any smudges or dirt. Anything to indicate his dirty fingers. You’re sure they were blackened?”
Largo nodded. “Yes,” he said, then quickly added, “I held the book for him. He didn’t touch it. I’m sorry if that was against procedure.”
Branca tore the signed page out of the book and put it with the papers on his desk. Then he put the book in a drawer. “Not against procedure at all, Largo. However, in the future it would be best if the client was in possession of the book when they signed it. Please remember that.”
“Of course. I will,” said Largo, relaxing a little. It seemed that Branca’s preoccupation with procedure had kept him from examining the signature closely enough to recognize Largo’s handwriting. But he couldn’t help being curious. “If I may ask, sir, was this client special?”
“How do you mean?” said Branca, leaning casually on his desk.
“I mean, will I be questioned like this after each client? It’s no bother, you understand. I just want to know if I should pay special attention to them.”
“It’s always good to pay attention to clients,” Branca said, distant and officious, “especially for a chief courier. And no, I won’t interrogate you like this after each delivery. However, this was your first in your new position, so I thought it best to go over it carefully.”
“I hope I performed satisfactorily,” Largo said, hating himself because it sounded like groveling—and he had been sounding like that the whole day. Still, his position was tenuous enough that it seemed better to err on the side of caution, especially with Branca, who had dismissed other couriers as if swatting a fly.
“You did fine. But from time to time I’ll be asking you about other clients. A new procedure from management. Quality control and all that. They may wish to conduct interviews with some of them to see that we’re staying on our toes. I’m sure you understand.”
“I’ll make sure to pay more attention,” said Largo.
“Very good.” Branca gave Largo a new receipt book, then pressed the button on his desk that called a Mara. It brought out a large green folder that looked as if it might contain papers. “The address is on the front. You’ll find this delivery a bit less colorful and more posh than your last one. The Kromium district. Do you know it?”
“Very well.”
“Good. Herr Heller is an important client, so get there quickly. After this delivery you may go to lunch. And take your time. As chief courier you get a full forty-five minutes. Do you know why regular couriers only get thirty?”
“Because we, I mean they, are in such demand during working hours?”
Branca shook his head. “It’s to keep them from drinking too much and getting into trouble. It’s assumed that there will be no problems like that from the chief courier.”
“No, sir. I never drink on the job.” Largo wondered if Branca had caught sight of the morphia bottle in his jacket.
“Very good. I myself am accorded the luxury of sixty minutes for lunch. See? You and I are more and more alike.”
Oh god. What a miserable thought.
“I’ll do my best to live up to the company’s standards.”
Branca waved his pen at him. “Get going. I have papers to deal with,” he said. “Oh—and Largo? There’s no need to sneak out the back this time. The door you came in through is the shortest way out.”
Largo hurried away, surer than ever that Branca knew his secret. But if he did, why would he have given him the promotion, and why would he cover for him now? It didn’t make sense. In any case, there was nothing he could do about it right then. He’d just do his job, and sort this out when he had time. He thought then about Rainer Foxx. His friend was older and understood more about the real world than Largo felt he ever would. He sometimes imagined what life might have been like if Rainer had been his brother back in the Green. Maybe he wouldn’t have grown so afraid all the time.
He’ll know what to do. I have to talk to him soon.
Largo checked the address on the envelope, stuffed it into his shoulder bag, and pedaled away from the office as quickly as his legs would carry him.
Of course, Herr Branca had been right about the Kromium district. Its bright, wide streets, quaint cafés, art galleries, and cinema gave the place an open and pleasant atmosphere—the exact opposite of Haxan Green. Largo thought that if all his deliveries were to districts so violently in opposition to each other he might suffer whiplash.
The streets in Kromium were named for various metals, and the deeper you traveled into the district, the more valuable they became. They began at Boron Prachtstrasse, then Tin, Copper, and Iron. Alloys such as Bronze and Steel crossed the pure metal streets. The address Largo was looking for wasn’t among the loftiest metals such as Platinum, Osmium, and Iridium. However, it was still quite respectable and, he thought, it had a much more poetic ring to it than the more precious streets.
The Heller mansion stood near the corner of Electrum and Gold. Largo leaned his bicycle against a wrought iron gate twisted into elegant nouveau curls. He didn’t bother locking the bicycle this time. With luck, he wouldn’t have to worry about that again for quite a while.
The mansion’s front door was decorated with a sunburst made from a dozen precious metals. Even under the overcast sky, it shone brightly. Like many doors in the district, this one was solid steel—not for security reasons, but to keep within the aesthetics of the neighborhood. Rather than rap on the thick metal door with his bare knuckles, Largo used the gleaming rose-colored knocker. It was heavy and slightly dented on the underside. Gold, he thought.
I wonder how long that would last in the Green?
A moment later, a maid in black brocade and a small white bonnet answered the door. Before Largo could have her sign for the envelope he heard a woman’s voice from behind her. “Who is it, Nora?”
“A courier, madam. With a package for Herr Heller.”
A moment later, an elegant red-headed woman in an arsenicgreen gown appeared beside the maid. “I’ll deal with it, thank you,” she said. The maid curtsied and disappeared into the house.
A mechanical din boomed from the street as a driverless juggernaut rolled down the prachtstrasse. It was festooned with flags and large photochromes of the war dead. Patriotic music blared from speakers mounted on the front and sides of the juggernaut and the songs echoed off the buildings as it passed.
Frau Heller made a face at the behemoth. “Those things clatter by day and night. Of course, we all supported the war. I, myself, lost a cousin in the trenches of High Proszawa. But must we be reminded of the unpleasantness at all hours?” She looked at Largo.
He shook his head in agreement. “No, madam. It seems like a great inconvenience.”
“Do these dismal little parades go through your neighborhood too?”
“No. I’ve seen them in the Triumphal Square and some of the business districts, but not where I live.”
“You’re a lucky young man,” said Frau Heller. When she turned back to Largo her radiant
