Steeplejack (Alternative Detective, #1)(71)

“And does that process change the quality of the light that the stone produces?”

“It can,” said Ansveld Jr. “At the microscopic level, the stone is made up of crystals which are at their brightest when they are first cut. Over time, they dim. Nothing you do to the stone can reverse that process, but recutting the stone will rejuvenate it, though—of course—at the expense of its size.”

“Might it alter the color of the core light?” I asked. “From blue to green, say?”

Ansveld Jr. shook his head.

“Nothing can change the essential nature of the mineral,” he said.

I nodded, feeling disappointed, conscious of Andrews waiting outside. “And your father didn’t speak to you about his meeting with the old man?” I asked.

“I was away on business in Thremsburg until two days before he died,” said Ansveld. “We barely talked.”

“Who might he have spoken to?” I asked. “If he thought there was something strange going on involving the illegal trade of luxorite.”

“The police, I suppose.” He shrugged. “My father was not what you would call the talkative type.”

“And if it was a delicate matter? One that had larger implications for the industry?”

Ansveld was shaking his head, but then his features brightened. “He might talk to Archie,” he said. “If it was a matter of trade interests or something. They have known each other for years.”

“Archie?”

“Sorry”—he grinned—“Archibald Mandel. Secretary for Trade and Industry. All very respectable. Used to be a colonel in the army. Technically, I believe he was still in charge of the Red Fort until a few months ago.”

I stared at him. Another tumbler of the lock turned over.





CHAPTER

26

I DID NOT TELL Andrews or Willinghouse about the link between Ansveld, Mandel, and the Glorious Third. I probably should have done, but I didn’t, because I didn’t know who I could trust. Mandel was a powerful man.

And I wanted to act.

I didn’t want instincts and possibilities, but facts. If there was a hard link between Mandel and the dead Mahweni herder, I planned to find it and hand it to Willinghouse, confident that it was watertight.

That night I did not go to the Drowning or to the temple grounds, though I guessed that Mnenga would be there, waiting for me. Instead I curled up in my blankets above the Martel Court clock, trying to keep my mind from turning over the questions in my head or from noticing the slightly sour odor of spilled milk.

*

THE NEXT MORNING, I bought spiced meat and vegetable pasties with Alawi juice for Sarah and me, and we sat in Ruetta Park, watching doves and gray ibis squabble over crumbs.

“Where can I find out about the Glorious Third?” I asked.

Sarah gave me a cautious look. “What do you want to know?” she asked.

“Personnel,” I said. “Current and recently discharged.”

“Some of that would make the papers,” said Sarah. “Officers, war heroes, men who go on to become politicians or public servants. But the list would be incomplete. You might be better in the regimental museum.”

I raised a quizzical eyebrow.

“There’s always a regimental museum,” she said. “Usually in a castle or training facility.”

“And for the Glorious Third?”

“It was at the Old Red Fort,” said Sarah, gazing through the trees toward the minarets of Old Town, “but it was dismantled when the garrison moved out. It is currently in storage facilities at the public library pending the identification of a suitable future home. It is not, at this time, open to the general public, and all correspondence concerning requests to view materials should be addressed to the office of Colonel Archibald Mandel, Secretary of Trade.”

I stared at her, unnerved as before by the command of her recall and the way it seemed to shelve her personality as it worked. She blinked and frowned, as if just now processing what she had said.

“As Secretary of Trade,” I said, “would Mandel know Willinghouse?”

“For sure,” said Sarah, “though they are on opposite sides of the aisle. They may not be friends, but they work in the same area. What?”

I shrugged.

“Willinghouse has never mentioned him,” I said.

“Should he have?”

“Probably not,” I conceded. “But then there’s a lot of things he hasn’t mentioned.”

“Is he just naturally taciturn?” asked Sarah. “One of the strong, silent types?”

I gave her a sharp look. She was grinning at me.

“He’s my employer,” I said. “I don’t spend much time thinking about his personality.”

“Oh,” she answered, still grinning. “I see.”

I blinked, pushing away the thought of whatever she was implying. For a moment, I felt a strange and swelling sense of vertigo, as if I had put a foot wrong and was a heartbeat away from falling off a tall chimney.

“Does Willinghouse have ties to the Glorious Third?” I asked, my face carefully neutral.

“Not that I ever heard,” she answered. “And if he had a military background, I doubt it would be with them.”