Leena gave a firm nod.
He seemed to consider this, then shrugged as if it didn’t matter to him one way or the other. “You may do whatever you pleaseaftermy business is concluded.”
Leena stepped out of the way.
They walked into the courtyard, leaving the phantom behind them, the echo of their steps lost in the distant noise of the festival.
“Basil.” St. Silas nodded at the man. His tone was pleasant, but it drew a shiver out of Leena. “You said it was urgent. What do you have to report?”
Basil bowed jerkily, his eyes flickering to Leena briefly. Then he took out a match, busying himself with lighting a cigarette. Leena noticed that his bulky fingers trembled.
“You’ve not been followed, sir?” There was a trace of apprehension in the large man’s voice.
“I got rid of my shadow a fortnight ago,” was St. Silas’s laconic reply. Leena could not forget the beaten man in the Saint’s study, and she wondered if that was theshadowhe was referring to. “The only news I care to hear from you is whether your boss received my message.”
Basil heaved a sigh. “Two Black Coats dead within the span of a few weeks. That’s a lot even for you, sir.”
“In which case”—St. Silas smiled—“Orley should not have sent his man to spy on me, posing as a confessor. I will not ask again. What do you have to report?”
Basil’s cigarette drew shadows on his face. “Mr. Orley does not want a war. The two men you, er, disposed of…had also beentaking bribes from an Algaraan gang in exchange for Black Coat information about Tar shipments. Overall, Mr. Orley’s pleased by the outcome and sees no need for retaliation.”
A dangerous frown twisted St. Silas’s face. “It matters little to me what Orley’s motives were for ridding himself of his two spies. If your boss decides to send anyone else to attempt to collect information on me, I would not hesitate to bury a hundred Black Coats, and retaliation be damned.”
Basil nodded wearily. “Aye, sir. I think the boss has received your message very clearly.”
St. Silas didn’t immediately respond, watching Basil with a wolfish intensity, light glinting off his mask. “As matters stand, Orley should be more worried about spies in hisowncircle.”
Basil tensed, and the hand holding the cigarette shook. “Mr. St. Silas, you know Mr. Orley would slit my throat in an instant if he knew I was sending reports to you—”
“Notjustme, though, is it, Basil?” St. Silas’s laugh was cutting. “Certainly being an agent forthreeorganizations simultaneously must have vast rewards for you—and in truth,” he continued, as smooth as the pistol that appeared suddenly between his fingers, “I cannot fault you for trying to sell information aboutbothmyself and your boss to a higher bidder.”
Basil dropped his cigarette.
“Come, Basil, confess. You have also been spying for the Wake. The question I have for you is what it was you chose to divulge aboutme.”
Basil eyed the gun fearfully. “I would never—”
The pistol clicked. “I do not take kindly to liars, Basil. Tread carefully.”
Basil took a wary step back. “I have not—”
“I know many things about you,” St. Silas interrupted easily. “For instance, in addition to spying, you also trade prisoners for the Wake—and when you are ordered, you execute them.”
Basil opened his mouth several times before managing to croak out, “H-how did…did you…You couldn’t have known…How…?” He continued pleadingly, “Only a few Algaraans—criminals who would’ve got the rope anyway.”
Leena’s heart raged. To Basil, these prisoners—a few Algaraans—were not human enough to deserve a proper trial or a fair outcome, but a currency to line his pockets with. Who knew why the Wake wanted these poor men dead or why they traded the living ones, but it was a certainty that people like Basil Richards profited hugely from this business.
“Who runs the Wake?” Leena cut in, her breaths heaving painfully from her chest.
Basil eyed her once more with distaste, and for a moment she was sure he was not going to respond. She wanted to throttle the information out of him.
“Answer her,” St. Silas commanded.
Basil’s attention focused once more on St. Silas’s gun. The words were twisted as he spoke. “Ten years ago, it was run by an aristo. But he’s dead now—long may he rot.”
“What was the aristo’s name?” Though Leena had a sinking feeling she already knew.
“Lord Avon. I don’t know who runs it now. I am not privy to that information.”
