“I think,” Eisen said, “I may have an idea.”
The Fiddler occupied a dignified space at the corner of Fourth Avenue and Saint Dromin Street. It was not a tavern or a wine shop but a true public house of the old school, less a business establishment than a club for the respectable men of the neighborhood. The building was old brick, patchy with overlapping repairs, and twined here and there with climbing ivy. The front door was open, but Eisen, leading the way, stopped beside it and pointed with his good hand.
“You see, sir?”
Marcus peered closer. A small brass plaque, much tarnished, read 17TH ROYAL VOLUNTEER FIRE COMPANY, HEADQUARTERS. EST. 1130 YHG.
“My uncle was in the Twenty-fourth Company,” Eisen said, “over by the Dregs. He always said it was mainly an excuse to spend evenings away from the family. Not as many fires as there used to be, north of the river. But he told me every company has one old bastard who’s been a member for fifty years and can tell you every house that ever burned down on his watch.”
“Worth a try,” Marcus said, though privately he thought it was a bit of a thin reed to hang any hope on. “Let’s see if we can find them.”
Eisen led the way into the common room. It was a long way from the Khandarai taverns Marcus was used to, with a feel closer to a family sitting room-big, solid tables, polished to a blinding sheen, and genuine carpet underfoot instead of boards and sawdust. Marcus paused, embarrassed, and backtracked a step or two to make use of the boot scraper by the door.
It was midafternoon, and only a few of the tables were occupied, mostly by small groups of older men who looked as though they never left. Eisen went to the bar, a vast expanse of scarred wood dark with resin and polish, and talked for a moment with the bespectacled gentleman behind it. When he came back, he was smiling.
“We’re in luck, sir. He knew exactly who I wanted to talk to. Come on.”
They went through a doorway into another room, lined with bookshelves bearing weather-beaten, mismatched volumes. There were more tables here, but only one was occupied, three men sitting at a big round table much too large for them. Another small plaque marked it as reserved for the Seventeenth Company.
Two of the men were younger than Marcus, in their twenties, but the third matched Eisen’s description almost exactly. He was bent over a tall pint glass, head bowed as though his neck didn’t want to support its weight, and the fingers that curled around the drink were stick-thin and mottled with liver spots. The dome of his head rose through a crown of snow-white hair, like a mountain pushing up past the tree line. When Marcus stood in front of the table and cleared his throat, the old man looked up, and his deep-sunken eyes were dark and intelligent.
“You’re the Seventeenth Fire Company?” Marcus said, feeling awkward.
The old man pursed his lips but said nothing. One of the younger men got to his feet, taking in Marcus’ uniform, and nodded respectfully.
“We are, though we’re not on duty at the moment,” he said. “Is there a problem?”
“I’m not here officially,” Marcus said. “I was just hoping I could have a word about an. . incident. Something that happened quite a while back.”
The young man looked at his older companion, who caught Marcus’ eyes and held them for a moment. When his voice emerged, it was surprisingly deep and smooth, as though polished by the years.
“You’re the new captain of Armsmen, then? D’Ivoire.”
Marcus nodded. The two young men exchanged a look-they obviously hadn’t recognized his rank.
“I wondered if you might come around,” the old man said. “You may as well sit down.”
“Staff Eisen,” Marcus said, “would you please buy these gentlemen a drink?”
“Of course, sir.” Eisen extended a hand, and with a last look at Marcus the two young men followed him. Marcus pulled back one of the heavy chairs and sank into the ancient, cracking leather.
“Marcus d’Ivoire,” he said.
“Hank,” the old man said. “Or Henry, if you’re feeling formal. Henry Matthew.”
“You said you were expecting me?”
“Just a thought.” The old man shrugged. “I saw your name in the broadsheets, and I figured you might come looking. It’s been a long time.”
“I’ve been away,” Marcus said. “Khandar.”
Hank nodded. “And it’s not like there was much left for you to come back to. It was a terrible business.”
“You were there?”
“I was. That was back when I went out on calls. Now I sit here and let the young’uns buy me drinks, and tell stories.” He tapped his half-empty glass, and gave Marcus a crinkly smile. “Not a bad life, to be honest. But yes, I was there.”
“What happened?”
“Didn’t they tell you about it?”
“Not much. Only that it was an accident, and that nobody. . got out.” Marcus’ voice hitched. He swallowed hard, irritated.
Hank peered at him kindly. “You want a drink?”
“No, thank you. Just tell me what happened.”
“Well. It’s not easy to say. When a house burns, ’less everyone’s asleep, usually somebody notices. They run from the flames and come out the other side, you see? Sometimes if a place is a real tinder trap, it’ll go up all suddenlike, and sometimes there’s no other way out and people get trapped. That’s bad luck.”
Marcus remembered the Ashe-Katarion fire, the swarms of determined people pressing tighter and tighter to get through the gates into the inner city, or throwing themselves into the river to drown instead of burn. He swallowed again. “I’m not sure what you’re getting at.”
“The d’Ivoire place-your place-it was old, but it wasn’t a tinder trap. It took time to burn. And there were plenty of doors. So how come nobody got out?”
Marcus shook his head. He didn’t even know if the fire had been during the day or at night, he realized. No one had volunteered any information, and he’d been just as happy to avoid the details.
“When we got there,” Hank went on, “it was obvious there was no saving the place. I led my boys in as soon as we could, but that fire burned hot. We never found more than bits and pieces of the folk who lived there.” He caught Marcus’ eye and shook his head. “Sorry. Shouldn’t have said it like that. What I mean is the fire was odd.”
“What do you mean, odd?”
“As best we could tell, it started in three places at once. Oil lamp by the front door, fireplace near the back door, spark in the straw by the stable door. Three doors, three fires. That’s real bad luck.”
There was a long silence.
“You’re sure about that?” Marcus said, voice dull.
“There’s no sure, with fires. But I had a look, and I talked to the people who were around. I’d been at this twenty years, even then.”
“Why didn’t you tell anyone?”
“I did.” Hank’s wrinkled face was a mask. “Went to the Armsmen, said I thought it was passing strange. They bounced me around for a while, and finally somebody told me they didn’t want to hear it, and they didn’t want anybody else hearing it, either. I got the message.”
“You’re telling me,” Marcus pointed out.
“It never sat right with me,” Hank said. “And they were your people.” He smiled slyly. “Besides, him that told me to shut my mouth, you outrank him now. I reckon it’s your right to know, don’t you think?”
“Outrank-” Marcus stopped, abruptly. “I see.”
“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” Marcus murmured, his mind a whirl. “You’ve been. . very helpful.”
Giforte. It had to be Giforte. The vice captain had been effectively running the Armsmen since well before the time of the fire. Captains came and went, but Giforte stayed on, bending to the winds of politics and keeping the ship running.
Hank told him the fire wasn’t an accident. Couldn’t have been an accident. Someone killed them. His mother. His father. Ellie. Ellie!
Marcus realized he was holding his breath, hands clenched tight. He forced himself to relax.