25
You’ll be alright, thought Felix. It’s only the fifth lord of the grayside.
It was madness. Of course it was; Myria had thought it up. Oh, but he could taste the wine again. In spite of everything, sheer exhilaration swelled like wind beneath his wings.
He stole another look at his reflection in the polished cherry-wood of Evander’s office door: uniform crisp, gold accoutrements polished and boots shiny enough to guide airships in to land.
The Praetorium clerk knocked anxiously for his master.
“I’m busy, Cicero,” came the calm reply.
“Not too busy for the prefecture, I fancy, sir,” Felix called back in that civilly bored tone of the ill-used officer. There was a moment’s silence. Then the door swung open, and the praetor looked him up and down. Felix showed his badge.
“Good morning,” Evander said with a faint frown. “Is something the matter?”
“You may wish to speak privately, sir.”
And there it was, a wonderful flicker of disquiet. It was probably an abuse of power to enjoy the sight, but he did all the same.
“I see. You can go, Cicero,” said Evander. He beckoned Felix in, then locked the door and turned a silver dial. A patrium curse closed in a shivering embrace around the room.
Felix linked his hands behind his back and took a leisurely look about the office. It was a disappointingly ordinary place, for a praetor as much as a lord of crime. There wasn’t the slightest stamp of personality—nothing but a neat desk and a meeting table set with chairs.
“I trust this is a routine visit,” said Evander, returning to his papers. “Protection for the night of the debates?”
“I regret not, sir,” Felix answered. “I understand you visited the Lynxias Vault yesterday.”
Evander’s hand paused halfway to his pen. Then, he took it from the inkwell and began to write.
“I can assure you, Prefect, my dealings with the Office of Imperial Revenue are all in good order,” he said.
“Indeed, sir. The prefecture isn’t concerned that you’re the perpetrator of some deception. We fear you’ve been the victim of one.”
Felix had to give the man credit for his command of countenance; his pen didn’t stop scratching across the page for a moment. Nonetheless, his posture subtly hardened.
“Have you lately met with a woman of Celadonius Magna?” he went on. “Dark haired, tallish, well dressed?”
“Is it any business of yours?”
Felix cocked his head, then strode to Evander’s desk and set his hands on either side of the stacked papers.
“It’s the business of the law, sir. This woman’s a swindler of the worst kind, and I have reason to believe that you’re her next target.”
He could almost see it—the moment of suspension, the sudden flash of instinct, then the slow sinking in. Evander’s jaw tightened, and he set down his quill. Felix eased his posture in response, drawing back from the desk and taking a seat.
“Let me be frank, Praetor. This visit is strictly off the record,” he said. “Once I came to suspect she’d set her sights on you, I knew better than to let it go to those on high.” The last words came heavy with implication.
“I see,” Evander said impassively. “A swindler, you said?”
“Yes, sir. She’s already struck another praetor. Have you seen her?”
“Another praetor,” he echoed, his gaze turning to the wall. “Who?”
“I couldn’t say, sir,” Felix replied, but his glance in the direction of Patrium Hall said a great deal.
“Not the Magister-General?”
“Definitely not, sir. Have you seen her?”
“I have,” the man said at last, his countenance blank.
“Damn. What happened?” asked Felix, coming to his feet at once. “Did you tell her anything? Give her anything?”
He could see Evander’s jaw working in the effort of self-restraint. It seemed to take a thrust of will to force the words past his teeth.
“A check,” he said at last. “Drawn against the Lynxias, late yesterday morning.”
“Twenty hours, give or take,” Felix muttered. “Could still be pending clearance. We might have time. Come with me.”
Half an hour later, they stood in the dark marble grandeur of the Lynxias Vault.
Felix drummed his fingers on the counter as they waited for the clerk to finish sifting through his files.
Evander paced behind him—slow, deliberate strides betraying the tension underneath.
When the clerk returned, the praetor came to the counter like a breaking wave.
“I’m afraid the payment was cleared within the hour, sir,” he said, spreading out the ledger before them. “The arcanic seal matched our records. The teller’s notes say that Praetor Evander was here when the check was—”
“Pantheon above, man, did you not think to investigate the account?” Evander cut in with a lash of anger. “What name was it held under? Did it match the check? Which bank?”
“I . . . Forgive me, sir, is there some suggestion of”—he dropped his voice to near a whisper—“fraud?”
Evander drew breath for a sharp retort, but Felix spoke before he could.
“I regret there is. Have you any means of ascertaining who was on duty at the time?”
Evander turned on his heel and paced to the window, then spun back again in a snap of coat-tails. The clerk’s eyes tracked him nervously.
