A black stray cat leapt down from its perch on the fence and onto a trash can below, sniffing at its contents. It found a fish bone with the head still half intact, and began to chew on it ravenously. Suddenly, as if it sensed being watched, it raised its shaggy head to look at them and hissed hostilely. It reminded Horatio of his sister’s cat, Angus, a thoroughly vile creature that had hated him as much as he had hated it. Descending upon the bone once more, the stray clamped the thing between its teeth and disappeared into an alleyway.

All in all, Error Place had all of the markings that its name suggested; a wretched, overcrowded neighborhood where crime ran rampant and all honest folk had fled the unwelcoming streets after eight in the evening. No stranger to poverty and the crushing weight that it bore down on individuals unlucky enough to shoulder it, he wondered – not for the first time – if it was worth it. But Ayesha was stubborn, one of her most admirable traits. He didn’t think their target for the day was going to crack, though. A crazy old bat, Anupam had told him. When they finally reached their destination – a lofty, narrow building named Block B that looked on the precipice of collapse – he turned to look at the Proctor.

“We could still turn back and let Inquisitor Challa handle this,” he tried to persuade her half-heartedly, even though he knew it was a hopeless case. She was thoroughly invested, and when Ayesha Delarosa wanted something, she’d cross heaven and hell to get it.

“Inquisitors don’t bother themselves with a few murders that happened in the lowest echelons of our society, Horatio. Besides, my evidence is not substantial enough to convince Jhene to see this case in a more serious light. Shall we go, then?”

She was right. What were three murders of insignificant dreamspice junkies compared to the increasing number of missing or dead Adepts?

The inside of Block B was almost as bad as the outside, with its only saving grace being an attempt to lighten up its appearance with colorful but old wallpaper on the walls. It almost succeeded, but it wasn’t convincing enough to hide that its occupants were worse off than suggested otherwise. It was a long climb to flat 126D, where he knocked thrice but nobody answered, and just when he was about to knock again the door opened slightly to reveal a blank eyes perusing them in obvious annoyance.

"What do you want?" said the woman without preamble.

"I just want to ask you a few questions."

"What about?" she asked, eyeing them in a distrustful manner. "Are you the police?"

"No." Ayesha replied.

Technically, it wasn’t a lie.

“Anupam Agarwal reccomended you to us. We’re here to see if you can help us.”

“With what?”

Horatio leaned closer and whispered – almost conspiratorially – “It’s not something you talk about in the open.”

She looked at them from top to bottom, then gave a slight nod. "Make it quick, I've got things to do."

Horatio stood aside to let Ayesha through the narrow door, then entered the flat after her. The first thing he noticed was the abundance of clutter in the cramped, rectangular living room - made no better by walls which were painted in a horrid shade of yellow, making the flat fairly reminiscent of the confines of the Stacks which many below the poverty line called their homes.

Thomasina Nunn was a small, frail-looking older woman with wary green eyes, and she made no move to offer them a seat. Rather, she stood stock still, arms crossed over her chest.

“Well?” she demanded.

Ayesha withdrew the oneirometer from a leather pouch, and handed it to Mrs. Nunn. It was in working condition but disabled, masterfully crafted, too. It was the key to solving this mystery, and Horatio (not for the first time) wished it could guide them to answers as well as it steered drifters to the best dreams. For now though, the instrument would serve its purpose as a clue.

If Mrs. Nunn was surprised by the familar instrument in her hands (it should be familiar to her) she didn't show it.

"It's good looking. But what does it have to do with me? I'm not a metermaker."

"But you were a soporif." Still was, if what Anupam told him was correct.

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"And? I didn't pass my ASEEs. I wouldn't know how to fix this if I tried, assuming that's what you're here for."

Ayesha invited herself to an ancient-looking chair beside the ratty couch. "Word on the street is, you're still in the practice of teaching young'uns your craft."

For a moment, Mrs. Nunn showed a hint of fear on her lined face, but it disappeared in the blink of an eye.

"You said you aren't the police." She said in an accusing tone.

"I'm not. We don't do much 'policing' these days."

Mrs. Nunn's voice trembled as she said, "Where did you get this?"

Ayesha ignored that and continued, "Open the rear cover."

Their host did as commanded. It's owner's signature curled itself in a gleaming script on the cuvette. The older woman grabbed a knife from the tray on the table carrying an unfinished meal and forced the lid open – a feature prevalent in older models. There, next to the regulator, was a vhel core, glowing green. An outdated Class C core, to be exact - something that could get you thrown in prison for a period of time no less than fifty years.

