“You always eat like this?” he asked finally, propping the back of his chair against the wall.
She shook her head, with an amused smile. “No—almost never, anymore. I just missed it.…”
He grinned. “Glad I didn’t miss it. It’s good!”
She began to pile bowls onto platters. “Did you learn anything more yesterday? Did it help you to remember?”
His smile fell away. “Nothing there but more questions.” He leaned forward again, trying to focus his thoughts. “The reports from the crime scene just don’t add up, Dev. Damn it, there has to be something about what went down that night that I’m just not getting. And it’s not locked in here.…” He touched his head, feeling his thoughts spiral downward like Carbuncle’s Street. “But gods, I don’t even know where to look, who to question. At Blue Alley, they’re saying the streets are a dry well—”
Her expression changed. “Tree … did you know the Police are having you followed?”
“What?” He frowned.
She glanced down. “A sergeant named Gundhalinu came here yesterday, after you’d gone, to ask me questions about you.”
“Gundhalinu?” He pushed to his feet. “That son of a bitch came here?”
She nodded.
“Did he threaten you, or hurt you? If he—”
“No.” She smiled, shaking her head. “He was perfectly eshkrad; he was almost sweet in a way.… But when I tried to find out who sent him, he said he couldn’t tell me—”
Tree’s frown faded. “Couldn’t … not wouldn’t?”
She nodded again.
“What did he ask you?”
“Why you’d come here. He also asked about my necklace. He said it looked like an Old Empire artifact.” She fingered the jewel she was wearing even now. “But maybe that was an innocent question.”
“Not with him.” Tree rubbed his arms, scratched irritably at the bandages, and winced. “I ran into him last night, at the station house. Maybe that wasn’t a coincidence either; he was asking about something that looked like Old Empire tech then, too.”
“What was it?”
“I don’t know.” He shrugged. “Gundhalinu called it some kind of headset. And he wants it … gods, I saw it in his eyes.” Suddenly seeing their encounter in parallax view, he realized that its true form might have been far different than he had imagined. “That brass-kissing prick knows something I don’t … but at least now I know who to question next.” He leaned across the table impulsively and kissed her on the mouth.
“Be careful,” she murmured. Her fingers rose to her lips, lingered there, as if she were touching him.
“Count on it,” he said.
* * *
Hours later, deep in heart of the Maze, Tree reached Citron Alley and started down it. He looked left and right, his sense of futility growing stronger. as he searched the haphazard building fronts for any sign of an address. Unlike the Upper City, the Maze cared nothing about appearances; but in its own perverse way, it was just as indifferent to whether or not anyone found what they were looking for.
He had already been to Blue Alley, and to Gundhalinu’s apartment building. No one at either place had seen Gundhalinu since yesterday. Coming here was a long shot, but KraiVieux had told him that Gundhalinu looked in on Jerusha PalaThion every day, to see if she needed anything while she convalesced.
If his luck continued to run like it had, he’d never even find her apartment. And even if he did, it would be a miracle if she didn’t throw him down the stairs—
Gods, what was he doing here? His footsteps slowed. How could he even face her, now that she knew everything … and probably blamed him for all of it? He stopped, suddenly unable to force his spent, aching body to do anything but turn around in its tracks.
He stumbled as something gray and sinuous slipped between his ankles; it squalled as he stepped on it. Swearing furiously, he saw the gray cat bolt back onto a nearby doorstep.
“Goddamn it—!” He broke off as he saw the middle-aged Tiamatan woman sitting on the stoop among trays of bright-colored beads and trims.
“Malkin!” she cried, trying to catch the aggrieved cat, which was now making chaos out of her assorted decorations. “Are you all right?”
Tree started back down the alley toward the Street, his fists clenched, cursing under his breath with pain and disgust.
“Are you all right—?” the woman called out again, more loudly.
He stopped, and looked back. “You mean me?” he asked.
