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Swearing out loud, Gilmael searched the middle side drawer of his desk for the third time. He looked up when Dylen entered the office, his eyebrows raised questioningly.
Approaching he said, “What’s wrong?”
Gilmael straightened and gestured to the desk with a huff. “Did you take the list of agents and forget to inform me?”
Dylen looked affronted. “Of course not. Last I saw the list was when you placed it in your desk yestereve.” He peered at the open drawer, alarm quickly replacing the indignation in his features. “They’re missing?”
“Well, they aren’t here!” Gilmael ran a hand through his hair. “I also discovered this drawer has been forced. It wasn’t noticeable until I tried to unlock it.”
They looked at each other in consternation. Dylen had prepared a new list of all Ylandrin spies stationed in every nation in Aisen. Gilmael demanded that he always be kept up to date about any changes made in the placement of agents. He deemed it his responsibility to try and secure his people’s safety in the perilous world of espionage.
Now that list was missing. If it fell into the wrong hands, all his agents would be compromised and those assigned to hostile nations rendered particularly vulnerable.
“I’ll close down the Ministry.” Dylen was already on his way out. “No one will be allowed to leave until we resolve this. Veres grant the thief is still on the premises.”
He moved swiftly. Within a quarter of an hour, all entrances had been locked, every department had been sequestered and the Ministry guards were searching every desk, cabinet and shelf in the building. Meanwhile, Gilmael and Dylen spoke to the most trusted Deira in each section in an attempt to discover if anyone had noticed unusual movement the night before.
They were talking to some agents when Gilmael noticed Selvin shifting uneasily behind his desk. He frowned. Selvin would never risk the long drop from the gallows for treason. Yet he looked guilty. He turned on his heel and strode to his friend.
“What did you do, Sel?” he abruptly asked.
Selvin started and stared up at him in alarm. He jerked to his feet shaking his head. “Nay, I just—” He blew out his breath and said, “I’m not sure what I saw and I don’t want to accuse anyone unjustly.”
Dylen came up to them and said, “What did you see?”
“I could be wrong...”
“What did you see?”
Selvin glanced around furtively before saying, “I was about to leave last night when I saw Imri Viraz heading for your office. I was surprised because I knew you’d already left for the day. But then I thought maybe you’d come back to, well...”
He ducked his head and scratched the back of his neck in apparent embarrassment. It was no secret that Gilmael kept assignations with Imri in his office.
Gilmael stared. “What time was this?”
“About an hour after the time I thought you’d left.”
“But I didn’t come back,” Gilmael said. Disbelief and anxiety rose up like a noxious brew. “Why would Imri go to my office?”
Selvin gulped. “I’m sorry. I really thought he was, um, meeting you.”
Gilmael distractedly waved his apology away. Selvin’s revelation was not necessarily anything of import. Imri probably believed he was still in his office and came by to bid him goodnight. But on the heels of that thought came the recollection that he’d passed by the archives to ask Imri if he wished to join him for the night. Imri had regretfully declined saying he had to go home shortly because Mishar was nursing a cold and was more fretful than his caregiver could manage.
He was trying to think of another reason for Imri’s actions when the Ministry guard captain entered the room and hurried over.
“My lords, we found it,” the Deir said as he handed over an envelope stuffed with a few sheets of parchment.
Dylen pulled out the sheets and leafed through them quickly. “They’re all here.”
“Where did you find them?” Gilmael asked.
“In the archives, Dyhar.” The officer hesitated. “In Master Viraz’s desk.”
Gilmael felt the blood drain from his cheeks. “Imri?” He shook his head. “That’s not possible.”
“Was it in plain sight?” Dylen said.
“Nay, Dyhar. It was in the bottom drawer under other documents.”
Dylen turned over the envelop. It was stamped and addressed to King’s Hollow, the Viraz estate in Losshen.
He was going to use the mail, Gilmael dully thought. “Bring him here,” he ordered.
The officer shook his head. “Master Viraz went home just after midday.”
“What? Why?”
“The archivists said his son’s caregiver sent word that his child’s cold has worsened and he wished to check on him.”
Gilmael drew a deep breath to try and calm the rage now welling up inside him. He turned and headed for the door, sharply motioning to the captain to follow. Dylen caught up with him outside and caught him by the arm.
“What are you going to do?”
