Professor Malveaux looked as if he wanted to slip the paper discreetly into his own pocket, but curiosity prevailed. He cracked open the check slightly and glanced at the number in the currency box. His eyes widened. “That’s a lot of guilt.”

Dr. Boadu frowned to himself, looking down at the table. “He could have been saved if someone had gotten to him in time.”

“How did he die?” asked the professor in a tired, unwilling tone.

“Like a thief of old, washed up on the harbor rocks with both hands cut off and his blood drained out,” the pathologist said, his voice cautiously soft as he glanced sidewise at nearby diners.

The professor appeared to swallow, and his breathing hitched for a moment. “He was a thief?”

Dr. Boadu looked at him, baffled. “A notorious pickpocket, according to the police. Look, we’re going to set this aside for just a while and have an enjoyable meal. You look like you’re going to pass out. I keep forgetting I mustn’t tell people the gory details of my work.”

The professor nodded weakly. He looked very strange; a bloodless undertone grayed his skin. Dr. Boadu immediately began to chat about light matters, keeping a keen, professional eye on the other man.

The Trickster turned away from them and faced his brother. “The hands.”

“The boy was killed eight days before the Mermaid was drowned,” Chance confirmed. “The body must have been almost complete.”

A look of extreme distaste twisted the Trickster’s face, as if he were perceiving a terrible, painful untruth that had no inherent humor to redeem it. “Like you said, that doesn’t work. It’s a folk tale that doesn’t mean what they think it means. It can’t work.”

“Someone thought it did, or was encouraged to think so.”

The Trickster turned away again. “That’s a very sick joke.”

Chance gazed at him, unexpected affection distracting him from the puzzle at hand. “Of course. If you didn’t think that, you wouldn’t be here now.”

A name in the conversation at the table suddenly snagged their attention. That name was “Walther Grey.”

“. . . he’s a success story, in a way. He’s managed to adjust better than many who went through post-conflict deprogramming,” said Professor Malveaux.

“I had no idea,” Dr. Boadu said. He looked slightly queasy. “But why didn’t he finish my course?”

Professor Malveaux paused and spoke carefully, his eyes once again shadowed as they had been when speaking of the dead boy. “I think it may have been a little too close to his experiences during the war. I advised him to try a more theoretical field of study, so he took up philosophy.”

“Sensible,” said Dr. Boadu, and from the expressions on both their faces, it was once more time to find another topic of conversation.

“They suspected something,” murmured the Trickster.