When I approached the building, it had been destroyed — burned down to its very foundation.
Through the thick smoke, I saw the charred bodies of my subordinates.
And through the horror and despair, a crooked smile broke through. The chain of everyday life had been torn away.
"I am a free man."
Days before...
I woke, washed at the barrel, ate cured meat and roasted rabbit prepared by the cook, served with a sauce of pepper and almonds, along with a side of barley porridge, turnips, and beans. I ate a flatbread as well; afterward, figs, dates, and apples were brought to me, though I could not finish them, being already completely full.
As I ate, my thoughts were once again crowded with the statuette. I turned it over in my imagination, again and again, trying for some reason to angle it in a way that might let me see it more clearly — though it was not entirely clear what more could be drawn from it. I thought briefly about criteria of truth…
But everything returned, once more, to the figurine.
And now there was this feeling: I was never meant to see it.
I was never meant to be there — to dig, then uncover it, to look upon it… And something subconscious told me that I should not look again.
My cook lived nearby, on one of the neighboring plots; she had keys to my house, as did the cleaner, and for a fair wage she came almost every day to prepare my meals.
I wiped my lips with a white-and-blue patterned handkerchief, placed the remaining fruit in the cupboard to eat later in the evening, then combed my hair, trimmed my stubble with a sharp blade, put on my boots, and set off toward the Bureau.
The journey was a long one. At first, I passed through the same affluent district in which I lived, observing similar houses — slightly less opulent, yet still refined.
They blended harmoniously into the landscape: courtyards and gardens enclosed by low stone walls.
Entrances were often guarded by stone arches with tall ash or maple doors; here and there, fountains appeared, or small statues symbolizing the wealth of their owners.
Then I turned sharply onto another street and passed into narrow alleys swallowed by disorder. The stone pavements were buried beneath layers of refuse, exuding the stench of rotting food scraps.
Gaunt children darted about, their torn clothes caked with filth, hurling stones into puddles that steamed faintly; nearby, housewives poured out their household waste.
A few hunched old women, carrying buckets filled with wastewater and other unnameable things, moved wearily along the walls of their homes.
I had not yet escaped the nightmare of these alleys when my boots — and the entire lower part of my trousers — were already soaked through with the filth of the local roads.
Filth.
Despair.
Fortunately, I soon found myself on the waterfront, not far from the city port — the place where vast amounts of gold were concentrated. There, everyone worked with vigorous urgency, hauling large crates of fish, whose distinctive smell could be sensed from afar, along with other cargo from distant lands beyond the bay.
The embankment was paved with fine stone slabs, some of them bearing intriguing carved patterns — for instance, depictions of renowned historical buildings and various animals native to our region.
Along the side ran a handsome black metal railing. As I walked, I passed several structures raised on pilings, where overseers armed with bows and spyglasses stood watch, observing the movement of cargo vessels to guard against piracy and other maritime crimes.
I tried to keep as far from the docks as possible, so as not to be knocked down by the bustling local workers.
At one point, having found a quieter spot, I removed my heavy boots, stepped closer to the water, and carefully rinsed them, scooping water into my palm and scrubbing the filth from my clothes.
At last, I washed my hand as well, put the boots back on, rose to my feet, and continued on my way, limping from the wound above my foot.
At last, I reached the turn I needed and entered the alley, which led me into a tiny park — one of the few in New Milan. At its very center stood a majestic bronze statue of a man who, according to legend, had led the construction of the city's fabled walls thousands of years ago.
His name was Altomuro Bastiani.
I looked around the park, listened to the even, delicate trill of a dunnock, examined the neatly kept laurelcherry shrubs, among whose leaves a drunkard slept in peaceful abandon, then moved on, straight toward the exit.
The building came into view — constructed back in the early years of my twenties, at a time when the Bureau had existed for only two years.
We began in a cramped basement beneath the house of one of my subordinates.
I loved that place. It could inspire long reflections and calm conversations; it was pleasant to work there, despite its modesty and poverty, the staleness and suffocating air.