“What I’m duty-bound to do. Bring him in for interrogation and if there’s just cause, place him under arrest.”
Dylen looked appalled. “You speak as if you’ve already convicted him of treason. He’s your lover! You can’t treat him thusly.”
“I can if it’s warranted,” Gilmael snapped. “Would you have me show favoritism toward him because he warms my bed?”
“Nay, I would have you deal with him fairly.”
“I will deal with him as fairly as he deserves. Now get out of the way if you’re not coming with me.”
He shouldered past his cousin and headed for the stables.
––––––––
Their arrival at the Viraz residence threw the household into a furor. Imri appeared with Mishar in his arms. He had obviously just started to undress and was still clad in the shirt, breeches and jerkin he’d worn to work. Mishar on the other hand wore a nightshirt indicating he’d been abed. The toddler was red-nosed and watery-eyed which confirmed he was with cold.
Sire and son stared at their unexpected visitors in puzzlement though Mishar brightened when he recognized Gilmael.
“Lord Gil!” he called out happily. “Did you come to visit me? I’m sick and Aba kept me in bed all day.”
Gilmael glanced at Dylen, uncertain how to respond. But Dylen refused to help him. Suppressing a scowl, Gilmael looked at Mishar and said, “I’m afraid not. I came to speak with your aba.”
“About what?” Imri asked.
“What time did you leave the archives yestereve?” Gilmael asked.
To his dismay, Imri seemed to hesitate before replying.
“An hour before the others,” he finally answered. “I had to get home early because of Mishar.”
Gilmael stiffened at the lie. “You were seen going to my office well after I’d departed.”
Imri flushed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to lie, but... The truth is embarrassing and I didn’t want everyone to know.” He looked at Dylen apologetically as well. “I fell asleep at my desk and awakened when everyone had already gone. Given that I’ve chided some of my staff for doing the same thing, I didn’t want it known I’d fallen asleep at work too.”
“That sounds reasonable,” Dylen murmured.
“But it doesn’t explain why he entered my office and forced the lock on my desk,” Gilmael pointed out.
Imri frowned. “I went to your office to deliver the files you requested. I didn’t do anything to your desk except place those files on top of it.”
“I didn’t request any files.”
“But you did. You asked for the files on Morave and Lithuana. You asked me to deliver them before I went home.”
“I didn’t ask anything of the sort from you,” Gilmael said, his voice now hard. “And even if I had, there were no archive files on my desk. Furthermore, a list of sensitive information was taken. Would you venture to guess where it was found?”
Imri looked confused. And then his eyes widened. “In my office?”
“Unfortunately, yes,” Dylen replied.
“But how—” Imri fell back a step. “Are you implying I took the list?”
“It was in your desk and you were seen entering my office after I’d left—a fact you tried to conceal—and you lied about delivering files you allege I asked for,” Gilmael snapped.
“I didn’t lie about that,” Imri shot back. “And why in Aisen would I take whatever that confounded list is?”
“I don’t know and I don’t care. But I’ll be damned if I permit treason in my Ministry.”
“Treason?” Imri looked horrified. “Heyas, Gil, I’m no traitor. You know that!”
“Nay, I don’t. After all, a fruit doesn’t fall far from its tree.”
Imri’s cheeks paled considerably. “You would lay the sins of my forebears on me?” he half whispered. He passed a whimpering Mishar to his caregiver and spread his hands in front of him. “For Veres’s sake, if I took that list, why did I leave it in my desk? Why didn’t I bring it home with me?”
“Because everyone is searched whenever they leave the building which you well know,” Gilmael reminded him. “You were going to send it from the Ministry through this afternoon’s mail since that isn’t subjected to close scrutiny, an oversight I’m going to remedy by the way. But unluckily for you, Mishar’s cold worsened and distracted you enough to forget.”
When Imri only gaped at him and made no rebuttal, Gilmael’s anger boiled over. He did not pause to think that perhaps Imri was dumbfounded, only that he’d taken a viper into his bed.
“Take him,” Gilmael ordered.
The guards moved to flank Imri, restraining his arms whereupon Mishar cried out, “Aba! What’s happening? Why are they taking you away?”
Imri looked at Gilmael pleadingly. “Not in front of Mishar. Please, Gil, I beg of you.”
