When the rain stopped, the metallic stench of blood from the underground arena had been completely smothered by damp, mildewed air.
Vera returned to her office and shed her mud‑caked cloak. Gray handed her a clean dry cloth, which she took to wipe slowly the water stains along the edge of her silver mask.
“Cedric has made a move,” Gray stood at her side and reported in a low voice. “Instead of going back to his leaky garret, he headed straight for Broken‑Blade Forge in the southern district. Ostensibly a blacksmith’s shop, it is actually a contact point for his former men. It looks like he intends to reach out overnight to his old associates still serving in the Imperial Guard.”
“Let him. If he cannot even manage that much, the Silver Wolf badge was wasted on him.” Vera tossed the cloth onto the desk and walked over to the enormous map of the capital.
Her gaze drifted past the southern black market and the location of the White‑Gold Palace. Her finger traced the golden lines marking the noble quarter and finally landed on a manor circled in red ink.
The private residence of Archibald Berkeley, Imperial Minister of Finance.
During the purge against the Sinclair House five years ago, Archibald had been the sharpest blade wielded against them. The forged letters alleging treason, the falsified accounts cooked up to cover the national treasury’s deficits — all bore this old fox’s handiwork. Queen Isabella granted him the power he craved, and in return he used that authority to root out the Sinclair family down to the very last.
“What has Berkeley been occupied with lately?” Vera pulled her hand away and picked up her cold cup of tea.
“He has shut his doors to all visitors these past few days, claiming illness and absenting himself from the Ministry of Finance. The scandal at the White‑Gold Palace has blown up, and that crafty old man can smell trouble. He fears the Queen will throw him under the bus to take the blame.” Gray curled his lip, a flicker of contempt in his one eye. “Still, his subordinates have kept busy. For the last few days they have been going in and out of the underground money shops in the southern district.”
“He is moving his assets,” Vera set down her teacup, barely lifting her eyelids. “He knows full well what the Queen is like. Should Raines trace the source of that poisoned wine, or should Seraphina’s divine light fail in some way, the very first thing the Queen will do is find a scapegoat to appease the King and the public. As the man who framed the Sinclairs, Berkeley holds too many of the Queen’s dirty secrets. She will either protect him… or kill him.”
“Does that mean he intends to flee?”
“Flee? He cannot bear to give up his position as Minister of Finance. He is merely building himself an escape route.” Vera sat down at her desk, drew out a one‑foot‑square wooden box and set it open on the surface.
Lined with velvet, the box held assorted vials and jars of glass and earthenware, alongside several bone phials tightly sealed with wax. Next to them lay a set of wafer‑thin leather gloves and fine precision blades forged of high‑grade steel.
These were her other “eyes” and “hands”.
“The falsified ledgers he used to destroy House Sinclair were originally confidential within the Ministry of Finance. But the man is insatiably greedy. He embezzled the hush‑money the Queen gave him for bribes, and funnelled funds meant for the northern border military supplies straight into his own private coffers.” Vera’s finger hovered briefly over a pale‑green porcelain jar. “I need the authentic original account books. With those, no matter where he runs, the Queen will be the first to have him put to death.”
“So we sneak in and steal them tonight?”
“Not steal. Retrieve.” Vera slipped on a pair of ultra‑thin soft sheepskin gloves, her movements steady. “Berkeley is paranoid. His study is certain to be fitted with intricate mechanisms. But he has one weakness: lust. Last month he took a fourth concubine, Lillian, forcibly bought from a merchant household in the southern provinces.”
Gray blinked in surprise. “You plan to work through the concubine?”
“The old fox guards against outsiders, yet he will never suspect the woman sharing his bed.” From the box Vera picked up a small brown phial stoppered with cork, half‑filled with clear liquid. “This holds the reagent called ‘Trace’. It is non‑toxic and completely odourless. But it bears a property: when it mingles with a specific person’s sweat, it releases a scent detectable only by specially‑trained hounds. The trail lasts roughly three hours.”
“How are we going to get it into his possession?”
“I shall not do it. Though forced into this marriage, Lillian is sharp‑witted. Her distant cousin owes a huge gambling debt to the underground casinos — one I have already settled for her. I have told her to slip this into Berkeley’s wine. She will comply.”
Vera replaced the phial and closed the box’s lid. “Gray, get the skilled lock‑pickers among the Night Owls ready. Three hours from now, there will be a minor, localised ‘earthquake’ in Berkeley’s study. I want the original ledgers, and every register documenting his embezzlement of military pay over these years.”
In a red‑brick building at the far end of Gray Alley.
This was Lillian’s family place — or rather, property belonging to her degenerate gambling cousin. Instead of using the main gate, Vera slipped through a vent opening in the side alley and landed lightly on the second‑floor balcony like a nimble stray cat.
She pushed open the door. Lillian huddled in an armchair beside the fireplace, twisting her fingers, terror etched across her face. At the sight of the masked Vera she sprang to her feet and stepped backward.
“I have brought what you need.” Vera set a small porcelain bottle on the low side table. “Colourless, tasteless, dissolves instantly in wine. Tomorrow night you pour him a drink with this in it.”
“You… you promised that if I did this, you would save my brother.” Lillian’s voice shook, half her makeup smudged.