“Well, yes, of course I did.” The woman was trying to clear off her spread skirts, which were covered with whatever she had been making, or selling. Her face was filled with concern as she began to get up, but the gaze she fixed on him was oddly lifeless.
Blind. He realized the obvious belatedly, as he spotted the imported vision sensor she wore like a headband. “Don’t get up.” He waved his hand, coming back to her doorstep.
“I’m so sorry,” the woman said, holding onto the cat; he saw how she clung to the animal, stroking its fur, more to reassure herself than her pet. “He’s such a nuisance; he assumes that everyone who passes is coming to see us.” She smiled apologetically. “I am Fate, after all.”
“I should’ve watched where I was going,” Tree muttered. “… Did you say, you’re Fate?”His fingers made an unconscious warding sign, even as he glanced up and saw the sign on the wall beside her door: FATE RAVENGLASS, MASKMAKER. “Oh. You mean, that’s your name.”
“A blessing, and a curse.…” She laughed. “I was born in a Festival year; we’re always given ‘meaningful’ names, you know.”
He didn’t, but he nodded to be polite. “It’s no worse than being called ‘Tree,’ I guess.”
“You’re limping, Tree … did you hurt your leg?”
“Yeah.” He grimaced, hoping it would pass for a smile, at least to a woman who was half-blind. “But that’s not your cat’s fault.” He leaned down to scratch the cat under its chin in apology, and saw the mask the woman had been working on. Half of the face was patterned with textures and colors as vibrant as the Maze itself; the other half was blank, empty, a void.…
“By the Boatman—!” He swore by the older, darker Newhavenese god who still ruled the lives of the street Blues, as he jerked back from the mask’s vacant stare.
“It isn’t finished yet,” Fate said, peering up at him with her own dim, vacant eyes. “It will look so different then. If you could only see the whole pattern.…” She gestured helplessly.
“I know, damn it, I—” He broke off, forcing himself to remember that she was a complete stranger, and that she had no more idea of all he had been through than she did of why he was standing here. “I’m sorry, I didn’t.… You do beautiful work. Really. I can see that.” The subtlety of what she had created was almost as remarkable as the fact that she had done it at all. The kind of cheap vision-sensor she wore was barely enough to let most people find their way to the door. She must construct her masks by instinct and touch, as much as by sight. He wondered who she made them for. As far as he knew, Tiamatans didn’t throw a lot of costume parties.
“You were looking for Inspector PalaThion, weren’t you?”
“How the hell did you know that—?”
“Your accent.” She smiled. “Other Police officers have been by here lately, bringing work to her while she recovers from her injuries.”
“Oh.” They both heard his sigh of relief.
Fate’s smile widened. “The Inspector’s apartment is upstairs over the import shop; it’s the fourth doorway in from the storm wall. I know she’ll be glad to see you.”
He didn’t answer, thinking the day the Warrior Nun was glad to see him would be the day she saw him in hell. “Thanks,” he managed to say. “Nice meeting you, Fate.” He headed on down the alley.
Jerusha PalaThion’s apartment was just where the maskmaker had said it would be. Gritting his teeth, he climbed the flight of stairs, each step requiring more effort than the l
ast. He rested for a long moment on the landing, until the pain in his side had eased enough to let him breathe again.
Facing PalaThion’s apartment door at last, he took a deep breath, and knocked.
The door opened. PalaThion stood there, wearing a long, patterned caftan and a frown. He stared, unused to seeing her in anything other than a uniform—abruptly and disconcertingly reminded that she really was female, and not much older than his brother had been.
She stared back at him as if he were a total stranger. “Yes?”
He remembered that he wasn’t wearing a uniform either, and looked like a mugging victim. “Officer LaisTree, Inspector.” He straightened his shoulders, barely remembering not to salute. “Currently suspended from duty.” He looked down, and let his protesting body slump back into the posture of a man who had recently had his guts restrung.
“LaisTree—” Surprise bordering on incredulity replaced the recognition in her eyes. “Come in.”
