A little panic creeps in, but the urge to deny the veiled accusation muscles its way into the fore of your mind and overrides it completely. Barely even pausing, you continue with your response.

“Of course not. Dupont could not have written my name because he didn't know it.”

Drake raises her eyebrow.

“You're certain?”

You tilt your head and look at her, hoping your growing concern isn't showing.

“That was just a hypothetical question, right? About the name in the blood?”

Your hands clench into fists as she gives you a little shake of the head, and reaches for the file. Opening it so only she can see the contents, Drake slips out a photo and lies it in front of you. You stare at it blankly. Your eyes unfocus, not wanting to see it, but only for a moment. Feigning complete ignorance of everything they put in front of you won't help.

It's almost exactly what you expect. Almost in that only your first name is present. Exhaling slowly, you examine the crudely daubed letters. The area of floor panelling the word is written on is well lit, and at the time of the photo being taken the colour of the name was beginning to fade from that characteristic bright red. You're hoping that the letters might have been misconstrued somehow, so it is alternatives that you look for. A large, smeared blood stain encroaches on the bottom of those six letters, but only enough to cast the 'U' into doubt. And even then, the inner curve is still clear... How about the 'S', then? The writer trailed off here, so the shape is compromised slightly – but not enough.

It's exactly what it looks like. You don't think they would fake this. And even if they were that desperate to get a suspected sparker behind bars, they wouldn't do it unless they could get you on that charge. One sparker running around unregistered isn't an issue. The problem starts when people think they can start getting away with it, so they would almost certainly use the opportunity to make an example of you. Not something they can do with a murder charge. No, this isn't faked. You just have impossibly bad luck.

“Some other Alexus? Did he know any?” It's a stab in the dark, but you're not keen on the alternative. You don't like that he knew your name. You don't like the implication that the Myriad, if he was indeed a member and the group does indeed exist, was or is in any way aware of you. You wouldn't like it even if you weren't planning to steal from them.

Another unfortunate implication of Dupont being Myriad is that the organisation is going to be very aware of his death and probably very interested in who was responsible. Add in the detail about Myriad members tending to be powerful and cunningly placed, and there's probably a member in this building right now. Maybe several. If the Myriad thinks you killed one of them, you don't like your chances.

But Dupont must have written your name for a reason, right? You didn't kill him, and he must have been aware of that. He was surprisingly lucid for someone who was bleeding out. If he gave you the gyroscope (and you think he did) as well as wrote your name on the floor, then that means something. If you're lucky, he was actually naming you as the successor of the cube. For some reason. It seems unlikely that he would have named you for that just because you were there. And he must have recognised you somehow...

How and why did Dupont know you? That seems like the most important aspect of this.

Drake shrugs, and your attention snaps back to her. “We don't think so, but it's difficult to say for sure. Alexus is hardly a common name, however. Wouldn't it be too much of a coincidence?”

“Probably, but it's the only possibility that makes any sense to me.”

Somebody said Dupont was a headhunter, didn't they? One of the Riisneians. And Number 6 said he wasn't the only one who thought you were a sparker. You assumed he was referring to the police, but why not the Myriad too? You must have something good to want to hide it, and if Esser was speaking the truth then the Myriad is all about unusual sparkers in less than fantastic circumstances. You're not doing that badly yet, but if the sparker rumour succeeds in squashing all of your business...

DCI Drake says nothing as she returns the photograph to the file. You have a few questions, so you start with the obvious.

“I was wondering... where was this written? The name? I don't recall seeing it when I was present at the crime scene. And I assume it would have been mentioned during the first questioning if the police had known about it then... so where was it hiding?”

“You're correct in thinking that we were unaware of it at that time. It only came to our attention late last night when the body was moved.”

“So it was underneath? Underneath Dupont?”

“Yes.”

“At least that explains why he turned himself over when I was out of the room. To write the name.”

“It would seem that he didn't want you to see it. A reaction that only makes sense if he knew your name, and that you might see it.”

It would also seem that you walked right into that one.

“Are you sure? He was dying of blood loss. It's possible he wasn't even aware I was present.”

She shakes her head. “Consider this: he was dying, as you say. Surely the most comfortable place to write would be away from his body? Somewhere within easy reach of his arm? And instead he chooses to move his body, possibly lift himself up from the floor, and write underneath himself. And however he did it, he would have to pull his arm close to himself. Not the easiest way to do it at all. Writing the name was obviously important to him, but writing it in the place that he did also had its own importance. And if he wasn't hiding it from you, then who? The police? We would find it when we moved his body. Who does that leave?”

“I don't understand, then. I didn't know him.”

You reach for another question, something to distract her from her damning conclusions.

“You say you found the name last night. Why have you only just contacted me now?”

“We had more pressing problems around the point we discovered the name. This interview seemed like something that could wait until a more reasonable hour.”

