“He needed them. To show me the truth about the princess. How dangerous she is.”
“Who needed them, Selkirk?”
“Please don't hurt me again.”
Mamoru chuckled reassuringly. “I have no intention of hurting you, my boy. As long as we are talking. Now, who needed your charts?”
“Dr. Goronwy.” Selkirk stared at Mamoru like a frightened dog, expecting each change of expression to herald an attack.
“Ah. I see. Dr. Goronwy. And who is he?”
“A colleague. In London and Wales.”
“A colleague?” Mamoru shifted slightly, and Selkirk pushed harder against the wall. “I know of no colleagues in London and Wales. A doctor of what exactly?”
“He is a scholar of geomancy.”
The priest put a thoughtful hand to his chin. Selkirk seemed quite sure of what he was saying. The unbalanced mind often put specifics to stories to make them real. “A human doctor in the north?”
Selkirk sensed his teacher's doubts. “It's true. Believe me, Master Mamoru. He is a very important man. Very high in the court.”
“The court,” Mamoru repeated slowly with a chill.
“Yes. Prince Cesare hangs on Dr. Goronwy's every word. As the princess does with you.”
Mamoru felt a terrifying shock rack him. He stood, but his legs were unsteady. He waited a moment until he could speak with an unbroken voice. “Prince Cesare?”
“Yes. I met him several times.” Selkirk settled into a more comfortable position. “He is a man of vision, guided by Dr. Goronwy. The prince is interested in geomancy, as you are. As we all are. He was most interested to hear all about our work. Although he and Dr. Goronwy held some contrary opinions on the princess and her abilities.”
Mamoru felt the cell almost spinning around him. He swallowed deliberately. What should have been mushy ravings about human geomancers in the north and meetings with Prince Cesare clicked into sharp rational slots. Mamoru had expected that Selkirk had been a tool of the British clan; after all, he had been positioned in the imperial crypt by the late prime minister, Lord Kelvin, who was a confederate of Flay. However, Mamoru assumed that they simply used Selkirk because he was easily twisted and knew Alexandria.
This was something more. Something monstrous and unbelievable. It was the second blow to Mamoru's world in six months. The first was discovering that his prize, Adele, was associated with a vampire and she couldn't understand why that was disastrous for her own kind. And now, Selkirk was telling him that he could have betrayed Mamoru's ultimate plan—to use Adele to destroy all vampires—to the leader of the enemy.
Like ley lines, the course of treachery led back to Gareth. Cesare was his brother. Lord Kelvin had been an ally. Selkirk was an informer and agent.
Mamoru covered his face with shame at his own stupidity. He had spent so many years in preparation; he had been so convinced of his unique role in the world, was so proud of his genius. He had made a critical mistake. He had ignored that his enemy could think. All he could see were the savages who slaughtered his wife and daughter as he fought to reach them. But perhaps his mistake wasn't fatal. The vampires would soon learn that a human could be as merciless as they.
Mamoru turned back to Selkirk, his face rigid. “So you discussed all you knew about the princess and the Event with Cesare?”
“More so with Dr. Goronwy.”
“But he reported to Cesare?”
“Oh yes. His Highness was fascinated by our work here.” Selkirk smiled. “They made an excellent case that Princess Adele is dangerous to geomancy. She could well stop the flow in the spines, which would be disastrous. Would you like me to explain it in more detail?”
“No.” Mamoru's hand flicked like an adder, snapping against a spot beneath Selkirk's ear. The young man screamed and fell to the floor. He rolled on the filthy ground, clutching his head in agony. The samurai snarled, tight-lipped, “I would like you to lie there in pain until I decide it can stop.”
Nzingu the Zulu watched Mamoru as he paced restlessly and sipped Turkish coffee. The scent of burning hashish wafted thick, not surprising given they were in a back room of a posh Alexandria hash house. Her other two colleagues sat at a low brass table. Sir Godfrey Randolph considered a plate of sweets, running thoughtful fingers over his bushy white sideburns. He was an older gentleman, given over more to fat than muscle, red-faced, but with the steady hands of a surgeon, which he was. And Sanah, the Persian, wrote in a leather-bound journal with hands decorated with exquisite henna tattoos. She was short and covered head to toe in a black robe. Her face was veiled but for dark eyes. Nzingu was tall and clearly quite fit, judging from her economical movement. She was both observant and ready to react. The Zulu woman wore a fashionable gown of bright yellow silk, and a hat with a lace veil perched askew on her coiled hair.