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.”