Yes, I remember that place well — where dust stretched in layers, where grime and mustiness lingered.
The dim light of a solitary lamp barely pushed through the grimy windows; the walls and the floor, laid with old wooden planks, were cracked and split, covered in mold and damp stains. Everywhere lay disorderly piles of documents and folders. The smell of wet wood, of ink… There was something mysterious in it, even faintly mystical.
Closer to the start of construction, the roof collapsed — after that we had to work like that, taking commissions right out in the street.
Even remembering it now feels somehow absurd. It was on that very day, when the roof fell in, that He joined us… with an empty, for some reason cruel gaze…
In those days, we received only small commissions; we had to suffer greatly and risk our lives for mere handfuls of bronze coins.
Over time, word of our existence spread throughout the city, and the wealthier classes began to trust us more than any state institution. They preferred to come to us, knowing they could recover stolen property or secure retribution for a generous fee.
By turning to the authorities, they risked seeing their possessions absorbed into the emperor's coffers, while justice itself was quietly forgotten.
The Bureau was made up of many different kinds of people — most often former junior students whom I had met during my studies at the Reichwald Institute, one of the finest universities on the Continent, which I entered at the age of seventeen. There, I pursued advanced studies in mathematics, physics, chemistry, biology, history, and geography; I took courses in the theology of the Continent's various religions, studied martial disciplines separately, and honed my skills.
In the end, I gathered twenty people loyal to me — and, more importantly, brave — who carry out nearly all the work themselves, allowing me to focus on my research. Even so, I often visit the Bureau to see how their work is progressing.
The building itself was massive — two stories tall and very broad. Numerous high windows reflected the glow of lantern light; its faсade was adorned with slender columns crowned by finely carved capitals, and between them rose statues of celebrated detectives — both real and fictional.
Everything was further entwined with dense greenery along the cornices and balconies: ivy, clematis with bright purple, angular blossoms, and maidenhair vine. The whole structure seemed animated, alive.
At the center stood the entrance portal, rising to twice the height of a man. I approached and knocked. The doors opened at once. I was greeted by Lorenzo Vento, with Matteo De Luca standing beside him.
"Welcome, honored one," Lorenzo said with reverence.
He shook my hand and stepped aside, as if inviting me into a long corridor whose lofty vaults were adorned with coffers, creating an intricate play of shadow.
In places, frescoes lined the walls, depicting scenes from ancient myths: on one, a broad-shouldered man gouges out the Cyclops's single eye with a heated stake; on another, a slaughter unfolds — everything engulfed in ominous flames, two imposing figures suspended in the air, set against one another. All of it lay beneath a strange, misshapen hemispherical dome that completely concealed the land from sunlight.
Stone columns alternated along the walls; torches were fixed to them, and beneath some stood carved oak benches for guests awaiting an audience.
Eastern carpets were spread across the floor to muffle the footsteps of visitors. The air was heavy with the scent of burning wax and incense.
Reaching the end of the corridor, I stepped onto a monumental stone stairwell paved with polished granite — solid and severe, its cold austerity softened by a deep crimson carpet. On both sides rose massive balustrades cast in bronze and lavishly adorned with elegant coils of grapevine, and upon each individual pillar stood a dignified griffin-guard, frozen in vigil.
The edges of the steps gleamed with inlays of pure gold, catching the light and accentuating every step I took.
Jug-shaped candelabra glowed in wrought holders, and before long a pointed window with stained glass came into view, through which multicolored rays of sunlight peered into the interior, scattering patterned light across the smooth floor.
At last, my foot crossed into another corridor — nearly identical to the one on the first floor, though branching more frequently, one of those passages leading to the council chamber.
All the splendor of this passage was marred by an incongruous stand made of reconstituted wood — compressed sawdust. Pinned directly to it were scraps of parchment bearing handwritten texts, along with several portraits sketched in ink using swan or turkey quills...