Wrapt in Crystal

by Sharon Shinn

  The faintest smile swept her face and was gone. “Thank you, Lieutenant,” she said demurely. “Until next time—”

  “Vaya con Ava,” he said.

  “Walk with the goddess,” she repeated softly. “And you as well.”

  * * *

  * * *

  He made his way to the hombueno headquarters, walking until he got to a part of town affluent enough to entice the taxi drivers, and then he hailed a cab. Benito was in when he arrived.

  “How are you faring?” the capitan asked.

  Drake nodded. “All right. Just getting started. Met the women, talked about the murders, saw the place where one of the other Fidele girls was killed.”

  “Find anything?”

  Drake pulled out the crumpled poster. “This, in a shed across the way. Mean anything to you?”

  Benito took the paper and studied it. “Off-world,” he said instantly.

  “Recognize the city?”

  Benito handed it back. “Yeah. Trading port on Nebruno.”

  “Semay do any trading there?”

  Benito shrugged. “Most of our goods go through Fortunata. I’m sure the Fortunata ships go out to Nebruno on a regular basis.”

  “Kind of a distant connection, if there is one.”

  “Anything else?”

  Drake had seated himself in the chair across from Benito’s desk. It was hotter in the police station than it had been in the temple. “Yeah. Touchy. One of the Fidele girls—Lynn, the one who was just killed—she had some old love letters from a boyfriend she gave up for the faith. There’s a name and a postal address. I want to check them out without stirring up trouble. Find out who the guy is, where he lives, if he was even available at the time of the murders.”

  “Got the letters?” Drake handed them over. The capitan inspected them cursorily and nodded. “Simple enough. What else?”

  “I need to see all the murder sites.”

  “We’ve been over them pretty thoroughly.”

  “I know. I need to get a picture in my own mind. Try to visualize the circumstances.”

  “Sure. Want to see them today?”

  “If possible.”

  Benito flicked a switch on his desk and made a request in Semayse. “I’ll get you a driver,” he said. “I don’t think there’s anyone here today who speaks Standard Terran. Except me, and I can’t go.”

  “Whatever. Just tell him where to take me.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Drake was back in a truck, headed once more toward the barrios. His driver was a tall, taciturn older man who drove very fast through the indolent traffic of Madrid. He was more cautious when they segued to the slums, slowing down for the inevitable children and equally inevitable potholes.

  The first two murder sites were almost indistinguishable from the one where the Fidele Ann had been killed. Narrow, heat-soaked roads, tumbledown houses, boarded-up windows, shattered glass. Drake had brought a cheap city map with him, unfolding it on his knee as they drove.

  “Aqui?” he asked his driver when they stopped at the first site, pointing at an intersection on his map.

  “Aqui,” the man replied, indicating a crossroads one-quarter of an inch over. Drake marked it with a red X.

  “Fidele or Triumphante?” he asked.

  “Triumphante,” the driver said.

  These two murders had taken place inside the abandoned houses, but there were, again, very few signs that anyone had been there, let alone died there. Drake did not find another scrap of paper or even a wad of gum. He assumed Benito’s men had cleared out any minor evidence of this sort.

  The third murder had been committed in a small park—or what passed for a park in this part of town. It was a patch of bare ground decorated with a few wooden sculptures which Drake supposed were meant to be playground equipment. The woman had been found at the base of a headless statue, once probably erected in memory of some neighborhood politician. Now it was painted and gouged and decapitated beyond recognition.

  “Fidele or Triumphante?” Drake asked, marking his map.

  “Fidele.” Jan, Drake realized; he had already seen where Lynn and Ann were killed.

  A gang of youths—some children, some teenagers—boiled into the park while Drake still squatted before the statue. “Mira!” one of the young men shouted, and suddenly the whole group was shouting. The words were a jumble to Drake, but he recognized the tone, taunting and defiant. His driver turned to face the disturbance, balancing warily on his feet. Drake rose to a standing position as the crowd drew closer.

