Abandoned, but not disused. The pair of strangers stopped by the main entrance, the man’s chest heaving as he fought to catch his breath, his arms wrapped around his middle—he had been hurt by the blood briar, and only now was he allowing the pain to show. The woman, meanwhile, extracted a large set of keys and began the lengthy process of unlocking the four steel bars that were placed across the main doors, each with its own, different mechanism. When she was done, she unlocked the door itself, and helped her partner inside. Daud followed.
The interior was dark, the row of windows looking out to the harbor firmly shuttered. The woman helped the man to a nearby chair, then moved over to the wall and flipped a large lever to turn on the lights.
Daud looked around, but there was nothing much to see. He was right about it being offices—the main door opened right into the middle of a kind of bullpen, with two rows of desks stretching down a central aisle, which led to a set of enclosed offices at the back. Each desk had a typewriter and a small set of shelves that were still ladenwith yellowing, decaying paperwork. The desk the male agent was sitting in front of was larger than the others, and as well as a typewriter, had an audiograph machine.
The woman walked back down the aisle and crouched by her companion. He winced in pain again, but nodded at her before looking up at Daud.
Daud said nothing. Not yet.
Apparently satisfied, the woman stood and gave a small bow. “Mrs. Margot Devlin, at your service. The temporarily incapacitated gentleman is my husband, Mr. Miles Devlin.”
“Delighted, my dear fellow,” said Mr. Devlin with a cough. He began feeling for something in the pockets of his jacket. He paused, winced, and caught his wife’s eye. “Despite the odds, I suspect I will live.”
Mrs. Devlin’s mouth twitched into a smile. “How very convenient.”
“Indeed,” said Mr. Devlin. “I believe there is some axiom or other that tells about how it is more difficult than you imagine to get rid of a problem.” As he spoke, he continued to gingerly search his pockets. He paused, frowning, then shook his head. “Well, needless to say, if I could remember what said axiom actually was, I would at this point insert it into the conversation and we would all laugh heartily, for together we have beaten the odds and live to fight another day, and so on, and so forth.” The man waved a hand in the air, then winced again in pain. A moment later his eyes lit up. “Aha!” He pulled a pouch out from an inside pocket and extracted a tightly rolled black cigarillo with his teeth. Mrs. Devlin lit her husband’s tobacco and the man took a deep drag, then handed it to his wife, who did the same.
Daud watched the pair. “Time for you to answer my questions,” he said. “What do you know about the Eyeless and the Twin-bladed Knife?”
Mr. Devlin sighed. “Oh, after all that effort, how positively charmless.”
Mrs. Devlin put a hand on her husband’s shoulder. “Ignore Mr. Devlin. He’s always like this when he’s in pain.” She turned and stepped toward Daud. “We have much to discuss. But perhaps that can wait, until I have tended to my husband’s wounds. Suffice to say that we would like your consideration and your time. I believe we can come to a mutually beneficial agreement, if you will hear us out.”
Daud drew breath to speak again, then bit his tongue, willing himself to be patient. He needed to be cautious, and not let the obsession with his mission cloud his judgement.
Mrs. Devlin gestured to the back of the room. “Please, this way,” she said, heading toward the offices on the other side of the room. Daud followed her as they went past a series of doors, then through another and down a long passage. It was darker here, the bulbs weaker, their faint orange glow struggling to illuminate the space. The corridor was lined with more doors, each with a square window; most of the doors were open and led to yet more offices, some of which were interconnected to form a rabbit warren typical of such buildings in the city.
She stopped at one of the closed doors toward the end of the corridor. Here there were no windows, and in the hot, wet air, Daud could see condensation running down the wall paneling in rivulets.
Mrs. Devlin opened the door and gestured inside. “If you would please wait in here. I must attend to my husband. I shan’t be long, and then we can talk.”
Daud stepped into the room—another office, but far larger than the others, furnished in not insignificant luxury. There was a huge rug atop the carpet, the walls were lined with paintings, all of which showed differentmen in the same kind of pose, each standing beside a tall globe, the real version of which stood over on the other side of the room, next to a huge, elaborately carved desk. It was the office of the company director, perhaps, his illustrious predecessors looking down at the current incumbent as he pored over his ledgers.
The door closed behind him, and there was a click. Daud didn’t bother reaching for the handle. Of course, he was locked in. It was more symbolic than practical—the strange Mrs. Devlin had seen what he was capable of. The room he was in now was just an office, not a prison