Either they know you're innocent and that you wouldn't try to get away, or... what? They suspect you but don't have enough evidence? Why wouldn't they at least make an effort to pin you down the second they saw your name written apparently in Dupont's own hand? You're starting to wonder if you were too quick to dismiss the idea of being framed. After all, they don't have to stop at a murder charge. If they can 'prove' a sparker was responsible, and also that you killed the victim, then they have you.

Panic seeps back in, this time to stay.

Seemingly satisfied that you were done with your own questions, your interrogator poses another.

“I'd just like to check: where were you last night between one and two in the morning?”

You inwardly shriek. Running around the Old Bank and chatting with cannibals, that's what! Only Kierkgaard, Number 6 and Esser can back up your alibi. Considering that one's a serial killer and another a wanted criminal, your best bet lies with the one who would prefer to see you dead. Who is also a criminal, come to think of it. They just haven't found enough evidence to convict her yet.

How do you respond to this?

“One and two in the morning?” You repeat it back to her, just to buy yourself a few seconds to recover. Really, it's nothing to worry about. As a private detective, you have the tried and tested 'client confidentiality' line to fall back on. The police will rage and spit but there's not a damn thing they can do about it. It's not even a complete lie.

You can get out of this. Just got to keep calm. Get out of here, then you can think about the Myriad.

“I was with a client.” Drake's eyes narrow, anticipating what you're about to say, and you have to suppress a smirk. “They could give me an alibi, but unfortunately they're a semi-public figure who would much prefer that our meeting was kept confidential and as such-”

She waves a hand dismissively.

“Right, right, I understand. I've unlucky enough to have dealt with PIs before. Where'd you get that black eye?”

The sudden change of direction in the conversation catches you off guard.

“Oh, uh – a misunderstanding.”

“Not with your client, I should hope. You didn't have it yesterday evening.”

“I got jumped by some goons outside of my office last night. Apparently I'd been nosing around where I wasn't wanted.” You shrug like that happens all the time. “They dragged me off to someone a little higher up on the hierarchy and roughed me up a bit. They were just trying to put the scare on me.”

She nods, and you suddenly realise just how tired she looks. Whatever developments there were in the Dupont case, they very well could have kept her up all night.

“That correlates with the report we got last night. Somebody got sapped and dragged off outside your office. Must have been you. I don't suppose you'd be willing to report the people who intimidated you?”

You laugh, somewhat grimly.

“How stupid do you think I am?”

“I have to ask. But fair enough.” Drake is smiling a little, but in terms of humour it's a good match for your own laugh. She reaches for the file again and takes out another photo. It's laid down on the desk in front of you, just like the other, but this one is facing down and Drake seems to hesitate just a moment before letting go of it.

She leans back and considers you carefully.

“Turn it over,” she says.

You spare her a curious glance, but otherwise lean closer and do so promptly.

The photo is of a brick wall. The only point of interest is the hastily drawn symbol: a triangle with two thick lines beneath it.

You tense up instantly – Esser! – then realise you shouldn't have done that and quickly glance up at Drake to see if she noticed, just a split second after your brain screams at you not to do that. Her eyes narrow.

You clear your throat. “What is this?”

“You don't recognise it?”

You look at the photo again, as if making sure, but you know your answer. This is the symbol Esser showed you last night. It seems you were wrong – he didn't kill anyone just prior to your last meeting because he already had a dead body hanging around. If you hadn't walked in on him, you're willing to bet that crime scene would have looked very different. So: he murdered Dupont, heard you enter, fled, and then returned after the meeting in the Old Bank to finish up. And made his mark. The brick wall implies that he did this outside, but makes sense. The room where Dupont died would be too busy.

Esser ate Dupont. The Black Arrow Killer has well and truly returned.

“No, I don't. What does this have to do with Mr Dupont?”

And that's the point where Drake removes the façade and tells you exactly what you realised just seconds before. She tells you about how the body went missing some time between one and two, stolen from the crime scene, which not only revealed your name but also gave them a rather serious problem. She tells you that they found what was left of the old man in an alley about two hundred yards away from the building he lived and died in, and what state he was in. (Decapitated and eaten, as Alence described.) She doesn't mention the mark on the wall, but she does tell you the name of the serial killer and that his last kill was two years ago. Nothing you didn't suspect.

“One thing that does lend credence to you walking in on the killer is the delay between the victim's death and the... treatment the Black Arrow Killer put him through. It's not impossible that you created that gap purposefully, but you don't seem capable of hauling a corpse down a building and a street, let alone without being noticed.” It's with an edge of steel that she adds, “I could be wrong about that though.”

You just nod. Nice to know that every damn person is aware of that rumour.

Drake tries to needle you a little bit more but she doesn't have anything solid on you and, after you make a pointed remark about having other things to do today, she's forced to let you go. A few minutes later you're reclaiming your belongings (the officer at the desk gives you a bit of an odd look that you can only assume is due to the gyroscope) and diving into the first taxi you can thumb down.

