"What's your purpose here?" The guard's tone dripped with disdain. "If you're here to court some young lady, let me save you the trouble: everyone here is out of your league. Turn around. Go find an escort in the lower district and lick her feet. That's more your level."
Silence.
The charioteer made a strangled noise.
Damian smiled. Slowly. "You think I'm like you?"
The guard blinked. "Excuse me?"
"I asked if you think I'm like you." Damian's brain kicked into gear without asking permission. Patterns emerged. Details he hadn't consciously registered suddenly assembled into crystal clarity.
Damian Void's detective skills. Observation. Deduction. Cold reading.
Oh, this is going to be fun.
The guard's uniform was pristine—almost. Left cuff slightly wrinkled. Faint stain near the wrist, poorly scrubbed. Not visible unless you knew what to look for.
Right hand: callus between thumb and forefinger. Not from writing reports. From gripping something. The baton? Wrong angle. Something cylindrical. Bed post.
Boots polished to a shine, but the left heel worn down more than the right. Uneven gait. Favoring one side. Not from an old injury. From sneaking. Tiptoeing through corridors, weight distribution all wrong.
No ring. But a tan line on his left ring finger, clear as day. Recent removal. Very recent.
Cologne. Cheap stuff. Applied within the last hour—heavy application, like he was covering something. Not sweat.
Perfume.
Women's perfume. Floral. The kind half the women in this district wore. But this was fresh. Clung to his collar despite the otherwise spotless uniform. Still there despite obvious attempts to wash it off.
The pieces clicked together like a magic trick revealing itself.
"I don't sneak around in the middle of the night," Damian said, voice conversational. Friendly, even. "Slipping through servant corridors with my boots off so nobody hears me. Doesn't that hurt your feet? The uneven weight distribution? I bet your left hip aches after."
The guard's expression flickered. Confusion. Then the first hint of alarm.
"I don't bang some maid in the quarters behind the main house," Damian continued. "Making her scream compliments she doesn't mean while I'm doing... well, whatever it is you do. Judging by those calluses, probably gripping the bed post for dear life."
The color started draining from the guard's face.
"And I definitely don't slip her a few coins afterward—what is it, three silver? Four?—so she doesn't fall asleep from boredom halfway through."
"You—" The guard's voice came out hoarse. "You don't know what you're talking about."
"Don't I?" Damian tilted his head. "Then explain the perfume on your collar. Lavender and rose, right? Same scent about sixty percent of the maids in this district wear because it's the cheapest one that still smells expensive."
The charioteer made a noise like a dying animal. "Sir, please, I have a family—"
"Shut up," Damian and the guard said simultaneously.
The charioteer's mouth snapped closed.
Damian leaned forward slightly. "Here's what I'm wondering: did you take off your wedding ring before or after you started the affair? Because that tan line looks about two weeks old. So either you're very stupid, or you're planning to leave your wife."
"I—that's not—" The guard's hands clenched. "You're lying. You're making assumptions based on—on nothing!"
"Am I?" Damian smiled wider. "Okay. Let's test that theory. What's your wife's name?"
The guard froze.
"Can't remember? That's fine. I'm sure Sergeant Hallowell will be happy to remind you. He seems like the kind of captain who knows his men's personal lives. Very thorough. Big on discipline."
The guard's face went from pale to white. "How do you know—"
"I'm a detective." Damian let that sink in. "I know lots of things. For instance, I know that Sergeant Hallowell does random inspections. Usually in the early morning, right around the time you're supposed to be patrolling this gate. But you're not always here, are you? Sometimes you're... elsewhere."
"Stop—"
"And I know that affairs with servants are grounds for immediate dismissal in this district. No pension. No references. Just gone." Damian leaned back casually. "Probably makes it hard to find work after that. What would you do? Go back to your wife—assuming she'd take you back—and beg for forgiveness? Or would you end up in the lower district yourself, licking boots for spare change?"
The guard's breathing had gone ragged. Sweat poured down his temples despite the cool air. His hands shook.
"You want to know the best part?" Damian's smile turned sharp. "I figured all of this out in about five seconds. Five. How long do you think it would take Sergeant Hallowell if I mentioned, say, the perfume? Or the missing ring? Or the fact that you're standing here arguing with me when you should be waving us through?"
"Please—" The guard's voice cracked. "Please, I—I have children—"
"Then you should probably stop risking your job for bad sex with a woman who doesn't even like you."
Silence.
The guard stared at him like he'd just watched his entire life collapse in real-time.
The charioteer had gone completely still, eyes wide, apparently deciding that moving might get him killed.
Damian sat back, crossing his arms. "Now. Are you going to let me through, or do I need to have a conversation with Sergeant Hallowell about why his gate guard smells like cheap perfume and cheaper decisions?"
The guard opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
Nothing came out.
"I'm here to see Myra Valeraine," Damian added, tone gentler now. Almost kind. "That's my business. I'm her detective. She hired me to find her little brother."
"M-Miss Myra?" The guard's eyes went even wider. "You're working for the Valeraine family?"
Damian didn't correct the phrasing. Let him think whatever he wanted.
"The Valeraine family," the guard repeated, voice hollow. Understanding crashed over his face like a wave. The Valeraines had power here. Money. Influence. The kind of family that could destroy a gate guard's career with a single complaint.
And Damian was their detective.
Oh, hell.
"I—yes. Of course. Right away, sir." The guard's entire demeanor shifted. Terror gave way to desperate, groveling compliance. "Please, forgive my rudeness. I didn't realize—I had no idea—"
"Clearly."
"Please, I'll open the gate immediately. No fee. No charge. Just—please don't mention this to Miss Myra. Or the family. Or anyone. Please."
Damian considered him for a long moment.
Let him sweat.
Then nodded. "Fine. But if I come back through this gate and you give me even a hint of attitude?" He smiled. Cold. "I'll make sure Sergeant Hallowell gets a very detailed report about how you spend your patrol hours."
"Yes. Yes, sir. Of course, sir. Thank you, sir."
The guard practically sprinted to the gate, yanking it open with shaking hands, motioning frantically for them through.
The charioteer stared as the carriage rolled forward. "What the hell just happened?"
Damian shrugged. "I asked nicely."
"That was nice?!"