The Blue Flames, page 24
“Yes. I interviewed a number of priests from Orthys after the Battle. He was one of them. Interesting man.”
“He also advised me to keep my distance from the Cassrians and avoid relying on them for aid.”
A wry smile crossed Pallaton’s face before he could hide it.
“I know,” she said. “You’ve said the exact same thing a hundred times. You don’t have to remind me. Perhaps you’d rather it was he and not I standing beside you on this roof.”
“That is ludicrous! Unthinkable!” he answered in mock disapproval. “I would never again have the pleasure of winning another argument if I worked with someone who agreed with me all the time, and I will not be deprived of such a pleasure.”
“Oh, winning. Is that what you call it?”
“Admit it. You like the sparring just as well as I do. After all, there’s no other reason for you to avoid bringing all this to an end by making proper use of the boy.”
“I know you’re frustrated,” she said. “But think of it as reeling in a fish. If you lose patience and start pulling in the line too fast, so many things can go wrong. You break the line, or the fish wrestles free of the hook and gets away . . . which, in our case, would also mean that all the other fish get away as well. It may look like madness to you, but there is method in it. Not unlike your agreement with Commissioner Marlas—a Cassrian, mind you—to let the Plumsleys go on tour rather than to trial.”
“I see your point. I do. But I would urge you to keep a close eye on him all the same. Profiteers have a habit of double-crossing their associates as soon as a better offer comes by.” He stood back and smoothed down the front of his coat. “I also happen to know Drystan is having a great deal of trouble making any progress with Rivalia. You might consider finding out if your guest knows anything about her that might be useful.”
“He is reluctant to even mention their names. But if he does reveal anything valuable on that score, I will be sure to inform you both.” She fell silent for a moment, then regarded him with an air of curiosity. “How did she seem to you?”
Pallaton furrowed his brow with a look of chagrin. “Innocent. She has been taught to play her part very well. With conviction—fierce conviction. I’ve been trying to think of how I might use it to the greatest advantage during her trial. What will most inflame the people’s anger and passion? Her betrayal of our entire nation, consorting with our worst enemies? Or the Colonists’ corruption of such a sweet, modest young girl?”
Seherene remained quiet, staring down at the city. Pallaton leaned on the parapet again and watched a man dig snow out of the back of his wagon.
“I paid my respects to your mother before coming up here. She seems well enough. She also hinted—strongly—that I should offer myself as your escort to the Lord Mayor’s ball.”
The Entress let out a mirthless chuckle. “She still can’t bring herself to accept that I won’t be attending. She’s tried every strategy in the book, short of kidnapping me and taking me there by force. Unless that’s yet to come. It doesn’t help that she’s still upset with my decision to keep the Mastmarner librarian under house arrest. Reminds of me of it almost every day.”
He nodded. “Then I can imagine her feelings about Mr. Featherfield. Still, we have continued to make progress, and that is what counts. Rivalia’s trial comes soon. The Plumsley sisters begin their tour within the month. When my duties as chief prosecutor are no longer needed, I will oversee the expansion of the skytrap operation. Catch this airship of theirs which you were clever enough to discover. And you will continue your search for the Spektor Crypt?”
“Yes,” she said. “Everything I know and continue to learn convinces me the Colonists are searching for it. We must be there to meet them, if we can. There is another matter I’d like your help with as well. Ink told me that the silver mines around Harroway employ children as a source of labor. This cannot be allowed to continue. I would like you to speak to the Elders about it and come up with a plan to put a stop to it.”
“Yes, by all means. How horrible.” After musing for a little longer, he stood from the wall and turned to face her again. “Well, I can think of no better reason to make my excuses and be on my way. I’ll head to the Council House directly.”
As he reached for her hand, she looked at him with feigned offense, a slight smile on her lips. “Do you often find yourself having to think of excuses to escape my presence?”
“Well, of course. Otherwise I might never leave it.”
He stooped and raised her hand to his lips. The moment lasted just long enough for Seherene to find herself taken aback. He had never done such a thing before, and there was something in the manner of it that went beyond mere courtesy.
He straightened again, smiled, and walked off without another word.
Chapter 25
Aiding, Abetting, and Trap-Setting
Of course it would be dark now—just as Spindler found himself racing down a dirt path through a thick forest of prickly fir trees and brambles. He couldn’t remember how long he’d been running, but his leg bones felt as though they would crumble into dust if he continued on much longer. A rustling noise caught his ear. He glanced over his shoulder and spotted a dark form hurtling down the path behind him. A moment later, he lost his footing and sprawled to the ground. A break in the clouds above released a wide beam of moonlight through the canopy, illuminating the forest floor.
To his horror, Spindler saw that it was Bill Stone who was chasing him. With a choked cry, the newspaperman scrambled to his feet and raced off again, leaving his hat where it lay. When the clouds enveloped the moon once more, Spindler took advantage of the darkness and dodged into a patch of close-growing shrubbery. The branches scratched his face and hands, but he pushed through to the other side and weaved through the trees before finally coming to a stop behind a broad-trunked oak. He stooped over with his hands on and his knees and tried to quiet his gasping breaths.
