Chapter Five: Lyewkin

Diamond Theater was the epitome of all that I despised in Pale City. Overindulgence at its finest—with every corner littered in garments of silk and gloves of lace and skin of porcelain. There was nothing that I hated more than poreless skin—than hands that were never dirtied and spines that were never broken. Perhaps figuratively, but still.

I guess I couldn't be too surprised, not where my father was involved. Though only when a pair of ushers spared me the bother of merely pushing open my own door, did I truly remember where I was—Ristic. God, I hated Ristic. And East Ristic to boot.

I hated the silky tunic that clung to my body—so creamy, soft, and weightless that it left me feeling naked. I hated looking like a nob, though I never truly would. Not that any of these folks would notice—their attention surely focused on only themselves.

But I'd never fully move like them, speak like them, drink like them. The carelessness that comes when one never stresses coin… I couldn't imagine it, let alone act it out in a place like this. I may have looked the part now, but appearances were about as far as my guise could go. And to a trained eye, perhaps I still fell short—even with my hair trimmed and fluffed, boots shined, and brows plucked, all of which were Godwin's idea.

The rings… they were my idea, and I'd never seen him laugh so hard. Eyeing me in our washroom, laughing at the assortment of silver bands littering my fingers. I'd already burned a portion of the down payment for the set, an investment for the thirty thousand shillings to come.

And were my theories true, I wouldn't be surprised if catching the thief were as simple as casting the bait and reeling in the prize. For if the thief were to steal anything and everything, it would be no hassle at all to catch them red-handed, tugging at my ring-adorned fingers or girdle-adorned pouches, both of coin and dust, in case our thief preferred one over the other.

There were no doubts in my mind that our culprit was well-practiced. But my father was right in regards to my gifts, my eyes. My powers of observation were verging on occult.

Unmatched throughout the city and superior to the garrison's top-drawer investigators.

Tonight was for observing, mostly. Everything. Beginning with the oversized golden fireplace off to my left, the crowds of nobs hovering over the bar to my right, and the gaudy gold-trimmed arches and pillars that bordered mahogany doors—extending to a ceiling of pastel murals—through the center of the foyer.

A velvet lounge was coated in pieces of furniture, looking to be more expensive than a year's worth of rent in a tenement dwelling west of The Cleft. The pieces stuck out along the floor like life-sized chessmen, all scrambled over a massive limestone checker-board. And to one corner, pushed back, near those grand wooden doors, sat a band of minstrels serenading the nobs that gossiped over their plucking.

I took everyone in, and many seemed to do the same with me. Two ladies, young and coated in crimson rouge, fluttered their lashes in my direction whilst passing in a practiced stroll—their necks tall, shoulders back, and hips swaying in emphasis. I met their stares with the slightest upturn of one half of my lips—a courtesy, not a reflex. And both of them crumbled from elegance to desperation, whispering to each other, looking me up and down, and twisting curly tresses of hair in their forefingers.

I turned away from them, briefly wishing the ground would swallow me whole and spit me back out in West Port, in Finn's basement tavern. Scoundrels and courtesans be damned—it beat nobs and their pointy noses that sniffed out pedestals to stand upon.

And if I intended to fool with a lady, she most certainly wouldn't be gussied up in layered skirts and heeled slippers. Ladies like that may have ogled men like me, but sooner or later, they'd wish to be wined, dined, and treated like royalty. No—the women of West Port were far more tolerable.

"Lyewkin?" I heard a nasally voice call out from somewhere midst the sea of nobs I treaded through. I spun my head sharply in the direction which it came from, my gaze meeting that of a man clad in red, button-adorned attire. "I'm Terrance, the ticket-master. I believe Stoney told you of me?" That's why I recognized the ruby garb. From behind that frosted glass sphere from where he perched upon my arrival. I couldn't quite make out his face until now.

So this was Stoney's middleman… His "dummy man" as he'd called him yesterevening. He certainly didn't look like much. Perhaps that's precisely why he was chosen for the job. I had expected a more calloused dealer. How interesting.

I reached my hand out, offering his extended one a firm shake. "Terrance… Yes—I've heard so much about you. About how well you handle those tickets," he squirmed at my emphasis of the word, knowing I wasn't talking about strips of parchment.

As fun as it was to see him sweat, I intended to earn his trust. Knowing how my father worked, and that this man likely performed all of his dirty work, I figured Terrance was my guy. He'd likely know the ins and outs, be the most willing to help, and from the looks of it, he was exactly the type to bend over backwards in pleasing. "Relax," I drawled, releasing my grip, "Are your hands always this clammy?"

