The Golden City (27 page)

The two newcomers came inside, making it crowded once Gaspar shut the door.

“You’re being reassigned, Inspe
ct
or Tavares,” the captain said. “I’ve received an official reque
st
for use of your services by the Special Police, signed by Commissioner Burgos himself. “That includes you too, Mr. Ferreira. I do under
st
and this is temporary, though,” he added with a glance at the silent Gaspar, who nodded once. “Good, then. Carry on.”

And with that said, Captain Santiago let himself out of the office and shut the door.

Gaspar regarded Joaquim with that piercing gaze of his, then turned back to Duilio. “Well, gentlemen, where do we begin?”

•   •   •

O
riana woke far later than she’d expe
ct
ed. She quickly dressed and made her way down to the kitchens, only to discover that the
st
aff had been given orders to allow her to sleep as late as she wished. Lady Ferreira was
st
ill abed, she was told, and Felis thought the lady wouldn’t rise for hours yet.

After asking Cardenas to inform her when the lady needed her, Oriana made her way back up to her bedroom and
st
ared at the rumpled covers of her bed. She’d a
ct
ually slept in the bed the previous night, since her skin seemed recovered enough that she no longer needed to sleep in the tub. The temptation to crawl back under those sheets and
st
ay there a while longer was
st
rong, but she turned her back on the silk-draped bed and went into the dressing room in
st
ead.

The journal Mr. Ferreira had given her had dried overnight. Many of the pages were
st
uck together and a great deal of the ink had smeared, but mo
st
of it was legible. She located a letter opener in a desk drawer and settled on the leather settee near her bedroom door. She flipped through several pages, using the letter opener to pry apart pages that were
st
uck together. In the intere
st
of thoroughness, she decided to
st
art at the beginning.

After describing his original idea for the artwork—apparently provoked by a conversation he’d had, although he didn’t specify with whom—Espinoza recorded his research. He li
st
ed his reasons for choosing that very spot in the river to locate his ma
st
erpiece: an easy depth and calmer tides, since it was on the Gaia side of the river, prote
ct
ed by the breakwater and out of the regular path of commercial shipping. He talked about taking measurements for the lengths of chain, calculating the approximate weight and buoyancy of the planned wooden houses, and then drawing the sketches of the houses he intended to replicate. Oriana hadn’t given much thought to the technical aspe
ct
s of building such a creation before, but she was beginning to under
st
and the va
st
ness of such an undertaking, even without its murderous aspe
ct
s.

It wasn’t long before she discovered that the charms on the tops of the houses
weren’t
responsible for their buoyancy after filling. Espinoza hadn’t tru
st
ed in the efficacy of the buoyancy charms, and had built the houses out of cork over a lightweight frame. The wooden exteriors were merely facades. Hadn’t she ta
st
ed cork when she was inside the house? She was certain she remembered that corre
ct
ly. That helped explain why she’d been able to so easily pry open the corner of the house.

At the beginning of the journal, there’d been no a
ct
ual purchasing, building, or sinking. Then she hit upon the word that changed everything from planning to a
ct
ualization: patron. The arti
st
had found a patron whose funding had allowed him to rent an apartment and the vacant floor below to use as a shop. Only after that had he
st
arted building the fir
st
house.

The journal didn’t tell her the patron’s identity. The arti
st
never used anyone’s name in his writings, not even his own, guarding them as if they were
st
ate secrets. But as she continued to read, she began to spot hints that the patron was of the ari
st
ocracy.

And Espinoza didn’t mention his vi
ct
ims at all. There was nothing about the chairs or the table, nor could she find anything about the kidnapping of the vi
ct
ims. It was as if Espinoza hadn’t added that aspe
ct
until later. Or perhaps someone else added it. His my
st
erious patron might have made that change.

Oriana caught her lower lip between her teeth. The Lady had indicated that the Open Hand had members in the Special Police. Could the prince himself be dire
ct
ing them? After all, the mandate of the Special Police was to carry out the orders of the prince. They were known for hunting nonhumans and Sympathizers, but that didn’t mean that was all they did.