"This doesn't belong to me."

Lies.

"Your son had it on him when he was found."

Mrs. Nunn looked angry now. "I think you've overstayed your welcome. Get out."

"It's the only thing that can tell me who might've killed him."

"Well, Ms. Detective, I'm afraid I can't help you. Go, now."

"Several people are dead, Mrs. Nunn, people your son knew, people he helped put under. You taught him to be a Soporif, and I need to know if there is anyone else out there who was in on his practices."

"Go. Please."

Ayesha sighed and took the oneirometer from their host's fingers. She took a card out of her pockets and laid it face down on the table.

"Call me if you change your mind."

Well, so much for an interrogation.

----------------------------------------

"You really believe in this, don’t you?" Horatio asked once they were long gone from Thomasina Nunn's front door.

They sat under the shade of an elm tree that constituted part of a makeshift, outdoor winesink where they sold the best canapés in the city that not even the Blue Lotus could brag with. Behind them, River Sunderval was aglow with the dozens of lights from steamboats making their nightly runs, and the countless outdoor beaneries lined along its left bank.

“Hmm,” Ayesha responded lukewarmly as she mixed her divay with lemon lime juice and yoghurt. She stirred the drink with a straw, and took a small sip. In truth, sometimes her mind grappled with what she was doing, and she wondered if she wasn't going mad. She'd always been one to follow her gut, and it had worked out for her well enough.

But if you're wrong? a small voice presented that ever nagging question at the back of her head.

"Attention! Attention!" cried a voice in the distance, "The White Rose leaves in five minutes! The White Rose leaves in five minutes!"

Travelers to whom the announcement pertained to snapped to attention, checking their luggage, rousing sleepy children and biding final farewells to friends and family gathered on the waterfront. Ayesha watched the familiar commotion of late evening trips with hooded eyes, mind whirring.

"Balthazar Pierce, as unremarkable as he is, was a good Assessor. Something tells me he did see what he said he saw."

"He pleaded guilty, Ayesha." Horatio reminded her strongly.

"He did it to save himself. Savage would've pulled all the stops to throw him in prison if he didn't do what he did. This is the second time someone has a set of 'missing memories' after a freak accident in the Fringe. None of this sits right with me."

"It's not as unusal as you might think. Besides, I still fail to see the connection between Blueday, Pierce, the murders and the oneirometer."

Ayesha hesitated, but decided to go for it, "Pierce's oneirometer had a Class C core."

Horatio's brows rose to his hairline. "That's impossible. The DoDC issues new ones to field officers every five years. And his soporif wouldn't have allowed him to Drift with such an antique item."

"Funny thing is, his device is only three years old. Pierce's an Assesor, not a metermaker. It couldn't have been him who tampered with it. I don't think he was stupid enough to attempt something like that."

"None of this was mentioned in court, not even in passing. Why?"

Ayesha shrugged. "The DoDC wanted to keep it under wraps — with such an increase of similar looking incidents, it would've looked bad on them, and I think they fear a saboteur among their ranks."

"So they laid everything on him?"

"Since when has the DoDC been responsible for it's actions or negligence? To them, throwing Balthazar Pierce and Jesse Blueday under the bus is just a step in the process of cleaning up a mess. They are the people needed to be pushed in the spotlight so that everyone else has someone to point a finger at."

Ayesha knew all too well her part in it. It was her who affirmed Pierce's illegal use of magic, her who'd stood witness on the prosecution's side. 'Pierce versus Irongate' would be gone from the public's memory within a month, tops — as had Blueday's suicide.

Find Q, she heard Maverie's voice whisper raspily in her ear, only Q has the answers.

What the hell had that meant? How did she go about finding a man without a real name, much less a face?

Horatio was right; a string of murders and Class C cores in oneirometers belonging to a wildly diverse group of people didn't make much of a solid connection. Many of the Drifters on her list were either dead (surprise), unavailable or just plain unwilling to talk — given the fact that a good number of them gained access to the Fringe illegally, it wasn't too much of a shock. They were of no use to her anymore.

What she needed was a Soporif with intimate connections to Graewelt, not an old woman grieving for her son. A brief flash of guilt stabbed at her. Edgecombe Nunn had been a dead end, literally and figuratively. She'd breakly been pushing it back there with his mother, implying he'd been killed for something he did at the illegal drifthall he'd been employed in; for all she knew, Mr. Nunn might've been stabbed by a street urchin.

There were too many pieces scattered on the board, and by the time she knew which one played which part in this scheme, it might be too late.