I unstuck my thighs from the metal bed and hobbled around in my cursedly impractical work shoes, for the variety of it.
“Is anyone going to charge me?” I asked the prefectsman who came for my empty plate. “Interview me? Get me a lawyer? Or a pillow? I’d settle for a pillow.”
The prefectsman avoided eye contact.
“Clean underwear? That’s just uncivilized.”
The clock ticked without progress, the paint flaked, and the prefectsman left without answering.
No one had told me where I was. I guess they meant that as an extra level of intimidation, carting me here in a windowless van and not pulling me out until we’d reached a windowless garage. No one had informed me of the charges against me either, so I was left to guess and imagine the worst.
Why was I here? Had Luc betrayed me? Had Theodora told someone where she was going, with whom she was meeting? Did she have other safeguards in place of which I knew nothing?
Those were the sorts of thoughts they probably wanted me to have, and I absolutely refused to entertain them no matter how they pushed in, because they weren’t the thoughts an innocent woman would be having. An innocent woman wouldn’t be guessing how she’d been caught; she’d be guessing what had happened. She’d be wondering how such a mistake had been made. She’d be worrying about Francis and her boss.
And so I thought, over and over: There must have been a mistake. I know my rights. I did nothing wrong. I’m so confused. I want to see my family. I want to go home.
That was the truth. It had to be, and I had to believe it. You see, you can always tell when someone is lying, if you know what to look for. Always. No matter how slight, lying creates dissonance between words and body language. You can try to distract an interviewer from your body language, but you can’t make your body lie along with your mouth—and distractions won’t work, if they pay attention to the recording of your interview. There’s only one way you can’t be caught if you tell falsehoods:
Don’t lie. Oh, say whatever untruths you need to, but believe them. Believe them totally, absolutely. Don’t let your mind acknowledge other truths even for a moment, or dissonance will creep in.
I lay down, settling my body on the metal slab. An outsider might have thought I was preparing for sleep, but I wasn’t, not for hours yet. I was working on my mind, going over my day beat by beat. Wednesday had been a perfectly ordinary day, nothing special. Not pleasant, but not special. I had gotten up, eaten breakfast, met my brothers in the park, argued with them, stormed off, come home, listened to Francis harangue me, and finally collapsed in bed.
Did I argue with my brothers a lot?
Sometimes. Mostly about silly things.
You argued in the park, though. What about?
I don’t like my brother’s new girlfriend; she’s vicious and manipulative. Yes, Theodora Banks—wait, is this about her? Yes, I hit her; lots of people must’ve witnessed that. No, I haven’t seen her since then. I drove around to calm down, got home around eight, maybe nine. The parking garage attendant and cameras can verify that. So can my brothers. So can the neighbors, the way Francis was yelling. No, I didn’t go out again. I went to bed. I was upset. I hadn’t handled the situation well, and I wasn’t sure how to make up with Francis.
He’s all right, isn’t he? The knights who arrested me wouldn’t say. . . .
No, I slept that night. Had breakfast in the morning, went to work. I came directly back after dropping my boss off. It was an ordinary day. Nothing special.
Nothing to see here.
Oatmeal heralded morning with currant eyes and a cream smile. The prefectsman who’d brought me breakfast was less fresh-faced than acned, and with an eager set to his round cheeks. “Coffee?” he asked me, and brought me a plastic cup of stuff that was hottish and brownish.
“This,” I said, sniffing it dubiously, “cannot be coffee.”
“It is too,” the prefectsman said, laughing. I gazed up at him through my lashes and replied something guileless and innocent, and his lips loosened plenty enough to admit that it was nine o’clock. “I can’t tell you anything else,” he said, leaning against a flaking bar like maybe he could be persuaded. “It’s not up to me—and it’s not like anyone ever tells me anything.”
