Page 31 of Foul Days

For a second, she wished she hadn’t said it. It made her sound like a right fool. But then, who cared about the opinion of some Belogradean copper?

“All right,” Bakharov said. “That’s a bit of a setback, but not all is lost.” He produced a folder from his desk drawer and flicked through its contents until he found a photograph. “Do you know this man?”

Kosara’s heart climbed so high up her throat she was worried it might fall out if she opened her mouth.

“Judging by your face, you do,” Bakharov said. “What can you tell me about him?”

“He was the man I met playing Kral. The man who took my shadow.”

“Where did you meet him?”

“Back in Chernograd.”

Bakharov pulled a notepad from his breast pocket and began writing. “And was he, by any chance, wearing bright-red shoes?”

“Yes, I believe he was. Why?”

“As it happens, a pair of red shoes was stolen from the Royal Archaeological Museum a few weeks back.”

“Why? Were they expensive?” From what she remembered, they’d looked like a regular old pair of suede brogues.

“I believe the word the curator used was ‘priceless.’” Bakharov glanced up at Kosara for a brief second. “I suppose there’s no reason not to tell you, since the burglary is on the front pages of every newspaper. The shoes were an invaluable magical artefact, known as ‘teleport brogues.’ The rumour is, they were made by a wizard from Belograd shortly after the Wall was built, in order to visit his Chernogradean lover.”

Kosara couldn’t believe her ears. She’d known the Belogradeans had no respect for magic, but this was simply outrageous. A magical artefact this powerful getting buried among dusty vases and old mummies in some museum?

“And you just kept them there?” she asked. “In that Royal Museum of yours?”

“Under very strict security, I assure you. The truth is, the Belogradean academic community had long assumed the magic words to activate the shoes died with the man who crafted them. Now we know this is not the case. Irnik Ivanov obviously used them to cross the Wall.” Bakharov tapped on the stranger’s photograph. Irnik Ivanov. Kosara made sure to remember it.

“The thing is,” Bakharov continued, “we strongly suspected he was involved in the burglary, since he started working at the museum shortly before it happened. But as far as proof goes, he’s done an exceptional job covering his tracks. We have no proof of his involvement with the Witch’s Cauldron boutique either, other than a calling card we found on him when he was asked to come in for an interrogation. It’s all very flimsy. Unless, of course, you agree to testify.”

Here was that disarming smile again. Kosara didn’t let herself trust it—he might not have been in uniform, but he was still a police officer. She’d recognise his friendly cop act anywhere.

She chewed on her lip. There was a good reason why he had trouble convincing witnesses to talk. Chernogradean smugglers weren’t known for their forgiving nature. Anyone who snitched risked finding themselves at the bottom of the sea with a pair of ankle bracelets made of lead.

“Look, Detective Bakharov—”

“Please, call me Asen.”

“I’m not sure I have as much information as you think I have. I didn’t even know Irnik Ivanov’s name until you just told me it.”

He scratched his chin with the end of his pencil. “You might know more than you suspect. Why don’t you tell me the entire story? Start with how you met Mr. Ivanov during that Kral game you mentioned.”

Kosara saw no reason to hide anything. As far as she was aware, she’d done nothing illegal crossing the Wall—it was Irnik Ivanov who’d committed a crime smuggling her in. Cooperating now would only mean getting out of this mess quicker. She told Bakharov the whole story, only skipping the parts about the Zmey that felt too personal.

As she talked, her eyes darted around the office. She spotted no personal touches: no plant pots on the windowsill, no children’s drawings attached to the cupboards, no family photographs on the desk. The walls were bare, except for a pin board hanging next to the door, covered in training certificates, newspaper clippings, and shiny commendation letters from the mayor of Belograd herself.

One of the newspaper articles caught Kosara’s eye. On the photograph, Bakharov led an older man towards the station. Despite being handcuffed, the man threw a smile over his shoulder at the camera. Kosara would recognise his self-important smirk anywhere: the man was Konstantin Karaivanov, the infamous Chernogradean smuggler.

Under it hung another newspaper clipping—this one crumpled—which reported on Karaivanov’s escape from prison. It looked as if somebody had clenched it in his fist, before flattening it somewhat and pinning it to the board.

I’ve been working on this case for years.… Dear God, Bakharov thought Irnik was involved with Karaivanov’s gang, Chernograd’s most notorious smuggling circle. Bakharov believed Karaivanov was the one who’d stolen her shadow!

Was it possible? Perhaps. Irnik certainly didn’t seem like the mastermind of the operation. Was it likely?

Karaivanov was a greasy little weasel, but he surely knew better than to tread on the toes of Chernograd’s magic community. He was well aware that the only thing witches could stand even less than other witches was people who tried to fuck with other witches.

At the same time, he also knew how much a witch’s shadow cost.

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