The Seer Read Free Page A

history, Sinclair?”
    “A man of insomnia. A book of history cures it.” He smiled as Jesco chuckled. “Many lords and ladies kept summer homes in Wadalabie. Did you know some of the earliest photographs were taken here? A collection called Place of Dreams showed it in all its finery: mansions and stables, and paths of white stone going down through fields of flowers to the river. A boat ran between Wadalabie and Rosendrie, where they could travel to shop. A short and pleasant trip on calm waters. But those lords and ladies died in time, and left their homes to their children, and some of them leased out those homes or sold them. And then the Industrial Revolution swept through Ainscote, and it transformed this place entirely. Wadalabie to Wattling, mansions to tenements, stables to textile factories, and no trace left of those paths or flowers.” He looked once more to Jesco’s hands. “Have you seen things like this, how time changes the world? You must.”
    “Yes.” It was why Jesco had to be so careful about what he touched.
    The carriage made another turn and slowed. They had arrived at their destination. Then Jesco was stepping out after the junior detective, and into Poisoners’ Lane where the alchemist had wrought his destruction in one of these very buildings.
    It was the grimmest place of all. Along either side of the narrow gray road were tall brick buildings, all of them coated in grime. They were eyeless, as the windows had been removed and sealed up with bricks to discourage anyone from going inside. The doors were sealed in the same way, making every building wholly faceless. Above, the sky seemed only to be a reflection of the road beneath in its gray flatness. No trees pierced the rooftops and no birds flew overhead. All that existed within this claustrophobic lane was itself. The rest of the world felt miles away. Even the river, as close as the far side of the buildings to Jesco’s right, made no sound.
    There was another police carriage parked in the road, and a voice hailed Sinclair from an alley. Jesco breathed shallowly to take less of the air in this place into himself. Over twenty thousand people had died here almost simultaneously. Should ever there be a place ripe for spooks, this would be it. Failing to quell his anxiety, he followed Sinclair to the alley. The patrolman Tokol was standing at the end of it, a newspaper rolled up in his fist. Despite being of the same age as Jesco, he still looked like more of an overgrown boy than a man. Greeting Sinclair warmly and ignoring Jesco, Tokol moved aside to let them pass.
    “And a good day to you, too,” Jesco said loudly, forgetting his resolve to take in as little air as possible while he was here. Embarrassed, Tokol grunted a hostile good day. Jesco did not have to inquire to know that Tokol accepted Church teachings that what he did was obscene, but that placed the boyish officer in a quandary. The police relied on seer skills to assist in solving crimes. He resolved the matter by pretending Jesco did not exist, which was why Jesco took a special delight in reminding the officer that he most assuredly did, had every right to be here, and that his word was not only admissible in court but preferred.
    The alley was piled with a tall heap of long beams on one side. Rags and bits of paper were trapped in the heap, and nails protruded from the rotting wood. The ground was carpeted in layers of trash, so trodden upon that it lay mostly flat, and it reeked of mold. Fresher trash was present in a few sheets of newspaper, which Tokol had discarded.
    More beams connected the buildings on either side, one so low that Jesco had to stoop to pass beneath it. The purpose of the beams was beyond his kenning. Jesco was no student of architecture, but from the way the buildings leaned, he guessed that they were holding them at bay so that they did not collapse upon each other.
    Also within the alley was a duo of his least favorite detectives in Steon