A Novel by A. J. Hartley

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.
    â€œBerrit Samar,” I inserted.
    â€œIndeed,” he said. “And he was supposed to be working with you today, though you did not know him, correct?”
    â€œWe met only once,” I said.
    â€œAnd 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.
    â€œAnd 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.”
    â€œOn 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.
    â€œI 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.
    â€œYou know the spire above the exchange?” he said. “Where the Beacon was housed?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œCould you have climbed it?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œYou sound very sure,” he said.
    â€œWith 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.
    â€œCould any steeplejack have made that climb?” he asked.
    â€œNo,” I said. “The steeple is stone clad. Tight grout lines. There’s nothing to fasten to.”
    â€œAnd, other than yourself, do you know any such person in Bar-Selehm?”
    I frowned and shrugged noncommittally.
    â€œBerrit?” he asked.
    I shook my head.
    â€œAs a helper?” he asked.
    â€œOnly 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.
    â€œBut you think he was involved,” said the young man with the shrewd green eyes.
    â€œHe 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.
    â€œIt’s possible.”
    â€œAnd your mentioning his name has nothing to do with any personal hostility you may have toward the gentleman in question, of course.”
    â€œAre 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.
    â€œWell, 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.
    â€œSo,” said the young man as soon as we were alone again. “What can I tempt you with? The chef makes an excellent