here,â I said.
His silence conceded the point. âA boy died this morning,â he said. âOr late last night. His name wasââ He scoured his desk for where he had written it down.
âBerrit Samar,â I inserted.
âIndeed,â he said. âAnd he was supposed to be working with you today, though you did not know him, correct?â
âWe met only once,â I said.
âAnd what makes you think he might have been connected to the theft of the Beacon?â
I said nothing, more than tongue-tied. I had no idea who I was talking to.
âAnd you believe the boy ⦠Berrit,â he continued, âwas 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
âOn a ledge below the cap,â 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.
âI think you are right,â he said. âThe body has been examined, whichâwithout your reportâwould not have happened, and the coroner concurs. Death resulted from a single, narrow incision just right of the spine, penetrating the heart.â
I closed my eyes for a second.
âYou know the spire above the exchange?â he said. âWhere the Beacon was housed?â
âYes.â
âCould you have climbed it?â
âYes.â
âYou sound very sure,â he said.
âWith the right equipment I could scale any tower, chimney, or spire in Bar-Selehm,â I said. It wasnât a boast. It was simply true.
âCould any steeplejack have made that climb?â he asked.
âNo,â I said. âThe steeple is stone clad. Tight grout lines. Thereâs nothing to fasten to.â
âAnd, other than yourself, do you know any such person in Bar-Selehm?â
I frowned and shrugged noncommittally.
âBerrit?â he asked.
I shook my head.
âAs a helper?â he asked.
âOnly in the most basic way. For anything involving actual climbing, he would have been a liability.â I felt disloyal saying it, but it was true.
âBut you think he was involved,â said the young man with the shrewd green eyes.
âHe could have been bullied into helping,â I said, choosing my words as if I were selecting from a range of tools, âby someone he looked up to who didnât trust his more experienced workers with something illegal.â
The manâs lip twitched knowingly. I forced myself to stop looking at the scar, the way it produced that strange, slanted quality when he smiled. âMr. Morlak,â he said.
âItâs possible.â
âAnd your mentioning his name has nothing to do with any personal hostility you may have toward the gentleman in question, of course.â
âAre we still talking about Morlak?â I asked, my face suddenly hot. âOnly I donât think Iâve ever heard his name in the same sentence as the word âgentleman.ââ
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. âWhat are you going to do with me?â I asked.
âWell, I think you should have something to eat, donât you?â
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 didnât 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.
âSo,â said the young man as soon as we were alone again. âWhat can I tempt you with? The chef makes an excellent