  Clearly the hombuenos were not regarded here with the same affection as the priestesses. Two of the older boys had rough weapons in their hands, clubs and knives. The younger children massed around them, shrieking and pointing at the civil guard. All told, there were about ten in the gang, and of them, only three had any weight, height or strength.

  “Don’t be stupid,” Drake muttered under his breath. He could tell by his driver’s coiled readiness that the hombueno had reached the same conclusion he had—they could easily win any confrontation, but it would be a terrible thing to have to fight these children. “Don’t make us do it.”

  The oldest boy, apparently the leader, brandished his weapon and shouted some insult. Drake fixed him with a cold stare, willing all his age and experience and deadliness to show in his eyes. The boy stared back hostilely and muttered another curse, but seemed less convinced this time. The hombueno stood rock-still beside Drake. The rest of the crowd grew quiet.

  Then one of the younger children broke the tableau, calling out something and running to the other side of the park. The others took up the cry and Drake caught the words this time: “Ermana, ermana!” He dared not look away until the gang leader jerked his head back and stalked off, stiff with pride, in the direction of the new arrival. Only then did Drake glance across the street to see a Fidele sister in her distinctive white gown, kneeling on the sidewalk to welcome the children. From this distance he could not be sure; it looked like the young girl Deb, but it could be any one of them.

  “Well, that was lucky,” he observed to his companion, relaxing. “Suerte.” He raised and twisted his hand so that the knife, which he had swiftly shaken free of its wrist sheath, settled back into its accustomed place. His driver saw the motion and narrowed his eyes. Drake smiled and shrugged.

  They drove on through the gradually lessening heat, as afternoon slowly glittered into twilight, and visited the remaining three murder sites. Drake had no words to explain to his driver that he had already been to two of these scenes, one this afternoon. He merely asked the man to mark the map for him, and went around to make another quick inspection. He did not find anything new.

  The hombueno dropped him off at the hotel shortly before sundown. Up in his room, Drake took his second shower of the day, then moved around his room, organizing. He tacked his map to one wall and stepped back to examine it.

  The six murders had all taken place within a roughly triangular section on the west side of the city. The triangle cut across all the poorer districts; its southernmost point was only a mile or so from the Fidele temple. The murderer either lived there or was very familiar with the area, because he had almost effortlessly made use of the abandoned buildings and deserted blocks of the city. He had not been seen—or at any rate, none of the civic-minded citizens of these neighborhoods had admitted to seeing anything—which argued that he either belonged to these parts, or appeared to. Not, most likely, an affluent young man roaming the barrios looking for priestesses to kill because his mother had donated all his money to the temple or his sweetheart had joined the faith. But that possibility must be checked out nonetheless.

  And not, despite the balled-up poster, likely to be an off-worlder because, even to drift through this neighborhood, a man would need an excellent command of the local language. Which still left Drake a planetful of people who might hate the priestesses for an
y number of reasons, all of which were unknown to him.

  Muffled laughter outside immediately preceded a knock on the door. “Come in,” he called, not even turning around, and heard Lise and Leo enter behind him.

  “You’re back,” Lise said gaily. “We thought you might miss dinner.”

  He turned and smiled at her. She was dressed in a white blouse and skirt; not regulation attire, but attractive. Leo also had on civilian clothes, tan and pastel blue, designed to reflect the light.

  “You two on holiday?” he asked.

  Lise laughed. “Raeburn’s at some fancy dinner at the governor’s palace,” she said, “so we took the night off. Up for fun?”

  “Moderate fun,” Drake said. “I’m getting to be an old man.”

  Leo snorted. “You can’t have anything but moderate fun in Madrid,” he said. “Believe me, old man, the city is up to your worst.”

