theabsent assassin 6

 

Chapter 6

 

Quester checked that there was a dingy in the tilt-rotor amphibian, before allowing himself to be led to the suite he considered ridiculously sumptuous. There was a lot of blue in the room, with drapes anywhere they could be hung in addition to shielding the windows. His companions had rooms each side of his, and there was a small kitchen for preparing, it appeared, snacks and beverages, in addition to a large sitting room and a small study. Kiliana had been given the room which opened onto the study, and Burdock the one which opened onto the kitchen.

“May I ask at what hour the family eat their main meal?” asked Quester.

“At the ninth hour of the evening, my lord, as is common,” said the servant.

“Dear me, that is late,” said Quester.

“I could arrange for some prepared dishes to be brought up to your suite, my lord, for heating whenever you need them,” said the servant.

Quester tipped him generously.

“I’d be most grateful,” he said. “Remembering that Burdock is an Ogroid, and he hasn’t finished growing,” he added, having noted that Burdock was showing a bit more wrist than he had been. He waited for the servant to go. “How old are you, Burdock?” he asked, idly.

“I ain’t sure, me lud,” said Burdock. “Bout nineteen,” he added, counting on his fingers. “Nearly half-done.”

“Half-done?” asked Quester.

“Yus, me lud; mos’ Ogroids live to about forty, or they ain’t no good after then and so dey is yoofynized.”

“Great Abe!” said Quester, in disgust. “I confess, I never thought to ask about Ogroids before the workings of the God-Hero brought you to my notice, but I will certainly do my utmost to see that there are more choices. Put down like a worn out donkey, indeed!”

Burdock scratched his scalp noisily, but shed only a few scraps of dandruff.

“I hadn’t fort about it, it bein’ a big word, but it ain’t no different,” he said. “I don’ want to be yoofynized.”

“You shall never be euthenised,” promised Quester. “When you are too old to work, you will have a pension, like my former assistant does.”

“’N then I shall grow flowers,” said Burdock.

“If that is your desire,” said Quester.  “I want to go to bed early so we can rise early, and go in search of my father.  I think I know where he is hiding, but I need the amphibian to take me nearby.”

“And us,” said Kiliana.

Quester frowned.

At that, arriving with a young girl might make his father less jumpy.

 

 

The amphibian plane landed where Quester had directed. They had breakfasted on fresh pastries which had melted in the mouth, and if Burdock sighed for meat, he seemed to like the pastries too.

“Go home; I’ll call you on my datapad when I want to be picked up,” directed Quester to the pilot, ushering his party into the small boat.  He rowed far enough away for the plane to take off, and made sure it had left before looking around.

The view from a boat had the quality of a half-remembered dream; the unfamiliarity of the familiar which every holiday-maker recognises on returning home, and yet everything as it ought to be. The crystal clear, turquoise waters, darkening almost to purple in the depths he could see at a distance, the quality of the air, and the scents upon it. The breeze brought the scent of herbs and plants so well-known as to be startling in their familiarity, like a stabbing wound to the memory, everything once taken for granted suddenly rolling back over him, overwhelming him, drowning him in who he once was, Leonides Antillus.  Quester was unaware that unaccustomed tears were streaming from his eyes until Kiliana put her arms around him.

“Leo?” she asked. “Bad memories?”

He shook his head, cleared his throat, brought himself under control.

“On the contrary; extremely good memories,” he said, gruffly. “I had a very happy childhood. I... I am not sure what came over me.”

“I think the word is ‘nostalgia,’” said Kiliana. “I am glad you grew up happy. It’s beautiful here.”

 “I never thought I would feel this way,” said Quester, surprised. “I took it for granted; but I was lucky.  Well, now to seek out my father, and if he does have any contact with those who oppose the government, they may shoot first and ask questions after. I should never have brought you two....”

“Nuts,” said Kiliana.

“Yeah,” said Burdock.

Quester sighed, and took the oars, skilfully turning the boat to row towards the headland.

“Shouldn’ I do that, sah?” said Burdock.

“Do you know how to row?” asked Quester.

“It don’t look hard,” said Burdock.

Quester sighed. “Take the seat in front of me and take the second pair of sweeps, and I’ll teach you,” he said.

 

“It ain’t as easy as you makes it look, sah,” said a crestfallen Burdock, fifteen minutes later.

“Move over, Burdock, I’ll have a go,” said Kiliana.

Having watched Burdock ‘catching crabs’ and making other mistakes, she hoped she might pick it up easier; but she was glad to sit back after a lesson, and let Quester take up the sweeps alone.

“My palms will pay for this tomorrow,” said the Justiciar, ruefully. “It’s a good dozen years since I last rowed.”

“Which is why we hoped to help,” said Kiliana.

