The Manual of Detection by Jedediah Berry

Rooks appeared dissatisfied with the account. Apparently a perscrutation was a rather weightier kind of question and required a more thorough disclosure. Zlatari drew a breath and went on. “He said I might not see him again for a while. He said that Cleo was back in town, that he had to go and find her.” Zlatari glanced at Unwin when he said this, as though to see if it meant anything to him. Unwin looked down at his chips.
    Cleo could only be Cleopatra Greenwood, and Unwin had long ago come to fear—even loathe—the appearance of her name in a report. She had first come to the city with Caligari’s Traveling Carnival and for years was one of Sivart’s chief informants. But to file anything regarding her motives or aims was to risk the grueling work of retraction a month later. Mysteries, in her wake, doubled back on themselves and became something else, something a person could drown in. I had her all wrong, clerk: how many times had Unwin come upon that awful admission and scurried to fix what had come before?
    The others were waiting for Unwin’s next bet. His winnings were largely depleted, so he traded an inquiry for two queries but quickly lost both. The Rooks, as though sensing that Unwin would soon leave the table, turned their attention on him. Jasper used a query to learn his name, and Josiah spent an inquiry to ask what kind of work he did.
    Unwin showed them his badge, and the Rook brothers blinked in tandem.
    Zlatari’s brow wrinkled behind his question-mark curl. “Well,” he said, “it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve had an Eye at my table. Detective Unwin, is it? Fine. Everyone’s welcome here.” But on this last point he seemed uncertain.
    Unwin lost and lost again. All the questions came to him now, and he gave up answers one after another. His opponents were disappointed at the spottiness of his knowledge, though Zlatari licked his lips when Unwin told what he knew about Lamech’s murder, about the bulky corpse at the desk on the thirty-sixth floor, its bulging eyes, its crisscrossed fingers.
    Zlatari dealt new hands, and Unwin’s was unremarkable: no face cards, no two or three of any kind. His beginner’s luck had run out. This would be his last hand, and he had learned so little.
    Zlatari folded almost immediately, but the Rook brothers showed no sign of relenting. They eagerly took up their new cards and just as eagerly counted out their bets. Unwin was going to lose. So he said to Zlatari, “A two, three, four, five, and six of spades: is that a good hand?”
    Again that slow, sleepy blink from the twins.
    “Yes,” said Zlatari. “That is a good hand.”
    The brothers tossed their cards onto the table.
    Unwin set his own cards facedown and collected his winnings, quickly, so they would not notice how his hands were shaking. He traded in all his chips, which was enough, Zlatari told him, for the most severe sort of question the game allowed. The inquisition would be answered by everyone at the table.
    Unwin looked at each of them carefully. The Rooks were silent, imperious. But their questions had revealed that they, like him, were looking for Sivart. And Sivart was looking for Greenwood. So Unwin cleared his throat and asked, “Where is Cleopatra Greenwood?”
    Zlatari looked over his shoulders, as though to make sure no one else had heard, even though the bar was otherwise empty. “Hell!” he said. “Hot stinking hell! You want to bury me, Detective? You want us in the dirt today? What’s your game, Charles?”
    Josiah whispered something in Jasper’s ear, and Jasper said, “Those questions are out of turn, Zlatari. You’re breaking your own rules.”
    “I’ll break more,” Zlatari said. He flicked his hands at Unwin. “Up, let me up!”
    Unwin got to his feet, and Zlatari shoved past, knocking chips off the table and onto the floor. “You get your answers from them,” he said, “but I don’t want to know what they are. I’ve got enough graves to dig without