When you burst into the waiting room of your office you find a courier with a gigantic (and it really is huge) bouquet of blue flowers and a casually dressed woman peppered with splodges of paint flicking through one of the magazines you keep on the table.

They both look up, evidently a little surprised by your boisterous entrance. At least the feeling's mutual.

You cough, a little embarrassed, and adjust your tie before nodding at the courier.

“Is that for me?”

He looks at you uncertainly. “If you're Alexus Silk, then sure.”

While you dig out your wallet in search of some form of ID, you take a sidelong glance at the other person in the room. She's flicking through a magazine, as you noted before, but her manner is distracted and she doesn't seem to be pausing on any page long enough to take in more than a few sentences. When she reaches the end of the magazine she starts again at the beginning. As you watch she pushes back a stray lock of hair behind her ear. Her hand trembles as she does so.

Hell.

You also notice that the splodges of paint on her hands (and in her hair, and her face, and on her clothes) are relatively varied in colour: probably more of an artistic painter than a decorator.

The first useful thing you find in your wallet is your sparker ID, which states that you are not, in fact, actually a sparker. You're not obligated to carry it in the same way people with abilities are, but it's helpful to have on hand from time to time. You hand it to the courier. His eyes flick from the photo to your face, and then back again. He hands it back, and pulls out a clipboard and a pen from his bag.

“Thanks. Just sign here,” he says as he gives the necessary items to do so. You're just putting pen to paper when he speaks again.

“No offence or anything, but you're not exactly what I was expected.”

“The black eye, right? Yeah, everyone seems to be making a big deal out of that this morning.”

“Well, sure, but not just that. These are from Evelyn Murios, right? Even if you forget about the Murios family, she's kind of... you know. High status.”

He takes back his clipboard and proffers the bouquet of flowers, gripping it with both hands by the card box base the stems sit in. He's squinting slightly, with his head tilted, as if that might suddenly transform you into a socialite worthy of receiving flowers from Murios family members.

“Evelyn Murios sent these?”

That's... odd. You weren't really expecting that Number 6 would use his name, nor is the guise of flowers for the package really surprising (if a little disconcerting) but how does he know about Evelyn? And why use her name? Why not make one up?

“Yeah. Are you going to take them or not?”

“I suppose so,” you reply as you accept the flowers and ease them into the crook of your arm. “Thanks.”

The courier leaves. The woman casts her magazine aside and looks at you expectantly.

“Are you here to see me?” You sidle up to the door to your office and fish around for your keys.

She nods, and seems about to say something before you cut her off.

“Let me get settled down and then you can tell me everything.”

You swing the door open and stand aside so she can go inside, then follow her in.

“Please, take a seat.” You gesture at the desk crammed next to the sole window (chairs on either side, the more comfortable being for the client) and push around some of the clutter on top of a filing cabinet to make a space for the flowers. After a few seconds it becomes clear that this line of action is futile, so you walk over to the desk and try setting it down there instead. No, that's no good. If you sit down you won't be able to see your potential client for all the blue petals.

It ends up on the floor. The painter looks at them with some curiosity, but returns her gaze to you when you sit down opposite her and clear your throat. You pull out a pencil and a pad to give your hands something to do while you talk.

“Tell me about it.”

“It's my friend. She's missing, and I think – I think somebody took her. There was blood, and, and-”

A dry sob escapes her, and she claps a hand to her mouth. She sits there, trembling, her gaze fixed at a point on your desk.

“Let's start at the beginning. What's your name?”

She looks back at you, and slowly moves her hand away from her mouth.

“I, uh, I'm Katherine Logan.”

“And your friend's name?”

“Dominique Fabron.” She seems a little calmer.

“Thank you. That's a good start. You say she's missing, and you think possibly kidnapped – why haven't you gone to the police with this? They're much more qualified to deal with this sort of thing than I am.”

“Dominique... she's not exactly, ah, legal? I mean, she wasn't born here, and I think something happened in her home country that made getting out difficult, so...”

“She's an illegal immigrant, you mean.”

“Y-yes. I wasn't sure how the police would treat that, and even if they did help – I got the impression she was a, a fugitive, or something. I don't know what would happen to her if she got sent back.”

“Back to where?”

“Riisneia, I think. She's never said it explicitly, but she has an accent.”

Another Riisneian. That's the third one in two days. Maybe that's not too surprising. There's only a sea separating Victraedis and the eastern coast of Riisneia, and you get a lot of different types here. That said, the borders of that country are notoriously tight. If you want to get in you need a native to vouch for you, and getting out requires an excellent reason, a mound of paperwork and a nudge from someone inside the system. You've met one or two people who used to live there before, but three in two days is quite something.