Quester smiled and nodded acknowledgement; he was not as fit as he could be and he needed his breath. He rowed solidly for an hour, having asked to be set down at some distance from the destination he desired. Then he lined up in his mind’s eye a pair of features he was looking for, and rowed directly inshore towards the wicked rocks on which breakers crashed.

“Kiliana, can you see an old tree, and a rocky outcrop above the cliff?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Kiliana. “They are in line with each other.”

“They need to stay in line with each other; sing out if I go off line,” said Quester.

Kiliana kept a good watch, and Quester acknowledged with some pleasure that she told him which way to move in relation to his own perception of left and right. Neither she nor Burdock questioned that they appeared to be rowing towards certain destruction, but Burdock gasped.

“Dere’s dis big crack wot look like it suddenly opened up, sah,” he said.

“We are now in a place where we can see it,” said Quester. “Keep the line, and we should be sucked in safely.  Coming out is best done with low water or the tide going out.”

The current did, indeed, drag them into the fissure, and Quester rowed firmly to beach the boat on a small, sandy beach within the high cave, poorly lit, but their eyes soon adjusting.

“Leo, I saw a flicker of some sort of artificial light,” said Kiliana.

“I have no doubt that we are watched,” said Quester, more calmly than he felt.  He raised his voice. “Papa! Herakles Antillus! It is I, Papa, your son, Leo. I want to talk.”

There was some muttering in the cave, and a tall man with grey hair and a large moustache came forward. He looked a lot like Quester, Kiliana thought, who would likely age as well as this man, his sire.

“Stay back,” said Herakles Antillus. “If you are my son, you will be able to answer some questions. First, how did your companion Markos die? Second, where did you get the signet ring you were wearing when you left, and what does it depict?”

“Markos died of the sound of the bells, Papa,” said Leo. “I still wear the ring, which I had made for the stone I found, diving underwater. It’s a man doing a handstand on a bull, and you can see it.”

“Why are you here, Leo? Are they sending you to kill your own father?”

“I’m here to see justice done, and sort out the lies sent back to the  Justiciary, which I suspect were sent by Anastas Theodrakis Poltronis.  I believe him to be a smuggler and in league with pirates, and in setting an assassin on you and then framing the assassin for killings he, Poltronis, had performed. I need proofs, or I’ll end up living here with you, too, I suspect.”

Herakles Antillus walked up to Quester; and suddenly the two men were embracing.

“Oh, Papa, Papa! What have you got yourself into?  What did you always say about minding your own business when you tried to dissuade me from going with Justinian?”

“I didn’t want to lose you, son; but you had a destiny. I could not refuse you,” said Herakles, gruffly.  “I was ordered by Poltronis to carry smuggled goods. I refused.”

“I am glad,” said Quester.

“Well, son, I hope you are going to introduce me to the lovely lady and that puny little chap who must surely be no more than your lunch,” said Herakles.

“The lovely lady is my assistant, and currently ward, Kiliana, and my other assistant is Burdock,” said Quester.

Burdock was frowning in thought.

“Sah,” he said, “Dis man, your father, is makin’ fun of me.”

“Not unkindly, though,” said Quester.

Burdock considered.

“O’course, a man as tall as him would eat High Bred for breakfas’” he said.

“Well done, Burdock,” said Quester.

“Well, my lad, you’ve more smarts in your head than plenty of humans, never mind Ogroid,” said Herakles, holding out a hand for Burdock to shake.

“Papa, we need to find out if the assassin has been captured,” said Quester.

“No, he’s my guest,” said Herakles, calmly.  “Old Jorjios and I interrupted them trying to kill him, and we brought him here to nurse back to life. He was sent after me on the word of Aristidus Parion Arkardis himself.”

“Then I wager it was on the instigation of Poltronis,” said Quester. “I don’t think Arkadis was corrupt.”

“Was?”

“He and his son are dead.  Supposedly at the hands of a rogue assassin,” said Quester, grimly.

“Abe’s bollocks! That’s not good; just a chit of a girl left and some cousin,” said Herakles.

“Oh, the chit of a girl is pure diamond and solid steel,” said Quester.

“You ain’t in love with her, are you?” demanded Herakles.

“What? No, of course not.  She’s in love with a Buckyhare whom I believe you know – one Captain Martellus. And he loves her, and I fancy will be a breath of fresh air, here.”

“Oh!  Yes, he’s a good sort, for their kind,” said Herakles. “Proving it is impossible. And my testimony is discredited, and doesn’t count, not that it would count anyway, I’m a plebian and he’s a patrician.”

“And this is the sort of situation the  Justiciary is here to prevent,” said Quester. “I’m going to have to hire a team of people to stop and search to break smuggling.”

“Good luck with that,” said Herakles. “Ex gladiators might help with the strong-arm work, but they won’t know how to sail.”

