The River of No Return

you are taking on the duties that Arkady explained to you.”
    Nick again said nothing.
    The Alderman leaned back in his chair, and a lock of black hair fell onto his forehead. His mouth was a stern line. He really was movie-star handsome, but less Gary Cooper, Nick decided, more Gregory Peck. “Is this the silence of considered thought, of petulant resistance, or of imbecility, Mr. Davenant?”
    “Nick—” Alice began.
    Penture held up a hand to silence her.
    “I reject the assignment,” Nick said. “When I agreed—reluctantly—to help the Guild, I believed I was joining you as a soldier, not as a gigolo.”
    Penture let a thin smile touch his lips. “I am sorry if you had any misapprehensions about your assignment,” he said. “But I’m afraid you don’t have a choice in the matter. Miss Blomgren’s bereavement is a chance we cannot pass up. She is in need of a new lover. You have the status and the wealth to appeal to her.”
    “Surely there must be other ways.”
    Penture made an impatient Gallic gesture, as if he held a bird in his hands and was setting it free. “You are enraging! This Englishness!”
    “I told you,” Arkady said, not looking up. “He is a priest.”
    “Alva Blomgren is the most beautiful woman in London and a fabled courtesan,” Penture said to Nick. “She is also the head of a ring of Ofan who have established themselves in Soho Square. We have known about her activities for a few years, but until recently there was no need to crack down on the Ofan; they seemed a harmless enough group of dissidents. Laughable, even, with their wild notions. But now things are different. It is possible that we must purge the world of the Ofan once and for all. But first we must learn more about what they are up to. We need you as a spy, not a killer.”
    “I’m not interested.”
    “Oh, for the love of God!” Alice rolled her eyes. “First Arkady and now you—behaving like children!”
    “Let me tell you about Alva,” Penture said. “She jumped from 1348 to 1790, a teenager, suddenly free of her plague-wracked medieval village. She was the brightest new recruit the Guild had seen in decades. Everyone thought she was destined to lead. The Alderwoman at the time, my predecessor, was a woman named Hannelore von Trockenberg. A genius. Under her governance the Guild was as powerful as in any other age. She never showed favor to anyone. Except Alva—Hannelore loved her. Alva was always at the Alderwoman’s side. But then . . . it is hard to believe, even now. Alva informed us all that she was not interested in a Guild position. That she would use her yearly stipend to open a high-class brothel in Soho Square. That she had already covertly established herself as a courtesan of the highest caliber.”
    Nick raised his eyebrows. “That’s quite a departure. Why did she do that?”
    Penture shrugged. “Who can say? But Hannelore’s rage was boundless. It was as if her own daughter had turned to prostitution. After that Alva was no longer in favor. She continued to receive her stipend, as prescribed by Guild law, and she came to the larger Guild functions, but if Hannelore heard her name, or saw her face, she would rage for days. We all began to spend our time making sure the two women never met. Then, a few years ago, Hannelore was dying. She asked to see Alva. Alva came. They spent an hour together. When she left, Hannelore called us to her bedside. Me, Saatçi, and one other. She said to us: ‘That woman is a traitor, she is Ofan. And if she is Ofan, then the Ofan are now a danger to the Guild.’ It was soon after that we realized . . .” Penture paused. “That we realized the damage the Ofan have actually done to the river.”
    Nick twitched his cuffs into place. “I am sorry that you find yourselves in a sticky situation with your ancient enemy,” he said. “And I am flattered that you think my towering prowess as a lover will breach the defenses of a woman you have described as a sexual, entrepreneurial, and political mastermind. But I hope you will forgive me when I say that you are fools. Sex only makes people more like themselves. A powerful, secretive woman becomes only more powerful and more secretive in the throes of passion. Whereas an easygoing, gullible fellow like myself, confronted with a woman like Alva Blomgren?” He shrugged. “She would have me singing Guild secrets from the rooftops, and I would come away having learned nothing from