  They enjoyed the evening nonetheless, moving from Papa Guaca’s to three small bars a few blocks from the hotel. Lise was in the best of spirits, as she apparently was most of the time. When neither Drake nor Leo would dance with her at the third nightclub, she asked a stranger at a nearby table, who obliged. Drake smiled, watching them caper across the dance floor.

  “She’s a handful,” Leo said, finishing his beer. He signaled for another. “Raeburn doesn’t quite know what to do with her.”

  Drake brought his eyes meditatively back to Leo’s face. “Why?”

  “Raeburn’s not much of one for high spirits. Thinks she’s frivolous.”

  Drake turned his attention back to Lise, laughing at something her partner said. “I like her.”

  “You’re the kind of guy who likes everybody,” Leo said.

  Drake laughed aloud and rose to his feet. “Almost everybody,” he said, and strolled onto the dance floor. The music was just ending and Lise was thanking her partner with an elaborate curtsey. “I’ve changed my mind,” Drake said. “I’ll dance with you if you’re still willing.”

  She turned instantly toward him and held out her hands. “Dance till dawn,” she said. “Of course I’m still willing.”

  The music was lively and Lise was light on her feet. Drake could feel the hardness of her muscles through the thin fabric of her shirt. She moved with all the grace of a trained fighter, never making a misstep.

  “Moonchildren are the best dancers,” he observed.

  She smiled up at him. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  “Do.”

  They completed the dance and returned to their table to finish their drinks. “School night,” Drake said, refusing when Leo offered to buy another round. “I gotta get up early. You children stay if you want.”

  “Thanks for the permission,” Leo said.

  Drake grinned and rose to his feet. They stayed behind. He walked back to the hotel, enjoying the feel of the cool night air on his face. Back in his room, he stood before his map for a few minutes, studying it almost absently.

  Two days on Semay, and he had learned nothing.

  Chapter Five

  In the morning, Drake presented himself once more at the Triumphante temple, and in a few moments he was in la senya Jovieve’s gracious office.

  “Lieutenant,” she said, coming over to take his hand. “How can I help you?”

  “I want to meet some people,” he said. “But I need someone to come with me to interpret. I don’t know what kind of time you have—”

  “My day is yours. Just let me tell Lusalma.” She disappeared for a moment and returned, tying a wide-brimmed hat over her head. Today she wore a dark blue dress, loose-fitting and heavily embroidered with gold. Her goddess-eye pendant glittered against the dark color; the tiny gold charms on its chain chimed when she moved.

  “Where are we going?”

  “To see the family of one of the women who was murdered. Corazon.”

  She nodded. “Did you bring a car? They live quite some distance out.”

  He shook his head. “I thought perhaps a cab.”

  “Oh, no. Let me see if one of the drivers is available.”

  “If you’ve got a jeep or something, I can drive it,” Drake interposed.

  “Can you? What can you drive?”

  He grinned. “What do you have?”

  She smiled back. “Let me show you.”

  The Triumphante garage, at the back of the compound, was almost as big as the temple itself. Inside was the most extensive collection of ground and air cars that Drake had yet seen on Semay. There were large transport buses, one- and two-person cars, trucks, a bubble and a long-distance planetary flier.

  “I’m impressed,” he said. Each vehicle was meticulously clean and appeared to be fanatically well-maintained.

  “It is important for us to be mobile,” she said. A thin, balding older man had approached as they entered, and Jovieve spoke to him a moment. The custodian nodded and pointed at a white sedan close to the door, explaining something in Semayse. Jovieve took the Moonchild’s arm.

  “He says the keys are inside,” she said. “Let’s go.”

  The car purred to life under Drake’s hand, and in minutes they were out in the early morning sunlight. Unlike every other car Drake had been in since his arrival on Semay, this one had air conditioning, and Jovieve fiddled with the dials until the temperature was comfortable.

  “I’m astonished,” Drake said, an edge of sarcasm in his voice. “Air conditioning. I didn’t think anyone on Semay bothered to acknowledge the heat.”