“We need some winged hussars, able to jet-pack onto ships,” said Kiliana.

“I can put in a request, but it’s not guaranteed,” said Quester. “I will write to Eusebius, or... maybe I can meditate deeply enough to contact Psion-Martial Lukas. It’s worth a try, thank you for the suggestion, Kiliana.”

Kiliana did not mention that it had been a vague hope of hers, not a suggestion. She had no idea that a  Justiciar had the power to call in aid from High Bred military units.

“Sah, what about de local militia?” asked Burdock. “Dey won’t be attached to de famblies. Well, dey isn’t supposed to be.  It’s wot Colonel Strong was so sore about, he was a sort of hanger-on of one of the patrician famblies an’ he was sent off into a unit in the Pinch Eddard Isles for usin’ his men to furver the causes of his patron.”

“That explains a lot,” said Quester, who had taken an immediate dislike to Colonel Strong, and had only revised his opinion negatively.

“We ought to go to the games,” said Kiliana.

“We don’t have the time to waste on frivolities,” snapped Quester.

“Who said anything about frivolity?” said Kiliana. “Leo, do listen. I have no interest in the games, but if you picked some strong-arm people from ex gladiators, then there’d be more than Burdock and me watching your back and stopping this Polly fellow killing you.”

“A-nasty Third-rater Poltroon-is,” said Burdock with a straight face.

“Well, that answers that question,” said Quester. “You do do it on purpose, Burdock.”

“Well, sah, making the names mean somp’n make dem easier to remember,” said Burdock. “You ain’t cross?”

“No, but go easy on using the names in front of people. Young Lussus found it amusing. Poltronis would have you killed.”

Burdock beamed.

“I c’d think of worse people to count an enemy, me lud,” he said.

Quester laughed.

“Well, so could I.  I plan to make sure he respects me, in the council chamber, and I won’t take any nonsense from him. Leo Antillus is someone he could order around, but Justiciar Quester is a different person, who outranks any of the twenty-one by right. I want him frightened, and I want him to make mistakes. An extra bodyguard or two would not go amiss. Papa, I need to speak to Scarpia.”

“Who?” said Herakles.

“The assassin; it’s his code name.”

“He’s going by Mika here,” said Herakles.

“Whatever; I need to speak to him, urgently. He’s under sentence of death for killing the two senior Arkadis men and Sepheus Basilon Omalos.”

“When is this supposed to have taken place?” asked Herakles.

“Six days ago,” said Quester.

“He has an alibi,” said Herakles. “He was unconscious and under my care, and he hasn’t been out of here in a week. Jorjios and some of the other lads came upon him being beaten badly by Poltronis’s gladiators, not that we can prove that’s who they were, and on general principles, they rescued a victim of his ire. He bloody nearly died. Any man can go down with eight thugs on him at close quarters.”

“So, Poltronis knows that he was rescued?”

“No, Leo,” said an elderly man coming forward, and grasping wrists with Quester. “No, the leader said to leave him; that he was dead anyway, and not to get caught.”

“Uncle Jorjios! That’s good news,” said Quester. “I take it he wasn’t as badly hurt as you thought?”

Jorjios laughed, sardonically.

“Oh, he was dying,” he said. “But you know your mother’s healing touch.”

Quester’s eyes widened.

“She’s a Psion,” he said. “And that’s why I am.  She will have to be registered if I am to call in Lukas....”

“Your old mentor, Justinian, already did that, son,” said Herakles. “She has all the certificates. But we don’t advertise it.”

“That’s a relief,” said Quester. “Poltronis could use it against me if he found out that my mother was an unregistered Psion.”

“One reason Justinian arranged it,” grunted Herakles. “He knew it could be used against you by someone. Your cousin, Vanjelia, has it too, and is registered, and your mother’s line logged as a prime line.  But come through and meet Mika. He’s weak but able to answer questions.”

 

the absent assassin 5

 sorry, been offline. There's still damp getting in the front room, we had to retrieve the chest of drawers from its 'ole. did I post one today? I'm not sure. I'm not even sure what day it is. We have to re-replace joists and floorboards. Maybe THIS time the builders will stop water getting in; at least Darren listened to me, which David didn't. 

 

 

Chapter 5

 

The beautiful young woman with dark hair and eyes, was richly clad in silk. Her high-necked teal pelerine, heavily embroidered and encrusted with gems, seemed to flow into her low-cut matching gown, with a tab from the collar to hide any cleavage. The figure-hugging gown was also sumptuously embroidered, in an asymmetric style as the gown ended just below the hip on the left and continued to just below the knee on the right, revealing softly clinging  wide trousers which came into a cuff at the ankle, above her golden sandals. More jewels lay on the wide golden comb across the crown of her head, which held her cloud of dark hair.

