Page 39 of Foul Days

“Where did you get all that silk?” Kosara ran her hand over the balloon’s envelope. “It must have cost you a fortune.”

Sevar didn’t reply.

“You stole it, didn’t you?”

He remained silent. His gaze was fixed somewhere behind her shoulder.

Kosara spun around and swore quietly as Bakharov stepped into the courtyard. His revolver was aimed straight at Sevar’s chest.

Kosara bit the inside of her cheek. She’d never had a gun pointed at her before. She was acutely aware that a twitch of Bakharov’s finger could lead to disaster. Her ears buzzed.

“Stop right there!” Bakharov shouted. “Don’t make another move!” And then, just when Kosara thought he’d run out of police clichés, “Keep your hands where I can see them!”

“Thanks, Kosara.” Sevar slowly raised his hands. “You just had to get us arrested, didn’t you? Do you know how long I’ve been doing this without getting caught?”

Kosara’s eyes were fixed on Bakharov. The barrel of the gun kept floating in and out of focus. “Did you follow me here?”

“Actually,” Bakharov said, “it’s called ‘shadowing’ when the police does it.”

That wasn’t possible. He couldn’t have resisted the anti-tracing potion.

Unless Kosara hadn’t brewed as good a potion as she’d thought. Or maybe it had gone off in the past year. Perhaps she hadn’t screwed the lid properly the last time she’d used it. That would be just her luck.

“Why did you follow me?” she asked.

“I shadowed you because you didn’t look as if you were going home. I figured you’d take me somewhere interesting. And I was right.”

Kosara scoffed. She’d call Sevar a lot of things, but “interesting” wasn’t one of them.

“Please, mister policeman,” Sevar said in a small voice. “I’m not interesting in the slightest. I’m a small potato. I don’t deal with anything dangerous, honestly.”

“Smuggling anything through the Wall is dangerous.”

“But you have to admit there is a difference between selling a few bottles of wine to a homesick Chernogradean refugee, and dealing with something like human trafficking.…”

“Weren’t you just about to smuggle this woman across the Wall?”

“I’m right here,” Kosara said. What was it with Belogradeans always talking about her in the third person? “He was taking me back to Chernograd. That can’t be illegal. That’s where I live.”

“It is,” Sevar muttered. “Smuggling anything, in any direction. Completely illegal.”

Bakharov moved his gun between Sevar and Kosara.

“Please, mister policeman!” Sevar cried out. “Surely we can make some kind of deal.”

Kosara tutted. Bad move, Sevar. Bakharov wasn’t the type of copper who made those sorts of deals. Any minute now, he’d tell Sevar how many months he’d just added to his prison sentence simply by making this suggestion—

“Hmm.” Bakharov ran a hand down his chin. “Perhaps.”

What the hell?

Sevar still looked as if he was about to cry, this time from happiness. “I have money!” Do you, now? “Just say how much.”

Bakharov considered him for a few seconds. “How about you take me across the Wall?”

The courtyard fell silent as Kosara and Sevar both gaped at him.

“What?” Kosara said, and it sounded as if she had an echo. Sevar had asked the same question.

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