A Novel by A. J. Hartley Page B

Bar-Selehm’s landmark Beacon, authorities revealed that the body of a prominent luxorite dealer was found in the exchange building early this morning. He appears to have taken his own life. Speaking on behalf of the investigation, Detective Sergeant F. L. Andrews of the Bar-Selehm police department said that the identity of the trader was not being released at this time, nor was it clear what connection he might have had to the theft of the Beacon. He went on to say …
    â€œDid you not hear what I said?” asked the girl, placing one hand over the print.
    â€œIs there anything about the death of a steeplejack?” I asked. “A Lani boy.”
    She frowned, considering Florihn’s cuts on my cheeks. “Fell from a chimney, right?” she said, flipping the first page, then the second. She indicated a tiny square of print squeezed in between an advert for corsets and a piece about a garden party.
    BOY FALLS FROM CHIMNEY.
    The entire story was six short lines, and the only thing it said that I didn’t already know was that his last name was Samar.
    â€œFriend of yours?” asked the girl.
    I didn’t know what to say and took the opportunity of her distraction by a customer to slip away, breaking into a half run as I shed what was left of the evening rush.
    *   *   *
    I BEGGED A CRUST from the baker on Lean Street as he was closing and wandered for an hour, inquiring at the shops and market stalls that were still open to see if anyone had work I might do. Most of them took one look at my soot-stained clothes and the slash marks on my face and cut me off. Two threatened to set the dogs on me. I tried the domestic agency at Branmoor Steps, hoping I could find an entry-level position as a charlady or scullery maid, but the white lady in charge just nodded toward the door with a sour, disapproving look.
    In truth, I had other things on my mind. Each moment I waited, the gang leader’s fate became surer.
    Will he live or will he die?
    Either way, the outcome for me was flight or death, but I needed to know, if only so I could come to terms with what I had done. Surely, by now, Tanish would be able to tell me that.
    I closed my eyes at the thought of returning to Seventh Street, but when I opened them, I saw, standing across the road and looking directly at me, a familiar white man.
    He was wearing city clothes: a pale linen suit and a brown cravat, the same clothes he had been wearing when—I was almost sure—he watched the police remove Berrit’s body this morning.
    Coincidence?
    It was possible. But if he worked in this neighborhood, his clothes were wrong, and there weren’t many gentry or factory owners who would be on the streets close to dawn and still out at dusk.
    I guessed he was in his thirties, well built, even athletic under the suit. He turned away when he realized I had seen him, bending as if to tie his shoelace. I ran.
    Moving quickly down Pump Street, I took a left by the underground stop, then wound my way through the city’s darkest alleys, back to the shed and the tuppeny tavern on the corner, where the boys gathered for an hour before bed. If Tanish had wanted privacy, he may have already turned in, but I was hoping that he wouldn’t want to be in the shed any longer than necessary.
    I was right.
    I scaled the timber-framed back wall and crawled to a sooty skylight through which I could see the gang’s usual corner. They were all there—Tanish, Sarn, Fevel, three other boys, and two men, one of whom I didn’t know—somber faced, staring at their beer. There was no sign of Morlak.
    Tanish looked small and still, like a mouse hoping to go unnoticed. His face was pink on one side.
    I watched them for almost a half hour before they began to trickle out. Sarn went first, then some of the younger boys. Tanish seemed to hesitate, and I thought he was looking around. For me, I was almost certain. In daylight I might