Kiliana was glad she was wearing one of the gowns Astalianna had given her, or she would have felt entirely overwhelmed. Clad in deep red spidersilk, with silver and white embroidery, she knew she was fashionable, the gown sweeping below the knees at front and back, and higher at the sides, flowing out from Kiliana’s hips. The left shoulder was ornamented with a single shoulder cape, and the sleeves were long and severe.  Kiliana wore black leather trousers and boots beneath it, however, rather than have bare legs and light shoes or sandals. She noted that Martellus had dressed more formally for his lady love, in a long, knee-length, ornamented robe with long, loose sleeves, under a capote whose only decoration was to be shot silk in gold and blue, the lack of sleeves and open nature showing off the richness of his tunic. Quester was in his customary grey under his magenta-collared cloak.

“My lady, this is Lord Quester, his apprentice, and his assistant, who have come to look into the murders,” Martellus spoke to her.

“An honour to be sent one of the Justiciary to investigate our local problems,” said Lady Elena.

“There are underlying matters to be resolved in addition,” said Quester.

“Which involve my family?”

“Which potentially involve all the Twenty-one,” said Quester. “Martellus, I give you permission to release some of what is going on to the Lady Elena; as she is a victim, she has some right to be aware. And I must ask you to be discreet, my lady.”

“I am not in the habit of indiscretion, my lord,” said Elena. “I could scarcely hold a house if I were so inclined.”

“So I surmised,” said Quester, with a slight bow.

“You and your companions will, of course, stay with me,” said Elena. “I will have rooms prepared.”

“You are very kind,” said Quester.

“Oh, it is an honour to give hospitality to a  Justiciar; and besides, I have you to give my opinion to before you hear others,” said Elena.

“I’ll need to speak to the council,” said Quester.

“You are automatically given every right any of the nine have, and to act as adjudicator,” said Elena. “I have good excuse to ask you to stay, having lost my father and my brother, but others will try to entice you away.”

“I was hoping to look into the deaths of your family members,” said Quester. “Martellus has given me reason to believe that the orders under which I was sent are lacking in facts.  I am hoping to speak to Herakles Antillus.”

“I can probably drop a few words which may bring him out of hiding,” said Martellus, dubiously, rubbing the back of his neck.

“No need. I know where to find him,” said Quester. “You don’t need to know how.”

“Now I find myself vibrating with curiosity,” said Martellus.  He held up his hands. “I won’t pry.”

“Good,” said Quester. “And don’t go scaring Poltronis off now you may court the lady openly.”

“Oh, you’ve talked about my affairs, have you, Lucius?” Elena frowned.

“I had to, my lovely, because it gives me a motive,” said Martellus. “I preferred to be up front about that than have a Justiciar think I was hiding things.”

Her frown lessened slightly.

“I suppose that’s valid,” she said.  “But I was going to speak to you privately about that. Since it is knowledge the Justiciar has as well, though, I am under much pressure from the rest of the family, since I am head of the family, to marry within the islands.”

“It’s a bad idea,” said Quester. “Inbreeding can cause severe problems, and new blood is always desirable. Moreover, you know he’s not connected with the politics which have caused problems.”

Elena’s face shone with pleasure.

“I like this Justiciar,” she said. “Can we keep him?”

“You’ll be sick of me before I’ve finished cleaning up smuggling and piracy,” said Quester.  “However!  My manners are lacking. This is my ward, Lady Kiliana Leonida Quaera; Burdock is my bodyguard and assistant.”

“‘And assistant?’ He is very nicely turned out for an ogroid.”

“He has hidden depths,” admitted Quester. “If he asks a question, he has reason for it.”

“I’ll remember that,” said the lady. “Please, come with me.”

She led them to an autogyro, which was painted in her family colours.

“Correct me if I am wrong, my lady,” said Quester, looking on it with some disquiet, “But is not an autogyro without powered-assist to the rotor, and therefore unable to take off vertically?”

“Oh! Yes,” said Elena. “There’s a short runway and then we go off the end of the cliff, and it picks up rotation as we fall, and so we rise.”

“I see,” said Quester.

Kiliana’s hand crept into his. He squeezed it, comfortingly.

“There’s nothing unsafe about it,” said Elena. “We do it all the time.  It’s as well not to fly after a heavy meal, though, especially if there’s a bit of weather.”

“I expect it’s what you’re used to,” said Quester. “I daresay there are forms of transport I take for granted that you might dislike.”

“More than likely,” said Elena. “I am not fond of elevators.”

“And I am used enough to them not to think about it,” said Quester.

“I wouldn’t mention your dislike of drop-starting,” said Elena. “You’re altogether too good looking, as well as having that social cachet, that some unscrupulous little madams might not be above inserting a promise into conversation whilst you were distracted.”

“I’ll remember that,” said Quester.  “Would it be possible to borrow the use of a rotodyne or tilt-wing craft for a few days?”