Gilmael hesitated. He half turned to order the guards to release Imri and allow him to walk out of the house on his own volition.
I knew it. Gil can’t refuse him, can he?
It did not matter whose stray thought it was. What registered on Gilmael was the sneer expressed in those few words. His affair with Imri had obviously led folk to assume he would be lenient with his lover. Maybe even to the extent of granting his requests while denying others in the same situation.
“I said take him!” he repeated more harshly, ignoring the various expressions of disbelief.
“Gil—”
Don’t you dare undermine me, Dylen.
Imri is right. Don’t do this in front of his son.
And have it said all that needs be done to gain my mercy is share my bed?
Gilmael cut off their mental conversation abruptly and turned his back on his cousin. Only then did he realize Mishar was sobbing almost hysterically as he watched his sire escorted out none too gently.
“Aba!” the tot shrieked, wriggling so frantically in his caregiver’s arms the latter got down on his knees to avoid dropping him. “Where are they taking him? Lord Gil, save my aba! Please!”
Gilmael blanched at Mishar’s piteous pleading, the pathos of it all heightened by his tearful countenance, confusion and fright clear in his eyes. Before he could respond, Dylen knelt and gently laid his hands on the child’s trembling shoulders.
“It’s all right, Mishar,” he said in a soothing voice. “Your aba is just helping us with an investigation.”
“But why did they take him like that?” Mishar wailed. “They were rough with him!”
Gilmael could not meet the accusing glower Dylen darted at him, and neither could he look at Mishar. Guilt lay heavy in his belly, giving rise to a sour taste in the back of his mouth.
“We have to go,” he said in a low voice. “I’m sorry, Mishar.”
He turned on his heel and hastened out of the house before the child’s weeping and woebegone demeanor could weaken his resolve. He had to do his duty. He could not allow sentiment to sway him.
Dylen did not speak as they mounted their steeds and rode back to the central district. But his anger and disappointment came through as clearly as if he’d shouted at Gilmael from the rooftops of Rikara.
As soon as they set foot inside the building, Gilmael ordered that the archives be searched for the documents Imri claimed he’d left on his desk.
A part of him worried they would not be found for it meant he’d behaved abysmally toward a possibly innocent Deir. But another unexpectedly baser part hoped they were in the archives for it would give the lie to Imri’s claim and thus justify his own actions. On the heels of these conflicting thoughts came searing shame that he should put his sensibilities ahead of Imri’s worsening prospects. A sense of unworthiness wrestled with the pride that had sustained him all his life.
Just as guilt started to overwhelm him, Imri’s assistant came to him and handed over the aforementioned files. “It appears they never left the archives,” he shakily said.
A feeling of vindication overcame the guilt. Gilmael treated Dylen to a righteous snort before stalking over to Imri. He waved the documents in front of his lover and said, “Where now your claim to innocence? These were found where they’ve always been.”
Imri’s eyes widened in confusion. “How can that be? I swear I took them to your office. At your behest.”
“And I say again I never asked for them.” Gilmael shook his head. “You disappoint me, Viraz.”
Imri’s expression changed. “Viraz?” he repeated. “After what we shared—at your instigation may I remind you—suddenly I’m no more than a professional acquaintance?”
Gilmael scowled. “I have never shown greater favor to someone just because he warmed my bed. What led you to believe yourself different?”
This time Dylen intervened. “There’s no call to humiliate him,” he furiously said though he kept his voice low. “Or are you become the unmannerly brutes you always decry?”
“My thanks, Dylen, but you needn’t tire yourself on my behalf,” Imri cut in. His face had whitened from the aspersion cast upon him, but he held his head high. “Your cousin has already adjudged me guilty and naught will sway him from deeming me less than the dirt beneath his boots.” He glanced at the guard captain who visibly cringed in discomfort. “Lead me where you will. I won’t resist.”
Gilmael was so shaken by Dylen’s castigation and even more by Imri’s expressed disillusionment with him that it took him a moment to realize the officer was inquiring whether he was to conduct Imri to the interrogation room. Nonetheless, he refused to retreat from his position and replied in the affirmative. But he did not follow at once. He needed time to collect himself. Dylen was no help.
His cousin openly seethed at his side uncaring of the surreptitious looks cast their way. He neither looked at Gilmael nor spoke to him. It was quite apparent he was fighting to bring his anger under control and regain his professional manner.
