gray-eyed, thin and dressed like he accepted graft. Sebastien, seated across the desk from him, kept his hands folded and in plain sight.
—I am Don Sebastien de Ulloa,— he said. —Thank you for this meeting, Inspector Kostov. Perhaps my reputation precedes me?
Kostov inclined his head, an attempt at graciousness that his words did not support. —I appreciate your interest in the murder of Sergei Nikolaevich Vasilievsky, but I must inform you that we have the situation well under control.
—It so happens that I have been contracted by an acquaintance of the deceased.— Sebastien let his hands fall apart, a gesture of helplessness. —My client is very interested in finding out who killed her friend.
—Your client is Irina Stephanova Belotserkovskaya?
Sebastien was not surprised that Kostov knew that, and even if he had been he would not have demonstrated it. —You had her followed, of course.
This time, the acknowledgement actually did give the impression of generosity. Self-satisfaction looked good on Inspector Kostov. —We know Irina Stephanova is not guilty of the crime. She has nothing to fear as long as she cooperates with our efforts.
—I’m sure she will,—Sebastien agreed. —You make it sound as if the case were solved already.
Kostov smiled. —It’s always sex, revenge, or money, Don Sebastien,— he said. —It’s easiest when it’s all three. Then they write themselves, you know?
—The case is solved?— Sebastien didn’t mind pressing for answers, but that wasn’t actually what he was doing here. He was pressing for reactions, which was a different art form entirely, and this time he got one.
Kostov stood and gestured mock-graciously to the door, concluding the interview. —Bring your client around tomorrow, Don Sebastien. I can assure you she will not be imprisoned. We will, however, expect her to testify.
—h—
Sebastien, Jack thought uncharitably, was likely to drag them through every ring shop and jeweler’s in Moscow before the night was done. At least they’d be likely to close in an hour or so, but in the meantime there was walking, and cabs, and blank looks. All of them were willing to make rings for a wampyr—Sebastien had obtained a list of friendly gold- and silversmiths from the White Nights—but each one looked blankly willing at the mention of a water sapphire.
“Iolite,” Jack would say, to an even blanker look, and scattered nods.
“It’s rare,” they’d say. “But if you have a source of the stones, we can do it.”
Until they came to a shop in a blind alley near Sokolniki Park, the awnings already rolled up but the lights still on and the door unbarred. There, the woman behind the counter was small and strong-handed, her hair skinned into a knot on the back of her head. She wore fingerless mitts against the draft through the door, and the creases in her eye-corners were at odds with the transparency of her skin.
She nodded decisively. —Yes, my lord. I can make you a ring. What is your stone?
Jack stood back, arms folded, as Sebastien described Starkad’s band. —Can you make me a ring like that one?
The jeweler’s face compacted and her fingertips paled on the counter’s edge. —Not like that one.— she said. —Somebody else uses that stone. You would need another.
—Red garnet?— Sebastien said. —Trillion cut?
She sighed, and Jack thought it was relief. —Absolutely. For the gentleman?
With the nod of her head she indicated Jack.
Sebastien smiled over at him. —For a lady.
Moscow
Kitai Gorod
May 1903
Sebastien followed Phoebe through rainy late-night streets, contemplating the inconvenience of it. He would have liked to have a word about perversity with the weather gods who arranged for sky coverage after dark, when no sun needed shrouding and no heat needed breaking and the mud, like some swamp-dwelling monster predating the city built across its back, threatened to swallow everyone.
It was a waste of a good
—I am Don Sebastien de Ulloa,— he said. —Thank you for this meeting, Inspector Kostov. Perhaps my reputation precedes me?
Kostov inclined his head, an attempt at graciousness that his words did not support. —I appreciate your interest in the murder of Sergei Nikolaevich Vasilievsky, but I must inform you that we have the situation well under control.
—It so happens that I have been contracted by an acquaintance of the deceased.— Sebastien let his hands fall apart, a gesture of helplessness. —My client is very interested in finding out who killed her friend.
—Your client is Irina Stephanova Belotserkovskaya?
Sebastien was not surprised that Kostov knew that, and even if he had been he would not have demonstrated it. —You had her followed, of course.
This time, the acknowledgement actually did give the impression of generosity. Self-satisfaction looked good on Inspector Kostov. —We know Irina Stephanova is not guilty of the crime. She has nothing to fear as long as she cooperates with our efforts.
—I’m sure she will,—Sebastien agreed. —You make it sound as if the case were solved already.
Kostov smiled. —It’s always sex, revenge, or money, Don Sebastien,— he said. —It’s easiest when it’s all three. Then they write themselves, you know?
—The case is solved?— Sebastien didn’t mind pressing for answers, but that wasn’t actually what he was doing here. He was pressing for reactions, which was a different art form entirely, and this time he got one.
Kostov stood and gestured mock-graciously to the door, concluding the interview. —Bring your client around tomorrow, Don Sebastien. I can assure you she will not be imprisoned. We will, however, expect her to testify.
—h—
Sebastien, Jack thought uncharitably, was likely to drag them through every ring shop and jeweler’s in Moscow before the night was done. At least they’d be likely to close in an hour or so, but in the meantime there was walking, and cabs, and blank looks. All of them were willing to make rings for a wampyr—Sebastien had obtained a list of friendly gold- and silversmiths from the White Nights—but each one looked blankly willing at the mention of a water sapphire.
“Iolite,” Jack would say, to an even blanker look, and scattered nods.
“It’s rare,” they’d say. “But if you have a source of the stones, we can do it.”
Until they came to a shop in a blind alley near Sokolniki Park, the awnings already rolled up but the lights still on and the door unbarred. There, the woman behind the counter was small and strong-handed, her hair skinned into a knot on the back of her head. She wore fingerless mitts against the draft through the door, and the creases in her eye-corners were at odds with the transparency of her skin.
She nodded decisively. —Yes, my lord. I can make you a ring. What is your stone?
Jack stood back, arms folded, as Sebastien described Starkad’s band. —Can you make me a ring like that one?
The jeweler’s face compacted and her fingertips paled on the counter’s edge. —Not like that one.— she said. —Somebody else uses that stone. You would need another.
—Red garnet?— Sebastien said. —Trillion cut?
She sighed, and Jack thought it was relief. —Absolutely. For the gentleman?
With the nod of her head she indicated Jack.
Sebastien smiled over at him. —For a lady.
Moscow
Kitai Gorod
May 1903
Sebastien followed Phoebe through rainy late-night streets, contemplating the inconvenience of it. He would have liked to have a word about perversity with the weather gods who arranged for sky coverage after dark, when no sun needed shrouding and no heat needed breaking and the mud, like some swamp-dwelling monster predating the city built across its back, threatened to swallow everyone.
It was a waste of a good
Similar Books
