They had gotten nothing out of the Eletian, nothing about how he’d come to be here, or why. He ate little of the food they gave him and looked unwell. Silk hoped the creature stayed alive long enough to be presented to the emperor. He’d hated to leave his drilling project in the Old City when it was making such good progress, but he didn’t want the Eletian to die on him before he reached Gossham. He hoped the emperor would be fully awake by the time they arrived at the palace, but Silk had not had any updates from his father stating what stage the emperor was in.
In an effort to preserve the Eletian, he’d chosen not to use more forceful means to make the creature speak. He needed his gift to be as whole as possible. Plus, the most skilled torturers were in Gossham, his father among them. Except for one. After the opposition blasted the road to the drill site, the elder Silk had assigned Mr. Starling to Mill City to interrogate suspects, and it turned out to have been a wise decision, for he was on hand to contend with the city’s latest excitement.
The shrill steam whistle broke into the meditative silence. They were heading under a bridge. Silk gazed at the gently arched ceiling until he heard the tell-tale thunk on the roof. Good, a messenger from Mill City. It was an easy jump from any canal bridge to a packet boat’s roof. He put his specs back on and waited.
Shortly, Mr. Howser escorted the messenger down, an Inspector with his red uniform made dusty by the road. Silk did not see the dust, rather he smelled it, along with the stench of sweat and horse.
“Report,” Silk said. He did not turn up the light.
The man recounted the casualties of the mill fire. Six Inspectors dead, four Enforcers destroyed, and of course Bryce Lowell Josston. Once Silk’s very close friend and his adversary.
“You found no other remains?”
“Not so far,” the Inspector replied. “It will take time to sift through the ruins. They’re still smoldering.”
“And you are taking care to look for . . . evidence?”
“Yes, sir. But if I may say so, the fire and explosions did a very thorough job in destroying anything useful.”
Silk did not doubt it. If the professor had been storing illegally obtained artifacts and secrets, he’d find a way to destroy them totally if need be.
“So,” he continued, “no sign of additional bodies so far, which means Mr. Harlowe and Miss Goodgrave may still be alive.”
“I have more news on that front, sir.”
Silk raised an eyebrow. “Indeed?”
As the Inspector told his tale, Silk was pleased to note Mr. Starling had been doing his job and doing it well. When the Inspector finished, Silk mulled over everything for a moment, issued instructions to both the Inspector and Mr. Howser. “Do we come to a bridge soon?” he asked.
“Gracy Bridge,” Mr. Howser replied. “It’s one of the ones where we’ve posted relays.”
“Good.” Silk consulted his chronosphere, its display glowing with ethereal light. “If you disembark at Gracy Bridge, Inspector, you’ll be able to send my instructions back to Mill City to your commander and Mr. Starling. Remind the messengers to ride hard. They must reach the city as soon as possible.”
He dismissed the men and was left once again with his ruminations. He steepled his fingers before him thinking that Cade Harlowe had made a grave error if he thought he could pick up where Bryce Lowell Josston had left off and lead Mill City in an uprising. With its network of informants and spies, the empire could not be duped so easily. It would soon be in hand.
And, oh yes, he would let Cade Harlowe and his companions come directly to him. Directly, and without hindrance. With that comforting thought, he once again picked up the odd portrait of Miss Kari Goodgrave and turned up the light. Was she one of Harlowe’s companions, perhaps disguised? Or had she perished in the mill fire? He possessed no evidence either way, but his gut feeling was that she had not died.
Who was she, really? he wondered. He’d sent a request to the asylum in her home town for information on her, but even in this modern age, it still took much time to traverse the land with messages. The emperor’s artificers were working on devices that would permit rapid communication that did not require the physical travel of a human being. That day could not come soon enough.
Odd how these captured images made the subjects look less alive, deadened, Silk thought. So still, trapped in a moment of time. No wonder there was such good business in death portraiture. If well staged, you could barely tell the difference between the living and a cadaver.
He tilted the portrait trying to divine new details, but none were forthcoming. He rather suspected Kari Goodgrave had never been in that asylum, and it was unlikely she was even related to Josston. This much he had suspected from the very beginning, knowing Josston’s proclivities.
On impulse, he stood and took the portrait with him through the dining room, forward to the much smaller sitting room near the bow and the cabins of his servants and “guests.” The child and her governess were reading to each other from one of the books borrowed from the boat’s library. They looked up at his entrance.
The governess hastily veiled her face and stood. Even through the veil she could not look at him, and she nervously pressed her skirts smooth, gazing at the floor. What was her name? Morine? Lorine? He had learned she’d been a slave the professor had rescued and freed. Admirable, Silk thought, but pointless. There were always more slaves to take this one’s place.
In contrast, the child, Arhys, stared openly at him. Bold, that one, a street brat the professor had also taken in, and spoiled. Silk learned quickly that it only took promises and bribes to make her behave.