Or maybe not. Coincidences exist, after all, and the first two Riisneians are clearly affiliated with each other.

“You said there was blood. Where?”

“At her studio. She's an artist – a sculptor! And she sleeps and lives there as well. I share the neighbouring studio with a few other painters, and most days I'll walk in and say hello. The door was unlocked this morning, like usual, but she wasn't there. But there was blood. And things had been knocked over, like there'd been a struggle.”

“Any enemies?”

“I don't think so. What enemies would a sculptor have? She mostly kept to herself.”

“Artistic rivals, maybe?”

“She's not that well known. Dominique is a fantastic artist, but I guess she was trying to keep a low profile. Because... you know.”

“When did you last see her? What was she like? Moody? Jumpy? Scared? Distracted? Anything like that?”

“It would have been last night. She forgets to eat, sometimes, so I bring dinner for us both occasionally. She seemed excited, if anything – she'd just managed to get a commission for some stonework. A character from some kind of myth, I think. I had a hard time getting her to stop long enough to actually eat something.”

You sigh and look over the words you scratched onto the pad.

“Are you sure there was nothing unusual about her? Had Dominique done anything in the past that seemed strange – did you ever see her with anyone shady? Did she have any Riisneian contacts, someone who knew about her past? Or anything else that would connect her to it?”

“She has a sister who lives in Victraedis...”

“Great. Do you have an address? Something I can use to get in contact with her?”

“I have a business card; Dominique gave it to me once, said to go see her if I ran into any trouble. Here,” she says as she produces the card from a pocket and hands it to you. You take it.

It's very simple, white text on black. Antionette Fabron. Consultant. Then an address on Kismeria Avenue, as well as a telephone number.

“Have you been to see her? I'd say this qualifies as trouble.”

“No. Dominique seemed kind of nervous whenever she was brought up. I think she might have been scared of her for some reason.”

“And yet she recommended Antionette to you. Very strange.”

“I – I suppose so.”

“Anything else you might want to mention?”

“Yes. I think – the tattoo. Dominique had one.”

“Go on.”

“It's on the back of her neck. It's two numbers: a long one, five or six digits, and then one written in ancient numerals above it. I know the one in ancient numerals was a two: II. I'm not sure what the other one was, but I think it started with a zero.”

“Did she ever tell you where she got it?”

“No. She kept it covered up most of the time. She doesn't like talking about it, and I didn't want to press the issue.”

“I see.”

“So. Will you help me?”

Will you accept? Or is there anything you'd like to ask Katherine first?

Riisneians, numbers, and fugitives. You picture the number II in your mind, and the image of Number 6's emblem in the sky rises unbidden. VI.

Next time you see the bastard you might ask him if he has a tattoo on his neck. It's certainly a long shot, but if it makes him jump it'll be worth it.

“I'll do whatever I can to find Dominique,” you reply, and the relief that flickers across Katherine's face is enough to send guilt creeping through you. Your chances of success are slim at best, and that's if she's even still alive. If you do find her, that's not to say you can free her or return her life to normal. Whatever normal may be for a fugitive.

Not to mention you're making money off of her misery. Speaking of which...

“There is, of course, the matter of payment,” you say casually. Katherine's smile dims a little, but only slightly.

“Yes, of course. What are your rates?”

“Forty a day, plus expenses. I usually ask for a retainer of eighty.” That's a lie. The line you trot out is forty a day, but you've worked for less and you expect that you will again. If you pull off Number 6's heist then it probably won't matter either way. Not for the moment, anyway.

Silently, Katherine pulls out her purse and lays down eight bills on the desk. She looks at you nervously.

“That's right, isn't it?”

“Yes, thank you.” You pick each note up individually. You could just sweep them into a pile, but the action feels a little dirty, a little smug. You doubt you'll ever get used to taking money off the desperate. You always feel like you're cheating them.

You'll never be rich, but at least you'll have your useless sense of guilt.

“I need to ask a few more questions, if you don't mind.”

She nods.

“I know this is hard for you to think about, but is there any indication that Dominique is still alive? You said there was blood, a struggle, and that just makes me think-”

“There wasn't much blood. Just – a spray. Across the wall. And on the unfinished sculpture. Not a much. Not enough to kill someone. But I didn't think anything bad had happened, not really. Not until I saw the blood.”

“I see.” The blood might not be Dominique's, in that case. It might be that of an assailant. And if she had been murdered, and it had been bloody, then the culprit would probably have cleaned up all blood, including the splatter. Not likely to be a bloody death followed by a dump job, then. There was some hope.

“Do you know who commissioned the sculpture Dominique was working on?”

“She wouldn't say, just that it was someone very important. That was part of why she was so excited. But her agent would know. All of her commissions were handled by him.”

“Who's the agent?”

“Erik Leroux. He actually owns the building our studios are in, but you won't find him there. I can give you a telephone number to reach him on.”