At length, Dylen glanced at him and coolly said, “Shall we?”
Gilmael grimly nodded.
––––––––
Imri looked up warily as Gilmael and Dylen entered the interrogation room, a small, low-ceilinged, windowless chamber unfurnished but for the stool upon which he was seated. A soldier stood guard in every corner and two agents flanked the door. It was a chamber meant as much to demoralize as to intimidate. Whether it was having that effect on Imri was hard to tell however. He was obviously cautious, but otherwise kept his composure.
He isn’t afraid.
Gilmael frowned at his cousin’s silent comment. He had to admit that worried him. Even a cursory scan of Imri’s mind yielded naught but outraged thoughts and pained bewilderment. The latter was hardly a mark of guilt. Perhaps he’d been precipitate in dragging him to the Ministry without further investigation.
Yes, you were.
You’re not being helpful!
Because I believe you erred?
Oh, stuff it.
Nay, his life matters more than your pride. His life and his son’s.
Gilmael had no response to that beyond a glare which bothered Dylen not at all.
You’ve let your emotions lead you astray. You’re hardly a credible investigator.
Speak plainly. What do you want?
Let me handle this. He trusts me enough to permit me entry into his mind. Like it or not, it’s the best way to learn the truth and it will be less painful if he’s willing.
He left unsaid Imri’s likely resistance if it were Gilmael who conducted the interrogation. Gilmael gritted his teeth and nodded his consent.
Dylen stepped in front of Imri and waited for him to meet his gaze. Defiance mingled with some uncertainty in the latter’s expression.
“Will you answer me truthfully and to the best of your ability?” Dylen gently asked.
Imri glanced at Gilmael before saying, “I’ve done nothing wrong. Of course, I will.”
Dylen nodded. “Very well. Please explain your claim that Gil asked for certain files from you. He denies that he did.”
Imri cast Gilmael a betrayed look. “I don’t understand why he denies it. I swear he asked it of me when he came to the archives.”
“I did not,” Gilmael insisted. “Are you trying to paint me the liar?”
Shut up, Gil.
Though he wanted to say more, Gilmael held his tongue. Dylen had imbued his mental reprimand with enough acid to corrode an entire armory’s contents.
“Gil gains nothing from lying,” Dylen said. “That can’t be said for you unfortunately. Yet I know you to be honest almost to a fault. How about the absence of the files you say you placed on his desk and their apparent non-removal from the archives? Can you explain that?”
“I can’t!” Imri retorted in palpable frustration. “I don’t know how it could have happened!”
“Well, I can,” Dylen said unexpectedly. “At least in part.” He looked at Gilmael. “Someone could have entered your office after Imri left, taken them, and returned them to the archives.”
“It’s possible,” Gilmael conceded. “But that doesn’t explain his claim that I asked for them or why the list was found in his desk. Or are you going to suggest someone planted them there? In which case, wherefore? Why would anyone wish to incriminate him for something as foul as treason? Indeed, why would anyone want to incriminate him at all?”
“Why indeed.” Dylen turned his attention back to Imri. “There’s one way to irrefutably confirm your claims. Will you let me search your memories?”
Imri swallowed. Everyone knew it was a far from comfortable experience especially when it was a deep and thorough search.
“Will Lord Gilmael join you?”
The formal address stung. Gilmael bit back a tart rejoinder.
“As a witness, which is necessary,” Dylen replied. “I’ll allow him entry into our link, but he’ll merely observe what I unearth. I give you my word, he won’t touch your mind directly.”
Imri considered his answer. At length, he looked up at Dylen and said, “If this will prove my innocence, so be it. I just—” He faltered slightly. “I want to get back to Mishar. He’s probably frantic right now.”
The reminder of how his actions had affected the child was a hard blow. Gilmael steeled himself against more broadsides, but Imri said no more. Instead, he closed his eyes as he opened his mind to Dylen. Gilmael knew the moment his shields dropped completely.
Dylen touched his fingers to Imri’s forehead. A moment later, Gilmael sensed the invitation to enter the link into Imri’s mind. He entered the doorway his cousin had created.
He found himself in Imri’s office as seen through the latter’s eyes. He was seated behind his desk, several files in front of him. None resembled the ones he claimed to have delivered to Gilmael’s office.
