innocent masses safe. Perhaps then he’d be able to maintain a prudent distance. But he’d long since abandoned any hope of achieving it. His only hope was that no man whose life ultimately depended on him would ever know the depths of his feelings. Would know that he had feelings at all.
The second-to-bottom right hand drawer of his desk contained a heavy, official stamp and a stamp pad soaked in blood-red ink. Ralph said that was gaudy and ostentatious but he felt it was important not to pretend in black. Death wasn’t black, at least not until the funeral. Before then it was crimson.
Neatly, precisely, he stamped Felix Saltman’s file. A single word: Inactive. So circumspect. So polite.
The loss of an agent never failed to complicate his life, but at least it had been quite some time between drinks. And seeing, thanks to Saltman, that the pursuit of Farnsworth must for the next while be abandoned, his Department retained its precarious equilibrium.
Which was a slight and stinging consolation.
He slotted Saltman’s folder in the cabinet reserved for inactive files. That cabinet had been around for years, put to use long before he’d begun his tenure as head of the Department. He’d known perhaps a quarter of the men whose lives were interred within it, and of that quarter about one third had died on his watch.
He never allowed himself to wonder what the final tally would be.
His office wall-clock sounded softly, ticking towards nine. Slicing through time. He often worked late. Fewer distractions. A world deceptively at peace. The office’s heavy curtains were drawn and a small fire burned merrily, but the dancing flames failed to lift his mood.
Gerald should have returned from Grande Splotze by now. At the very least he should have made contact, if there were problems. If the man he was meeting had failed to show up.
He nearly succumbed to the lure of good malt whiskey. Felix Saltman was dead. Careless or not he deserved one small toast. But he left the bottle of aged Loriner unopened. Instinct was stirring and he’d long since learned to trust it.
Something’s not right. There’s another shoe somewhere, wanting to drop.
He had plenty with which to occupy himself while he was waiting. His in-tray overflowed with notes and observations and reports. So he returned to his desk and stifled instinct with work. Sat on the corner of his desk, a small, innocuous sphere of crystal. More a marble than a ball. Its vibration was known to very few. He’d trusted Gerald with it, though. He’d trusted Gerald with many things.
I don’t care what Ralph says. He’ll not let me down.
He looked up as someone tapped on the closed office door. “Come.”
“Sir,” said Dalby, ghosting in. He had the softest tread of any agent in Nettleworth-or out of it, for that matter. “Sorry to disturb you.”
Frowning, Sir Alec returned his pen to its holder and sat back. “You’re still here?”
He could always trust Frank Dalby to answer the unasked question. “Got a bloke who knows a bloke,” he said, ever the laconic. “Chance of a tip. Worth losing some sleep on.”
In another lifetime he and Frank had both been janitors. They were of an age. Had shared experiences. If Frank resented answering to him now he’d never shown it. But it was doubtful. Frank Dalby was born to hide in the shadows. The glare of politics would kill him inside a week.
Comfortably at ease on the other side of the desk, Frank gave the tip of his nose a thoughtful rub. “Bloody fool, that Saltman.”
He felt his lips twitch. To say that Frank was unforgiving was like saying water was wet. “We all make mistakes.”
Frank snorted. “Felix bloody did, and all.” He let his disinterested gaze slide around the room. “You got anything brewing in Splotze?”
The other shoe dropped, a soft sounding of doom. “Why do you ask?”
“Nothing on the duty board about Splotze,” said Frank, his gaze upcast at the firelit ceiling. “And everyone’s accounted for.” His gaze dropped. “Everyone based here.”
It was an invitation to a confidence which he wasn’t inclined to share. With a flick of his fingers he indicated his work-covered desk. “If there’s a point, Dalby, you might consider reaching it.”
Indifferent to rebuff, Frank fished in his pocket and pulled out a folded note. “Back-channel squawk,” he said, handing it over. “Didn’t make much sense but I wrote it down just in case.”
He took the note. “I see.” As far as he knew, his labyrinth of informants didn’t include a detour via Frank Dalby. “Back-channel how?”
“Remember Scrubby Yates?”
Scrubby Yates, in a roundabout way, had once nearly and spectacularly cost them their lives. Ah yes, indeed, the good old days. “Vaguely.”
“Turns out Scrubby still keeps half an ear to the ground,” said Frank, a sardonic glint in his eye. “One toe in the water. A couple of fingers in a few pies. Someone reached out to him. He wouldn’t say who. I pushed, but he said he’s grown attached to his head.”
“And what has that to do with Splotze?”
“How should I know?” said Frank. “All I know is Scrubby moaned about the accent. And then he clammed up. I said I’d send him some ale.”
The folded note was burning his fingers like a brand. “Fine. Half a case and not one bottle more. I’d rather not encourage him. Scrubby Yates’s time has both come and gone.”
Frank didn’t often grin, but he was grinning now. “Half a case it is.” And then his amusement died, as though an internal switch had flipped. “I’m here if you need me, Ace. Just say the word.”
Frank Dalby would never have made the mistake Felix Saltman made. “It’s doubtful,” he said. “But I’ll certainly bear it in mind. Thank you, Mr. Dalby.”
As soon as the office door clicked shut behind his former colleague, he unfolded the note and read it. One sentence. Eight words.
Didn’t he want to wear a yellow cravat?
Cryptic for some. Clear as glass for him.
Gerald Dunwoody had never arrived.
“ Gerald?” said Reg, shocked. “ Gerald put a shadbolt on him? My Gerald?”
Monk scowled at her. “No, Reg, his Gerald. I thought you were paying attention.”
Inconveniently close on Melissande’s shoulder, she whacked him with her wing. “I am paying attention. And mind how you speak to your elders, sunshine. You’re not too old for a thrashing and I’m not too old to give you one.”
Rubbing at his arm, he sighed. “Sorry.”
“I should bloody think so,” said Reg. “Because we’ve just got through establishing that muggins over there is you, haven’t we? Which means his Gerald is my Gerald and I can’t see my Gerald doing something like that. Can you?”
They’d retreated to the parlor’s furthest corner again, the better to have a quiet conniption. The Monk from next door had lapsed into a doze, worn out by the effort of getting here and having his etheretic aura rummaged through like a bargain bin at a market stall and whatever else he’d been enduring up till now, that made him look likethat.
“Are you all right?” Melissande asked quietly. “Because you look like you’ve got the most fearful headache.”
“I have,” he admitted. “But never mind. Let’s concentrate on the shadbolt for now.”
“The shadbolt my Gerald-or any Gerald-couldn’t possibly inflict on anyone,” said Reg, feathers ominously bristling. “Are we all perfectly clear?”
“Look, Reg,” Bibbie said after a moment. “I don’t want to believe it either. But Monk’s not going to make a mistake about something like this. He knows Gerald’s thaumic signature better than any of us. If he says the shadbolt is Gerald’s handiwork, then like it or not we have to accept that.”
Good old Bibbie. Tentatively, he stroked a fingertip down Reg’s wing. “You think I’m happy about this, Reg? Just thinking about it makes me sick.”
She rattled her tail feathers, distressed. “I don’t understand,” she muttered. “It’s just not like him. Not even that government stooge Sir Alec could convince my Gerald to do something like that-especially to you.” She took a deep, rallying breath. “So if this is true-and I’m not saying it is — then something must’ve gone terribly