You rip off the top page of the pad you were writing on and push the rest over to her.

“Please do. The address of the studio and some way of contacting you would also be appreciated. I'm also going to need a photo of Dominique, or a description.”

She scribbles down two numbers and an address, then reaches for her purse again. She hands you a photo from it.

“This is from a couple of months ago.”

Katherine is in the left of the photo, smiling and with her left arm around a second woman, presumably Dominique. Her hair and eyes are dark, her hair long and tumbling down to her shoulders. On the right side of her head it's partly shaved away. Her features are slightly round but she's powerfully built, no doubt on account of being a stone carver. She's significantly shorter than Katherine, and there's a small mole just right of her mouth. The kind of mark some people draw on with make-up.

“Hey, is this mole real?” You point at it and hold the photo up so Katherine can see it. She leans in a little, even though she must know what you're referring to.

“Oh yes, it's real. I always though it was cute.” She looks down at her interlocked hands, a small smile on her lips and the slightest blush on her cheeks. It only lasts a moment before she remembers the reality of the situation and the smile drops away.

“Ah, right. I think that's all, thank you.” You stand up, step around the flowers and hold open the door again. “You have my word that I will do whatever it takes to find out what happened to your friend.”

“Thank you.” She stands. Just as she passes through the door you start to speak.

“Ah, before I forget - “ Katherine stops in the waiting room and turns to look at you. “Dominique – was she a sparker?”

“Not that she ever told me.”

“Ah. Goodbye then.”

Interesting. Why not a straight no?

When she's gone, you sit at your desk and look down at the flowers. Blue carnations and roses of varying shades and – something white?

You reach down amongst the blossoms and feel the straight edge of an envelope. You pull it out and lay on the table in front of you.

“To my dearest Alexus,” it reads, in the flowing script of Evelyn Murios.

Or as you sometimes think of her, the Lady. One of your informants. Well, you say informant. You're more than that: sort of friends. You haven't spoken to her in a while.

It would seem that she actually sent these, which raises a few questions. Either Evelyn Murios is keeping quite the secret or something else is going on here.

You flip the envelope over and open it up. You unfold the sheet of paper you find inside.

Alexus!

It's been weeks! Have I offended you? If that's the case then you have my most sincere apologies, and you can accept these flowers in that light. (Otherwise simply accept them as something beautiful.) But perhaps you have been caught up in intrigue upon intrigue and you were simply too busy divining truth and righting misdeeds to contact me. I certainly hope so. I've missed your stories of danger and daring.

Whatever your reasons, I'm sure this rift between us can be ably mended by this invitation.

This Friday is the Festival of Faces, as I'm sure you are very aware, and while every party worth speaking about has been begging for my attendance, I've lain my favour with Tullius Rivenback. You will be coming as my guest.

I know that you will protest, tell me that you'll be out of place there, that my people are not your people, but nobody will know! This is the beauty of the Festival of Faces, my friend: for one day we abandon our identities and become something unknown and unknowable. I would advise a full face mask, just to keep everyone guessing who my mysterious companion is even longer. Not that they'll ever figure it out, but they'll put that down to your mask more than your true identity.

If it makes you feel better, you'll be doing me a favour. My planned date has skipped town with a ballet dancer, as I hear it, and as I'm sure you can imagine, it's quite embarrassing to have your lover abandon you so callously. As is so often the case, I was the last to know. If I turn up alone, the overwrought sympathy and smug, hidden smiles will be too much to bear. I can't allow myself to look bad when Lucien Rivenback will be there. I've told you about my cousin, haven't I? Pardon my language, but he's a little shit and I refuse to let him feel superior to me. However, the company of a mysterious stranger will surely serve to distract and mitigate the unsavoury pity that would otherwise abound. For great justice, you must attend!

Call me and I can tell you all the details. You have my number.

Yours, as always,

Evelyn Murios

You carefully set down the letter and slump back in your chair. Where to begin?

Firstly, it's quite clear that Evelyn was the actual writer. The handwriting is definitely hers, as is the style. It would seem that this is not Number 6's package, and that she sent you these flowers today is mere coincidence. Perhaps. That still doesn't explain what happened to the other package.

Secondly, you had completely forgotten about Friday. Put it down to never really being introduced to religion, as poor an excuse as that is. The Festival of Faces is a huge event in Victraedis for multiple reasons, among them being the strong presence of the Church of the Nameless God in the city, the fact that Victrix herself was (apparently) born and buried here, and finally that the Festival of Faces is the holy day devoted to Victrix and her obsession with anonymity. It's not framed like that, of course. The Church has some kind of belief that putting aside your identity is a noble act. You don't know much about it so you can't claim to understand it.

