“I’m hoping you can tell me about Adriana Grappo’s death. Who was behind it? Spies? Revolutionaries? A Fulgurist Society?”
Madame-under-Magna made a clicking sound with her tongue. “Oh, that I cannot do.”
“You didn’t see the killing?”
“I did, in fact! I saw her stop to check her pocket watch, as was her habit at the bottom of the stairs over there. I saw the killers flock, and I was the first to scream for help as the cudgels fell.”
“If you saw it all, then why can’t you tell me about it? I can pay.”
“Because the Cinders have already bought my silence. I have a reputation to uphold, after all.”
Kizzie settled back on her haunches, watching the afternoon light reflect off those beady little eyes. Madame-under-Magna was one of the most reliable sources of information in the city; a truly neutral figure who actually followed her codes of silence. Once someone paid her to withhold information, there was no getting it out of her short of shackleglass. Kizzie did have that piece that Demir gave her, but was not about to inflict it upon Madame-under-Magna, and certainly not in public.
Kizzie asked, “Can you at least tell me whether the facts presented to the public are true?”
“Ah. Hmm.” Madame-under-Magna stared at her for a few moments before answering. “I would not break my contract with the Cinders to tell you that the facts are, indeed, true.”
That was a surprise. “Six killers?” Kizzie asked. “And Espenzi hired by the Duke of Grent?”
“All true.”
Kizzie thought she saw a fiendish little smile in the dark nook. Her informant was leaving something out. Kizzie considered the possibilities for a few minutes, crouching in silence beside the statue, before asking, “Was Espenzi caught on purpose? Offered to the Cinders to let the others get away?”
“You’re a clever girl, Kissandra. I’m sad you didn’t come to me before the Cinders.”
Kizzie snorted in frustration and considered her options. The Cinders swept through right after Adriana’s murder. Kizzie would get a similar response from every beggar, busker, food vendor, and loiterer. Any possible witness had already been threatened or paid into silence. Espenzi was a dead end, and so was Madame-under-Magna. Although … perhaps Kizzie was just asking the wrong question.
“If I can’t ask you about Adriana’s murder, then who should I ask?” Kizzie held out two more heavy coins.
“Very clever girl,” Madame-under-Magna said again. She sniffed. “I have a cold.”
Kizzie fished in her pocket until she found a good-quality piece of cureglass and added it to the two coins. The hand snatched all three from her palm, and Madame-under-Magna cackled again. “You should ask Torlani the Breadman.” A wizened little hand thrust into the sun to make a go away gesture. “No more questions.”
Kizzie found Torlani the Breadman in one of the dozens of alleys that separated the various government buildings of Assembly Square. It was a narrow track, crammed with vendors, with barely enough space for two people to pass each other. The Breadman had a small cart at the far end. He was an old man, bent from years of reaching into ovens, his cart constantly being loaded by boys who rushed back and forth between him and his bakery on the other side of the district. He wore a tiny nose piercing; a little piece of low-quality auraglass, no doubt in the hope that it made him seem more enticing than his competition.
Torlani eyeballed Kizzie as she approached, taking in the stiletto at her belt and the silic sigil on her right hand. “You’re Kissandra Vorcien,” he said as she glanced over the various loaves. She found a small loaf, particularly crusty with burnt edges, and plucked it up, handing him a banknote.
“I am,” she replied.
“I heard there was a gang over in Castle Hill stealing from you folks.”
Glassdamn, word sure got around quick these days. “Not anymore.” She bit into the bread, chewed, and grinned at him over it. “This is really good,” she said between bites.
“Thank you.” He looked down at her silic sigil again. “I’m not looking for protection.”
Kizzie snorted. “And I’m not here to shake you down.”
“Ah,” the old man replied, visibly relaxing. “My mistake.”
She made a magnanimous gesture. “No offense taken.” She glanced around to make sure the other vendors were far enough away not to overhear her and said, “I was told you might know something about Adriana Grappo’s murder.”
Torlani went white. It was impressive, really. His whole face went slack, his eyes filling with fright, hands shaking slightly. “This … this is my little alley here. I was here when she was killed. Couldn’t possibly know anything about it.” He paused, seemed to gather himself. “Who told you that I did?” he demanded.
“Who do you think?” Kizzie snorted.
“Madame-under-Magna. That bitch! That…” Torlani made a frustrated sound. “I’ve already told the Cinders everything I know. I have nothing to add, and certainly not to a Vorcien.”
Kizzie took a step back to examine the alley as a whole, then glanced toward the center of Assembly Square. If six people murdered Adriana and then scattered, it was almost guaranteed that one of them would run down this alley. Kizzie scoffed to herself and looked Torlani in the eye. “You saw one of the killers.”
“I … have nothing to say!”
“I’m not asking on behalf of the Vorcien,” she said.
Torlani frowned in a moment of confusion. “Then who?”
“Demir Grappo hired me.”
At the very least, this information seemed to catch Torlani off guard. A dozen different emotions crossed his face in the space of a few moments, from surprise to consternation. “Why you?”
“Because we were childhood friends, and I have a reputation for personal integrity.” It wasn’t a boast. Everyone knew she’d fallen out of favor for exactly that reason. She pulled a calling card out of the pocket of her jacket, putting on an air that made it seem as if he were just one of dozens of leads. “You can ask around if you like. If there’s something you’d like to get off your chest, just find me at this address.”
Torlani didn’t reach out for the card. He licked his lips. She could see immediately that he wanted to tell her something. It was on the tip of his tongue, straining to get out. All Kizzie needed to do was coax. He said, “The Cinders paid me well not to make a fuss.”
“I’m not asking you to make a fuss,” Kizzie replied gently. “Just tell me what you know.”
“Adriana … was a secret patron of mine.”
It was Kizzie’s turn to be caught off guard. Secret patrons were not common. The whole point of the client-patron relationship was to publicly display prestige, clout, and allegiance. A secret patron might get a cut of the profits from, say, a bakery, but they couldn’t tell their friends that they had ownership in the best bakery in town. The client, on the other hand, couldn’t take advantage of their patron’s name to prevent shakedowns or get better service from their suppliers.
“Why secret?” Kizzie asked.
“Independence is important to me,” Torlani replied with a sniff. “Adriana financially supported my bakery on six different occasions, and sent her enforcers around anonymously when the Dorlani got pushy. I owe … I owed her my livelihood.”
Kizzie picked her next words carefully. “Is there anything you want to tell her son about the way she died?”