He entered her apartment, swallowing his own surprise. He’d always heard that she was a ball-busting bitch; he and Staun had made a religion of keeping out of her way, afraid she’d report them if she ever thought twice about their names. He remembered then what Staun had written in his journal about her.… It only made the discomfort of standing here face-to-face with her worse.
“How are you doing?” she asked, with what sounded like genuine concern. “Gods, do your surgeons know you’re out of bed?”
“I’m fine.” He glanced away into the room, not letting himself think about them. Her common room held very little of the usual native furniture. Instead it was furnished with piled mats and folded rugs, decorated with woven and embroidered hangings, like the traditional Newhavenese homes he remembered from his childhood; the kind of home he had always wished he lived in. He looked back at PalaThion, down at the cast on her leg, and remembered again why she was wearing it. “You?”
“Fine,” she said dryly, looking him over with a skeptical gaze. Her expression changed. “I’m truly sorry about Staun’s death, Nyx. Your brother was.… I always felt that … he … was.…” Her voice faltered; the shadow of the Boatman’s Hand seemed to pass over her, stealing the color from her face. “He was a good officer,” she said faintly, at last.
A spark of unexpected emotion kindled in her eyes. It guttered out again before Tree could be certain it was actually grief … or even whether he’d seen anything at all. “You made a good team,” she said, and there was only sympathy and respect in her gaze as she looked back at him.
His uncertainty choked off the sudden urge to tell her how Staun had felt about her, and he said nothing.
And then the actual words she had spoken registered in his mind. “You knew?” he said, in disbelief. “You knew that we were brothers—”
“—and never reported you.” She nodded. “Maybe I should have.”
He looked down.
“What can I do for you, LaisTree?”
He looked up at her again. “I’m trying to find Sergeant Gundhalinu, Inspector.”
“He didn’t send you here—? No, of course not.” Her gaze flickered to his bandages.
“No, ma’am. Why?”
“Damn it!” Her hand struck the open door, hard. “What the hell is wrong with him!”
Tree grimaced.
Rubbing her hand, she turned back and saw his expression. She drooped against the door frame as if gravity had suddenly increased in the room. “Probably just the same thing that’s wrong with you … and me. He’s ‘fine,’ too,” she said, to his look. “You know what ‘fine’ means, don’t you? ‘Fucked-up, In-pain, Nervous, and Exhausted.’”
His grimace melted into a feeble grin. “So you were expecting Gundhalinu, but he hasn’t shown up?”
“He knew he was supposed to go to the market for me. I’m all out of iestas, and this damn thing’s got me under house arrest—” She nodded in disgust at her cast; her fingers rapped an impatient rhythm on the wall. “The meds keep telling me that ‘next time’ they’ll take it off. Meanwhile, the Chief Inspector has dumped so much departmental shitwork on me that it’ll take until the Departure to get caught up on my own shitwork. I swear by all the gods, this is starting to feel like a conspiracy—”
“Yeah, I know,” he muttered.
“What?”
He shook his head, not meeting her eyes. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the crushed tin of Staun’s bitterroot chews and offered it to her.
“Thanks, no.” She shook her head. “They make my tongue bleed.”
“Yeah, mine too. But Staun always … he.…” He pushed a chunk into his mouth as an excuse to stop talking, and put the tin away.
“What did you want to see Gundhalinu about?”
He glanced toward the door. “It’s not important.”
“Being on suspension must be duller than I thought,” PalaThion said. “So dull that you’ve been searching all over the city, in your condition, for someone you barely know, just so you can talk to him about something unimportant…?”
He looked back at her, his lips pressed together. “It’s personal,” he muttered, at last.
She stood gazing at him for a long moment. At last she sighed, and said, “Have you tried the Survey Hall?”
“No, I haven’t.” He straightened up. “Thank you, Inspector.” He started past her; stopped, turned. “Inspector, I could go to the market for you, first—”
“No. Thanks.” She smiled again, shaking her head. When she smiled, she was actually good-looking. “Just find Gundhalinu for me. And when you do, tell him to get the hell over here.”
