The Golden City

“He means that,” Anjos told his partner. “It’s the truth, as much as he knows.”

Aha! Duilio glanced back at the Brazilian. Anjos must be a Truthsayer, able to parse out the truth or lie in another’s words. It wasn’t a common gift, but not nearly as rare as Gaspar’s ability. It explained why Anjos had been doing the questioning of members of the Special Police. They couldn’t lie to him, not successfully.

Gaspar gripped the assassin’s chin. “Same with Ferreira here?”

But Mata coughed, and blood splattered the back of Gaspar’s hand. Duilio had a feeling they weren’t going to get any more answers. “He’s dying, man.”

“I know.” Gaspar wiped away the blood that now bubbled from Mata’s mouth. Mata slumped to the ground, lacking even the strength to sit up. Gaspar propped him on his side, but Mata’s coughing grew fainter.

Duilio watched Mata as the man’s breathing calmed again. He’d expected to feel more anger, but Mata wasn’t truly Alessio’s killer. He’d simply been the tool that carried out the orders. No, someone else had pulled the man’s strings.

Anjos glanced back toward the quay and waved to a group of uniformed police officers who approached from the town. Workers were beginning to return from their lunch breaks, and a few stood watching curiously at the construction yard gates. Two of the officers stopped at the gates and took up a position there, keeping the civilians out, while another pair entered the construction yard and approached them.

Anjos drew out a handkerchief and covered his mouth as he coughed. “I would rather have gotten him back to the city,” he said as he folded the handkerchief, “but I don’t think he would have spilled anything useful. The best way to keep an assassin from talking is not to tell them anything in the first place.”

The two uniformed officers had reached them and knelt to inspect the body. Gaspar picked up the assassin’s discarded pistol and came to Anjos’ side. “He’s unconscious.”

Duilio watched as the officers prepared to carry Mata out between them. “I had an investigator looking for something previously stolen from my house,” Duilio said, figuring it was better not to say what was missing in front of the two unfamiliar officers. “He was warned off by a note left on his desk, in a locked house.”

Gaspar snorted. “Someone picked his lock—nothing more.”

He’d thought exactly the same at the time. “But the same method was used, which struck me as important. We have reason to suspect Paolo Silva was behind that theft, but no proof.”

Anjos produced a cigarette case from a coat pocket. “I’m familiar with the case. We don’t have any grounds to question Silva, but other recent developments suggest he doesn’t have the missing item.” He withdrew a cigarette, lit it, and put away the case with a fluid ease that spoke of long practice. “We do, however, intend to question Silva the first time he gives us an excuse. I suspect he knows a lot more than he’s told anyone.”

Duilio held his tongue. With a Truthsayer present, it would settle the matter of the theft permanently. It would be nice to know.

The two uniformed policemen carried a now-unconscious Mata out of the construction yard, leaving Duilio with the two foreigners. “They’ll take him to the station,” Anjos said once they’d gone. “They’ll bring a doctor in, but I don’t think he’s going to regain consciousness.”

Duilio had to agree. He touched his cheek again and found that the nick there seemed to have stopped bleeding. “Well, I got two things from Father Barros, who, as it turns out, is an old friend of Espinoza and talked with him back in January when he came here. First, Espinoza’s work might have been subverted. And second, he thought the Open Hand wanted to use it to make the prince into a king.”

Anjos ground out what remained of the cigarette with his foot. “How the devil is that supposed to work?”

“I don’t know,” Duilio said. “But Espinoza saw something. That’s why Espinoza fled to Matosinhos in a short-lived attempt to hide from his patron.”

Anjos nodded. “Did Barros know who that patron was?”

“Not exactly,” Duilio admitted. “Barros thought the artwork was funded by the Ministry of Culture, overseen by Maraval himself.”

Gaspar cursed under his breath and turned to Anjos. “She went to go talk to him. To ask about the table spell.”

The Lady? Duilio recalled her mentioning she knew Maraval. “If he’s involved . . .”

“Then she could be walking into trouble,” Anjos said. “Miguel, go.”

Gaspar tossed the assassin’s discarded pistol to Anjos and took off at a run.

“Should we go with him?” Duilio asked.

“No.” Anjos checked the safety on Mata’s pistol and tucked it in a pocket. “If Maraval harms her, Miguel will kill him. The fewer witnesses, the better.”

Duilio wasn’t quite certain whether the Brazilian inspector was serious. Given the unforgiving look he’d seen in Gaspar’s eyes, Duilio wouldn’t be surprised if it were true. He wondered if the man intended to run the full four miles back to the city.

That question was answered before he asked it. Joaquim came jogging into the construction yard, a rifle slung over his shoulder by the strap. He held his hands wide. “Where did Gaspar just go? He took the carriage.”

“Back into the city,” Duilio answered him. “Where were you?”

Puffing out his cheeks, Joaquim pointed back toward the row of businesses that lined the road leading up to the construction yard. “Rooftop.”

“Well done,” Anjos told him. “You picked a good spot.”

“Thank you,” Duilio added. Joaquim did have a talent for being in the right place at the right time. “Good shot.”

“No, it wasn’t,” Joaquim protested. “I was aiming for his leg. Damn. Please tell me he was the one who’s been after you. The one who killed Alessio?”

“Yes,” Anjos answered him.

Joaquim rubbed a hand over his face. “Good.”

“He wasn’t going to tell us anything,” Anjos said. “I’ve seen that often enough, so I know what it looks like.”

Duilio would bet money that a Truthsayer was indeed a good judge of whether a man was going to spill information. “So, where do we go from here?”

“Inspector Tavares, would you accompany me down to the station?” Anjos asked. “I doubt Mata has anything on his person, but you might be able to smooth things over with the locals for me if he does.”

Joaquim nodded. “Come by later,” he mouthed at Duilio.

Duilio watched as Joaquim and Inspector Anjos headed out of the construction yard, leaving him standing alone on the blood-stained gravel. A light drizzle began to fall, a reminder that they were headed into the rainy months of the year.

He was still holding his pistol. Sighing, Duilio holstered it. Now that the initial flush of adrenaline fostered by the attempt on his life had faded, he was tired . . . and hungry. He needed to consider everything he’d learned today, and try to work in the little bits with what they already knew. Hopefully the tram ride back to the city would provide him with time to do just that.

* * *

Oriana walked down the alleyway toward the Street of Flowers, her nerves on edge. Someone might be hunting her, but her conversation with Mr. Ferreira late that morning had given her more to worry about. How had that woman learned she wasn’t human? The rain had stopped, but the street glistened with wet, a reminder to watch her footing—especially important given that the mantilla’s lace obscured her vision. And she wished she had a warmer jacket or a shawl. She rubbed her silk-covered hands briskly along her arms.

She had almost reached the end of the Street of Flowers when she realized she was being followed. A man trailed behind her at some distance. She stopped and laid one hand on a wrought-iron fence, pretending that her heel was caught in the hem of her skirt. Turned to one side as she fiddled with the fabric, she could see the man wore a dark suit, but he was several houses away. She could lift the veil and squint to see him better, but that would surely alert him. She continued on toward the Customs House, noting with relief that he hadn’t gotten any