“You can’t hide!” Bill roared, his voice tearing through the air with unnatural volume.
Spindler risked a glimpse around the trunk and saw the Colonist-hunter charging straight towards him, his eyes bright with rage. With a curse, he shoved off from the tree and sped faster into the woods, forcing every step with all he had to give.
A shed soon came into view. It was no place to hide, he knew that, but at the very least he might be able to find some kind of weapon or perhaps barricade himself inside. Without daring to look back again, he rushed through the door and slammed it shut behind him. The tiny room was almost pitch black. One step to the right revealed the presence of a narrow table set beneath a small, dirt-encrusted window. He quickly dragged it in front of the door—just as the sound of pounding footsteps drew near.
A loud thwacking noise came against the back wall from the outside. Spindler trembled uncontrollably as beads of sweat rolled down his face. Timbers were cracking and splintering with every strike.
Thwack! The sound came again, a few steps farther down the wall.
Thwack! This time from the shed’s western side.
Thwack! Now against the front wall, just beside the door.
Then came a mighty crash. Spindler ducked and covered his head as shards of glass flew into the room. When he looked up again, he spied a giant axe head stuck fast into the windowsill. Bill’s face appeared through the opening, and the terrible expression he bore stole away the last of Spindler’s nerves.
“Thought you could get away with it?” Bill cried. “Thought you could keep it a secret?”
“What are you talking about?” Spindler shouted. “What in God’s name have I done?”
“You’re one of them!”
Bill’s face disappeared from the window, making way for a shaft of moonlight to flood the room. Spindler looked around. Surrounding him were a dozen faceless corpses, each slumped against the wall. He started back with a gasp of horror and scrambled onto the table. The walls shook on their foundations as Bill wrenched the doorknob back and forth. Spindler covered his face with his hands and waited for the end.
Knock, knock, knock.
Spindler frowned. The tapping came again, light and gentle.
“Mr. Spindler? You there?” came a woman’s voice.
Suddenly, the table collapsed beneath him, and he tumbled forward into the darkness.
He woke on the floor of his office’s front room. The knocking came again.
“Mr. Spindler?”
Two silhouettes stood outside the thin curtains drawn over the window. He put a hand on the sofa to steady himself as he got to his feet, shaking his head to clear the chilling remnants of the nightmare.
“Coming! I’m coming!” he called.
With a groan, he staggered to the door and fumbled with the three sets of chain locks he’d installed the night before. He squinted as the door swung inward. The bright morning light made spots swim in his eyes, and he blinked for several seconds before attempting to identify his visitors.
“Blimey, Spindler, you look like you’ve had a rough time of it! Have you been drinking all night?”
Spindler cleared his throat and frowned up at the woman. It was Constable Forster, who stood a full five inches taller than himself. She was a regular at the pub down the road where they often played cards together.
“Uh . . . no. No, I’ve just been . . .” He sucked in a breath of air and nodded. “Working.”
“You’re all right, then?” said the man next to her. This was Constable Leeds, who stood a full four inches shorter than Spindler. “D’you want a doctor?”
“No, no. I’m fine.” He tried to prove it by smiling but only managed a lopsided smirk. “So what can I do for you?”
“Mind if we come in?” Forster asked.
Spindler cleared his throat again, stalling. Jeremy was in the back room. Hopefully he would hear their voices and know to stay there. He opened the door and stepped back to make way for them. “Of course.”
Both constables removed their hats as he shut the door behind them.
“Uh, do you want coffee or tea or . . . ?”
“Naw, we don’t want nothing,” Leeds said. “This ain’t meant to be a long visit. We just didn’t want to be conducting business out there in the street. Might make people uneasy.”
“What’s happened?”
“Two corpses,” Forster answered. “Found yesterday afternoon buried under four feet of snow. Out by the old abattoir on Doulton Street.”
Spindler felt the blood drain from his face. “Good God.”
“One had their head smashed in,” she continued. “The other a stab wound to the chest. Nasty mess it was. There was a wagon nearby, too, but no sign of horses or mules. We wondered if you might’ve heard something about it.”
“Or if you’ve seen any newcomers in town or people making trouble,” Leeds added. “Anybody bragging about a fight and such. Or seen somebody acting jolly nervous for no good reason. Anything like that?”
Spindler rubbed his chin, pretending to think. “No. Can’t say I have. But I haven’t exactly had my ear to the ground, either. Been working a lot. There’s been so much news lately—all that business about the Colonists—I’ve had trouble getting it to print on time.”
Leeds chuckled. “Then I guess this means we brought a bit more for you to do. We wondered if you’d put something in your paper about the bodies. Ask people to come down to the station if they know anything.”
“Yes, of course.”
“We heard you got your cousin in to help you,” Forster said. “Is that right?”
“That’s right. He’s been a godsend. Papers would be a week late if not for him.” Spindler smiled. Mrs. Mullins had spread the news, just as he’d predicted. She was nothing if not reliable.
“Well, we won’t take up any more of your time,” she said, donning her hat again and moving to the door. “But if you get a whiff of anything odd, you know where to find us.”
“Of course. Say, Leeds, when are you coming to the pub for a round of cards?”
