“You don’t speak?” he said.

“Bell-ought,” I said, “split the purse and call it a night?”

“Do you always dispatch them?” he laughed, giving me back my knife. “Your holders of the purse?”

“No, never,” I shot, jostling like I’d just discovered an itch, finishing with, “Well, not if they’re smart about it.” But this caused only more laughter. He looked over his shoulder at the abandoned house.

“Drab, rotted place. My own is but next door. Join me?” Before I could answer, he turned, taking no more than a step, “Bring him with us.”

When I reached for the purse, I was ready for this bizarre courtship to come to an end. After all, that’s what this Belot was after, for nobody disliked money. But this stranger responded to my grabbing in way that was uncharacteristic of a robber. He smiled. A smile that if placed on every man at once would put merchant’s like Somyellia out of business. I hoisted the innkeeper on my shoulder and followed.

—

“So you are the source of all that noise.” Mr. Belot gestured toward Somyellia and I’s house. “Thought I’d have to call upon the zoo so they could retrieve some tenants on the lam. Spirited girl.” I had to put down my second glass to laugh bashfully and spill wine.

It turned out Mr. Belot shared both my old tutor’s nihilism and my fondness for capitalizing on the deceased. Mr. Belot’s eyes glowed, followed by full admission that he was nothing short of astonished; how a “large knifeman from the streets” could know every bone in the human body. Mr. Belot’s interest in my ambitions had swept away the initial discomfort I’d felt. Soon we were gabbing like drunken military wives.

As the night stretched, I ogled at the skulls and bones and books. The prowess of scales and cauldrons were unlike anything I’d ever seen, and it filled me with a bizarre joy that Mr. Belot’s collection of femurs was larger than the one I’d amassed in the old cellar. Then there was the wooden table. On it were leather straps, pulled and worn taut. At Mr. Belot’s request, I had lifted the moaning innkeeper onto it, during which I saw bloodstains that had seeped deep into the wood. My timid inquiry into this man’s looming fate was met with Belot’s caress. I don’t recall what his answer was, only that I was sated. It was as if I’d been charmed, though a necromancer practicing such things was pure and utter silliness.

A second bottle of Grest opened talks about more pressing matters. To Mr. Belot, I would learn, the world was becoming harder for lovers of the dark and the courageous. “You see those silly statues, Seasmil?” he said. “Placating the masses; scared of their own shadows as good as a plague. Do-Gooder’s Row is halfway built and Maecidion the Virulent is dying.”