Steeplejack (Alternative Detective, #1)(5)

I’m not an eloquent person. I read a lot, but I spend my days up with the roosting flying foxes and the silver-winged night crows, who aren’t great conversationalists. At night I’m surrounded by adolescent boys, who are worse. I love words, but mostly they stay in my head, especially in the presence of authority.

“I was with the boy who found him, yes,” I said.

“His name is Berrit?”

“Yes.”

“Last name?”

“I don’t know.”

“He’s a steeplejack?”

“Apprentice. This was his first day.”

“And he was going to work with you?”

“Yes.”

“And you are?”

“Anglet Sutonga. I work for Morlak.” I frowned, and he gave me a hard look.

“What?” he demanded.

“Nothing, sir,” I said.

“You were thinking something,” he pressed. “What? I won’t ask again.”

“Just…” I faltered. “I wondered why you weren’t writing this down.”

“Got a good memory, me,” said the policeman, gazing off down the alley. “And the city has other things to think about today. Get it all up, lads!” he called to the ambulance men. “There’s a tap on the wall. Hose off the street when you’re done.”

A vulture had settled in the alley and was watching us, waiting. I shouted at it, and it flapped a few paces away, bobbing its bald head.

“Pictures,” I blurted out.

“What?” said the policeman again.

“Photographs,” I said, eyes down, abashed. “You’ve started taking pictures at crime scenes. I saw them in the paper.”

“So?”

“They haven’t taken any,” I said, risking a look into his face.

“Crime scenes,” he echoed, as if I were unusually stupid. “This was an accident.”

“But…” I hesitated.

“But what?”

I took a breath. “The body. There’s a knife wound on the back.”

“Expert, are you?” said the policeman, giving me a sour look this time. “Steeplejack and detective, eh? Impressive. I thought girls like you had other ways of making your money.” He smirked, then gazed off down the street again. His eyes were straying to where the Beacon should have been, but wasn’t. For all his casualness, he looked troubled.

And that, I thought, was that. There would be no investigation, no real questions asked, not for a Lani street brat, particularly on a day when the city’s most recognizable landmark had vanished. I put my hand in my pocket and was surprised to find the copper pendant on its leather thong. I took it out. It was a small thing, and for all the care of the workmanship, it was close to worthless.

The thought sent a shard of pain through my chest, and I had to pause and breathe again before squeezing my eyes— and the dam

—shut, and I pocketed it once more.

Tanish was waiting for me, sitting in the shade, his knees drawn up tight to his skinny chest. He got to his feet as he saw me push through the huddle of gawkers craning for a glimpse of blood. I elbowed aside a man in fancy shoes and a linen suit, who turned abruptly and walked away. Even in my haste to get to Tanish, I noted the speed with which the man left, the focus, the economy of motion, and found myself wondering how long he had been watching and why.

I didn’t have the heart to tell Tanish to go home. Sarn had come, he said. Tanish had given him our tools. He would come back soon with Morlak. I didn’t want to be around then, so I set off for my sister’s house, Tanish trailing silently at my heels like a lost dog.

Everyone was rattled by the absence of the Beacon. You could see them gazing at the spire on top of the Trade Exchange, and there was a more than usually frantic crowd at the newspaper stand on Winckley Street. I scanned the headlines, which brayed the obvious: that the Beacon was gone. Beyond that, the papers knew nothing, and the report was more hysteria than news.

“You gonna buy that?” demanded the street vendor, a black girl with her hair pulled back so tight that her forehead looked strained.

“With what?” I asked with a hollow smile. The girl glared unsympathetically, and I let go of the paper, backing away from the throng and moving around the corner and into Vine Street.

“My mother taught me to read,” said Tanish. It was just something to say, I think, but once he got it out, it sounded forlorn.

“My sister taught me,” I answered, trying to sound cheerful. “Not Rahvey. Vestris.”

“How come I’ve never seen her?”

“She’s too fancy for the likes of you,” I said, unable to suppress a genuine smile now.

“Fancy?”

“Glamorous,” I said. “Rich.”

“I’d like to see her one day,” said Tanish. He had heard me talk of Vestris before and had caught a little of my reverence for her. “What does she do?”

“Do?”

“For, you know, a job?” he asked. “I mean, why is she so rich if she grew up like you?”

“Oh, she’s just sort of special,” I said airily. “She’s not rich because of where she works.”

“Why, then?”

I laughed, waving the question away. “She’s just different from the rest of us,” I concluded.