“That’s why you brought me here,” I said.
His silence conceded the point. “A boy died this morning,” he said. “Or late last night. His name was—” He scoured his desk for where he had written it down.
“Berrit Samar,” I inserted.
“Indeed,” he said. “And he was supposed to be working with you today, though you did not know him, correct?”
“We met only once,” I said.
“And what makes you think he might have been connected to the theft of the Beacon?”
I said nothing, more than tongue-tied. I had no idea who I was talking to.
“And you believe the boy … Berrit,” he continued, “was murdered. A wound, you said, in the back, yes? Inflicted by an assailant who had been waiting for the boy on the top of the chimney.”
“On a ledge below the cap,” I clarified. I fished the loop of cord from my pocket and tied my hair back so I could look him full in the face.
“I think you are right,” he said. “The body has been examined, which—without your report—would not have happened, and the coroner concurs. Death resulted from a single, narrow incision just right of the spine, penetrating the heart.”
I closed my eyes for a second.
“You know the spire above the exchange?” he said. “Where the Beacon was housed?”
“Yes.”
“Could you have climbed it?”
“Yes.”
“You sound very sure,” he said.
“With the right equipment I could scale any tower, chimney, or spire in Bar-Selehm,” I said. It wasn’t a boast. It was simply true.
“Could any steeplejack have made that climb?” he asked.
“No,” I said. “The steeple is stone clad. Tight grout lines. There’s nothing to fasten to.”
“And, other than yourself, do you know any such person in Bar-Selehm?”
I frowned and shrugged noncommittally.
“Berrit?” he asked.
I shook my head.
“As a helper?” he asked.
“Only in the most basic way. For anything involving actual climbing, he would have been a liability.” I felt disloyal saying it, but it was true.
“But you think he was involved,” said the young man with the shrewd green eyes.
“He could have been bullied into helping,” I said, choosing my words as if I were selecting from a range of tools, “by someone he looked up to who didn’t trust his more experienced workers with something illegal.”
The man’s lip twitched knowingly. I forced myself to stop looking at the scar, the way it produced that strange, slanted quality when he smiled. “Mr. Morlak,” he said.
“It’s possible.”
“And your mentioning his name has nothing to do with any personal hostility you may have toward the gentleman in question, of course.”
“Are we still talking about Morlak?” I asked, my face suddenly hot. “Only I don’t think I’ve ever heard his name in the same sentence as the word ‘gentleman.’”
He nodded so fractionally that his head barely moved, but he let the remark stand.
He watched me, saying nothing, and my next question emerged without thought, some of my former panic spiking and driving it out. “What are you going to do with me?” I asked.
“Well, I think you should have something to eat, don’t you?”
I blinked again, and as I did, the door behind the desk opened and one of the men from the street appeared, the one who had carried the truncheon, though he didn’t have it now. The young man craned his neck slightly and the other leaned down to hear his whisper before nodding and leaving as quietly as he had come in. It struck me once more as strange that someone who seemed to have so much wealth and authority should be so close to my own age.
“So,” said the young man as soon as we were alone again. “What can I tempt you with? The chef makes an excellent Rasnarian goat curry. I can have him tone it down a little if you don’t like it spicy, but I prefer to let the man follow his heart. There’s also a very fine sterrel and onion chutney.…”
This was all very strange.
“I’d like to go home,” I said.
I didn’t believe it was an option, but if I was going to be kept prisoner, I would prefer he were honest about it, rather than pretending I was a guest.
The young man sat back in his chair, regarding me with a thoughtful frown that softened his predatory intensity. “Home,” he intoned. “A warm, comforting word. But what does it really mean to you? The Drowning, where you are despised; or the weavers’ shed, where you have been a slave to the odious Mr. Morlak? I don’t think either of those places is terribly … secure,” he concluded. “I think you are better here with us.”
I swallowed, trying to gauge how close to a threat this was, but I floundered, thinking not just of Morlak and his gang, but also of Rahvey’s baby, who I had promised to take care of. “Who is us, exactly?” I asked.