn’t seem to notice. He swung the door open and stepped back. “What year are you looking for?”
The round chamber beyond was austere. No reception desk, no waiting area. It was the first time Alexei had ever come here and, like the Batavia Institute, visitors were clearly a rarity. He double-checked his notebook for Kasia Novak’s birthdate, then calculated the year she would have turned eight.
“Third floor,” the clerk said with a nod. “Follow me.”
They climbed up the winding tower stairs to the third-floor record room. It wasn’t much larger than the Tower of Saint Dima, but the ceiling was double-height with specially fitted cabinets stretching up into the gloom.
“Kasia Novak, you say?” the clerk murmured, producing a ring of tiny keys. He hopped on a rolling ladder, unlocked a drawer, and riffled through the contents. He peered down at Alexei. “I don’t see the name.”
Alexei silently cursed. The OGD had beaten him again. “Is the file missing?”
“No, they’re sequentially numbered. Are you sure you have the right year?”
“It could be the following one,” Alexei said.
The clerk climbed down the ladder. He crossed the chamber to another file drawer, this one chest-high, and ran a practiced finger swiftly down the tabs. “Nothing, I’m afraid.”
“May I see?”
The clerk hesitated. “I’m not supposed to allow visitors access to all the files, just the requested ones.”
“I won’t look at the scores, just the names. Surely those aren’t confidential. Every citizen has a file.”
The priest pushed his glasses up on his nose. “All right, have a look. But I tell you, it’s not there.”
Alexei started at the first cabinet, slowly flipping past each dossier and checking the numbers as he went to make sure none of the files had slipped down or stuck together. There was nothing for Kasia Novak. The clerk looked increasingly nervous. He kept glancing at the door and fiddling with his spectacles.
“Almost done,” Alexei said cheerfully.
He had never used the ley to compel someone before. Did the effects wear off? But the thought of touching it again made him shudder inwardly. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to let it go next time.
“This is against the rules,” the clerk muttered. “I’ll have to insist you stop.”
Alexei was already at the second cabinet. His fingers flew over the yellowing tabs. Nothing on Kasia Novak. And nothing missing. The file identifiers were all in sequence.
“Fra Bryce—”
One of the files caught his eye. Alexei pulled it out with a rush of excitement. Once, in a different life, he had spent hours every day digging through dusty libraries. Searching for the needle in the haystack. He still remembered the feeling of satisfaction when he succeeded.
“Did you find it?” the clerk asked in surprise.
Alexei gave him a bland smile, though his pulse raced. “It’s my fault. Domina Novak is married now. Foolish of me not to look for her maiden name.”
The man stared at him. “What is it?”
Alexei showed him the file. “You see? The birthday matches, as well as other particulars. May I have a moment to inspect the file?”
“You can’t take it out of this room. But yes, you may read it.”
Alexei cracked the folder. The first thing he saw was a red stamp that said REJECTED. This was followed by four pages of test scores with half the numbers circled, also in red pen, which he assumed indicated an abnormal result.
Of course, it might be a different person altogether. If it was Kasia, why hadn’t Kireyev destroyed this record, too? Perhaps because he didn’t expect anyone to find it. Altering her record at the Tabularium might have been deemed sufficient. Whoever was protecting her, Kireyev or someone else, had no reason to expect a full-blown investigation. There was just enough of a paper trail to satisfy a casual inquiry.
Alexei slid the file back into the drawer. “The Interfectorem is grateful for your assistance in this matter,” he said.
The clerk nodded uncertainly.
Alexei’s couldn’t meet the man’s eyes. That was the nihilim way, manipulating people with no regard for the sanctity of their minds. He’d crossed a line there was no returning from.
Alexei muttered a farewell and hurried back down the winding stairs. At the bottom, two bishops were coming in the front door. They stared suspiciously as he brushed past. One shouted something as he ran to his car. He ignored it, tires spitting gravel as he circled around to the main road.
It wouldn’t be long before word reached Kireyev of his disobedience. Before they discovered who the witness was and whisked her away.
Which meant he had nothing left to lose.
Chapter Thirteen
Kasia strode into the mirrored lobby and waited while the doorman called upstairs. He wore a navy jacket and cap with gold braid, the buttons straining against a generous waistline.
“Domina Novak is here,” he said, winking at Kasia. He’d known her since she was a teenager. “Of course, Domina Foy.” He hung up the phone.“I’ll take you right up.”
“Oh, I can do it myself,” Kasia said. “No need to let your coffee get cold.” She smiled at the mug, which said World’s Greatest Dedushka. “And congratulations. I see Yana finally had the baby.”
He beamed. “A healthy girl. Seven weeks tomorrow.”
He summoned the lift, which resembled an elaborate birdcage, and Kasia stepped inside, hoping no one else would come into the lobby. The instant the door closed, she started rooting through her handbag. Fortunately, No. 7 had the world’s slowest elevator and Tess lived in the penthouse.
Kasia found one of the cylinders. She tried to twist off the end, but it wouldn’t budge. She ran her fingers over the smooth brass, searching for a hidden catch. If Massot was Nightmarked, she wanted to know what was going on and what exactly he was telling Falke. Staying in the dark wouldn’t help them if it all went to hell.
The car creaked past the third floor.
Come on, fog it!
She felt a tiny indentation and pressed it. The lid popped open. There was a spindle inside. She slid a leather cord off and unwound two documents from the spindle. They held the shape, rolling up into a tight scroll. Kasia crouched down and flattered them out on the floor of the lift.
The first was a map of the cities of the Via Sancta, with a grid imposed on the foreground. Ley lines. They were thick and dark as if the artist had
pressed hard on the pen. In two places, the nib had torn through the parchment.
Sixth floor.
She unrolled the second parchment.
It was a letter written in a looping script. The f’s were written in a peculiar way, more like an s, but she soon got the hang of it. Her eyes flew over the page.
M—
I trust this finds you well. These past weeks have proven most fruitful, but also rife with frustration at my inability to contact you directly. If you are reading this, it means I’ve missed our regular rendezvous, which in turn must mean some calamity has befallen me. Considering the dangers involved, such an eventuality is hardly unforeseeable. As a precaution, I have penned this missive in the hope it will fall into your hands. I do not trust our mutual friend and nor should you. He uses us both and I fear he would silence me without remorse for what I am about to tell you.
* * *
M., I have found what you sought. Even more than that, I suspect. At the risk of sounding melodramatic—or insane myself!—the results of my last experiment indicate that the Original Source of all your Troubles is a patient at the Institute. The Marks do not lie. I cannot explain how this came to pass, but at the very least, he would be invaluable to B. (see sketch attached hereto). Please forgive the indiscretion of entrusting this message to parchment, but time is of the essence. I fear my experiments are awakening latent abilities, placing his removal from the Institute at risk. I cannot be the only person aware of who he is. You must act quickly. The sign is the Lion. The number is 9.
Yours,
F.M.
The elevator passed the ninth floor. Kasia hastily rolled the papers around the spindle and jammed them back in the tube. Her fingers shook as she pressed the hidden catch on the last cylinder. It held only a single sheet of paper, written in the same hand.