Tree grinned. “Yes, ma’am. It’ll be my pleasure. Sa mieroux, Inspector.” He murmured the traditional Newhavenese words of greeting and farewell almost self-consciously. The hand that would have saluted her pressed his aching side more tightly.
“Sa kasse, LaisTree,” she said, adding almost inaudibly, as he went out the door, “May Saint Ambiko protect and guide you.”
He looked back and nodded, swallowing the burn of bitterroot as he started down the stairs.
* * *
Tree made his way along the Street until he reached the Survey Hall. He glanced up at the star-and-compass on the painted sign above its door; stopped, staring. The lone static figure shimmered like light on water—bright/dark/as fluid as a dream/now/then/as solid as the muzzle of a gun—
He pressed his hand to his eyes. When he looked up again, the symbol, the sign, were nothing but paint on metal.
He forced himself to go in, under the shadowed portico, through the windowpaned doors, before another attack of vertigo left him puking on Survey’s doorstep.
The hall’s interior was dim and quiet. Its walls were paneled almost to the ceiling in dark wood; he breathed in a faint, oddly soothing odor of wood polish and age.
There were only a handful of people in the room, scattered among islands of comfortable settees and chairs. A few of them broke off their conversations to look up as he entered. They went on looking at him, with more than passing curiosity. He spotted a couple of uniforms, but neither one was Gundhalinu.
As he searched the rest of the room, someone who could have been Gundhalinu rose from a chair and headed toward the back of the hall. Tree started after him.
“Are you looking for someone—?” A hand reached out and caught his sleeve as he went by.
Tree stopped, looking down; seeing an offworlder, probably just a trader. “Yeah. Gundhalinu.”
The man shrugged, withdrawing his hand. “Don’t know him.”
Tree moved on, following the blue uniform’s trajectory toward the rear of the club as the man disappeared through a doorway. He realized that the Hall had meeting rooms beyond the main room, and probably a full second story as well.
He went through the doorway. The dim corridor beyond it led to a flight of stairs. He started to climb.
The man he had followed—a lieutenant, he saw, and not one he knew—was suddenly at the top, blocking his wa
y. “Are you a stranger far from home?”
Tree stopped, staring up at him. He laughed once. “Who isn’t, in this place?”
The other man’s face didn’t change. He began to descend the stairs.
It was not a random question. Tree realized abruptly that he had just been tested; and that he had failed the test.
“Were you looking for the bathroom?”
“Uh … no.”
“Are you a member of Survey?” The officer paused, just above the step where Tree waited.
“No.”
“Did you want to join—?”
“No.” Tree shook his head. “I’m looking for Sergeant Gundhalinu. I heard he might be here.”
“He’s not.” The lieutenant descended another step. “And this is a restricted area in a private club. Since you are not a member, I have to ask you to leave.” He came down another step.
Tree turned around and went back down, with painful slowness. The other man followed, step by step.
Tree hesitated at the bottom of the stairs as something caught his eye—something that shone against the blue of the lieutenant’s uniform, as silverly elusive as the laughter of the gods.
He froze; words died in his throat.
The lieutenant looked down. “Yes,” he murmured, “you know this … it’s why they want to kill you. And it’s why they haven’t yet.”
“What the hell—” Tree grabbed at the man’s sleeve; the uniformed arm eluded his grasp like a reflection in water.
“You’re out of your depth, LaisTree,” the man said. “You can’t even imagine the depths beneath you.… But not everyone wants to see you drown.” His hand caught the silver star-and-compass pendant as if it were a fish and pushed it back inside his clothes. “If I were you, I would forget that this conversation ever took place. Just leave, now, while you still have the chance.”
Tree backed up a dozen steps before he could force himself to turn and walk away down the corridor that led to the main hall.…
* * *
… He was walking down the middle of the Street.
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