Hadn’t they been guarding the artwork? It was under the guise of patrolling the mouth of the river, but they
st
ill kept boats away, save for the scheduled visits by the submersible captains. The orders for the regular police to shut down the inve
st
igation of the artwork could have come from someone in the Special Police. And the newspapers hadn’t que
st
ioned the artwork’s presence at all, citing the guidelines that came down from the Mini
st
ry of Culture. But that body also answered dire
ct
ly to the prince.

What would happen if they could prove the prince himself was behind the deaths? Would that force him to abdicate, perhaps, if it became public? Would his younger brother, the infante, assume the throne and possibly overturn the ban? The journal in her hands took on new significance. She
st
roked the water-damaged cover with a fresh respe
ct
.

Then again, those with power and money had a tendency to
st
ay in power, the wor
st
of their sins swept under the rug. That was as true here in Portugal as it was back on the islands.

Sighing, Oriana rubbed her eyelids. She hadn’t been such a cynic when she was younger.

J
oaquim and Inspe
ct
or Gaspar got along well, although on occasion Duilio noted Gaspar aiming a narrow look at Joaquim when Joaquim wasn’t attending. Given that Gaspar was a Meter, it made Duilio itch to know what the man saw when he looked at his cousin.

They went through the details of the case,
st
arting with the very beginning. Duilio made his decision early on: he was going to tru
st
Inspe
ct
or Gaspar. So he told the truth about Erdano’s complaints about the ta
st
e of death in the water near
The City Under the Sea
. He told Gaspar how his gift had warned him that Lady Isabel was dead, and delineated mo
st
of the
st
eps they’d taken since. He even admitted he’d kept the journal and had Miss Paredes reading it. Joaquim followed his lead, volunteering his rather copious notes, including what he’d gleaned the previous day from the Amaral servants.

“So, your Miss Paredes was clearly the target, rather than her mi
st
ress,” Gaspar said. “This Maria Melo mu
st
be our saboteur or working with him, but there have to be a thousand women with that name in this city. Likely a false name anyway. Is there anything more you can tell me about her?”

“Frequents The White Rose, although I suspe
ct
she’ll hear about my inquiries and
st
op doing so. Dark hair, dark eyes,” Joaquim read from his notes. “Always wears black—good-quality cloth, though. That would make her an upper servant at the lea
st
. Moderately tall, with a nice figure. Heavy eyebrows were the only di
st
inguishing chara
ct
eri
st
ic anyone could give me.”

Gaspar puffed out his cheeks in disgu
st
. “I suspe
ct
that’s a dead end. I’ll po
st
an officer there and see if she shows up again.”

“An officer of the Special Police?” Duilio asked. “Can you tru
st
them?”

“My associates have vetted a dozen of them so far. They’re not working with the Open Hand and admittedly have Liberal leanings, so we’re safe using them.”

“Your associates?” Duilio echoed.

“You haven’t met Inspe
ct
or Anjos or Miss Vladimirova yet,” Gaspar said. “They’ve been working their way through the ranks while I was off hunting Mata.”

Although Anjos was a Portuguese name, Vladimirova sounded Russian to Duilio. “Are they witches, like you and . . . the Lady?”

“Yes. You’ll probably meet Anjos later, but you’d rather
not
meet Miss Vladimirova.” Gaspar smiled grimly, not showing his teeth. “Unfortunately, they haven’t turned up anyone associated with this floating-house business. With so many officers to que
st
ion, it may take them weeks to root out the right men, and the ones whose names we did have all disappeared as soon as Commissioner Burgos gave us permission to
st
art que
st
ioning them.”

Duilio didn’t doubt that. “What about Mata?”

“I haven’t seen him since ye
st
erday afternoon, Mr. Ferreira. I have no doubt he’s
st
ill after you, but is keeping his di
st
ance because he’s seen me.” Unfortunately, Gaspar was difficult to miss in a country with relatively few representatives of its former African colonies.

Duilio licked his lips. Joaquim wasn’t going to like this. “Silva spoke of using Miss Paredes as bait, Inspe
ct
or. Why not use me that way?”

“No,” Joaquim said immediately.

“I’m not sugge
st
ing
st
anding in the middle of a plaza all day to be shot at,” Duilio told him. “Ju
st
doing what I would be doing anyway.”

Gaspar regarded him with narrowed eyes. “What did you have in mind?”

Duilio shot a glance at Joaquim. “Miss Paredes mentioned that Espinoza was raised in Matosinhos. I could go there and ask around about him.”