“Ah . . . no, sir. You must understand, we have hundreds of customers every day . . .”
“I understand. I’ve seen nothing to suggest that the Lynxias did anything amiss.”
“Amiss?” Evander snapped, stopping hard at the counter. “Those curses on your door are supposed to strip arcanic disguises!”
“What makes you imagine she was in dis—”
“Your protections failed! That woman was a criminal. Her trace should’ve been all over the prefecture records, and you didn’t spy a thing!”
“Forgive me, sir, I don’t underst—”
“You, man, you find who was responsible for this! If the Lynxias can’t keep my gold secure, then I’ve a mind to take it back!”
The clerk winced as the passersby began to turn and stare. Felix held back a moment longer, weighing the balance as the scene spun out.
“Sir, I really don’t think—”
“You lock my vault, you understand? Not another lyrin leaves it!” Evander shot back. “Not unless I’m back to withdraw the lot and give it to a bank that knows how to keep criminals out of its halls!”
With that, he turned on his heel and strode away, hellfire flashing in his eyes. Felix hurried after him.
“I’ll gather the details from the bank,” he said quietly. “I expect she’ll have withdrawn the funds by now, but we may be able to trace—”
“No. I’ll find her myself,” Evander cut in. “As for you . . . you’ll not speak a whisper to another living soul.”
“We’ll investigate with all discretion,” said Felix, frowning, “but I advise you, Praetor, don’t take matters into your own hands.”
One look was enough to tell him where Evander thought he could stow his investigation. Without another word, the man stormed away into the rush of Carintheum.
“Well done, old boy,” Myria said, beaming. “We’ll make a scoundrel of you yet.”
Even an hour later, Felix couldn’t help but grin. There was something intoxicating in seeing a man unafraid of the devil struck, just for a moment, with fear of them. That erratic energy narrowed to one concentrated stream, for once focusing his wits instead of scattering them.
“What now?” he asked, trying not to bob on his toes.
“Try this on,” said Leo, tossing him a smart blue coat. “Fresh from Delphinium’s.”
The thief already wore his own Evander livery, and was halfway through transforming himself from the sallow investment agent to a nondescript footman.
“I expect he’s heading for your office as we speak,” said Felix, swinging on the coat. Myria flitted around him, checking the fit.
“Thus ends three years of professional endeavor.” Leo sighed. “It was deathly boring while it lasted.”
Then he paused, as though hearing a distant knock. He spun the feather from his sleeve and cut a door in midair.
“Oi. Lysander,” he called over his shoulder. “Cass’s got the coffin. Wants you to go and check it.”
“Coffin?” Felix echoed. “Isn’t that a little premature?”
“Good grief, you still haven’t told him?” asked Lysander, ambling through from his chamber with a book in hand.
“I’ve been busy!” Myria protested. “By the way, did that wagon arrive safely?”
“Yes. Cassia’s dealt with it.”
“Sterling stuff. And did you hear? He threatened to withdraw the money!”
“Certainly. You imagine a gentleman doesn’t eavesdrop?”
“Perish the thought. Off you go.”
Lysander reluctantly set down his book and stepped through the gateway. Myria made a last survey of Felix’s livery, then nodded her approval.
“All in order. Now, Leo, I need you to confirm the arrangements with the mortuary. Six o’clock. Come hell or high water, it’s going ahead.”
“Doing it for the money. Doing it for the money,” Leo said feverishly, then disappeared after Lysander.
“What’s going ahead?” Felix asked.
“The theft. We’re going to empty his vault,” said Myria. “Or, rather, you’re going to. I have an appointment.”
“You’re not going to kill anyone, are you?” he added. For all the talk of coffins and mortuaries, they weren’t acting like creatures with murder in mind.
“Not today,” she said with a mischievous flash, then sobered. “Now, I suppose it’s about time you learned the plan.”
He saw her hands twist at her skirts before she took command of them.
Her countenance was never beyond her control, but he’d begun to learn its subtler signs—how that constant play of sun and shadow vanished when she donned the mask.
He’d seen officers do the same, forbidden to show fear lest they unnerved the men.
Is she afraid? Absurd, really, that the thought made him want to hand her a blade and tell her she’d win.
“I’m not fool enough to expect your trust,” he said instead, “but I’m not going to turn on you the moment I know the scheme.”
She gave a soft laugh and dropped her gaze, shaking her head. Something flitted across her face, bird quick, a hesitant and uncomfortable shade he’d never seen before.
Is that . . . guilt?
“It’s not you I don’t trust, Felix. It’s the centurion.”