I drank tea and watched the patrons of the Hanevo Tree go peacefully about their evening. A maza whom I often saw in here was reading a thick book and frowning at it; two partners in a print shop were earnestly discussing their business; the owner had come out and was talking to the othas’ala from the othasmeire two streets over.

The soup came, and although I hadn’t been hungry, I was able to eat and even to enjoy. I was almost finished when Subpraeceptor Azhanharad came in.

He saw me and nodded to himself before crossing the room to my table. “Good evening, othala.”

“Good evening, Subpraeceptor. Will you sit down?”

He sat, wary as always. Born in the Mervarnens, Azhanharad was almost superstitiously uneasy about my calling—even though he made routine use of my services. He folded his hands on the table and said, “We have a girl. We need you to tell us if it’s suicide or not.”

“How did she die?”

“Drowning. The body was pulled out of the Mich’maika this afternoon when it got tangled in the ferry ropes.”

“Do you need us to come tonight?”

“If you would. The body is … not in good condition.”

“Of course.” I drank the last of my tea, left money on the table, and followed Azhanharad out into the gaslit night.

We did not speak on the way to the Vigilant Brotherhood’s Chapterhouse, a vast and ancient stone building on the corner of General Parzhadar Square. In their vault, the girl’s mangled body had been hidden beneath a white sheet, and a novice had combed and braided her hair, so that she looked quietly respectable, as she probably would have in life. She was part goblin, her hair an ashy gray that matched her skin. She was very young.

I said the prayer of compassion for the dead and touched her forehead. It was difficult to find anything—the water had washed much of the girl’s spirit away—but I finally managed to grip the things Azhanharad most needed to know.

I stepped back. “Her name was Isreän. No family name—she was a foundling. And it was definitely suicide.” I shivered a little, remembering the despair that was the most vivid thing about her. “She was pregnant.”

Azhanharad sighed in what I knew was anticipation of a weighty task, mixed perhaps with a little compassion. A pregnant woman had to be buried with particular care to be sure the dead child did not rise and go in search of its father.

“Do you know where she came from?” he asked, though not hopefully.

“No. We are sorry.”

“Do not be sorry, othala. You have given us valuable information. We merely regret that there is no one to tell about her death.”

“She had no one,” I said. “She was just a drudge to her employer, and there was simply no one else.”