Gaspar looked intrigued, but Joaquim wasn’t placated. “Mata is not going to get on the tram out to Matosinhos with you,” Joaquim pointed out. “You know what he looks like.”

It was about four miles out to the town of Matosinhos on the Marginal line. “No, he’ll know he has to take the
next
one, try to catch the
st
eam tram out of Boavi
st
a, or find some other means of transportation.”

Joaquim sat back, a scowl twi
st
ing his lips.

“I’ll head up to Matosinhos,” Duilio said. “I can ask a few discreet que
st
ions about Espinoza, and that should give Mata time to follow me. Matosinhos is small enough that he should be able to find me if he tries.”

Joaquim sighed heavily. He didn’t like it, but Duilio knew he under
st
ood. If this man
had
killed Alessio, Duilio wanted him brought in. “Start with Father Barros at the Church of Bom Jesus,” Joaquim sugge
st
ed. “He’s been there forever and knows the parish better than anyone else. He can tell you whom to talk with about Espinoza.”

One of Joaquim’s teachers from his days in seminary, no doubt. “I’ll do that.”

“And watch your back,” Joaquim added.

Duilio patted the pocket where his hol
st
er was clipped, his Webley Wilkinson revolver quiescent within. “I’ll
st
ay on my guard.”

•   •   •

M
r. Ferreira showed up at the house near lunchtime, evidently wanting to change clothes. He came into the front sitting room, where Oriana sat on the couch, poring through the journal he’d left with her, ge
st
uring for her to
st
ay seated as he entered. “Miss Paredes, I hope you were able to get some sleep la
st
night.”

“Yes, sir,” she said. “Your mother is
st
ill abed, and Felis is reading to her, so I thought I would give this a try.”

He settled in a chair across from her, much as he’d done the day before. He seemed to have forgotten their . . . closeness . . . of the previous evening. Or he was pretending so to set her at ease. It was a pretense she was willing to join, as discussing the issue would surely be embarrassing for him. “Rough going?” he asked. “From what I glimpsed before I pocketed it, it looked fairly technical.”

“I’m not mathematical, sir,” she admitted. Languages, hi
st
ory, and literature: those all made more sense to her than this confusing tangle of numbers and symbols. “A great deal of this is calculations and plans that mean nothing to me.”

“I’m more curious if there’s anything useful in there. Names?”

“Not a one, I’m afraid. He’s very cagey about the people he’s working with.”

Mr. Ferreira sighed heavily and sat back in the chair, crossing his legs and lacing his fingers over his knee. “Then we’re wa
st
ing your time.”

“Not at all,” she said. “I’ve noted, for example, he doesn’t mention the vi
ct
ims in his calculations. Or the table on which the spell was inscribed. Those had to have been added later in the process.”

“That would throw off all his calculations,” Mr. Ferreira said. “For buoyancy and weight, I mean.”

She nodded. “Also, the houses aren’t wood, as everyone thinks. The wood is a veneer, over cork. That’s what a
ct
ually makes them float. If the chain broke on any one of them, it would probably pop to the surface like a rubber ball.”

He shrugged. “I
was
told those charms on the top were useless.”

She told him then what she’d read about the patron who’d made it all possible, but didn’t have a name for the man, which made the information useless. “I’ll read more this afternoon, sir. Perhaps he’ll say who’s paying for his creation.”

He nodded, his lips pursed, and then cautiously asked, “Does the name Maria Melo mean anything to you?”

It was a common name, but Oriana didn’t a
ct
ually know anyone who bore it. “No, sir.”

“Have you ever been to a tavern called The White Rose?” he asked then.

That tavern was frequented by
servants
from up and down the Street of Flowers. Carlos had once sugge
st
ed she meet him there, although at the time she’d thought it a joke. And it was one of Heriberto’s favored haunts. When her ma
st
er wasn’t on his boat, he could often be found there. “I’ve never been inside,” she said. “Can I assume that Mrs. Melo has?”

He looked grim. “My cousin talked to the Amaral servants ye
st
erday. Both the fir
st
footman and the lady’s maid said they met her there. They said she asked after you. How you were faring, how you liked the household. The maid thought Mrs. Melo was your cousin. Do you
have
any cousins here?”

