tall? Black hair? Violet eyes? Beautiful?” Mrs. Wells shook herhead.“Not black hair. Light brown. And she was pretty enough—orwould have been without the burns on her face.” Mrs. Wellssmiled. “Around the
eyes,
you know. Such a
dreadful
thing to havehappen. Windows to the soul, don’t you know.”Chang stalked back to the Raton Marine in a fury. It would havebeen one thing to learn that he was but one of several out to findthis woman, but when he himself was so close to dire exposure inthe same affair—whether he’d actually killed Trapping or not, hecould just as easily hang for it—it was doubly maddening. Hismind was spinning with suspicion. When he reached the RatonMarine it was nearly dark. No word had come from John Carver.Not quite ready to question his client directly, he began walking tothe next likely house, near the law courts. This was known as theSecond Bench, and was not too far and in a marginally safer loca-tion. He could thrash through his thoughts on the way. As he forced himself to break the parts into discrete elements,he admitted that it was not strange that Mrs. Wells did not know his Persephone. When he had seen her on the train, there was thedistinct sense that the image she then made was spectacular—thatit was unusual to her, however telling or revelatory, or howeverlarge a story lay behind it. Her curls, though bloody and ruined,bespoke a certain care—perhaps the assistance of a servant. This would mean the Second Bench, or even the third house he had inmind, the Old Palace. These respectively offered an escalating classof whore, and served an escalating class of clientele. Each house was a window into a particular stratum of the city’s traffic in flesh.Chang himself could patronize the Palace only when he possessedsignificant cash, and even then solely because of services renderedits manager. The unsavory nature of the South Quays only raisedthe question of how the other two searchers had found it, or
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thought to go there. The soldier he could understand, but the woman—her sister? There were, frankly, only so many ways a woman would know of such a place’s existence, for the South Quays was nearly invisible to the greater population. That Rosamonde would know of it, for example, he would find more surprisingthan a personal letter from the Pope. But the others searching
did
know. Who were they, and whom did they serve? And who wasthis woman they all sought?This did nothing to support his client’s story of her poor mur-dered friend, who could be no disconnected innocent, but someoneabout whom other issues—inheritance? title? incrimination?—must be spinning, all of which she had withheld in their interview.Chang cast his mind back to the train, looking into those unread-able grey eyes. Was he looking at a killer, or a witness? And if she
had
killed...as an assassin, or in defense? Each possibility altered themotives of those searching for her. That none of them had gone tothe police—even if it was at the specific, powerful request of RobertVandaariff—did not reflect well on anyone’s good intentions.Not that good intentions were any normal part of Chang’s life.The Second Bench was his usual choice in brothels, though thishad more to do with a desire to balance his financial resourcesagainst the likelihood of disease than with any particular merits of the house. Still, he was acquainted with the staff and with the cur-rent manager, a fat greasy fellow with a shaved head named Jurgins who wore a number of large rings on his fingers—the very imageof a modern court eunuch, it always seemed to Chang. Jurgins af-fected a jolly manner, though this was pushed aside like a curtainevery time money came into the conversation, to be shot back intoplace once his insistent greed was no longer at the fore. As so many of the place’s customers were drawn from business and the law, thismercenary manner was barely noticed, and certainly no cause foroffense.
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Cardinal
After a few quiet words with the men at the door, Chang wasguided into Jurgins’s private room, hung with tapestries and lit with crystal lamps whose shades dangled all kinds of delicatefringe, the air so thick with incense that even Chang found it op-pressive. Jurgins sat at his desk, knowing Chang well enough toboth see him alone and to also keep the door open with a body-guard at close call. Chang sat in the chair opposite, and removed abanknote from his coat. He held it up for Jurgins to see. Jurginscould not help but tap his fingertips on the desk with anticipation.“What may we do for you today, Cardinal?” He nodded at thebank note. “A formal request for something elaborate? Some-thing...
exotical
?”Chang forced a neutral smile. “My business is simple. I amlooking for a young woman whose name may be Isobel Hastings, who would have arrived back here—or at another such establish-ment—early this morning, in a black cloak, and quite covered inblood.” Jurgins frowned thoughtfully, nodding.“So, I am looking for her.” Jurgins nodded again. Chang met his gaze, and deliberately smiled. Out of a natural sycophantic impulse, Jurgins smiled as well.“I am
also
”—Chang paused for companionable emphasis—“interested in the two people who have already wasted your timeasking forher.” Jurgins smiled broadly. “I see. I see indeed. You’re a cleverman—I have always said it.”Chang smiled thinly at the compliment. “I would expect themto be a man in a black uniform and a woman, brown hair, well- dressed, with a...
burn
of strange design around her eyes. Wouldthat be accurate?”“It would!” Jurgins grinned. “He came first thing this morn-ing—he woke me up—and she some time after luncheon.”“And what did you tell them?”
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