I looked terribly sympathetic and he kept going, warming to his topic. My concerned attention was rewarded by an insight into the day-to-day life of a junior prefectsman. I was genuinely interested—I might apply to be a prefectsman or knight someday, although it wasn’t my initial plan. For one thing, if I ever wanted to be head knight, I’d have to apply in Batata, and I’d no desire to live there again. But if I did, this information would be desperately useful, because it gave me an insight into the complaints of the lower ranks: knights were a snooty lot who thought they were better than ordinary prefectsmen. It was incredibly irritating, being treated like a lackey; the lack of respect was demeaning. Someone should do something about it.
On a more immediate level, I was putting together fragments of information that fluttered down to me along with the occasional chip of green paint: I was being held in one of the knighthouses surrounding Silvertip Manor—a structure far grander than its Edenfield counterpart. Eight other knighthouses of various sizes dotted the manor grounds.
That was as far as he got before another prefectsman pulled him away, but it was enough for now. The logical conclusion for someone in my position (i.e., complete innocence) was that this arrest had to do with my job: there had been a leak in the Carinan Security Service, and I’d been fingered. The crown had ordered my arrest, and I was being kept in the most secure location possible until I could be transferred to the capital. Kingsmen would arrive soon to move me.
That explanation struck me as remarkably plausible, and I began to wonder if it might not be correct after all. If it was, my boss might have been arrested also. Definitely not ideal. I’d vouch for him, but it struck me as improbable that we’d be able to get free before the conference was over and the king dead.
If only I had more accurate information!
I returned to my cozy metal slab to keep kneading my brain into the appropriate shape, but I jumped up again when two new people stomped up to my cell. They were knights, square-chested men with hard chins and harder eyes. Hostility, but impersonal hostility. Sometimes men like this could be won over by delicacy and repressed tears, but sometimes they were the sort who enjoyed distress.
“Good morning,” I said, clutching my hands hopefully. “Am I being released? I want to go home.”
“Stand against the wall,” the leader barked at me. “Hands up.”
They’d disappointed me severely, and I let them see it, but I didn’t hesitate to obey. My compliance was rewarded by no new bruises as one of them held me while the other gave me a professional pat-down. My suit was far too formal to have anything as practical as pockets, but they took the blazer away anyway, the better to cuff me.
I know how to break out of the ordinary sort of cuffs, in theory, but these were nasty: they held my hands in front of me, palms turned out and thumbs down, wrists kept four inches apart by a solid metal shaft. The sort of cuffs that can be attached to neck and ankle shackles for condemned prisoners.
“Are we going somewhere?” I asked timidly, eyes doe-wide.
No wonder the chatty prefectsman hadn’t been happy in his position; apparently, Silvertip liked the strong, silent types. They frog-marched me out of my cell, out of the knighthouse, and into radiant sunlight.
I squinted through streaming eyes. Sure enough, we were outside Silvertip Manor. I had seen it before in person only once and on the news plenty of times. It wasn’t the sort of place you forgot, once you saw it.
The building was smooth eggshell-white concrete, its lines irregular and curved. The best way I can describe it is as if the architect had taken an unevenly squashed hardboiled egg and sliced it shortwise four times, then pulled it apart and rotated the layers to show not yolk but floor-to-ceiling green-framed wi
ndows. Each layer of white fluctuated unevenly around the smooth interior. Francis had called it dynamic.
I had called it excessive. What had been wrong with the old manor other than its being old?
“A prefect’s manor needs to be impressive, not just functional,” an exasperated Francis had told me during our visit. “This is Silvertip’s seat of power, his base of operations, the face he shows to visiting dignitaries. A prefect’s manor must reflect the state of his prefecture, and the old building was shoddy. Is what you want the other prefectures to think of us?”
“He’s been reading the brochure,” Luc had told me, sotto voce. “Do you think he believes his own propaganda?”
Francis had huffed but neither yelled nor stomped off: we’d paid a stiff C15 each for this tour, and it had been Francis who’d insisted we go. He’d said it was because it was important we see the capital and that the architecture was something-something-pretentious-I-tuned-out. His real aim was to show off the most impressive building project he’d ever been part of, and he made sure to comment on this loudly enough that the rest of our tour group heard him.
The tour guide had led us through the grand front entrance, but prisoners weren’t afforded that honor. The knights marched me to a nearly plain side door, up stairs of slate-gray Saxony carpet, and into a spacious sitting room.