The point is, on one day in summer almost everyone in the city takes to wearing a mask. At minimum. Elaborate costumes are common, with the more involved taking on different names and personalities for the day. There are a lot of events throughout the city, some government and church sanctioned, most not. Plays are popular. The more conventional plays, but also weirder ones. Plays in derelict buildings, plays that went unadvertised and yet still have audiences, impromptu plays, plays where the line between actor and spectator blur. And everyone wearing masks.

You don't tend celebrate it. You're not part of the Church of the Nameless God and it honestly creeps you out. But you think you could stomach going to a party with Evelyn, if not for the small complication of the host being Tullius Rivenback himself.

Tullius Rivenback, one of five leaders of the city. It goes without saying that the sort of company he keeps is going to be of similar status. The sort of people whose families have crests, or else more wealth than you can comprehend.

To be blunt, it's intimidating as hell and you have no idea if you would even be capable of holding a conversation with these people. You're not entirely convinced that you'd be capable of acquiring a costume that would stand up to scrutiny either. Not in two days, with today being Wednesday.

You pick up the bouquet by the card box and shake it a little. It seems oddly weighted towards the bottom. That might just be so the flowers don't tip over, but...

Lifting out a fistful of stems, you peer inside and catch sight of something matte and black. Reaching in, your fingertips trace the edges of a box and a crest embossed upon its upper surface. You doubt Evelyn or the florists put that there.

You glance across at your clock. You have an hour or so before noon.

Do you want to investigate the contents of the black box now? Or do you want to take the opportunity to begin investigation into Dominique's disappearance? You could start with either the studio, her sister or her agent. Alternatively, you could prepare for lunch with your mother dearest. You left Number 6's message for her back at your apartment. It does occur to you that the letter was typed and in an unsealed envelope. Number 6 did sign it with his emblem, but that wouldn't be difficult to forge. You could replace the message with whatever you wanted, if you felt like messing with Number 6 and Ms Ashe. To what end, you're not sure, but it's an opportunity that begs to be taken advantage of.

What will you do?

The box is too enticing to resist. You pull it out and replace the flowers.

You freeze as soon as you see the embossed crest: a quartered shield, four birds inside, two birds outside holding the motto.

“Virtutis In Numeris,” you whisper.

It's the very same as that which stamped the envelope you found in the Old Bank.

As you touch the box a split appears in the side, forming a lid. You pull away, and the box becomes a featureless cuboid again, barring the embossing.

A linker item bearing a mysterious crest? This is something important. Or dangerous.

You touch it again and flip open the lid. Inside are several items, which you pick out and lay on the desk in front of you.

An envelope with your name written on it. You don't recognise the handwriting. Another version of the quartered shield and motto, seemingly made of tarnished silver. Flipping it over, you find two words engraved on the otherwise flat back: Alexander Dupont. A folded piece of thick parchment, which words blossom across when you pick it up. They vanish again when you let go: another linker item. And finally, a piece of string.

Slitting open the envelope allows five twenty dollar notes to fall out, as well as a small piece of folded paper. Unfolding it reveals only the words: 'How on earth did you make an acquaintance of one of the Murios family? I'm impressed.' Number 6's emblem sits at the bottom.

The most obvious option for replacing Number 6's message would end up inciting a gang war. You wouldn't be too upset if either Number 6 or Ms Ashe got themselves killed as a result, but while that's an uncertainty it goes without saying that many other people will die. You're not comfortable with that kind of blood on your hands.

You're perfectly happy to irritate the Red Queen with her nickname though. You make a mental note to replace the letter so that Number 6 uses it.

The linker item is the only thing of interest left. You pick up the folded parchment and watch typed words spread across its surface like spilled ink. The crest appears once again above the text. Whatever it stands for, by this point you think it can be safely said to be linked to the Myriad.

By appointment of the Myriad, the bearer of this document is tasked with protecting and guarding the Pre-Schism artefact(s) listed below. All Pre-Schism artefacts, in particular those related to the Incarnations of Y█████, are considered classified to all but Myriad members of clearance of Tier 3 or higher. Any exceptions to this must be cleared with Tier 6 or higher Myriad members.

#3936. Clearance required: Tier 4. Class: Y█████. Shielding not necessary for brief exposure. Description: A carved Victrixian Era stone cube with a complex locking mechanism. Contains a block of unmelting ice, within which the severed hand of an Incarnation is suspended. The hand lacks the usual Mark on the palm. Identity of Incarnation unknown. Primary purpose unknown. Secondary purpose allows for the detection of O████████ and Y██████ influence in living individuals.

That doesn't mean much to you, but cube sounds like the one you're looking for. That would probably make this sheet the proof you need to present to get the Myriad to hand it over, but that doesn't get you any closer to actually finding them.

As if in response to your thought, the black ink sinks back into the paper and new words appear.

The previous bearer of this document is detected as deceased. To begin registration as the new bearer, please write your full name in block capitals below. Black ink preferred.

