a visible stench, meaty and rotten, as vapors rose from the carcass.
Thalia’s knees were like water. She took an involuntary step backward, then lost her balance and sat down hard on the flagstones of the courtyard.
Tycho Aristides, the Skinner of New York, stepped past Thalia and stood over the manticore, intent on the carcass, which was already beginning to decompose. Deftly, from an inner pocket in his coat, he produced a small glass jar filled with clear fluid. He took back the dagger he had lodged in the manticore’s throat and used it to open the creature’s abdomen. He plunged his leather-gloved hands into the cavity, sliced something within, and brought out a purplish bit of meat. He put the gobbet of flesh in the jar. Then he took off his soiled gloves and cleaned his big dagger and his little jar with a crumpled red bandanna.
Thalia turned aside until she was on hands and knees. She threw up. Ryker dropped to one knee beside her. He put an arm around her shoulders. Thalia felt his breath warm on her ear and heard him say, “You did splendidly.”
Thalia shook him off and threw up again. His help was more welcome than she liked to admit, even to herself. Any more sympathy and she might burst into tears.
“Rogers,” Ryker called, “brandy all around.”
Thalia crouched on all fours and shivered while the dead manticore was loaded into the police van. Her hearing was back. She wished there were something she could do about her sense of smell.
“Don’t think of going anywhere, miss.” Inspector Ottokar, with help from Officer Kelly, had regained his feet. “Given how seldom manticores share a territory, you should be safe now. These manticore formalities take precedence, but that paperwork won’t take very long. We’ll be back for you shortly. You’ll have a lot of questions to answer.”
“I’ll come with you, Inspector,” Aristides declared. “There’s a reward for every manticore I kill, and I don’t see any point in waiting to collect.” He offered Thalia his hand and she let him help her up.
Rogers distracted the policemen with his tray of glasses and the brandy decanter.
“Thank you, Mr. Aristides.” Thalia brushed at her skirts. Her clothing was creased and dusty, but she’d managed to avoid both the manticore’s blood and her own vomit. Good. She felt exhausted. Apparently resisting the urge to Trade took it out of one.
“You’re welcome, Miss Cutler.” Aristides gave her a formal bow. “I’ve been stalking the beast for days. It never went far from this doorstep. I thought it would pay to keep an eye on you, and when the Rykers’ man came out to summon me, I knew I was right again.”
“What’s in the jar?” Thalia asked.
Aristides looked surprised by the question. “This? Just a bit of alcohol. Preservative. Manticores don’t last long once they’re dead.”
“What did you take out of the manticore?” Thalia persisted. “It looked—”
“Disgusting, I know,” said Aristides.
“Purple,” Thalia finished.
“Gallbladder. You can’t imagine how rare they are. Trader scientists will pay a lot of money for one.” Aristides patted the pocket of his coat. “As much as the reward the Traders put up for killing one.”
“Why? What is it good for?” Thalia couldn’t imagine what a piece of a manticore could possibly do to be worth what it took to get one.
Aristides spread his open hands and shrugged. “Trader scientists are still Traders. They just say research. Who knows?”
Rogers offered them brandy. Thalia accepted a glass. Aristides declined with thanks. “I’m going with the policemen. Time to collect the reward.”
The police van departed. The Rykers’ servants closed and locked the gates, then set about cleaning up. Thalia stood in the middle of the courtyard trying to take it all in. There was manticore’s blood on the flagstones. There was the embarrassing stain left when Thalia had vomited.
Little by little, Thalia’s detachment faded away. Her hands began to shake. Her knees were less watery now, but she still felt as if they might buckle beneath her at any moment. This weakness, now that there was no danger whatsoever, made her feel ashamed. What was the matter with her?
Thalia reminded herself that this was her second manticore attack in as many days. Her friend Nutall had been accused of Von Faber’s murder. Soon the police were going to come back to arrest her. It might be that only milk bottles were upset, but she had a right to feel shaken.
Thalia stood there until the servants had finished their work and left. Not