I’d give Silvertip this: he hadn’t sacrificed style for ostentation. Genteel wall clocks chimed the quarter hour; the faint aromas of gunpowder green tea and lilac clung to the walls; polished oak supported patterned sage-green seat cushions, table runners, and curtains. Most of one wall comprised windows, lightly tinted and designed to display the landscape to maximum advantage: a vista of intimidation and aesthetics. Concrete, knighthouses, and ornamental fountains stretched into the distance.
Here was a room to please the senses, to relax, to entertain sophisticated guests. To make me extremely aware of the difference between Silvertip’s lifestyle and the lifestyle his prisoners lived. To make my unwashed back itch in its unwashed blouse. To make me feel how desperately I needed to brush my hair and wipe away the smeared remains of day-old mascara.
If I hadn’t been aware of how purposeful the effect must be, I would have squirmed. As it was, I made myself annoyed over how frankly insulting such blatant manipulation was. This would work for my innocent persona; the innocent have as much pride as the guilty.
I subtly rolled my wrists as far as the cuffs would allow, which wasn’t far. I was chilly, since they’d taken away my blazer, and that had made my wrists shrink—but not by enough. No way could I slip my wrist out of its cuff without losing a significant amount of skin and possibly a chunk of my thumb.
Picking the lock was out of the question, with my hands faced outward like this, unless I held the pick in my mouth. Were rigid cuffs as easy to pick as the ordinary sort?
I chose a chair and sat, wrenching my thoughts back to the practiced innocent sort: the confusion, the desperation over my brother, the horrified suspicion that this might be work-related. I arranged those thoughts right before my eyes, and held them there as the door opened and two new men entered.
The first new man was a weathered fifty with the granite expression of a career military man and the stars of Silvertip’s head knight. His quick eyes gave me a once-over as thorough as it was disdainful.
The second man wore no uniform, but I knew him immediately. He too was a man of middle years, the sort who keeps himself in excellent shape and boasts about it. His hair had been gelled into a politician’s helmet, its brown gracefully bowing to the inevitability of age. His eyes were light blue, his skin golden with tan, his suit ruthlessly ironed. He wasn’t smiling as he entered, but I’d seen enough photographs to know that his teeth were an orthodontist’s finest achievement—for this was Lord Otto Ostberg, the current Prefect Silvertip.
“Wait outside the door,” Silvertip told his knights. I’d heard his rich baritone a hundred times over the television set, knew the politician’s lilt of his accent. “Dinez will stay with me.”
Speech therapist, I thought. Voice trainer, personal trainer, and tailor. Velvet furniture and solid silver tea set.
“Yes, my lord,” my escort said, and retreated outside.
Silvertip locked the door behind them and pocketed the key. Every movement was improbably casual, the motions of a man who cannot be fazed because he holds the power, because he does not for a minute doubt that what he says will be done, and all who come before him will lick his feet.
I’d sometimes been guilty of thinking of my boss as vain, with his insistence on an expensive car and fine clothing and not a hair out of place, but he wasn’t. He dressed and acted and purchased like that because he thought doing so was proper for a man in his position. His manners were habitual, trained from childhood and as natural to him as breathing. He hadn’t made a big deal about taking my coat when I’d visited his home; he’d have been surprised if anyone had mentioned it. What was there to mention about common decency?
Silvertip had inherited his prefecture from his uncle, not his father, and in preference to two elder siblings. That had been twenty years ago, but he had already been the consummate politician. Up until last night, I’d considered his ascension to prefectship perfectly natural for a man of his talents and proclivities. Now, I wondered if Theodora had had a hand in it. If so, she’d either been about fourteen at the time, or she had already extended her life by some devil’s bargain.
“Good morning, prefect,” I said, standing but ducking my head. If they’d been free, I would’ve wrung my hands nervously to show how shy I was at meeting this rich and powerful celebrity.
“Good morning,” Silvertip replied urbanely. He glided over to a chair near—but not too near—mine and hiked up the thighs of his trousers before sitting down. His head knight hovered beside him, glaring at me like I was going to do something. To make him feel better, I sat again.