The ticket-master was so visibly nervous, his throat bobbing-proof of what he'd likely been told of me—what he'd been told of my… work. Another nervous gulp sent his Adam's apple for a ride before he composed himself enough to breathe, "By Djinn, the rumors are true…"

"Rumors?" My brows pinched together.

"Since you arrived there have been… rumors, Sir." I hated that title—sir. So nobbish.

"You don't think my guise is good enough?"

"No, no—nothing like that." I raised a brow, and Terrance continued. "Just… whisperings of how much you look like Antolie."

As he said it, another flock of ladies pranced rudely between us. I heard one whisper the words, "A muscle-bound version of the Diamond boy…" Their eyes scanned me in passing—temple to temple and cheek to cheek.

A humorous breath escaped my mouth as I rolled my eyes.

Though I hadn't seen Antolie since he was less than a boy drowned in hunting furs, I considered the statement an insult. I'd heard enough to know my half-brother was a replica of our father in every way short of ambition.

"I forget how quickly gossip travels for nobs that have nothing better to do with their time," I put out, ready to finally delve into what mattered.

The sooner I spotted the culprit, the sooner I could leave this gaudy place and return to the better half of Pale.

Terrance stuttered and nervously laughed.

When I'd egged my father on for more details of the thief, he had none to give. I found it difficult to believe the same went for everyone else. Surely someone knew something, of a witness, lead, evidence of some sort. Someone was holding back a detail or two.

The thought ignited my curiosity as Terrance led me backstage, where we could discuss it all with the final player in Stoney's dust-peddling business—my infamous half-brother, Antolie Diamond.

➸

Backstage was a network of corridors even I could get lost in. A place one could get away with any-and-everything so long as they knew their way through the frenzied laborers.

I was close to pancaked when one lost control of their dolly, sending a potted tree flying down the corridor. And, yet, the sight was nowhere near as odd as the meeting with my half-brother. He smashed a giant pouf to his face, over and over, sending ivory powder in all directions of his private dressing room.

"You're not nearly as impressive as I expected you to be," he said. They were the first words to escape his lips at the sight of my leaning frame against one pillar of his doorway.

He was one to talk.

My so-called "sibling" had the kind of build that one would lick their lips to in a brawl. He was wiry as a kid, and still wiry now, only taller.

And taking him seriously as he smothered his lips with rouge, so that they might be visible atop the blurring powder… I stifled a laugh, watching him sit there, straight as a pin, the arch in his back an inward curve as his tail pushed against a satin stool.

Still, the nobs were right. We did look alike. Of course, Antolie was prettier. Skinny, but his chocolate hair swooped up into some gel-filled pompadour. It seemed a shade darker than mine. Perhaps for the gel caked-onto each strand.

His eyes were also monochrome, whilst mine were varying shades of brown and green. I wouldn't put it past Terrance to put two-and-two together—especially now, eyeing us side by side. But Antolie's next words were proof-enough that the ticketmaster already knew of our relations.

"Pa told me not to mess with you. But if you ask me, you're way too pretty to be this bad-to-the-bone ruffian he paints you as."

It was odd hearing him use the word "pa" so casually, like we shared him. Almost as odd as it was to hear him admit to the way Stoney spoke of me when I wasn't around. Apparently he saved the flattery for my back.

But there was truth to my brother's taunting. If I were to show up for nightly business decked in silks and freshly-tweezed brows, I wouldn't get a lick of respect. Not with the tunic, hose, jewel-coated fingers, or reptilian girdle. I was gussied up in more bric-a-brac tonight than all twenty-five years of my young life as one.

Antolie alternated between staring at his mirror and studying me with those hooded eyes we shared. And Terrance stood between the two of us awkwardly, fidgeting with his hands whilst his eyes darted every which way.

"I see we're past the formalities of bowing to each other," I said.

"Surely you haven't forgotten that we've already met? That day Pa shoved his shooter up your nose, remember?" Of course I remembered, but I figured Antolie would have been the one to forget—considering his age and disregard. Sure enough, he grinned at me now, like the memory brought him great pleasure. I'm sure it did. He was clearly a man in need of attention, in need of daddy's favor.

"Oh—that was you? Have you lost weight since?" I riposted. My amusement grew watching Antolie's face coil into bitterness.