“Certainly.  I will have my pilots put themselves at your disposal.  But it seemed profligate to bring a larger craft just to transport people a short distance.”

“If you’ve got any tilt-rotor amphibian craft, that would be handy,” said Quester.

“It’s not usual for tilt-rotors to be anything else,” said Elena.

 

 

Elena’s family home was a large white building nestling into the mountain and spreading out onto a plateau, some five minutes’ flight from the airship port.

“What manner of transport do people use on the ground, my lady?” asked Kiliana.

“Donkeys, mostly,” said Elena. “With carts for transporting goods and people.  Some people cycle; but except in the valleys and near the coast, most powered vehicles don’t like the inclines. On the flatter regions and in the city, there are scootobugs, personal and some larger, commercial ones, taking four people at a time if you don’t want to use the trams.  The trams run on electricity from the reactors, of course.”

“Oh, I’ve never been on a tram,” said Kiliana.

“It’s not really suitable for people like us,” said Elena. “But it is useful for the plebians.”

Kiliana opened her mouth to disclaim being anything but plebian, and shut it again.

“Dey won’t let me on,” said Burdock. “I been on a tramline goods vehicle, though, when they ran trucks with provisions along them.”

“That’s not a bad idea,” said Elena. “I’ll raise it in council.”

 

Quester endured small talk with Elena’s family, over sweet wine and cakes, whilst rooms were prepared for them.  The family of largely women looked upon Martellus with disapproval, and Quester with wariness, and his companions with more disapproval.

“Mother, you already know Captain Martellus,” said Elena.  “This is Justiciar Quester, his ward, Kiliana Leonida Quaera, and his assistant,  Justiciary assistant Burdock. My mother, Lyra Spyra Arkada, my cousin, Alcithoa Dimitra Arkada, my sister, Phebea Aristida Arkada, my governess, Artemisia Thiomeda Karkia, and my distant cousin, Phobos Markosan Arkardis. He’s holding out to marry me and keep it all in the family.”

“I’d have to contact  Justiciary Central to have that vetoed,” said Quester. “Consanguinity is a serious taint, and can lead to mutancy. It’s next door to heresy. Far better to bring in new blood.”

He knew she was playing him, and making use of him, but as he believed what he said, he had no objection.

Having a Buckyhare owing him a favour would not be a bad thing, either, much as Quester disliked playing favours.

Her mother looked displeased.

“Can you really think it a good idea to have some... maverick... who never stays in one place for long, Justiciar?” she said, coldly.

“Why, Captain Martellus would doubtless appoint a proxy for some trips, in order to remain longer; and would also doubtless take Lady Elena with him at times, to give her a wider world view and enable her to make decisions to enrich the family further,” said Kiliana. “After all, I have no doubt that Captain Martellus could buy all the twenty-one if he wanted to; quite a force to be reckoned with if he joined his family with yours.”

“I wasn’t going to make an issue of it, but yes, I could buy out every penny-ante family on this group of islands and not miss what I paid,” said Martellus. “My sire passed the business to me, but he’s bored enough to want to take the odd trip, I believe, to relieve me.”

Lady Lyra looked outraged.

“There surely isn’t that much money an individual can own?” she whispered.

“Your olives and fish are important, but there are other sources,” said Martellus. “I come here and give you the best prices because of Elena. I would stop elsewhere if she were denied to me.  You would lose a lot of revenue.”

“Perhaps Lady Lyra would like to mull things over before she questions the wisdom of the head of the family,” said Quester. “I would like to see the bodies of the late Aristidus Arkadion Arkadis and Orionis Aristidon Arkadis, if that is possible.”

“I will take you to the family crypt,” said Elena, crisply as her mother gave a little cry.

“Should I come, sister?” asked Phebea, casting what Kiliana could only describe as sheep’s eyes at Quester.

“What, you are disposed to learn the ways of performing the Mortis Investigatus?” asked Kiliana. “It takes a strong stomach, and is not, perhaps, best when cutting into the bodies of your own nearest and dearest.”

Phebea gasped.

“Oh!” she said. “Must you?”

“If I am to understand what happened, yes,” said Quester. He could never understand why so many pretty girls seemed keen to learn and participate until they discovered what was required.

                                                                                                                                                       oOoOo

 

The family crypt was deep in the mountain, and it was not really feasibly living space; not, thought Quester, that any patricians anywhere gave many concessions to the living room of others, as long as they were comfortable.  And if the bodies had been rapidly cremated as most people did, he would have been unable to examine them.

“I will watch you cut into them, because it is my duty, but I do not like it,” said Elena.

“If there had not been doubt cast on the means of killing, I would not have to do so... but if a man has been accused of going renegade unjustly, I need to know,” said Quester.

