“Why did he need you to go with him?”
“There had been some minor disagreement over the price of a piece he had been looking at,” said Emtezu dismissively. “He didn’t want to make a fuss. Just take his cane and leave while I talked to the shopkeeper. He seemed to think that a black man in a luxorite shop would attract so much attention that he would be able to do what he wanted unnoticed. Thought it was funny. Why? What is this about?”
“You didn’t think that strange?”
“Gritt sometimes…” He sought for the words.
His wife supplied them. “The sergeant major thinks his corporal is his personal servant,” she said. “The man uses his authority to make my husband, a good man, a strong man, run errands like a child, a slave.” Her face was hot, her eyes wide.
Emtezu bowed his head and, feeling his weary humiliation, I tried to refocus the conversation.
“You are sure it was his cane?” I asked.
“Absolutely,” said the Corporal. “He’s had it for years. It was a gift from the prime minister himself when he left the regiment.”
“Benjamin Tavestock gave him the cane?” I repeated.
“Yes. So?”
“And how did it come to be in the shop?”
“It had been stolen a few nights before,” said Emtezu. “These things sometimes show up in pawnbrokers’ very quickly.”
“Ansveld’s shop isn’t a pawnbroker’s,” I said. “Luxorite only. Other shops on the street are less singular in their focus. Macinnes’s, for instance. Does that name mean anything to you?”
Emtezu shook his head.
“Did Gritt know a Lani gang leader called Morlak? Big man, wears his hair long and tied back.”
“If he does, I’ve never seen them together,” he said.
“Do you think him capable of torturing a man to death?” I asked.
There was a long, loaded pause. Under the hard stare of his wife, Emtezu finally nodded.
“He’s done it before?” I asked.
“During the food riots, we took Mahweni prisoners,” said Emtezu. “They were locked up in the tower and interrogated. Some of them were there for days, and the black soldiers—my company—were kept at a distance, sent on maneuvers, patrols, or crowd control.”
I thought of Sarah’s uncle, who had died of his wounds after one of those riots.
“One day when we came back, the cells were empty,” said Emtezu. “They had been rinsed out, but you could still smell the blood and filth, so my men were ordered to scrub them clean.” He said the last words as if they were barbed and tore his throat on the way out.
“And the prisoners?”
“Never heard from them again,” said Emtezu. “At least a couple wandered home a day or two later, barely able to stand and reeking of alcohol. Getting people drunk was one of Gritt’s favorite methods of making them talk, but it also makes sure no one believes them if they tell tales of imprisonment and torture. One man’s body was found not far from the fort, killed, it was said, by weancats or hyenas. Two others were never found. An internal investigation found no evidence of wrongdoing against anyone stationed at the Red Fort.”
I nodded. There was a finality in his voice that said quite clearly what he thought would come of any poking around on my part. The likes of Gritt were immune to prosecution, and any attempt to bring them to justice would probably result only in collateral damage.
“Is this why you were going through the archive in the library?” I asked. “Searching for evidence of Gritt’s activities that you could feed to Sohwetti?”
He smiled sadly. “You are very clever,” he said. “But I found nothing. And with Sohwetti humiliated…” He shrugged. “I’m sorry I can’t help.”
“You have,” I said. “And I’m grateful.” I turned to his wife. “And for the wine. It was delicious. I hope…” I faltered, unsure of what to say. “I hope tomorrow is a better day.”
“We all do,” she answered, showing me out. “Every day. These are bad days in which to raise children.”
I nodded, thinking of Kalla so that my eyes fell on her infant and my heart was suddenly filled with sadness and regret.
“Miss Sutonga,” added Emtezu.
I turned and found him brooding, watching me. “Yes?”
“Do not go near Claus Gritt,” he said. “He may not actually be the devil the Mahweni think him, but he is close to it. Very close indeed.”
CHAPTER
32
SARAH WAS CARRYING A bundle of newspapers to sell, but her entire demeanor had changed. She seemed taller, more buoyant, as if success had inflated something within her. Possibility, perhaps.
“Still selling papers?” I remarked. “I thought you’d be editor in chief by now.”
“As of next week,” she said, unable to keep the furious joy out of her eyes, “I’m going to be an apprentice reporter.”
“Congratulations, Sarah,” I said. “And thanks. That story may have saved my life.”
“You’re welcome,” she said. “And it’s Sureyna from now on.”