You ignore it for a moment and unfold the parchment. The same words appear in the centre of the larger sheet. You unfold it again, and the same happens. Disconcertingly, the sheet still appears to be folded and yet the combined thickness of the folded sheets seems no different to that when it was fully folded. You unfold it a few more times until the area of the surface the words are written on is larger than that of your office floor, still with no change in the thickness, at which point you get the picture and fold it back to its smallest. You can't help but feel the linker that made this only included the perpetual unfolding feature to prove that they could. You have difficulty imagining it could ever prove useful.

In response to the parchment's words you fish out a black pen from a desk drawer and write your name. It vanishes, replaced by:

Please deposit a sample of your own blood upon the paper. A drop will be sufficient.

Once again the desk drawers prove useful and you prick your thumb with a pen knife found in there. Once the blood fades, new words appear.

To complete registration, sign the area below. Black ink preferred.

The work of seconds.

Registration complete. You are not yet a member of the Myriad. Please consult with the Coordinator at your nearest Myriad base. Do you require directions?

You pause, then write 'Yes'.

Place and activate your beacon.

The words disappear after you read them, replaced by a black circle about half an inch in diameter. The rest of the sheet in completely blank.

What now?

You look back up at the clock. Noon is fast approaching. Kierkgaard didn't give you any indication of when you would have to be at the Blue Rose, which implies that somebody will come and get you. But by the same token, you have no idea as to when they'll turn up. You don't have the time to go chasing after myths right now.

But the Myriad is looking more and more real the further you get into this. Linkers are a rare type of sparker, but potentially very valuable with strict training and access to a wide range of different sparkers. Linker items, by extension, are usually inordinately expensive even for the most simple of imbuements. The box would be fairly easy to create. This parchment, however... you have no idea how somebody would go about making something like this. It's useful, elegant, and has no direct connection to any sparker talent you can think of. Perhaps some manner of illusionist? That might explain the infinite paper trick. But not how it knew Dupont was dead. Or how it has the ability to get you to the Myriad. Whatever exactly this paper is, it's complex and highly specialised. There's no way that this is some kind of joke.

So the Myriad exists. Whatever that means. It doesn't make everything you've heard about the Myriad automatically true, but it opens up a lot of possibilities.

You called the Myriad a fairy tale when Number 6 mentioned it to you, but they're more like an urban myth. Everyone's heard the stories about people who turn down alleys they've never seen before and finding themselves in streets with only a single building on it. The men at the door are expecting them. They've been waiting for a long time. Others, finding themselves lost and out of place, wander unceasingly until they find themselves at the Myriad's doors, and realise this was always their destination. And so on. They always enter the building, driven by a strange compulsion, and are forever lost in the maze of of unearthly rooms and shifting corridors, with doors vanishing when you turn away and others appearing when you look back. What happens then is left ambiguous, as is the real identity of the Myriad and their purpose for drawing in sparkers. (The victims are never normals for some reason.)

You don't find the Myriad. The Myriad finds you. And then they wait for you to come to them, for as long as it takes.

If the Myriad are real, then you're willing to bet that they circulated the stories themselves to help keep their presence secret and all evidence to the contrary ridiculous. Or else this is some kind of elaborate and bizarre character assassination. You can imagine that kind of reputation it makes recruitment awkward, all the same.

But if not a trap for sparkers, what is the Myriad? Number 6 called them merely unregistered sparkers. Esser described them as a secret society responsible for the successes of some of the most powerful people in the city. He also mentioned that they wanted to see Number 6 dead, but not why. You suppose it's possible that Number 6 is poaching their potential recruits for his army, although you're not sure that's a good enough reason for that level of enmity. It could just be that they don't like other people knowing they exist in any capacity beyond bogeymen.

You turn your attention back to the parchment.

The only likely contender for a beacon is the gyroscope. Number 6 told you that whatever Dupont gave you would be key for finding the Myriad. You pick up the piece of string from the desk and take the gyroscope out of your pocket with your other hand. Once the string is properly coiled, you place the toy on the black dot and yank out the string.

You watch as it spins with a quiet whir, more or less in place, and then it starts to glow softly. Light collects in the grooves on the bronze metal, tracing them brightly.

Beacon activated. Stand by for directions.

Abruptly the gyroscope stops, light extinguished, and falls over. Underneath it lines of ink snake outwards, filling the parchment. Leaning forward and removing the gyroscope, it becomes apparent that you're looking at a map of Victraedis, with your location at the centre of it. Once the map fills the face of parchment, a strip of paper to the right clears itself and words start to appear in it. Directions. At the same time a line of red ink runs through the streets, beginning at your office building and ending at another building simply labelled 'The Myriad'. You don't recognise the street it's located on. Of course not.

At the bottom of the paper a little more space is cleared, and the parchment repeats its demand for you to make your way to the base as soon as possible.