 

Elena’s father was a well-built man in his 50s, with harder hands than was common in patricians.

“Your father has done some manual work,” said Quester.

“Yes, and so has my brother,” said Elena. “It is customary in our family to work beside our work force  at least to show them that we care and can do a day’s work.  I have not, being a woman, and having a brother, but I have assisted the servants and slaves with household tasks.”

“Ah, yes, you indenture people for minor infractions,” said Quester.

“And they make more loyal servants if the mistress of the house shows that she knows the tasks,” said Elena. “Many serve out their indentures and then ask to remain as servants. It is a matter of respect.  I do not say that all families see it so, however,” said added.

“I suspect if more patricians had your family’s attitude, my role would be unnecessary,” said Quester, dryly. “Yes, this area has uneven burning which would not be so if it were a laser rifle which killed him. You may wish to step back or turn away; I am going to cut into him.”

Elena swallowed hard, but did not step away. 

Quester was quick about his investigations, and gave a sigh of satisfaction.

“Here is the high-powered pellet which killed him, its wound disguised by burning.  And if an assassin had gone rogue he would not trouble over hiding his methods as he would use what he felt appropriate. A laser rifle kill is an official sanction, but other means are at his disposal at need. Now, your brother.”

“The bruises are sickening,” said Elena.

Quester turned to the body of the fit young man who had once been Orionis Arastidon Arkides.  The bruises were, indeed quite horrific, especially after enough time had elapsed for the first signs of decomposition to have set in before he was brought to this cold place.

“Ordinary street thugs would be less likely to have use of a cestus,” mused Quester. “And I am fairly certain from the regularity of these knuckle-marks, that they were caused by a metal cestus worn on the hands.”

“I never thought it was any chance encounter,” said Elena, in a controlled voice. “I believe he was deliberately murdered by trained gladiators.”

“My examination would tend to  agree with that assessment,” said Quester. “I am sorry to put you through this, my lady, but I can now put what I have seen in my report.”

 

It had been little more than a formality; Quester had no reason to doubt what Martellus had told him, but a  Justiciar’s report was essentially incontrovertible. And Quester wrote up his findings on his datapad, and sent it to be filed as part of his official report in his personal data locker. Here it could be found if anything happened to him.

He had a long, and potentially unpleasant day ahead of him on the morrow.    

the absent assassin 4

 running a bit slow, a bad night

Chapter 4

 

“Antillus is my contact to purchase fish,” said Martellus. “I load them fresh, and get them to Nyork within the week, because that’s what I’m contracted to do; cater to the luxury market. And he asked me what I knew of smuggling. I know a lot about smuggling; you can’t trade and be unaware of it. It’s bad for business for the rest of us.  I did know that the word to the wise amongst Buckyhares was that Poltronis does deals that a wise man does not get involved in.”

“Why was this not reported to the  Justiciary?” demanded Quester.

“And be sued for slander by a vindictive man because it can’t be proven? Talk sense,” said Martellus. “I’m telling you off the record, not making a report. If you can prove it, be my guest.”

“Oh, I see,” said Quester, grimly. “And doubtless those of his employees willing to take the blame if anything comes out, and their dependents well compensated.”

“As I understand it, he employs a lot of ex gladiators – you know about the games?” he went on as Quester nodded, curtly, “And so they have no fear of being sent to the arena, because they are already well-practised.”

“That makes sense,” said Quester. “An evil man.”

“And though ‘evil’ is not a word to use lightly, I fancy that it suits the man in this case,” said Martellus, soberly. “Many Buckyhares sail a little close to the wind, I grant you, but word is that arms dealing was something Poltronis gets up to.”

“So, are you telling me that there is a popular uprising?” asked Quester, surprised.

“Not that I’ve witnessed; but have you any idea of the amount of piracy in this region?” asked Martellus. “Not so much with airships, but on the surface; much of the traffic between islands is by ship, and the pirates hide in secret bays.”

“I recall a lot of stories; including those who would prey on Coostohs, but I took them for children’s salutary tales, not to go wandering far in small boats.”

“No, they seem to be true enough,” said Martellus. “They go more for the small groups of freelance Coostohs, though, not the government-sponsored ones.”

“Well, that makes sense,” agreed Quester. “The government would be down like a burning hydrogen ship on anyone who attacked government Coostohs. Unfortunately, a large organisation does not hear about small groups.”

“Especially as word has it that they tend to kill them all or enslave those knowledgeable in operating underwater craft,” said Martellus.

“Blessed Abe! There’s more to do than I thought,” said Quester.  “I don’t intend leaving this at just finding a possibly renegade assassin.  What do you know of the killings?”

