for everyone. They’re not all here,” Margit said.
“To hell with this,” Pietr said. He snatched the parcel from Margit, pulled out a stiletto, and cut open the wrappings. There were six large jars inside, each one a different color. The big man pulled one out and showed it to Margit. “Ink,” he said.
“Yes. I can see,” said Margit. “It has to be one of the others. We do need more ink.”
“I don’t like it,” growled the jaundiced man. “Maybe we should keep him here until everyone arrives.”
“I’m telling you, Pietr, Largo is no one to worry about,” said Margit. She turned to Largo. “You should go now. Please don’t tell Branca you saw me.”
“Of course not,” said Largo. “I take it you’re not here making a delivery, are you?”
Margit gave him a thin smile. “Hardly,” she said. She reached into a pocket of her coat and pressed a bottle into Largo’s hand. “Forget what you’ve seen here. All right?”
“But I have to tell Herr Branca something. And someone needs to sign for the package.”
Pietr and some of the other unseen people laughed. The big man took Largo’s receipt book, scrawled something in it, and shoved it back into Largo’s hands. Margit said, “That should be enough for the old bear.”
Largo looked at the signature. It was an indecipherable scrawl of loops and slashes. “It looks fine,” he said. “But what are you doing here?”
“None of your business,” a voice yelled from the back, while at the same time the jaundiced man said, “Trying to educate fools like you.”
“I don’t understand.”
Pietr disappeared for a moment and—after what seemed like a whispered argument with whoever else was inside—came back with a piece of paper. He thrust it into Largo’s hand. The ink was still tacky and some smeared on Largo’s fingers. There was a small target symbol in the bottom right corner. “Here,” said the big man. “Now the audience is over.” He started to close the door, but Margit caught it.
“I’ll talk to you later,” she said. “By the gate. After work.”
“I’ll see you there,” Largo said, still confused by the scene.
For the first time Pietr smiled. His teeth were dark and stained. “Be careful that the crows don’t peck your eyes out, pup,” he said, and slammed the door shut. Largo pressed his ear against it and heard shouting voices on the other side.
Largo didn’t linger to hear what they were arguing about. He shoved the paper Pitr had given him into his pocket and ran down the stairs.
He composed himself as he got to the ground floor, however, knowing that like the Green, Machtviertel wasn’t a place to show fear. He’d missed his chance with the people upstairs, but he could at least appear unconcerned to anyone outside.
But then Largo remembered the bottle Margit had put in his hand.
He took it from his pocket. It was morphia. A bottle of it as big as the one Dr. Venohr had given him at Remy’s. He stood in a shadow by the stairs and stared at it happily. He quickly unstoppered it and put two drops under his tongue. Almost immediately, the chills left him and a gentle warmth moved through his muscles and bones. Pure morphia, he thought. Not watered down. Magical.
Feeling much better, he put the receipt book into his shoulder bag and made his way out of the Black Palace to his bicycle. As he unchained it, the crows shuffled and cawed at him, utterly unafraid. But with the morphia in his system, so was Largo. He rode swiftly back toward the courier depot.
On his way out of Machtviertel, however, Largo had a coughing fit so violent that he had to stop on the side of the road. When he blew his nose with a handkerchief, what came out was as black as soot. As good as the morphia made him feel, he was still relieved to put Machtviertel behind him.
It was a long ride back to the office.
Herr Branca set down his pen and applauded mirthlessly when Largo arrived. “The prodigal son returns, and in one piece. Did you receive a warm welcome in Machtviertel?”
“I was greeted with open arms. At least by the crows.”
“And the people?”
“They were more reluctant, but I successfully delivered the parcel.”
“Merely reluctant?” said Branca. “I hadn’t heard that shyness was common among the denizens of the district.”
“Maybe ‘shyness’ isn’t the right word. They certainly weren’t used to receiving deliveries.”
Branca leaned on his desk. “What were they like, your reluctant customers?”
Largo thought carefully about his answer. He’d formulated a story on the ride back, but the morphia let his mind drift and now he couldn’t remember much of it. “There was a man and woman. An old couple. They didn’t want to come to the door at first, but I talked to them until they were reassured that it was safe to accept the package.”
“That was very professional of you. It was just the two of them then?”
“As far as I could see.”
Branca put out his hand. “Do you have your receipt book?” Largo handed it to him and he looked it over. “That’s quite a signature. Is it the man’s or woman’s?”
Even light-headed from the morphia, Largo remembered the most basic rule of lying: stay as close to the truth as possible. “The man’s. It is a bit of a mess, isn’t it? His hand shook a bit as he signed it.”
“That explains it, then. I take it there was nothing else interesting or notable at the Black Palace?”
Largo looked at his supervisor. “You’ve been there?”
Branca placed the receipt book in a desk drawer. “Many times,” he said. “I wasn’t born behind this desk, you know. I made my share of deliveries when I was your age.”
Largo tried to picture a young Branca riding a bicycle through traffic, cutting around pedestrians, cabs, and speeding military juggernauts. It was like something from a dream of flying—very strange and extremely hard to believe.
“I’m sure it’s changed since you were there, but it was my first trip so I’m not sure what qualifies as unusual. Perhaps if I go back sometime—”
He immediately regretted saying it. What if the bastard takes it as an invitation to make me the company’s representative to the hinterlands? I’ll have cancer in a year and no tips to show for it.
Herr Branca turned his head and looked at Largo from an odd angle. “Did you hurt yourself on the way back?” he said.
Largo looked down at himself. “I don’t think so.”