"Ask whatever you must, and get out," he breathed out in a long sigh, faking blasé, "I have a performance to give. You're interrupting my preparations." He fluffed his hair and spun in his stool, awaiting my queries with raised eyebrows.

Such a punchable face, he sported. I resisted the urge—a compliment to my restraint.

"Same goes for me," Terrance interjected, "I mean… with asking whatever you must—whatever you'd like." Truly a sputtering, nervous wreck. Had he never seen a thug? "I'd like to be of any help I can."

In truth, I'd scoped Terrance out as the first potential subject prior to our meeting—with only the information Stoney provided of his middleman. There wasn't much. Stoney hardly remembered the ticketmaster's name. But were there any detectable reason for him to benefit through sabotaging Stoney from the inside, I would have found some way to keep Terrance at arm's length.

Alas, he'd be a fool to be the thief, as he was awarded handsomely for his contributions to the business—racking in triple the shillings of whatever he made working the ticket-booth. Besides, it took less than a minute with the lad to presume him too feeble-minded for such rebellion.

"You can be of the most help," I admitted, "With access to those ledgers and an extra set of eyes and ears." Terrance nodded.

Antolie then chuckled, looking Terrance up and down and spinning back to face the mirror. "This entire thing is overkill," he clucked. "People lose things. People drop things. Just because a handful of nobles were clumsy, and took their frustrations out on Terrent, doesn't mean they'll stir the pot. And who would be foolish enough to willingly admit to purchasing Djinn dust?" He fidgeted with the ruffles of his cream shirt. "After all… they'd be just as guilty and tried the same."

Terrance responded to Antolie's shrug with a clenching of the jaw—his eyes dropping to the poulaines at his feet. It was clear he'd never cared to correct Antolie on anything, even the pronunciation of his forename. I had no doubts the man was intelligent, but he was Stoney's marionette puppet, tugged about this way and that. Discounted but too loyal to rebel.

I refused to be such a puppet, to Stoney, Antolie, or anyone else.

Though I did consider my half-brother's words. For what if he was right? What if there truly was no thief, and this whole charade was all but a waste of my time? Unlike my father and Antolie, I could not afford to sit around for several weeks on end—searching for a ghost.

Stillness swathed the three of us as my head reeled through possibilities.

It was the ticketmaster who broke the silence, offering, "One of the clients that complained, the Beckett's house-master, Arundel Beckett... he'll be watching tonight. He always sits in the right wing. You might begin by mirroring him? Seeing that he purchased a fresh pouch of dust all but twenty minutes ago."

➸

Never before had I seen a man more doted upon than Arundel Beckett. His place in the right wing of the theater's box seats had the most remarkable view.

I followed him to it and greeted one of the two balcony waiters in service. The rest of the play, I remained close by, watching the pouch at Arundel's girdle and occasionally glancing around the house.

Apart from the ache in my feet from standing for an hour and a half, nothing came of the task. The waiter didn't so much as go near the man, apart from fetching him a spirit during intermission. And even then, he kept one hand wrapped tightly around his back, lowering the tray, so that Arundel could handle his own drink.

The other waiter did the same. Too stiff to be a thief, or at least a very good one.

After my half-brother faked a shot to the head—the only enjoyable part of my night thus far—he bowed alongside his lady co-lead. The curtains closed, and within moments, the theater house was all but empty. I followed the commotion back to the foyer, going along with the crowd.

If the nobs sat back and relished in the arts, I'd follow. If the nobs took their business to the lounge and bar, I'd follow. Anything to fit in—give no rise to unnecessary suspicion.

I regularly checked my hands, only to see all six rings still intact. Same went for my three pouches—all still there, all still weighing down my girdle. I'd occasionally make eye contact with Terrance, but he'd only shrug, empty-handed.

One could easily tell he wanted to catch the thief as badly as I did.

And as I scoured the reveling crowd for any signs of unusual behavior, I was met with endless doe eyes and batting eyelashes.

In the Basement, I was respected—a cutthroat killer not to be trifled with. But here, I was a hunk of meat in fancy fabrics, hardly more. If only the folks here knew of my reputation. Maybe then would they get out of my way and let me hunt in peace.

I was bored. And desperate. By Djinn—I was practically becoming a nob, myself.

When my gaze locked onto a blonde chatting up a good-sized crowd, I realized my only solution may be to play along with their games. If tavern-keeper gossip wouldn't give me a lead to go on, I was convinced nothing else would.

After all, who better to see every little thing than a bar-maiden.