“It’s said that Aristidus Parion Arkadis, who was head of the Arkadis family, was killed with a laser rifle. His son, Orionis Aristidon  Arkadis was beaten to death by street thugs. His daughter, the lovely Elena Aristida Arkada is running the family.” Martellus paused. “I admit a personal connection here; I’ve been courting Elena, and I suppose I have motive as her father and brother were set against our union, as they wanted Elena to marry a local man.”

“You say ‘it is said’ that he was killed with a laser rifle,” said Quester.

“I never heard of a laser rifle which left uneven burning around the wound site,” said Martellus.

“I’ve seen that before, where a red-hot poker was used to cover a stabbing,” said Quester.

“I’m inclined to think a high-powered hunting rifle under the circumstances, but the same sort of idea,” said Martellus. “And if the thugs were random street thugs, not trained gladiators, I’ll drive the ship by setting fire to my own farts.  As for Sepheus Basilon Omalos, young head of the Omalos family, he was supposedly killed by roof tiles falling on his head, and his heir, his younger brother, Lysandus, refuses to admit to it being anything but accident.”

“Indeed? And how well does Lysandus get on with Anastas Poltronis?”

“Funnily enough, he can’t stand him.”

“Well, maybe it’s a ruse, maybe it isn’t. What happened to the father of those young men?”

“Old Basilis died of a surfeit of oysters and a greater surfeit of his third wife,” said Martellus, dryly. “He ate three dozen oysters to celebrate his first wedding anniversary with her, shagged her like shagging was going out of fashion, and had a heart attack. What do you expect at 92?  His first wife was barren, the boys were the son of his second wife, who died of overwork in bringing increasingly sickly babies to term every nine months, and then he married Anna, who has a lovely chassis and the imagination of an overripe  lemon. As sweet a disposition, too, but that’s understandable when a young girl is married to an old goat.”

“Poor girl, she had no say in it?” asked Quester.

“She’s the daughter of Platonus Achilleon Drakis, one of the twelve, who liked being associated with the third of the nine,” said Martellus. “No, she had no say in it.  She’s going to enjoy being a widow, I suspect.”

“I see,” said Quester.

“She isn’t bright enough to have organised anything,” said Martellus.

“Should I try to get close to this Poltronis?” asked Kiliana.

“No!” snapped Quester.

“Little girl, he’d eat you alive, chew on you, and spit you out, broken,” said Martellus.  “He’s a man who fascinates women, and if he had a hint that you were showing an interest at the behest of a  Justiciar, he would do his utmost to turn his personality on you, overwhelm you, make you think he was misunderstood and hard-done-by, and when he got you to betray your mentor’s secrets, he would throw you out, laughing, for having ruined you socially and taken any chance you have of following Lord Quester’s footsteps – I assume you are his apprentice – and possibly having hurt you physically in rough sex as well.”

Kiliana looked shocked.

“I... I would never betray Lord Quester’s secrets!” she said.

“Maybe not intentionally, but you seem a far too nice, confiding, open little girl to be allowed anywhere near villains like him.”

“She’s seen worse than you know, but I agree,” said Quester, grimly. “From what little I recall of Poltronis, he is a dangerous man.”

“There are those who would say that you are a dangerous man, Leo,” said  Kiliana.

“I am; but I am also a man of self control and moderation,” said Quester. “And you are an innocent and under my protection. And I fear, as such, he is likely to try to fascinate you.  Martellus, is he a psion, to be able to so readily fascinate women?”

“I doubt you have that easy a way to arrest him,” said Martellus. “No, he is just very male, very aware of his own masculinity, predatory, handsome, able to display all the social amenities, charismatic, and overwhelming.”

“I don’t think I am easily fascinated,” said Kiliana, mulishly.

“Likely not, but stay away from him, anyway, until I know he isn’t a psion,” said Quester, testily.

 

oOoOo

 

The trip skirting the pole was a wild, windy journey.  Kiliana was sick once, and then felt much better; Quester was grateful to be used to travel. Burdock was miserable, and Quester made him dress up warmly and took him to walk on the heavily railed observation deck on top of the gondola. The sick ogroid did brighten up for the fresh air.

“Dis travel ain’t what it’s cracked up to be,” he opined, mournfully.

“Come, now, Burdock, you feel better for the air; you couldn’t string a sentence together inside,” said Quester.

“Most of my sentences right now ain’t polite, sah,” said Burdock. “I does feel better, but it’s perishing up here, can we go in?”

“Of course,” said Quester, relieved that his assistant was a better colour.

 

 

The Buckyhare had set a course to avoid land until they came to Paree station.

“Your first sight of Yurop,” said Quester, to Kiliana and a much improved Burdock.  “This tower used to stand on land, and was considerably higher; they use nanites to handle rust, and release the oxygen from the iron, keeping it stable, and replenishing the seas. They call it ‘I Never Fell’ Tower, in memory of it staying strong against the cataclysm.  The population here all live on board boats and ships, though there are some permanently moored for a permanent staff. It is a radio repeater for Skyph communications.”