You respond by putting it back in the black box. The silver crest, the gyroscope and the string all follow. Number 6's note and the envelope it came in are put in the ash tray and set alight, the one hundred in cash finding a home in your wallet.

There's a safe in the corner of your office. After a few minutes of fiddling around with the lock and attempting to remember the combination, it glides open. There's nothing in there at the moment, and there hasn't been for a while, but occasionally it's useful to have a safe place for case-related items. This is one of those times. You don't like the idea of leaving the black box lying around.

Once the box is secure, you make sure that no scraps of Number 6's handwriting remain unburned, scoop the flowers back up and lock both your office door and the waiting room door behind you. Neither would stop someone fully intent on breaking in, but the act of turning the key makes you feel better. Not that you're entirely sure what you're feeling so nervous about.

Maybe it's Number 6. Maybe it's the Myriad. Maybe it's a severed hand encased in ice, somehow valuable enough that a person had to die for it. Maybe it's your name, written by a dying man in his own blood. A man you'd never met. A man whose name is etched in silver on a crest lying in your safe, two or three metres behind you.

A few minutes later you're out in the sunshine, but the sense of unease is still haunting you. It only takes a few minutes to get from your office to your apartment. You decide to walk.

The flowers draw a few glances, but at least they distract from the black eye.

You cut through a few alleys, savouring the coolness of the shadows after the glare of the sunlight. You turn a corner, mere metres from rejoining a main street, but stop there.

There's a body slumped on the ground. You can't tell if they're still breathing, not at this distance. You quickly glance around, but no one else is standing in the gloom with you.

What do you do?

“Hello?”

No response. But then nobody would be lying on the ground like that if they were in a position to reply.

You put the flowers on the ground and step closer to the body. Steeling yourself, you inch closer until it's just within touching distance. You reach out for their shoulder and pull just enough to turn them face up.

It's a girl. A teenager. She appears to have bled out from multiple wounds and her left arm looks broken.

“She's quite dead, I'm afraid, and has been for a few minutes.”

You turn.

The speaker leans against the dark brick wall. Either they weren't there a few seconds ago or you didn't see them when you looked. They're dressed almost completely in the same dull, dark grey. In deep enough darkness they might just melt into the shadows. Cowled, wearing dark tinted glasses and with a cloth wrapped around their nose and mouth, you can't see their face at all. A stole draped around their shoulders gently waves in the wake of a stray breeze and brushes their knees. Black armband. Black trim on the hood. They've pulled the glove off their left hand, and they're cleaning the underside of the nails of a hand as white as snow with a gleaming pocket knife. You've never seen a hand so pale.

“You should go,” they continue. “There's nothing you can do for her now.”

“Are you a sacerdos?” It's hardly the most pertinent question. It's barely relevant. You're fairly sure you know how they're going to reply.

“That I am. Guardian Ahazai of the Church of the Nameless God, at your service. But you really should go.”

“Did you kill her?”

They hiss and look up sharply. Crimson is seeping out from under one of their nails and down the gleaming blade. They shake their head and wipe the metal with the gloved hand, then don the other glove. Only when the knife has been put away do they reply.

“No. No. We would not do this. There are just deaths and necessary deaths and sometimes the right sacerdos might enact them, but what happened to this child was neither of those things.”

“Maybe so. But I'm looking at a dead body and someone being extremely cagey about how it got there. What does that look like to you?”

They bow their head.

“I'm waiting for the killer to appear. She managed to crawl away from her attacker, leaving a trail, and it seems likely the perpetrator will want to make sure that she's dead. Or maybe they will regret what they did and hope that she survived. Either way, they will be here soon.”

“You think you can handle them on your own?”

“I think I can reason with them. If that is not possible, then they will be at the disadvantage. I don't think they've killed anyone before. I very much doubt that they will be thinking straight.”

“A panicky murderer doesn't sound any better than a clear-headed one. It actually sounds worse.”

Looking up again, they step away from the wall, and closer to you.

“What is it that you want, friend? Why are you still here? Do you doubt that I'm a sacerdos? Or do you mistake me for a Thinker or a Healer, soft and naïve? Is it just that you think I'm an incapable Guardian? Does the black armband mean nothing to you?” Their voice is almost completely unemotional, but if anything closer to idly curious than annoyed.

You can't claim to have any idea what the black armband means. You've seen other sacerdotes, the stoic and uniformed guards that stand at the entrances of the Cathedral, with white and red armbands. During the summer riots a few years ago you saw one with a maroon armband leading others with red, but you've never seen any with black. Whatever the armbands are, they seem to be unique to the Guardian sacerdotes. The same seems to go for the trim on the hoods, which always match the armbands in colour. While working, the Healers wear only wristbands to denote their status as sacerdotes. You've never seen a Thinker. Probably something to do with never having been in a church.

In any case, how do you reply to the sacerdos?