Duilio sat down across from Gaspar in his regular chair. “But she doesn’t think he’s behind it? Does she even have a name?”

Gaspar’s lips twisted in a wry smile. “No.”

Duilio had a feeling Gaspar could talk circles around him. He didn’t think the inspector was more than five or six years older than him, but when he looked in Gaspar’s eyes, the man seemed ancient. As if he’d seen everything in the world twice. “No, she doesn’t think he’s involved?” Duilio asked. “Or no, she doesn’t have a name?”

Gaspar picked up his glass. “She does have a name but it’s not recorded anywhere. No record of her birth, and as far as I know only one man alive knows that name. No, she doesn’t believe Maraval could be involved. He’s an old family friend, her godfather, although not officially, of course. The Church has no record of her birth or baptism.” He took a sip of wine. “Speaking of which, what is your history with Silva?”

“He’s my father’s bastard brother,” Duilio admitted with a shrug.

“There’s nothing wrong with being a bastard,” Gaspar pointed out.

“I agree,” Duilio said. Joaquim had been born only six months after his parents’ marriage; some might question his legitimacy as well, so Duilio chose his words carefully. “If Silva and my father had grown up as equals, Silva might have made a charming uncle. But my grandfather cast him out when his mother died, and Silva never forgave him. He made an enemy of my father, he baited Alessio endlessly, and he’s spent the past year taunting me.”

Gaspar regarded him with narrowed eyes. “Could he be involved in this floating-house business? Maraval dropped Silva’s name at one point and then quickly took it back.”

Duilio closed his eyes. Silva had the access. It was unclear how much money the man had, but with the Ministry of Culture doing the funding, that made the high cost of the installation less of a factor in who might be pulling the strings. And there had been that business with Mata getting notes similar to the one that had made Augustus Smithson back off the hunt for his mother’s pelt. Duilio felt certain that linked the two cases, even if Anjos had reason to think Silva didn’t have the pelt. Silva was on close terms with the prince, wasn’t he? His pet seer? Silva would surely rise in influence if the prince became a king. “It’s possible,” Duilio finally said.

Joaquim shook his head. “I don’t agree.”

“I don’t think it’s likely,” Duilio qualified. “If he was involved, he would have never let Miss Paredes go when he had her in his grasp. Nor would he have mentioned the Open Hand to me or told me about the prophecy. He knows I work with the police. Do you think Maraval was trying to deflect attention?”

Gaspar tilted his head to one side. “One reason that Anjos and I—and Miss Vladimirova—were brought in from outside the country was that we have no family ties here, no loyalties that might prompt us to false assumptions. So I’m inclined to reserve judgment on Silva and Maraval both.”

Duilio had to admit the man was correct. He disliked Silva for their shared past history. Then again, until recently he’d believed Espinoza complicit in the deaths of dozens, which now seemed wrong. There was a benefit to keeping an open mind. “I’ll try to do likewise.”

The inspector drank the last of his Vinho Verde and rose. Evidently he’d said all he’d come to tell them. “Good.”

“Anjos claimed that if Maraval hurt the Lady,” Joaquim said, “you would kill him.”

Gaspar chuckled. “Anjos underestimates me. I wouldn’t do anything so obvious. Nor would it be that fast.”

After bidding both of them a good night, he let himself out. Joaquim took over the chair the inspector had abandoned, looking intent. “They are an odd bunch. Do you think they work for the infante?”

“That’s my best guess,” Duilio said with a shrug, “although if it’s true, then it’s borderline treason, putting the infante ahead of the prince.”

“But the infante is under house arrest up at the palace,” Joaquim pointed out. “How could he possibly be pulling their strings? Anjos came all the way from Brazil, and Gaspar from Cabo Verde.”

Duilio had been considering that. “I suspect there are ways of working around the infante’s house arrest. There must be someone who can get in to see him, someone who knows his views and is willing to act on his orders. The Lady seems able to slip about unnoticed. She might be able to get in to speak with him undetected. And I’d bet there are plenty of wealthy men in this city who’d be willing to bankroll their future prince’s whims.”

“Meaning that they expect Prince Fabricio to die,” Joaquim said. “Soon enough for their efforts to pay off.”

It was a cynical thing for Joaquim to say, but Duilio wasn’t surprised by his conclusion. “Yes.”

“And do we believe Anjos and his crew?” Joaquim asked, pouring another glass of wine for him. “That they’re who they say they are?”

Duilio picked up the glass, thinking he should make this one his last. “Do you see an alternative? The Lady clearly has more influence than we do. If nothing else, they might be able to get one of the houses pulled up, perhaps even get a newspaper to dare to write about it.”

“Not a very ambitious plan,” Joaquim said, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“It’s more than we had a week ago,” Duilio pointed out.

Joaquim sighed and set his glass on the table. “And now we’re assigned to the Special Police. That’s a distinction I never wanted to have.”

“I know.” Duilio rubbed a weary hand over his face. “I don’t know that we’ve gotten anywhere for that price.”

“Well,” Joaquim said, “Mata died on the way to the police station, so Alessio’s killer is dead. The officers watching the tavern say Maria Melo hasn’t reappeared there, so the Open Hand either knows that we’re watching the place or they’ve figured out about the sabotage and gotten rid of her.”

“That’s probably the reason for two weeks between the houses appearing in the water,” Duilio said. “It takes her time to set up the next pair of victims and arrange for their ‘departure’ to their new employment.”

Joaquim nodded. “That occurred to me.”

Duilio shook his head. “I want to believe Silva’s behind this, but it just doesn’t fit.”

“I know,” Joaquim said. “It’s getting late. Go home. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Oriana turned over, pushing the heavy coverlet aside. The large bed, no matter how comfortable, couldn’t entice her to sleep. Her mind kept replaying Heriberto’s warning.

The Open Hand was, according to Mr. Ferreira’s source, trying to make the prince into the king of Portugal. Oriana wasn’t sure that made sense. Prince Dinis II of Southern Portugal certainly wouldn’t agree to such a plan. After all, the two Portugals had been separate for well over a century, closer to two. Reuniting them would disrupt the politics of both countries.

And Maria Melo was trying to stop whatever the Open Hand was doing. That almost made sense. One of the things that had kept Portugal from asserting any claim over the islands her people called home was that the two Portugals didn’t have the resources to manage warfare on a large scale individually. They’d relinquished most of their interests overseas, turned their colonies over to local governments, and kept only a small military presence in each one. A reunited Portugal might expand to exert influence on the international stage again. And while the Portuguese royalty didn’t know the location of the islands her people called home, the Portuguese Church did. They might be persuaded to give up that information should a king rise and pressure them.

But would that possibility be enough for her people’s government to opt for assassination? In Oriana’s mind, it didn’t quite fit. Her people had a long history of avoidance, not confrontation. Even their navy did so, using their magic to judiciously guide ships around the island chain without those ships realizing they’d been redirected. Why suddenly choose a violent option for Portugal?