“His gambling debts have been erased. Once this is done, my people will escort you south, and you will receive enough gold for you and your brother to live anonymously for the rest of your lives.” Vera spoke evenly, as if reciting a binding contract. “But if you go back on your word, or if he suspects anything…”
Vera did not finish her sentence. She twisted off the bottle cap and fanned the air above the opening. A faint sharp sour‑bitter tang drifted through the room. Lillian caught the smell and turned deathly pale, clamping a hand over her nose.
“Do not worry. His usual strong spirits will mask every trace of it.” Vera resealed the bottle and walked toward the balcony. “Good luck.”
The night‑wind rose.
Three hours later, at the Minister of Finance’s manor.
Perched in the shadows on the rooftop, Vera watched the light in Berkeley’s study go out. Minutes later, a small figure in field‑agent’s uniform clambered out through the study window, clutching a thick volume wrapped in black oilcloth.
“Boss, we’ve got it.” The figure handed the book over to Vera, barely containing excitement in a hushed tone. “More than one. Three volumes hidden in the study’s secret compartment.”
Vera took the dust‑stained, camphor‑scented bundle and flipped it open by moonlight. The paper edges were worn, yet the figures and signatures were hauntingly familiar. Handwriting from five years ago, bearing the name of her father, Duke Sinclair.
These were House Sinclair’s last relics — and the sole proof of their innocence.
Her lips pressed thin; her fingers tightened. That familiar dull ache, as though a blunt knife sawed back and forth inside her chest, washed over her. She suppressed her surging emotion and rewrapped the ledgers.
“Let us leave.”
The following noon, in an unassuming roadside tavern.
Minister Berkeley sat across from her. His face was ashen, his well‑fitted camel‑wool coat strained across his shoulders. He gripped a copy of the original ledgers, his fingers trembling.
“What is the meaning of this?” He kept his voice low, striving for authority, yet his eyes betrayed utter panic.
“Precisely what it looks like.” Vera leaned back in her chair, twirling a cheap copper coin between her fingers. “Last night you lost something of great importance. I have come to ask: how much will you pay to get it back?”
“You…” Berkeley drew a deep breath, trying to steady himself. “Are you throwing your life away? Do you know who I am?”
“Perfectly well.” Vera stopped spinning the coin and pressed it flat to the tabletop. “You are the Queen’s most loyal hound, the ‘hero’ behind the Sinclair case. But tell me this — what do you suppose will happen if the Queen learns you lined your own pockets with military funds?”
All colour drained from Berkeley’s cheeks.
“That is slander!”
“Do not play‑act, Minister.” Vera’s tone turned cold and unyielding. “Within those books lie not only records of your thefts, but original letters forged in my father’s handwriting. You kept them as insurance, in case the Queen ever turned on you. Unfortunately for you, they are now mine.”
Berkeley shot to his feet. The legs of his chair scraped harshly across the wooden floor.
“Sit.” Vera’s voice cut sharp.
Berkeley froze. Glancing from Vera to the burly Gray standing by the tavern door, he collapsed back into his seat like a deflated sack.
“What do you want?” He ground the words out through gritted teeth.
“It is simple.” Vera slid a slip of covered handwriting across the table toward him. “Tomorrow, in the morning royal audience, you will lay out evidence exposing the misappropriation of funds from the Queen’s private treasury. You need not name her outright. Present the documents, and the King will draw his own conclusions.”
“You are insane!” Berkeley stared at the note as though it held a monster. “The Queen will have me killed!”
“Do you truly believe she will spare you if you refuse?” Vera countered. “The palace scandal rages. Captain Raines hunts for the ringleader. Last night in his cell, the vice‑leader screamed innocence all night long, claiming hush‑money went straight into your private purse. Do you imagine the Queen will keep alive a man who knows every one of her secrets and could become Raines’ key witness?”
Berkeley’s breathing quickened. He opened his mouth to protest, yet no convincing reply came.
“If you obey my terms, the King will at least formally shield you. You survive, and emerge as the man who exposed the Queen. Afterward you may resign your post and live out your days in comfort with the wealth you have hoarded.” Vera stood up and weighted the slip of paper down with her copper coin. “At midnight tonight my messenger will come to your manor for your answer. Should you betray me or attempt to flee…”
Vera leaned forward, speaking only for his ears. “Slow‑acting poison was slipped into that wine you drank. No one but me holds the antidote. Every year on this same day it flares up — agony like thousands of ants gnawing at your bones. You are welcome to gamble whether you can run faster than the pain will kill you.”
Berkeley turned deathly pale. Cold sweat dripped from his forehead.
Vera turned without another glance and walked out of the tavern.
Bright sunlight stung her eyes.
Gray followed close behind. “Boss… did you really poison him?”
Vera shook her head, her tone as casual as discussing supper. “No. I bluffed him. For men like him, poison need not actually touch their lips. It is enough that they believe it exists.”
Gray fell silent, then let out a wry, convinced chuckle.
“What comes next?” he asked.
Vera halted and gazed toward the noble quarter, where finely‑dressed lords and ladies paraded along the street.
“Next, we pay Captain Raines a visit.” She said softly. “I have delivered him such a valuable gift. He ought to give us some response in return.”