A small cup to the right of the files caught his attention. It was filled with a bluish green liquid. A few citrus bits floated on the surface. The cup was full indicating Imri had not yet touched it.
“Is that liquor?”
Dylen stood before him. Gilmael knew that in his cousin’s mind, it was he who sat behind the desk and saw what Imri saw.
“I believe it’s grog. Mariners favor it and Glanthar makes the best. That’s odd. I’ve never known Imri to indulge in drink at work.”
“Nor have I. Look, he’s going to try it.”
Imri cautiously tasted the grog. Though he appreciated the flavor, he appeared to decide not to finish the beverage for he only drank a half portion. He set the cup aside and started stacking the files on his desk. Within seconds, Gilmael’s vision started to blur.
“What in Aisen...”
“He’s falling asleep,” Dylen said. “Just as he claimed.”
Gilmael winced as he recalled how he’d scoffed at Imri. “Why so sudden?”
Everything went black as Imri fell unconscious. It took a moment for Dylen to compensate for the darkness and become visible again.
“This isn’t slumber. At least, not natural slumber. He was drugged.”
“The grog.”
“Yes.”
“But why—”
“There’s another presence here.”
Gilmael scowled at his inability to sense anything beyond the link since he was not the one to establish it.
“Someone else has joined us?”
“Nay, he’s a part of this memory and yet ... he wasn’t here when Imri was still awake.”
Gilmael sucked in his breath. That was only possible if someone had tapped into Imri’s mind while he slept.
“Who is it?”
“Imri was unconscious. He wouldn’t have seen who it was. But there’s evidence that something was done to his mind. Here, do you see this?”
Dylen had conjured a window, a familiar construct with which to see into a deeper recess of a Deir’s mind. But the window was veiled by a thick, pale mist, obscuring whatever memory hid behind it. He thrust his hand through the mist and deftly changed it into something comprehensible and therefore possible to manipulate. The mist slowly turned into white curtains. Gilmael waited as his cousin drew the curtains aside.
He stared in shock as an image of himself was revealed standing before Imri’s desk. His memory-self smiled and said, “I need information about the dynasties of Morave and Lithuana. I’d appreciate it if you could deliver whatever files you have on them before you leave.”
Dylen froze the memory then had it play out again.
“This memory was planted,” he said after a slight pause. “You can’t hear it, but when your image speaks, it’s as if there are two people talking. Only an insertion from outside would have that effect.”
Gilmael frowned. “But why did he take the list? That wasn’t suggested to him.”
“We don’t know for certes that he took it. I’m pushing forward to when he awakened.”
Suddenly it was bright and the office slowly came into view once more. Imri straightened in his chair and looked around in bewilderment. Gilmael listened closely to his thoughts.
“Saints! I fell asleep at my desk. How embarrassing. They’ll never let me live this down.”
He stood up and peeked out the office window. The archives were dark and devoid of movement. “What time is it?” He looked at the clock on his wall and groaned at the lateness of the hour. “Oh Veres, I have to get home. But wait, Gil wanted something. Heyas! What is it?”
Imri left the office and looked about, still somewhat befuddled. And then his eyes widened. “Oh yes...”
He snatched up a lamp and lighted it, walked into the section housing the documents on the realms to the east, and searched through them until he found the reports on the sovereign duchies of Morave and Lithuana. He hurried back to his office, picked up his belongings, and doused the lamp. He then departed the archives and headed for Gilmael’s office.
Imri knocked on the door when he reached the office but no one answered. “Of course. He’ll have gone home by now,” he thought. He hesitated then entered the darkened room. He laid the files on Gilmael’s desk, placed a paperweight atop them, and exited the office. Not once did he try to open any of the desk drawers.
The memory faded into endless gray as it came to an end.
Gilmael grimaced. “He told the truth.”
Dylen nodded. “This was meant to incriminate him, no more, no less.”
“But surely whoever perpetrated this knew it wouldn’t succeed.”
“Perhaps it was merely an attempt to cast doubt on his trustworthiness. Given his family history, the least smear on his reputation would be difficult to clean up.”
“That means anything that contained sensitive information would have done.”
“Exactly. The perpetrator struck gold when he found that list.”
“But why would anyone wish to target me this way?”
Gilmael caught his breath when Imri appeared before them. He scowled at Dylen. His cousin had let him into their mental conference.