“Ah, well, it’s hard to get away, mate, you know? Got the new little one, plus the older two makin’ mischief.”
Forster sighed in disgust and rolled her eyes. “That’s his excuse for everything these days. Can’t go to the pub, can’t take a night shift, can’t stay for the chief’s birthday party . . .” She wrinkled her nose and continued in a mocking voice. “’Cause he’s got the new little one and the older two makin’ mischief.”
“Well, I do! What, d’you want me to abandon them?”
“If you think playing a round of cards qualifies as abandonment, I am seriously worried about your judgement as an officer of the law.” She started down the pavement, then stopped and leaned back towards Spindler. “Ooh! Before I forget. Big game this Saturday. Ten o’clock. Folk are coming all the way from Gallswell to play. You ought to bring your cousin along!”
“He’s not exactly fond of crowds. But I’ll be there. And you better be, too, Leeds.”
The shorter man grinned. “I’ll try. Really, I will.”
“Yeah,” Forster deadpanned, “and I’m a two-foot gnome with a perky personality.”
The constables continued their friendly argument as they walked away. Spindler glanced down the street in both directions before withdrawing into his office and closing the door.
“Morning, Cousin Rupert,” he said as he entered the back room. “Mercy above, do I need an eye-opener. You want one?”
Jeremy lifted his gaze from a collection of paper strips. “No, thank you.”
Spindler started towards a small table in the back corner of the room but halted midway. “Where’s it gone? I had a week’s salary worth of alcohol here. You didn’t drink it all, did you?”
“I put them in the cupboard.”
Spindler rushed to it and wrenched the doors open. Inside was a mass of bottles of all shapes and sizes. “Oh, thank God. But why are they in here?”
“I got tired of looking at them. And of them looking at me.”
“Am I supposed to know what that means?”
“I just . . . don’t like it is all. Anyway, who were you talking to in the front room?”
Spindler poured himself a glass of whiskey. “A couple of constables I’m friendly with. We often play cards together. They wanted to make sure I’d be at the game this Saturday.”
There was no point bringing up the discovery of the bodies by the abattoir. He was sure he himself was under no suspicion, and Jeremy fell so easily into gloom that Spindler deemed it wiser to keep that particular memory firmly in the past.
“What are you working on?”
Jeremy picked up two strips of paper and exchanged their places. He pushed another towards the top of the table. “Layout for tomorrow’s paper.”
“What, this early? I think you’re more of a machine than that printing press in the corner. You don’t drink, you don’t take breaks, you hardly say a word all day. It’s not healthy to keep your nose to the grindstone round-the-clock. I’m starting to regret teaching you all this.”
Jeremy remained silent, his eyes still bent on the table. Spindler sat in a desk chair and leaned back. It was clear the Colonist liked the work. He’d taken to it instantly. His editing and grammar skills were nothing to speak of, but he had an eye for knowing what colors and type fonts would look best, and for what stories deserved the more prominent places over others.
“Why are you so quiet?” Spindler asked, tilting his glass towards him. “Are you used to being bullied and browbeaten? Or have you always been so painfully shy?”
The corner of Jeremy’s mouth turned up in a self-conscious smile. He rubbed a hand across his brow, leaving a slight trace of printing ink. “I grew up in a house with a talkative mother, two loud brothers, and an even louder father. After a while, I felt it wasn’t worth trying to be heard over all the noise. And that was all right for me. In the end, I was just happy to be in their company.” He shrugged. “Then I just stayed that way when I grew up. The others—my friends—they always encourage me to give opinions. And they always make sure I’m heard when I do have something to say. But I’m not afraid of silence, like most others are.”
Spindler nodded thoughtfully. Jeremy leaned over the table and turned the knob on the oil lamp sitting near the corner, enlarging the flame.
“Well,” he said, “it sure wasn’t difficult picking the headline story for this one.”
“Let’s have a look,” Spindler replied, rising from his chair.
The topmost slip of paper was not only in bold, capital letters, but printed in red as well.
COLONIST TRIAL IN FORTNIGHT
There was also a story about the mysterious blood rain at the burning ceremony for Abner Hart, which had ended with his quick burial—unprecedented for a Colonist. Another column detailed the plight of Harroway’s imprisoned citizens, the Entrians’ outrage over the secret of the city’s hidden wealth, and the political fallout in its wake.
Jeremy let out a small sigh. “Except for the weather report in the corner, the entire front page is about things concerning the Colonists.”
“So it is,” Spindler said. “Most people would relish an opportunity like this. Use the publicity to showcase an agenda or promote a cause they believe in. Perhaps this is your chance to tell your side of the story. This may only be a local paper, but if it features an article as important and shocking as that would be, it’ll spread from town to town in a flash.”
“Which would risk both your life and mine. When Riva started trying to spread the truth all those years ago, she almost didn’t make it back to us.”
“But it doesn’t have to be so risky. We can frame it in terms of . . . rumors and speculations.”
“That won’t make people any less angry. And it would draw a lot of attention to this office I’m trying to hide in. If we were going to try to send a message, we’d have to be much more clever about it.”
Spindler tapped his finger against his whiskey glass. “I suppose you’re right.”