“I can see a lot of small boats and a kind of haze underwater,” said Kiliana, leaning over the observation bubble.

“That will be fish; with the enhanced oxygen from keeping the tower from rusting, and a relatively shallow sea, there are plenty of fish,” said Quester.

“But what has rust to do with oxygen?” asked Kiliana.

“Oh, dear, you do have large gaps in your education, and I forget about them,” said Quester. “Rust is the oxidated state of iron, as verdigris is the oxidated state of copper or anything which contains copper.  Iron rusts in air, but even faster in water, especially salt water... salt water acts as an electrolyte, having free ions, remember, ions which are nothing to do with iron with an r in t, and it enables the surface to change more quickly.  Chemistry is a complex subject and we have lost a lot of knowledge but you will learn more.”

“There are buildings down there,” said Kiliana, losing interest in chemisty.

“Yes, and the Coostohs do explore,” said Quester. “But they have to be careful; the city that was here was built over underground caves, and they have fallen in, in places, and if a Coostoh gets caught inside one, there are strange currents, which might drag him, and he is lost forever in the darkness.”

Kiliana shuddered.

“Why are we stopping here?” she asked.

“It may be to replenish batteries from the wave and current generators set about the tower, to pass mail, to receive mail, possibly for passengers to disembark or embark, and probably to leave trade goods,” said Quester.

They remained tethered to the iron tower for a few hours before resuming their journey.

“Presently we shall pass over that shadow on the horizon, which is the district called Overne, a large and fair island with many rivers, and very fertile. It is the rump of what was swallowed up, and they graze many animals on the slopes of mountains. The capital is called Clearmound Ferry.” Quester explained. “It’s near the coast for surface trading.”

“We aren’t going down at all, so I guess we aren’t trading there,” said Kiliana.

“No, we are making fastest way to the Aejeans,” said Quester. “I suspect the stop at Paree Station was for needed power replenishment.”

“You’d be correct,” said Martellus, who had overheard.  “We had a bit of a contretemps with the big Coriollis storm at the Pole; it shifts, and grows and shrinks, and it’s impossible to predict it.  Some people say that limited space penetration to put eyes in the sky as they used to have would help with that, and other things, but it is seen as the thin end of the wedge.”

“Watch yourself, Captain, that comes perilously close to heresy,” said Quester. “Mankind was not meant to penetrate the sphere of air which encloses our home, and the profligate use of fuel and going where we should not go, and  flying machines ever higher and higher was what contributed to The Cataclysm. For our contumely, our land has been reduced. This is why only airships and rotodynes and other rotor craft are permitted, as they cannot fly too high, and nor can airships.”

Martellus shrugged.

“I know that the empire has very high stratospheric balloons to spy on the Commutants,” he said. “It would not be much higher.”

“If you know something which is likely an Imperial secret, I suggest you do not wag your tongue about it, just because you have helped me out,” said Quester. “I can still arrest you for it, and your heresy.”

Martellus raised his hands.

“We are alone, you are the only passengers,” he said. “But you are right, it was indiscreet. I care about my crew and wish only to improve their safety.”

“If that is done without thought of the safety of the rest of humanity, it is still heresy,” said Quester.

“I’ll stay off the subject, then,” said Martellus.

 

It was at dawn that Martellus knocked on the stateroom door.

“I thought you might all like to see the sun rise on Araklion,” he said.  “It’ll be about fifteen minutes for the sun to reach the land; and then you may as well take breakfast with me, and we’ll be landing half an hour after that.”

“Thank you,” said Quester, a little stiffly, the near-camaraderie he had started to feel for Martellus damaged by the Buckyhare’s heresy.

The observation dome under the gondola did show a beautiful sight, as the sun, full on the airship, rose for those down below, the summit of Mt. Ida painted a beautiful rose colour before the sun gilded its slopes, and then the seas turning to molten gold as the ship was dropping down to the level of the mountain top, and then passing behind the mountain and blocking out the glorious sunrise to come in towards the airship tether at the city called Arkadi, the seat of the Arkadis family.

“You’ll get an invitation to stay with the Arkadis family, of course,” said Martellus. “We have time to eat before we make tetherfall.”

Quester nodded.

“Thank you,” he said. “And you, no doubt, will be heading to see the fair Elena?”

“Yes, and things will go smoother for you if you let me introduce you – if you are not still enraged with me.”

“I was not enraged; saddened to see you on the brink of an heretical idea,” said Quester. “We still have no idea how much poking about in space was responsible but it is better to be safe than sorry.”

“I concede it,” sighed Martellus. “Now come and eat bacon and eggs like a civilised man before having to live on pastries, bread, and cheese as the idea of breakfast the natives have.”