The Villain Who Seeks Joy

The infirmary conference room smelled like boiled linen and ink. No banners, no seals, just a long table, six chairs, a ledger as thick as a brick, and a metal tray for sealed evidence bags. Windows were shuttered. Two guards waited outside with their helmets tucked under their arms. They stared straight ahead like the door had asked them a question.

Liora sat at the head, hair pale as the light peeking around the shutters, soft blue eyes steady. Pierce took the far end with a stack of slates. Dorian stood to the right wall, still as furniture. Mira, Cael, and I took the side seats. A scribe from the Watch dipped a pen and did not look up again.

"Plain language," Liora said. "No speeches. No guesses. What you did, what you saw, what you can prove. Start."

Cael didn't fuss. "Culvert. Four saboteurs. Two inside, two outside as lookouts. We approached from three directions, no rune-lamps. We took the outside pair without noise. Inside pair used resin on child-proof latches—slow-fail. They had a map with guard rotations. We secured both and called for the Watch. No civilian injuries. That's all."

Pierce made a small mark. "Names pending," he said to the scribe. "Rotations map recovered."

"Next," Liora said, eyes on me.

"Gate Nine service corridor," I said. "Two men with city-contractor badges. Badges were real stamps on false backs. Resin in jars with merchant seals sanded down. They used a pry with a soft tooth to keep the noise down on the posts. We replaced a vane, notched the track for trace, and let them work until you gave the go. We took them at the tool rack. One reached for a capsule. Elara threw a needle. He slept. We bagged tools and resin. That's all."

"Show the pry," Pierce said.

I slid the sealed bag across to the tray. Mira set the tag in the ledger, tight letters, no flourishes. The scribe wrote: pry, soft tooth, resin jars with sanded seals, capsule recovered.

"Describe the badges," Liora said.

"Real stamp," I answered, "but the ring break is too smooth. Snapped with a bar, not worn through. Backing felt wrong—stiff card dressed to mimic calfskin."

"Write that," Liora told the scribe. "Back to the table. What else?"

"Routing code on their crate docket," I said. "Numbers looked familiar. It wasn't a district code. It matches a contractor chain we saw in North Quarter last week—Kellen & Sons, except the ampersand is crooked on the stamp. Their 'sons' are a shell that routes invoices through two other names before it hits the ledger."

Pierce paused. "You're guessing."

"No," I said. I slid a folded slip from my pocket—Mira's copy of the North Quarter vendor list with the crooked mark circled. "We made a tracing of their entry to compare fonts. The crooked ampersand shows on both. Same press, same plate."

Mira tapped the circle with her pencil. "Spacing between the second L and E is identical," she said. "It jumps on other lines. Here and here, the gap is the same. That's a plate flaw."

Pierce leaned in. Dorian did not, but his gaze sharpened a notch. "So the crate we intercepted routes through a shell we already flagged," Pierce said.

"Yes," I said. "The shell sits under a trust that donates to maintenance—indirectly. Not named Duskveil on paper. A foundation two doors away on the ledgers."

Liora nodded once, small. "Marker, not theory," she said. "Write the chain with blanks where the trust names are. We'll fill them with warrants."

The scribe wrote without looking up. His pen scratched like a small insect.

"Good," Liora said. "Now injuries."

"None for Cell One," Cael said.

"None for Cell Two," I added. "One saboteur with a needle mark. He's alive. The capsule is intact. Elara wants to keep it for training."

"Logged," Pierce said.

The door opened on the second knock. Two Watch officers escorted in the saboteurs we'd taken at the culvert earlier. Shackles at wrists, cloth gags tied loose. They looked like workmen: rough hands, ordinary boots, faces you'd pass on a street without a second thought. They were not brave. They were not broken. They smelled faintly of pine and something sour, like nerves.

Liora didn't look at them right away. "Remove gags," she said. "Leave shackles."

The officers obeyed. One saboteur licked dry lips. The other stared at a knot in the table.

"Names," Pierce said.

"Callum," said the first, too fast.

"Jon," said the second, too slow.

"Family names?" Pierce asked.

Silence stretched. Dorian didn't move. Mira's pencil tip rested at the edge of the ledger margin, steady.

"We can add those later," Liora said calmly. "Here are the rules. You will answer in plain words. No lies. If you don't know, say you don't know. If you are caught lying, you go straight to the Watch and I won't see you again."

Callum swallowed. "Yes, Saint."

"I'm not your saint," she said, voice even. "Who hired you?"

"Contractor," Jon said. "Kellen & Sons."

"Which Kellen?" Pierce asked. "Describe him." His tone made room for a mistake.

"Bald," Jon said, too quick. "With a scar."

Mira did not look up. "Our Kellen has hair," she murmured to the ledger. "And no scar."

Jon heard her and tightened. Callum's knee bounced once, then stopped when he caught Dorian noticing it.

"What did the contract say?" Liora asked.

"Replace faulty parts," Callum said. "Clear resin clogs. File latches."

"File latches," Pierce repeated. "On Gate Nine. During curfew."

"No choice on schedule," Jon said. "We were told work hours. We were told to move fast. Said it was urgent."

"By whom?"

"Foreman," he said.

"Name," Pierce said.

Jon met Pierce's eyes and looked away. "Didn't give it."

"What did he sound like?" I asked.

"City," Jon said. "Not noble. Not river. Clean."

"What did he smell like?" Mira asked, and I almost smiled.

Jon blinked. "Soap."

"That helps," Mira said, and wrote it anyway.

Liora folded her hands. "What was in the crate you were moving?"

"Pins, posts, resin," Callum said. "A pry."

"Where were the crates packed?" Dorian asked quietly.

Jon took too long. "Warehouse," he said. "North Quarter."

"Which dock?" I asked.

"Three," he said.

Mira didn't lift her pencil. "There is no Dock Three for warehousing," she said. "Three is a counting room. You're lying."

Jon clamped his mouth like a boy caught with a pebble in his pocket.

Liora tapped the table once. The sound was small and final. "Back to the Watch," she said to the officers. "Hold them without injury. Restrict visitors to named counsel. We will fetch the rest from paper."

They were led out. The door shut. The guards outside shifted once and settled again.