  Jovieve laughed lightly. “I have to admit, at heart I’m something of a sybarite,” she said. “And I long for many of the comforts I know exist on other worlds. But on Semay, it is true, we have chosen to do without them.”

  “And why exactly would that be?”

  She looked out the window at the passing buildings. “Turn here. Follow this street forever. Well, for many complex reasons, Lieutenant. For the same reasons we have been reluctant to join Interfed. We cherish a way of life that is familiar and somewhat slow-paced and not entirely disconnected to the land. If every building was artificially cooled, how would you know you were on a desert planet? Why could you not as easily be on Fortunata or Prustilla or New Terra? If you could fly across Madrid in an air car in five minutes, wouldn’t you lose the sense of the people, the rhythms of the city? We have put some effort into resisting technology. I’m sure you find that inconvenient. We have done it on purpose, however, and you need to respect that.”

  “I respect it,” he said. “You’re not the only culture that fears a dependence on technology.”

  She nodded. “To depend on something is to risk having it betray you when you need it most.”

  “Anything can betray you when you need it most,” he said. “Anything you love, anything you hate.”

  “Not Ava,” she said serenely.

  He did not answer. There was silence in the car till she directed him to make another turn. Then she said, “Do Corazon’s children know you’re coming to visit them?”

  “No. Surprise.”

  “Be kind.”

  “That’s one of the reasons you’re here.”

  “So how did you spend your day yesterday?” she wanted to know.

  “With the Fideles.”

  “Ah.”

  “And the hombuenos. Looking for clues.”

  “Did you find any?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  They talked easily for the remainder of the trip. Drake wanted to ask her why she had not told him she was la senya grande, but perhaps she had assumed he knew. He was reminded forcibly of the comment he had made to the other Moonchildren, that she behaved like a French courtesan, and he still thought it was true. But there was a sincerity to her warmth and a depth to her interest. She was prodigal with her affections, he thought, but there was nothing phony about her.

  Corazon’s eldest son lived in a pa
latial home on the far eastern side of the city. Jovieve’s name got them through the guarded gate at the end of the sweeping, winding driveway, and flustered the servants at the door. Nonetheless, they had a short wait before they were ushered into a large book-lined office where a man and two women sat, watching the door.

  “La senya grande Jovieve,” the butler announced. “Senyo Drakka, Hijo del Luna.”

  All three occupants of the room rose to their feet and came forward—to Jovieve, Drake realized instantly, not to him. In a gesture he was beginning to expect, each of Corazon’s family members touched their fingers to their hearts, then laid their hands across the Triumphante’s lips. She kissed them and murmured the goddess’s name.

  During the brief exchange of the besa de paz, Drake glanced quickly around the room. The leather furniture and ornate draperies spoke of wealth as clearly as the artificially cooled air that circulated through the room. Hanging along one wall were family portraits, painted well enough to have been done by an expensive artist. On the desk was a more unusual portrait of an older woman that Drake guessed must be Corazon: It was etched into a thin sheet of crystal, and the refracted light danced around the woman’s eyes and mouth. He studied her. She looked perfectly ordinary.

  Jovieve touched his sleeve as if to catch his attention. “Felipe Sanburro and his wife, Letitia,” she said softly. “His sister, Carlota Sanburro. Most of the members of Corazon’s family.”

  “Tell them who I am, why I’m here,” he directed. Jovieve spoke again in that musical Semayse language while Drake watched the faces of the others in the room. Felipe and his sister were fair-skinned and fair-haired, as so few of the Semayse were. Both of them looked puzzled, and the man looked a little angry. Letitia was darker, small, nervous-looking. She watched her husband instead of the Moonchild, and it was clear that she worried a little over how he would react.

  Felipe spoke first, with some heat, and Jovieve translated. “His mother died more than two months ago, and he has just begun to control his grief,” she said. “He wants to know why you are asking questions again now.”