Oriana laid one mitt-covered hand over her mouth. How should she answer that? He’d met Nela and so mu
st
suspe
ct
about the exiles, so it was a logical que
st
ion, but her father was her only dire
ct
kin. No, the woman had to be lying. And given it was a tavern Heriberto frequented, he had to figure into this somehow. Oriana dropped her hand back to her lap. “She’s your saboteur, isn’t she?”

“We don’t know that,” he said swiftly, as if to reassure her again. “But if she is, then she had to know you’re not human.”

“
You
knew,” she pointed out, and then felt guilty for withholding information he might need. “My ma
st
er frequents that tavern, as well. It’s possible he gave her that information, although I can’t think why he would.”

Mr. Ferreira pinched the bridge of his nose. “Would your ma
st
er willingly put you in that position? In the floating house?”

Oriana thought of her father speaking of paying Heriberto more money. If Heriberto was willing to
st
oop to extortion, what else might he be willing to do? “He might,” she admitted. “I’m not one of his favorites.”

“And you
lived
in one of the houses in que
st
ion,” Mr. Ferreira said. “Are there other spies like you in comparable positions? Or some of your people who chose to live here? I don’t need specifics—ju
st
a general idea whether you were one of a hundred or the only choice.”

Oriana knew of six other spies currently in the city, none of whom worked on the
st
reet of the ari
st
ocrats. Of the exiles, the only one she knew who frequented the
st
reet was her own father. He visited the Pereira de Santos mansion often, but that house had already appeared in the water, so he’d been bypassed. He didn’t a
ct
ually live in that house anyway. “I may have been the only choice,” she whispered, a sick feeling swelling in her
st
omach.

Mr. Ferreira pushed himself out of his chair and came to loom over her. He set a hand lightly on her shoulder. “I meant what I said la
st
night, Miss Paredes.”

She looked up at him. No, he hadn’t forgotten la
st
night’s extraordinary discussion either. She could see it in his eyes, an awareness of her as more than a servant. He looked at her like she was a woman, perhaps even a lover. But opening that door would only lead her to pain. She wasn’t the sort who could take a lover and then go on her way. She ju
st
 . . . wasn’t. Her scruples wouldn’t allow it. Even for a male as fascinating as Duilio Ferreira. It would break her heart, and she refused to do that to herself. She nodded jerkily. “I know, sir.”

His lips pressed together, possibly in vexation. She wasn’t quite certain how to read that expression. Then he
st
epped back and left without another word.

•   •   •

A
s the tram drew closer to Matosinhos, Duilio could see the port of Leixões to the north. The port was an unfinished work that mu
st
either be considered art or an eyesore, progress brought to a
st
and
st
ill. The builders had begun con
st
ru
ct
ing two
st
one “arms” intended to
st
retch out into the sea to a
ct
as breakwaters to prote
ct
the ships that would someday sail up the Leça River into the port. Silhouetted again
st
the horizon, two Titans of iron and
st
eel waited—giant
st
eam-powered cranes that ran on rails to the ends of those breakwaters. One sat on each abandoned arm, capable of going back to work and moving giant blocks of
st
one . . . as soon as the prince should deign to give his permission. Duilio doubted that would happen while this prince was alive.

Not for the fir
st
time, Duilio wondered if it wouldn’t be better for Northern Portugal if the seers were corre
ct
and the prince
was
doomed to die. Somehow Miss Paredes had changed the odds of that prophecy coming true. Not through her own choices, of course. She’d been forced into that position. He hated the price at which that had come. He sighed and returned to surveying the passengers of the tram.

The man in the dark suit was the one who concerned him. When he’d gotten on the tram at Massarelos, a prickle had gone down Duilio’s spine. He’d settled a couple of seats behind Duilio and pulled a folded newspaper from under his arm. He didn’t appear to be an immediate danger, but Duilio felt sure the man had no other business there other than to watch him.

Duilio dug into a pocket for his watch, flicked the lid open, and held the case to one side, trying to get a glance at the man’s face in the mirror secreted inside the lid. He didn’t look familiar. In his midthirties, dark-haired, and average in size, he wouldn’t
st
and out in a crowd. Duilio
st
udied him a moment longer while the man perused a copy of the
Gazette
. He closed the case then and slid the watch back into his pocket.