But even there in my one moment of glory, doubt leached my certainty. I thought of the old Mahweni, of Gritt, and the strange, greenish luxorite that had appeared before the Beacon went missing.
Stop, I told myself. Morlak is guilty. You’ve seen the proof. The rest will make sense later.…
I stood there, immobile, paralyzed by a sudden uncertainty, and my eyes fell on the crack between the shutters whose lock had been so expertly cut. I thought of Morlak’s wound, the injury I gave him that had kept him largely immobilized. He could not have brought the Beacon here himself the night it was stolen because he was out drinking and didn’t roll in till morning. And from the moment I fought with him, he had been able to walk—just—but not to climb the tower. Tanish had said so.
And now the voice in my head shifted, became not the mouthpiece of surety and decision, but of doubt and unease.
So what if he didn’t bring it here? What if someone else, someone with the climbing skills to take it in the first place, scaled the tower after you had so conveniently wounded him, forced their way in, planted it here to implicate him? He hasn’t been up since. He might not even know it is here.…
Why would anyone do that, though? Why would someone steal something of such value only to point the finger at someone else?
Because they hated him so deeply? Or because they wanted the city looking in the wrong direction while an entirely different crime was perpetrated, a crime that would lead to war, devastation, and the restructuring of the entire continent?
I considered this, and suddenly it felt as if I were sinking into deep cold water. I had been sure it was all about Morlak because I hated him and wanted him to be responsible so that he could be punished for all he was, but now I was not so sure. The Beacon was so big, so bright, it had seemed that it must be the center of everything that had happened, but in the chill, dark hollow of my gut, I knew this wasn’t true.
It wasn’t about the Beacon. It never had been. I had been wrong. Again. I thought of Berrit; of Billy Jennings, the incompetent pickpocket who had made the mistake of trying to help me; of Tanish, my hummingbird apprentice—and the scale of my failure closed over me like drowning.
Not now. You have to go.
Clumsily, I thrust the Beacon back into the hessian sack and latched the compartment. After the brightness of the light, I could see almost nothing. Hands unsteady, I closed the trunk and scraped up the spilled candle wax. I had just gotten to my feet, ready to make my exit, when I heard the tower stairs creak.
It seemed I had not been so quiet as I thought.
I froze, heart in my throat, listening as the sound came again. This time it was accompanied by something between a grunt and a sigh. A human noise. A big man laboring.
Morlak.
I moved for the window, shoving at the shutters, but one would open only a few inches, and the other wouldn’t move at all. Something I had done when I forced them open—or something that was done by whoever had broken in last time—had jammed them.
I couldn’t get out.
CHAPTER
34
I MOVED QUICKLY TO the corner with my satchel of tools, flattening myself against the cracked plaster as the door flew open.
The floor was suddenly lit by a soft, filtered glow. An oil lamp. Morlak was holding it out in front of him. He came in, pushing the door so wide that it actually hit my shoulder, where it stopped, but he did not seem to notice.
The moment he cleared the doorway, I would slip behind him and out, down the stairs to freedom.
I waited, poised.
Morlak hesitated in the doorway.
I listened, my heart starting to race again, and I realized what he was doing. He was sniffing the air.
The phosphorous match.
The room still held the ghost of its acrid tang. I stifled a gasp, and in that moment, Morlak stepped into the room and slammed the door behind him. It latched, and we were alone together again.
But he had not seen me.
The gang leader made directly for the trunk, lowering himself with difficulty and muttering curses as he saw the broken half of the padlock.
In seconds he would find it. Then he would panic and turn to the door, where he would see me cowering, with nowhere to run. Noiselessly I reached into my satchel, ignored the empty pistol, and took hold of the next thing my fingers found.
The hacksaw.
I could move up behind him, silent as sleep, and sweep the blade across his throat. For years of torment. For his attempted rape. For Berrit. For Billy. And, most of all, for Tanish.
I took a step out into the room, the saw held out from my side like a talisman, a magical thing in which death strained to get out.
And I hesitated. For the torment and what he had tried to do to me, he was certainly guilty, but for the rest? I had thought so. I had wanted to believe so. But now? I was not so sure.