“Yes,” he said, clearly not wanting to talk about it.
“And this one?” I asked, putting my fingertip on the image of the glowering man with the cane.
“That would be Sergeant Major Claus Gritt,” said Emtezu. “Colonel Mandel’s granddaughter goes to your school?”
I felt a chill of caution, but opted for defiance. “I believe so, why?” I said.
“That’s curious,” he said, rising.
“How so?”
“It was my understanding that the colonel was a lifelong bachelor. Never married. No children.”
“It must be his goddaughter, or perhaps his niece,” I said. “Between us, I don’t much like the girl, so I haven’t paid attention to her family tree.”
He held my gaze, looming, and I knew he didn’t believe me. “How did you get those cuts on your face?” he asked. “Unusual in a lady of your class, wouldn’t you say?”
“I should be going,” I said.
“So soon?” His eyes were hard now.
I got to my feet. “Can’t be helped, I’m afraid,” I said, taking a half step toward the cage door.
He reached for me, seizing my wrist in a powerful grip. “Who are you?” he said. “What are you really doing here?”
“I told you—” I began, but he squeezed deliberately, expertly, and the pain drove the words out of me.
He pulled me in close and his face was implacable. I could feel the cold pressure of the holstered revolver at his belt. When he spoke, it was in a voice low enough to be a whisper. “You’re press,” he said. “Aren’t you?”
I thought quickly. Being a reporter meant I had some coverage under the law. It meant I wasn’t alone.
“Yes,” I said.
“Why are you writing about the Third?”
It was a forceful question, but it was—I’d swear—a real one, and underneath it was something else: anxiety, even curiosity.
“It’s just a feature,” I said, improvising. “A history of the Red Fort and the handoff.”
He shook his head, and with the speed and precision of a striking snake, he snatched up my satchel and opened the flap. “If that were all it was,” he said, “you’d have said so. And,” he added, showing me the inside of the satchel with a raised eyebrow, “you wouldn’t be armed. So what is really going on?”
I couldn’t mention Berrit or Ansveld. I had to think of something that might plausibly interest an undercover reporter but wouldn’t make him panic.
“Land deals,” I said. “Real estate trade with the Mahweni. Might have something to do with the Grappoli.”
His eyes narrowed, but I was sure his grip on my wrist lessened slightly. “You mean the withdrawal of the garrison and conversion of the fort?” he asked.
“Partly,” I said. “But there have been other deals—quieter deals—which have given up Mahweni land to a development company, land your people have fought to hold on to for decades, centuries even. I want to know what’s changed.”
Emtezu shook his head. “Ancestral land being traded out of Mahweni control?” he said. “No. I know there have been rumors, possibilities, but nothing has happened yet. Someone has been telling you stories.”
“It’s true,” I replied. “I’ve seen the legal briefs and the maps. It’s all gone through quietly, kept out of the papers, and it looks like the trail has been partly covered by multiple retrades. But it has happened, and quickly.”
“That can’t be right,” he said, still shaking his head.
“I have notes. Copies of the documents.”
“Where?”
I nodded at the satchel and he reopened it, taking out some of my scribblings and staring at them. For a moment it was like he had forgotten I was even there, and when he remembered, it was with something like shock. He stuffed the papers back into the bag and pulled me close again.
His face, inches from mine, was studiously blank, but he couldn’t keep that flicker of curiosity out of his eyes.
I gambled. “And I want to know why the body of an elderly Mahweni tribesman was found in the ruins of the Red Fort’s central tower.”
“What?” he gasped. “When?”
“Yesterday,” I said. “I saw it myself. Looks like he was imprisoned and tortured over several days.”
He looked drawn, stricken with a horror that left him rigid and bloodless.
“I want to know if it was a revenge attack,” I said.
“Revenge?” he echoed blankly. “Against who?”
“Coloreds,” I said, choosing the word with care. “The people responsible for the Glorious Third handing over their famous bastion to be turned into a black community center.”
He stared at me, and suddenly the blood, the life, was back, and his eyes flashed. “Come with me,” he said, shrugging the satchel strap over his head and shoulder.
“What? Where to?” I gasped, the fear that had stilled for a moment rearing and plunging again in my head. I should have told Andrews and Willinghouse what I was doing. How could I have been so stupid?