“What’s going on?” I burst out. Once started, I figured I might as well keep on going. “Please—I’m sorry, but I don’t understand why I’m here. Knights came to my house yesterday and—and they arrested me! Without telling me why! I didn’t realize they were from you—of course, they must have been, since they were knights—and I know you have the right to arrest anyone you want, I just don’t—I’m so confused. And no one will tell me if my brother or my boss—” I gulped, visibly restraining the flood of words. My eyes flickered to Silvertip but were too bashful to settle on him for long and made do with his shoes instead.
Silvertip nodded understandingly. “Ah, yes, your boss. The code-breaker.”
I bit back my response. Codes and ciphers are not the same thing. Codes replace words or phrases with other words or phrases. Ciphers replace and scramble letters. My boss is capable of working with codes, but he practically never actually does.
“You need have no concern for Dinez’s ears,” Silvertip reassured me, motioning to his head knight. “He has my complete confidence.”
“Respectfully, my lord,” I mumbled at his shoes, scrunching my shoulders further in as if afraid of being hit, “I can’t talk to you about that.” I squeezed my eyes tight to make them water, and got up my bravery to look him in the face. “Am I in trouble?” I whispered. “Did something happen?”
When cryptanalysts make mistakes or turn traitor, people die. Brutally. We weren’t at war, but that didn’t mean Akter and Vela threw parties for our spies.
I’d heard stories. Not many, but enough.
I let my horror shine through. “Has there been . . . a security leak?”
Silvertip tilted his head, watching me with scientific interest. “You tell me.”
I blinked rapidly at him, genuinely unsure what he was getting at. This hadn’t been how I would’ve figured a conversation about Theodora would go, but if it was about ciphers, you’d think he’d manage to get the word right. Or sound more interested in my job.
Still, I could be wrong. “You think I’m the leak,” I acknowledg
ed, regaining my strength of character and streaming it at him. “Well, I’m not. I would never betray Carina.”
Silvertip and Dinez exchanged a glance full of private information, and then Silvertip braced his elbows on the arms of his chair and leaned in, fingers pressed together. “Tell me,” he said, “about your relationship with Lucio Winter.”
“Prefect Avior?” I exclaimed, more flatfooted than ever.
“You don’t deny that you know who he is.”
“Doesn’t everyone?”
Silvertip raised his fingers to his lips. I’ve seen men who can make that sort of thing look natural; he looked like a coach had told him it made him look clever. “Do you deny that you spoke with him the Tuesday before last?”
“No, I—no, of course not. Why? I don’t understand. Have I done something wrong?” I swung between Silvertip and Dinez in bewilderment. “Was I supposed to ask you first? I didn’t know.”
Silvertip glanced again at Dinez, so swiftly I almost missed it. “And what did you two talk about?”
“Just about—um.” I stopped, more bewildered than ever, letting myself be bewildered rather than trying to work out what was going on. Honest bewilderment rang true—and besides, I wasn’t liking where this was going. Not one bit. “He, um. He asked me not to repeat it.”
“And I’m asking you to tell me.” Silvertip’s tone remained pleasant and level, but I heard the threat loud and clear.
I dropped my chin and picked at my skirt, thinking hard, letting my brow scrunch and my teeth bite my lower lip. “Could you, um, order me, please? Only, if you don’t, I don’t think . . . I don’t think I can . . . am I allowed?”
Another glance between them.
“I order you to tell me everything you and Prefect Avior talked about,” Silvertip said.
“Well,” I hedged, “I don’t have a photographic memory”—I remembered the conversation perfectly—“but it wasn’t anything suspicious. He asked about our work, and I said I couldn’t tell him, and he didn’t mind that. He mainly wanted to know about my boss.” I lifted my cuffed wrists apologetically. “In general terms, you know. If he was a good employer. I said he was, and asked if he—that is, Lord Winter—wanted to hire him, and he said yes. And that was about it, I guess. Um. He asked me about myself too, but not anything personal.” I looked at them earnestly. “That’s all right, isn’t it?”
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