Read Online The White City by Elizabeth Bear - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Elizabeth Bear
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the wry acknowledgement of somebody who was used to wampyrs and their tendency to know things. —You inquired at the club. The Beliye Nochi.
—I learned a little about your patron, too. Starkad, or Starkardr. What did he tell you when he released you?
Her throat rippled as she swallowed nervously. Jack got up, taking her cup to bring her back more tea. She seemed oblivious until he pressed it into her hand again, whereupon she gave him a grateful nod—but for the way her eyes skipped off him, he suspected he might as well have been a clockwork automaton. Actually, something so wonderful might have actually caught her notice when a boy couldn’t, quite.
—He didn’t explain things.
—When he left?
—He didn’t explain things. Ever.
—Typical of the breed,—Jack interjected. Sebastien shot him a look and he smiled, sweet as the jam Irina was stirring into her teacup.
She looked from one of them to the other, possibly startled that Jack would dare to mouth off to a wampyr. But whatever she saw on their faces relaxed her. —He
encouraged us to linger in cafés and consort with revolutionaries. He said it made us more interesting. He liked artists, painters, sculptors. He said to me once that men and governments were ephemeral, but the continuity of the world was in its art. I tried to be what he wanted.
—He took back his ring,— Sebastien said gently, —because he did not expect to return to Moscow in your lifetime, and such things are never left as heirlooms.
—Oh.— Her mouth worked.
In the parlor, around the corner, light was brightening. Not sunrise yet, but the sky outside those windows would be gray. Jack found himself unsurprised when Sebastien leaned around Irina to glance out the window at the Sorok-sokorov, the forty-times-forty spires of ancient Moscow arrayed against the silver sky.
Well, ancient for Jack. For Sebastien, the next best thing to born yesterday .
The wampyr in question leaned back into his chair, his face contented. He spread his hands palm-down on the table and said, —So you did the right thing in coming to me.
She tucked her chin to her chest and shook her head. —They think I killed Sergei.
Sebastien tilted his face at Jack. Jack considered for a moment before shaking his own head emphatically no .
On this , Sebastien trusted his judgment.
Well, at least it was something. —It will be best if you surrender to the police,— Sebastien said. —Trust Jack and me to investigate for you. We will find the killer.
She shook her head, but Jack could see that she was agreeing.
—How did he die?— Jack asked.
She shrugged. —I didn’t hear of any wounds, and Nadia saw the body. He’s been unwell for two or three months. I’m not surprised. He hung around with worse revolutionaries than I did. Some who want to explode the Tsar’s factories.
—He died of hydrargaria,— Sebastien said.
Jack turned and stared at him. Same contentious nose, dark eyes, stern lips, swarthy complexion as always. Same curious, waiting expression. “Mercury poisoning?”
—It had been going on for months,— Sebastien said. —Somebody had been feeding him Chinese red. In quantity.
—Damn,— Irina said. —What a waste. I can barely afford to buy vermilion to paint with.
Sebastien smiled—at her flash of spirit rather than the content, Jack thought. He made himself look away.
—So now we ask ourselves what justice is so complete that your patron fled it entirely, or who fears him so much that they waited for his absence to kill his man? What secret is so deep that it was worth killing your fellow courtesan in such a manner that suspicion would inevitably fall on you? Why, in short, are you being framed for this crime?
—Don Sebastien? I don’t know. I don’t know anything.
—Oh,— he said. —I think it’s more likely you don’t know what you know. But whatever it is, we’ll eventually get to the bottom of this.
He smiled. Jack thought perhaps it was meant to be
—I learned a little about your patron, too. Starkad, or Starkardr. What did he tell you when he released you?
Her throat rippled as she swallowed nervously. Jack got up, taking her cup to bring her back more tea. She seemed oblivious until he pressed it into her hand again, whereupon she gave him a grateful nod—but for the way her eyes skipped off him, he suspected he might as well have been a clockwork automaton. Actually, something so wonderful might have actually caught her notice when a boy couldn’t, quite.
—He didn’t explain things.
—When he left?
—He didn’t explain things. Ever.
—Typical of the breed,—Jack interjected. Sebastien shot him a look and he smiled, sweet as the jam Irina was stirring into her teacup.
She looked from one of them to the other, possibly startled that Jack would dare to mouth off to a wampyr. But whatever she saw on their faces relaxed her. —He
encouraged us to linger in cafés and consort with revolutionaries. He said it made us more interesting. He liked artists, painters, sculptors. He said to me once that men and governments were ephemeral, but the continuity of the world was in its art. I tried to be what he wanted.
—He took back his ring,— Sebastien said gently, —because he did not expect to return to Moscow in your lifetime, and such things are never left as heirlooms.
—Oh.— Her mouth worked.
In the parlor, around the corner, light was brightening. Not sunrise yet, but the sky outside those windows would be gray. Jack found himself unsurprised when Sebastien leaned around Irina to glance out the window at the Sorok-sokorov, the forty-times-forty spires of ancient Moscow arrayed against the silver sky.
Well, ancient for Jack. For Sebastien, the next best thing to born yesterday .
The wampyr in question leaned back into his chair, his face contented. He spread his hands palm-down on the table and said, —So you did the right thing in coming to me.
She tucked her chin to her chest and shook her head. —They think I killed Sergei.
Sebastien tilted his face at Jack. Jack considered for a moment before shaking his own head emphatically no .
On this , Sebastien trusted his judgment.
Well, at least it was something. —It will be best if you surrender to the police,— Sebastien said. —Trust Jack and me to investigate for you. We will find the killer.
She shook her head, but Jack could see that she was agreeing.
—How did he die?— Jack asked.
She shrugged. —I didn’t hear of any wounds, and Nadia saw the body. He’s been unwell for two or three months. I’m not surprised. He hung around with worse revolutionaries than I did. Some who want to explode the Tsar’s factories.
—He died of hydrargaria,— Sebastien said.
Jack turned and stared at him. Same contentious nose, dark eyes, stern lips, swarthy complexion as always. Same curious, waiting expression. “Mercury poisoning?”
—It had been going on for months,— Sebastien said. —Somebody had been feeding him Chinese red. In quantity.
—Damn,— Irina said. —What a waste. I can barely afford to buy vermilion to paint with.
Sebastien smiled—at her flash of spirit rather than the content, Jack thought. He made himself look away.
—So now we ask ourselves what justice is so complete that your patron fled it entirely, or who fears him so much that they waited for his absence to kill his man? What secret is so deep that it was worth killing your fellow courtesan in such a manner that suspicion would inevitably fall on you? Why, in short, are you being framed for this crime?
—Don Sebastien? I don’t know. I don’t know anything.
—Oh,— he said. —I think it’s more likely you don’t know what you know. But whatever it is, we’ll eventually get to the bottom of this.
He smiled. Jack thought perhaps it was meant to be
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