“It’s his right,” Dylen pointed out. He addressed Imri. “We don’t know just yet, but rest assured we’ll get to the bottom of this.”
Imri nodded. He trained an icy glare on Gilmael. “Now that you know me innocent of your charges, I would like to go home. Mishar will be terrified by now.”
Gilmael pursed his lips. “Don’t you wish to discover who did this to you?”
Pure scorn appeared on Imri’s face. “I believe that’s your responsibility, my lord.” He turned to Dylen. “My thanks for helping me. May we leave now?”
Between one heartbeat and the next they were back in the interrogation room. Imri blinked a few times before he shakily got to his feet.
“He’s free to go,” Dylen informed the agents guarding the door. He looked at Imri and said, “I’m sorry you had to endure that.”
Imri exhaled. “You were only doing your duty. Good day, Dylen.” His voice turned glacial when he addressed Gilmael. “And to you, Calanthe-dyhar.”
Gilmael dumbly watched him stride out of the room with nary a glance at the agents who tried to extend their apologies. He wondered if Imri would continue to work in the Ministry. Were Gilmael in his place, he likely would not.
Dylen beckoned to him from the door. He sighed and rubbed his forehead in agitation before joining his cousin.
“So,” he muttered as they returned to his office. “What do you think happened?”
Dylen smiled grimly. “An adequately gifted Deir can plant a false thought or memory in the mind of someone unconscious.”
“Thereby narrowing the pool of suspects to the operatives section,” Gilmael said. “It’s the one section where a fair degree of mental adeptness is required.”
“There are gifted Deira in almost all the sections. Imri for instance.”
“But one has to be thoroughly trained to accomplish this and not leave easily discovered traces behind. Even a highly gifted but unpracticed Deir wouldn’t be able to hide his tracks completely. Imri is mind sensitive yet he didn’t realize his subconscious had been tampered with. Therefore the perpetrator is most likely an agent much as it grieves me to suspect any of them.”
“You’re right. This wasn’t the work of an untrained Deir.” Dylen summed up their speculations. “After Imri left for the day, someone else entered your office, forced your desk open and rifled through it, removed the list and files, planted the list in Imri’s desk, and returned the files to the archives. Selvin only saw Imri go into your office. He didn’t see him come out.”
Gilmael shook his head. “If we’re correct and this act was specifically directed at Imri, it makes the perpetrator’s motives personal. Now why is that?”
Dylen gestured in the direction of the archives. “Perhaps we should speak to his colleagues. They might provide some clues.”
––––––––
What they learned from the archivists left Gilmael reeling in disbelief and Dylen obviously tempted to say, “I told you so.”
“Yes, my lords,” Imri’s assistant informed them. “The grog was from Glanthar. He told us he brought some from his last sojourn at home.”
“Are you certain?” Gilmael pressed, bile rising in the back of his throat.
“Absolutely,” another archivist said. “He came by just as we were all preparing to leave. He said he had quite a bit left after serving the other agents and thought we’d like a taste before we went home.”
Gilmael glanced at Dylen. His cousin shook his head slightly to indicate no such thing had occurred.
“Who served you?” Dylen asked.
“Oh, we served ourselves save for Master Viraz. He was in his office.”
“Who poured his drink?”
“Adhari-tyar did.”
Gilmael felt even more nauseated. “And did Selvin bring the grog to Imri?”
A third archivist said, “Nay, Dyhar. He asked me to bring it. He said they’d had a tiff and Master Viraz might feel uncomfortable accepting something from him. It’s why he asked us not to say where the grog came from.”
A sharp imprecation escaped Gilmael, startling the archivists into cringing. He turned to the Ministry guard captain who’d accompanied them.
“Bring Selvin Adhari to my office,” he ordered. Whereupon he stalked out of the archives, shaking slightly from a combination of shock and fury. Dylen silently followed him.
They did not have long to wait before the captain arrived with no Selvin in tow. “He’s gone, my lords. He left right after Master Viraz was released.”
A chill snaked up Gilmael’s spine. He did not know what stoked his apprehension which rapidly escalated into outright fear. But he was certain there was something to fear. He dashed out of the office, Dylen hot at his heels. They raced to the stables.
Dylen shouted, “Where are we going?”
“Belvas Lane!”