I didn’t wave, and he didn’t look back. I hoped Lethway was as disinterested as Pratt seemed to think. In my experience, the rich take more than a passing interest in anything and everyone around them that has the potential to separate them from their money, and Pratt fit that description.

“Where too?” called the cabman.

“Back to the Barracks,” I replied. Time to see if Darla’s charms lingered sufficiently to allow crusty old Sergeant Burris to bend a few rules.

I had a suspicion Darla’s big brown eyes would do precisely that. Pratt and Mrs. Lethway. Burris and my Darla. Hell, me and my Darla.

Angels, what fools these mortals be.

Chapter Fifteen

Pratt’s stolen letter wasn’t as much help as I’d hoped.

There was the usual cavalcade of threats, accompanied by graphic descriptions of what Carris would suffer unless their demands were met. The ear was mentioned, and it was noted that the next delivery would be a foot. Then a hand.

What didn’t appear was a demand for money. Instead, there were two pages of questions, festooned with mining jargon. How many raw tonnes of coal is your North End refinery consuming per week, for the last ten weeks? What was last month’s intake of sulfur, in standard wagons, among all ironworks inside Rannit? How many tonnes of raw iron ore did you ship via the Brown in the past six weeks?

There were also queries about carbon and sand. The whole mess was more industrial small talk than ransom demand. I couldn’t see where withholding it was worth watching your kid dismembered.

Industrial espionage by a competitor? Maybe, I decided. But why not take the time-honored route of dropping a few crowns in front of clerks or shipping managers?

Why not just watch wagons come and go and count them yourself?

I lapsed into a snooze well before we reached the Barracks. That was getting to be a bad habit.

The smell of smoke awakened me, though, blocks from the site.

I felt the carriage slow. Whistles blew. The smoke began to billow up, the single column becoming two columns and then three before merging into a single monstrous shaft of smoke that rose up to blot out the sun.

A pair of fire-wagons charged past, horses frothing and straining, water sloshing over the sides. Another pair of fire-wagons rushed past.

Ashes began to rain down. The day was still and calm. People looked toward their roofs, fearful that a spark would set their shakes alight. Blankets began to appear, and buckets of water, and men hauling ladders and shouting.

My driver pulled to the curb to let another pair of fire-wagons race past.

It was only then that I began to recognize the ashes that fell for what they were-scraps of old paper, yellowed to a familiar shade.

I stuck my head out the window. “You. Kid. What’s on fire?”

The youngster looked up at me. “The old Barracks. Every building afire, what I hear. Likely lose the whole block.”

The kid charged off.

“I’ll see how far we can get,” said my driver. The ponies were already snuffling nervously and stamping. The smoke was getting thicker by the moment. “But if we’re going to try, it needs to be now.”

“Get as far as you can. I’ll walk the rest of the way.”

He nodded. “Not going to be much left,” he said.

I pulled my head back inside. The ponies reluctantly trotted forward, daring the stream of traffic rushing away from the inferno.

We made it another two blocks before the smoke and the hot rushing air left the ponies unwilling to take another step. I wrapped a handkerchief around my mouth and bade the driver to get out of the smoke. Then I made my way to the Barracks, coughing and stumbling, knowing too well what I would find.

And find it I did. The Barracks were lost. The flames towered and the mere heat of the blaze touched off fires a block in every direction. Some of them burned for three days. Of the Barracks, nothing would be left. Even the massive cornerstones cracked from the heat.

I got there just as they dragged Master Sergeant Burris out into the street. I only recognized him because his brass sergeant’s stripes and campaign ribbons were still intact. He’d collapsed just outside the Building Two, according to the Watch, and the heat that kept them back burned Sergeant Burris to a crisp.

Beneath him, still clutched in his charred hands, was a thick leather binder stuffed with papers. A Watchman rifled through them, shrugged, and dropped the binder on the ground.

I noticed something the Watch didn’t-the sergeant’s sword wasn’t in his scabbard, and he was missing two fingers on his right hand.

Maybe the Sergeant had dropped his sword on his way out. Maybe he’d been polishing it when he first smelled smoke. Maybe he lost the fingers when a burning beam fell on his hand.

And maybe, I thought, he hadn’t.

I left the Sergeant there, lying uncovered on the ground, as firemen and Watchmen stepped over his corpse.

When the Watch bellowed for me to leave, the Sergeant’s leather binder was under my arm. If anyone saw me take it they didn’t give a damn.

I thanked the Sergeant briefly, between fits of coughing, and then I put the heat to my back and stumbled away from the flames.

The smoke got so thick it nearly choked me, and it did manage to blind me. I would never have found my carriage had the driver not come looking for me, and I’d never have made it inside had he not shoved my ass in.

I told him to head for Darla’s. Her house, not the shop. It couldn’t be good for business to have soot-stained finders coughing and hacking all over the fabric. I was hoping she’d pop home for lunch as I knew she often did, and by that time I ought to have coughed my lungs clear again.

I sent the carriage home, and I sat on her tiny porch and watched a pair of bluebirds build a nest in the little house she’d hung out for them. When my eyes quit burning I opened the binder and leafed through the papers, but all I saw were rows of cryptic abbreviations and columns of numbers that might have been crowns or counts of Troll toenails, for all I could tell.

I hoped Darla would see more. Because if she didn’t, Master Sergeant Burris had died for nothing.

Traffic on Darla’s quiet street picked up. Snatches of conversation drifted my way. War, and rumors of war. The columns of smoke from the Barracks were easily visible, even from that distance, and I saw more than one person point and heard more than one person wonder if the smoke was the first sign of the coming invasion.

Even the ogres that passed through had their hackles up. By the time I spied Darla walking briskly down the sidewalk toward home, I’d witnessed half a dozen people trying to decide whether to flee their homes or start boarding up the cellars.

The peace, I reflected, was well and truly dead.

Darla saw me and waved. I forced a smile and waved back and lifted my butt off her steps, but I didn’t fool her, even for an instant. Her smiled died on her lips and she broke into a run and within moments she caught me up in a fierce hug and then pulled back, eyeing me for fresh holes or broken bones, I suppose.

“You’ve been to the fire.”

“I have. Got there too late. You heard it was the Barracks?”

She pulled herself close again.

“I heard. I hoped it wasn’t true. Sergeant Burris?”

I shook my head. She didn’t see, but she felt it, and she began to cry.

“Because we were there?”

“I don’t know.” I knew in my heart that wasn’t true. But some lies are worth the telling. “The Sergeant. He got out. Almost. He was holding a binder. I have it. On your porch.”

It took her a moment to speak. “Have you looked at it?”

“I have. Numbers, letters. Didn’t make any sense.”

“He died holding it?”

“He did. Maybe it was just in his hand when the fire broke out. But, hon, if it wasn’t-do you think you’ll be able to tell me what it was?”